Billy Angel Read Free

nightmare. Not real. Of
course
it couldn’t be real. So, instead, I concentrated on unwrapping my gift.
    â€˜It’s, er… brilliant, Dad!’ I said trying to sound sincere.
    It was a leather tool bag. A big blighter. The type of bag you’d expect a superhero plumber to have if your boiler had exploded and was spewing boiling-hot water over your entire family, and he’d just flown in to sort it out. This bag could definitely save the day, probably all by itself. It
was
brilliant, if you’re as potty about plumbing as my dad is.
    â€˜Look inside, son,’ said Dad excitedly. ‘They’re all engraved with your initials.’
    It was like a Tardis in there. Tools. Tools. And, er, more tools. There were big ones. Bigger ones. And truly mammoth-sized ones. There were at least six different spanners. Piles and piles of pliers. Three hacksaws and a plunger. Plus hundreds of dangerous-looking implements I didn’t recognise at all.
    â€˜I don’t know what to say, Dad.’
    I genuinely didn’t.

    But it didn’t seem to matter, because the next thing I knew I was sandwiched between Mum and Dad in an emotional embrace.
    â€˜Welcome to the business, son.’
    â€˜We’re so proud of you.’
    And that was that. Angel or not. I was now William Box Esquire: trainee plumber.
    Of course I wasn’t
really
a trainee plumber. Not yet. This isn’t
Oliver Twist
. Children don’t go up chimneys any more. Nor do they begin their plumbing apprenticeships aged eleven. I was still allowed to go to school and have a life of sorts. But there was no doubt about it – my course was set.
    For the time being, I decided to lump it. After all, there wasn’t much else I could do. It was the start of the holidays. And Mum and Dad were strict stickers to the ‘no graft, no pocket money’ rule. So, as usual, I was set to spend my summer helping Dad, when I’d much rather have been out playing footie with my mates.
    It’s not that bad, I suppose. I just carry the tools and shake my head and sigh along with Dad when he arrives at a job. And he does pay me. (The fact that I’m secretly saving for soccer school is strictly between you and me.)
    Anyway – after what felt like three days listening to Dad droning on about each tool in turn: explaining its merits, uses and complete unabridged history, the phone rang… And rang… And rang. Until Dad finally stopped talking long enough to answer it.
    I helped myself to a bowl of cornflakes.
    Dad was on the phone for ages. I noticed he was sighing and nodding, and tutting and puffing, which no doubt meant it was an emergency plumbing problem. Dad’s favourite. They’re usually the most complicated, and they make the most money.
    I stopped listening and instead concentrated on my cornflakes. I was just about to stuff a huge spoonful into my mouth when…
    â€˜No problem, Mr Potts, the lad and I will be round within the hour.’
    Potts! Dad said
Mr Potts
! Surely it could not be Thelma Potts’
dad
? I froze. Then I cursed myself. Potts was a common enough name. I chuckled softly, then stuffed the cornflakes in.
    I shouldn’t have.
    â€˜Yes, I know exactly where your shop is,’ Dad was chortling: ‘You can’t exactly miss it. Not with that three-foot pie outside.’
    Three-foot pie
?
    POTTS’ PIES!
    I gasped. A tunnel of air sucked the cornflakes down my windpipe. And for a second or two I couldn’t breathe. I think I may have turned blue, because Dad suddenly dropped the phone and dived across the kitchen to give me a hearty clatter on the back, which ejected the cornflakes from my mouth like a cork out of a bottle.
    â€˜Don’t eat so fast,’ he scolded, as I collapsed coughing on the floor. ‘Sorry, Mr Potts, my apprentice was acting up. We’ll be there soon. And yes, I’ll ask for your daughter, Thelma.’
    I was still collapsed in a