Watching Oliver doodle yet another Spider-Man in his exercise book instead of working through the maths homework, Mum and Dad couldnt help thinking that the only member of the family guaranteed a comfortable and carefree future was the cat. Dozens of tutors had failed to spark any passion in Oliver for the sciences. In fact, each new instructor seemed to push him further into the world of daydreaming. To Oliver, life was all a fuss about nothing. True happiness, he believed, was found in loafing about, eating chocolate eclairs, and watching cartoons on his phone.
Just as Mum and Dad were about to give up entirely, Dad stumbled across an odd advert online: Selling weights. Will inspire passion for school studies and sport in your child, friends, or relatives. Exclusive method! GCSE maths, history, English Lit, grammar, as well as biceps, triceps, legs, shoulders, literature, and chest. Geoff.
Clutching at straws, their usual caution vanished. Dad rang the number and, after a few rings, a rather breathless, gruff voice answered.
“All right,” the man said, amid the clanging of what sounded like metal weights.
“Hello, yes, Im enquiring about your advert.”
“Already sold the weights,” Geoff replied, almost hanging up.
“No, no, its about tutoring my son in maths, English, and literature,” Dad quickly added.
“Age, weight, skills?” snapped Geoff. His abruptness was both oddly inspiring and a touch alarming. The background noise changed from clanking iron to the slap of skipping rope against the floor, and Dad almost fancied he could smell sweat coming down the phone line.
“Hes nine, weighs about three stone, about managing his times tables”
“How many press-ups can he do?” interrupted Geoff.
“Sorry?” Dad asked, prodding his ear with a pinky.
“Push-ups and pull-ups? How many?” Geoff repeated.
“No idea. Five, maybe?”
“Does he know his prefixes from his suffixes?”
“I, er, Im not sure, Ill have to ask my wife.”
“What equipment have you got at home?”
“Equipment?”
“Compass, protractor, resistance bands, dumbbells?”
“Weve got a wooden ruler” Dad replied, a little bewildered.
“Right. Send me your address. Ill be over within the hour,” said Geoff, before barking, “Broaden your stance, straighten your back! Not you, sorryhistory lesson. See you soon,” and abruptly hung up.
For a few moments, Dad just stood there, feet apart, spine rigid, before making his way to Oliver. When told a new tutor was on his way, Oliver merely turned up the volume on the telly and asked for tea and a sandwich, completely unmoved by any academic threats.
Soon, the doorbell rang. Peering through the spyhole, Olivers mum glanced nervously at the mountainous chest on the other sidea chest that made her faintly envious.
“Afternoon,” she heard, as a looming wall of muscle, decked out in a tight vest and smelling faintly of coconut shampoo, squeezed into the hallway. “Wheres the little Olympian, then?”
“Its him!” she stammered as she tried to regain composure. “Its the bug-eyed owner of the Astra that you left that note on about getting his eyes checked.”
“Sorry,” came a voice from deep within the house, “bit of a mix-up, Im an opticianwell, a retired one.”
“My names Geoff Saunders, Im a tutor nowadays,” he announced.
“Oh! Its you,” Dad said, appearing sheepishly from beside the sideboard. “Sorry, didnt recognise you. Can I take your bag?”
Geoff handed him a massive sports duffel. The moment he let go, Dad almost crumpled to the floor under its weight. The cat, startled, shot through the flat at a record pace, clearing two rooms and a closed door before stopping.
“What on earth have you got in here?” Dad puffed as he dragged it to Olivers room.
“Teaching supplies. Key Stage 2 all the way to practical subjects,” Geoff replied.
Oliver was slouched on the sofa, absorbed in his phone, until the door openedsomething he wasnt expecting.
“Pull! Pull!” Dad called, but Geoff was already in, completely ignoring his new pupil and surveying the bedroom walls.
“You got a drill?” he asked.
“This for woodwork?” Dad ventured, still catching his breath.
“English grammar drills,” Geoff shot back, unpacking a pull-up bar, a punchbag, and a thick rope from his bag.
“Ill see if the neighbour has one,” Dad muttered, trembling from the workout. “This is Oliver,” he introduced, lifting his son off the sofaa lad barely the size of Geoffs knee, it seemed. “Son, this is Geoff Saunders, your new tutor.”
“How dyou get all those muscles?” Oliver asked instead of saying hello.
“Long division,” Geoff replied, and, pulling several weight plates from his bag, began stacking them.
“Best be off then,” Dad said, and dashed out.
“You stronger than Spider-Man?” Oliver asked.
“Does Spider-Man bench two hundred kilos?” Geoff replied.
Oliver had no idea, but he suspected not.
“I dont like lessons,” Oliver declared immediately.
“Let the bores worry about lessons. Were starting with sit-ups.”
Geoff lay on the floor and started doing crunches. Oliver watched, expecting this odd tutor to run out of steam, but Geoff just changed tempo and increased the load. After sit-ups it was onto dumbbells, then resistance bands, finished off with press-ups.
“Remember all that? Want to be strong? Or do you want to scuttle about in webs and dust like your mutant pal?”
Oliver shook his head.
“Right! Do all that lotthree times forty-five minus thirty-nine, start with the abs.”
“How much is that?”
“You tell me,” Geoff grinned.
“Theres no drill, just found a cordless,” Dad burst in, then froze, seeing Oliver doing press-ups. “Ill come back,” he whispered as he tiptoed out, shutting the door behind him.
The next morning at half past five, the phone rang. Sleepy-eyed, Dad wandered to the hall, fully intending to give whoever it was a piece of his mind, but the sight of Geoffs shiny bald head in the doorway made him reconsider. He realised he hadnt nearly enough words for the job.
“History and geography lesson today. Dress code: trainers, vest, shorts. Were running distance, studying local landscapes and the history of the city,” Geoff announced.
“Hes only in Year 3, they havent started those,” Dad groaned.
“Poetrys part of it as well. You coming?” Geoff asked.
“No thanks, I did fine at school.”
“In what year did the Vikings withdraw from this area?” Geoff pressed.
“Er I need to wake him up for school,” Dad dodged, heading for Olivers room.
“Hes not waking up,” he whispered coming back.
“Get him dressed, hell wake up on the way,” Geoff suggested.
Three times a week, Geoff showed up at their front door and theyd begin: Mondayschest, triceps, shoulders, maths, English; Wednesdaysback, biceps, literature, grammar; Fridayslegs, geography, history.
Within three weeks, Oliver walked into the kitchen shirtless and Dad, spying his sons burgeoning six-pack, hastily clutched a tea-towel over his own bulging middle. The boy grew stronger, stood straighter, and began lecturing his parents about their sedentary lifestyle.
“Chris, I dont know about all this,” Mum said at dinner one night. “Know what Olivers asked for his birthday?”
“Yeah, an Xbox. Hes already asked me.”
“No, a climbing frame and a blender for smoothies! I just dont think this Geoff really is a tutor. Some mad PE fanatic wholl ruin the boys health.”
“You reckon? They seem to do maths together.”
“Have you seen a single textbook in their hands?”
“The calorie chart”
“Exactly. You know what they say about muscle-heads”
“What do they say?” Dad asked, bemused.
“Thick as two short planks,” Mum replied, knocking on the glass table for emphasis. “Our sons going the same way.”
“Better a thick muscle-head than a weedy nerd, maybe?”
“No, I just want a normal child! Thats it, I want these lessons stopped!”
The phone rang.
“Its his form teacher,” said Mum, checking the screen before answering. “Hello? Whats happened? Oh, Im on my way.”
“What now?”
“Oliver started a fight. See? Told you so. Nothing good about this.”
“Ill go with you.”
They took a taxi to school and were whisked off to the headteachers office at once.
“Theres your miracle tutorhes only in Year 3 and already up before the head!”
The office was packed with parents, kids, the school psychologist, and the form teacher. The chaos was such that the piano lost its tune in the music room next door.
“This isnt a gym, its a school,” one of the mums snapped at Dad.
“Whats happened? Can someone explain?” he asked.
The form teacher took the lead.
“Oliver was forcing other pupils to play at ladder climbing during break and keeping score using fraction division.”
“Excuse me?”
“Taking turns on the pull-up bar, increasing the reps each time,” Oliver explained.
“Quiet! The others didnt want to. Oliver was threatening them.”
“But they started itcalling me names, so I corrected their grammar.”
“How did you do that?”
“I explained how to conjugate words like half-wit and show-off. They ganged up on me, so I stood my ground. Like Geoff says, Plenty of energy? More pull-ups for you! and Instead of fighting, teach them fractions.” Oliver hung his head, contrite.
“He said if we bothered him again, itd end in root extractions!” one boy whimpered.
“Hes a Neanderthal! He cant be around our kids!” one of the other mums shrieked.
“So hold on a moment,” Dad finally managed. “Youre saying my son answered aggression with maths and a pull-up bar?”
“And made us run round the pitch and learn Shakespeare, too!” piped another.
“See?” Dad whispered to Mum, and she nodded in understanding.
“Id actually like to apologise to you,” the headmistress suddenly said, turning to them.
“He should be apologising!” a father shouted, pointing at Oliver.
“Not to youto his parents. Your son is a star pupil,” the head said to Dad and Mum, “but in light of all this, Im moving him up a year.”
“Justice at last! Serves you and your daft weightlifter right!” the other parents muttered.
“I mean Year 4. Hes clearly ahead of the class,” the head finished.
A heavy silence settled. You could almost hear envy and spite gnawing in the brains of the others as they drifted out, avoiding eye contact.
“Hello, Geoff? Looks like were moving up to Year 4, new subjects,” Dad said as they left the office.
A week later, as promised, Oliver was up in Year 4. A fortnight after that, he took part in a junior crossfit competition and began preparing for his first childrens literary Olympiad. A month on, one of the parents from his old class called Dad, asking for Geoff Saunders number.
Soon, there was a new childrens club on the estatewhere you werent dropped for sporting failures, but rather for poor marks in your homework diary.
