HORMONE HEAVEN: PART FOUR

It's Easter Monday and a family dinner is planned for the evening at my parents’ house. Big Boy is getting ready to go out.

"Can you be back by six o'clock please?"

Big boy makes a loud mooing noise to signal his discontent.

"Why do we always have to go there?" he moans as he puts on his jacket.

"We don't always go there," I reply. "Anyway, it's Easter and your grandparents want to get us all together. It's only for an hour or so. What's the problem?"

"We 'ave to miss 'Simpsons' and we 'ave to talk," continues Big Boy.

"And we 'ave to say 'huh' and 'tuh'," chips in Bro, referring to his grandfather's refusal to countenance dropped 'h's and glottal stops.

"Yeah, we 'ave to talk posh," agrees big boy and disappears through the door.

At six o'clock there is no sign of him so I telephone his mobile. It's switched off and I get an earful of gangsta rap from his answering machine.

A few minutes later the phone rings but it's not big boy.

"Hello. Is that Mrs Misell? This is PC Williams, your son has been caught riding a stolen moped on a local housing estate. He's been taken to the station. Hello, are you there?"

I was there but I was reeling from shock, barely able to comprehend what I had just heard. Visions of my baby, my firstborn, banged up in a dank police cell began to cloud my mind.

"He's stolen a moped?" I asked, needing to hear the details again just to make sure.

"He's been caught riding one," replied the voice at the other end. "Are you going to come down then?"

"Oh, er, yes, of course, I'll come right away," I replied and put down the phone.

I took a deep breath and called my parents. In my calmest voice I announced that we would be a little late for dinner because their grandson had to be released from police custody. My father sounded shocked and distressed.

"Will he be charged?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I replied but I really wasn't sure.

Then Bro and I jumped in the car. Bro started to giggle and so did I.

"It's not funny," I said.

"You're laughing," retorted Bro.

"Yes but it's just nerves," I replied. "For goodness sake don't laugh at the police station or we could all get banged up."

"O.K, I'll try," said Bro.

Minutes later we arrived at the police station and I explained why we were there to a young WPC. She looked bewildered.

"Mmm, I'm not sure we've got anyone here of that name. How old is he?"

"Thirteen" I replied.

"No, definitely not," said the WPC. "Perhaps he's been taken to another station. I'll call the nearest one and check for you if you like?"   

So she phoned through to another nearby station but he wasn't there either.

I thanked her and we wandered out to the car. I began to panic and think that big boy was the victim of some cruel abduction but then Bro tugged at my arm.

"Mum, I think it was a prank call."

"How could it be?" I said.

"Mum, it’s April Fool's Day," insisted Bro.

I thought back to the phone call from the policeman. Come to think of it, he had sounded very young but then, they can be very young can't they? And the story sounded so… well, plausible. But who would want to do such a thing to us? I put the question to Bro.

"Could be anybody," he shrugged and then reminded me of various occasions when irate parents of big boy’s friends had phoned me to complain about unexpected pizza or curry deliveries to their homes. Prank calling had been very much the mischief du jour but had recently fallen out of fashion. The important thing now though was to find big boy.

I dialled his mobile and to my delight, he answered.

"Oh Thank God! Where are you?"

"Dave's house, woss your problem?"

"Don't move, I'm coming to get you right away."

The rest of the evening wasn't much fun. Big boy complained that we'd tracked him down, kidnapped him and forced him to go to dinner at his grandparents where he had to talk posh, of course. And when we told him about the prank call, he was furious; furious with whoever it was who made the call but even more furious with me for falling for it.

"How could you be so stupid Mum? And how could you fink I'd do a fing like that? I don't even know how to ride a moped!"

He's right. I was stupid to have fallen for it. The truth is, though, that I'd been waiting for something like this to happen. Like I've been waiting for him to fall through the door horribly drunk or high on drugs or indulge in some other terrible teenage rite of passage. But perhaps I've been too quick to fall prey to these stereotypical assumptions about my adolescent child and perhaps there's a danger that if I expect him to behave this way then he will. I think the sociologists call it 'labelling theory'. Or, as big boy put it:

"I'm not a bloody criminal you know."

No, he's not. Not yet anyway. And perhaps I can also console myself with the idea that, for once, someone else's child (and we still don't know who) was behaving more badly than my own.

Rebecca Misell lives in London with her two sons aged 11 & 13.

Previous report from Hormone Heaven