Disclaimer: St George's is a real primary school. I am taking artistic liberties with what it was really like in the 70s (or even if it existed back then, as I can't be sure). English in Action was a real textbook from the 70s, and again, I'm not sure if it was for six-year-olds, so I am taking more artistic liberties there. I just wanted a genuine textbook to use. Heed that, or I'll come round your house and stamp on all your toys.

A/N: Let me set the scene for you, dear readers. The year is 1979. Gene Hunt is eight years old, embarking on a trip to London. Alex Price is six years old, at school awaiting the arrival of their Mancunian visitors. Prepare for mayhem, eight-year-old swear words, and perhaps a little bit of a crush… Enjoy!

160 miles to London.

The coach was full of loud, excited Mancunian children, swapping sweets and yelling to their friends across the aisle, the odd fist-fight starting between the seats. For most of them, this would be the first time they'd been out of Manchester; for several of them, the first time they'd even been on a coach. This school taught children from the roughest areas of Manchester, and so by definition the poorest areas. The Seventies hadn't been kind to many families.

One such child, from a poor Mancunian family, was eight-year-old Gene Hunt, clutching his rucksack to his chest as though it contained the crown jewels.

He was one of the younger children on the trip, the majority being ten or eleven; most of them knew of him by reputation, handy with his fists, not afraid to get into a fight. It was one of the reasons he'd been sent on this trip, to try and improve his behaviour. Gene was bright enough, as all the teachers sighed at him whenever he was hauled into the headteacher's office once again with a split lip or a black eye, it was just what he did with that intelligence that worried them. Working out ways of hitting people that didn't leave a bruise wasn't on the National Curriculum, and they'd really rather he didn't use that to occupy his time, thanks very much.

Perhaps this visit to St George's Cathedral Catholic Primary School in London, known for its discipline, would force him back onto the straight and narrow.

Gene had overheard the conversation between his teacher and the headmistress with some dismay, unsure that he really fancied leaving Manchester; but when they'd mentioned London, he'd been cautiously excited, unable to stop himself agreeing, albeit with a great show of reluctance. London, to children of Gene's ilk, was one of the mythical places they knew existed but never hoped to see, a land of mystery and intrigue that only adults ever saw, and so Gene's mother had agreed to let her son go for three days on the trip to St George's, even selling a dress to find the money to pay for it. Thus Gene was now wearing a new shirt and trousers, for the first time in three years, paid for with a little extra she'd kept to the side.

"Hunt! Got any sweets?"

"No," he yelled back to Brian Davis, clutching his bag even harder. William Jamieson and John Carter had already tried to steal it, only handing it back when he'd got William in a headlock and was standing on John's foot. Having a violent father paid off in that respect. Gene shuddered, huddling into his seat, trying to ignore the cold air gusting onto his legs from the not-quite-shut door of the coach.

He tried to imagine London from the snippets he'd seen on TV, curled up on the sofa before his father got home and either knocked the shit out of him or ordered him upstairs, throwing something after him for good measure. He knew what Big Ben looked like, and the Houses of Commons, and Downing Street… he counted them off on his fingers, wincing as he pressed too hard on a cut. Well, he didn't know much about London, but he was willing to bet that William Jamieson and John Carter didn't either. And they were older than him, too.

Gene rested his head against the window of the coach, watching the road go by, and hoped that whoever his partner at St George's was, he wasn't afraid of a couple of scraps.

Mrs Pankhurst had said the children from Manchester would be arriving at about two o'clock, and so there would be time to meet them and decide on their project before they had to go to their hotel and check in at half past three. The entire school was in a frenzy of excitement, eagerly anticipating their Northern visitors, everyone who had been selected to partner one of them barely able to concentrate with impatience.

One such child was Alex Price, six years old, wearing her little blue badge that proclaimed her as one of the children participating in the Manchester project with pride as the other children in her class stared and whispered behind their hands.

Alex was not particularly popular, having only her best friend Michelle for company, and since Michelle was off with glandular fever she was on her own until the Mancunian children arrived. She was undoubtedly one of the smartest children in the class, always getting top marks and beating everyone else in the end of week tests, and had a tendency not to notice how annoying she could be; hopefully her partner from Manchester would be tolerant, able to keep up with her, and well-behaved.

If that's what Alex expected, she was in for a disappointment.

Alex tapped her fingers on the table beside her workbook, staring at the letters on the page as a smile made its way onto her face.

Halfway there and Gene was feeling distinctly coach-sick. The sweets Brian Davis had passed him in exchange for a game of Top Trumps had been sickly, far too much sugar and too little actual sweet; he wondered if it would be considered cool if he threw up, and quickly decided making the coach stink of vomit wouldn't make him too popular, especially if everyone had to put up with it for the next two hours.

"Want a fight, Hunt?" William Jamieson called from the back, laughing with his little gang of mates; Gene ignored him, focusing on the outside of the coach, remembering his mother's advice on coach-sickness. "Try ter stare out o' the window an' concentrate on the outside, an' don't be sick all over yer new clothes."

If he were to be sick all over his new things, he'd most certainly get a beating from his father. Gene huddled further into the seat, still clutching his bag, making sure it covered the bruises on his chest from being hit yesterday because the pub closing had somehow been his fault. The last real beating he'd got from his dad, the kind where Stephen Hunt didn't stop until his son was either begging or unconscious, he'd spent two days in hospital, being poked and prodded as his mother sat crying by his bedside, promising never to let it happen again. They'd been through the usual rigmarole again the next day, packing their bags and heading out the door only for Mrs Hunt to suddenly find a good reason for them to stay, like she hadn't done the laundry yet and she should probably cook some dinner; Gene, his arm in a sling, had watched silently from the front path as his mother had headed back in to cook a stew, trying and failing to sing merrily as they waited for his father to come back home.

"Hunt! Gis a sweet!"

"Don't 'ave any," he yelled, turning as footsteps sounded beside his seat. The teacher had dozed off in her chair, snoring softly; nobody to stop them then, he thought as William Jamieson pulled him out of his seat, serving him what was meant to be a backhander across the face but turned into a punch to the wall when Gene ducked.

A swift knee in the groin, a push to the floor, and Gene's work was done, standing over his opponent as he lay groaning in the aisle of the bus, clutching his groin as he rolled from side to side.

Gene would have claimed total victory if William hadn't managed to grab his ankle and tug him to the floor as well, the pair of them beginning to serve each other fist sandwiches as the entire bus chanted "Fight! Fight! Fight!" and the teacher woke with a start, leaping up to yank the two boys apart, holding them at arms' length as they squirmed and panted, still trying to kick each other.

"What on earth do you two think you're doin'? Who started it?"

"William," Brian Davis yelled immediately, before any of William's friends could get a word in edgeways. The teacher's lips clamped together.

"Thank you, Davis. Jamieson, you come an' sit next to me. Hunt, sit down and behave, just because 'e 'it you doesn't mean you 'ave to 'it back."

"Yes, Miss," Gene muttered, sliding back down into his seat and pulling his rucksack back onto his lap again, grinning innocently at William as he was manhandled into his seat at the front of the coach, his sulky expression only tempered by the fresh black eye he was sporting. Gene quietly congratulated himself.

In the tumult, he'd forgotten he felt sick; the nausea had all but gone now. A smug smile still on his face, Gene turned round to play another round of Top Trumps with Brian, ignoring the ache in his stomach where William had punched a fresh bruise. Win some an' lose some an' all that.

The roads flashed by outside, each metre taking the coach closer to London, closer to St George's and the adventures everyone was hoping it would bring.

"Price? Are you concentrating?"

"Erm… yes, Miss."

"What was I just talking about, Price?"

"You were talking about short division, Miss."

"Then can you give me your answer to question ten, Price?"

"Five, Miss."

"Well done, that's correct… Forester, I heard that, you be quiet now! Ignore her, Price. Now then, we shall move on to English- everybody get your copies of English in Action out, please."

Alex risked a look over to Amelia Forester's smug grin, her whisper of 'swot' just loud enough for Alex to hear, along with her giggling with her friends either side. Eyes prickling with tears, Alex lifted the lid of her desk and blocked Amelia out, pulling her textbook out and resting it on her lap, wishing for the millionth time that she was more popular.

Twenty miles to go, and the coach had hit London, every Mancunian eye glued to the window as shops and roads and houses went by, watching out for anything interesting, yells and squeals from the girls accompanying anything of note. The driver and teacher were puzzling over a map together, scratching their heads and hoping not to get lost as the children drank in every detail of London they could.

Gene couldn't help feeling just a little disappointed at what he was seeing, as the coach grumbled on and more of London was displayed to his eager eyes; some parts seemed almost like a concrete version of Manchester, lacking only the cobblestones and the gossiping housewives, gaining instead tarmac streets and high-rise buildings, the odd drunk or tramp slouched in an alleyway. In fact, Gene thought idly as he turned his head away from a man taking a slash on someone's parked car, it wasn't quite as appealing as his homeland, somehow more grim and impersonal, lacking the something that made Manchester what it was. But maybe, he consoled himself, he was looking at the wrong bit. Maybe the London they showed on the television was just round the corner, and they were just about to see it, in all its glory.

But when they did turn a corner, it was into the parking area of a school, gravel crunching under the wheels of the coach as it came to a shuddering halt in front of the sign saying 'ST. GEORGE'S CATHEDRAL CATHOLIC PRIMARY SCHOOL'.

The teacher and driver breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Is that it?" Gene muttered to Brian Davis, distinctly nonplussed by the appearance of the school; he'd been expecting something quite grand, something modern and shiny, not the old-fashioned brick building in front of him, peeling paint on the windows, smudged glass and faded paint on the tarmac playground beside the school. At least they had monkey bars.

"Come on then! Everyone out! Don't leave anythin' behind!" the teacher called, stepping off the coach and chivvying William Jamieson out in front of her. Gene and Brian shrugged at each other, slinging their rucksacks on their backs and following their teacher down the steps.

The door of the school opened as the coach finally emptied of chattering Mancunians, their teacher trying and failing to line them up at the side of the coach and eventually letting them scatter into their groups; the woman who strode out of St George's, followed by another woman and a stream of children, did not look like someone who would take kindly to naughty Northern children, glaring at the rabble clustered in front of her school as though surveying a litter of mongrel puppies. Gene stuck by Brian's side, and Brian stuck by his, survival instincts kicking in as William Jamieson rejoined his friends and began to edge towards the pair, one eye narrowed, the other swollen from Gene's punch.

"Is everyone here?"

The voice of the St George's headmistress could have cut through diamonds, it was so sharp; Gene winced, leaning back against the dirty side of the coach as their teacher cleared her throat, calling for quiet.

"Right then. This is Mrs Hingston, she's the headmistress of St George's an' from now until you board this coach to go 'ome. you are under 'er command, she is in effect your teacher. That does not mean to say you aren't answerable to me as well though, because you most certainly are. That means you too, Hunt."

Gene put on his innocent face, standing up straight as Mrs Hingston stepped forwards, her gaze fixed on him.

"Name?"

Bugger. Why'd she 'ave ter pick on me?

"Gene Hunt, Miss."

"Gene or Jean?"

There's only one version of Gene! What's she on about? Bloody 'ell, 'ave I just landed meself in with a lot o' nutters? Askin' trap questions ter try an' figure out 'ow smart yer are? I bloody 'ate those.

Gene, confused, glanced at Brian, as though the answer were printed on his forehead; the teacher interrupted hurriedly, smiling placatingly at Gene.

"Eugene, but we don't use full names at our school. We feel Gene's old enough to choose 'is own name if 'e wants to."

"Bear in mind, Hunt, that you will be known by your full name at this school," Mrs Hingston said firmly, moving forwards. "And I have my eye on you. One millisecond of trouble from you, and you'll be on your way back to Manchester so fast your eyes will pop. Is that crystal clear, Eugene?"

Gene was about to throw a smart answer her way, but Brian's elbow in his side made him reconsider.

"Yes, Miss," he muttered, fixing his eyes on the ground so that Mrs Hingston couldn't accuse him of looking 'impudent' like the teachers back in Manchester always did. Gene didn't even know what the word meant.

"I think we'd best pair you up with someone who will be a good influence on you," Mrs Hingston said coldly, turning to survey the children clustered behind her, standing in three quiet lines as though by instinct. "Emily Ward, note the names down, please."

A girl with a long blonde ponytail lifted an immaculate clipboard, pencil at the ready, looking so tidy Gene felt grimy even standing across the parking area from her.

"Eugene Hunt will be partnered with… Alex Price."

Gene didn't know quite what to expect from that name, craning to see who would step forwards, along with everyone else. Please say 'e's OK with 'avin' just a little punch-up. If Brian's partnered up with someone else, I'll need someone ter watch my back if Jamieson an' Co. come an' find me.

His eyes widened almost painfully as a little, timid-looking girl stepped forwards, her mousy brown hair in plaits on either side of her head, clutching her pink satchel as though it were the last life ring on the Titanic.

Gene felt his stomach drop.

He'd been partnered with a girl?

The moment Mrs Hingston's eyes had landed on her, Alex knew she was in trouble.

As first impressions went, Eugene's hadn't been too bad, if a little sulky; he wasn't repulsive, or at least she didn't think so, and his fluffy blond hair lent him a cute, boyish look that Alex found quite intriguing. But she didn't think he'd be that academic, and he certainly didn't look the tolerant sort; his legs, from the glimpse she'd got below his ridden-up trouser legs as he stepped off the bus, were a myriad of healing cuts and bruises, and a day-old bruise on his cheek gave him the aura of someone not afraid to get into a brawl or two. He was neatly turned out, in a white shirt and polished black shoes, but his socks were grey and old and the jumper covering his shirt was crumpled and slightly tattered, unravelling in places. Alex's mother would never have let her out of the house dressed like that.

Maybe Eugene's family was poor. Her mother had told her that people in the North weren't as rich as the people in the South. She'd also said they were more violent and uncouth; Eugene hadn't quite confirmed this, but he hadn't denied it either.

Well, at least she was partnered with someone who would be interesting for this project. She doubted Eugene would turn out to be boring.

She offered him a smile, relieved when he just about returned it, and led him into the classroom designated for them, ignoring the sniggers as they passed Amelia Forester and her friends on the way.