This isn't a story. I thoroughly dislike stories. Stories are full of things that are either blatantly idiotic or simply not true.

This is history. To be precise: my history. I plan to give you the facts. You can trust facts. You will have to trust me that these are, indeed, facts – there is very little secondary literature for you to check. But since it's the school holidays, and a party, I'll try to present this to you as a story. You all seem to like them so much.

+O+O+O+O+

Once upon a time there was a little boy. His name was James Smith, James Dickinson, James Forsythe, James Carmichael, James Hardcastle, and James Merriweather.

I realise that for a story based on facts this is not an auspicious beginning.

"How can it be," you will ask, "that one little boy has six names?"

Well, the boy's father was a con man. Unfortunately he was not a very good con man, and as a result he was regularly found out. And whenever he was found out, he took his little boy to another town in another part of the country and they started anew, under a different name.

The man always changed his own identity completely – both first and last name. He was enough of a con man to pull it off. He was also intelligent enough to realise that a small boy might either forget to listen to his new first name, or might respond to the wrong one. Therefore James remained James throughout their wanderings.

Until the age of eight, young James accepted this wayfarer's existence with the ease of most children who grow up under strange, even appalling circumstances: it was the only life he knew; therefore it was the only life, period.

Life, according to young James, meant moving to different towns regularly. When that happened, you left behind all the clothes you'd grown out of and all the toys you stopped playing with. And you left behind your name. In the new town there would be new clothes, in due course, and new toys, at some point, and a new name. At once.

There would also be a new set of rooms in a boarding house, for that was how people lived. In boarding houses. Boarding houses had landladies. One had to be polite to them for the first few days, and then very polite.

Polite meant saying 'yes, Mrs Whatever', and 'please' and 'thank you'. These were simple words, so polite was easy.

Very polite was less easy. It was longer phrases like I'd like to stay here forever or You're the nicest lady I've ever met or I wish you were my Mummy. But James's father always practiced with him before he had to say them, and he usually got them right. "It makes all the difference when it comes to paying the rent," said James's father, and, "we're in this together, aren't we? You're a big help." James was proud to be a big help.

When young James was nearly six years old, he learned that being very polite was another word for telling stories.

They had just moved to a new town and a new boarding house, and he was now James Carmichael. And when his father told him to be very polite to Mrs. Jones, for the first time in his life James stopped to think.

Mrs. Jones had a very shrill voice. And her skirt and apron were dirty. Also, there was an unpleasant smell about her. A bit like James's socks on the third day he wore them, and a bit like the drink his father sometimes bought, the one that looked like apple juice but wasn't apple juice at all. As James had found out the day he took a great gulp from his father's glass. The drink had a difficult name, but after James had been very, very sick, he had called it Yech. His father had said it was a very good name, for that was exactly what it was for little boys: yech.

Young James did not want a Mummy who smelt of old socks and yech and who was dirty. And he didn't think she was the nicest lady he had ever met, for Mrs. Brown, in the previous boarding house, had been much nicer. Mrs. Brown had smelt of lavender.

James told all this to his father. "I can't say it," he added, "for it isn't true." So his father explained all about stories, and how they often aren't true but make people very happy. That was why James's father told stories – because he liked to make people happy. If young James would tell his story to Mrs. Jones, he would make her happy, too. As long as he never, ever told her it was a story.

James's father was right. When James told his story, Mrs. Jones smiled, called him a 'poor little tyke' and gave him a handful of raisins. The next day he got an apple. A few days after that Mrs. Jones told him a story for his father. She had to repeat it a few times, but then James knew it by heart.

This is how it went: Father, Mrs. Jones says there's a gentleman downstairs whom you have met before. And he would like nothing better than to see you again and draw your cork. Mrs. Jones says it's what you deserve, too, but it's the wee 'un she's thinking of.

James thought it was a very good story. It had like nothing better in it. And corks were in the bottles his father bought when he wanted to celebrate, and then you had to draw the cork, so that bit was good, too. The last bit was the most difficult – he had no idea what a weeyun was.

But his father didn't seem pleased at all. He muttered angrily and started packing – and they had only just arrived! It worried young James a lot. But then his father ruffled his hair and told him it was a good story after all, and he, James, had told it very well. And now they would go to another town, where he would be James Hardcastle, and the first thing they would do there, after finding a boarding house, would be to buy a brand new set of toy soldiers for the best storyteller in the world.

+O+O+O+O+

James Carmichael had learned to tell stories and began to like them. James Hardcastle, however, learned to hate them.

James Hardcastle had reached the age to go to primary school. He enjoyed it enormously. The previous Jameses had often been rather lonely little boys. Only on one or two occasions there had been children living in the same street.

James Dickinson had had made a few friends and discovered the joys of hide-and-seek, Simple Simon Says, and Cops and Robbers.

James Forsythe, however, had lived in a street with mostly boarding houses full of grown men who went to work all day, and he had been very lonely, indeed.

James Carmichael had found a few boys living near him. They had exchanged names and boyish signs of budding friendship, and he had had a lovely afternoon with his new acquaintance Robert and Robert's real, leather football. He had been the goalie for most of the time, since he was the new boy, but it had still been great. "Next time we'll put Fat Nick in the goal, and you can play on the team," Robert had promised. But there has been no next time, because of the story of the cork and the weeyun.

But James Hardcastle didn't even have to look around for boys to play with: there was a whole classroom full of them. Well, not really full, of course, there were a lot of girls, too. But James knew that life isn't perfect. He knew it better than most people. School was great, and if some people preferred hopscotch to Cops and Robbers, they could simply be ignored.

Even though it was a bit unfair that they got half the playground for their hopscotch and the boys were not allowed to go there, "for you big boys mustn't run over the girls." Girls were perfectly able to fend for themselves, James thought. Especially girls like Elsie, who could kick like a mule and did so, too, whenever a boy annoyed her. James thought that a girl with a kick like Elsie's might be an asset to any football team. But although he hadn't played with other children a lot, he had learned enough of boy rules to know that this was not an idea to say out loud.

But then the other children began to tell stories – such fantastical stories that James had to grin at first. Even his father didn't come up with such good ones. Slowly, however, he began to realise that they weren't stories; they were facts! Nearly all the children in his class had lived in the same house all their lives. They all had a whole house, with a living room and a kitchen and a bedroom for the parents and one for the children, and some children had a whole room for themselves.

And they all had tea with their family – not at a big table for all the boarders. They sat down with their father and mother, and brothers and sisters if they had them. Except for Elsie, whose mother had died, just like James's mother. Elsie lived with her father and a step-mother, who was, according to Elsie "as mean as they make 'em, and she likes her own boys much better than me. They always fight with me, and then I get the blame and I fair hate 'em." That went some way towards explaining Elsie's kicking prowess, but other than that, it was all rather bewildering.

After a few months at school, James was invited to come and play at Peter's house. Peter was now his best friend. James looked forward to it for days. He'd get to see a living room, and Peter's room, too, for Peter didn't have brothers and sisters, and he had a room all to himself.

It was wonderful.

All of it was beyond wonderful.

Peter's room, with lots of toys. And the living room, with beautiful, soft sofas. James was asked to stay for dinner – James's family called it 'dinner', not 'tea'; tea was a separate meal with cake and toast – and it was simply the best evening of his life. "I wish you were my Mummy," he told Peter's mother, and that wasn't a story at all. It was a fact. But Peter's mother still liked it. She smiled and called him a 'poor boy', and told him to come very often.

During that year James spent more and more time with Peter. It was a happy year. True, the boarding house was pretty awful and knowing what a real house and a real living room were like made it worse. But James was in school all day and at Peter's house most afternoons.

His father had gone to thank Peter's parents, and he had become a friend of Peter's father. And then the fathers went 'into business' together. Neither James nor Peter quite knew what that meant. But the result was that they were allowed to spend almost all their time together at Peter's house. "When we're grown up," said Peter, "we'll go in business too, and we'll be together always and always."

"And we can all live in the same house," said James.

"No, silly, you live in a house with your family," said Peter, who knew about such things. "But we'll have houses next to each other."

Life, in short, was absolutely wonderful, and it would remain absolutely wonderful for ever and ever, until they were as old as Peter's grandfather. If it was possible at all for perfectly normal boys to grow so incredibly old, of course.

And then, suddenly, James woke up one morning to a room with suitcases on the bed and a father who told him to sort out his clothes and pack only the things that still fitted him really well.

James screamed and shouted. And when that didn't help, he cried. "Like a sissy," Peter would say, but Peter wasn't there to see him. James just knew they'd move to yet another town, with yet another boarding house and yet another name.

"I won't go!" he shouted. "I won't pack my clothes! Take them out! Out! Out!" And suddenly, all the clothes were out of the suitcase. They were all over the room, and it was a terrible mess. But James's father merely sighed and said that it was to be expected.

That was a very strange thing about James's father, by the way. Whenever James did something really bad, like the clothes, or the time he smashed the ugly purple vase, his father wouldn't give him a beating like other boys got. He'd just say it was to be expected.

Which it wasn't. Not at all. James still didn't know why the vase had broken – he hadn't touched it. Couldn't touch it, even; he was too small to reach the shelf where it stood. But it had shattered, just as James had cried he wanted to break it, and his father hadn't been angry. He had just said that James should never, ever, talk about it.

James didn't know why the clothes had flown out of the suitcase, either, but he was too unhappy to care. It was the most awful morning of his life.

And then it got worse.

They were already at the station, and James's father had bought the tickets, "for a lovely train ride, aren't you a lucky boy?" James did not feel lucky at all, and then Peter's father came running to the platform, with Peter on his heels.

Peter's father shouted at James's father, calling him a liar, a cheat, and a con man. And Peter … Peter shouted, too. He shouted that they had made his mother cry and they would have to sell the house and he, Peter, would lose his room. "All because of your father and his stories! I hate you, hate you, hate you!"

It was during that train-ride (which was anything but lovely) that young James had a revelation. A very unhappy one – not at all the sort of thing that makes you shout Eureka and run around stark naked. Which, given they were on a train, was probably for the best.

He had spent the first part of the journey thinking of Peter and the things Peter had said. And he had asked his father whether they were true. He father had told him that of course they weren't; Peter had misunderstood things. That might be possible. The world of grown-ups was often pretty confusing, and mistakes could be made.

Then he realised that Peter's father had said the same things. And then, suddenly, he had remembered Mrs. Jones and what had happened when they left her boarding house. He hadn't thought about her since the day his father had bought him the toy soldiers he had had to leave behind that very morning. But now he remembered her and the story of the gentleman who wanted to draw his father's cork.

At that moment James suddenly understood two things.

The first thing was that he had once actually been the sort of silly little kid who didn't know what drawing someone's cork meant – amazing, but there it was. Every boy used that expression, yet James, two-year-younger James, had not known it.

The second thing was that Peter and his father were right: James's own father was a con man. And a cheat and a liar. That's why the gentleman had wanted to beat him up. That was – of course that was, it just had to be – the reason they had moved so often.

James sat in the train and stared at his father. And before his eyes, the friendly, familiar face of the man who told stories to make other people happy changed into the shifty expression of a cheat who told stories to ruin other people's lives.

And now he had ruined his son's life.

+O+O+O+O+

In the new town James, who was now James Merriweather, was sent to a new school. He knew he had to make new friends, and he knew that being a sulking sour-face wouldn't help. But he couldn't. He hated all the girls for not being Elsie, and he hated all the boys for not being his old friends. And there could never be a new Peter in this stupid, stupid place. But most of all, he despised his father and his stories. And when you despise your father, and love him at the same time, and feel all angry with yourself for despising him and then all angry with yourself for loving him, you become a sour-face. There's no helping it.

Once again, James became a very lonely boy.

There was one difference, however.

He was now a lonely boy who could read. And the only half-way decent thing about the new school was that it had a library, and his teacher – if James was totally honest, his teacher wasn't completely awful either – his teacher had told him that he could read as many books as he liked.

"Do you like stories?" asked Mr. Pargeter.

"I hate 'em," said Peter. "Sir."

Mr. Pargeter didn't seem to notice the rather belated 'Sir', but instead gave him a book with a rather fetching cover and the words A History of Britain on it. "Try this," he said. "It's not silly stories at all – it's all true."

James tried the book and loved it. Mr. Pargeter showed him two whole shelves in the library, full of history books. James read them all – or nearly all.

He was getting perilously close to the last book on the second shelf when something exiting happened at home. A letter arrived. His father brought it up to their room, and told him it was for him, for James.

Which was odd, because the letter was addressed to someone else entirely.

But James's father told him the letter was his, and then James heard the most fantastically unbelievable story ever, which was saying rather a lot.

James's father told him his Mummy had been a witch. Not an evil witch like the ones in fairy-tale books, but a very, very good one. And she had learned it all at this school called Hogwarts, and now James would go there and learn all about magic, too. It was a boarding school, and yes, that was a bit like a boarding house. There, too, James would eat at a long table and share a room, but this was just for children – his roommates, the others at the table, they would all be boys and girls just like him.

And he would stay there for seven years.

Well, that settled things. Stay for seven years? He'd never lived anywhere for that long. Obviously the story was a lie.

Then came the day they went to get his school things. James had to tell his father where the place was, for his father couldn't see it. That was odd; the building was as plain as the nose on your face. The Leaky Cauldron it was called. And then the landlord took them to a wall, and the wall opened, and … and …

It was magic. It was the most magical thing James had ever seen. His father bought clothes for him – rather funny ones – and a cauldron and books. Lots of books, and they all looked really interesting. And then his father said he could choose a gift. An animal, perhaps? He was allowed a cat, or a rat, or an owl, or a toad.

But James said he'd rather have something else, if it wasn't too expensive. From the bookshop. They had this book, and it was a very big one, and it was called Hogwarts, a History and he wanted it more than anything in the world.

James's father bought it, and James read it from cover to cover and then again. And again.

By the time he boarded the Hogwarts Express, he did, indeed, believe that he'd go to Hogwarts for seven whole years. And that his mother had been a witch, which made him a wizard.

And that his name was, in actual fact, Cuthbert Binns.