Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

Anxiety is a strange thing; the acute awareness that something bad is just about to happen. Sometimes you can identify what it is that makes you feel this way. Most of the time, you can’t. Regardless, you have to accept that this serpent will always be sitting uncomfortably in your belly, coiling and uncoiling around your heart and into your throat. Squeezing and slackening.

  I have had anxiety attacks for as long as I can remember. Sometimes they’re triggered by fraught situations, but usually they happen around people I don’t know, or have to talk to. Crowds of two or more, I avoid. It makes things difficult and lonely. Hence, I hate the way my life is. I wake up each and every day, immediately longing to go back to sleep and never wake up. Only when there is a blue sky up above, do I feel a little more positive that the day may be marginally better.

  Today – isn’t one of those days.

  Mr McFadden won’t be sun-bathing.

  Mrs Dawson won’t be tending her flowers.

  Grey clouds, laden with heavy rain, hover in the sky outside my window.

  Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me.

  I rest my forehead against condensation covered glass in the only kitchen window that still contains any. I feel its coolness against my face.

  I’m anxious about:

  Going to school; setting foot outside the house; setting foot back inside the house; more fighting within my estranged family. I’m particularly anxious about a girl at school called Evelyn Parker who hates me with a passion.

  I’m not anxious about this strange book. I feel curiosity and hope about that. It feels like the most exciting thing that has ever happened in my life. It’s made me feel special.

  I take out my mobile phone and text AKM and let him know that I’m doing okay – a whopping lie – and tell him I’ll be around for tea at half past five. I completed all the homework that I’d been set before Elvis’ exclusion meeting, so I want him to know that I’m still as studious as ever.

  Buddy’s already up and has taken his bicycle to his Special Needs School. I go downstairs and see there is no one around to greet me, to hold me, and wish me many happy returns. I have never understood that phrase; many happy returns. Every single ‘return’ in truth, has been pretty damn miserable.

  The kitchen seems to hold a new aura about it. It feels tainted by the previous night’s events, like it’s somehow wrong to ever eat food here again, to even talk here again. Nothing has been placed over the smashed window and the wind and rain are blowing in.

  I’m quite grateful that there’s no one around, but to my surprise I see a birthday cake resting on the table, and a few cards too. Somebody wraps their arms around me from behind.

  ‘Good morning, Shell. Happy Birthday! I’m so proud of my lovely daughter.’

  ‘Thanks mum.’

  I grab her arm with my right hand and enjoy the cuddle.

  ‘I’ll get your presents after I’ve served your pastries.’

  Mother let’s go and moves over to a piping hot oven where she brings out some maple and pecan slices and pain au chocolats.

  We sit and eat, and talk about general stuff. We share a big mug of steaming tea and laugh at the strange flatulent noise the wind makes as it blows against the blind draped over the window.

  I want to tell her about the book, but I get a strong sensation that it wouldn’t be well - received, or understood or something, I dunno.

  I open three presents and find that mum has bought me: a new wrist watch; a One Direction CD and a set of sparkly lip glosses. All cool. Mother has chosen well with the watch in particular, and I fasten it around my arm admiringly. Nobody would care less at school if I told them, but it’s nice to have it. I thank mum, finish the last of my breakfast, give her a quick kiss and then head off to catch the number 51 bus to Jacobsfield High School.

  The journey is short, but it always feels like I’m being escorted to the gallows. I dread it. As we pass through the small town centre, the resident jugglers and street performers hone into view. They’re setting up their wares in the rain. Sea gulls bob up and down, trying to land on their cases. If I had more confidence, I’d love to meet them.

  We pass out of Harley and head for a mile in the direction of Boule, another coastal town. My school is only a couple of minutes away from here.

  Jacobsfield High is a hodgepodge of the modern and the antiquated.

  To get to the ancient, gothic entrance, you first have to walk up an exceedingly long and winding path bordered by landscaped gardens that look very appealing to any visitor. The inside is only slightly less impressive, but still carries a musty historic smell. It looks like a fortified castle from the outside, with shadowy turrets, and towers with dark slits for windows.

  The old part of the school is quite small. Jacobsfield High is like one of those movie sets: Good from the front and then you walk round the back and see the props. Once inside, it’s not long before you confront lifeless, ceiling high glass - the extended building. When you exit this lifeless greenhouse at the back, you step out onto a huge field. There are countless, strange mounds and a plethora of poorly designed and arranged pre-fab classrooms.

  Set even further back, is the old, old school – the mysterious original build. This dark building, with its sharp contours and gargoyles, is listed and out of bounds to students. It is surrounded by a wall and large amounts of woodland, commonly known to the Islanders as Dealdead Forest. Jacobsfield council has stationed their own caretaker to preserve and protect the entire grounds, but this old building in particular. Both the caretaker, who is called, Carlo, and his strange son – who the pupils nickname Quasimodo – spend most of their time successfully preventing vandalism and trespassing.

  So, in a sense, with all its rich history, you might think the pervasive sense of grandeur might rub off on the pupils.

  It doesn’t.

  Secret and not-so-secret drug use and underage sex are rife in this place. The teachers sometimes get a sniff of it, but don’t really understand the magnitude of the problem. C’est la vie.

  The bus pulls up alongside the winding school path. I exit and begin my journey towards the main entrance.

  The teachers here call me the ‘breath of fresh air...’ I always see hesitancy in their expressions as they approach. They treat me brilliantly, but it is as if as if they’re expecting in me, the very same terrible genes that infect my brothers’ minds and bodies. I’m a ticking-time bomb that they need to diffuse or at least keep nice and cool. As yet – they haven’t - nor will they ever, because that side of me doesn’t exist: I’m a coward.

  I have a fan club amongst the staff here, because they can’t quite believe that there is one good apple in the bad Clover bunch. As a result, they try and encourage me, and are courteous and chatty whenever I pass in the corridor. I acknowledge them shyly when they do so, and hope that I don’t come across as aloof or arrogant. Whatever (little) I’m doing is clearly working. Not only are they impressed by my behaviour and manners, but they see that I work hard, and I’ve got a brain; a good brain at that. I play chess at lunch time and I understand patterns and mathematical formulas. I’ve read for as long as I remember because I find so much peace in books. I think when we contemplate ‘peace’, we think about an escape route from the anxieties in this life, but for me, reading is like rubbing a soothing ointment in to a hard life. I savour each page and look up the words I don’t understand. Consequently, I have a good grasp of the English language. I’m virtually top of all my classes. Arthur and Astra have supplemented my knowledge by teaching me Science and History respectively.

  Being virtually top of all my classes has massive drawbacks. I have many enemies and two in particular hate my guts: Evelyn Parker is the main antagonist, closely followed by Camille Karrington.

  As I finally snap out of reverie and approach the main entrance, I can see both of them now, standing with a gaggle of girls and…

  …Elvis.

  Oh my goodness.

  What is he doing her
e? He’s not allowed anywhere near here after his drug-dealing. I keep my head down, heart thumping manically – hoping I won’t be targeted.

  My mobile phone signals that I have a message, and I reach into my coat pocket to retrieve it – glad for the distraction.

  ‘Look at her: Kitted out in her charity hand-me-downs and the bag she won for a penny-bid on eBay...’

  I can feel their ferocious demonic scowls and hear the hyena squeals of derisory laughter from their friends. I pick up pace and keep walking. I look at my phone; it’s a message from Arthur.

  ‘Hi Shelly; so glad you can make it. It will be a pleasure to have your company later. Happy Birthday. Hip Hip Hooray! Arthur.’

  ‘Look at that brick of a phone; it’s not real – it’s a Fisher Price model...’

  I ignore and keep walking, burdened with trepidation that our paths will cross once more in History after break.

  ‘Yo, Shell. Wagwan?’

  Derek, or Dezza as I refer to him, stands directly in front of me and I nearly collide with him.

  We turn right through the lobby, as I put away my mobile and he accompanies me into my form room. He’s already turned thirteen and he’s both tall and over-sized in the waist department - too much chicken, and coconut rice, and beans. He’s three quarters Jamaican – or so he says; I don’t know how that one works. He has very cool afro hair that spikes out all over the place, inadvertently giving him a ‘not-quite-with-it’ air.

  This certainly isn’t the case, but I have lots of fun teasing him about him being the blonde one of the pair of us. I like Dezza a lot. He gets the occasional snide remark for his appearance, not so much for the colour of his skin, but because of his wacky unkempt hair and his slight weight issue. There is a definite coolness about him though. He’d be a looker if he just remembered to take the battered skin off all the chicken legs he consumes after school.

  ‘Happy Birthday, fren.’ he smiles. It’s a nice smile.

  ‘Ya folks remember this year?’

  ‘Actually, yeah. My mother did. I had a lovely time with her this morning.’

  I flash the wrist watch at him. He looks a little surprised.

  ‘Wow. Good to hear it. After last year, I thought ye’d be lucky to get a tangerine.’

  Painful memory that. I change the tack of the conversation. I’m busting to tell him about the book as I sit next to him. The pips haven’t gone yet, so there’s no one else around to listen in. But first…

  ‘Dez, what were you doing outside Head of Year’s room?’

  ‘I’m underperforming and ting, and…it’s not his office anymore.’

  ‘What – not Mr Walker’s office?’

  ‘Well, the Head Teacher has taken it over – jus’ like that. Y’ know, da mon’s got a picture of himself on his desk already?’

  ‘Yeah, everybody knows about that pic and how narcissistic he is.’

  ‘Naz…He’s a Nazi?’

  ‘No, no, he loves himself; he’s narcissistic.’

  He looks blank.

  ‘Forget it. So, you were called to Mr Jessobs’. Why did you need to see him?’

  ‘Cos, I’m really underperforming and ting.’

  ‘Doo-lally, you know it all. You just need to write it down.’

  ‘I don’t like holdin’ a pen.’

  ‘But you can hold a chicken wing.’

  ‘Yeah, but, holdin’ a chicken wing is jus’ magical.’

  I smile and shake my head.

  ‘So, Winston Jessobs’ has got his self-portrait up already?’

  ‘Yeah, and he’s written somethin' not nice about someone in Harley. Does he work for a paper or somethin?’

  ‘Dezza, were you listening to anything he was saying to you?’

  ‘Nah, I looked down and saw somethin’ stickin’ out under a pile of papers. It had his initials on it, W.J. It was more interestin’ than what he was sayin'.’

  I continue to shake my head.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got something interesting to tell you.’

  I’m just about to get into the flow when Dezza’s eye widen.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ The Head ordered me to collect the register this morning and there was this note in it for you.’

  He passes me an envelope which I promptly open. It’s a note from the school councillor to say my appointment is cancelled today. Damn it. I feel a little panicked; talking about things has been quite helpful. I look up at Derek and remain focused on trying to convey last night’s events.

  ‘Dezza, listen to what happened to me...’ I begin.

  Derek listens as I recount events from yesterday; the book, the nursery rhymes, Buddy and the bell and my strange, strange dream.

  He looks increasingly surprised.

  ‘Bloody...Hell...Mon.’

  ‘I know, what do you think it all means?’

  ‘I dunno, but you should ask Ol’ Washo about the book, third period.’

  Old Washo – to whom Derek refers - is Mr Washwater, our History teacher. He’s not old at all, but he holds a strong knowledge of his subject and is very au-fait with local history, having written over the last few years various articles on the history of the Island. I nod at Dezza’s suggestion, but the truth is, I find it hard to talk to any of the teachers here.

  Registration comes and goes as normal.

  It’s not long before we are bundled in the direction of the assembly hall.

  We sing the proverbial hymn and listen to the notices from the Head. He’s a skyscraper of a man. Both pupils and staff call him Wally Winston Jessobs on account of his many gaffes when speaking in public. He wears a tweed suit, is over sixty years old and has immaculately groomed, silvery hair. With his square jaw, and powerful stature, he looks every bit the handsome pilot in some nineteen forties movie. I can just picture the notoriously well known (signed) photograph of himself on his desk. He looks and sounds completely out of place in a secondary modern. I wonder who he has been bad-mouthing in the news article Derek saw.

  There are two announcements: One about the quarter peal I’m taking part in that marks the two hundred year anniversary of the Island’s Printing Press, and the other about the school grounds being hired by outside agencies for funfairs and concerts. (He doesn’t look happy giving this announcement and chunters something about the school governors voting for it.) After this, I have well and truly zoned-out of this blah blah rigmarole.

  My mind drifts back to the book and its unusual deposit: The bell. I can’t get that nursery rhyme out of my head: Sing Heigh Ho The Carrion Crow...

  Just as I‘m becoming waterlogged with other worldly thoughts, our new blonde bombshell deputy, Mrs Tyme-Read, invites the Reverend Llewellyn on to the stage to talk to us all.

  He walks on to the platform clasping a carrier bag. The short, darkly dressed scotsman walks with purpose towards the lectern on the side of the stage. I have to tell him about the missing angel in the graveyard. Maybe, I can bag him for a minute at the end. He looks directly at the pupils with his piercing eyes. There’s a healthy mixture of fear and respect when he engages with his audience. His Scottish accent is thick with meaning. This is only the third time I’ve heard him speak at school. I’m surprised to see him.

  ‘Ged morning, pupils of Jacobsfield.’

  He pauses for effect.

  ‘I’d like ta give ye the most important sermon I could ever preach. I hope yer listening boys and girls.’

  Another Pause.

  Some students are tittering at his accent, but his presence on stage is so strong. Their laughter dies away.

  ‘In my bag I carry tha most deadly weapon tha world has ever seen, and it’s nay exaggeration. The deadliest. I believe in short punchy talks; things at’yil remember.’

  And without warning, he dips his hand into the plastic bag and brings out a congealed mass of blood. Fluid drips off his hands and slops on to the floor by his feet. There’s a collective groan from the students and even the teachers standing in the wings are star
tled.

  He holds aloft something violet in the centre of the blooded mass. It is dark and thick-rich with blood.

  ‘This is the deadliest weapon known to man. This has caused more damage across the world than anything else in the history of mankind. Forget about weapons of mass destruction. Families have been torn asunder by this. Friendships have been destroyed by the misuse of this. People kill without restraint...because…of this.’

  Silence.

  Blood and tissue begins to pour down his raised arm as he holds his sick trophy aloft. He glares at his own prop like Frodo would his ring; relishing its complexity and evil, being masterful and wary of it, all at the same time.

  ‘This is the human tongue.’

  He squeezes it and brings it to within a whisker of his own mouth, as if it’s his very own.

  ‘Your tongue; a simple, ugly thing, contains more power than ye’ll ever realise. Today, I want ye t’think about how much damage this can de if ye use it unwisely. Ye have a choice; ye can either use it to bring about good: uplifting and encouraging one another, or, you can bring about hurt, by using it to bully one another. It’s your choice: Words hurt, words heal...’

  And with that, he bundles his cargo back into the flimsy white carrier bag and exits the stage as if he’s just ambling away on an afternoon stroll; completely nonchalant about the effect of his message.

  Everybody sits there stunned.

  I can hear teachers mutter, and I can see students turn to each other with ‘grossed-out’ expressions on their faces. This is the polar opposite of any sermon he’s given anywhere before. Mrs Tyme-Read gets up on stage, clumsily stepping over the pool of blood in her red high heels. She looks like a bunny caught momentarily in the head lights, mutters something quickly, and then dismisses us to our respective lessons.

  I happen to turn to my left and somehow manage to catch the eye of Evelyn Parker. She’s staring right at me with malevolent intent. Her eyes: So cold. I look away, not believing that she’s absorbed any of what’s been said. How can that be? I guess her tongue will always be poisoned by the hate she feels towards me. I leave all thoughts of talking to the Reverend firmly behind me; no time, and inappropriate. I’ll catch up at bells tomorrow evening. There was something really unusual in Evelyn’s look. I’m dreading period three with her.

  The rest of the morning leading up to break time is non-eventful. I steal away for a few reflective moments in the girls’ toilets near the art block. They’re hardly used. I go here quite often anyway. I pull the book out of my green rucksack and feel its weight. What were the numbers in the dream? I scan the inlay and see my name. It feels like it was destined to fall into my hands. I then turn to the contents page, written in a larger version of that lovely, flowing script. It reads:

  Contents

  Page 2 through to 73 – Prayers and Devotions

  Page 75 through to 135 – Nursery Rhymes

  Pages 137 through to 274 – Bizarre Tales

  Pages 276 through to 402 – Prophecy

  Pages 401 through to 506 – Sword for the Soul

  Pages 508 through to 624 – The Other World

  I find myself utterly intrigued; just what kind of book is this? I’ve never seen any chapters quite like these. I simply have to tell somebody about this.

  In the distance, I hear St Harold’s chime a quarter past ten – breaks about to end. I remove the bell from my bag and stare at it. There are some faint, unusual symbols, spread across it unevenly. It’s gold in colour. I ring it and it makes a dull, low ring, nothing spectacular – not as sharp as the one I heard last night.

  ‘Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St. Clements’, I whisper to myself.

  I stop and puzzle over this, remembering the times I’d sung this by myself in the playground at primary school. I flick through to the chapter on nursery rhymes. A few pages in I find it. It too has been written in beautiful flowing ink, but there are no lights from the page this time. I read through it quickly.

  ‘Oranges and lemons.’ say the Bells of St. Clement's

  ‘You owe me five farthings.’ say the Bells of St. Martin's

  ‘When will you pay me?’ say the Bells of Old Bailey

  ‘When I grow rich.’ say the Bells of Shoreditch

  ‘When will that be?’ say the Bells of Stepney

  ‘I do not know.’ say the Great Bells of Bow

  Here comes a Candle to light you to Bed

  Here comes a Chopper to Chop off your Head

  Chip chop chip chop - the Last Man's Dead.

  I push the book back into my bag speedily – I’ve taken too much time in here.

  With care, I exit the girls’ toilet into a grey lull in the rain. The clouds in the sky hang low. I only feel better about myself on blue-sky days, not days like these, but I can feel hope for myself in this book; strange and peculiar as that is.

  The pips go and I hastily make my way to Mr Washwater’s room hoping that Dezza’s got there before me, so I have to endure less torment from Evelyn, Camille and their lickspittles. Dezza gets flack off them too, but it’s just nice to know that some one of his size and stature can deflect the more physical abuse that sometimes comes my way.

  I climb a flight of stairs and see directly ahead that Dezza’s turned up early for a change and he’s right at the front of the queue.

  I dare not push past the other pupils to get to him, especially as the lynch-mob is half way down the line. I try to blend into the back of the line, but just as I do so, one of the straps on my ruck sack snaps and my bag falls off my back. To my horror, the contents tumble out. The book makes a reverberating ‘zinging’ sound, like a heavy spring colliding with a hard surface. I hear the bell clang and chime loudly in the front pocket.

  My squeal doesn’t go unnoticed.

  It’s not just the Shelly Clover hate-brigade that notices me: Everybody turns to look.

  I feel my face flush and the entire top half of my body tightens towards my throat. I clumsily bend down to scrabble the contents back in, but suddenly everything seems ten times too big to fit. I feel like I’m trying to open a new carrier bag in front of a large impatient queue at a supermarket. I can hear laughter, and I notice Evelyn’s number two - Camille Karrington - walking towards me shaking her head in a belittling manner.

  She isn’t coming to help.

  I don’t want to be alive in these moments; it affects me for days. Why is this happening to me? Why did the bag have to snap? Why do I even have a stupid non-designer bag? Why couldn’t I pack things back in as easily as I did before school? It’s like a mental circle of self-hate that builds and builds until the self-pity makes me feel too sluggish to function: This is why I get counselling.

  Camille Karrington stops dead as somebody else’s strong hands reach down beside me and help me collect spilled pencils and keys. I fire a hasty, stressy, ‘thanks...’ but I really just want to be left alone. I turn even redder when I see that it’s Eren Washwater; one of the recognised studs of the school.

  ‘It’s okay Shelly.’

  I smile at him, but it’s so fleeting, I don’t expect him to notice.

  Despite his age, he’s exceptionally tall. His blonde hair rests loosely around his ears. His shirt hangs out, which in itself isn’t particularly rebellious, but as he’s the History teacher’s son, it takes on new meaning.

  Eren and his mates take their skateboards into the town centre and hangout with all the street performers I passed earlier on the 51. He’s also a very good surfer and spends a lot of the time by the coast, a couple of miles west of Harley. He has that aloof, mysterious quality, tempered with an intellect that he’s evidently inherited from his father. He keeps this well hidden in lesson time, but he’s always the name mentioned first or second alongside mine when exam results are called...and right now he’s helping me. Eek! I should be enjoying this. I’m not!

  ‘You need a bigger bag.’

  His voice has broken.

  ‘I need a less bri
ght bag....’

  He smiles.

  ‘Class, get into line.’

  Mr Washwater has appeared at the door and is firing hasty instructions. He notices me and shakes his head, knowing that I’m a long way off physically complying with his plans. The class walk inside and I move forwards in last place with half my bag hanging around me like a prolapsed stomach. I take my seat on the second row from the front, next to Dezza and realise that I have to take out half my stuff once again, just to get my exercise book from the bottom.

  I push my hand past the antiquated book and pray that the first exercise book I feel is my history book. I can feel eyes boring into the back of me. I pull out a green book and breathe a silent sigh of relief. I open it up and immediately start scrabbling today’s lesson title from the Smart Board. I catch Mr Washwater’s eye and he wears what I can only describe as a slightly enquiring look on his face. He nods at me.

  ‘Very good, Shelly. Add the lesson aim please.’

  I nod.

  I hear a loud snigger behind me. It’s Evelyn Parker and she’s quietly mouthing ‘Bod-er-ick.’, just loud enough for me to hear.

  I ignore her, but it’s not through choice. It’s more like a desperate pleading with thin air not to be noticed - to be left alone just for a few moments so that I feel less anxious. I don’t even want Mr Washwater to look at me, let alone, ask me a question. I can feel my heart thumping and I just want to hide my face by looking down at my book – which is what I do.

  The teacher turns his back and a pencil collides with the back of my head. It hits me quite forcefully but my hair cushions most of the blow. I don’t say a thing, I don’t stir. A few moments pass and I feel my chair jolt as it’s kicked hard from behind. I ignore this too. It jolts again so I tuck it further under the table.

  ‘Bitch.’

  I’m now trying to ignore the vitriolic whisper behind me. I don’t want to attract the teacher’s attention and I know that he might pull the bullies up and that would only create more problems for me. Mr Washwater is explaining something about Queen Mary and Tudor History. I try to concentrate on what he is saying.

  ‘Mary grew up knowing that her mother, Catherine of Aragon – a Catholic - was divorced by her father Henry VIII. She wanted to restore the country to Catholicism when it was her turn to inherit the Crown, because of her own beliefs and possibly to honour the memory of her mother. During her short reign, she attempted to reinstate Catholicism as the state religion in England.’

  I feel a bead of sweat drop on to my exercise book. Is this assault over?

  Ol Washo’ turns away to point at a mind map on the board, and I receive a powerful blow on the back of the head.

  To be hit by a bag is painful enough, but from what I can deduce - as I start to totter in my chair - there must have been something very solid and lead-like inside. This thought suspends in my mind for a second. I’m almost surprised to have no control of my head as I smash face down on to the desk and lose consciousness. There’s a vague recollection of laughter, and then blackness.