It was Kitty who eventually explained to Philip why he forgot things, although even she took a couple of goes to get it right.
At almost the same time as Philip was born in the Royal Infirmary in Bristol, another baby was making its appearance at a hospital in Manchester. Also a boy, its mother, who admired the Royal Family, decided to call her new son Charles.
Moments later, she added Andrew after her own father. Then, before the family had even got round to setting a date for the christening, she added Sheridan after her great uncle, in the hope that he would, one day, leave her new son all his money.
It was a most wonderful christening at some large important church in Manchester, with bushels of relatives who queued up to take a peek at the new baby. All of them acting like babies themselves, goo-goo-gooing and gurgling in a most disgusting manner. Despite that, and the vicar almost dropping him in the font, Charles Andrew Sheridan Harris had not cried and, twenty minutes later, was considered well and truly christened.
If you remember the christening of Sleeping Beauty, with its good fairies and bad fairies, it was the bad fairy that won the day. She sent Sleeping Beauty to sleep for a hundred years. The same thing happened here. The only difference was that Charles Andrew Sheridan Harris did not go to sleep for one hundred years. He did, however, from the very start, know exactly where his future lay. He was destined to become a criminal mastermind and make a bankful of money.
He had an awful lot going for him, too. Right from an early age he had film star looks, with dark brown eyes that could melt a heart of stone, and a thick mop of black hair that sat just right on his head. He also worked diligently to acquire a serious demeanour.*
When Charles said, ‘I promise it’s true,’ and smiled, with his dark brown eyes melting like chocolate on a sunny day, no one had the slightest doubt he was sincere.
So far Charles’s criminal activities had been severely restricted by his age. After all, there were not many opportunities for an eight-year-old criminal mastermind. He had to content himself with pinching biscuits from the cupboard when his mother’s back was turned, and keeping any money he found down the back of the sofa.
Unfortunately, Charles’s legs had been decidedly flaky right from the word go. When, at age nine, they finally stopped working altogether and he became the proud owner of an all-singing, all-dancing electric wheelchair, he was thrilled. No one in their wildest dreams would ever suspect a child in a wheelchair capable of masterminding a crime spree. For the next couple of years, Charles cashed in big time. Thanks to his wheelchair, he could now shoplift on a regular basis, providing him with an endless supply of:
When his dad’s job moved south, Charles was furious. He had spent hours on the Internet researching the history of crime. For anyone with ambitions to become one of the criminal classes, Manchester was the only place to live. Bristol simply did not cut it.
Naturally Charles had hundreds of doctors and it was quite possible Philip had the rest. If only these doctors had possessed
a crystal ball
(instead of a load of certificates),
they might have seen that Charles Andrew Sheridan Harris and Philip James Longbotham were destined to become the greatest of friends. If they had known this, they would instantly have jettisoned all their long words in favour a train ticket, to bring the Harris family to Bristol years before they actually arrived. So, it was not until the autumn term, in their final year at primary school, that Charles and Philip met.
It was Saturday morning. With little to do, Philip wandered about the garden. He was just peering at the rabbit, which woofled its nose at him while still munching on a lettuce leaf, when he heard a noise from next door. It was a strange sort of noise and Philip was just working out what it could be, when another noise joined it.
‘Damn!’ someone muttered.
Philip’s brain kicked in then and he remembered that damn was one of the words he was not supposed to use
He also remembered that no one actually lived next door because Mrs Peters had gone away. He even remembered saying goodbye.
Since then, early every morning builders arrived and, just after he got home from school, they left again. Intrigued, he climbed onto a flower pot and looked over the fence.
The noise was now explained. This came from a ball being bounced against the wall, where a basketball net had been fitted. The swear word had come from the boy in a wheelchair who’d been bouncing the ball.
‘Hi!’ Philip smiled politely. ‘I’m Philip Longbotham.’
‘Hi, yourself!’ said the boy. ‘I’m Charles and we just moved in.’
Philip nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘I come from Manchester.’
‘Manchester?’
‘You never heard of it?’
Philip smiled. ‘No.’
‘It’s the only place to live. Didn’t want to move. Had to ’cos a Dad’s work.’
‘I haven’t got a dad,’ Philip volunteered. ‘I’ve got a mum instead and two sisters, Kitty and Anna. They’re older than me.’
‘I’ve got a brother. He’s older than me too. He’s in the army. So, you want to come and play? I’ve got to stay in the garden while Dad organises the house and I’m bored already.’
‘I don’t think I’m permitted,’ he said. ‘Wait a minute.’
Dumping his shoes at the back door, Philip ran upstairs to check the posters on his wall.
He tore downstairs and back into the garden, eager to talk to the strange boy. He popped his head over the fence again and smiled. ‘I’m back.’
Charles who was about to toss the ball into the net, paused his throwing and said, ‘What’s with the disappearing act?’
‘I’ve got this strange brain – sometimes it doesn’t work and I forget things. I’ve got posters on my wall to remind me.’
‘That’s all right then. I’ve got legs that don’t work. How about you be my legs and I’ll be your brain.’
Philip nodded happily.
‘So you coming over or what?’
‘That’s what I was checking. I’m not supposed to leave the house without asking.’
‘Right,’ Charles smiled. ‘Only you’re not leaving the house, are you? You’re leaving the garden.’
Philip beamed. His new friend was correct. The poster said nothing about leaving the garden.
Unfortunately, he had already shinned over the fence before remembering that he’d forgotten to put on his shoes again and now his socks were dirty. He took them off and joined in the basketball game.
On Sunday, for want of anything better to do, Charles zoomed round in his chair to ask Mrs Longbotham if Philip could come for tea.
Mrs Longbotham looked doubtful. ‘Philip doesn’t go anywhere on his own. He has this funny head and if there’s too much noise, or someone asks him more than one question at a time, it stops working.’
‘That won’t happen in my house, Mrs Longbotham,’ Charles said, smiling sincerely. ‘I know all about not doing things.’ He looked in a very pointed manner at his wheelchair.
‘Yes, of course you do,’ Mrs Longbotham said hurriedly. ‘But would you mind awfully if, this once, Kitty goes with him?’
‘Mum,’ Anna glared. ‘That’s so unfair. I’m the oldest and the most sensible.’
Mum looked doubtful. ‘You are the oldest but I am not quite sure about being the most sensible, Anna. Whenever Phil has a do, you tend to panic. It’s Kitty that deals with him.’
Behind her mother’s back, Kitty looked pityingly at Anna, who looked daggers in return.
‘I like your house, Charles,’ Kitty said following the wheelchair through the front door. ‘Different to ours.’
‘Only ’cos there aren’t any steps and the doors are wider so I can get through. This way.’ He led the way through the kitchen towards the back of the house. ‘Dad had the builders make a bedroom and a bathroom on the back. Come and see.’
‘Now, this is what I call a bedroom,’ Kitty murmured, staring round t
he large space; a single bed with a hoist on one side of the room; a television, stereo and computer on the other side of the room, with a wardrobe and bookshelves, loaded with stacks of books and DVDs, in between. ‘You should see OC’s. It’s squidgy.’
Charles opened the door and scooted out into the corridor. ‘Mum,’ he called. ‘Can we have tea in my room? Who’s OC?’ he said, rolling back in.
‘I am,’ Philip said. ‘It’s my new name and I like it much better than Phil or pest,’ he began ticking them off on his fingers, ‘and der brain and weirdo, which the kids call me at school.’
‘Why do they call you that?’
‘’Cos his brain’s been taken over by aliens,’ Kitty hastened to explain. ‘They’re trying to communicate with us and they’ve stuffed Phil’s head so full of x’s, y’s, a’s and b’s, it’s got no room for anything else. I told my teacher I was too scared to do my maths homework in case they tried it on me. I don’t want to become another Phil.’
‘What’s that?’ Philip gazed in an interested manner at the hoist, with its long arm and folding fabric seat.
‘A hoist. It helps me get in and out of bed.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos I got spina bifida.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You really interested or you just being polite?’
Philip looked confused.
Kitty jumped in. ‘OC only ask questions if he’s interested and he’s always polite. Doesn’t get it that you should save on being nice till you want stuff.’
‘Okay.’ Charles pressed a buzzer and his chair scooted across the room. He opened a drawer pulling out an x-ray.
‘This is my spine,’ he passed it to Philip. ‘See, it’s all messed up at the bottom. That’s why my legs don’t work. Still, it makes no odds ’cos I’m still going to be rich and famous. I got the perfect name for it too,
‘No way,’ Kitty exclaimed.
‘Yes, way! Charles Andrew Sheridan Harris.’
‘Amazing!’ said Kitty astounded.
‘Too right it is. So what do you want to be, Phil?’ Cash asked.
Before Philip had time to reply, the bedroom door opened and Mrs Harris appeared, pushing a hostess trolley piled with sandwiches and cakes. ‘Isn’t it nice, Charles, to have some new friends. And so quickly, too. We’ve not been here a week. Now, dear, who are you again?’ she asked Philip.
‘I’m Philip,’ he said in his usual slightly loud but cheerful voice. ‘I also answer to Phil … that’s what my sister Anna calls me … but I like OC best – Kitty says it’s cool.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Harris thoroughly startled. ‘Well, dear, would you like to start off with a sandwich or go straight for cake? I know some kids prefer to eat their cake before the sandwiches.’ She laughed. ‘And I’ve got ice cream. Charles’ favourite. So, how old are you?’
Seeing her brother’s face acquiring the appearance and colour of a bullfrog just before it croaks, Kitty jumped to her feet and rushed over to thump him on the back, so hard the teacups rattled. ‘Now, you’ve done it,’ she rebuked Mrs Harris. ‘You can only ask one question at a time. ‘Come on, OC. Breathe ... BREATHE!’
After a moment or two, Philip’s colour returned to normal. ‘My name’s Philip but you can call me Phil if you like but I really like OC best. That’s what Kitty calls me.’
Noticing Mrs Harris take a nervous step backwards, Kitty hastened to explain. ‘It’s okay, Mrs Harris, I promise you, it’s not catching. It’s just that too many questions make his memory trip up. Take no notice, we don’t.’
‘The doctor’s say that my memory is like the delete button on the computer; when it starts up again, it’s wiped out the bit that went before.’ Philip nodded cheerfully. ‘It doesn’t matter though, ’cos I never remember it happening.’
‘Oh, yes, well. I’ll leave you to it.’ Mrs Harris almost ran out of the room, closing the door after her.
‘Cor!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘I see what you mean about aliens.’
The new term had started the previous Thursday. Mrs Johnson, their Year 6 teacher, having sensibly read Philip’s notes, had decided that since Philip was going to do really, REALLY, advanced science and maths, he should have a special table and sit all on his own.*
When Charles appeared in the classroom, Mrs Johnson put him at Philip’s table, where there was ample room for his chair. Philip was working on a pretty complicated graph for science and multiplying numbers so fast in his head, if his brain and his calculator had been running a race, the calculator would have lost.
When Charles saw this, he waited patiently for the bell to RING for break.
‘You want to hang out?’
Philip, understandably, having never heard the word before, looked puzzled.
‘It means play,’ Charles explained.
Philip nodded eagerly. No one at school had ever said that to him before. Proudly, he walked into the school yard on the right-hand side of the gently-buzzing wheelchair, only sad that none of the other kids appeared bothered one way or another.
Charles noticed this too, and decided his first priority was to change his own status from newcomer and nonentity, to being the powerhouse at the top of the pecking order.*
‘So what are you good at and what are you bad at?’ he said, offering Philip a crisp, from a pack he’d filched from a local newsagent on his way to school.
Philip beamed. ‘I am bad at English. I am good at chess and science and maths and geography and history and tidying,’ he said, ticking them off on his fingers.
‘Tidying?’
Philip nodded, eager to explain. ‘I like helping Mum with the housework. Kitty and Anna, they are my sisters. They hate tidying, so they let me tidy their bedrooms.’
‘Do you charge?’
‘Money?’ Philip looked astonished. ‘But I like tidying.’
‘Do you like money?’
Philip nodded again. He loved money and buying things. Sadly, his pocket money was not very much. By the time he had bought chocolate and crisps, there was never any left. ‘I want to save for a DS.’
‘Okay then. From now on, you charge a pound a room. Don’t worry, I know girls. They’ll pay and be glad to.’
Philip’s eyes brightened.
‘So this maths and science? How good is good?’
Philip stared blankly and shook his head.
It might have taken years and years for school to catch on that there were bits of Philip’s brain that worked brilliantly while other bits didn’t work at all, but Charles understood it straight off. He immediately rephrased the sentence using plain language. ‘Have you done your SATS?’
‘Yes, and I’m going to study maths and science for GCSE when I’m twelve.’
‘Are you now?’ Charles said impressed. ‘And you like work?’
Philip nodded, his head jigging up and down so fast, if it hadn’t been fixed to his backbone it would probably have fallen off.
‘Right! You and me,’ Charles swung his index finger backwards and forwards. ‘We’re a team. I’ll think up schemes to earn money and we split it fifty-fifty. Only, you can’t say a word to your mum.’
‘That’s okay because Kitty and Anna are always saying I can’t tell Mum things.’
‘And do you?’
Philip smiled, a warm, friendly, happy, delightful smile, showing what a really nice chap he was. ‘My brain is very useful because it always forgets things like that. That’s why I write important notes in the back of my notebook.’
He pulled out a thick notebook (a new one), each line covered in small and very tidy writing.
Don’t tell Mum, he wrote. ‘About what?’ he said to Charles.
Charles smiled. Philip was perfect. ‘Our making money,’ he reminded.
Meanwhile Charles continued to read The Financial Times, whenever he could nick a copy; practise his mother’s handwriting until it was perfect*;
polish up his ability to tell lies, whilst looking hurt and innocent, and improv
e his hand-eye co-ordination.*
It was almost Saturday lunchtime and, by tradition, children all over the British Isles had spent a pleasant few hours watching TV or rushing out to Saturday-morning clubs. OC was finishing his homework, which he always did in his bedroom. He had just written the words: The Century I would like to live in, when there came a thunderous knocking on his door. Before he had time to answer it, Kitty’s head erupted into the room.
OC hated interruptions when he was doing his homework but Kitty had carefully explained the consequences of ignoring her. This left him with no option, since he hated the idea of being forced to live in the rabbit hutch, with the rabbit, even more.
‘What’ye’doing?’ she grunted, her tone belligerent.
Kitty’s head was enveloped in a mass of black hair, while her eyes were concealed under several layers of black mascara which made her lids droop, giving her a squinty appearance. Her body, which followed her head round the door, was encased in black from top to toe.
To make sure OC was paying attention, she whisked his exercise book off the desk, and read it. ‘God! However long did it take to write this? It’s perfection,’ she groaned.
‘Two minutes and fifteen seconds.’ OC sighed.
Kitty grabbed the calculator from the top of the desk. ‘So how many words do you need?’
‘500.’
‘Eight words in two minutes fifteen seconds - approx. You should be finished in two hours and twenty-five minutes,’ she said.
‘That’s only writing time.’ OC objected.
‘You can do that while you’re doing other stuff.’
The Amazing Brain of O C Longbotham Page 4