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How To Be Invisible

Page 15

by Tim Lott


  “Albert Einstein came up with this super-good thought experiment. He asked himself a very simple question. (He was good at very simple questions.) He asked himself, ‘What if the Sun were suddenly to disappear? What would happen to the Earth?’”

  Susan looked at me with an interrogative expression on her face.

  “Interrogative”, incidentally, means “questioning”.

  “Obviously, it would get very dark and very cold very quickly and then we would all die. What’s the big puzzle there?” said Susan.

  “Yes, but something else would happen very quickly. The Earth would fly off its orbit, because it no longer had the Sun to keep it in place. It would spin out into deep space until it found another big object to attach itself to.”

  Susan nodded. “So what?”

  “The question is, which would happen first? Which is to say, what travels faster – gravity or light?”

  “Does gravity travel?”

  “It must do – somehow. It sticks the whole universe together.”

  “So which one does happen first?”

  “That’s the interesting thing. Einstein concluded that they travel at exactly the same rate – 300,000 kilometres per second. And pretty much every scientist nowadays agrees with him.”

  “So your theory is…?”

  “It’s simple. If these two giant super-weird forces in the universe travel at exactly the same speed – it must mean that they are really the same thing! Otherwise it’s just too much of a coincidence.”

  Susan laughed. “So you’re the only one who’s actually worked this out, are you?”

  “I admit, it does sound improbable. But my father says sometimes scientists can’t see the wood for the trees.Which is why Einstein was so brilliant – because he saw what was so simple. No one else could understand it.”

  On the way off the bus, Mr Maurice Bailey grinned, and called, “Goodbye, Robertson,” after me. I turned and glared at him. He didn’t seem to notice – he just carried on grinning.

  As we were walking into school, I asked Susan why he was calling me Robertson.

  She paused, and then she told me that there was a company called Robertson’s which used to put a golliwog – which is a crude stereotypical representation of a black minstrel, with frizzy hair and bulging eyes – on the jars of its marmalade, until people pointed out that this was racially prejudiced. They stopped doing it, but a lot of people who liked Robertson’s marmalade believed that they shouldn’t have stopped, because it was part of “British culture”.

  I rather suspected that one of those people was Mr Maurice Bailey.

  “We’ve got to get him, Strato – somehow,” said Susan.

  I agreed. But I wasn’t sure how to do it.

  Susan headed off to the library and I found myself standing alone in the playground. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. It was Lloyd Archibald Turnbull.

  He was holding something in his good hand. There was a moment’s silence before he spoke. It was almost as if he was plucking up the courage. Then he said, “I brought something for you.”

  He handed me a copy of the second volume of George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series: A Clash of Kings.

  “It’s better than the first one. I’ve read them all. You can keep this. And I can lend you the rest. Let me know what you think of it.”

  He set off towards the classroom whistling, leaving me staring at the book in astonishment.

  That evening, Peaches’ best friend, Dorothea, arrived. I had never much liked Dorothea. She always struck me as enjoying other people’s troubles too much. In London, I’d often heard her and my mother picking over the smallest details of people’s relationships, to see where the cracks were. They positively enjoyed it, I think, although they always used to say how sorry they were for the couple having difficulties.

  That’s another difference between children and adults. Children bully one another, but they are not usually nasty while pretending that they are being nice. Obviously, Lloyd Archibald Turnbull was a bully, or at least he had been. But he knew he was being nasty. He just didn’t care. Dorothea probably thought she was being perfectly nice. She would often begin her attacks with a compliment. She would say something like, “I really admire X or Y for trying to lose weight – but it’s a bit of a lost cause, isn’t it? Like trying to climb the Matterhorn in a pair of high heels. Or getting a walrus to do push-ups.”

  Dorothea was going to have a field day. Her very best friend, Peaches, was on the point of breaking up with her partner, my father, for good.

  She came dressed in smart London clothes and had thick make-up plastered on her face. I heard her tell Peaches that she had spent £500 on her handbag, and that it was worth every penny, which struck me as hilariously stupid.

  Although she made sympathetic faces about our family “situation” – at me as well as Peaches – I could tell all her Christmases had come at once. She couldn’t wait to sit down and talk through all the intimate details over a bottle of wine. Peaches immediately sent me upstairs and closed the door.

  I went upstairs obediently, but when I came down again, I was nowhere to be seen. I peeked through a crack in the door, and when they were both looking the other way, I crept into the kitchen to join them and closed the door behind me.

  What followed was one of the least interesting experiences of my life.

  For a start, I’m male, and males find different things interesting to females. Also, I was a child – just about – and children find different things interesting to adults. But quite apart from these considerations, sitting and listening to Dorothea and Peaches pick through the minutiae of not only their own relationships, but, it seemed, every mutual friend’s, was more than anyone could bear.

  It was a good two hours before they actually got around to talking about Peaches and Melchior, because it seemed that Dorothea herself was having problems with her marriage. Apparently she preferred to tell Peaches at great length about Simon (her husband) and how he didn’t appreciate her, and how he never listened to her, and how he failed to see her true potential as a human being, and how he was uncommunicative and withdrawn and so on.

  I was only thirteen, but from my experience these appeared to be simply the standard complaints that wives made about their husbands – if Peaches’ and Melchior’s relationship was anything to go by. However, Dorothea seemed to think that she was the first person ever to experience these difficulties, and Peaches seemed to go along with the show, nodding sympathetically and interjecting “supportive” comments.

  However, they finally got on to Melchior and Peaches, and for another hour, I was treated to a lot more twaddle – about how they needed to “get back in touch” with their feelings, how Peaches needed to “reconnect with her centre”, how Melchior was “insensitive to her needs”, and so on and so forth.

  I had been hoping to find some clue as to how I might get them back together, but all I heard was self-pity. Being scientifically minded, I like to hear practical suggestions – but none whatsoever was forthcoming.

  It was at least clear from the conversation that Peaches still loved Melchior, but that she found his fling in London unforgivable, however hard she tried to get beyond it, and that although he’d tried to compensate by leaving London, the letter in the bin had been the final straw. Finally, Dorothea asked the 64-million-dollar question – was there anything that Melchior could do to get Peaches to take him back?

  Peaches hummed and hawed about the answer, and made noises about doubting whether they could ever get over what had happened to them, but then she said one thing that gave me hope.

  “What I need from Melchior,” said Peaches, “is a really big gesture. One that shows me how much he cares. One that shows me he is truly sorry. That it’s not just words.”

  “What might that gesture look like?” said Dorothea, looking past Peaches’ shoulder and out of the window. It had been clear for some time that, having offloaded her own troubles, she was bored wi
th sifting through Peaches’.

  “I don’t know,” said Peaches. Then again, this time in a kind of a despairing voice, “I don’t know.”

  They drained their wine glasses and finished the conversation by giving each other a hug.

  Then they got on to the subject of “the book”. Dorothea’s company, of course, was going to publish it.

  “Everyone is terribly excited about it, Marie-France,” said Dorothea. “They think they’ve got a real hot property. They’re going to spend a lot of money promoting it. How’s it going? Are you nearly finished yet?”

  “Yes,” said Peaches. “I’m just doing a final edit.”

  “That’s wonderful!” said Dorothea, pouring herself another glass of wine. “You must let me see it. I’m dying to read it. Is it good? Are you pleased with it?”

  “I think the publishers will like it,” said Peaches glumly.

  Dorothea pursed her lips and looked at Peaches enquiringly. “What on earth is the matter, Marie-France? You look positively forlorn. Is it end-of-book blues? I’ve heard a lot of authors say that they get very down-in-the-mouth at the end of a long project.”

  “It’s not that, no.”

  Then she told Dorothea that I had found out about it and wasn’t very happy.

  Dorothea clucked and waved her hand airily in the direction of my bedroom.

  “Oh, he’s being ridiculous. He’ll get over it. After all, you’ve only been honest, haven’t you? What’s there to hurt him?”

  “I’ve given it some thought, which is something I should have done a long time ago, and there’s quite a lot that he might not like, actually.”

  “Yes, but – this is your big opportunity, Marie-France! It may never come again.”

  “I wish I’d talked to Strato about it first. Melchior said I should have.”

  “Melchior! What does he know? And Strato’s simply too young to make that judgement for himself. He’ll thank you when he’s being driven around in a brand-new BMW bought with the money you’ve made from the book.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Of course he will. Children have very short memories. Anyway, none of his friends will read it.”

  “Bits of it could easily end up on Facebook. He hasn’t got many friends, as far as I’m aware. My book isn’t going to help matters. Anyway…” She hesitated. “I asked his permission to publish it.”

  Dorothea put down her wine and regarded Peaches steadily. “And what did he say?”

  “He said no.”

  Dorothea shuffled in her seat and adjusted the collar of her shirt as if she was making sure her point of view was still neatly in place.

  “Now listen, Marie-France. You’d better not be going cold on this thing. Because apart from anything else, it’s my reputation on the line as well as yours. You’ve been paid a considerable advance for this book. Are you prepared to pay it back?”

  “I can’t. I’ve spent it.”

  “Quite. Well, be under no illusions. If you don’t give them the book, you’ll have to pay the money back.”

  Peaches by now was looking quite bereft. “Perhaps I could just change the title?”

  “Absolutely not! I sold it on the title. It’s a great title. It’s what’s going to make people buy the book.”

  “But – it’s saying that Strato is a geek!”

  “Let’s face it, dear. He’s a bit on the spectrum, isn’t he?”

  I think Dorothea was referring to the autism spectrum. Autistic people have a great deal of difficulty showing or experiencing emotion or empathy. They are often obsessed with orderliness and sometimes exhibit obsessive-compulsive behaviour.

  If I hadn’t been so clear in my own mind that I was nowhere whatsoever on that particular spectrum, I would have been offended. But she was so far off the mark, I didn’t let it get to me too badly. If she thought I was obsessed by orderliness she ought to take a look at my room sometime. However, I was still annoyed at her blunt and insensitive attempt to stereotype me as someone who suffered some kind of mental impairment.

  “Now tell me, Marie-France. Tell me right to my face. You’re going to finish this book, aren’t you? And you’re going to deliver it into my hands before Christmas. And it’s going to be a big success, and your career is going to take off in a way you could never have imagined.”

  Peaches looked at Dorothea with a doubtful expression on her face. “Is it?”

  Dorothea took Peaches’ left hand between her own, and squeezed it.

  “It is. Your life will never be the same.”

  A few days later, I went round to Susan Brown’s house. As before, her family were overwhelming in their hospitality and we had supper together – something with Italian sausages and rocket salad – and then Susan and I went to her room to watch a DVD of Mr Bean, which made us both laugh till we almost urinated.

  I had decided something before I went into Susan’s room – that I wanted to kiss her.

  I knew I was only thirteen, but I couldn’t deny the feelings I was having towards her. She was so pretty and so nice, I couldn’t help it. She gave me a feeling in the pit of my stomach which I couldn’t understand, but it was a very good feeling and it made me want to touch her and stroke her hair.

  The only thing was, I didn’t understand anything about girls at all, or kissing. I wasn’t sure whether I should just reach over and kiss her without saying anything, like they did in some films I’d seen, or whether I should work my way up to it somehow. Perhaps I should bring her roses or poems or something, or maybe I should discuss the matter rationally with her.

  I decided the best course of action was the latter. It was certainly the one I felt most comfortable with – after all, I didn’t want to be accused of taking advantage of her, or pressing her with my unwanted attentions.

  So once the film was finished and we’d finished the popcorn and hot chocolate that Mrs Brown had brought up to us, I decided to outline my difficulty. I tried to look at her face, but for some reason I found it very difficult to do, so I looked at the floor instead. This probably wasn’t a good tactic, but it was all I felt capable of.

  Then I said to her, “Susan, can I talk to you about something?”

  She said I could.

  Then I said, “Susan, I think you are very pretty.”

  She smiled but didn’t say anything.

  Then I said, “I like being with you. I think you are fun and clever.”

  Still she didn’t say anything. Sometimes in films when this happens and the boy doesn’t know what to do next, the girl reaches over and kisses him, so he doesn’t have to worry about it any more. But on this occasion nothing like that seemed to be happening. Susan just smiled. I got the impression she was very close to giggling.

  Then there was a very awkward silence in which I didn’t really get up the courage to ask her if I could kiss her. Asking if I could kiss her felt wrong, too formal or something, but then just reaching across and trying to kiss her felt too rude.

  At that moment, Mrs Brown walked in with a plate of biscuits and sat down with us, so the moment passed. On one hand, I was enormously relieved by this, and on the other, considerably disappointed.

  My disappointment didn’t last, because Mrs Brown was such fun. She told us jokes, and teased me for being so handsome, which was ridiculous, but still nice to hear. I felt so comfortable with her. And before I knew it, I found that I was telling her all about Melchior’s and Peaches’ problems, and the conversation I had “overheard accidentally” between Dorothea and Peaches, and that I wished I could think of a “Big Gesture” for my father to make so that he and Peaches could get back together.

  That started it. Susan and Mrs Brown began going through all the things that Melchior could do to win Peaches back. A string quartet on the front lawn. A room full of flowers. A brand-new Mini. A balloon ride across the mountains. A horse of her own. Their ideas were endless, and clever, and quite good.

  But something told me that none of them was quite go
od enough. I was no closer to knowing what the Big Gesture should be, and even if I could think of it, how would I get Melchior to listen?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The House of the Dyn Hysbys

  Now that I was friends with Susan, school was much more bearable, and time seemed to pass much more quickly. Before I knew it, Christmas was closing in.

  There were decorations, cards and illuminated Christmas trees in the windows of the houses, and some had neon-lit reindeer outside. There had been a snowfall a few days previously, and the streets and roofs still glittered white. Hedgecombe was made for Christmas with its winding lanes, ancient houses and rolling hills in the background. It felt very seasonal, and if it hadn’t been for my parents splitting up, I’m sure I would have been very excited instead of being filled with dread and foreboding.

  It was on the last day of term that I decided to follow Dr Ojebande for a second time. My previous attempt to trail him had left me full of questions. Why had he bought a book on witchcraft? Was he in cahoots with the man who had sold me my book? What had he been visiting a disused church for, and why did he have the key? Who was he? Did he have friends or relatives? What sort of home did he have? I had no clear intention of using my power to solve a particular problem. I was just curious, plain and simple. He was an excellent subject for my observation experiment. I just wasn’t sure how to create a theory around him.

  School finished early that day, and I waited outside the school gates for him, invisibly. He arrived after nearly everyone else had left, at exactly 3.30 p.m., marching briskly, as before. This time he did not go to the shops, but immediately headed out of town, in the opposite direction to where the old disused church had been.

  It was a cold afternoon, and as it did so often in Hedgecombe, fog had rolled into the town from the rivers and lowlands. I followed Dr Ojebande as best I could, peering through the dank, misty air. It was all I could do to keep up. He walked through the west side of the town until the buildings thinned out, and along a muddy track on the bank of the river, until the buildings ended altogether. There were only fields, trees and fences, all swathed in white. The mist kept rising, and the feeble sun had slunk permanently behind an immense bank of purple-black cloud like a vast celestial bruise.

 

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