What Not to Do If You Turn Invisible

by Ross Welford

  Honestly, I don’t think she even paused for breath.

  I would have no chance to use the sunbed today, I knew that. I needed a time when Gram would be out for a good while, and that wouldn’t happen till the next day, when Gram would be busy with church and one of her committees.

  I’d have the morning to myself. So even though I was a bit confused by what was going on with Great-gran and Gram, I was excited, because I was going to get to try my latest acne-fighting tactic very soon.

  Sunbeds, by the way, very definitely fall into the category of things that Gram would describe as ‘rather common’. There are plenty of things that Gram thinks are ‘rather common’:

  Sunbeds, as I’ve already said. Any type of fake tan, really.

  Swirly carpets, apparently. But only ‘slightly’.

  Tattoos and piercings other than ears.

  Ear piercings if you’re under sixteen.

  Naming children after places, and that definitely includes Jarrow and Jesmond Knight. Brooklyn Beckham is not included because Gram met David Beckham once at a charity do, and apparently he was a ‘real gentleman’. And smelt nice.

  Designer dogs. Basically, anything prefixed with the word ‘designer’, so: jeans, kitchens, handbags and so on.

  Most people on television.

  Hanging baskets.

  And if you’re thinking of rolling your eyes at the ridiculousness of this list, then know this: rolling your eyes is common as well.

  I tell you, I could carry on: this list could fill the book, and I haven’t even started yet on things that are not ‘rather common’ but are instead ‘frightfully common’. Here’s today’s top three ‘frightfully common’ things:

  Eating in the street.

  All daytime television, and people who watch daytime television, and most things that are not on the BBC, especially Sky channels.

  Football (although not David Beckham, for reasons stated above).

  This ‘common’, by the way, is not common as in ‘frequent’. It’s common as in ‘lacking refinement’ and is not to be confused with ‘vulgar’, which Gram is usually OK with, although the distinction can get blurry.

  The Eurovision Song Contest is vulgar, says Gram, but she loves it. The X Factor is common, and she won’t have it on.

  Football, as I have said, is common. Rugby is vulgar.

  Want another one? OK. Takeaway fish and chips = vulgar, and as such, acceptable, which is a huge relief because I love them. Takeaway hamburger and chips (or worse, fries) = common. And Burger King is more common than McDonald’s.

  I know: it’s tricky to navigate.

  ‘Eructating’ is how Gram refers to burping. She says it is both vulgar and ‘frightfully common’, so heaven knows what she’d make of what’s to come. If you’re like Gram and are completely horrified by burping, then you should skip the next chapter.

  Sunday morning. Sunbed-day morning.

  Gram had gone off to church. Sometimes I go with her, but I told her I had a stomach ache (which was true) and she didn’t seem to mind at all. She was very keen to get to church and left me at home with Lady.

  Gram would be gone most of the day. This, by the way, is a big development in our little household. About a year ago, she started trusting me to be left alone in the house, sometimes in the evenings. I was nervous at first, but I soon got to quite like it.

  After church she’d be going straight to a coffee morning for a Bible study group, then she’d be having lunch at Mrs Abercrombie’s, and then it’s on to the annual general meeting of yet another of her causes. I sometimes wonder where she gets the energy.

  I had been guzzling Dr Chang His Skin So Clear and I had probably overdone it, which accounted for the slightly dodgy stomach. The drink – it comes in a powder that you dilute to make a sort of cold ‘tea’ – has a mushroomy smell and tastes exactly how I imagine worms taste. It’s foul, but Dr Xi Chang (‘A highly noticed practiser of tradional Chinese Herbal Medicine’ is how the website put it) claims that it is effective against severe acne and has some pretty impressive before-and-after pictures to prove it.

  The effect had been that I woke up this morning with a bloated stomach. Really, my tummy was distended like a little balloon and I flicked my middle finger against it to get a noise like a tom-tom.

  Now, embarrassing though this is, I’m just going to have to tell you, so ‘forgive my indelicacy’, as Gram might say. I could use all sorts of words to get round it: words like ‘eructating’ or ‘expelling gas’, but nobody apart from adults and teachers and doctors actually says that, so here goes. Immediately after waking I let go the most enormous burp, which – if you did not know otherwise – you would swear was the stench of a rotting animal. A skunk probably, even though I’ve never smelt a skunk, what with them not being native to Britain. I just know they stink.

  And the weirdest thing is, it didn’t taste of anything (thank goodness).

  Look, I know we all joke about bodily gases and so on. (All apart from Gram, of course – do I need to keep saying this? Probably not. In future, just assume it, OK? I’ll mention it when relevant.) Anyway, most of us find it hilarious.

  This wasn’t.

  It was so foul-smelling that it was kind of … scary, I suppose. Certainly totally unlike any, um … fart I have ever smelt, and much worse than the one Cory Muscroft let off in assembly in Year Six, which people still remember. Had I known what was to come, I might even have taken it for a warning. But, of course, we never know these things until after the event.

  Anyway, after another couple of smaller burps, my tummy was a lot less swollen, and I was in the garage with its smell of dust and old carpets. I was shivering a little on the concrete floor because I was in my underwear with bare feet, thinking, This is so not the tanning salon/spa treatment experience, so I went back inside the house to get my phone.

  On Spotify, I found some slow trancey nineties electronica tracks that sounded like the sort of stuff they put on in salons, and I plugged in my earbuds. Naked, I lay on the sunbed, which was glowing purply white with the UV tubes. I set the timer on the side for ten minutes – better start gently – then I pulled down the lid so that it was only a few centimetres from my nose.

  My eyes were shut, the music was a soft dum-dum-dum in my ears, the UV tubes were warm, and I didn’t mind drifting off a bit because the timer would wake me.

  A bit later, though, I’m woken by the bright lights of the UV tubes shining thorough my invisible eyelids and Lady nudging her food bowl.

  This is where we came in – remember?

  ‘Gram? Can you hear me? I’m invisible.’

  I’m on my phone in the garage, sitting on the edge of the sunbed, and I was right. Before I had even tapped on Gram’s number, I was wondering if calling someone up and saying I was invisible would sound ridiculous.

  It does. Very.

  But still I try.

  ‘I’ve become invisible, Gram.’ Then I start sobbing again.

  Long pause.

  Really. Long. Pause.

  There’s a buzz of conversation in the background.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m hearing you right, darling. I can’t really talk at the moment but I can hear that you’re upset. What’s wrong, darling?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’m invisible. I’ve disappeared. I was on a sunbed and I fell asleep and now I’ve woken up and I can’t see myself.’

  ‘All right, my darling. Very funny. Thing is, it’s not a good time at the moment. Mrs Abercrombie is about to read the minutes of the last meeting so I have to go. There’s some cold ham in the fridge, and Lady needs her walk. Got to go. See you later.’

  Click.

  Gulping back more sobs, I quickly fling on my underwear, jeans and a T-shirt. I’m mesmerised into silence as I can see the clothes filling out with my invisible body as I put them on. Somehow, the mundane action of getting dressed is a little bit calming (only a little bit – I’m still bubbling inside, like a pan of milk boiling over),
and I can breathe better, and at least I stop crying.

  On the way to the kitchen I catch a glimpse of myself in the long hallway mirror. Well, I say ‘myself’. What I really see is a pair of jeans and my favourite red T-shirt walking all by themselves. It would be funny, like watching a special effect for real, if it wasn’t me inside the clothes, and I catch my breath again and swallow hard to stop myself from restarting the crying.

  In the kitchen, Lady lifts her head from her basket. She pads over to where I am standing and sniffs at my feet, or at where my feet would be. I reach down and stroke her.

  ‘Hello, girl,’ I say, automatically, and she looks up.

  I’m not sure if anyone can really read the expressions on a dog’s face, but I swear Lady looks scared and confused. I crouch down to reassure her, but it seems to have the opposite effect. I tickle her ears because I know she likes that, but instead of licking me and making me laugh, which is what always happens, her tail goes between her legs and, with a little whine, she heads straight out of the kitchen door into the backyard. I’m left looking at the door as it bangs shut behind her, and the corners of my mouth turn downwards.

  I try Gram’s number again.

  It goes to voicemail.

  I don’t leave a message.

  And now there’s this kind of continuous monologue going on in my head, running through various courses of action.

  I still have not completely let go of the idea that I am dreaming. Perhaps this is just some especially persistent dream-state that the usual dream-checks don’t dislodge? I keep pinching myself, shaking my head – all that stuff.

  Obviously, none of it works, so I decide on something a bit more extreme. Standing there in the kitchen, I slap myself on the cheek. Gently at first, then a bit harder, then really quite hard, and finally – to finish off – a powerful wallop with my right palm against my left cheek that is both noisy and very sore, and more tears prick my eyes.

  I do a sort of checklist.

  This much I know:

  I am alone, and I am invisible.

  I am definitely, definitely not dreaming. (Pinch, slap, ow! Check again.)

  Gram is not picking up her phone, presumably because she thinks I’m messing about, or – just as likely – she has put it on silent so that it doesn’t ring during Mrs Abercrombie’s thing.

  I could go round there. (Where? I’m not even sure where she is. The church hall, probably. Well, that’s in Culvercot, for a start, and what am I going to do? Just wander into the church hall and announce I am invisible? No.)

  Is there a friend I trust? Once it would have been Kirsten Olen, but more recently? No: I no longer trust her enough.

  I am so thirsty my throat actually hurts.

  First I will deal with the easiest thing to put right. Besides, it gives me something else to think about.

  I start to make tea. Tea is Gram’s response to pretty much everything. She told me once that the actual making of tea – waiting for the kettle to boil, putting the cups out and so on – was just as effective as drinking it for calming the nerves.

  Then my phone rings.

  It’s Gram. Yesss!

  ‘I’ve come out of the meeting, Ethel. I see you’ve called me again. What is it now?’ Her tone is brisk, no nonsense, which doesn’t bode well.

  ‘I told you, Gram: I’ve become invisible.’

  And then I spill it all out: the acne, the ‘Pizza Face’ jibes, the sunbed, falling asleep, waking up ninety minutes later in a pool of my own sweat, looking in the mirror, screaming for help …

  Everything up to now. Sitting here, drinking tea, telling Gram what happened.

  It all comes out kind of garbled, I’m pretty sure, but not completely nonsensical.

  I finish up by saying, ‘So that’s why I called you. You’ve got to help me.’

  For a long time, Gram doesn’t say anything.

  That’s when I know she doesn’t believe me.

  Why would she? It sounds completely demented. Gram doesn’t believe me because she cannot see me, and if she cannot see that I actually am invisible, then why on earth should she believe me?

  It’s crazy. ‘Preposterous’ even, to use one of Gram’s favoured expressions.

  I wait. I have told her everything. I have told her the whole truth and nothing but. All I can do is wait to see what she says.

  What Gram says is this:

  ‘Ethel, my pet. It’s hard growing up. You’re at a very tricky crossroads in your life …’

  Oo-kaay, I think. Don’t like the sound of where this is going, but go on …

  ‘I think many of us feel invisible at some point in our lives, Ethel. As though everyone is just ignoring us. I know I did at your age. I did my best to fit in, but sometimes my best was not enough …’

  This is getting worse. Can there be anything worse than a sympathetic response that completely and utterly misses the point?

  I’m struck dumb, sitting there listening to Gram drone on about ‘feeling like you are invisible’ while I watch my teacup magically rise and fall to my lips.

  Then I look down and gasp in horror. There’s the tea that I have just drunk, floating in a little misshapen lump where my stomach is.

  My gasp causes Gram to pause.

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘My … my t-tea! I can see it!’ No sooner have I said this than I realise how daft it sounds.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Ethel?’

  ‘Oh, erm … nothing. Sorry. I, erm, I missed what you were saying.’

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry you’re feeling this way, but we’ll have to talk about it when I get back this afternoon. It’s the treasurer’s report next and Arthur Tudgey is sick, so I have to deliver it. I have to go back in.’

  And I’ve had enough. That’s it.

  ‘No, Gram. You’re not listening. I really have disappeared. I don’t mean in an imaginary way. I mean really. Really really – not metaphorically. My body is not visible. My face, my hair, my hands, my feet – they are actually invisible. If you could see me, well … you wouldn’t be able to see me.’

  Then it hits me.

  ‘FaceTime! Gram, let’s FaceTime and then you’ll see!’

  I’m not even sure Gram can do FaceTime, but I’m sounding hysterical anyway.

  I’m trying to put this the best way I can but it’s coming out all wrong, and the tone of her voice has gone from sympathetic and concerned to something a little bit harder, a bit stern.

  ‘Ethel. I think you have gone far enough with this, darling. We’ll talk later. Goodbye.’

  It’s me who hangs up this time.

  Think back to the last time you were on your own. How alone were you really?

  Was there someone fairly close by? A parent? A teacher? A friend? If you were in trouble, could you have called someone to help?

  OK, so I’m not exactly Miss Popularity at school, but it’s not like people actually dislike me. Well, I don’t think so anyway.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with being “quiet and reserved”,’ said Gram when she read this on a school report once (and until then I had never thought there was, actually, or that anyone would think there might be).

  ‘Better to keep your mouth shut and be thought stupid than to open it and remove all doubt,’ she added in a typically Gram kind of way.

  Gram has always been – to use a phrase she is fond of herself – ‘very proper’.

  She is fond of saying that a civilised, cultured Englishwoman should know how to behave in every situation.

  Honestly, she has books on stuff like this. Books with titles like Modern Manners in the Twentieth Century. They’re funny, usually, but most of them seem to have been written when Gram was alive, so they’re not that ancient. They include things like:

  What is the correct form of address when meeting a divorced duchess for the first time?

  Or:

  How much does one leave as a tip for the household staff after staying at a friend’s count
ry house?

  If you didn’t know Gram, I daresay it could make her seem buttoned-up and strait-laced – the insistence on writing thank-you letters within three days, for example, or always asking permission before calling an adult by their first name. Actually it’s just about being polite to people and that’s quite sweet – only, Gram takes it further than anyone else I’ve ever met.

  She once gave me a lesson in shaking hands.

  Yes, shaking hands.

  ‘Eugh, dead haddock, Ethel, dead haddock!’ That was Gram’s description of a limp handshake. ‘You must grip more. Ow! Not that much! And I’m here, Ethel! Over here: look me in the face when you shake hands. And are you pleased to see me? Well, tell your face. And … what do you say?’

  ‘Hi?’

  ‘Hi? Hi? Where on earth do you think you are? California? If one is meeting for the first time, it’s “How do you do?” Now show me: a firm, brief handshake, eye contact, a smile and “How do you do?”’

  (I actually tried this when I met Mr Parker for the first time. I could tell he was pleased, but also a bit, well, unnerved, like it was the first time any student had greeted him like that – which it may well have been. Mr Parker has been super-nice to me ever since, which Gram would say is proof that it works, and I think is probably just because Mr Parker quite likes me.)

  So Gram is not all that old but she is old-fashioned, at least in her clothes. She’s proud of the fact that she has never owned a pair of jeans, even when she was much younger and good-looking. Her denim aversion is not a protest against the modern world, though. The reason she hates jeans is that she says they are unflattering.

  ‘Wear them tight and they are indecent; wear them loose and you look like some gangster rapper.’

  Believe me: when my gram utters the words ‘gangster rapper’, it’s like she’s practising a foreign language. You can hear the quote marks round it.

  Being able to talk to anyone, from any walk of life, is a great skill if you’ve got it, but even if I did, it would be no help to me right now. There is no one I can talk to about this whole invisibility thing.