Theo

by Amanda Prowse

  Theo knew his call was being timed and he cursed the silent seconds while his mother made her way to the phone. Hurry up! Hurry up!

  Finally, he heard the rattle of her charm bracelet.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Hello, my darling!’ she breathed. ‘How lovely to hear from you!’ She sounded surprised and he swallowed the urge to remind her that it was Thursday, of course she was going to hear from him! But he knew that it would be a waste of time as well as a waste of words. ‘What did you have for supper?’ She always asked this.

  ‘Erm, we had steak-and-kidney pie, but I picked the kidney out, although one bit got through and it was yucky.’

  ‘Oh, Rollo, that’s Daddy’s favourite! Don’t tell him or he’ll be very jealous!’ she trilled, before screaming loudly, ‘Waaaagh! Oh my good God – I called you Rollo!’ This was followed by a series of great gulping guffaws that lasted many seconds.

  Theo waited until it passed, then whispered, ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Oh good Lord above!’ she shrieked. ‘How could I possibly have called you Rollo? I am a terror! Although that’s quite funny in itself, if you think about it, as Rollo is a terrier!’ She howled loudly once again.

  And Theo had to admit that if time were not of the essence and if there hadn’t been so much he needed to say and reassurances he needed to hear, being called by the dog’s name would indeed be very funny.

  Help me, Mummy! Please help me! Read my thoughts: I want to come home, I am so sad here. Please, please let me come home! Theo screwed his eyes shut and hoped that his pleas might float through the ether and reach her. He liked to think they had this psychic link that stretched all the way from his school in Dorset to the family home in Barnes.

  ‘Darling, I’m still chuckling! I only made the slip because Rollo is on my mind. He’s been a bit of a scamp, let me tell you. He got out of the garden and caused absolute havoc in Mrs Merriton’s rabbit run. Created quite a stir. He was only playing, of course, but the poor rabbit looked fit to have a heart attack. I told him, “No sausages for you, naughty Rollo”, and do you know, he looked at me as if he knew he’d been a bad boy. So of course that melted my heart and I gave him some sausage anyway, but don’t tell Daddy! He says I spoil him.’ She whispered the last bit.

  ‘I won’t tell Daddy.’ He felt a small flicker of joy at this shared confidence.

  ‘Anyway, very much looking forward to seeing you for exeat, only a few weeks now.’

  Twitcher stood up and tapped his watch face. Time was up. Theo felt the pressure to say something, to get something across, anything! ‘I saw a hedge...’ He took a breath. ‘Where... Where birds lay their eggs and it’s very important that we don’t let crisp packets gather in it or they might get their heads stuck.’

  ‘Theo, you’re such a funny little thing!’

  He thought about his mum’s parting words as he lay under the taut white sheets on his bed later that night. I am a funny little thing, but I don’t want to be. He turned his face into the pillow. Unseen in the dark dorm, he was finally able to give in to the tears he’d kept at bay all day.

  * * *

  Theo regularly hid during lunchbreak. Not literally – there was no climbing into small spaces or standing still behind cupboard doors, although he’d considered both. No, his hiding was subtler than that. He became adept at loitering and looking purposeful, reading and rereading noticeboards slowly, as if engrossed, stooping to painstakingly tie and retie his shoelaces, or sitting endlessly in a toilet cubicle while killing precious time, willing the clock to go faster. And if he had to move on, he walked with a resoluteness to his step and an expression that suggested he had a mission on his mind. This was all very exhausting, but it was unavoidable because he had no one to talk to and nowhere to sit. Try as he might, he couldn’t understand how all the boys in his house and all the girls in his form had friends who they could talk to, sit with and eat with, or even just read next to in silence. How come he didn’t have one single friend?

  What’s wrong with me? It was this question that haunted him.

  Walking across the quad, he spied Wilson and his cronies, Helmsley and Dinesh. All three were in their games kit, coming from the squash courts to the right. His heart jumped and his palms began to sweat at the prospect of an encounter. Averting his eyes, he broke into a light jog, pretending he hadn’t seen them as he made his way along the field. He carried on jogging until he found himself outside the crooked cottage where Mr Porter lived. The man himself was sitting on a bench attached to a slatted table similar to the ones he’d seen in the garden of the Red Lion pub, where his parents took him sometimes for Sunday lunch when he was at home.

  Theo stared at Mr Porter and hesitated, trying desperately to think of a reason for being there, uninvited, in front of his path during lunchtime.

  Mr Porter looked up briefly before returning his gaze to the fiddly task that seemed to be occupying him fully. ‘How good is your eyesight, Mr Montgomery?’ he called out.

  ‘It’s good.’ Theo glanced up the field to see if Wilson had followed and breathed a huge sigh of relief that he hadn’t. His gut muscles unbunched.

  ‘In that case, you can help me with this.’

  Theo clenched and unclenched his hands, unsure whether it was okay to enter Mr Porter’s garden.

  ‘Well, come on then, lad, you can’t help me from all the way down there now, can you?’

  He didn’t need telling twice. He walked up the short path and stopped at the table, on top of which he saw piles of small, brightly coloured feathers, shiny glass beads and thin strips of wire.

  ‘What... What are you doing?’ he asked softly, wanting to know but not wanting to be a nuisance.

  ‘I’m making fishing flies. Do you know what they are?’

  Theo shook his head and took a step closer.

  ‘You can sit down.’ Mr Porter nodded at the bench on the opposite side of the table.

  Theo sat on the edge, feeling the rough texture of the untreated wood against the underside of his legs. He watched, fascinated, as Mr Porter took feathers into his nimble fingers and bound the ends with an almost invisible twine. He worked slowly and carefully, wrapping them into little bundles.

  ‘That looks like an insect.’

  Mr Porter sat back and shook his head. His expression this time was one of surprise. ‘Well, I didn’t realise you were so smart.’

  Theo’s face split into a smile. He let the compliment slip under his skin, ready to warm him on a cold night at the end of a bad day.

  ‘That’s exactly what it’s meant to look like – an insect! This “fly”, as we call it, bobs on top of the water and will help me catch game fish, like salmon or trout. It tricks the fish into thinking they’re getting a tasty bug.’

  ‘But really they’re getting this fake bug!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mr Porter winked.

  ‘I’ve never been fishing. Apart from with a net in a rock pool, but I don’t know if that counts,’ Theo mumbled, wary of saying the wrong thing. ‘I caught a starfish once, well, half a starfish. It was dead.’

  Mr Porter shook his head sympathetically. ‘Sure it counts. But what I do is very different to rock-pooling. I like nothing more than to stand on a riverbank, or in the river itself, feeling the flow of the water, and watch the sun dappling the surface with light, birds fluttering overhead – and with a flask of tea and a sandwich or two in my pack. That’s where my happiness lies.’ Mr Porter smiled and closed his eyes briefly, as if picturing just that.

  ‘Do you catch many fish?’ Theo found it easy to think of what to say because he was interested.

  ‘Nope. I hardly ever catch a fish. Truth be told, I’m not as keen on the catching bit as much as the standing bit.’

  ‘It... It...’

  ‘Spit it out, lad!’ Unlike his father, Mr Porter issued this familiar instruction in an encouraging voice and with a crinkle-eyed smile. This had the opposite effect to normal and instead of clamming up, Theo continued calm
ly.

  ‘It seems like a lot of trouble to go to if you don’t catch any fish – couldn’t you just buy some from the shop?’

  Mr Porter leant back and laughed. Slipping his fingers up under his tweed cap, he scratched at a bald patch on his head and Theo saw that the skin there was a shade or two lighter than his face. ‘Well, yes, I’m sure I could buy some, but shall I let you into a little secret?’

  Theo nodded.

  Mr Porter looked at him and spoke levelly. ‘The best thing about fishing is the stillness, the quiet. And the one thing I have learnt, possibly the most important lesson of all, is that when you’re still and quiet, that’s when your thoughts get ordered, when your mind sorts out all of its problems and when you’re able to see most clearly. Don’t ever underestimate the value of stillness.’

  Theo digested his words.

  Mr Porter placed his hands on his greasy lapel and turned it over to reveal a delicate turquoise-and-gold-feathered fly with a blue glass bead attached to a safety pin. He ran his fingertip over it. ‘I wear this here to remind me of just that. If ever my head is too busy or the world feels like too big a place for me to find my corner in it, I run my fingers over this and it reminds me to seek out the stillness.’ He looked directly at Theo. ‘Do you understand what I mean by that, lad?’

  Theo nodded, even though he only half understood.

  ‘Now, if you want to help, sort these feathers into piles for me. Group them by colour.’ He tapped the tabletop with his square finger.

  Eager for a job, Theo swung his legs over the bench and began pulling the little feathers apart, grouping them into colour-coordinated piles. It was fiddly work.

  ‘When did you learn to do this?’ he asked in his high voice.

  ‘In the war. I fought some of my war in Italy and that’s where I learnt to fish.’

  ‘Did you fire a gun?’

  ‘No, we just used rods and bait same as everyone else.’ Mr Porter chuckled.

  ‘I didn’t mean to fish – I meant to get the baddies.’ He blinked, unsure of whether the topic was off limits, as it was with Grandpa, who’d been in a place called Burma and had, according to his parents ‘had a terrible war’. This phrase intrigued him, as he couldn’t picture a war that was anything but terrible.

  Mr Porter paused what he was doing and stared at him. ‘That’s the thing, Mr Montgomery. I did my duty for King and country and would gladly do so again.’ He straightened his back and tilted his chin. ‘But as for “baddies”, as you call them... I only saw people. People in all shapes and sizes, but people just the same. War is a terrible thing and sometimes you might think you’ve got home scot-free, might think you’ve got away with things, but you haven’t. You never know what’s waiting for you around the next corner or even at home. There is always a price to pay. It’s as if fate waits in the wings to rip the heart out of you and it’s then you realise your war will never be over.’

  Mr Porter took a big breath. It was only when he continued making his fly that Theo took his cue to continue chatting.

  ‘How did you know who the baddies were then? How did... How did you know who to shoot?’ He looked up, wary of entering unchartered territory.

  ‘As I said, I didn’t do much shooting, but the enemy, if you will, were pointed out to me by my commanding officer long before I ever set foot on foreign soil and before I met a single one of them. I was told to identify them by the uniform they wore. But therein lay the problem.’ Mr Porter leant in, and Theo was thrilled at the possibility that he might be sharing a secret. ‘I considered my commanding officer to be a baddy. I was unsure of his judgement – he was no more than a boy himself, just a few months free of his mother’s apron strings and a bit of a bully, and yet he held my fate and the fate of many others in the palm of his young hand. That made it hard for me to trust him. Whereas some of the fellas who wore a different colour uniform to me, baddies if you will, well, close up, they had similar faces to those of my mates. We were all as scared and desperate as each other.’ He let this hang. ‘And let me tell you this, Mr Montgomery, those that didn’t make it home were mourned by their families just the same, goodies and baddies alike.’

  Mr Porter gave an odd little cough and his eyes looked misty, so Theo knew it was time for quiet. And that was all right with him. He was happy to have somewhere to sit and someone to sit with, though he would have found it hard to fully explain how or why Mr Porter’s garden felt like a refuge from loneliness.

  The two worked in silence until the sound of the school bell echoed along the field.

  ‘That’ll be the end of lunch then,’ Mr Porter muttered without lifting his eyes from his fishing flies.

  Theo gave an involuntary sigh. ‘I’d better go back up to school.’

  ‘Here.’ Mr Porter pulled a slim navy tube from his jacket pocket and handed it to Theo.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  Theo scrutinised the object in his palm. ‘A pen!’

  ‘Ah, appearances can be deceptive! Look.’ Mr Porter took the fake pen from him and twisted the lid until a beam of light shone from the nib. ‘It’s a torch. I thought you might be able to give it to that boy you know. The one who you thought might be afraid of the dark. You see, with this in his possession, he can get up in the night and go to the bathroom without fear and that might stop him pissing in your pyjamas.’ He gave a small chuckle.

  ‘We’re... We’re not allowed torches.’ Theo ran his fingers over the gift. He felt torn, desperately wanting to keep it but painfully conscious that it would be contraband.

  ‘Of course not – that’s a rule I’m perfectly aware of. But that’s not a torch, is it? It’s a pen!’ He smiled.

  Theo rolled the marvellous gift in his hand. ‘Yes! It’s a pen.’ He beamed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are most welcome.’

  Theo swung his legs out from under the bench and started to walk up the path. Turning back, he called over his shoulder, ‘Mr Porter?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Montgomery?

  ‘It... It was me.’

  ‘What was you?’

  ‘It was me that pissed in my pyjamas and hid them behind Matron’s radiator.’

  Mr Porter looked startled. ‘Well, I never did! But here’s the thing: you never have to lie to me, and I will never lie to you, how about that? Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Theo twisted the pen cap and smiled at the thin stream of light that shone into his palm.

  2

  Theo had just finished another unsatisfactory Thursday phone call with his mother and was making his way from Mr Beckett’s study. He was in a world of his own, struggling with the latest wave of homesickness and desperate for his first exeat, when quite unexpectedly Twitcher grabbed the top of his arm, pulling him back into the room.

  His housemaster bent low and spoke directly into his ear. Theo could smell his piquant breath; he tucked in his lips to avoid inhaling it.

  ‘I have to say, I find it quite troubling that you can never think of anything informative to share with your parents, Montgomery. Listening to your weekly call is painful. Your father was head of house here! He’s a good man, paying a small fortune to turn you into a Vaizey boy, and yet you don’t have the courtesy to let him know how the 1st XV are doing or that the quadrangle race record was broken by Danvers only last week? These things matter, especially to an OVB.’

  At the mention of the Old Vaizey Boys, Theo’s insides curdled. His father held regular and horribly loud dinner parties for other members of this esteemed club and the deafening noise of their reunions always floated up the stairs to his room. He had spied on them through the keyhole once. They were all dressed in dinner jackets and bow ties in their old house colours, and they were banging their palms on the white tablecloth and belting out a tuneless song about port and knickers, taking it in turns to swig the dark red wine from a silver cup.

  ‘But I think that’s the problem in a nutshell.’ His housemaster’s booming voice pull
ed him back to the present. ‘I don’t think these things matter to you.’

  ‘I... I...’ Theo’s mouth was having trouble catching up with his brain. This happened sometimes.

  ‘Tell me...’ Mr Beckett let go of his arm and walked towards the study window, which had an unusually good view along the field and all the way down to the crooked cottage. ‘Why do you hang around with the ground staff?’ His eyelid twitched as he clasped his hands behind his back.

  Theo shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Let me put it another way. What is the nature of your relationship with Porter, the groundsman?’

  ‘He... He’s my friend. Sir.’

  ‘Your friend!’ Twitcher guffawed. ‘Good God, man, don’t you have any friends your own age?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He felt his cheeks colour at the admission.

  Mr Beckett stopped dead and turned, an expression of disbelief and disdain on his face. ‘None at all? Not one?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Theo’s shame wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, dragging him down.

  Twitcher took a deep breath and spoke over Theo’s head, as if he were invisible. ‘Do you know what I think when I see a boy who, in a school of over six hundred pupils, in an environment where friendships flourish on and off the sports field, and where connections are made that can last a lifetime, still finds himself on his own?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I think it can’t possibly be the other five hundred and ninety-nine or so who are at fault. The odds are simply too high. I believe there has to be a reason for your isolation, and do you know what that reason is?’ He lowered his eyes to meet Theo’s.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Weirdness.’

  Mr Beckett was silent for a second, letting the horrible word with all its negative connotations sink in. ‘I’ve seen it before and will no doubt see it again. You have a weirdness about you, Montgomery, and weirdness is something that the other pupils, in fact all humans, fear more than anything. It’s like a disease and, believe me, it’s contagious. That’s why weirdos stick together in toxic little huddles, backs to the wall, eyes wide, waiting to see who might be picked off next.’