The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  ‘And mind, you left no trace. I’ll bet you’re good at that, eh? Moving on without a trace?’

  I shrugged, wondering, Where is this going? It sounded very much as though he knew. Knew my secret. I got an uncomfortable prickling sensation down my neck.

  ‘And so I left it, and lived with it. Only you moved back, didn’t you? People talk, Alfie. And there’s lots to learn if you’re prepared to listen. I wrote to your mam but I got no reply. I thought I should probably just leave it alone. Then I heard about the fire.’

  He paused. I think he was being really careful to sound measured and gentle. ‘I’m sorry, Alfie. About your mam. And … you know …’ He looked around the sparsely furnished room with its hard-wearing paint and classroom smell. ‘This … and everything.’

  ‘Do you … do you know? About me? And Mam?’

  He smiled, and, for the first time, his sadness seemed to lessen. ‘Oh aye. I know. Your secret’s safe. Well, there is one other person that knows. The person that told me, in fact.’

  ‘Hello, Alfie,’ croaked another voice, and I spun round on the sofa. Sitting hunched in the corner of the room, in shadow, was a figure I had not seen when I came in, who had been sitting there all this time.

  He was ancient, shrunken, with wild white hair and a permanent tremor in his chin. But there was a sharp look in his eyes that told me he was a long way from mental decline.

  Staring at me and shaking his head was the person I was used to thinking of as the last friend I ever had: Jack McGonagal.

  ‘I’m sorry as well, Alfie,’ Jack said eventually, but his voice was so quiet it was hard to hear. I moved close, and pulled up a chair. ‘You’ve been badly done by our family, eh? First me, then John there and now that young good-for-nothing Inigo.’

  ‘You … you have not told him, have you?’ I said, a note of panic in my voice. ‘About my … age thing?’ I looked between old Jack and John.

  They both shook their heads, and I gave a relieved sigh.

  ‘You get to your nineties, Alfie, and you have had a lot of time to reflect on things you could have done better. And by then you’re running out of time to put them right. Sometimes you can.’ He stopped for a long, painful-sounding cough. ‘And sometimes all you can do is try to say sorry. I stole, I mocked you, I told people your secret. And I am very, very sorry.’

  For several seconds, it was so quiet between the three of us that I felt I could almost touch the silence, and then a telephone bleeped shrilly from the office down the hall.

  They were waiting for me to say something, but I did not know what to say. Instead I gazed at Jack and – for just a moment – it was as though eighty-something years had not happened.

  ‘What happened to Jean?’ I asked him.

  He gave a snuffled half-laugh. ‘Jean Palmer? Hah. Dumped me for a Polish sailor.’

  I nodded slowly. He did not seem upset. Instead he started a wheezy laugh, but within it was the laugh of the young boy I had known. Suddenly I could see him in his big shorts, with his bony legs; I could see his hands, grimy from bicycle oil, digging into our shared threepenny packet of chips …

  And then the image was gone and I was back in the clammy front room at Earl Grey House.

  ‘Tell me, son,’ he whispered and I moved in even closer. ‘This … thing that you have. Is it … I don’t know … is it good? Do you like it?’

  I do not think that anybody had ever asked me that, and I thought hard before answering.

  ‘It was, I think. But not any more. Not for a long time.’

  He nodded. ‘Old age is no walk in the park, son,’ he said. ‘But I thank the Lord every day that I’ve been granted the gift of growing old. Because I would not want your life, Alfie, my friend. Not in a thousand years.’

  Do I want to be as old as him, though? I thought at that moment. And, if Jack had not said what he said next, everything could be different.

  He paused, and was panting, as if the effort of speaking – even softly – was huge. He took a rasping breath. ‘Look at yourself. Listen to yourself, Alfie! If you know of a way to reverse whatever it is that’s wrong with you, so you can have real friends and a real life, then do yourself a favour, eh? I was your friend, once, I think. I hope. But now you need friends who will not …’ He paused for breath. The tremor in his chin stopped and he looked straight at me. ‘Who will not leave you behind.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ I said. I put my hand out to shake his, and he extended his thin hand in response. His handshake was gentle, but not weak, and I felt his papery skin move beneath my fingers. He smiled and his shoulders seemed to lose a little of their hunch, as though a weight had been lifted from them.

  ‘There is one more thing …’ he began, but at that moment Sangeeta stuck her head round the door.

  ‘Everything all right, Alfie?’ She came into the room without waiting for an answer. ‘Are you going to introduce me, then?’ She strode forward to John, hand extended. ‘Sangeeta Prasad, I’m Alfie’s social worker. And you are?’

  ‘Ah, erm … hello. John McGonagal. This is my father, Jack. We … erm, we were friends of Hilda’s. Alfie’s mother. Just wanted to, you know, say hello to the young fellow.’

  Sangeeta smiled but I was worried. How long had she been there? Was she listening at the door? Aunty Reet must have called her and told her that two old men were visiting me. I do not like this, I thought.

  Whatever mood we had had in that stuffy lounge was now shattered completely. John said, ‘Come on, Dad. Probably time we were on our way.’ He helped old Jack out of his chair. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to Sangeeta, and old Jack said, ‘Cheerio.’

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ I said, and followed their slow progress to the front door, Sangeeta looking at me suspiciously.

  In the hallway, John lowered his voice and said, ‘Is everything all right, son?’

  I nodded. Everything was not all right, of course, but I couldn’t say that to him. Not with Sangeeta close by. Then Jack reached into his jacket pocket and brought out something wrapped in a carrier bag, which he gave to me with a quivering hand.

  ‘It’s time you got this back, Alfie,’ he said with a smile. Inside was my copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

  ‘Thank you!’ I said.

  ‘Good luck, Alfie. You were a good friend. I wish I’d been a better one.’

  And, with that, Jack and John made their way carefully down the worn steps and into John’s car that was parked on the seafront street.

  I turned away from the door, and Sangeeta was standing in the hallway, arms folded, watching.

  ‘You’re up to something, Alfie Monk,’ Sangeeta said, managing somehow to keep her voice gentle and friendly, and razor-sharp as well. ‘I’ve got my eye on you, young man. Or not so young. You’d better—’

  She was cut off by Tasha and Melanie – two of the other young residents of Earl Grey House – hurtling down the stairs, laughing loudly, one of them bumping into her.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry! Hey, Alfie – you comin’ for a plodge?’

  A few of the other children had adopted a habit of going for a paddle – a ‘plodge’ – in the bay on warm evenings. This was the first time I had been asked along. I was secretly rather thrilled.

  ‘Yes, I will see you there presently,’ I replied, and they both giggled at something and ran out of the front door.

  Sangeeta nodded at me. ‘Be careful, Alfie. I’m watching you.’ Then she too departed, leaving me in the hallway with its noticeboards and hard-wearing carpet and smell of disinfectant.

  Jack was right. I had to reverse this.

  Looking down, I noticed the bag and took out the book. I frowned. There was something inside, something making the book fatter than it should be. I opened the book to see the envelope that Jack had slipped under the front cover.

  Written on the front were the words ‘For the chickens’ and inside were two fifty-pound notes.

  An idea began to form in my head.

  U
pstairs in my room, I took out the mobile telephone that Sangeeta had given me, and turned it on to compose the first text message I had ever sent.

  Dear Roxy,

  I have an idea for getting to the place we talked about. I will meet you and Aidan at the Metro Station at 8am tomorrow.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alfie

  Seconds later, my mobile telephone went ping and I read the message. It said: LOL OK.

  It seemed a bit abrupt, but I was fairly certain it meant yes.

  For the third night in a row, I hardly slept, but this time it was not through fear, or sadness, but excitement.

  I had worked out how to get the world’s only remaining life-pearl back.

  As a plan, it would definitely be considered ‘audacious’. But it was the only plan I had.

  I was going to bribe someone to break the law and take us to Coquet Island.

  The journey up the coast – Metro to Newcastle, bus from the Haymarket – takes nearly two hours, and, by the time we arrive in Amble, the morning has turned properly chilly. A church bell is chiming ten and a large lady in an apron is rolling up the shutters on the Neptune Café.

  Amble is a sandy-coloured low-rise seaside town, which seems to have its back hunched against the North Sea. There’s a permanent, faint salty smell in the air and I hear a couple saying to each other, ‘Eeh, it’s turned, hasn’t it?’ and ‘Won’t be long before it rains.’

  Coquet Island is there, lying off the shore, its little lighthouse the only visible feature.

  Alfie has hardly said a word, apart from to outline his plan, made possible by the two fifty-pound notes he shows us. After hearing it, I’m not at all sure why he even wants us here, but he said it was for ‘authenticity’. He’s going to pretend to be an adult, and the presence of children will ‘aid the illusion’, apparently. I’m not convinced. To be honest, I think he just wants us there for ‘moral support’. Roxy, on the other hand, sees it as a chance to star in her own drama, I’m fairly sure of that.

  The weather app on her phone puts the chance of rain at ninety per cent by this afternoon. So Alfie was right. Anyway, by this afternoon, if everything goes to plan, this will all be over.

  The fact that we have made it this far without a hitch should have put us in a good mood.

  Instead we all feel like the weather: chilly and brooding, as if there’s worse to come.

  The three of us sit in the Neptune Café, staring out of the big window at the pedestrians in their shorts and windcheaters. Alfie has a cup of tea, Roxy and I each have a can of Coke, but none of us is drinking. The café owner eyes us suspiciously as if she expects us to steal something.

  It’s Roxy who breaks the silence by handing her backpack to Alfie and saying, ‘OK, then. Time for your transformation, Superman.’ Silently he takes the bag and goes into the café’s toilet to get changed into his old man gear.

  She’s so relaxed about it all, it’s a bit infuriating. It’s probably because she’s in no danger of setting off any alarm bells at home.

  ‘Easy-peasy,’ she said on the bus when I asked her how she had explained her early absence. ‘Drama Club trip to York!’

  ‘And your mum didn’t wonder why you were starting at, like, seven on a Saturday morning?’ I asked. ‘She didn’t wonder why there was no letter or consent form to sign?’

  She shrugged. ‘My mum’s got enough problems. If I tell her I’ve signed the consent form to save her the trouble, she’s grateful.’

  I envied her casual deception. If I’d tried to pull off something like that, Mum or Dad would have seen through it instantly. They’d have wanted to see the email, or the schedule of events. Mum would have nagged Dad into getting up early to run me to the drop-off. It would never have worked.

  The note on my pillow would have to do, and it niggled at me.

  There’s a distinct risk that my dad will drive round to Mo’s flat and haul me back home to help him fix the bathroom tiles/clean out the guttering/put boxes in the loft/all of the above. It’s what I’m supposed to be doing today. He’ll think I’m skiving again.

  As for Alfie, he couldn’t have cared less. The doors at Earl Grey House were locked and alarmed, but he’d discovered it was a simple matter to get out via the fire escape.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  The voice behind me makes me jump. I spin round to see Alfie, in a long coat and man’s brimmed hat: Roxy’s Oliver! costume. It’s pretty convincing, I have to admit. The woman behind the counter gives us a funny look – as anyone would if a boy had gone into your loo and emerged dressed up as an old man.

  As we leave, the shop bell tinkles above the door. The lady still hasn’t taken her eyes off us. I see her reach into her pocket, take out her mobile phone and I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that something is not quite right.

  I say nothing.

  Roxy can’t stop giggling at Alfie’s old man impression. Under any other circumstances, I would be laughing too: it really is good. He stoops very slightly – barely more than dropping his neck forward a little – and tugs the brim of the hat down over his eyes. Stooping any more would make him look very short because he’s not especially tall. He makes his legs slightly stiff, and slaps his feet flatly and gently on the pavement, as if bending them any more would cause him discomfort.

  It’s only a hundred metres or so from the Neptune Café to the little wooden kiosk on the harbour front with a big, colourful sign saying:

  PUFFIN TOURS LTD

  NEXT SAILING 12.00

  There’s a man smoking a huge electronic pipe behind the glass front of the kiosk. As we approach, he puts away a mobile phone, and I just know it. I don’t know how, but I do.

  ‘Guys!’ I say. ‘We’re not going to get away with this.’

  In an annoying sing-song voice, Roxy says, ‘You’re defeatist!’ and carries on walking right up to the kiosk, Alfie shuffling alongside her.

  There’s a rectangular hole in the glass for tickets and money, and a wisp of smoke is emerging. It’s only vape smoke, but there’s so much of it that it’s almost like the kiosk is on fire.

  Alfie lowers his head to the gap in the glass and says in his deep voice, ‘I wonder if I can make it worth your while to venture a landing on the island, mate?’

  For a moment – a tantalising moment – I think we’ve got away with it. The man takes a long drag of his vaping pipe and murmurs, ‘You what?’ and he pauses before exhaling a long plume of smoke.

  Alfie extracts two fifty-pound notes from his jacket pocket.

  ‘I was wondering if I could persuade you to make a landing on the island, mate? You know, on the east side, out of sight? Only me kids here are keen to see the puffins close up, you know wha’ I mean?’

  The man eyes the two large bank notes. Alfie pushes them towards him beneath the glass. ‘It will be worth your while.’

  The man reaches out two fingers with bitten nails, and pulls the notes towards him and puts them in his pocket. Alfie turns to us and grins.

  ‘Get lost,’ growls the man. ‘For a start, I’d lose me licence. Second, do y’think I was born yesterday? You’s lot were in the Neptune earlier on, weren’t you? Go on – away wi’ yuz. Cheeky little sods.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  ‘What did it sound like? Course it’s a flamin’ no. Get lost!’

  I see the dismay as Alfie’s shoulders slump. He half turns away, then straightens up and turns back again.

  ‘May I have my money back, then?’

  There’s a dreadful pause while the man takes a drag of his pipe, blows the smoke out again and then says, ‘What money?’

  Alfie’s whole body sinks and, without looking back at us, he slouches down onto a nearby bench.

  He’s been quiet all morning, but, for the first time, poor Alfie really does look a thousand years old.

  I sit on the bench and gaze out at the violet-grey sea. High above me the seagulls caw their lonely cries to the white sky, hanging in the wind that is
beginning to whip up tiny white tops on the waves outside the harbour.

  Below where I sit, the masts of the yachts in the marina sway in the swell, the sail pulleys clanking in the wind.

  It was a mad idea.

  But now I have ruined it, and there is no way that I can do what I have waited hundreds of years to do.

  To grow up.

  To have a twelfth birthday. A proper one.

  To have friends that grow up with me, and then to fall in love, and marry, and have children, and watch them grow up and have children …

  And to feel that life is valuable, precious. To yearn for each day to be longer, because I do not have an endless number of them …

  Because I understand, by now, one thing more than anyone else on earth: without death, life is just existence.

  And, for what seems like the millionth time since Mam died, the tears stream down my face, chilling on my cheeks in the cold breeze. At first, I do not even notice that Aidan and Roxy have sat down either side of me. Aidan puts his arm round my shoulders and squeezes, and Roxy rests her head on my arm, like I used to do with Mam.

  We stay there for a long time, I think.

  Then, from behind us, I hear someone say, ‘Wow! Look!’ I turn, and they are pointing out to sea, where a flock of birds are diving repeatedly into the sea and coming up again.

  ‘Are they seagulls?’ the little girl asks her mum.

  ‘I don’t know, pet.’

  The girl giggles. ‘They look like … like flying footballs!’

  Their voices act like a winch, dragging me from my despair.

  ‘They are puffins,’ I say to her. ‘You do not often see them this close to land. There must be a shoal of mackerel running, or sprats. Sprats are their favourite.’

  The mum smiles. ‘You know a lot.’ I shrug. Modestly, I hope. Then Roxy pipes up.