Itch

by Simon Mayo

  ‘They’re all being let out, Itch! They’re going to be fine! I just got a text from Arabella and Saz.’

  Itch rushed over to his laptop and refreshed the news site he had been on earlier. Sure enough, the headline now read: HOSPITAL RELEASES ACADEMY ‘GAS VICTIMS’. There was an image of the CA buildings and an extraordinary photo of Miss Glenacre from at least thirty years ago. He scrolled down. It was a repetition of the whole story from yesterday but it started with a new paragraph:

  Cornwall Academy victims of yesterday’s mystery gas leak were released from hospital this morning. A spokesman said that they had been monitored overnight and there had been no further symptoms or recurrence of the vomiting. All four have been advised to return immediately if they are feeling unwell. The academy will remain closed until the source of the gas has been identified.

  Itch realized he had been holding his breath, and now let out a huge sigh of relief. His classmates and teacher were OK; he wouldn’t be going to prison. As he gathered the boxes together he wondered quite how long the academy would be shut. Until the source of the gas has been identified, it said.

  Well, good luck with that, he thought.

  Opening the shed door had taken Itch five minutes. It had warped and twisted so that the bolt was stuck in the locked position. It had finally given way with an almighty creak. Now, he looked at the shed’s contents, which were jammed into every corner and onto every shelf, and wondered where his ‘kit’ was supposed to go.

  He started to pull at assorted garden implements tangled up with lawnmower cable. Chloe appeared and helped to move pots of paint and soggy bags of barbecue coal. They worked without speaking for ten minutes, laying the shed’s contents out on the grass.

  Then Itch said, ‘It was arsenic, Chloe. It was in my rucksack.’ He hadn’t planned to tell her – it just came out. He didn’t look at her; he carried on tugging at a rake that was caught up in guy ropes.

  Chloe stopped trying to unstick a tin of emulsion and looked up at him. ‘OK … that sounds bad.’

  ‘Well, yes. It can even kill, apparently. But I had no idea, Chloe – honest …’ He paused. ‘I just had some wallpaper in an envelope, that’s all, and then it must have reacted with the steam in the greenhouse. I was going to tell someone if they went on being really ill, but I don’t have to now.’ He glanced over at her. ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘Well, everyone chucking up … some kind of weird poison or whatever – it sounded to me like another of those stink-bomb things you let off before but without the stink. Your kind of trouble, anyway. And then you were acting weird last night.’

  ‘Do you think Mum noticed?’

  Chloe gave Itch a ‘what do you think?’ look. ‘Unlikely, I reckon, don’t you?’

  ‘I hope so, especially with Dad about to arrive. Please don’t tell, Chloe. Even Jack. It’s all too scary otherwise.’

  Chloe was quiet for a moment. ‘You should have owned up, Itch. Really you should. But as they’re all OK this morning, I won’t say anything now. Of course I won’t.’

  They were halfway through some rather raggedy cheese and ham sandwiches that Itch had made when they heard a key in the front door. Chloe flew out of the kitchen, and flung herself at her father. Nicholas Lofte was a good six foot four and Chloe managed to jump half of it.

  He dropped his bag and caught her in one easy movement. ‘Hi, Chloe!’ She had buried her face in his neck but Mr Lofte’s eyes found his son. ‘Hi, Itch – it’s good to see you!’ He put Chloe down slowly and walked over to Itch, who met him halfway. They embraced in the way a fourteen-year-old allows, awkwardly but still with meaning.

  Once again Itch’s head was held in both hands and his face inspected closely.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen worse, that’s for sure. You still look pale, son, but your mother says you’re on the mend. I think I’ve got most of the story, but tell me what happened.’

  Itch smiled – it was good to hear his father’s rich Cornish voice fill the room. Nicholas Lofte was a rig superintendent on an oil rig in the North Sea, where he had worked for as long as Itch could remember. He was clearly good at his job, respected and in demand, but both Chloe and Itch hated the amount of time it took him away from them. They had felt this all the more keenly since their elder brother had dis appeared to university. It had only been three weeks since their dad was last home, but the gaps between visits seemed to have got longer since they’d moved to Cornwall.

  Once again Itch told his story about what had happened in the greenhouse, not trusting himself to look at Chloe.

  ‘So we are still none the wiser as to where this gas came from? Any analysis done? No?’ Nicholas asked, mouth full of sandwich. ‘In a twenty-first-century school, that seems ridiculous. Well, it’ll be the end of the greenhouse; I can’t imagine any other classes going in there.’

  This was all getting uncomfortable for Itch, and Chloe changed the subject.

  ‘How long are you off for, Dad? It’s strange to have you here during the week.’

  ‘Just till Monday, Chloe; I managed to rearrange some shifts and took some leave – they all understood.’

  ‘How’s the rig?’ asked Itch. ‘Don’t hear much about it these days.’

  ‘Oh, you know. Same old, same old. You’ve heard it all before. I get bored with it myself. What I really need is a surf. Who’s up for it?’

  Itch had been about to suggest a tour of the rearranged shed but now thought better of it – he wanted to spend some time with his dad. In the past Nicholas had always been full of details of the latest drill, but recently he’d been reluctant to talk about work. Itch had grown up assuming his dad enjoyed his job; now he wasn’t so sure.

  Then, remembering why he had returned home, Nicholas added, ‘As long as you’re OK, Itch – don’t want to get you out too soon.’

  But Itch was already heading to get his wetsuit from the garage.

  ‘I’ll come down to the beach but I might sit this one out, Dad,’ Chloe said.

  Nicholas was about to remonstrate with his daughter but thought better of it. ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s fine, I think. Busy, you know. A bit stressed.’

  Her father nodded but didn’t say any more.

  Itch appeared in his tight wetsuit. Nicholas disguised his laugh as a cough.

  ‘Heavens, Itch, you can’t go out like that! You’ll do yourself a mischief. You need a new one. Fancy an early birthday present? Come on, let’s go via town.’

  Itch changed back, and the three of them walked down to the main parade of shops via the golf course. On the way Itch told his dad about the explosion, his eyebrows and the removal of all his equipment to the shed.

  ‘No wonder your mother is stressed. Easier on the rig than here! We’ll have a look at the shed when we get back, but it sounds a reasonable plan to me.’

  They had turned onto the high street and had reached the first of the surf shops. It didn’t take long to fix Itch up with what he needed, and fifteen minutes later they were beach-bound with his new O’Neill Psychofreak wetsuit in an overly elaborate carrier bag.

  ‘That’s a birthday present, right?’ said Chloe.

  ‘An early one, yes,’ replied her dad.

  ‘Just checking.’

  They picked up the boards at their beach hut on the sea front. This wasn’t one of those elaborate painted huts you see on postcards and tourist posters but an all-year working hut, its cream paint blistered and peeling. The Lofte children left their surf boards here and considered it their property. Their mother certainly didn’t come down and their father only on occasions like this. It smelled permanently damp and musty.

  Chloe found an old magazine and followed her brother and father down to some rocks, where they left their towels. Itch and his dad ran out into the surf, boards under their arms. They charged in without stopping, reached thigh-deep water and threw themselves onto their boards. That was the easy bit. Itch could get onto his board as well as anyone; it
was what happened next that was a puzzle.

  He was desperate to be good at surfing. His sister and cousin loved it, but for Itch it was like living next to Wembley and being hopeless at football. The Cornish waves were some of the best in the world: you were expected to master the basics. But aside from the usual tourist-style belly-board surfing, Itch couldn’t do it. He loved the look of his new wetsuit but he felt a fraud. Instead of being the worst-dressed, worst surfer on the beach, he was now the best-dressed, worst surfer on the beach. Big deal.

  Itch and his father paddled their way out to where the Atlantic swell began the mysterious process of sorting which would be a breaking wave and which would merely fall back again. They waited for several minutes before a decent one rolled in. Nicholas sensed it first, feeling the undertow and the swelling of the ocean behind him. He used his arms to position the board, making slight adjustments in front of the incoming wave. Itch reacted a few seconds later, and was paddling furiously to catch up when he saw the back of his father’s board rise with the wave; Nicholas, crouching now, was accelerating towards the beach. Within seconds he was on his feet and, arms outstretched, waving to Chloe. She waved her magazine back at him.

  Itch, of course, had missed the wave and was annoyed with himself; he really should have caught that one. It had taken his father all the way in, and he was even now charging back through the surf, with the wild smile of a surfer who has judged it just right.

  ‘Come on, let’s get one together!’ Nicholas called as he paddled his board out to where Itch was circling. They lined up and waited there, heads craned round to watch the approaching swell. As the wave piled higher, they both pushed down into the water with their arms to propel themselves forward. Both boards rose together as the wave arced above them. It shot Nicholas all the way in to the beach again. It crashed over Itch.

  Although his father was encouraging, Itch had lost heart and just wanted to go home. The top-of-the-range wetsuit made him feel even worse – he had no right to wear it. He had come to spend some time with his dad, but now he wished he’d stayed and sorted out the shed. He knew what he was good at, knew where he was at home. And it wasn’t the sea.

  They had only been in the water for fifteen minutes when Nicholas suggested they call it a day. Itch agreed, and they waded out of the water, pulling their boards behind them.

  ‘You’ve got strong arms, Itch; paddling the board well is a useful skill to have. You’ll get the hang of it in time. You forget – I was born here!’

  Itch knew his father meant well, but his words were painful. I’m a good paddler. Wow. You must be so proud, he thought.

  Chloe threw them the towels, and they returned the boards to the hut, where Itch and his father changed out of their wetsuits.

  On the way back to the house Nicholas raised the subject of the shed again, and Itch told him what he and Chloe had done that morning. He admitted that quite a few gardening implements still needed a home as a result of his takeover, but at least he wasn’t going to be experimenting in the house again.

  Once in the shed, Itch showed his father the boxes, while carefully detouring around the surviving ‘dangerous items’. The gunpowder and the radioactive clock hands were still in his rucksack, and that hung on a peg where some shears had been.

  ‘Robert Brent would approve,’ said Nicholas.

  Itch looked up. ‘The guy who wrote Grandpa’s chemistry book?’

  ‘His father nodded. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Well, I could do with him around here: he might approve, but Mum most certainly doesn’t. She’d be happy if I chucked it all away today. Chloe wouldn’t be that bothered and Gabriel’s not here.’

  ‘I’m interested …’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not here either, Dad, are you? Basically it’s me, Mum and Chloe these days …’ Itch trailed off; he hadn’t meant to sound so angry. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘You’re right, son, you’re right.’ Nicholas’s shoulders had slumped a little. ‘It’s not easy sometimes, Itch. I get here when work allows – it’s important work we’re doing, you know – but your mother … well, it’s just difficult to …’ He was struggling to find the words and Itch wasn’t sure he wanted him to find them.

  Itch changed the subject. Finding a pinkish slice of rock, he held it up so the light caught it. ‘Know what that is?’ he said.

  ‘Er. Oh. A small piece of feldspar, maybe? So – potassium. Am I right?’

  ‘Yup.’ Itch tossed it to his father, who caught it.

  ‘Nice piece.’ Nicholas covered the silence with an unnecessarily close inspection of the feldspar. ‘Look, Itch, I’ll make an effort to get down more often, OK? I’ll ask, anyway.’

  ‘Any chance of you hanging round for half term?’

  ‘Oh. When’s that?’

  ‘Sort of now really. And next week.’

  Nicholas sighed. ‘Sorry, son, no; this is just compassionate leave.’ He looked sad but then brightened. ‘I had a thought on the way down, though. Fancy some work experience?’

  ‘Er, not especially, no. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, look at all this, Itch! You love this stuff, don’t you? It’s been your passion for ages now – and there’s this guy at chapel, Bob Evert, who runs the mine at Provincetown. He might take you on for a week. Do you have anything planned?’

  ‘Well, no, but what would I do? I’m not old enough to go mining, am I?’

  ‘Of course not, and there isn’t much mining going on anyway. They just keep it going for tourists really. But you might be able to help in the shop; I’m sure Bob would love to have someone keen around the place. And you’d have someone to talk to about potassium! Come to chapel and I’ll introduce you.’

  Chapel was something else they didn’t do when their dad was away. Itch didn’t mind either way, but remembered that, early on, it had been the first time he realized that his parents didn’t agree on everything. Jude Lofte had come once and never returned.

  The rest of the week passed like a mini holiday, and Sunday morning found all the Loftes at breakfast. Nicholas explained his work-experience plan to Jude, who seemed quite taken with it.

  ‘I think it’s a terrific idea, Itch – and not just because it’ll stop you blowing up the house for a few days. I don’t think anyone else is thinking of work experience yet but it would look great on your CV.’

  This was precisely the sort of thing that parents say all the time, but Itch was warming to the idea. His dad would be back on the rig tomorrow, so why not? He might even get some new bits of tin for his collection.

  So Nicholas, Itch and Chloe set off for chapel, and Jude stayed behind to ‘work on emails’. Itch didn’t mind going to chapel. There was no one his age there – indeed no one within twenty years – but that was the point. He was free of the need to try to make friends, then fail. Everyone always seemed pleased to see him.

  Chapel was a small granite building with BUILT 1787 carved in stone above the door. Inside, it had whitewashed walls, dark brown pews and musty old hymn books. There were no candles, no statues and no stained-glass windows. ‘That’s not our style,’ was what his father said. The service didn’t require much of the congregation; the minister seemed to do all the work. When he spoke, Itch always counted the hymn books or panes of glass in the main window. Today he reached 95 and 120.

  After the service his dad introduced him to Bob Evert, an overweight balding man with a ready smile and firm handshake. He was in his early sixties, Itch thought, and quite the cheeriest old person he’d met.

  ‘So this is Itchingham Lofte! I must have seen you a couple of years back but I barely recognize you!’ Bob Evert was one of those men who always spoke so loudly that everyone within a range of twenty metres could hear everything. ‘Funny business at the academy this week! Your dad says you were sick but you’re OK now – is that right?’ Itch nodded. ‘And he says you’re interested in work experience next week. Well, we could always do with some extra help around the place,
and as it’s half term we might be quite busy. Better not call it work experience since you’re really too young for that – let’s try “voluntary work”. How does that sound? What do you say, Itch?’

  Before Itch could reply Evert jumped in again. ‘Actually, you could bring a friend if you like. Know anyone who would fancy it?’

  4

  BOB EVERT HAD made Itch feel he would be quite the most useful member of his team at South-West Mines. Itch assumed he spoke to everyone like that. As for inviting anyone, well, he didn’t exactly have a long list of friends to draw on. The only person he could suggest was Jack, so he had called her after lunch on Sunday. She was unsure to start with, but had agreed as she had nothing planned for the half term.

  Work experience – or ‘voluntary work’, as they were going to have to call it – wasn’t something Itch had been planning on. Getting hold of some replacement phosphorus, some mercury and maybe some cobalt would be more fun, but the Provincetown mine did sound intriguing. They had had lessons on mining in Cornwall, of course, but Itch had never seen a mine for real. He found he was looking forward to it. They would be picked up on Monday morning by the chief engineer, Jolyon Barth, who lived not far from the Loftes.

  The doorbell rang at 7.30 and Itch was dressed and ready. Jack stood at the door wearing jeans and a large I ♥ CA sweatshirt.

  ‘I could never quite bring myself to wear one of those,’ said Itch, and invited her in. She had just shut the door when the bell rang again. It was an unsmiling red-haired man.

  ‘You must be Itchingham Lofte. I’m Jolyon Barth, the engineer at Provincetown. How do you do.’ They shook hands rather formally, and Itch introduced Jack. Barth was about forty, strongly built, with freckles on his face and forearms. He opened the rear door of his Mercedes and both cousins got in. This felt a bit weird – as though Barth was a minicab driver taking them to the station. They sat in embarrassed silence. It was a relief when Barth put the radio on.