by Kim Slater
‘It’s OK to be scared, you know,’ Dad says, nudging me with his elbow. ‘I remember my first football trial. I stayed up nearly all night, belting in goals non-stop on the local playing field, so I could make the High School team.’
I look at Dad with interest. He’s never told me stuff like this before.
‘And d-did you?’ I say.
‘Did I what?’
‘M-make the t-trial?’
‘Nah, I was that terrified on the day of the trial, I got the runs and your nan wouldn’t let me go.’ Dad always says ‘your nan’, like we were close, but she died before I was born.
Mrs Adams appears with a name badge, just as we reach the door to the competition hall. ‘You should be very proud to represent Carlton Comprehensive, Finlay,’ she says, as she pins it on to my blazer. ‘He’s going to do us proud. Right, Mr McIntosh?’
‘Oh, aye. Our Finlay’s no quitter, he’ll eat this lot for breakfast.’
I follow Dad’s eyes as he scans the enormous room. My stomach lurches like I’ve just climbed on to a speedboat. It looks just like the examinations hall at school. Tables set out in rigid lines and officials dressed in blazers stalking up and down the walkways in between them. The Scrabble players are starting to take their seats at the tables and it suddenly hits me why my nerves are shredded. They all look so much older than me.
‘Are w-we in the r-right bit of th-the c-competition?’ I whisper to Maryam, who has just appeared at my side. ‘Th-that boy over there l-looks ab-about eighteen.’
‘He probably is eighteen.’ Maryam grins. ‘Anyone up to the age of eighteen can play in the youth championships.’
I gulp. How will I have a chance if I’m drawn against someone that much older with all that game experience?
‘Remember, you often beat me quite easily, Finlay,’ Maryam whispers in my ear, as though she has read my mind.
It’s true, I have. But when I play Maryam, I don’t feel sick or shake like a jellyfish operating a road digger.
Maryam excuses herself to use the bathroom and Mrs Adams dashes off to confirm exactly where I’m sitting. I turn round to speak to Dad but he’s wandered off back into the foyer, nattering on his phone. I’m aware of the people around me moving aside for something or somebody to come through and I do the same out of instinct.
Through the parting crowd, a tall older boy approaches. He wears an expensive-looking burgundy school blazer, complete with dark green and mustard striped lapels. He is flanked by a group of similarly dressed boys but even though I don’t know him, there is something about him that draws my eye. He walks like he is entitled, like he fully expects others to stand back and let him pass. Which is, in actual fact, what we are all doing.
‘That’s Amos Best,’ I hear a girl behind me stage-whisper to her friend. ‘Last year’s champion.’ One of the boys in his entourage looks over at me and whispers something to Amos, causing him to chuckle.
When the group gets closer, Amos sweeps his hand over an already immaculate raven-haired quiff and smirks at me. He points towards the foyer. ‘You’ll find the crèche is that way, little boy,’ he says in a clipped, nasal accent. The whole group laugh and push roughly past me. I watch as he takes his seat at a table in the far corner of the hall.
I look around to see if Mrs Adams is on her way back yet. My heart thumps madly when I catch sight of Maryam, hemmed close to the wall by a boy and a man. For a few seconds I freeze, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing, and then something in me springs into action and I push my way through the glut of people still queuing to get into the competition hall.
‘Finlay!’ I look back over my shoulder to see Mrs Adams waving at me. ‘You need to take your place now,’ she shouts.
I hold my hand up to signal I’ve heard her and carry on pushing forward, towards the foyer where Maryam stands, her eyes downcast.
‘S’ IS ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR STARTING LETTERS FOR WORDS.
It seems to take forever to push through the crowd. All my worries about the championships are forgotten in a hot flush of anger as I recognize the two people bothering her.
‘L-leave h-her alone,’ I snap when I finally get close.
My voice trails off when Oliver turns to look at me. His face is a mass of blue and yellow bruises. One eye is still nearly closed and a large patch of hair has been shaved from the side of his head. A row of tape covers what I assume to be stitches. Shock freezes my face. I never imagined his injuries to be so bad.
‘Who’s this?’ Oliver’s dad frowns, towering above me.
‘Hello, Finlay,’ Oliver says. ‘We were just talking to Maryam.’ His voice sounds thin and reedy, like someone sucked all the filling out of his words.
I open my mouth and look at Oliver and his dad. The silence sticks us together like glue, waiting to catch the blundering words I’m swallowing back.
‘If you’ve got summat to say, then say it.’ Oliver’s dad peers at my face as if he’s trying to pinpoint exactly where the problem lies.
‘C-come on, M-Maryam,’ I say, reaching for her arm. ‘Let’s g-go. You d-don’t have to l-listen to –’
‘Now, just a minute,’ Oliver’s dad says. ‘Just hold your horses and listen to what our Oliver’s got to say.’
‘N-no! W-we’ve l-listened en-enough –’
‘It’s OK, Finlay,’ Maryam says in a small voice. ‘Oliver is apologizing.’
Apologizing? Oliver?
‘Like I said . . . I’m sorry for the things I said to you in the library,’ Oliver says in his strange, new voice. ‘I didn’t know that the reason you came over here was for your dad to work at the hospital. I mean, I thought people like you just –’
‘People like me?’ Maryam’s eyes flash.
Oliver’s dad coughs.
‘What he means is, we realize now you’re not like the others, like. You’re different.’
‘The others?’ Maryam asks, her eyes wide.
I bite my bottom lip. Oliver and his dad are trying to make amends but they’re just digging themselves into a deeper hole.
‘You know, immigrants; them that come over here just for benefits,’ Oliver’s dad says cheerfully. ‘You’re not like them, is what we’re saying. We welcome people like your dad in our country.’
‘There are refugees here, if that’s what you mean, Mr Haywood. People who’ve lost their homes and are fleeing for their lives,’ Maryam says, looking from Oliver to his dad. ‘It doesn’t mean they have any less right to be here than myself and my family.’
No meek Maryam today. She’s speaking out loud and clear, looking them both in the eye.
‘Course not, course not,’ Mr Haywood says hastily. ‘We just wanted you to know we’re very grateful for what your old man did for our Oliver and that we know you haven’t just come over here after an easy life.’
Maryam shakes her head and rolls her eyes up to the ceiling as though there’s no hope to be found.
‘Maryam’s dad saved Oliver’s life,’ he says, turning to me. ‘If Ollie hadn’t had that operation when he did, well . . .’ Mr Haywood’s voice wavers and he stops speaking.
It had slipped my mind that Maryam’s father worked at the Queen’s Medical Centre. Seeing Oliver so weak and broken sends a shiver down my spine.
‘Maryam’s dad is a specialist brain trauma surgeon,’ Oliver tells me, looking over at her. ‘Without him, I would’ve had to be transferred to another hospital, and it might’ve been too late for me.’
‘I’m very pleased to see you are OK,’ Maryam says graciously. ‘And I accept your apology, Oliver. Maybe when you are better, we can have a proper conversation about those people.’
‘Er, OK.’ Oliver turns to me. ‘Finlay, I’ve been – well, I mean, I admit –’
‘W-why did y-you run in fr-front of the c-car?’ I interrupt. I can hardly bear to look at this new, broken Oliver.
‘I can’t remember,’ Oliver says. He shrugs and winces at the pain of the movement. ‘I can’t remember anyt
hing about it at all.’
‘The doctors say his memory should come back,’ Mr Haywood says. ‘He remembered some bits just after the accident . . . but after he lost consciousness, it went.’
‘Being in hospital gives you lots of thinking time,’ Oliver continues. ‘I asked Dad to bring me today because, well, I wanted to see you whip everyone’s ass.’ He grins at me.
I’m so surprised I don’t even manage to say anything back.
Just then Mrs Adams rushes up, out of breath. ‘Finlay, you need to come and take your place in the competition hall now, no excuses.’ She follows my eyes as I glance at the others. ‘Oliver! What are you doing here?’ She stares in silent shock at Oliver’s injuries and her face creases in concern. ‘Is Oliver fit to be here, Mr Haywood?’
‘Not really,’ Oliver’s dad admits. ‘But he insisted on coming and the doctors agreed to let him out. Just for the afternoon, mind. He had something to say to Maryam and he wanted to support Finlay today, in his first few games.’
‘Well, we’re very pleased to see you, Oliver,’ Mrs Adams says. ‘Follow us into the hall and I’ll make sure you get a spectator seat near Finlay’s table.’
‘You n-never said your d-dad op-operated on Oliver,’ I say to Maryam, as we walk behind them to the hall.
‘I didn’t know,’ Maryam says. ‘My father never speaks about his work at home.’
As we enter the competition area again, Maryam has to nudge me gently to keep me moving forward. The hall is heaving. Most of the contestants are seated now and I follow Mrs Adams over to one of the middle rows.
I sit down in my seat and the dark-haired boy opposite offers his hand.
‘Henry Dillingham,’ he says. ‘St Michael’s Boys’, in Kent.’
I take a big breath and pray the words will tumble out in the right order.
‘Finlay-McIntosh-Carlton-Comp.’ Despite managing to get all the words out in one breath, they tumble and knock into each other and don’t sound quite right. Henry looks at me a second too long. He knows there’s something different about me but he’s not sure what.
I hate meeting new people. In a split second they all label me an idiot and a freak. That’s what they’ll all think if I win and I have to speak in public.
I reach for the tile bag and we select letters.
‘The rules are very strict in competitions,’ Mrs Adams had explained when I asked if I could bring my own tile bag. ‘Only authorized championship equipment is allowed, I’m afraid.’
An ancient-looking bloke at the front says a few words about the event and then everyone claps and he declares the championships open. Henry draws first turn. He starts the clock and we’re off.
I see Maryam and Dad, Mrs Adams and Oliver out of the corner of my eye. They’re all watching and willing me to win. I purposely don’t smile or wave back. I put on my imaginary blinkers and focus on the game, cutting everything else off.
Henry plays G-U-L-L-E-Y [11]. I’m stunned to see he places the E, worth one point, on the double-letter tile, instead of the Y, which is worth four points.
I come back with F-U-G [13], tying up Henry’s U and using a double-letter tile on the F and the G.
I see a tell-tale frown flit briefly over his face and that’s when I know. He has no vowels on his letter rack. He’s also very nervous – as I am. The difference is he’s already letting it affect his play.
I decide to ramp up my play speed to increase the pressure on him and I’ll also try to tie up all vowels at every available opportunity.
It’s then that I realize something amazing.
Thanks to Maryam’s training, I’m reading him like a book.
SCRABBLE CAN BE USED TO INCREASE ONE’S VOCABULARY.
I comfortably win the game with Henry and also the matches with Christian from St Ives, Nigel from Leeds and Katie from St Helen’s.
Their ages range from fifteen to seventeen.
But I don’t care about ages any more. All I care about is winning.
And after that, all I care about is finding Mum.
We break for lunch and Maryam rushes over. ‘Finlay, you are doing amazingly. You are remembering all the training. I am so impressed!’
‘Brilliant, Finlay.’ Mrs Adams pats me on the back. ‘You’re doing yourself and the school proud. Keep it up.’
Oliver and his dad walk over. Oliver shuffles along slowly, like he is at the end of a long journey. ‘You did fantastic.’ He yawns behind his hand. ‘Keep practising and you might be as good as me, one day.’
Everyone laughs, including Oliver, and strangely, I find myself relieved to see some of the old him still remains.
‘Come on, then,’ his dad calls. ‘Let’s get you back, else the doctors will have my guts for garters.’
We all say our goodbyes and head for the reception to eat the sandwiches that Maryam’s mum has made for us.
‘H-how far is Wa-Walsall from h-here?’ I ask Mrs
Adams when Maryam and Dad are talking.
‘Hmm, not sure Finlay, maybe six or seven miles. Why?’
‘J-just w-wondered.’ I shrug.
As I eat, I watch people milling around in reception. Women with their backs to me, Mum’s build but with a different hair colour and style. Hair can easily be changed. What if one of them was Mum? What if she’d come to watch the championships and doesn’t realize I’m here?
I stand up, ready to walk into the crowd. Mrs Adams jumps up, too. ‘Right, just a few minutes to spare for a toilet break and then we’ll head back in,’ she says.
My third game after lunch is with a pale, thin girl called Lucy. She barely looks at me, she’s so focused on the board. If I can win this game, I’m in the last handful of players. Even as I think it, I can hardly believe it.
Lucy is a very good player. She’s better than the people I’ve played so far, but that’s no surprise. The net is getting smaller all the time, soon there’ll just be winners left, to battle it out against each other.
We’re ten minutes in and at level pegging, 220–224 to me.
I watch Lucy’s face and although, like a good player, she keeps her expression fairly blank, I see an unmistakable look of glee flicker suddenly in her eyes and I know something big is coming.
She uses the S from the word I just played, to make Z-E-B-E-C-K-S and she lands the B and the C both on a double-letter square.
‘Thirty points,’ I hear her whisper under her breath, like she’s telling herself a delicious secret.
I glance at the game clock. There’s only five minutes play left and it’s my turn. Lucy sits back in her chair, yawns and stretches. She thinks the game is over. She’s written me off. I know this is my last turn because when I play my word, Lucy will just stretch her turn out until the clock pings, ensuring I don’t get another go. Whatever I play has got to be amazing for me to win . . . and there lies the problem.
I haven’t got a word.
I haven’t even got a low-scoring word that can run off one of Lucy’s. My letters are all disjointed and refuse to latch on to each other. I stare at the board and wait for building opportunities to make themselves known to me, wait for my brain to do its job and pick up a familiar space or pattern that I can fill with a word.
But none of this happens.
Maryam’s words echo in my head.
The most obvious action is not always the most effective.
‘You played a good game.’ Lucy’s thin lips press together. ‘Don’t beat yourself up.’
I don’t acknowledge her because I’m too busy thinking. An idea is trickling into my mind like water into parched earth. I wait and wait and suddenly, it all clicks into place like the pieces of a puzzle.
I pick up four letters and lay them down the side of Lucy’s word ZEBECKS. My word is A-X-O-N.
Lucy stops yawning and sits upright.
I can see by her face she’s already calculated that I get twenty-seven points for AXON, landing my X on a triple-letter square. And I also get four two-letter wor
ds – ZA, EX, BO and EN – totalling forty-two points.
Grand total = sixty-nine points.
A smattering of applause comes from the people standing near our table.
The clock beeps, signalling the end of our game.
When I look up, Dad smiles and quickly wipes the corner of his eye when he lifts his hand up to scratch his head.
YOU DO NOT HAVE TO KNOW THE MEANING OF A WORD TO PLAY IT.
After that last game, I’m grateful for the afternoon break. My head feels liked it’s filled with porridge.
Mrs Adams is demented with the excitement of my win. ‘Right, we need a strategy, Finlay,’ she keeps repeating, while I crunch my way through a bag of crisps. ‘We need a failsafe strategy. What’s your approach for –’
‘I d-don’t know,’ I say with my mouth full.
I’m surprised how much energy playing in the championship takes. I’m surprised I’m hungry because my insides feel like they’re slowly turning to liquid.
‘He changes his strategy according to his opponent,’ Maryam explains, as if Mrs Adams is a novice.
‘Good plan that, Finlay,’ Dad nods. ‘You do right with that approach, lad.’
Mrs Adams studies a clutch of papers in her hands for a few moments before looking at me again. ‘Two more games, Finlay. Play two more games like that one and you’ve –’
‘W-won?’
‘No, you’ll have made the final two, I was going to say.’
I nod. Sounds easy, the way Mrs Adams puts it.
But two more games and maybe . . . just maybe . . . I might get to see Mum again.
‘Just getting to the final would make school history,’ Mrs Adams comments. ‘Nobody has ever –’
‘D-done it b-before?’ I interrupt.
‘Yes, that’s what I was about to say, if you’d just let me speak,’ Mrs Adams snaps.
‘I-irritating isn’t it, wh-when people d-don’t let you f-finish wh-what you w-wanted to s-say?’ I grin at her.