Starter for Ten

by David Nicholls

  Patrick is starting to panic. There's a damp rim of sweat forming round the neck of his burgundy sweatshirt, and he's starting to get trigger-happy and make mistakes, terrible mistakes, his trembling finger jabbing at the buzzer in a desperate attempt to pull something back.

  Buzz.

  “George Stephenson?” says Patrick.

  “No, I'm sorry, that's minus five points.”

  “Brunel?” says Partridge.

  “Correct! That's ten points.…”

  Buzz.

  “Thomas Paine's The Rights of Man?” pleads Patrick.

  “No, sorry, that's minus five points.…”

  “Paine's The Age of Reason,” says Partridge.

  “Correct! That's another ten points.…”

  And so it goes on. Alice and I meanwhile are worse than useless. She gets one question wrong, saying Dame Margot Fonteyn when it should be Dame Alicia Markova, and I'm barely opening my mouth at all, just nodding madly at whatever Lucy says during team consultations. In fact, if it wasn't for the amazing Dr. Lucy Chang, we'd actually be in minus figures by now, because for everything Patrick gets wrong, she gets one right, just quietly, modestly. “The study of bees?”—Correct; “‘I think therefore I am'?”—Correct; “Zadok the Priest by Handel?”—Correct—and at one point, I find myself leaning past Alice and watching Lucy, pushing her glossy black hair back behind her ear, modestly looking at the floor as the crowd applauds her, and I think about what Rebecca said; maybe I should have asked her out? Why didn't I think of that? Maybe that's the answer. Maybe, if this thing with Alice doesn't work out …

  But what am I thinking about? We're losing 65 points to 100 now, and the freaky boy Partridge is answering three in a row about the mathematical theories of évariste Galois or something completely incomprehensible, and I'm just sitting here dumbly staring at the back of our mascot's head, and we're losing, losing, losing, and I realize that even with Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja California up my sleeve, the only way we can possibly win is if someone in the audience, Rebecca Epstein, say, takes Partridge out with a high-powered sniper's rifle.

  And then something amazing happens—a question that I know the answer to.

  “Porphyria's Lover, in which the protagonist strangles his beloved with a braid of her hair, is a narrative poem by which Victorian poet?”

  And no one buzzes. No one except me. I buzz, then try to open my mouth, which seems to be stuck together with flour-and-water paste, and manage to get the words out.

  “Robert Browning?”

  “Correct!”

  And there's applause, actual applause, led by my mum, I have to say, but it's applause nonetheless, and we've got a crack at the bonus questions.…

  “… which are on plant-cell structure!”

  Alice and I groan audibly and slump back in our chairs, redundant. But it doesn't matter, because Dr. Lucy Chang's there, and what Dr. Lucy Chang doesn't know about plant-cell structure isn't worth knowing. She polishes them off without breaking a sweat.

  “… parenchyma … collenchyma … is it sclerenchyma?”

  Oh, yes, it is sclerenchyma, and the crowd are cheering again, because we're back in the game, 90 plays 115 now, and I'm awake again, because I now know that I—no, not I, but we, the team—can win this after all.

  “Another starter question, the Dickensian character Philip Pirrip is … ?”

  Know it.

  Buzz.

  “Pip in Great Expectations,” I say, clearly and confidently.

  “Very well anticipated,” says Bamber, and there's a round of applause from the audience, and a wolf whistle even, I think from Rebecca, who I can see in the front row beaming away, and I imagine that this is what it might feel like to score a goal. I try not to smile, though. I just look serious and confident and my mind is racing because I know what's coming up soon. “Oregon, um, Arizona, eh, Nevada and Baja—or is it Baya?— California?” But keep calm, keep calm, bonus questions first, a potential fifteen points, plus the ten I've just won for us, enough to put us in neck and neck, 115 all, but it all depends on what the bonus questions are about.…

  “And your bonus questions are all about opening and closing lines from the plays of William Shakespeare.”

  “Yesss!” I think, but don't say, or show in my face, “I can do these, I bet I know these.” The opposition harrumph of course, slump down in their chairs because they know they'd have been able to get them right too, and Norton, reading classics, tosses his hair despondently, but tough luck, boys, because they're ours now. Alice must be feeling confident too, because she glances at me, nods and smiles, as if to say, “Come on, then, Bamber, do your worst, it won't matter, because me and Brian are soulmates and together we can handle anything you throw at us” and here it comes, the first bonus question …

  “Which play begins with the lines, ‘Hence! home you idle creatures, get you home! / Is this a holiday?'” Know it. “Julius Caesar,” I whisper to Patrick. “Sure?” says Patrick. “Absolutely. Did it for O-level.” “Julius Caesar,” says Patrick decisively. “Correct!” says Bamber, and there's a smattering of applause, not much, just enough, before the next question is on its way. “Which play ends with the words, ‘Myself will straight aboard; and to the state / This heavy act with heavy heart relate.'” Know it. Othello. “Is it Hamlet?” Alice whispers to Patrick. “No, I think it's Othello,” I say, kind but firm. “Lucy?” says Patrick. “Sorry. No idea.”

  “I really am ninety-nine percent sure it's Hamlet,” says Alice again. “Brian?”

  “I think Hamlet ends with something about bodies being taken out and shots being fired. The ‘heavy act' here is the death of Desdemona and Othello, so I'm fairly sure it is Othello, but if you want to say Hamlet, Patrick, then by all means go with Hamlet.”

  And Patrick looks between us, Alice and I, makes his choice, turns back to his microphone, and says, “Is it … Othello?”

  “It is Othello!” and the crowd goes wild. Patrick reaches down the length of the desk and rubs my forearm matily, and Lucy winks, and Alice looks at me, this glowing look of gratitude and humility and genuine fondness, a look that I've never seen from her before. Her hand reaches underneath the desk between us, rubs my thigh and then finds my hand and squeezes it, rubbing my hot damp palm with her thumb, and now she's squeezing her strappy black shoe in between my two great, flapping fat feet, and rubbing my ankle, and we look at each other for what must only be a second but seems like forever, and the applause goes on and on and I smile, despite myself, but Bamber's speaking again, saying …

  “Your final bonus question: Which play ends with the sung lines, ‘But that's all one, our play is done / And we'll strive to please you every day'?”

  Know it.

  And still holding hands under the table, as one, in perfect unison, Alice and I whisper, “Twelfth Night!”

  “Twelfth Night?” says Patrick.

  “Twelfth Night is correct!” says Bamber, and the crowd applauds, and still secretly holding Alice's hand under the desk, I peer out at Rebecca in the audience, and she's sitting up in her seat, whooping and whistling with her fingers in her mouth, and clapping with her hands up above her head. Mum's sitting in the row behind, putting two thumbs up, and Des is clapping too, leaning across, saying in her ear, “How the hell does your son know all this stuff ? You must be so proud!” or something like that, I imagine, and under the sound of the applause I think I hear Alice say something like “You're absolutely amazing,” and then Bamber's saying,

  “Very well done! That brings you neck and neck, with four minutes left on the clock, so still plenty of time for both teams. Here we go then, fingers on the buzzers and your next starter question, for ten points. The state of …”

  Know it.

  And still holding on tightly to Alice's hand under the desk, with my right hand I reach for the buzzer, and buzz, and say, with absolute clarity, “Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Baja—or is it pronounced Baya?— California?”

  A
nd then I sit back in my chair and wait for the applause.

  And it doesn't come.

  Nothing.

  No applause, just this terrible silence.

  I.

  I don't.

  I don't understand.

  I look to Alice for some explanation, but she's just staring straight at me with this strange, confused half-smile on her face, which initially I take to be awe, frank awe at my brilliance, but which changes in front of my eyes and settles into something much, much worse. I look down the desk, and there it is again, the same look, from Lucy and Patrick, a kind of horrified … contempt. I look out into the audience, and see that it's a serried rank of silent black holes, mouths hanging open under mystified frowns, except for Rebecca, who is leaning forward in her chair with her head in her hands. There's a growing rumble from the studio audience, and then someone starts to laugh, loud and hysterical, and with a sudden spasm of pain and regret that feels like pitching backwards into space, I realize what I've done.

  I've answered the question correctly before it has been asked.

  Bamber Gascoigne is the first to break the silence.

  “Well, rather remarkably, that is in fact the correct answer, so …” His finger's in one ear, consulting with the control room, and then he's saying, “… so I think perhaps we'd better … stop … recording … for a moment or two?”

  And underneath the desk, Alice lets go of my hand.

  Epilogue

  Alittle Learning is a dang'rous Thing;

  Drink deep, or taste not the pierian Spring:

  There shallow draughts intoxicate the Brain, And drink largely sobers us again.

  —Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism

  43

  THE FINAL QUESTION: At 160 miles long on its east-west axis, the largest of the Greek Islands, with its administrative center at Heraklion, which Mediterranean island was the home of the first true European civilization, the Minoans?

  ANSWER: Crete.

  12th August 1986

  How-di stranger! (*“Howdy”? Sp.!?)

  How ya doing? Bet this is a surprise, after all this time! Yes, the postmark on the front is correct—I'm actually abroad for the first time. Somewhere hot too! I even have a tan, of sorts, or will have when the peeling stops. Rather predictably I “overdid it on the first day” and was in quite a lot of pain for a while, and had to eat standing up, but am better now. (My skin's cleared up too, but you don't need to know that!!!) I've also learned to snorkel, subject to panic attacks. Food is great—lots of burnt meat, absolutely no vegetables. Today I ate my first piece of Feta cheese. Hmmm—little bit like salty packing material. Do you remember that time we went to Luigi's, and you wore that ball gown?

  Anyway.

  Your postcard arrived just before we left, and was a nice surprise, and a relief too. After our little, um, adventure, I thought perhaps that you might still be a bit angry with me. Do you ever see Patrick? Is he recovered yet, or is my name still mud? Send him my regards, stand back and watch his face change color.

  I think that's really great news about you playing the role of Helen Keller next term. I imagine that it's going to be a real challenge. Still, at least there's no lines to learn! What was it Noël Coward said about acting being all about not bumping into the furniture? Ha-ha! Sorry!!! Not funny. Seriously, really, really well done. You'll be a great Helen. Maybe I'll come down and see you in it, especially as I missed your Hedda (as the remorseful goalkeeper once said! Geddit? A football joke! Ha-ha!). It would be good to see you again, after all this time. There's loads to tell you …

  … and I have to stop writing at this point, because I can hear her coming up the stairs from her early evening swim, so I quickly tuck the airmail letter inside the book, throw myself on the bed, and pretend to be reading One Hundred Years of Solitude.

  In the end, it was Julian the nice young researcher that I felt most sorry for. For my story to make any sense, I had to drop him in it a bit.

  Basically it went like this: while I was lying on the desk I'd accidentally knocked the clipboard, his clipboard, the one he'd left behind when they carried me up there, onto the floor, and the envelope had burst open, scattering the question cards all over the floor. Naturally, as soon as I realized what the cards were I'd put them back in the envelope straightaway, but obviously I must have noticed what was written on one of the cards before I could get it out of sight. You know, sort of subliminally.

  And they were pretty nice about it, considering that they had to scrap the recording and send everyone home. I mean, they weren't like the Gestapo or anything, they didn't shine an anglepoise in my eyes or rough me up, because I suppose technically I hadn't done anything wrong. Nothing that I could be prosecuted for, anyway.

  Of course they had to disqualify the whole team, because even though I insisted that it was only me involved, and completely my fault and everything, they couldn't risk it. So that was it. That was the end of The Challenge. For everyone.

  And I have to admit, the whole affair was pretty embarrassing. So much so that I didn't feel I could really travel back with the rest of the team, because I wasn't sure that they'd let me in the car with them, and I was pretty certain that I wouldn't be welcome on the supporters' minibus. So I went back to Southend with Mum in Des's van instead, squeezed in the front seat. You know that footage that you see on the news, of criminals being rushed out of police stations hidden under a gray blanket? Well, it was a bit like that. As we drove out of the car park, I could see the others standing around Alice's yellow 2CV and Patrick looked as if he was shouting and kicking the tires of the car, and Lucy was trying to calm him down, and Alice was leaning up against the car, still in that wonderful black dress with Eddie the Teddy dangling from one hand, just looking so sad and beautiful. I caught her eye as we drove past in the van, and she must have said, “Look, there he is!” or something, because they all turned, and, well, there isn't really any obvious way to behave in a situation like that, there isn't really a facial expression to adopt, so I just mouthed the word “Sorry” through the glass.

  I'm not sure if they saw it.

  Patrick started shouting something that I couldn't make out, and looking around for something to throw, and Alice just shook her head very slowly.

  But I noticed that Lucy waved, which I thought was really nice of her.

  When she's safely asleep, having her early evening doze, I go out onto the veranda that overlooks the sea, sit at the wooden table, and carry on writing.

  Sorry about that. Got interrupted. Where was I? Yes, maybe I could come down and see you do your Helen Keller thing, though it's quite a long way to travel. I'm moving to Dundee, you see. I've got a place, starting next October. Eng lit again, though up there they just call it “literature,” as I think it's a bit of an issue. It feels quite good, having a fresh start and all that. I am hopeful for the future, and hope to concentrate a bit more on my studies this time.…

  I told Mum the same story that I'd told the authorities, and I think she believed me, though she didn't say much at the time. But in the early hours of the next morning, when we finally arrived back in Southend and I walked up the stairs to my old bedroom, she said that it didn't matter, and that she was proud of me anyway, and it was nice to hear her say it, even if I wasn't sure it was actually true.

  Then the next afternoon I phoned the English Department, and said that I wouldn't be back for a week or so on account of a sudden illness. But word must have got around already, because Professor Morrison didn't even ask what was wrong with me. He just said that he quite understood, that it sounded like a good idea, and to take as long as I wanted. So I spent most of that week in bed, sleeping mainly, reading, not drinking, waiting for the smoke to clear.

  But some smoke you know is just never going to clear. After two weeks had passed and I still hadn't really left my bedroom, I decided that maybe it was best not to go back after all. So Des and me drove up one afternoon in his van, picked up all my stuff while Mar
cus and Josh were out, and drove home the same afternoon. Then I went back to bed, and pretty much stayed there, until Mum insisted that I go and see the doctor, and after that things started to seem a little bit better.

  The rest of the year I spent back in my old job at Ashworth Electricals, the toaster factory. I think they were pleased to have me back. Mum and Des had to put the grand opening of their B-and-B empire on hold for six months, but they were pretty good about it, and Des is all right, I suppose. Spencer was up and about by April, and got a suspended sentence and a pretty hefty fine. But I managed to get him a job in Ashworth Electricals with me, and so I got to spend a bit more time with him, which was good. I didn't tell him the whole story about what happened, and he didn't ask, which was maybe best. I saw Tone a bit too, but not so much, because he always seems to be away on “secret maneuvers” on Salisbury Plain.

  What else? I read a lot. I wrote some poetry, most of it pretty rotten, some short stories, and a radio play: a first-person, stream-of-consciousness interior monologue based on Robinson Crusoe, but updated, and from Man Friday's point of view. I listened to Hounds of Love over and over again, and decided that it is almost certainly Kate's best album.

  And then in June, completely out of the blue, I got a phone call.

  Anyway, must close soon. I can smell burning meat, which means it's nearly time for dinner!!!

  Looking back, it was a funny time, wasn't it, Alice? Strange, I mean. The metaphor (or do I mean “simile”???!) that keeps coming back to me is that it's a bit like when I was a kid and Dad would buy me an Airfix kit. I'd sit down at the kitchen table and before I even opened the box, I'd make sure that I had all the right tools, the right kind of glue and all the right paints, matte and gloss, and a really, really sharp craft knife, and I'd promise myself that I was going to follow the instructions absolutely to the letter, and really take my time, not leap ahead, not rush things, proceed with care, concentrate, really, really concentrate, so that at the end I'd have this perfect model plane, the Platonic ideal of what a model plane should be. But somewhere along the line things would always start to go wrong—I'd lose a piece under the table, or smudge the paint, or a propeller that was meant to revolve would get glue on it and stick tight, or I'd get paint on the see-through cockpit, or the transfers would tear as I slid them on—so that when I showed it to Dad there was something about the finished product that was somehow just … not quite as good as I'd hoped for.