Authors: Andrew Lovett
I reached out for a garibaldi but Anna-Marie slapped my hand away. ‘They come with the tea,’ she hissed. ‘If you want biscuits you need to develop more adult tastes.’
‘How do you know?’ spluttered Tommie, raising his glasses to wipe a smoky tear from his eye. ‘How do you know her name’s Sybil?’
Anna-Marie shrugged. ‘I make it my business to know all the teachers’ names and there’s not an Alice amongst them.’
‘All right then,’ said Tommie. He drummed his pencil for a moment. ‘What about Miss Pevensie then? She’s not even a proper teacher yet. I’ll bet you don’t know her name. It might be Alice.’
Anna-Marie shook her head. ‘You are so unobservant.
Haven’t you noticed her necklace? It’s got a big “J” on it. J for Julie or Jane or—’
‘Jennifer,’ and we all J for jumped. It was that man from the next table. We turned to look at him and he blushed.
‘Excuse me?’ said Anna-Marie.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … Jennifer, Miss Pevensie, is a friend of mine. At college. She … I’m sorry. I couldn’t help … I didn’t mean to …’
Anna-Marie smiled at him and then at that pad he’d been writing on. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
The man kind of moved his right arm, tilting the pad away from us as he did so, so that it lay across the blue paper in front of him. ‘I’m erm … I’m writing a story.’
‘A story?’ cried Anna-Marie gripping the edge of the table. ‘I used to write stories.’ She leant forward as if she hoped to see some of his words escaping like little red ants from under his sleeve. ‘What’s it about? Can I see?’
The man stretched his fingers out until they, his entire palm and arm were spread across the paper. ‘It’s about a girl I know,’ he said.
‘A girl? What’s her name?’
‘Well … I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided.’
‘My name’s Anna-Marie. Anna-Marie Liddell. Why don’t you call the girl Anna-Marie?’
The man smiled. ‘I could,’ he said. ‘Thank you. That’s a very pretty name.’
‘I know,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s Craig. I—’
‘Grey?’
‘No, C-raig. I—’
‘Oh, Craig. Are you a published writer, Craig?’
‘Well, no. I—’
‘Have you heard of Frances Hodgson Burnett?’
‘Well, I’ve heard—’
‘Are you going to be a teacher?’
The man, Craig, laughed. ‘Christ! No. I’m a student but I’m studying English. I guess I wouldn’t mind being—’
‘Why does anybody write stories?’ said Tommie with a snort, slouching in his chair. ‘They make us write them at school. It’s stupid.’
Anna-Marie introduced us: ‘This is Tommie. He can’t help it: he’s an idiot. This is Peter. He’s an idiot too but at least he’s quiet.’
‘Well,’ said Craig nodding at us both, ‘it is kind of stupid. But it’s a lot of fun too. It’s almost like being in another world. The more you write the more you feel that that world is real. Not this one.’ He lit a cigarette and flapped at the smoke hoping to waft it away from us. He apologised again.
‘So you’re like an alien,’ said Tommie with a grin.
‘Well, it sometimes feels like that, yes,’ went Craig running his yellow fingers through his long hair, ‘but it’s even better than that. Imagine if you’ve made a mistake or done something wrong in the real world; like something you really regret. Say, you’ve done something stupid or you’ve hurt someone or someone’s feelings. When you go back to this world,’ and he patted the pile of paper in front of him like you’d pat a dog on the head, ‘you can have another go: make things better; make people better, and not just for a little while but forever. You can even make yourself better. You can do things right,’ he said. ‘You can make amends. You can—’
‘Avoid the consequences,’ said Anna-Marie.
Craig hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can but try. I mean the real world, this world,’ he gestured with his free arm all around
The Copper Kettle
and then again to include the whole wide world, ‘is where the real stuff happens and the real consequences, but in a story there don’t have to be any consequences
at all.’ And he smiled at us as if he really believed that was true.
‘But don’t you ever get confused?’ said Anna-Marie. ‘I mean, between this world, the real world, and the world you write about?’
‘That’s another good question’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s like you’re dreaming when you’re really awake.’
‘If the other world is so nice,’ said Tommie with a smirk, ‘why bother living in this one?’
‘That’s an easy one,’ said the man quickly adding, ‘but interesting too. The food’s better here,’ and Anna-Marie smiled at him as if
he
was the child. He cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you write stories any more?’
Anna-Marie blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’ like she hadn’t understood the question.
‘Well, you said you used to write stories. I was wondering why you don’t write them any more.’
Anna-Marie shrugged. ‘If you want to write about your feelings you can’t ever quite find the right words,’ she said, ‘because feelings and words are quite different. It’s like trying to write a piece of music about the smell of flowers. It’s like translating one language into another. It’s the difference between a picture of a tiger,’ she said, ‘and a tiger. Don’t you think?’
‘Well,’ said the man nodding, ‘I do now.’
‘I mean a story is nothing like real life,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘Real life is all jumbled up and complicated but a story makes it all sound nice and easy. I don’t think it’s easy at all. Do you?’
The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not easy at all.’
‘The girl in your story,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘how will you decide what she’s like?’
‘Well, I suppose there are lots of ways but I usually think about people I know and—’
‘Like Miss Pevensie?’
The man blushed again. ‘Well, there’s lots of different ways—’
‘Say I was writing a story—’
‘But you said—’
‘Thank you, Tommie. Say I decided to write a story about a girl called Alice.’
‘Like Lewis Carroll.’
Anna-Marie smiled. ‘If you like, but she’s a teacher. How could I find out about what she’s like?’
‘Well, you could use your imagination, of course, like you said, or sometimes just watch people, but if you wanted to be very thorough you could maybe talk to the teachers at school and find out about their jobs or Miss Pevensie or how about your headmaster—’
‘Mistress.’
‘Sorry. Mistress.’
‘Yes,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘Well, in fact I’m not sure she’d welcome the attention.’
The man laughed. ‘Okay then. Well, how about asking someone up at the college. They might be able to give you some good ideas. And it’s a beautiful campus. Maybe Alice could have done her teacher training there.’
Anna-Marie’s eyes were as bright as a smile. ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that’s what she did. In fact,’ she continued, turning to Tommie and me, ‘we know someone who used to work at the College.’ She glanced at her watch and said to the man, ‘It’s been very nice to meet you but I’m afraid I have to go now. I have my ballet lesson.’
‘Ballet?’ I said. I couldn’t believe it. I’d have been less surprised if she’d told me she was moving to the moon. ‘I didn’t know you did ballet.’
‘Frankly,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘if that was the only thing you
didn’t know, we’d all be in a lot of trouble.’ She offered her hand to the man and he took her fingers between his thumb and forefinger as if he’d never shaken hands before.
When we stood to leave, Anna-Marie slipping a ten pee piece beneath her saucer, I took a quick glance to see what the young man had been writing. I only managed to make out the first sentence at the top of the page before he blocked my view with his arm. It said:
We are here to talk about Alice
in red ink and he’d underlined Alice twice.
‘Who do we know who used to work at the college?’ asked Tommie. He’d forgotten the napkin he’d been writing on, so I scrunched it into my pocket for safe keeping. And then I sneaked the ten pee piece to go in my money box. After all, that ring wasn’t going to buy itself.
‘Mr Merridew,’ said Anna-Marie and Tommie scowled as if he’d just been presented with a plateful of cabbage for his birthday tea. ‘We’ll go tomorrow after school. And don’t be late.’
But by then, of course, Tommie was dead.
Well, not really.
It’s called poetic licence: it means I can say stuff that isn’t true.
But you should’ve seen your face.
‘Very droll,’ said Anna-Marie.
It’d been ages since we’d promised to visit Mr Merridew but there’d always been something better to do: talking, exploring, dangling our toes in the river. Even homework seemed more appealing. But now we were—
‘Peter?’
‘What?’
‘Get on with it. Tell me what happened to Tommie. What did you do,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘to my best friend?’
That hurt: the ‘best friend’ bit I mean.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I protested. ‘I—’
‘Just get on with it,’ snapped Anna-Marie. ‘Just tell me what happened in your own words.’
So, this is what really happened.
Thwack!
‘That’s a six!’ cried Mr Gale as he sent the little red cricket
ball shooting high into the cloudless sky. It hung for a moment, like a lost balloon surrounded by blue, before plummeting to meet the earth in one of the fields beyond the school fence. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ Mr Gale congratulated himself in the voice of Mr Punch. And, to the boys gathered around him: ‘I don’t want to see any of this,’ and he wiggled the bat like a sickly bird, his face all puckery, his lip quivery as if he were about to burst into tears, ‘like some … some … some great
nan
cy boy. You’ve got to really
whack
it!’ and he swung the bat about his head like a mad-man lumberjack.
‘Right,’ he said, considering the scrawny boys stood shaking in shorts and vest, ‘who’s up first?’ and the tough, sporty boys, ‘You,’ the ones with chests and no— ‘Wakey-wakey, Lambchop. Front and centre.’
Of course. And so I reluctantly joined Mr Gale at the stump, praying it would soon be over.
‘Righty-ho,’ he said. ‘Now, before we start, erm, Winnie, would you be so good as to fetch that last ball for us? Good lad. Mrs Carpenter’ll only take it out of my pocket money.’
Tommie had been lurking on the edge of the group, tummy trembling beneath his tight vest, as far as he could from Mr Gale. Any further and he might as well have joined Miss Pevensie and the girls for rounders. Tommie usually faked a letter from his mum or ‘twisted’ his ankle during playtime or ‘developed’ heat stroke. The sick note he’d given in that morning, however, was so covered in blotches of blue ink that he was quickly found out.
‘My dad says he doesn’t care what happens to me at school,’ said Tommie. ‘And he was brilliant at cricket.’
He didn’t look at all sorry at being sent to collect the ball. After all, if he dragged his feet enough, it might take up half the lesson. He lumbered off, making passing snails look like James Hunt.
Mr Gale handed me the bat before grabbing my fingers and forcing then into the correct positions. He told me not to move a muscle and walked off tossing the ball up into the air. He caught it each time, stroking it lovingly like that man with the cat in James Bond. He turned to me with a huge grin. ‘Ready?’ he asked with his eyebrows, caressing the ball one more time, winding his arm back like a spring and releasing it in my direction.
It sped towards me at about a thousand, million miles an hour, like a shiny red round Concorde growing as it flew, filling my eyes. A moment before this leather bullet ripped my head from my shoulders I tightened my grip upon the bat and threw it bravely towards the ball and my body (less bravely) to the ground. The ball looped over my head and landed with a thump. From where I lay, I could see Tommie huffing and puffing over the fence that lined the edge of the school grounds. After two or three attempts, he swung his chubby leg over the top and plopped down into the field beyond.
Having avoided impact, pain and injury I considered my first attempt at cricket to be a success but not Mr Gale. ‘Oh,
Lamb
chop!’ he cried, hands clutched to his head as if he
had
been hit by the ball. ‘That was pa
thet
ic, you big woofter! “I’m free!” ’ he squealed. ‘You’re like the guy in that show,’ he said, stepping like a dancer, flapping his hand at the wrist and blowing kisses. “I’m free, Mr Humphries! I’m free!”
‘Now,’ he said, ‘this time,’ glowering, ‘watch!’
He seized the bat in his right hand and swung it back and forth whilst tossing the ball up in the air with his left, a little higher each time, watching it fall with a careful eye. When he got it just right, he tossed the ball upwards one final time, his tossing hand quickly joining its partner on the handle of the bat and swinging it powerfully into contact with the falling sphere.
Thwack!
‘Another six!’ he cried as the ball flew high into the air. ‘I could’ve played for England, y’know. I could’ve played for Yorkshire if I’d wanted. I just got …’ he hesitated, ‘got …’ following the direction of his shot, ‘got distrac …’ One raised eyebrow traced the slow flight of the ball over the school field, over the school fence, towards the field beyond.
‘Oh, no,’ he mumbled. ‘Oh, no!’ and then, ‘Tommie!’ his voice raised. ‘Tommie! Tommie! Oh, for Christ’s sake, look up, you stupid … Tommie-fucking-Wins—’
Pok!
And poor old Tommie went down like a concertina.
Mr Gale handed me the bat. ‘Nice shot,’ he said. ‘Shame about the skull fracture.’
The afternoon passed in a blur (as it must’ve done for Tommie too): adults running, an ambulance with flashing lights, and flustery attempts at first aid. Mrs Ingalls appeared. And then Miss Lennox. Then Mrs Ingalls disappeared and Mr Waterberry appeared. Miss Lennox disappeared to be replaced by that student teacher, that man’s friend, Miss Pevensie. It was kind of fun to see so many adults running around, as Anna-Marie said later, ‘like blue-arsed chickens.’
Eventually we all ended up back in class reading ‘in absolute silence’ whilst Miss Lennox patrolled the room, slapping a twelve inch ruler into the palm of her hand. Nobody was really reading—nobody apart from Melanie—but everyone was silent. When Mr Gale entered the room in the company of Mrs Carpenter dressed in black, there was no need to cough or tap on the board for attention.