Is Read online

  ‘No, it’s… I thought you weren’t coming that’s all.’

  Then she brightened up instantly as if she were suddenly a different person. ‘Come on, race you to the station!’

  The railway station was quite a long way by road, but there was a short cut along a path that ran through some allotments and over a footbridge leading straight to the station.

  We got our tickets and amazingly a train turned up in about five minutes. But that was the only thing quick about it. It seemed to stop at every station all the way to London.

  All the time I kept my head down in case I was seen by someone I knew. I found myself staring at the huge platform shoes (they must have been three or four inches high at least) of the girl sitting opposite me. In the 1970s shoes like that were the in thing; girls wore them with skimpy hot pants or mega-wide bell-bottomed trousers.

  Another thing that was in fashion was smoking. Everyone seemed to do it and it was perfectly legal to smoke on trains and buses and anywhere. I really couldn’t stand it or understand how anybody else did. Everyone apart from Is and me seemed to be smoking and it was really foul. I couldn’t wait to get off the train before I suffocated. Eventually, however, it pulled into Waterloo where I found myself being dragged straight down the steps into the Underground. Is seemed to know exactly where she was going but to me it was a maze of tunnels. Talk about a rabbit warren, I would have been lost in two minutes had I been on my own.

  We hopped on one train, only to get off at the next stop and rush along tunnels to get on another train. As each station name passed by I followed our progress on the map above the windows in the train. Temple. Blackfriars. Mansion House. Cannon Street. Monument (for Bank). Tower Hill. Aldgate East. Whitechapel.

  ‘We get out here,’ announced Isabel. The doors slid open.

  ‘Whitechapel, that’s where Jack the Ripper lived in Victorian times, wasn’t it Is?’

  ‘Know him, did you?’

  ‘Not personally, he was a bit before my time!’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, must have been terrible around here then.’

  ‘It wasn’t all bad.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ I said as we got on yet another train, a really filthy old underground train going I didn’t know where. I was beginning to regret coming with Is at all. I thought it’d be fun. But by now it struck me as totally pointless.

  At that moment the train rattled to a halt and the doors opened with the ‘psst’ noise of air.

  ‘This is it! Wapping!’ Isabel sprang from her seat and headed for the door.

  ‘This is what?’ I answered, following her blindly. ‘You’ll see.’

  We both jumped out on to the platform of Wapping station. It was unlike any underground station platform I’d been on before (not that I’d been on that many, I admit). But it was incredibly narrow, I know that. Probably no more than a metre and a half across – half the width of normal platforms.

  ‘See?’ persisted Is.

  There was nothing to see. It was a filthy old underground station, that was all. Everywhere it was old bare brick, really ancient looking. And there seemed to be cables trailing in great loops along the walls, dozens of them.

  Overhead the brick roof of the tunnel we were in was grimy black. It looked like it was covered with soot, which I suppose it could have been because they used to have steam trains on some of these underground railways. It must have been awfully old soot though because the trains have been electric for ages and ages.

  The other funny thing about the station was this enormous tunnel we were in (a Wapping great tunnel you could say!), not like modern tube lines, which are in much smaller tunnels. And here we were facing the other platform, instead of staring at posters on the tunnel wall opposite like you usually do.

  Right at the end of the platforms the tunnel divided into two and, as we were watching, a train came roaring out of the one heading back towards Whitechapel.

  ‘What are we doing here, Is?’ I shouted above the sound of the train braking.

  ‘Come up here,’ she replied and disappeared up some steps behind us. It turned out this was the Way Out – though you’d never have guessed. Like the platform the steps were narrow and, instead of going straight up, they snaked out of sight around the corner.

  When we got to the top of the steps we emerged into a vast vertical shaft. It was like being inside a castle turret. In the middle were the lifts and I went over to them.

  ‘Are we going up then?’ I asked.

  ‘If you like,’ Is answered and I pushed the button to call the lift.

  ‘No, not that way!’ she laughed. ‘Up the stairs!’

  ‘Stairs?’ I looked up dismayed. There were the stairs all right and Is was running up them like a rabbit.

  I’ve seen stairs in tube stations before. They call them the ‘Emergency stairs’ because no one in their right mind would bother climbing them unless it was an emergency. They spiral up like a never-ending helter skelter.

  The stairs at Wapping weren’t like that. They went up one way, then the other, then like a spiral staircase for a bit; then a straight bit, and so on. Is clattered up them ahead of me and I realised she was far fitter than I was. Every now and then she would turn and laugh as I panted after her.

  ‘Wait for me…’ I gasped after a couple of flights.

  ‘Come on slowcoach!’

  ‘Oh, wait Is, please…’

  ‘All right.’

  When I got to her she was actually sitting down! They’d put a bench for you to rest on one of the landings and Is was stretched out on it with a broad grin across her face.

  As I got to her she jumped up. ‘Right! Ready for the rest are you?’

  ‘Oh, do we have to, Is?’ I groaned.

  ‘No, not if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘We’ll go back down then,’ she said.

  ‘We should have got the lift in the first place, instead of climbing all these stairs.’

  She looked at me amazed.

  ‘What for? I don’t want to go up the top. There’s nothing up there. I just thought you’d like to see this shaft, that’s all.’

  What was she talking about? She thought I’d like to see a hole in the ground somewhere in east London? She must be mad.

  ‘What do you mean? You brought me all this way to show me the bottom of a filthy old underground station? What’s so great about that?’ The whole day was a waste and I was starting to feel annoyed.

  ‘It’s not just a filthy old underground station. It happens to be very important.’

  ‘What’s so important about it that you drag me halfway across London, Is? Eh?’

  ‘It’s important to me.’

  And then, before I could answer, tears began running down her nose and she tried wiping them away with her hand. But her hands were so dirty from the station that she left smears down each cheek.

  I felt an absolute git.

  ‘Come on, Is. Don’t cry. Please.’ I tried my best to console her. ‘Come on, I’m sorry. If it’s that important to you, tell me about it. Please.’

  ‘All right,’ she sniffed.

  A minute later we stood right at the end of the platforms peering into the gloom where the horseshoe-shaped tunnel snaked away from us.

  ‘You’re looking at the first tunnel ever built under a river in the world,’ announced Is proudly.

  ‘Really?’ I answered, not knowing whether to look impressed or not.

  ‘It was a tunnel for foot passengers originally. Then they used it for the trains.’

  ‘Well, it’s all very nice, Is, but I don’t see why you needed to show it to me.’

  ‘I told you, it’s very important to me,’ said Is, her forehead creased as she concentrated. ‘My father built it, you see.’

  ‘Your father built it?’ I repeated. ‘Don’t be daft. He can’t have. This tunnel must have been built years and years ago. You said that yourself.’
>
  Is cut across me, repeating firmly: ‘My father built it.’

  ‘Your father? What do you mean, your father?’

  ‘Marc Brunel.’

  ‘Your father’s not Marc Brunel. What are you talking about? Your father is Mr Williams.’

  ‘Only in this life.’

  By now I was beginning to get more than a little nervous at the way she was talking, I can tell you. ‘You’re not making sense. Really you’re not. And, in any case, we ought to be getting back now. We never should have come here anyway. It wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘But don’t you see,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m Isambard.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Robert?’ she asked in a very serious way.

  ‘Reincarnation? What do you mean? Like being reborn as somebody else, you mean? I’ve heard about it I think. When someone dies, some people say their spirit or whatever carries on and is reborn in another body. Is that what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Sort of. Do you believe it can happen?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. I don’t think I believe it anyway.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve been reincarnated.’

  My jaw dropped open in total disbelief. I’d never heard anything so absolutely ridiculous before. But she said it so seriously, I didn’t know what to do.

  ‘What?’ was all I could muster.

  When she answered, she spoke very slowly and deliberately.

  ‘I wasn’t always Isabel Williams. I have simply been reincarnated in this form. I was born on the 15th of September 1959, that’s exactly 100 years to the day that Isambard died. That’s who I was in a previous life. And that, in truth, is who I still am.’ Then her voice took on a strange shrillness that I found very disconcerting.

  ‘Don’t you see, Robert, I am Isambard Kingdom Brunel.’

  5

  Father Figure

  That night, when I got to bed, I lay awake a lot of the time thinking about Is. What was it with her? All this talk about Isambard Brunel was ridiculous. I really didn’t think I could handle it.

  My reaction to what she had said had been to burst out laughing.

  Her dark eyes had narrowed and her lips become tight at that. Then she threw her head back and hurled angry words at me.

  ‘That’s it. Go on, laugh! Laugh your silly head off!’

  In that confined space her voice had echoed up and down the tunnel. There had been a dozen or so people waiting for trains and they all turned and stared at us.

  ‘Ssh!’ I said. ‘People are looking.’

  I thought that would quieten her. But no, she turned round and faced the passengers down the platform.

  ‘And what are you lot staring at?’ she said in a forceful but controlled voice that made them all turn away instantly.

  Luckily, just at that moment a train came in with a whoosh and we got on. We travelled back home from Wapping in silence.

  Incredibly, the next day it was as if nothing had happened. I saw Is just as we were due to go into school.

  ‘Hello,’ she said cheerfully, ‘got your story all sorted out have you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think so. I was just going to say I was sick when I woke up, food poisoning or something.’

  ‘Where’s your note then?’

  ‘I haven’t got one. Have you?’

  ‘Course.’ And she pulled an envelope out of her blazer pocket. On it, in really posh handwriting, was written: ‘Mr Gregory, St Leonards School’.

  I was impressed. ‘You never got your mother to write you a sick note, did you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘Well who did then?’

  ‘I did, stupid.’

  ‘You did?’ I didn’t believe her. I’d seen Isabel’s writing many times by now and it was rather spidery and small. The writing here on this envelope was altogether grander with lots of swirls and flourishes: very adult I thought.

  ‘You can’t have.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she answered and carried on into registration. It was only then that it struck me that I was going to be asked for my sick note. I should have thought of that.

  We got into our classroom about a minute before the black bat shape of Mr Gregory swept in. ‘Ah!’ he said, as he spotted Is and me. ‘The wanderers have returned! And what excuses do you both have for not being here yesterday? Eh? Morgan! I’m talking to you!’

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ I stammered. ‘I was sick.’

  ‘Sick! I bet you were. Sick of what? Sick of having to go to school, I suppose, eh?’

  At that I went bright red. As I said, I’m really not very good at lying.

  ‘No, Sir, I had food poisoning.’

  ‘Food poisoning? A likely story! Where’s your note?’

  ‘I – er – forgot it, Sir.’

  At this Mr Gregory swept up the aisle and pushed his fat face right up close to mine. Judging by the smell of his breath, he would never suffer from food poisoning: the germs wouldn’t survive.

  ‘Just make sure you bring it in tomorrow then, boy!’ he hissed at me.

  As his breath engulfed me, it was like I imagine drowning. I was fighting for air.

  But then he turned to Is.

  ‘And what about you, Isabel Williams? Did you go down with sudden food poisoning too?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Unlike mine, her voice didn’t quaver. It was clear and precise. She had changed so much from the tiny, shy girl who first came into the class only a few weeks back.

  ‘Then why weren’t we all blessed with your presence yesterday?’ continued Mr Gregory.

  ‘I had an epileptic fit.’

  I looked over to Isabel in astonishment.

  ‘You had what?’ said Mr Gregory with obvious disbelief. ‘And how long have you suffered from epilepsy?’

  ‘For a year or two now,’ replied Is calmly.

  ‘I see. Your mother never mentioned it.’

  ‘My stepmother,’ Isabel corrected. ‘And it’s not a problem usually. I take these anti-convulsive tablets, you see. Only – I forgot to yesterday. And that’s what happens.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Mr Gregory. ‘And I suppose you have forgotten your note too?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ She pulled the envelope from her blazer and handed it to him.

  Mr Gregory wheezed slightly as he read the note then put it down on his desk.

  ‘I see,’ he said, clearly convinced. ‘That seems to be in order. But your mother – er stepmother – should have let us know. We need to know these things. Just in case, you understand. Well I hope you’re feeling better today, Isabel.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sir,’ she replied and I couldn’t help shooting a grin at her.

  ‘Right, the register and then to work!’ said Mr Gregory.

  Unfortunately our first lesson that day was English, which meant that we had Mr Gregory to start with. It seemed that every awkward question he could throw at me he did.

  ‘What’s the main difference between an adjective and an adverb?’ he demanded.

  ‘I – er – I don’t know, Sir,’ I stammered in reply. And so it went on.

  ‘I didn’t know you were epileptic,’ I said to Is as we stepped out into the corridor.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But you told Mr Gregory…’

  ‘What’s it matter what I told him?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know what to believe with you,’ I said, exasperated.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ She stopped suddenly, facing me.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘All that stuff yesterday about Isambard Brunel.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘You’re this famous Victorian engineer reborn as Isabel Williams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His reincarnation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but…’ my words were cut short by the le
ering face of Kevin Ryder, who had come up behind us as we stopped.

  ‘What you talking about flowers for?’ he started.

  ‘Flowers?’ I asked, at a loss to know what he was talking about.

  ‘Yeah, you were talking about carnations. I heard you. Gonna buy your girlfriend flowers, are you Rob?’

  ‘She is not my…’ I stopped myself from saying any more. ‘And we weren’t talking about carnations.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘Actually we were discussing reincarnation, Kevin,’ chipped in Isabel. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  The blank look on Kevin’s face clearly showed he didn’t.

  ‘No, I thought not,’ Is continued. ‘Well, Kevin, reincarnation is nothing to do with flowers. It is to do with the belief that when someone dies, their spirit lives on and can be reborn in another body. Do you understand?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kevin admitted, trying to grapple with the concept.

  ‘No, I thought not,’ said Is again. ‘If you were reborn, Kevin, what do you think you would come back as?’

  ‘I dunno,’ he said frowning. ‘Someone really famous I expect.’

  ‘I think you’re more likely to come back as an earthworm,’ said Is triumphantly.

  ‘Or a slug,’ I added, laughing. But, seeing the look on Kevin’s face, I stepped back quickly. I’d obviously gone too far.

  ‘What you say?’ he thundered, his hands folding up automatically into a tight fist.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all, Kev.’

  ‘Yeah, well you better not. You know what,’ he added, ‘I think you two are really weird.’ And with that he sloped off down the corridor to our next lesson.

  When Mr Cummings, the maths teacher, handed out last week’s homework books, I discovered that Kevin had already put his homework scheme into action. Amazingly he must have managed to sign up about five people from the class to Brains United. But the scheme failed for one very simple reason: all the answers were exactly the same. Now that shouldn’t have been a problem in a subject like maths where there is only one answer. Except that unfortunately all the answers Kevin’s brother’s mates supplied were wrong. Identically wrong. And Mr Cummings smelt a rat.

  ‘It is quite apparent to me that five of you have colluded to do your homework, or have had someone do your homework for you,’ he said as he threw the homework books back to the offenders, who struggled to catch them as they flew through the air. ‘For your trouble,’ he continued, ‘you will each spend an hour each evening this week in a special homework class, where you will be supervised. And don’t ever dare try this one again!’ He scowled at everyone in the class just to make sure that we all got the message and wouldn’t even think about trying such a thing in future. I was astonished to see that Kevin himself wasn’t among those who were caught. It was only later that I found out he had got away with it through his own stupidity: he’d copied down most of the wrong ‘answers’ wrongly.