Is Page 6

  ‘Not right now. We’re in the middle of things anyway.’ Mrs Williams turned on a pleasant but false-looking smile. ‘You’ll see her at school tomorrow; you can talk to her then. She’ll be there, don’t you worry.’

  That part was certainly true. Is was at school when I got there. She was in the corner by the school tennis courts talking to Veronica Biggleswade. But the minute she saw me crossing the playground towards her she turned her back on me.

  ‘Please yourself,’ I muttered under my breath and changed direction to go towards the main entrance. I had my hand out to push the door open when my name was called out.

  ‘Rob! Oi! Over here!’

  I looked round to find Kevin Ryder smiling at me from a crowd of older boys, most of whom I only knew by sight.

  I walked over, uncertain as to what Kevin Ryder could possibly want with me. I thought I had made my feelings towards him as plain as I could but then, as I’ve said before, he does have particularly thick skin. In fact he’s pretty thick all over.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked with as much annoyance in my voice as I could manage.

  ‘We’ve got a little proposition for you, Rob,’ said Kevin gleefully.

  ‘Proposition?’

  ‘Me and the boys here are forming a group!’ he announced.

  ‘Group?’

  ‘Yeah you know, like music.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Why do you have to keep repeating everything I say?’ asked Kevin, beginning to become annoyed himself.

  ‘Yeah, why do you have to keep repeating everything Kev says?’ repeated one of Kevin’s extra thick mates. Two Short Planks I called him.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ I replied truthfully.

  ‘Me and the boys here are forming a group.’ Kevin said once more. ‘We’re going to make records and things, you know.’

  ‘But you can’t play an instrument, Kevin,’ I said with great difficulty – trying not to laugh in his face.

  ‘Don’t matter.’

  I knew I’d regret asking, but I did anyway. ‘Why doesn’t it matter?’

  ‘I’m the lead singer!’

  That did it. I nearly doubled up. I could feel my face twitching and I began making strange guttural noises as I fought to hold back the roar of laughter ready to burst from inside me.

  Kevin looked confused. ‘What’s so funny?’

  I looked at Kevin and then at his large mates from the upper forms.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said with a reasonably straight face. ‘Just a joke I remembered.’

  Luckily Kevin didn’t pursue it; he was much keener on getting to the point of his little chat.

  ‘Thing is, all we need is a few more quid and we’ll be able to get all the gear we need. That’s why we thought of you. It’s like an investment, you know. You put your money down and then when we make a fortune you get a share.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said as politely and firmly as I could.

  ‘Kev’s offering you a share in our group,’ said Two Short Planks.

  ‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘thanks for the invitation, but no thanks.’

  ‘Kev wasn’t asking you if you wanted in or not,’ Two Short Planks persisted. ‘He was telling you.’

  ‘I see.’ At last I began to understand. I looked from one member of Kevin’s ‘group’ to the next.

  And the next. They were all as ugly as each other and all were expecting an answer. The question was how much did I value my face? A few pence seemed a small price to pay to keep my nose intact.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Two pounds,’ answered Kevin with a smirk.

  ‘How much?’ I was aghast. Two pounds may not seem like much now, but back in the early seventies it was quite a lot of money and a lot, lot more than Kevin’s last scheme – Brains United. You could buy an album for £2 – by someone decent. So paying two quid to have Kevin Ryder and his Morons inflicted on everyone hardly seemed like a bargain. Nevertheless I dug deep into my pockets, but only came up with 85 pence, some creased picture cards, some sticky sweet wrappers, two sticks of Wrigleys, a button and lots of fluff.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ said one of the other members of the group, pounding one fist rhythmically into the flat of his other hand. I figured he must be the drummer.

  ‘It’s all I’ve got,’ I said in an alarmed voice. ‘I can get the rest for tomorrow.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ was the only answer I got. And then, relief of reliefs, the bell went to signal the start of school.

  I rushed inside without another word. Isabel must have slipped by me while I was having my little chat with Kevin and his mates. When I got into Mr Gregory’s class she was already sitting, grim-faced, at her desk.

  ‘Ah you’re back with us today are you, Isabel? Good. Good,’ remarked Mr Gregory when he looked up. ‘Not another fit I hope.’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Without saying another word she got up and went over to his desk, nearly being knocked over in the process by Kevin as he tore into the room.

  ‘Not so fast, Ryder!’ yelled Mr Gregory, and amazingly he managed to catch Kevin by the back of his shirt as he tore past. For a glorious moment I thought Mr Gregory had choked him, but no such luck.

  Kevin managed a squeaky ‘No, Sir’ and continued to his desk at a snail’s pace. Then Mr Gregory turned his attention to Is.

  ‘Right, have you brought a note?’

  She pushed her hand into a blazer pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope which she handed over. Mr Gregory ripped it open and looked at the letter with a frown on his face.

  ‘This is from your mother, is it Isabel?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Of course it is – Sir,’ replied Isabel. I was pleased to see that she was back to her old stroppy self.

  ‘Then what has happened to her handwriting?’ wheezed Mr Gregory. ‘Why has it changed so dramatically from the last note you brought in, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know! YOU DON’T KNOW! You’re as bad as Morgan. He doesn’t seem to know anything either. But I’ll tell you this my girl…’ He tapped the letter angrily with his podgy fingers. ‘This letter here is a forgery!’

  He stood up, raising himself by his fists from the desk, and his face was bulging. Isabel looked really scared.

  ‘No, Sir,’ she said in a very quiet voice.

  ‘Yes, Sir!’ bellowed Mr Gregory. ‘Yes, Sir indeed! I know a child’s handwriting when I see it.’

  ‘I didn’t write it Sir.’

  ‘No, one of your horrible little friends did, I’ve no doubt. You forget, Isabel Williams, I’ve seen your mother’s handwriting. Proper handwriting it was, when you brought in her note last time. Why you can’t even think of a decent excuse, can you? ‘A little upset,’ it says. ‘Please excuse Isabel for not being at school yesterday, she was a little upset.’ What rubbish! I’ll give you upset, my girl.’

  And with that he screwed the note up into a tight little ball and threw it into the big bin by his desk.

  ‘Write out “I must never forge sick notes in future” two hundred times. Then we’ll see what your handwriting is like won’t we?’

  Mr Gregory sat back on his seat with a smug smile of satisfaction on his face. I looked over at Isabel and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring look.

  7

  Another Piece of the Puzzle

  For the rest of that week and virtually all the next I hardly saw anything of Is. She was there in the classroom for lessons but the minute we got outside she disappeared. It was obvious she was avoiding me. Couldn’t bear the fact that she’d been found out lying I suppose. Though I couldn’t blame her really. I’d have done the same in her position.

  I may not have seen much of Is but I saw plenty of Kevin. After I managed to come up with two pounds, he started treating me like one of his mates, which was really horrible. As an investor he said he owed it to me to keep me informed as to his group’s progress. It turned out that he had ma
naged to get two pounds (and sometimes more) from half the class. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he hadn’t managed to get ‘investments’ from half the school. He certainly raised a lot of money, because within a couple of days he proudly announced he’d bought a new guitar.

  ‘So your little investment’s starting to work, isn’t that good?’ he said smugly.

  I couldn’t see what was so good about having helped buy him a guitar.

  ‘Yes, terrific, Kevin,’ I replied in a bored voice. ‘In any case, I thought you were the lead singer of this group. What do you want a guitar for?’

  ‘Adds to the effect doesn’t it?’ he said as if I knew nothing. ‘Don’t you know nothing?’ he added. I resisted the temptation to say that I knew what he could do with his new guitar and there would be no shortage of people willing to help him shove it there. Instead I said I’d have to come and see him play some time, to see how my ‘investment’ was coming along.

  ‘Good idea! Why not?’ He leapt at this, which made me think how stupid I was for suggesting it. ‘We’re having a rehearsal on Friday night in the old scout hall, you can come then!’

  ‘Oh, great, thanks.’ I accepted the invitation without enthusiasm, not intending to go.

  But Kevin invited everyone else who had been coerced into putting money into his group. By Friday everyone I talked to seemed to be going to the rehearsal. So what else could I do but join them? At least we’d all have a laugh at Kevin’s expense.

  As it happened, we didn’t even get that. Against all expectations, The Strangers, as they were called (not Kevin and the Morons, after all), turned out to be pretty good. I even had to admit that Kevin could sing. Although he did look pretty ridiculous with a guitar round his neck that he never once attempted to play…

  The other major surprise of the evening was that Isabel was there. How Kevin managed to persuade her to part with two quid as an investment I’ll never know.

  She was leaning against a pillar in the corner of the hall when I went over to her.

  ‘Didn’t think you liked this sort of music.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Kevin get you to invest too then did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Looks like he got most of the school.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Still, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.’

  ‘No, surprising isn’t it?’ She smiled and looked away.

  When she turned back her face was serious. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘You know, telling you all those things. I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, it’s just that…’ At that point whatever she said was drowned out by Kevin screaming ‘Come on baby I want you so bad’ into a microphone, followed by an horrendous squeal of feedback.

  ‘Come outside!’ I yelled above the cacophony. ‘We can talk outside.’ Silently Is followed me into the car park.

  ‘It’s just that…’ she began.

  ‘Yes?’ I prompted.

  ‘I’ve never spoken about my dad before, not really.’

  ‘You miss him a lot, don’t you?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Yes. I think that’s what turned me against Mum.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, Mum’s not so bad, but she does fuss. All the time. Like an old hen. It gets up my nose. And when – when Dad died she became totally overbearing. I couldn’t stand it. She was trying to step into his shoes as well. And she couldn’t. That’s when I started thinking of her more like a stepmother than my real mum.’

  ‘But why did you tell me your father was still alive?’

  ‘He is still alive – to me anyway.’ Her mouth sank into a sulk and she turned away to face the wall outside the hall. Behind her head someone had scrawled on the brick: Help preserve wildlife – pickle a squirrel, which made me smile.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Is countered, seeing my grin.

  ‘It wasn’t what you said,’ I mumbled, feeling foolish.

  Is peered at me then, unblinking. Her dark brown eyes searched my face as if she didn’t know whether she could trust me or not. I got the impression she was turning things over in her mind, wanting to say something but not knowing whether she dare.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, try me.’

  ‘Dad was an engineer too you know. Sort of runs in the family, you see.’ She permitted herself a slight smile at this remark.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing very grand. He worked for a small tractor company. He didn’t design anything. Nothing like that. All he did really was put other people’s ideas into practice.’

  ‘Still, it takes skill to do that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he had a certain skill all right. He didn’t have an actual talent for engineering, that’s all.’

  ‘Like Isambard you mean.’

  ‘Isambard had genius.’

  ‘Well, yes of course,’ I agreed.

  And inwardly I felt enormously relieved. At last she seemed to be talking about Brunel in much the same way I would – in the same way anyone would. Finally I thought I’d got to the bottom of it. All her talk about being Brunel was tied up with her father’s death. The profound effect it had had on her was probably what started her off.

  She obviously wanted her father to be something more than he was. ‘Nothing very grand’ was how she had described him. So more than likely this stuff about Brunel being reborn as Isabel Williams was a way of compensating for what her own father hadn’t achieved.

  ‘That’s the reason then, isn’t it?’ I said, before I could stop myself.

  ‘What’s the reason?’

  ‘You know: your obsession with Brunel. It’s because of your dad.’

  Is looked at me with a mixture of horror and hate on her face.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t worry, I understand.’

  ‘No you don’t. No you don’t. Nobody does.’

  She turned and walked away. I watched her disappear down the street, thinking how totally, absolutely stupid I was. One day I’d learn to keep my mouth shut.

  Then someone opened the door of the hall to leave the rehearsal, and the strains of Kevin and the Morons (sorry, the Strangers) burst on to the pavement like a drunk being thrown out of a pub.

  * * *

  There was the school trip coming up in the next few days – to the Science Museum in London. I wanted to go to the Natural History Museum where they have the dinosaurs. There I could see one of Mr Gregory’s ancestors I thought – Brontosaurus Gregorius himself.

  But the Science Museum it was.

  My mum was very sceptical about it. ‘You won’t be having a school trip to London every week will you Rob? You’re more out of the classroom than in lately.’

  ‘I know,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well I don’t mind,’ she continued, digging in her handbag for some money, ‘but it gets a bit expensive you know.’

  ‘I doubt there will be any more trips this term, Mum,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s just that there’s something special on at the Science Museum this week.’ I’m glad she didn’t ask me what, because I didn’t have the faintest idea.

  ‘Everybody’s going,’ I added cheerfully as she dropped some coins into my hand.

  As it was, not everyone in the class did go. At the last minute, John Carter managed to get a severe nose bleed. Nobody found out how. All he would say was he had walked into a door post. I took him down to the Deputy Head’s room to see Mrs Pearson, the nurse.

  ‘Come on,’ I said as we walked down the green-and-cream-painted corridor, ‘you can tell me, it wasn’t a door post was it?’

  ‘I can’t stand that sort of music, you know I can’t,’ was all he could splutter through the red- stained handkerchief. ‘Give me Mozart any day.’ Ah, well I thought, but look where it got you – preferring Mozart to the Strangers…

  I hurried back to find everyone
in the classroom waiting for me. Mr Phillips was drumming his fingers on the desk and weaselly Mr Bartholomew, the history teacher, was standing nervously next to him.

  ‘Come on, Morgan, I don’t know why it takes you so long to do things. You’re too slow to catch a cold you are,’ said Mr Phillips in his usual grumpy way.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ I protested. ‘We had to wait for Mrs Pearson.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, you’re here now, so let’s all get going, shall we, or we’ll miss the train.’

  The train was pretty well empty. There were a couple of women chatting at one end of the carriage and two or three businessmen quietly reading their newspapers. Not for long.

  A group of us piled in and all round one unfortunate businessman, our parkas flapping round us, taking up the whole carriage. He was reading the Financial Times, which looked really dull. We started talking about interesting things like music and football in our normal loud manner, which annoyed him no end. I bet he was reading the same paragraph over and over again with us talking across him – especially as we kept having to lean out to look round his paper to see each other. He started making grunting huffy noises and then, in an exaggerated way, he started opening his newspaper right up each time he wanted to turn a page, which with a paper the size of the Financial Times meant he needed half the carriage.

  Even that didn’t have any effect on us. After a while, he let out this enormous grumpy sigh, screwed his paper into an untidy ball, stood up and got his briefcase from the luggage rack. He went down the other end of the train where Veronica Biggleswade, Isabel and the other girls were. Not that they were behaving any better.

  He finally got off; slamming the door shut in fury, while we carried on to London and caught the tube. It was packed so most of us had to stand. We had a great laugh trying to stay upright without holding on and then being thrown from one side of the carriage to the other as the train rattled along. At one point I was thrown backwards and about eight of us went over like dominoes. I went sprawling over the dirty wooden floor.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ yelled Mr Phillips above the noise of the train, ‘hold on would you!’

  As I picked myself up I caught sight of Is. ‘You okay?’ she asked with a smile on her face.