Starter For Ten Part 41

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 colour.

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1 think that's really great news about you playing the rule 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 Noel Coward said about acting being all about not b.u.mping 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 realised what the cards were I'd put them back in the envelope straight away, 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 sc.r.a.p the recording and send everyone home. I mean, they weren't like the Gestapo or anything, they didn't s.h.i.+ne 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 370.

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 embarra.s.sing. 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 grey 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 tyres 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 gla.s.s.

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 371.

7 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 pa.s.sed 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 Marcus 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 372.

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 manoeuvres' 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 The Hounds of Love over and over again, and decided that it is almost certainly Kate's best alb.u.m.

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 Airftx 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, matt 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 373.

get paint on the see-through c.o.c.kpit, 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.

I've been attempting to use this extended metaphor as the basis of a poem, but haven't quite cracked it yet.

Anyway, all the best for the new academic year. I'll drop you a line as soon as I'm settled and then maybe we can . . .

'Who are you writing to?' she says, her eyes blinking sleepily in the evening sun.

'Just Mum,' I say. 'How was your swim?'

'Very refres.h.i.+ng. Except I've got something in my hair.'

'Want me to pick it out?'

'Yes, please,' and without putting on her top she strolls out on to the veranda, and sits down on the floor between my knees.

'D'you want to put some clothes on first, maybe?' I say.

'D'you want a smack in the teeth, maybe? . . .'

'People can see! . . .'

'So what! G.o.d, Jackson, I swear, it's like going on holiday with Mary-f.u.c.king-Poppins . . .'

'You know, you really do swear much too much.'

'Just shut your face and look, will you? See anything?'

'Uh-huh. Looks like oil or tar or something.'

'Is it coming out?'

'Not really.'

'Think it might be easier to do in the shower?'

'Yeah, maybe.'

'So - you coming then?'

'Yeah. Alright.'

So here we are. It's early days of course. The original idea when we talked on the phone was that as we travelled around 374.

we'd definitely get separate bedrooms, or at least a room with two single beds in, but that plan proved too expensive, and sort of fell to bits on the third night, after a very long, frank conversation and a whole bottle of Metaxa brandy.

But, anyway, like I say, here we are. I'm not really where I expected to be, or even necessarily where I wanted to be, but then, who is? And I didn't expect her to be here with me either, to be honest. She still swears too much of course, but she makes me laugh a lot too. Which doesn't sound like much, but actually didn't even seem possible just a few months ago. So it's all right.

It's actually pretty much all right.

All young people worry about things, it's a natural and inevitable part of growing up, and at the age of sixteen my greatest anxiety in life was that I'd never again achieve anything as good, or pure, or n.o.ble, or true, as my O-level results. And I suppose I still might not. But that was all a long, long time ago. I'm nineteen now, and I like to think I'm a lot wiser and cooler about these things.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

Thanks are due to the following people for their input, support and jokes: everyone at Hodder for their enthusiasm, in particular Mari Evans for her superb editing; Jonny Geller and all at Curtis Brown. A particular debt of thanks is also owed to Hannah MacDonald for her invaluable advice and to Roanna Benn, for her early enthusiasm. Also Douglas Kean, Michael McCoy, Josh Varney, Nicola Doherty, Emma Longhurst, Justin Salinger, Tamsin Pike, Christine Langan, Camilla Campbell, Nicholas Wilson-Jones, Olivia Trench, Susie Phillips, Crispian Balmer, Sophie Carter, Eve Claxton, Matthew Warchus and Nell Denton for wearing that dress. For dramatic purposes, certain deliberate alterations have been made to the University Challenge rules and filming procedure - apologies to any purists.

I am indebted to innumerable reference books, but in particular the Encyclopaedia Britannica and Peter Gwyn's University Challenge: The First 40 Years, both of which no home should be without. I would also like to offer sincere thanks to Bamber Gascoigne, Kate Bush, Jeremy Paxman and the 2002 champions, Somerville College, Oxford, for their unwitting inspiration.

Most of all, I would like to thank Hannah Weaver, who is on every page whether she's aware of it or not.

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Author's Note Thank you to the following for their permission to reproduce copyright material: Howards End by E. M. Forster, extract reproduced by permission of the Provost and Scholars of King's College, Cambridge, and the Society of Authors as the literary representatives of the E. M. Forster Estate.

Love Cats, Words and Music by Robert Smith and Lawrence Tolhurst Fiction Songs Ltd. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Get Up (I Feel Like Being A s.e.x Machine], Words and Music by James Brown, Bobby Byrd and Ronald Lenhoff 1971 Dynatone Publis.h.i.+ng Co., USA, Warner/Chappell Music Ltd., London W6 8BS. Reproduced by permission of International Music Publications Ltd. All rights reserved.

Cloudbusting, Words and Music by Kate Bush 1985. Reproduced by permission of Kate Bush trading as n.o.ble & Brite, London WC2H OQY.

Perfect Skin, Words and Music by Lloyd Cole 1984. Reproduced by permission of EMI Songs Ltd., London WC2H OQY Life on Mars, Words and Music by David Bowie 1971. Reproduced by permission of EMI Music Publis.h.i.+ng Ltd./Moth Music/Tintoretto Music, London WC2H OQY.

Words by Joni Mitch.e.l.l taken from the songs The Last Time I Saw Richard and Big Yellow Taxi. By kind permission of Sony/ATV Music Publis.h.i.+ng.

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A New England by Billy Bragg, lyrics reproduced by kind permission of BMG Publis.h.i.+ng UK.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock The. S. Eliot, Collected Poems 1909-1962, reproduced by kind permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, first published by The Bodley Head, extract reproduced by permission of David Higham a.s.sociates.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, copyright Evelyn Waugh 1945, extract reproduced by permission of PFD on behalf of the Evelyn Waugh Trust.

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, copyright C. S. Lewis Pte. Ltd. 1950. Extract reprinted by permission.

Every reasonable effort has been made to contact all copyright holders, but if there are any errors or omissions, Hodder & Stoughton will be pleased to insert the appropriate acknowledgement in any subsequent printing of this publication.

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David Nicholls is a screenwriter who created Rescue Me, starring Sally Phillips, and / Saw You, starring Fay Ripley, and co-wrote the third series of C-ld Ft. He was also co-writer for the film adaptation of Sam Shepherd Simpatico, which starred Nick Nolte, Jeff Bridges and Sharon Stone. Starter for Ten is David's first novel.