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Chapter One – Half the World Away
September 1995
According to Nan, I’m four times more likely to be eaten by a shark than I am to win the National Lottery. Well, the joke is on her. I have never paddled deeper than my shins in the sea, and in front of me sits a winning lottery ticket.
It may only be three matching numbers and worth a tenner, but I will take any positivity I can get. Life has been one kickback after another recently. Ten pounds won’t change that, and I often wonder if I’ll ever get a real lucky day.
Today is my second ever first day of school. With the way Mum has been making a fuss, I should have an adventurous excitement flowing through my veins with each ripple from my heartbeat. The truth is my stomach is knotted as I stare down at three soggy Weetabix. They swim around my bowl, turning to mush, whilst Take That remind me from the radio to never forget where I came here from.
“Theo, are you looking forward to big school?”
I’ve been asked this question far too many times over the holidays, ever since it was announced Mum’s illness was terminal. My answer has always been the same. No. (Also, calling it “Big School” when I’m heading into Year Nine hasn’t exactly helped me prepare for the more adult educational experience).
The thought of going back brings me out in a cold sweat. It’s played on my mind so much I’ve had many an anxiety dream where I arrive at the school gates in nothing but my M&S undies, being introduced to the other pupils halfway through an assembly like Macho Man Randy Savage arriving mid-match at WrestleMania.
I never even wanted to leave primary school, instead wanting I could stay in the safety of my small classroom with its bright red walls and having weekly games of Wink Murder.
As I slowly tie my shoes, Ian McKellan is being interviewed on GMTV. His face vanishes as Mum flicks the set off quickly, shaking her head as she tosses the remote on the sofa next to me.
“You best get a wriggle on,” she says, kissing me on the top of my head.
I grab my schoolbag and head to the front door. Stokewood Secondary is a tsunami of new experiences ready to flood over me. Sadly, nothing I can do will stop it. As I sling the bag over my shoulder, I find myself pinned against the door, Mum opposite with disposable camera in hand.
“Mum, this is embarrassing,” I complain, my vomit-green jumper suffocating my body and my arms rigid by my sides.
She winds the camera on before squinting through the viewfinder. “Look at my big boy off to big school.” It looks like she’s about to cry, which will play havoc with her thick Avon eyeliner. I help by hugging her quickly before hot footing it down the cracked garden path. Things are changing, so what’s the point of delaying any longer?
As I cross the dew-carpeted playing fields, I realise the ‘big’ that mum has been referring to also relates to the buildings, not just the concept of secondary education itself. I draw in a long breath of the cold air as I prepare for whatever lays ahead to engulf me faster than a bag of nerves caught in an avalanche.
Crowds of students trudge towards the imposing concrete, brutalist-style structures, like a sea of uniformed ants returning to their government-funded nest. I pull a badly photocopied map out my pocket to get a sense of direction. Nan had offered to bring me in, but I can’t afford to lose any cool points this early (especially with her hair in neon pink rollers).
At the main reception, my wet socks squelch inside my new Kicker shoes as a petite lady with a sensible haircut grins at me. She’s standing with a large sign, my name scrawled across it in marker, along with the names of three others.
“Hi, I’m Theo,” I say, shaking her hand when she offers hers.
“Good morning, Theo. My name is Miss Houghton, and I teach music. You’re the new Year Nine, aren’t you?”
I nod and give her my bravest smile.
She pushes her glasses up with a scrunch of her nose. “Marvellous. Go and take a seat with Vicky and I will take you to your form room shortly.”
I look across and see a small girl devouring the contents of her lunchbox, gnawing at sandwiches like a hungry, blonde-pigtailed gerbil. She’s eating them in a bizarre spiralling motion from the crusts inwards, and as I sink into a chair opposite, I watch in disgust as she squashes the remaining sandwich into a ball, before trying to fit it into her mouth. I involuntarily let out a sick burp, which burns when I swallow.
There’s a strange atmosphere in this waiting area, like a sense of apprehension hanging around me in a cloud. I expected it to be modern and chic, yet the multiple class photos hanging on the wall have been left to fade, a skin of dust nestled on their brown frames. The yellow foam from my chair puffs out the side as I get comfortable, pulled from the lining by those who’ve been in this position before. The double doors nearby are tempting to run through.
During Year Six, when Mum first received her cancer diagnosis, Nan thought it’d be in my best interest to stay at home to learn. I’d been in and out of class during my final year at primary, Mum’s health a constant worry. She’d been a sprightly fitness class leader before the illness took hold, and as the early signs of extended fatigue kicked in, it was hard for her to educate me. With fewer funds for a home tutor, and Nan being freshly retired with a dodgy hip, I have to accept that today is my new normal. This is where I belong for the next three years, my educational routine altered for structured lessons and actual homework.
As Vicky gnashes the top level off a Mars Bar, Miss Houghton is back, with two identical twin girls in knee-high white socks flanking her either side. She eyes Vicky and gives me a pitying smile. “Follow me.”
My breath forms a mist cloud as I sit in my form room, my hands tucked into the sleeves of my jumper, my ankles chilled where the trousers don’t meet my shoes.
I’ve been placed in 9 Elm, and my tutor, Mr Richardson, is stood at his desk in a beige, pinstripe suit, ensuring all his pens are present in the terracotta cup on his desk. I’m so close I can smell the stale coffee on his breath, which keeps being refreshed every time he takes a sip from his World’s Best Teacher mug.
“Do you think he bought that mug himself?” asks Bethany who has set all her new stationery neatly on the other half of our table, making me look unorganised with my non-matching, discount store bought, equipment.
I nod. “Bet there are some students who love to suck up to teachers, even at secondary.”
“There are a few in this class, believe me,” she says, gesturing her head towards a table of girls sat near the windows as she ties her long dreadlocks into an aquamarine scrunchie.
I’m so glad to have Bethany with me. We started in nursery on the same day and were in every class together until Year Six. When she left me to come here, we promised we’d never lose touch, but in the last twenty-four months, our interactions have been limited to birthdays and Bonfire Night. I glance around at the others, all packed into their own friendship groups. I’ve never felt like such an outcast.
“Attention please, class,” says Mr Richardson as he strides in front of the board, running a thumb and index finger across his dark blonde moustache to straighten it, revealing flecks of grey pebble-dashed throughout. “Welcome to Year Nine, and welcome Theo, to Stokewood Secondary. As you know, I’m Mr Richardson, and I’ll be your form tutor for the final three academic years.” He grabs a pile of paper and puts it in front of Bethany. “This is your timetable for the year. Please take one and pass it on, et cetera.”
I grab one off the top and pass the pile to a pair of boys sat behind. They look so similar they must be twins. Blonde curtains frame their pale faces, blue eyes staring in my direction. I quickly lick my palm and attempt to put some style into my unruly mop of brown hair.
“Practical Studies is first,” says Bethany. “That’s in this room so makes things easier.”
“What’s Practical Studies?” I ask, already lost. The only practical thing I did during home schooling was to make cups of tea for everyone when I was allowed a short break.
“Stuff which helps in life, like making anti-bullying posters and getting to watch all those ancient videos about smoking. There’s a stranger danger one too with this girl called Tabitha. It’ll haunt you. If we’re particularly unlucky we might have to sit through another God-awful theatre production in the main hall by this student group who call themselves The Squirrel Brigade. The last one was on road safety and it was S-H-I-T.”
“Sounds dull. Least we get a good view to daydream to from here,” I reply as my eyes drift to the outside world. From the second floor of Middle School, a small car park gives way to the main football pitches, with a new housing site under construction on the far side where the old park ‘n’ pick used to sit. I spent time every summer gathering fruit there with Mum before the illness took away her ability to do so. I hope she’s doing okay without me. I bet she hasn’t had a cuppa since I left.
After an introduction about what to expect from the next ten months, we are made to write our names on sticky labels and place them over the gold oak tree emblem on our jumpers. I am sure this is for my benefit only. I turn to the twins and say hello, noticing they’ve only written their first names. In fact, everyone has only written their first names. I tried so hard to fit my entire name on mine and it looks squished as a result. Barker-Hall isn’t exactly the shortest surname.
“Hi, Theo Barker-Hall,” says blonde boy one. “I’m Matt Houston, this is Sam Baxter,” he adds, tilting his head towards to the other.
“Heya. Are you related?”
Sam frowns. “No, just friends.”
“You look similar, sorry.”
“Everyone says that,” laughs Matt.
“Bethany, this is Sam and Matt,” I say as she finishes turning her name badge the correct way.
“Oh, hey guys, nice to meet you,” she replies, before laughing hysterically.
“We’ve known each other for two years,” says Sam.
“Sorry, yeah of course.” I keep forgetting I’m the new fish in this pond. “Do you like it here?”
They both shrug in unison.
“You’ll be fine, Theo. Trust me,” Bethany says as she turns to the front, digging an elbow into my ribs to bring my attention back to Mr Richardson.
He takes yet another swig of coffee. “Now, I’m obliged to remind you registration is at 8.50am, and again for afternoon lessons at 1.50pm. You must be on time, no exceptions, as I will get in sh…trouble. As some of you may have heard, this school has seen a few upgrades over the summer. You’ll be pleased to know we now have a fully functioning set of computers available in the IT block.”
Mr Richardson leaves a pause and stands with eyebrows raised, half-hoping for more excitement, but instead everyone remains silent. He takes another drink and continues. “Anyway, these computers are state of the art. Top of the range! You must only use them for academic work, and your printing will be monitored. If you wish to use photographs in your work, Mr Teale in the computer lab has a new scanner he will help you with.”
Matt leans forward and taps me on the shoulder. “Teale is gay.”
“Matthew, none of that,” responds Mr Richardson.
“Mum goes to aquarobics with his boyfriend,” Matt continues.
Mr Richardson strides to the side of Matt’s desk and slaps down a ruler. “I have said we will not have any of that discussed. Final warning or you’ll be spending your first lunchtime back with me, okay?”
A chorus of oooh’s ring out from across the room at the threat.
“I mean it,” Mr Richardson says, his voice a few decibels louder. “You’re in Year Nine, now, so you best all act like it, do you understand?” He stares at everyone until there is a deathly silence blanketing the room. “I said, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” we all mumble in response.
“Good. As you can see from your timetables, you have Practical Studies first with Mrs Bosnich. She is also new, so you won’t be on your own, Theo,” he says, looking directly at me. Sorry, but ‘make friends with a teacher’ was NOT on my imaginary to-do list.
“It would be easier if you all remained in the same seats. Mrs Bosnich can then use my seating plan. After the lesson, Theo, you will join myself on a school tour with the other newbies. The room numbering system is pretty straightforward, however, I appreciate it is a larger space than your previous school.”
Mr Richardson shuffles from the room after giving a final reminder about our behaviour, and a fearsome-looking lady appears in the doorway, blocking out the artificial light spilling in from the corridor. She’s about six feet tall and her eyes are hidden by smoky-lensed glasses jutting out from under a large mop of curly black hair. I note she’s carrying a World’s Best Teacher mug. One of them is clearly lying about their title.
“Good morning, Elm,” she says. Her face softens as she smiles, and my nerves about entering the world of proper education ease a little. “My name is Mrs Bosnich and I will be taking you for Practical Studies and English for the whole of this year, unless anything happens. Touch wood it won’t!” she says, tapping at her forehead with a closed fist. “So, before we begin, can I get a quick show of hands; who is feeling a little apprehensive about being back here today?”
I raise my hand but notice Bethany doesn’t. I spin my head and look across to the other twenty-eight people in the class. They all stare back. The only other person with their hand raised is a girl sat at the back chewing on a spare cartridge from her fountain pen, her lips now looking like she has applied striking blue lipstick.
“What are you worried for?” whispers Bethany.
I lower my arm slowly. “Just am.”
Mrs Bosnich sits with one buttock on my desk. “Being nervous is normal when it comes to a new school. I was a little nervous myself when driving in this morning. I admire the honesty of…” she squints at the seating plan, “Theodore and Molly.”
“You can call me Theo,” I say, quietly.
“Sure thing, Theo,” she replies, her voice bouncing along with each word. Her accent is summery, and definitely doesn’t belong to a Stokewood native. The farmer twang we all have is not present at all. We wait as she opens a window and a gust of wind rattles through the room immediately, blowing a selection of papers to the floor.
A girl on the front row with a well-styled dirty blonde bob jumps from her seat and picks them from the floor.
“That’s Katie Barlow. She’s such a suck-ass,” spits Sam from behind me, and I chuckle at the hate in his voice. I’d love to know the history between the two.
The chattering that started from a number of people in the room, me included, stops as soon as Mrs Bosnich slaps her hand down on the desk. I jump and crack my knee on the underside of the table.
“Fly on my desk, sorry,” she says. “Sorry.”
She takes a new piece of chalk and scribbles WRITING LETTERS across the board. “Over the past year I have spoken to many parents regarding key English skills your age group should know. One skill which was raised as potentially lacking was the ability to write letters. Writing a letter is an important skill to have these days, whether when applying for a job, or even staying connected with a relative. So, today, letters are what we will be focussing on.”
“Will there be homework?” asks Katie from the corner. Bethany turns to me and mimics shoving her fingers down her throat.
“No, there will never be any homework from this period,” says Mrs Bosnich. “Now, I think I have planned something fun for you all. Who here watches Blue Peter?”
My hand goes up again, but this time it is joined by the majority of the class. Blue Peter is one show I look forward to, mainly as the pirate-style theme music used to signal the end of my homeschool day. I even had a go at making my own Tracey Island a couple of years ago, although it didn’t quite look the same as the one Anthea Turner made. The fact I’d no green paint to hand was a disadvantage. Using red instead made it resemble a group of people escaping an erupting volcanic island rather than the renowned base of International Rescue.
Mrs Bosnich takes a stack of blank, lined paper from the shelves by the door and hands the sheets out. “On last Friday’s Blue Peter, you will have seen they launched The Great British Pen Pal Project for Year Nine pupils. After a brief discussion with the headmaster, we thought it might be a wonderful idea to get you all involved.” Everyone lets out a long groan. “What is the problem, Theo?” asks Mrs Bosnich. Sitting at the front seems to be the prime position for my every move to be noticed.
“I don’t want a pen pal, Miss. I need to make friends with the actual people here first.”
“Nonsense,” she replies as she paces around the tables, becoming more animated with each step. “It will be good practice for the future, and if you make a new friend from it, well, then that is an added bonus, isn’t it?”
“Who should we address it to?” asks a girl at the back.
“No one in particular. Ideally, in a real-world situation, you would start with To whom it may concern, so maybe use that. Once complete, your letters will all be bundled and sent to the BBC, and they will then pass onto another school who have registered for the programme. From then on, every month, you will take it in turns to write to one another.”
“Every month?” Sam asks.
“Mrs Bosnich lowers her glasses and whispers. “Only until next July.”
Bethany crouches over her desk, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she furiously scribbles away. She stops and screws the paper into a ball before throwing it at the waste bin. Despite two years on the school netball team, the paper bounces off the side and rolls across the carpet tiles.
“Bethany,” starts Mrs Bosnich as she bends over to pick it up, “please ensure paper is taken to the bin rather than thrown. Elm, you have twenty minutes to write your letter. After which, we can take a few examples to read aloud.”
“I dunno what to write,” I say to Bethany.
“Just tell them about yourself.”
“I’m boring, though,” I protest.
She smiles. “If you were boring, I wouldn’t still be hanging out with you. Tell them your favourite things.”
I take a ballpoint from my Pepsi Can-shaped pencil case, ready to do my first piece of work in this new life. After writing the school address, my mind goes blank. There is absolutely nothing about me which might interest a mystery person. Living at home with your Mum and two budgies, with a few visits from your nan thrown in, would hardly set the world alight.
I think about telling the (un)lucky recipient about the fact I know the dance to Saturday Night by Whigfield, but decide I should keep it more formal. I write a load of nonsense, talking too much about my budgies (Kylie and Jason) and their love of cuttlefish.
Having exhausted anything even remotely interesting, I put my pen lid on and sit back proudly in my chair, staring at my completed page of A4 paper. That’s until I notice Bethany has already written almost three times as much. “What have you even got to talk about?”
“Telling them about my summer, my singing at Gospel church, that kinda thing.”
I look at my poor effort and feel inadequate. I glance behind to the boys, and they’re also on a third sheet of paper. “Let me see yours,” I tell Sam.
He pulls the paper closer and wraps an arm around it. I should have stayed at home. Academically, these people are much more advanced than me. I’m gonna be chewed up and spat out in no time at all. No one will reply to my letter.
Half the World Away, James A Lyons
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