The Amazing Brain of O C Longbotham

by Barbara Spencer

  Mrs Harris, who was ironing in the kitchen, glanced up. When she saw who it was, she gave a cautious smile.

  ‘I’m here,’ OC beamed.

  ‘What are you doing on a nice afternoon like this, not more work, surely?’ she enquired. ‘You should be outside playing. Dad’s got Charles a new basketball. It’ll be fun.’

  A worried expression flooded OC’s usually cheerful face. He was always there on a Saturday. That’s when they did their work.

  ‘Er … er …’ He felt his brain clank and stop.

  Charles drove his chair into the kitchen at speed.

  ‘Mum – what a stupid thing to say. It’s OK, Phil, it’s one of those questions that don’t need an answer.’

  OC let out the breath he’d been holding and smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Harris,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to do homework.’

  Mrs Harris laughed nervously, finding the way Philip’s brain closed down for a second or two most disconcerting. ‘Well,’ she said, making her voice bright and cheerful. ‘If you two are planning homework for the afternoon, I’m going shopping.’ Then, trying to make up for her gaff, she added: ‘What are you doing afterwards, Philip?’

  ‘We’re having an Indian, Mrs Harris.’

  ‘Oh, how quaint,’ she said, never quite understanding what her gorgeous son could possibly see in this strange boy.

  She flicked the switch on the iron, and, collecting her bag and coat, left the house.

  As soon as he heard his mother’s car drive out of the gate, Cash hurried his friend into his bedroom.

  ‘There are ten sets to be done, all maths,’ he said, showing OC the neatly arranged exercise books.

  OC nodded happily, knowing that his brain looked on homework with the same pleasure as his belly regarded mashed potato.

  Cash pointed to four books sitting on top of the pile. ‘They’re the ones taking our deluxe service. Do them first, and I’ll copy them out.’

  There is no doubt that if OC’s brain was extraordinary, Cash’s brain was its equal. A perfectionist in everything he did, before setting out to forge a client’s handwriting he borrowed examples of their school work, copying and copying it until he could do it blindfold.

  Glancing over the first set of questions, OC began work, passing each book to Cash as he finished. It took Cash about an hour to copy them but when he eventually laid down his pen, the result was magnificent. Four sets of work, all with different handwriting. Some even boasted carefully orchestrated crossings out, exactly like the client did every day in class. And, this was the really clever part, with enough mistakes for the work to receive a grade only a shade higher than if the client had done the work himself (or herself).

  Not a sound broke the silence of the room and it was not until just after four-thirty that OC finally put down his pen and

  Cash beamed too. ‘Come on, let’s get a milk shake. Then we’ll head for town.’

  Shortly after, with the pile of exercise books tucked neatly into the pocket of Cash’s chair, the two boys headed into town. It was a long walk but neither minded, calling on clients that lived en route to drop off their work. While Philip remained at the gate, Cash rolled his chair to the front door and knocked. With charm and innocence, he asked to speak to his friend from school. A surreptitious exchange, a rustle of paper, a clink of coins, and Cash rolled his chair back through the gate. Each call took only a few minutes but it was still way past six before they reached the centre of Bristol.

  By now shops had shut and restaurants were beginning to open. Charles and OC made their way along Broadmead to an Indian Restaurant, The Taj Mahal. They were its first customers and the manager, seeing the chair enter, sped over to greet them.

  ‘Mr Charles, Mr Philip – your table awaits. This way, gentlemen.’

  In daytime, the restaurant looked shabby, but now it glowed with soft lighting to highlight the red and gold of its décor, masks of ferocious Hindu gods lining its walls. It wasn’t a particularly large space and tables (covered with snowy-white tablecloths, linen napkins, and an assortment of cutlery), filled most of it, with a smidgeon of room left over for a bar. At the far end, away from the kitchens, was a low-standing partition topped with a plastic trellis covered in elegant ferns and ivy. This was where the owner sat his most important customers, and the table reserved for Cash and OC had already been pulled out, leaving space for Cash’s wheelchair.

  Cash had discovered the restaurant two weeks previously. Having checked that its reputation for good food was genuine, he had arranged their first outing, describing it as a birthday party. The manager had been delighted and charmed by the idea. Now, seeing the age of his guests he was not too sure and hovered anxiously from foot to foot.

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘They live abroad,’ Cash smiled with the world-weary expression of someone who jets round the globe on a regular basis.

  To his surprise, OC piped up, ‘My father lives in South Africa.’

  The manager felt ashamed. Poor young men. At least one hundred of his relatives were still back home in the Punjab. He knew exactly what it was like to live in this friendless country of England, without family around you.

  ‘Of course, sir. But you ordered lager, sir.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Cash smiled, his eyes innocently charming. ‘It’s an old family custom, isn’t it, Philip?’

  This was the first time Cash had taken OC into a restaurant and if he was nervous, it didn’t show. For months now, he’d been carefully schooling his friend into understanding that if he used the name Philip, the response had to be a yes.

  OC wasn’t actually listening. He always left Cash to do the negotiations. He was looking forward to his meal and his head seizing at the wrong moment would spoil everything. He’d never be allowed to eat his meal in peace after that; vague memories of people screaming, phoning for the police, ambulances arriving, when all he needed was a minute of quiet to get his brain back on line. At that exact moment the swing doors from the kitchen burst open and a waiter appeared carrying a large tray of food, the scent of curry and spices flowing through the air to reach OC long before the waiter did. Instead of saying, yes, OC beamed, his smile adding several kilowatts of brightness to the room.

  Checking no one remained without earshot, Cash carefully counted their money.

  ‘By my reckoning, we’ve made £190 in less than a month.’

  Putting down his fork, OC pulled out his trusty notebook, carefully checking the figures. He nodded. ‘I got some for tidying, too.’

  Remembering how he never declared his shoplifting, Cash said generously, ‘That doesn’t come into this, OC. Everything you earn at home is one-hundred per cent yours.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Cash leaned forward and took a sip of his lager. ‘The way I see it, we’re earning way too much money. I suggest we spend some of it on eating out.’

  OC nodded. ‘I love Indian food.’

  ‘Chinese?’

  ‘Yes, I like Chinese but I love mashed potato best.’

  ‘Remember you don’t get mashed potato in Indian and Chinese restaurants.’

  OC chewed on a prawn. ‘I remember.’

  ‘That’s settled then. We take £50 each and spend the rest on food. I was thinking; we need to find another way to earn money. This is way too much like hard work for the return we get.’

  ‘But I like work,’ OC scraped his plate, drinking up the last of his lager. He smiled. ‘I like doing maths and science. It’s fun.’

  Cash frowned. ‘In business you have to find ways of making money with less and less effort until, one day, all you need do is pick up the phone.’

  OC concentrated carefully on Cash’s words. They seemed to make sense. He nodded, although he wasn’t quite sure how you made money by picking up the telephone. He often answered the phone at home but that didn’t make any money. Quite the reverse. He suddenly remembered his mother shouting at Kitty and Anna for being on the phone all the time.


  Had Cash made a mistake? Perhaps he had meant to say, you spend money picking up the phone. He opened his mouth to ask, when he recalled Cash telling him:

  Saturday is my night off. I’m not explaining anything, so don’t ask.

  Under the cover of the tablecloth, OC checked. Yes, he had written that down so it was obviously important that he remember. He quickly wrote himself a note:

  ‘I’m no good at thinking up new ideas. That’s your job.’ He leaned back and the bubbles from the lager rumbled round his belly, finishing up in a loud burp. ‘I wish I could eat that all again,’ he smiled lovingly at the empty plates. ‘But I’m full.’

  Leaving a large and memorable tip, Cash rebooked the table for two weeks.

  ‘It’s my brother’s birthday then, isn’t it, Philip?’

  OC smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  On the way home their bus got caught up in traffic. The congestion was so bad that the bus driver was forced to slow right down, finally crawling to a halt midway round the traffic island outside the Victoria Rooms.

  Still in regular use, they had been built for the people of Bristol in the eighteen hundreds, during the reign of Queen Victoria. Although the inside had been updated several times, the outside of the stone clad building remained dingy which made the brightly coloured poster, attached to one of the pillars adjoining the pavement, stand out all the more.

  And Charles, waiting for the bus to start moving, casually read it.

  He pointed to the notice. ‘Do you like chess?’

  OC nodded. ‘I like chess better than anything except homework and maths and science and … tidying and … mashed potato and …’ He checked the list on his fingers.

  ‘Right,’ said Cash. ‘We could have a go if you like.’

  ‘A go at what?’

  ‘The chess tournament. It’s a match and you play loads’a other kids. Go on, it’ud be good for you. Help your head.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ OC said, as the bus lurched into movement again.

  On Monday, instead of going straight home from school, Cash boarded a bus for town. Leaving it at the bottom of Whiteladies Road and carefully crossing the road at the lights, he went into the Victoria Rooms to ask for an application form.

  On Tuesday, he slipped out of school early, thanks to a fictitious doctor’s appointment. Clutching the completed entry form, bearing the neatly forged signature of Mrs Longbotham giving permission for Philip to take part, he returned it to the organisers.

  That’s when Cash noticed that the tournament date clashed with the school trip to the Arboretum near Chippenham. Deciding it was more profitable to enter a competition with a chance of winning a hundred pounds, he very carefully wrote two notes, which were handed in to their form teacher.

  The first excused Philip from the trip because of a long awaited, but extremely unexpected, visit from his grandmother. The second note excused Charles because his teeth were playing up and he had an emergency appointment with the dentist.

  Both notes said how sorry the boys would be to miss the trip. Perhaps next time.

  The coaches arrived at 8:45 and left at 9:00. And promptly at 9:15, the two boys arrived at the Victoria Rooms – the room already humming with quiet conversation.

  OC smiled contentedly. He loved quiet conversation, everything said in proper English, without any shouting or swearing. And he loved chess. Of course, he couldn’t remember if he had ever taken part in a real tournament before, but he did remember playing at school.

  The main room, with its high windows on one side letting in grey daylight, was filled right up with square brown tables, just large enough for two people plus a chess set and a clock with knobs on. To save space, the organisers had arranged their table on the small stage, while parents and onlookers made do with folding seats, round the edges of the room, and a drinks bar which had been set up in the small restaurant.

  ‘Phil, remember you have to push the button down on the clock after you’ve made your move,’ Cash said, suddenly nervous.

  ‘I know,’ OC said, his mathematical brain glowing with happiness.

  ‘Are you sure you can do this?’ Cash worried, quickly counting the tables. There were 64.

  OC smiled. ‘It’s better even than doing homework.’

  Cash stared at his friend. ‘But I thought you liked doing homework better than anything?’

  OC put on his puzzled face, his mouth chewing round and round*

  ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘I like chess better even than homework.’ He nodded as if to say, that’s definite and walked up the steps onto the stage, where they were handing out numbers.

  ‘My name is Philip Longbotham and I have come to play chess,’ he said, sounding very confident.

  This might be an unusual way to say good morning but the lady at the desk was well-used to geeks and their strange manners. She returned his smile and handed him a card. ‘Number 57,’ she pointed out the row. ‘It’s on the fourth aisle. I should take your seat, we begin in five minutes.’

  Below the stage, tables were already beginning to fill up, the majority of the competitors older than OC. He made his way to his seat, his opponent wearing number 58.

  ‘Hello, I’m Philip. I’ve come to play chess.’

  ‘Been playing long?’ the boy said.

  OC gazed at his watch, which said 9:26. He hadn’t started playing yet. He shook his head. ‘No.’

  The boy smiled. He picked up a black pawn in one fist, a white pawn in the other, and put his hands behind his back. ‘Pick one, to see who gets white.’

  Three minutes after the bell had rung for silence, and five moves into the game, the boy toppled his king.

  OC looked down at his watch. ‘I’ve been playing three minutes,’ he said, answering the boy’s question.

  His next opponent was a girl, older than him, with plaits and glasses.

  OC smiled. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, in the sort of voice kids use when they are sent to the head teacher and are not sure if they are in trouble or not.

  ‘Been playing long?’

  OC glanced down at his watch. ‘About five minutes.’

  The girl smiled politely. ‘Let’s begin.’

  Seven moves later, she toppled her king and this time her expression spelled fury and tears.

  Cash had gone into the bar to get himself a coke. When he returned, he was startled to see the seat OC had been occupying was now empty. Suddenly scared that his brain had let them down, Cash scoured the room and was relieved to see his friend seated opposite a boy in the next row. He watched for a moment or two then the boy jumped to his feet and, kicking the table, stormed off. A steward hurried over escorting Philip to a chair in front of the stage. Not being sure what this meant, Cash sent his wheels silently spinning in the direction of the organiser’s desk.

  ‘Why’s my friend sitting over there?’ he called up to the lady who had registered OC when he arrived.

  She looked down at the line of seats. ‘The boy in the red t-shirt?’ Cash nodded. ‘That’s because he’s winning and has temporarily run out of partners. How old is he?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Pretty good for twelve.’

  Ten minutes later, butterflies began a clog dance in Cash’s belly. He stared, anxiously watching as OC sat down again, thumped the button on his clock vigorously a few times then, once again, stood up.

  The boy he’d been playing ran over to his mother in the audience. ‘That kid didn’t even let me get started,’ he wailed in a loud voice;*

  Cash swallowed nervously and, not for the first time, began to wonder if there really was a possibility of their leaving the hall clutching a cheque for £100. Urgently needing something to occupy him, he spun over to the bar and ordered another coke.

  Meanwhile, OC was having the most marvellous time – at least his brain was. It had spotted the 64 chess sets and yelled: hip-hip-hooray. Then, like a skilled fencer at the Olympic Games, it had parried an
d feinted and lunged, each time OC walloping the clock button triumphantly as he reached checkmate in 5, 7, 10, 12 and 21 moves.

  Now there were just four players on the floor with OC among them. All around, their audience was halfway out of their seats, excitedly watching.

  Suddenly Cash found he couldn’t drink any more coke, nor could he watch. Flicking the button on his chair, he paced silently on his rubber wheels backwards and forwards across the floor.

  The end came quickly. A thump on the clock, a quick checkmate, and the defeated 18-year-old champion toppled his king to the ground.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he exclaimed in wonder, staring at the arrangement of queen and rook that had just moved in for the kill.

  ‘I don’t know.’ OC shook his head. ‘I’ve never done it before.’

  It was mid-afternoon when Anna received a text on her mobile from Cash. She was in a science class and the gentle buzzing of her mobile was very welcome, since science was her least favourite subject.

  “urgent must see u after school. come round.”

  Cash was still pacing up and down but this time in the kitchen of his house. Anna dumped her bag on the floor.

  ‘Where’s Phil?’

  ‘Doing homework.’ He nodded in the direction of his bedroom. ‘I need your help.’

  Quickly explaining how they had ditched the school outing in favour of a chess tournament, he went on to say that the organisers had invited the press and a picture of Philip would, most likely, appear in the Western Daily press next day. ‘You’ve got to make sure his mum doesn’t see it. She thinks we went on the school trip.’

  ‘Cool! And Phil won?’