Boy Who Stole Time

by Mark Bowsher

  Krish was staring at his trainers. His mind wandered back six months to when he first took them out of the box. A time when life for his family was so different from now…

  CHAPTER 2

  LAUGHTER IN BATTLE

  Some six months previously, life had been rather different for Krish and his family. The rain had come and gone and people were quietly optimistic for the October half-term. After the last few weeks of torrential downpours people seemed contented with the prospect of an overcast week. But before the joys of a week off from school, pupils at Krish’s school first had to contend with the horrors of parents’ evening.

  Krish was standing at the edge of the assembly hall with his Mum. Over the years she’d gained a few extra pounds to the top half of her body but her short legs were surprisingly slim. Her clothes were simple, graceful and usually dark with hints of colours. Her outfits often featured shimmering vine-like patterns; dark greens, purples or reds.

  Her face told a story of its own. Somewhere between an owl and an eagle, his father had once said. Her hair was straight, shoulder-length and black, combed backwards allowing her no fringe. Her lips thin, her nose small and sharp. Her eyes were also small, as well as being dark and, at times, unreadable. When narrowed they could be piercing, intimidating, but she could move seamlessly from such an expression to one of loving, caring, admiring. Her face was weathered a little with age (she and her husband had decided to have children a little later in life than many, not that she always acted as old as she was). Krish’s Mum had a certain majestic air about her. As if she could stand with a gale blowing in her face without blinking. Although she was rarely serious, when she was, she was not to be trifled with.

  Most of the plastic chairs in the hall had been piled up into unsteady-looking towers and shoved into one corner to make way for twenty or so table-and-chair combinations where teachers passed judgement on tense pupils. Krish and his Mum were waiting for his next appointment, while watching his father deep in conversation with his maths teacher Miss Leek (his Dad had to brush off accusations of ‘fancying her’ from his Mum every parents’ evening). Krish was worrying about his GCSE subject choices.

  ‘You have plenty of time to decide!’ his Mum said. ‘You don’t have to worry about that until next year!’

  ‘But what if I choose the wrong subjects?’ he said. ‘All the teachers said the same thing. Like they had a script or something! He’s doing fine, blah, blah, just needs to put in a bit more effort, blah, blah! They don’t think I’m any good at anything!’

  ‘No, Krishna, they think you’re good at everything. So you have a choice. Pick something and work hard at that and you’ll go from being good at it to being brilliant. What’s your favourite subject? You love sports; what about PE?’

  ‘Yeah but Dad said I can’t be a professional hockey player; it’s not realistic.’

  ‘Your father’s an accountant. Don’t take careers advice from him.’

  ‘But what if I make the wrong choice? What am I going to do with my life?’

  His Mum laughed heartily and put her arm round him. ‘My son is having a mid-life crisis at exactly the same time as my husband! Wonderful! I should be so proud!’

  ‘What is a mid-life crisis?’

  His Mum pointed to his Dad, who was still chatting to Miss Leek. Like his son, Krish’s Dad was neither tall nor short. He had a skirt of greying black hair around his head and was bald on top (save a few wavy hairs that stuck up in the middle). His belly protruded somewhat but nothing that couldn’t be hidden by keeping his shirts a little baggy. Today his Dad was wearing a horrific combination of his racing-green corduroys and a short-sleeved beige flannel shirt with a Daffy Duck tie.

  ‘That is a mid-life crisis!’ his Mum said. She gave Krish a warm little closed-mouth smile. ‘Stop worrying! Have some faith in yourself, for God’s sake! Anyway, you have plenty of time to pick your subjects. Plenty of time.’

  After a brief but hopeful assessment from Mr Ilson, his geography teacher, Krish was released from the terrors of parents’ evening.

  ‘Are you all packed?’ his Dad said when they got home. On Saturday morning they were off for a week’s holiday in a caravan, which was essentially like being imprisoned in a small box on wheels with your family for seven days. ‘And don’t forget your trainers!’

  ‘Dad, I’m not going to…’ Krish started but then he noticed that his parents were smiling. They were up to something. ‘What?!’

  His father opened the cupboard with the ironing board and washing basket in it (somewhere Krish never looked) and produced a shoebox.

  ‘For doing well at parents’ evening,’ his Dad said.

  Krish opened the box eagerly. They might have been dark brown, a typically practical choice by his parents, but they were certainly better than his mud-stained white trainers that were full of holes.

  ‘Wow, er, thanks,’ he said.

  ‘So you bought them before you even knew how well he’d done?’ Joshi had just strolled into the kitchen and was being her usual sceptical self. Since going to ‘uni’ she’d started questioning everything, from how many carrier bags they had in the house to why they didn’t have more paintings on the walls.

  His parents responded to Joshi at exactly the same time.

  ‘We knew he’d do well,’ said his Mum.

  ‘We kept the receipt,’ said his Dad.

  ‘And I hope you’re packed as well, young lady!’ added his Mum.

  In an impressive display of multitasking, Joshi grunted in annoyance at her parents’ nagging, rolled her eyes, shrugged briefly and exited the room all at once. Krish’s sister was tall and slim, a little gangly. She used to spend ages straightening her hair, which was so long it reached her hips. Only on the hottest days of summer would she tie it up. Since going to university she’d decided to let it grow long and curl slightly in places. She said it felt more ‘natural’ and ‘authentic’ (the family weren’t really sure what ‘authentic’ meant when talking about hair).

  The next morning they were up at a time Krish considered horrifically early and his Dad moaned was ridiculously late.

  ‘Come on!’ said his Dad. ‘Let’s go to Battle!’

  Battle was not an actual battle where people poked each other with swords and spears until enough people had died to decide who was in charge. Battle was a place where there had been a battle almost a thousand years ago. The Normans had decided that they should be in charge of England and the English disagreed. Many people were killed in a great battle before the Normans won and plonked their own leader on the throne. The battlefield was just around the corner from the caravan park they visited almost every half-term.

  The car moved slowly with a caravan strapped to the back and what made the journey feel even slower was his father’s insistence on telling him and Joshi the whole history of the battle every time they went camping.

  ‘And do you know how King Harold died?’ his Dad said to his less-than-captivated audience as they were stuck in a traffic jam.

  ‘Er, dunno,’ said Krish. ‘Was he bored to death by his Dad?’

  ‘Krishna!’ his Mum said warningly. ‘Come on, you might learn something!’

  Krish sighed. ‘I already know it! He tells us every half-term! He died with an arrow in his eye!’

  ‘Ah!’ said Joshi. ‘Actually I Googled it and they actually don’t know how he died. It’s actually a misconception caused by the Bayeux Tapestry.’ Joshi was studying the History of Art and had already banged on several times about some massive old tea towel (or that’s what Krish thought it looked like) that told the story of the battle.

  ‘Well, who cares how some stupid old king died anyway!’ said their Mum. ‘The point is, were the people happier with their new king?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said Krish. ‘Were they?’

  Blank looks between their parents.

  ‘No idea,’ said their Dad. ‘Let’s put the radio on.’

  ‘NO!’ Krish and Joshi cried out in unison.
Krish’s Dad twiddled the control on the radio and the words ‘BBC RADIO 2’ flashed up on the display. Radio 2 was the worst thing ever. It played all the dullest songs from periods of ancient history like the 1970s or the 1980s. Krish had always guessed that the music was so boring on purpose, to make sure that all the old people who listened to it would struggle to dance to it. This probably stopped lots of people having to have hip replacements and stuff.

  Krish and Joshi pulled out their phones and headphones to drown out the radio with their own music.

  ‘No!’ said their Mum. ‘Come on! Let’s not be a divided family before we even get to the campsite!’

  ‘Just killing time before we arrive, Mum!’ said Krish.

  ‘Let’s not kill time,’ his Mum said. ‘Let’s use it instead.’ She produced a pack of cards. Their Mum always had a pack of cards on her. She often found an excuse for a quick game of Rummy while waiting at doctors’ surgeries, airports or even bus stations. Attempting a game in the car was a new one though.

  ‘We can’t play cards in the car!’ protested Krish. ‘The cards’ll go everywhere!’

  ‘It’ll be fine!’ his Mum said, starting to deal cards to her children. Krish and Joshi just about managed not to drop their cards when the car suddenly accelerated as the traffic jam ended. ‘Look, the deck can go in the cup-holder!’ Their Mum placed the deck in the circular groove behind the handbrake, one end sticking up, the underside of the deck clearly visible.

  ‘Mum!’ said Joshi. ‘I can see the card at the bottom of the deck!’

  ‘Don’t worry about that!’ their Mum said. ‘I’ll have won way before you need to worry about that card!’

  ‘But I need that card!’ said Krish.

  ‘Good!’ their Mum said. ‘Then you definitely won’t win! But never mind. You’re young! Plenty of time to learn to beat your old Mum!’

  This was typical of his Mum. She’d start the conversation saying that people should never ‘waste time’ or complaining that she never had ‘enough time’ and then she’d finish the conversation saying everyone should ‘relax’ because they all had ‘plenty of time’! He wished she’d make her mind up; did she have oodles of time or not a second to waste?

  Whatever she really thought about time she certainly wasn’t wasting any of it showing him and Joshi any mercy at cards. She spent the rest of the car journey reminding her children that she was and always would be the undefeatable champion of Rummy. Krish claimed that he kept losing because the cards he wanted had all fallen under Dad’s seat.

  They arrived at the campsite two hours later than his father’s estimate. His Dad started to moan that if they’d left at six o’clock as he’d suggested then—

  ‘Bhasker!’ his Mum interjected. ‘How much time did you schedule for complaining about not being up early enough to beat the traffic? Three minutes? Good! Your time started two minutes and fifty-five seconds ago.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Time’s up! Now let’s get parked and get the bloody awning fiasco out of the way.’

  They drove into Normanhurst Court campsite in Battle. They were greeted, as always, with a feast of green dotted with caravans and camper vans of all shapes and sizes. The spacious pitches sat on neatly trimmed lawns backing on to an unbroken wall of trees and shrubs that hid the site from the rest of the world. The road wound round the site, passing pitches, shower blocks, play areas and open parkland where kids played football, swing ball or catch with pink and green Velcro pads. Other kids were darting off towards the wild woods that bordered the parkland.

  Once they were parked and had the caravan supports rolled down, the aforementioned ‘awning fiasco’ began. The awning was a sort of large tent they attached to the side of the caravan, where tables and chairs and all manner of bits and bobs that had been stored in the caravan when they were on the road were kept. Krish and Joshi took up their normal posts holding on to the metal poles used to support the far side of the awning while their Dad dished out orders. Their Mum got impatient fast.

  ‘Stop talking about it and get the hell on with it, Bhasker! Krishna!’

  ‘What?!’ said Krish. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘I know! So go and play. You’re relieved from duty.’

  ‘Erm,’ said Joshi, looking up from the phone she’d been toying with in her spare hand, ‘what about me?’

  ‘You’ve been on your phone the whole time!’ their Mum said. ‘You can’t go and play yet!’

  ‘Mum,’ said Joshi, ‘I’m not six! I don’t “go and play”, and, er, neither does Krish.’

  ‘Er, I can fight my own battles, Josh!’ cut in Krish.

  ‘Errr, don’t call me Josh!’ said Joshi. ‘And no you can’t.’

  ‘My brave little man can stand up for himself!’ said their Mum.

  ‘Mum!’ said Krish through gritted teeth, deeply embarrassed. ‘I could stand up for myself if someone gave me half the chance!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ His Dad, as the self-elected commander-in-chief of awning construction, was not taking kindly to being ignored. ‘Are we going to put up this awning or not?’

  ‘A good point!’ his Mum said. ‘Let’s not bother. Life’s too short. If it rains we’ll bung everything in the boot of the car. Awning class dismissed!’

  Before their father could utter a single syllable of protest, the awning poles clattered to the ground as Krish and Joshi abandoned their posts.

  Joshi slunk into a camping chair. She would usually stay there for the day, chatting to friends on her phone or researching an artist for her course. At school her parents were always nagging her to get her homework done but since she’d been at university she actually seemed to enjoy doing work. She couldn’t get enough of it. She was always reading up on weird artists who chopped off their own ears or cut cows in two.

  Krish, on the other hand, loved running off and joining in random games of football or rounders with other kids. At school he was quiet and nervous and was never good at approaching people his age he didn’t already know, but at the campsite it was different. He might never see these kids again so he felt less self-conscious. And when he wasn’t playing football he was joining other kids on adventures into the woods. Krish wasn’t normally one for storybooks but here was different. When you really were running through forests, leaping from stepping stone to stepping stone across a brook or climbing trees, adventures were far easier to imagine.

  Krish even found himself taking command of groups of kids on the campsite. Children he’d never met before followed him as he led them to ‘the rocket ship’. This was a gigantic tree that had been knocked over in a great storm over thirty years ago. It lay on its side, its roots exposed, looking, Krish thought, like the fire that blasted out of the end of a rocket. They’d climb up the roots and onto the broad trunk of the mighty tree. Then they’d climb across the trunk, one foot in front of the other, and dodge imaginary meteors speeding towards them. Somehow, being out in the countryside was one of the few times Krish was really able to fire up his normally rather limited imagination.

  Although Krish still took some young kids to the rocket ship, he was now feeling a little old for these games. Just after dropping the awning pole, he’d rushed over to a caravan a few pitches away where three brothers, Josh, Nathan and Zack, were playing football. He played with them for hours until his Dad re-emerged from their caravan and called out:

  ‘Come on, Krish! Dinner!’

  ‘Two minutes, Dad!’ replied Krish. ‘It’s two all! One more goal and we’re done!’

  ‘You said two minutes ten minutes ago!’

  ‘Two minutes!’

  ‘Don’t make me send for back-up!’

  Krish chuckled. ‘Ha! You cannot be serious!’

  ‘I am!’ his Dad said. ‘I’m calling for back-up!’

  ‘Come on, Dad!’ Krish laughed. ‘Not again! Not—’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ His Mum appeared from the caravan and ran barefoot towards the game Krish was playing wi
th the brothers, a cheeky smile on her face.

  ‘Oh God!’ said Joshi, mortified. ‘Please! This is so embarrassing!’

  ‘Back-up is here!’ Their Mum invited herself to join the game. ‘Look at me! I’m David Beckham!’

  Krish and the three brothers burst out laughing. Zack tried to tackle Krish’s Mum but she picked up the ball.

  ‘Oh my God, Mum!’ Krish managed through his laughter. ‘You can’t pick up the ball!’

  ‘Yes I can!’ she answered. ‘I can do what I want! I’m the greatest player in the world! The only one clever enough to think of picking up the ball!’ Everyone laughed hysterically at Krish’s Mum as she played the silliest game of football ever seen. Everyone was laughing too much to stop her. She scored a goal and ran up to her son.

  ‘See!’ she said. ‘That’s how you play football!’

  This was Krish’s Mum all over; life was just too short to be taken too seriously.

  Krish’s face ached from smiling. His Mum approached, ruffled his hair affectionately and smiled in return; wider and brighter to see her son amused, almost proud of how wonderfully silly his mother could be.

  ⁂

  Right now, some six months later, sitting up in bed in the clinical surroundings of the hospital, her smile was not coming so easily. And it was not a smile of happiness. It was a valiant attempt at reassurance. Krish just didn’t know what to think. How could this be the same woman? Usually so full of life and energy and humour and now here she was. A living woman with all the life drained out of her.

  Krish turned back to the floor in despair. And then something caught his eye. For a moment he caught sight of a strange shape that bewildered him. Did he just see…? No. Can’t have been. He blinked. Everything was normal. He was just looking at the underneath of a hospital bed. A white, scratched floor partially coated in shadow and the underside of a mattress held up by white metal slats above. Nothing unusual. It was just, for a second, he could swear he’d seen one of the shadows under the bed get up and walk away.