by Sylvia Waugh
“It's pork this week,” said Thomas quickly, looking down at his plate. “I really do like pork.”
“Have some applesauce,” said Patrick, passing his son the dish.
Stella was too busy to notice that her promise to write was being ignored. The conspirators experienced a feeling of relief.
It was the Monday of Thomas's last week on Earth.
He had just told Mickey that he would be leaving the school on Thursday, a day before everybody else would be breaking up for the Christmas holidays. Then, with his father, he would be traveling to their spaceship and setting off for the distant planet in another solar system that was his own true home.
“You're not,” said Mickey scornfully. “I know you're not. The play's on Friday and you're the youngest shepherd. That's your sheep in the corner over there.”
The sheep was a little woolly lamb brought in by Mandy Maynard, the quietest girl in the class, if not the school. It was beautifully clean, if somewhat short of fleece, and it was sitting on the long brown box in the corner by the blackboard.
Thomas looked across at it and felt near to tears.
At that moment Miss Kershaw brought the class to attention and the day began.
Badly.
“Now,” said the teacher, “I think we should have a rehearsal for Friday's play. There's just one little complication. Thomas will be leaving us on Thursday. So we'll need another youngest shepherd. Mandy, since you were kind enough to bring the lamb, would you like the part?”
Mandy blushed scarlet and shook her head.
“I'd like you to do it, Mandy,” said Miss Kershaw, smiling, “and the lamb would probably like it too. Give it a try, eh? You won't have very much to say.”
“I can say the words for her,” said Donnie helpfully. “I can say, Look, Mary. Look what the youngest shepherd's brung you.”'
“We'll see,” said Miss Kershaw diplomatically. “Mandy will probably want to say her own words once she's got used to the idea. The headdress helps. People are never shy when they're wearing a headdress.”
And while all this was going on, there was thunder at the table by the window, the table Thomas and Mickey shared. Mickey had pointedly turned his back on Thomas so that all Thomas could see of him was the shoulder of his red jersey.
“Face the front, Mickey,” said Miss Kershaw when she noticed.
Mickey turned to the front again, glowered sideways at Thomas, and said nothing.
By break, Miss Kershaw and most of the others in the room were aware that the impossible had happened. Mickey had fallen out with his best friend and was not speaking to him.
When the bell rang, the other children filed out, but Miss Kershaw kept those two behind.
“Come on,” she said, looking at Mickey, “what's it all about?”
“I don't ever want to speak to him again,” said Mickey, looking utterly miserable. “He tells lies.”
Thomas blanched. His dark eyes were darker than ever in the little white face.
“I don't,” he said, then looked accusingly at Mickey. “And you promised never to tell any of my secrets.”
“You didn't tell me you were really leaving,” said Mickey. “I thought it was just a game. And you haven't told me where you're really going.”
“He's really going to Winnipeg,” said Miss Kershaw. “It's in Canada, Mickey. I can show you on the map.”
She took a school atlas from the pile on the table and flipped through to the right page.
“There,” she said. “Winnipeg is in Manitoba and Manitoba is a province in Canada.”
“It's a long way away,” said Mickey, “but it's not further than the moon.”
“No,” said Miss Kershaw, unsure what he was driving at.
“So why didn't he tell me where he was going? Why did he have to tell me lies?”
Tears began to slide down Thomas's cheeks.
Miss Kershaw noticed and said gently, “Wait outside the door for a minute or two, Thomas. I want a quiet word with Mickey. You two have always been friends. This is something we can put right, something we must put right.”
Thomas went out reluctantly with backward, desperate glances at his friend.
“Now, Mickey,” said Miss Kershaw as the door closed, “I won't ask you what this is all about. What I do want to say is this—Thomas is very upset about leaving. I don't know what lies you think he has told you, but if he is making up stories, maybe it's because he's unhappy.”
“I'm unhappy,” said Mickey. “I don't want him to go.”
“If his dad goes, Mickey,” said the teacher, “then he has no choice. You must see that. If your mam had to leave Belthorp, you couldn't stay here, now could you?”
“But I'd tell the truth about where I was going,” said Mickey. “I wouldn't tell him I was flying into outer space.”
Miss Kershaw found it difficult not to laugh but knew it was important to stay serious.
“If that's what he said, Mickey, I see no harm in it. He's upset about going and he wants to hide how upset he is. You are his very best friend. You can help to make it easier for him.”
Mickey nodded miserably. He was still getting used to the idea that Thomas was really about to leave.
Miss Kershaw went to the door and brought Thomas back into the room.
“Now,” she said, “I want you two to be friends again. It's unheard-of for the two of you to quarrel. Go out for break now—and come back smiling!”
“I really am going to my own planet,” said Thomas doggedly when they got outside. “It wasn't a lie at all. But if you like, we can pretend I'm going to Winnipeg. We can find out all sorts of things about Winnipeg and what I'll be doing when I get there.”
Mickey was generous.
“No,” he said. “If you want to play at going into outer space, we'll play that instead. It'll be more fun. We'll have a countdown and launchpads and things like that. Except when you really do go, I hope you'll not forget me. You could send postcards or something. And you might come back.”
What Mickey called the rocket game kept the two friends going till Thursday teatime. They walked home together for the last time. As they reached Thomas's front door, Mickey awkwardly handed him a keyring with a tiny green plastic rocket on it.
“D day minus one,” he said in a forced, false voice as he put the gift into Thomas's hand. “Reports to be sent back immediately on landing!”
Thomas took the keyring. Then, quite suddenly, he leaned toward his friend and whispered, “The planet I am going to is called Ormingat.”
Mickey heard, and shivered from the nape of his neck right down to his toes.
Then Thomas ran into the house and lay on his bed and wept.
Mickey, left alone and puzzled, began to sneeze and was still sneezing when he reached home.
“Looks as if you're in for another cold,” said Mrs. Trent anxiously. “Get yourself by the fire. I'll make you some hot lemon.”
“I don't want to go,” said Thomas.
They were in the train traveling east to Casselton, from where they were supposedly going south to London to board a plane to Canada. The carriage was nearly empty. Patrick and Thomas faced each other across the table. Outside, fields and hedges hurried by, and snowcapped hills gave place to flat, bleak meadows.
On the table in front of him, Thomas had the game of travel Scrabble that Stella had given him for “now instead of Christmas.” She had come with them to the station and seen them onto the train. Thomas did not hug her when they parted on the platform. The look he gave her was almost a reproach, as if somehow he had hoped that she would stop it happening. She hugged him and said quietly, “It'll be all right. You'll see.”
The only other present Thomas took with him was the keyring with the tiny green plastic rocket on it.
Now, with the train drawing ever nearer to Casselton, Thomas had had time to think more seriously about where they were heading and how they were going to get there. He had left the past in Belthorp station; the
present was here in the railway carriage; and the future was horribly close in a spaceship the size and shape of a golf ball.
Patrick looked across at him and said nothing.
“I mean it, Father. I don't want to go and I won't go,” said Thomas.
“You can't say that,” said Patrick. “That is something you are not allowed to say. Where I go, you go. You are mine.”
His father's face, so fair and so unlike his own, took on a closed expression. Patrick was not finding the argument easy. He could see his son's point of view and he felt guilty.
Thomas grew angry.
“I am not yours,” he said, tears starting to sting his eyes. “I am mine and I don't want to go in the spaceship and shrink little.”
Then Patrick understood. It was not the longing to stay behind that was uppermost in Thomas's mind at that moment. It was the fear of going forward, like the fear some people have of flying, only worse. That was an an easier problem to tackle. At least it did not require him to take a very dubious moral standpoint.
“I'm sorry, Thomas,” he said. “It was stupid of me not to think how frightening this must be for you. And there's no shame in being afraid.”
Thomas rubbed one hand over his eyes and looked at Patrick curiously.
“I am afraid,” he said. “I really do remember coming out of the spaceship and growing big. I don't know how we did it. I was only six. It seemed exciting then. It always has seemed exciting, even though nobody would believe me. But to go little again is terrifying. It could go wrong, couldn't it? We might get stuck somewhere. The spaceship landed in the wrong place, and we did fly twice round the moon.”
“That,” said Patrick defensively, “was a simple error of navigation. Diminishing—which is the proper term for it—is well within our scope. Diminishing and then, when the time comes, increasing and becoming our proper shape and size.”
The train stopped briefly at Chamfort, but no one came or left. The journey was almost at an end.
Thomas thought furiously, a twisting turmoil of thoughts.
“I don't know how it can be done,” he said. “I've learned lots of things at school, but it's only in fairy stories that things change size and shape. Are we magic?”
Patrick smiled. Magic would be such a simple way to provide answers.
“No,” he said. “I will try to explain, but I can't guarantee to manage it. First, you know that it is true, because you know that's how we came here.”
Thomas nodded solemnly, conceding this as fact.
“Well,” continued Patrick, “we were able to do that because our scientists have proceeded along different lines from those on Earth. Here they have a very firm grasp of the relativity of space and time. But they have not yet come to terms with the fact that size is cosmic illusion. Only their poets come anywhere near the concept of seeing things ‘through the wrong end of the long telescope' or perceiving ‘a world in a grain of sand.' Our scientists know that perception can be controlled.”
Thomas partly understood; his experience of size change was enough to make it at least a familiar idea. But there were still problems unsolved and thoughts too hard for an eleven-year-old to grasp.
“How?” he said simply, trying to cut across all the long words. “How is it done?”
“They harness energy, just as on Earth,” said Patrick. “Exactly how they achieve it, I don't really know. It is not my job to know. But the energy is stored within the sphere you call a golf ball and which we both know is really our spaceship. We touch one so-called dimple on the golf ball and the energy diminishes us and everything we are holding. We are, as it were, tuned to it. It draws us in, just as matter is supposed to be drawn into what scientists here call a black hole. Do you understand?”
Thomas looked from his dark Earth face into his father's blue-gray eyes. Did he understand? No, he most certainly did not.
“I don't understand black holes and energy,” he said flatly. “It's like believing in Santa Claus. At one time I really believed in him. Now I don't.”
Patrick put one hand across the table and grasped his son's delicate fingers.
“You needn't understand any of it,” he said, “so long as you trust me. You are the most important person in my life. I would never, ever take you into harm's way.”
Then there was an illusion indescribable of two beings closely akin exchanging loving thoughts. For a few moments everything in the carriage faded from sight, as if some strange aura surrounded the two of them. As I am … so are you … passengers in space and time. Words somehow echoed in the rhythm of the train.
“I do trust you, Vateelin mesht,” said the boy.
“Then you will have no fear, Tonitheen,” said his father. “Leckejil, Tonitheen ban. There is no need for fear.”
The spell was broken when over the train's loudspeaker came the announcement that they would soon be arriving at Casselton. “Passengers leaving the train should make sure to take all of their baggage with them. Thank you for traveling with North Western Rail. We hope you have had a pleasant journey.”
“All appearance is illusion,” said Patrick. “The thing that does not change is the spirit, the essence of your being. That remains as God made it. Whatever shape, size, or form you have, there's you inside it, making it work.”
The train drew into Casselton station. Patrick took two large cases from the rack above their heads and led the way out onto the platform. They looked impressive with flight labels stuck to the sides.
“Now,” he said, “the first thing we must do is put these cases in the left luggage. We shall have no need of them.”
“Then why did we bring them?” said Thomas.
“A precaution,” said his father sheepishly. “Stella might have been puzzled if we had set out on a long journey without any luggage. We have two hours before the train to Edinburgh. I'll take you into Casselton and show you where I have really ‘worked' these past five years. There is something there I need to collect.”
“Edinburgh?” said Thomas. “I thought we were going to London.”
“That was part of the story for Stella,” said Patrick ruefully. “London would be no use to us at all. In Edinburgh is the castle on the hill. And the monument in the park. You will remember them.”
They came out of Casselton station, crossed the broad road outside its giant portico, turned left, right, and left again. Then they were at the foot of a steep hill with old buildings on either side and a busy road running down the middle.
Thomas clung to Patrick's sleeve, walking quickly to keep pace with his father's longer stride. This part of town seemed to him dirty, noisy, and much too crowded. They walked up on the left-hand side of the street, passing shoddy-looking shops with grimy windows. On the other side of the road were a betting shop, a post office, then a terrace of high houses with steep front gardens that seemed to frown down at all the passing traffic. Their elegance had clearly known better days.
“This is Walgate Hill,” said Patrick. “Here is where I have worked for the past five years.”
“Here!” said Thomas, surprised and by no means impressed. “I thought you worked at the Chemicals Complex. Stella thought you did.”
The Chemicals Complex was part of an international company. It was the biggest and best employer in the area.
“A natural mistake,” said Patrick. “I thought it better not to correct it.”
Suddenly they were brought to a halt.
Patrick felt someone push quite roughly against his right shoulder and a voice shouted, “Who you pushin', mister? Who d'you think you're shovin'?”
Thomas jumped, glad to be on his father's other side, wondering what would happen next.
Patrick, however, was not in the least startled. He knew the voice and he knew the speaker's way of joking. He laughed and turned to face his assailant.
“All right, Canty, me old son,” he said. “Hold your horses! Hold your horses!”
The man was small and dark, his long, scruffy hair t
ied back in a ponytail. His overcoat, dull brown and threadbare, reached almost to his feet. His face was wizened and his smile gap-toothed. The dark eyes twinkled, though, as if there were always something to be happy about.
“Here,” said Patrick, handing him some coins, “and don't say I'm not good to you!”
“Ye are, Mr. Bentley. Ye allus are!”
He peered behind Patrick at Thomas, who had retreated as far as possible. Canty could see his head peeping round cautiously, a dark little head with deep brown eyes. He could see the shiny green coat the boy was wearing and the tan-colored knitted woolen gloves.
“That your lad?” he said.
“Yes,” said Patrick.
“Hello, Sammy,” said the tramp. “You look like a Sammy to me. I'm nivver wrong about a name! I could make me livin' at it! I've often thought about settin' up in a booth on the town moor.”
Thomas smiled nervously but said nothing. He was glad when they hurried on up the hill, leaving Canty to his own devices.
“Who was he?” he said when they were safely clear.
“Just a friend of mine,” said Patrick. “I've known him ever since I came here.”
“He's awful,” said Thomas.
“No, he's not,” said Patrick, shaking his head and smiling. “He's unfortunate and downtrodden. Life has not been kind to him, probably from the start. He's not the sort who would ever be sent on a mission to outer space. There is no risk of anyone like him landing on Ormingat. But he'll find his way to heaven all right.”
“And why did he call you Mr. Bentley?”
“He makes up his own mind what people are called. My office is above Bentley's Cycle Store. That's where he first saw me. There was no point in correcting him. He wouldn't have taken any notice if I had.”
Just then they came to a shop with clean windows and bicycles chained up on the pavement outside. Bentley's Cycle Store was written above the shop front in white letters on a vivid blue background.
“This is it,” said Patrick, leading the way to a door further up than the shop. He took a key from his pocket, opened the door, and took Thomas into a small lobby from which a flight of linoleum-clad wooden stairs led to the flat above.
