by Hayley Long
But, hey, that’s OK because I’m a long way from my mum and Sexy Steve as well.
Last night, me, Caradoc and my dad watched the film The Empire Strikes Back. I’ve seen it hundreds of times before because my dad is a massive fan of the Star Wars trilogy and he usually gets his box set out every time I visit. I don’t mind though because I secretly love Star Wars too. I love all that Jedi knight versus the dark side stuff and I also love the idea that – when push comes to shove – alien entities, robotic droids and actual human people are capable of cooperating with one another and standing side by side in order to fight the forces of evil. When you think about it, it’s as inspiring as Mr Davies’ assembly about eggs.
But last night, I’d have probably sat and watched any old rubbish. Even And They Died Screaming. To be honest, I was just happy to stare at the TV screen and avoid any pointless conversational chit-chat. Although he hasn’t said anything specific, I get the impression that my dad is secretly very peeved about having to take an entire day off work yesterday to drive all the way to Aberystwyth and back. I don’t know why I think this – I just do. I suppose it’s what is simply known as an intuitive hunch. But then again, it might just be plain old paranoia.
When the film finished, my dad said, ‘Brilliant. Cracking. And that’s where they should have left it. As a trilogy. Those newer prequel things are a total waste of time. They bring shame on the name of Star Wars. But the first three are perfection. Three is a magic number, kids. Remember that.’
Caradoc, who had spent most of the film playing with his PSP, looked up smiling and said, ‘Like you, me and Lottie?’
‘Yes,’ said my dad. ‘Or you, me and Mummy.’
I went to bed soon after that. I’m staying in the spare room. It doesn’t have a computer in it or any posters on the wall and there isn’t a sweet elderly chinchilla living next door but it’s nice enough. And I’d had a very tiring day – physically and emotionally – and I just wanted to be by myself.
But my dad’s words stayed with me long after my eyes had closed. Because he’s right. Three is a magic number and there’s a shedload of evidence to support this. The number three has a special power that other numbers simply don’t have. Three is stronger, brighter and much more interesting than any other dreary old digit. I’d even go so far as to say that, in the right context, three has a rare and mysterious beauty. If this sounds utterly bonkers, consider the facts:
• As my dad rightly stated, Star Wars should have remained forever as a trilogy. But then they made three more films so now it is technically a sixology. Except that the word sixology doesn’t actually exist – I just made it up. The truth is that nobody cares what a group of six films is called because six is blatantly not a magic number.
• My favourite food is almost always made up of three vital parts. Take as an example this list quickly compiled off the top of my head:
– curry, rice and chips
– bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich
– treacle pie, chocolate sauce and ice cream
• My favourite band in the whole world is the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Sadly, they are unable to give live performances today because Jimi no longer exists in this earthly dimension – and, in fact, hasn’t since 1970. The Jimi Hendrix Experience comprised three band members: guitar, bass and drums. While together, they produced three classic albums. Perfect.
• One of the first things I ever learned in art is that there are three primary colours: red, yellow and blue. These three colours can be mixed together to create every other single colour in existence. WOW!22
• There are also three colours on the Welsh flag: red, white and green. Now, I’m not being biased just because I happen to be Welsh but I genuinely and honestly believe that the Welsh flag is the most stylish flag in the entire cosmos. It’s certainly the only flag I know that has a rampaging dragon on it. I bet, if forced to undertake a lie-detector test, most English people would actually admit that they wish it was their flag too. To be fair, all the best flags have three colours in them. France has a tricolor – not a quadcolor – and so do Ireland, Italy and Holland and loads of other places. Incidentally, England’s flag has only got two colours on it. Two is not a magic number.
• Mr Wood, my English teacher, is always banging on about something called the rule of three. He reckons that it instantly adds a distinct poetic quality to the written word. To demonstrate this, he used the example of Julius Caesar saying I came, I saw, I conquered and William Shakespeare’s Juliet asking the question Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? At the time, I’m sorry to say that I can distinctly remember muttering, ‘Boring, boring, boring’ under my breath. Now that I am a little older and wiser, I actually find this quite interesting, interesting, interesting.
In addition to all the above, I’ve been giving it some further thought and I can conclude with confidence that three is also a magic number in the scientific world of science. Despite the fact that I usually find this subject to be extremely boring, boring, boring, I’ve had several conversations with Mr Thomas, my double-science teacher, which have been freaky, fascinating and fab. Like the time he told me that polar bears don’t have white fur – it’s actually transparent. Or the time he told me that if you strap a magnet to a pigeon’s head, it will fly around in circles forever. Personally though, I think this would be really cruel. But I don’t mind admitting that I’ve grown to quite like these conversations with Thommo. If – right now – I was in my science classroom asking Mr Thomas his opinion as to whether or not he supports the belief that three is a magic number, I can just imagine that he would raise up his right eyebrow – in a way that doesn’t make him look like James Bond – rub his chin thoughtfully and say something along the lines of:
‘Well, Lottie, that’s an interesting question. Thanks for asking it. Is three a magic number? Well . . . not exactly magic . . . because that would imply that there is some supernatural force at play and – as a scientist – I believe there’s a higher likelihood that everything can be understood by using a rational explanation. But the number three definitely crops up with a surprising frequency. Think about the three states of matter . . . solid, liquid and gas. And then there are the three particles that make up every single thing that you can see – and can’t see – around you . . . protons, neutrons and electrons. And, hey, let’s not forget the three methods by which heat flows . . . conduction, convection and radiation. I suppose too I should mention the three types of rock . . . igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic. I’m sure there are probably other examples. If you want to stay behind for a few minutes after the lesson, we can try to think of some more. Does that adequately answer your question?’
At this point in our imaginary conversation Mr Davies, my RE teacher, randomly pops into the science lab to borrow a test tube that he’s going to use as the minaret on his model mosque, organizes his right hand so that it looks as if he’s aiming an air dart at me, and says:
‘What’s this? Hmmm? Hmmm? Are we discussing the divine qualities of the number three? Schlop schlop. Interesting, hmmm? Very very interesting. I’m an RE man by trade and the obvious example that springs to mind is the Christian Trinity . . . the father, son and the holy ghost. That’s basically three persons existing in one Godhead. Just imagine that. Hmmm? Then, of course, there are the magi . . . or three wise men . . . who gave gifts to the infant baby Jesus. But we can cast our net wider than Christianity, Lottie. Oh yes we can! Hinduism has the Trimurti . . . or the three great gods, Brahmä, Vishnu and Śhiva . . . . and, if we look to Judaism, we find the three patriarchs . . . Ab, Isaac and Jacob. What do you make of that? Hmmm?’
But right now I am not in my science lesson. I’m actually in the front room of my dad’s little house in Wrexham and I’m using his computer to type up all these thoughts in an attempt to disentangle the mountain of nutty knots in my life. And even though I was dead tired last night, the weird thing is that I don’t think I actually slept a single wink – so I’ve bee
n down here since 5.37 a.m. and it’s now almost eight o’clock. Dad is just about to go to work, Sally is flapping around and getting Caradoc ready for school and I’m just sitting here and keeping out of everyone’s way. I don’t know why though. Deep down, I reckon I could do with their company. After all, I must be feeling fairly lonely if I’m reduced to having an imaginary conversation with two of my teachers from school! It does prove one thing though. It proves that I listen. On more than one occasion, I’ve been accused – unfairly – of not paying enough attention during my lessons. If any of my teachers were to read the words I’ve just typed, I think they would be forced to take back their unkind words, give me some proper credit and apologize.
It surely also proves the magnificence of the number three! And if any doubt dares to remain regarding the mysterious, magical and mind-bendingly marvellous qualities of this number, I can banish it forever by simply recalling to my mind a very special meeting that took place on the bus from Whitchurch village to Cardiff Central Bus Station. And I know I’m flitting back and forth through time a bit – but the truth is, logic doesn’t always run in a perfectly straight line.
No sooner had me and Goose taken our seats when a shout from the back of the bus caused me to turn round. There on the back seat, looking absolutely sexadelic in his rugby kit, was none other than Gareth David Lloyd George Stingecombe. He had a massive grin on his face and was looking very pleased about life. He shifted a few seats forward to join us and said, ‘Lottie! Love the silver hair, babe!’ And then he turned to Goose and said, ‘Goose!’ And then he turned back to me and said, ‘You’ll never guess what, Lottie, the most amazing thing has happened! And I was going to phone and tell you but I’m all out of credit. Anyway, the thing is . . .’ And then he frowned, gazed into my eyes which were still red from all the crying I’d done at the bus stop and said, ‘What’s the matter?’
I chewed my lip and considered what I should say to him. The whole situation was quite awkward really.
‘What is it?’ asked Gareth again. He was frowning so hard that his eyebrows had joined together.
Through the window, I could see the buildings getting bigger and the traffic getting thicker as we got closer and closer to the centre of the city. I picked at a loose bit of foam spilling out of a hole on the back of my seat and said, ‘Things between me and my mum have reached a crisis point, Gareth. So I’m going to Aberystwyth to spend a few days with Ruthie. Goose is coming with me.’
Gareth looked at Goose and frowned even deeper. ‘What, now?’
‘Yep,’ said Goose.
‘When are you coming back?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
Gareth breathed inward and seemed to hold his breath. And then he said, ‘Will you be back for the end-of-term disco?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said again.
Goose gave me a slightly funny look and said, ‘Well, we probably will because I’m not missing the end-of-term disco. I can tell you that now.’
Gareth stared at her. ‘But you can’t be going now – you’ve got your work uniform on!’
Goose just shrugged.
‘You can’t go,’ said Gareth. He had forgotten Goose and was looking straight at me. Right into my eyes. Gareth has got very beautiful green eyes and when I look deeply into them, it’s very difficult to keep a clear thought in my head. With a massive effort of inner strength, I pulled myself together. ‘I can, Gaz. And I am.’
Gareth took hold of my hands. In a weirdly wobbly – but way too loud – voice, he said, ‘But you can’t because . . . because . . . I love Ewan McGregor!’
‘What?’ I said.
‘You love Ewan McGregor?’ said Goose. ‘Random!’ And then she started laughing.
‘Ewan McGregor,’ spluttered Gareth, who had suddenly developed a nasty cough. ‘The actor. I love the way he mixes mainstream cinema with independent art-house roles, and I particularly enjoyed his performance as Christian in Moulin Rouge.’
‘Oh,’ I said, slightly confused. ‘Thanks for sharing that fact with me.’
The three of us sat in silence for a while. For some reason, it seemed difficult to know quite what to say. Eventually, the bus swung around sharply by the castle and I knew I’d soon have to say an even more difficult goodbye.
Gareth, who had been chewing his knuckles ever since his revelation about Ewan McGregor, suddenly blurted out, ‘But you’re not even wearing a coat!’
‘Neither are you,’ I reminded him with a small smile.
Gareth didn’t smile back. Instead, he fumbled with the zip of a big sports bag that was resting between his feet and pulled out a thick red training top. ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘I brought it with me as a spare. I’d rather you wear it.’
My stomach flipped over inside me. Gareth has a way of making it do that sometimes. In a good way though. Not in a stomach bug kind of way. Gratefully, I took the top from him and held it in my lap, twisting my fingertips through the rough cotton.
‘Come on,’ said Goose, picking up her briefcase. ‘This is where we all get off.’ And then she said to Gareth, ‘Where are you off to, anyway?’
‘Rugby training,’ said Gareth. His mouth had turned down at the edges and he looked really miserable.
‘In the middle of town?’ said Goose.
‘Hmm,’ said Gareth.
I placed the training top around my shoulders and stood up. ‘We’ve got to go and find the bus to Aberystwyth. Take it easy, yeah, Gaz.’ I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the window. I couldn’t look at him. I don’t know why but I felt like I was letting him down in some way.
At last the bus came to a stop and we all got off. ‘Bye then, Gareth,’ I said. ‘I hope your training session goes well.’ And then I frowned and added, ‘Why is your training session in the city centre anyway?’
Gareth shrugged his shoulder. ‘Oh I dunno. Doesn’t matter.’
I knew he was fed up because Gareth hardly ever mutters. He’s not the muttering type. I am though. I touched him on the arm and said, ‘We’d better be off. See you soon.’
Gareth shook his arm from me and snapped, ‘Yeah, but when though?’ And I knew then that he was in a seriously bad mood because he’s really not the sort of person who’d get all snappy with me.
‘Soon,’ I promised. And then – because I really hate emotional goodbyes – I squeezed his arm and just turned right round and walked off in the direction of the ticket office. I heard Goose say, ‘She’ll be OK, Gareth. We’re only going to stay with her sister,’ and then she caught up with me and threaded her arm through mine.
And that would have been all there is to tell about that gloomy bus trip from Whitchurch village to Cardiff Central Bus Station had it not been for the miraculous thing that happened just afterwards. Gareth’s footsteps came thumping over the concrete forecourt and I turned to see him running towards us with his sports bag flung over his shoulder and his face all red and serious-looking. ‘Gareth, what are you doing?’ I said.
He slowed down to a halt and, sounding slightly cross, he said, ‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘I dunno,’ I said.
‘I’m coming with you, aren’t I?’ Then, before I could even grasp the full meaning of his words, he said, ‘Don’t tell me I’m being daft and I can’t come with you because I know I’m daft and I’m coming anyway. Coach Jenkins reckons that when you’re gonna make a dummy pass on the field of play, two men can just about manage but three is a lot safer.’ And with that, he threaded his arm through my spare one and – with no further discussion – we all walked off together to get three tickets to Aberystwyth. Me, Gareth and Goose. And I felt magic.
a PartlCuLarLY GreY tuesDaY MOrNING IN wreXham
To be honest, that magic has worn off. It’s not easy to feel fantastically magic or special when you’re sitting on a wonky chair in a public library and typing on a keyboard that has got crisp crumbs stuck between all the keys. But this is what I’ve been reduced to. When Sally got back from the scho
ol run this morning she made me a cup of coffee and said, ‘You can’t monopolize that computer all day, Lottie. I need it to see if I’ve had any new orders. I could be losing customers.’ Sally has an online shop selling her own home-made herbal calming remedies. She tried one of her new concoctions out on me once and it tasted like a mixture of liquorice and dust. It made me feel a little bit sick and then it made me want to drink loads of water but it didn’t make me feel particularly calm. Mind you, Sally’s remedies blatantly don’t work because Sally is actually one of the most stressed-out people I’ve ever encountered in my entire life. Even her hair looks stressed out. It’s all tight and frizzy and obviously no one has ever recommended Melody Ultra Soft Conditioning Treatment (for Dry Difficult Hair) to her. And she cries even more than I do. And over silly things – like the dinner being a bit overcooked or other people parking their cars too close to her Nissan Micra. Once, when we all went on holiday to Spain, Sally cried because the sun was too hot! To be fair to her though, she’s nice enough. And she did give me a tenner to spend on whatever I want in Wrexham today. And she also lent me her library card. At the time, I’d thought this was a bit of a weird thing to lend me and I hadn’t wanted to take it but now I’m really glad I did because it’s pouring with rain outside and Sally asked me not to come back to the house until four o’clock. She’s a very busy person.
I’ve been to Wrexham loads of times but I’ve never really noticed until today how totally dark the sky is. It’s much darker than I’m used to. This morning it looked like this:
Even at 10 a.m. There was hardly enough daylight to give the world any colour and, for a while, I felt like I was trapped in one of those weird black and white films that Tim Overup gets so excited about. It made me very claustrophobic, if I’m honest, and this is unusual for me because I’m actually someone who enjoys sitting inside my own wardrobe.
