Oliver Smith

By Colin Gribble

Imagine a stranger comes into your life and you embark on a journey; the destination of which both scares and thrills you!
During an otherwise uneventful lesson at school; a new classmate arrives, just in time, to bale Peter out of a difficult situation. From the start, Peter feels that there is something different about Oliver; where had he come from, why does he act the way he does and can he be trusted? Peter has few friends and Oliver's company becomes precious, but his behaviour exasperates and consumes until Peter is convinced that their meeting is not just chance but fate. Something big is coming, Peter can feel it, but he has no idea just how earth-shaking events will become. Truly, nothing will be the same again!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin Gribble
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463226872

Colin Gribble

A bit of a 'Jack of all trades'. I started working life as an electronics technician; then I worked for 30 years with the London Fire Brigade serving at six fire stations and working in Research Development and Fire Safety. I now teach in a Further Education College. I have three children and live in West London. As well as writing, I dabble in music and like to keep myself fit and abreast of current affairs! Though generally an optimistic person: I am, currently, politically homeless and can often be found shaking my head in disbelief!

Book preview

Oliver Smith

by

Colin Gribble

Self published

First published 2019

Third Edition 2022

ISBN: 9781698049434

Copyright © Colin Gribble 2019

The right of Colin Gribble to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright design and patents act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

With thanks to Lucy, for persuading me to write this and for encouraging me to keep going.

Contents

Saved

No news is good news

My new friend

A lesson to all

Hide-and-seek

The truth will out?

Confront your fears

The bond strengthens

The green-eyed monster

Home is where the heart is

None the wiser

All things must pass

A worthy cause

Out of tragedy comes hope

The mystery resurfaces

Too close for comfort

Forgive and forget; do both, or either

On top of the world

A place of one’s own

Wow!

Nothing now is quite the same

Season of goodwill

Like a native

In with the new

The pen is mightier than the sword

Saved again

Forward together

Chapter One

Saved

My mind had drifted again as I sat in my favourite seat, a soft gaze gently scanning the sky and feeling the mild warmth of the milky sun. Wispy clouds forming the backdrop to a flock of seagulls heading south, the teacher’s chatter had faded to a mumble. I want to travel. It’s in my blood. Three weeks into a new term and already my interest is waning; my handwriting lazy and scruffier with each paragraph I wrote. I had started so positively; the new term, like the first page in a new exercise book begging great intentions, but now I feel locked into yet another year of slow descent. It’s Friday and the last period. I feel like I’m being pulled out of the school by an invisible force.

From my seat by the window a breeze envelops me. This is my chance to gaze and dream, to slide from the fading lesson to the world outside; a world where over 7 billion people live in thousands of conditions; various colours, contrasting shapes and distinct languages; all different but all the same. Around them nearly 9 million species struggle to survive; half of them hungry and the other half scared. Many humans battle daily just to maintain their existence, not for them the trivial worries of gadgets, gossip and fading youth; their focus is simply to experience another day, to see that sun rise again.

Crocker! I am pulled back with a sharp snap, as if on elastic. Mr Barnes fixes me with a stare and points to the board as a swell of muffled giggles travels all around me. He peers over his half-glasses, hands on hips in a stiff brown suit. He has a thin face with slick black hair combed back to a crisp point on the nape of his neck. He jerks his head in a twitchy manner and I always felt that he resembles a pigeon. Perhaps you would care to explain the reaction? He offers me his green marker pen, pointing it at me, like a gun. What reaction? I panicked. My heart pounded.

I hate chemistry. I hate all science. That’s why I drift away to foreign lands, fields, jungles, rivers, anywhere. Geography is my favourite subject. We have a big glorious planet and we know so little about it.

Go on, Crocks, came a sneer from two rows behind, adding, If you can write, that is? The voice was unmistakable: Ben Gunn possibly misunderstood but impossible to like. He picked on many, but none more than me. Why did he hate me so much? He was an easy boy to fear, thickset, the kind you feel could absorb enormous amounts of pummelling – God knows I’ve wanted to! His face is very square, the nose flat and the neck as thick as his head. It looks almost as if his face has caved in slightly. His hair is shaved at the back and sides with a thick blonde mop on top. I could feel his gleeful eyes burning into me as I rose from my seat, the chair scraping along the polished wooden floor like a creaking door.

Just how slowly could I walk to the formula on the whiteboard? Perhaps it would disappear if I took too long, the bell would ring or Mr Barnes would pass out.

I was confronted with: CaO2 + H2O →

I took the marker from Mr Barnes as I continued to stare at the puzzle. Why did I think staring at it would help? Come on, think! The silence of the room began to form a drumming rhythm in my head. Mr Barnes turned, tutting, and paced towards the window.

Suddenly and thankfully the door burst open. In strolled the headmaster, Mr Davy; a jolly, round fellow, short and always with a half grin on his face. He kind of rolled as he walked and had the ability to talk loudly but in an amiable way. His specialism was history, but he was very keen on organising school plays and amateur dramatics – and it showed! He nearly bowed as he swept his arm across his body and welcomed… who exactly? We weren’t expecting anyone today, we had not been warned, but I was very grateful; whoever our visitor was they were just in the nick of time – I liked them already.

Mr Barnes, I hope you don’t mind, you have a new pupil. Class, meet Oliver, I am sure you will give him a warm welcome.

Mr Davy clutched his lapels as his body swayed back and forth. He projected his voice theatrically, as if firing it to the back of a theatre. I had expected our new arrival to hang back, nervously, a few feet from the door. But Oliver strode in, placed himself at the centre of the class and stopped. He stared above the heads of the seated pupils. No one spoke. Then he spun on his heels to face myself and Mr Barnes and gazed at the whiteboard.

Welcome, Oliver. You look like a bright chap. Old Barnsey had adopted an almost unpleasant grovelling approach. I’ll bet you’re a wiz with chemical formulas.

I really hoped he was. I couldn’t help thinking that there was something odd about him. Physically, he was fairly unremarkable, nothing too out of place, but he gave off an aura of, well, I don’t really know. He appeared taller than the average Year 10 boy, slim with a very pale complexion. He looked as if he’d come from a tough environment. His hair, in contrast to his skin tone, was jet black, a fringe rolling inwards just above his eyes, otherwise a sensible cut, the kind my mother would approve of. Our green blazer and trousers did not suit him. Oliver’s uniform looked as if it had been put on in a hurry. Where had he come from so unexpectedly?

Oliver turned his attention from the two masters to the board. His expression gave nothing away, but his hesitation suggested that something was wrong. Mr Barnes took the marker from me and offered it to Oliver. The room fell silent again – almost more than silent, the shuffling and low whispers faded; so much so that when Oliver advanced towards the pen the clip-clop of his shoes echoed around the room. He paused before the whiteboard, like a conductor poised with his baton ready to strike up an orchestra.

The formula is not correct. The new boy’s accent created a little amusement. It was higher-pitched than expected and somewhat jittery, almost robotic. Oliver’s perception to the task at hand was therefore lost on his audience. So typical that people miss the main point and focus on the superficial. Have people always been like this? Dismiss or admire the confectionary, whatever it tastes like. Who cares how he sounds? Listen to the words! I overlooked the tone of voice; I was too gobsmacked by his impudence.

I overheard Ben whisper, Where is that accent from? Quickly followed by, What a weirdo, from somewhere else in the room.

Oliver walked to the board, stopped and stared at his shoes. There were embarrassed murmurs from the class. Go on, Oliver! I willed him silently.

He began to write: CaO + H2O → Ca(OH)2, explaining, Calcium oxide is written CaO, not CaO2. Calcium oxide reacts with water to form calcium hydroxide, also called slaked lime. This can be written as: calcium oxide + water → calcium hydroxide. Oliver clicked the top back onto the marker and held it out, looking slightly downwards, betraying no expression.

Anything else you would like to add, young Oliver? Mr Barnes looked a little chastened but rather impressed.

A lot of heat is produced in the reaction, enough to boil water. At the word boil he panned around the class. Many leant back in their seats as his gaze met theirs. This time no one laughed at his squeaky tone. Oliver handed back the pen, his expression devoid of smugness or triumph. Mr Barnes accepted the marker, his mouth agape. I went back to my seat swiftly.

As usual the seat next to me was empty. Naturally Oliver followed and took it.

Well, I’ll leave you all to it, boomed Mr Davy, his hands held out before him as if in prayer. Mr Barnes scurried after Mr Davy, and I could hear murmuring in the corridor, too quiet to make out the words but I assume Mr Barnes had also been caught unawares by our visitor.

I looked to my right at Oliver. He was staring gently ahead. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I looked back to the textbook: calcium hydroxide, slaked lime; yes, makes sense.

As Mr Barnes re-entered the room Oliver turned to me and snapped, Where do you live? His tone was a little shrill and squeaky and appeared to be coming from elsewhere. I had forgotten already how strange it sounded.

Hi, I’m Peter, I replied cheekily. Nice to meet you. I held out my hand. Oliver stared at it and then touched it as if examining it. I withdrew my offer.

Where do you live? A little lower in tone but still rather disembodied.

My mind flashed with images of my caravan on the site. I couldn’t be specific and I felt slightly anxious about my hesitation and embarrassment in providing a full answer, a traitor to my family.

Just outside Yardley Village. You seem very keen to know?

Oliver turned to face the front. Mr Barnes walked round to the front of his desk and perched against it. His attempts to look casual and relaxed failed completely.

Perhaps we could begin by hearing a little about you, Oliver…? Barnsey walked away from the desk towards the window, glancing up into the now blueing sky. Oliver…? Mr Barnes cocked his head, waiting for the answer.

He’s asking you for your surname – Oliver what? I chipped in with a whisper.

It didn’t seem like Oliver had understood, but he did not look perplexed. In fact he betrayed no emotion at all as he turned to face the front. Smith, he shouted to empty space in front of him.

A few titters emanated from the room. I wondered if his accent embarrassed him, or was he actually struggling to answer direct questions? He had no such trouble with a chemical formula.

Where are you from? Mr Barnes pressed on, unrelenting.

Oliver’s gaze looked to Mr Barnes and then joined his, staring out of the window. The class did the same, weirdly all looking over to Mr Barnes silhouetted against the sunshine now streaking in from the early October day, a dark figure with a shimmering corona dancing around him.

Yardley Village, replied Oliver.

I threw him a puzzled look.

Any brothers or sisters?

No.

Any hobbies, Oliver? The teacher craned his neck and peered as if threading a needle.

There was a pause.

Travel.

I was getting a little embarrassed now. I felt like chipping in to help the proceedings.

What’s your favourite subject? Mr Barnes persevered, trying to avoid a closed question.

I guessed this one.

Science, Oliver replied, without making eye contact. This came out with the squeakiest pitch of all, like he’d just hiccupped mid-word. He acted as if he wanted to close down the conversation and seemed to sense that the grilling was over. I couldn’t help wondering how Oliver would have reacted to a very open question, like, What do you like about science? But he was never really tested.

Oh well, we can’t chat like this all morning. Mr Barnes waited for a laugh but it never came. He looked down at his feet and slowly walked away from the window and back to the front of the class, hands clasped behind his back. The final school bell accompanied his pacing. Have a look at chapter three before next week, especially you, Peter.

I gave Oliver a nod and collected my things. Suddenly he was gone. I sped up, trying to catch up with him. I turned left out of the classroom, a gamble but it was the fastest route to the main exit. After twenty yards I decided right would have been a better choice. Travelling past the science classroom I had a view down a long corridor. I ran, bouncing off kids eager to get home, heading for the main playground at the end of the West Wing corridor. Once in the schoolyard I spun around, craning my neck to catch site of the elusive Oliver. I was beginning to draw attention to myself.

Lost something? It was Emily Grey, a sort of motherly girl who acted so much older than her years. Emily was in my year and a bit of a loner like me, so I felt safe with her.

I was… trying to… catch Oliver. I could only manage to say this in bursts as I was slightly out of breath. I need to get fitter!

Oliver?

Oh, he’s new, very new, started today in the last lesson, sort of just appeared!

Well, he must have made a big impression, she continued, as you seem very keen to find him. What’s he like? Are you friends already?

I like him. I paused. Emily’s questions had really made me ponder. I think we will be very close friends.

That’s good, we all need friends, Emily said quietly, with a smile.

Chapter Two

No news is good news

I love Saturday mornings. There’s always a buzz around the site; somehow on a Saturday we don’t feel so disconnected to the people in the village. It’s as if once the weekend comes, we can all relax a little. There’s even some let-up in the tension which often exists between us Romany gypsies and the travellers that make up most of the site. People are strange; they take so long to accept anyone different, if they ever do, even within their own communities, but to me, variety is the best part of being human!

Sitting on the steps I look up from putting on my shoes which are a little the worse for wear and in need of new laces. It was worth a break to take in the rising milky sun heralding a lovely late September day. I close my eyes and try to take in all the sounds around me: a chirping bird, a distant conversation, the hum of cars. Suddenly I feel something brushing against my left hand – something wonderful. It was my dog, Jack, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. We have had Jack for about four years now; we’d found him abandoned, unloved and a little angry. To me he is perfect, bright white but punctuated with sand-coloured patches. His eyes are soft and intelligent, surrounded by what looks like a light-brown mask. But it’s the fur, so soft that as I run my fingers through it all my stresses drain away. With all senses now occupied, I look forward to the day.

Something was afoot, I could feel it, an excitement that was a mystery but nonetheless very real. Autumn is removing the old and bringing in the new; leaves don’t turn brown, they just lose their green, and losing their leaves enables trees to withstand the November storms. It’s all for the best in the end. I couldn’t help feeling that in the background to this change was Oliver, my new friend in waiting. It all feels connected somehow. I found myself shaking my head – perhaps I was getting a little carried away!

Are you getting that paper or not?

Of course, Pater, just going. Any particular rag? I loved winding up my father just to get a lecture on the perils of the tabloid press. He always wanted a very particular newspaper and was perhaps a little snobby in his desire to let everyone know this.

Now, now, Peter, are you trying to get me going? He emerged with his customary pipe, jeans and checked shirt. He threw me a knowing smile. Clean-shaven, still a good head of thick brown hair, with just a hint of grey around the sideburns. He was a curious blend of contrasts; he had the look of both a lumberjack about to fell a tree and a man about to raise an intellectual point at a conference. He thrust a five-pound note in my hand that meant I could buy myself a little treat. I returned the smile and skipped away.

My father, Maurice, or Mo, to everyone that knew him well, was truly my hero. Quiet but very knowledgeable, old-fashioned but in a really comforting way, he always seemed to know things, and if he didn’t, he convinced me he did. He had been in the police force for many years, but, as is his nature, doesn’t talk much about his work, telling us only the funny stories and shielding us from the unpleasant side of his job. He reads a lot and is very choosy about his subject matter. His work colleagues call him the prof.

I wandered back up the steps and into the caravan, our home, our static mobile home. Though we are loosely called travellers – if we’re lucky, that is (there are other terms to describe us) – I can’t remember travelling anywhere for some time now. My father tells me that this is often the case as parents get more mature. It is important, he informs me, to feel stable and secure, even for those associated with roaming the land.

Inside, my mother was eyeing some paperwork, impeccably dressed for an early hour, her dark-red hair tied up in a bun. Her hands were clasped around her favourite mug and she had stopped, mid-sip, to peruse what appeared to be a tricky piece of legislation. She was a solicitor’s clerk and was always peering over her reading glasses with a frown, as if interrogating a suspect.

Ma, do you want anything from the village?

She turned slowly and with a big grin remarked, The winning lottery ticket, please. It was still a great reply, even if I had heard it a few times already.

Nice one, Hannah, yelled Pa, with a hint of sarcasm.

Well, failing that, Peter, she went on, just bring me back some good news. Tell me the world has grown a big heart overnight and that kindness is spreading like a Nile flood to nourish the land.

Hannah, you really should write that book, you have a wonderful way with words!

If there was one thing my father was good at – and there were many – it was his generosity with compliments. My mother grinned and looked a little embarrassed.

Heading out of the site I walked past the last home before the gate. Nat Bailey and his wife Becky were outside staring at the blueing sky and enjoying a morning tea. They were in their seventies. I nodded, and Nat nodded back and raised his cup. Then he beckoned me over with a wagging bony finger.

Off for your paper? I knew what was coming. Could you grab me one? I also knew the paper he wanted, and my father would definitely not approve! I waited for some money but it seemed wrong to make him get up.

I’ll settle up later, I’m not going anywhere, said Nat as they both chuckled. I suppose it is a funny line, coming from seasoned travellers, sitting framed in the foreground of their now motionless mobile home. With many miles of wandering the land under the belts of all these people on this site, was this really to be our final place of residence?

The walk to the newsagent involves crossing a small park, where I often spot a few familiar faces from school. Today was no exception. By the old dilapidated changing huts stood Tony from my class; blonde, mature-looking and square-jawed, his head permanently raised so as to look at the top of the head of anyone he cared to talk to. Next to him stood Angela, long dark hair and thin of body. Her face seems framed by