The idea was this: that all the pupils employ Tuesday’s last period to walk a mile down leafy country lanes to the beach, there to collect up large, flat, rounded stones, of which there were plenty, and to carry them back one per pupil to the school. And as stated, along the way one male teacher (usually the gym-master, who was ex-Army Physical Training Corps) and two of the school’s younger, unattached female teachers would extol the glories of the hedgerows, the wonders of the wild flowers and the countryside in general. None of which was of any real interest to Harry Keogh; but he did like the beach, and anything was better than a classroom on a warm, droning afternoon.
‘Here,’ said Jimmy Collins to Harry as they strolled, two abreast, midway in a long line of kids, down through the paths of the dene winding to the sea, ‘you really ought to pay attention to old Hannant, you know. I mean, not about all that “needing qualifications” stuff -that’s up to you – but during lessons generally. He’s not a bad ‘un, old George, but he could be if he decided you were just taking the mickey.’
Harry shrugged dejectedly. ‘I was daydreaming,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s sort of funny. See, when I daydream like that, it’s like I can’t stop. Only old Hannant shouting – and you giving me a jab – pulled me out of it.’
Pulled me out. . . the strong hands reaching down into the water . . . to pull me out, or push me under?
Jimmy nodded. ‘I’ve seen you like it before, lots of times. Your face goes sort of funny . . .’ He looked serious for a moment, then chuckled and gave Harry a playful thump on the shoulder. ‘Not that that’s a big deal – your face is funny all the time!’
Harry snorted. ‘Listen who’s talking! Me, funny-looking? I’d play Kirk to your Spock any time! Anyway, what do you mean? I mean, how do I look, you know, funny?’
‘Well, you just sit very still, all stary-eyed, scared-looking. But not always. Sometimes you look a bit dreamy, like. Anyway, it’s like old George said: you just don’t seem to be here at all. Actually, you’re very weird! I mean, it’s true, isn’t it? How many friends have you got?’
‘I’ve got you,’ Harry feebly protested. He knew what Jimmy meant: he was too deep, too quiet. But not studious, not a swot. If he’d been good at lessons, that would perhaps explain it, but he wasn’t. Oh, he was clever enough (at least he felt he could be clever) if he wanted to concentrate on it. It was just that he found concentration very hard. It was as if sometimes the thoughts he thought weren’t really his at all. Complicated thoughts and daydreams, fancies and phantasms. His mind made up stories for him – whether he wanted it to or not – but stories so detailed they were like memories. The memories of other people. People who weren’t here any more. As if his head was an echo-chamber for minds which had . . . gone somewhere else?
‘Yes, you’ve got me for a friend,’ Jimmy interrupted his train of thought. ‘And who else?’
Harry shrugged, went on the defensive. ‘There’s Brenda,’ he said. ‘And . . . and anyway, who needs lot of friends? I don’t. If people want to be friendly they’ll be friendly. If they don’t, well that’s up to them.’
Jimmy ignored the mention of Brenda Cowell, Harry’s grande passion who lived in the same street. He was into sport, not girls. He’d hang himself from a goal-post before he’d be caught with his arm round a girl in the cinema when the lights went up. ‘You’ve got me.r he said. ‘And that’s it. As for why I like you -1 just dunno.’
‘Because we don’t compete,’ said Harry, shrewder than his years. ‘I don’t understand sport, so you enjoy explaining it to me – ‘cos you know I won’t argue. And you don’t understand me being so, well, quiet – ‘
‘And weird,’ Jimmy interrupted.
‘-And so we get along.’
‘But wouldn’t you like more friends?’