The Wonderground

5 - The Explosion

If he had to use one word to describe this December Tuesday afternoon, it would be grey. The sky outside the sash window was grey. Professor Duff's long, straggly beard was grey, bobbing up and down as he droned on about the origins of the London Underground in his grey woolly cardigan and grey knitted tie. The plastic chairs of his classmates, seated in rigid lines in front of him, were grey. Even the piece of chewing gum he had scratched free from the underside of his desk had turned grey. He popped it in his mouth anyway. Not a hint of mint.

Charlie Wood was bored.

He looked back outside at the dreary, overcast scene and noticed three grey pigeons pecking pointlessly at the grey Tarmac of the netball court.

Professor Duff's monotonous tone wafted back into his consciousness. "...and remember to get your consent forms signed by your dorm masters and mistresses ahead of the last-minute field trip this Thursday."

Field trip? Oh, no! Duffer's history trips were legendary – for all the wrong reasons. Last term's visit comprised a two-hour bus journey to Britain's first and only corned beef museum. There is a reason no-one else thought to open one.

'Dedicated to the compelling world of the salt-cured product, few experiences in life are as meaningful and meaty-filled as those you will have at the magnificent Museum of Corned Beef' claimed the website. Have you ever 'longed for a complete panorama of the history of corned beef'? No, neither had Charlie.

Then there was the trip to the abattoir in Year Five. Students crying and vomiting everywhere. Charlie remembered one of the Moss twins had passed out. When they got back to school for lunch, they were serving steak and kidney pie in the refectory. Not a well-planned day.

The bell rang for the end of the final lesson of the afternoon.

"See you all on Thursday morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed," reminded the professor. "Class dismissed."

Charlie noticed that the history teacher seemed even more downtrodden and miserable than normal. Professor Duff's chair squeaked against the varnished floorboards as he pushed it back and stood, indicating that his students could pack up their things and head for their respective house common rooms and dorms before dinner.

Charlie picked the long-dead chewing gum from between his teeth and stuck it back under the lid of his desk. "To be continued."

The room exploded in chatter as the students stood, clumsily stuffing yellow exercise books in their satchels, backpacks and one monogrammed briefcase, before funnelling towards the exit and freedom from the professor's sleep-inducing stories. They were joined in the corridor by the rest of Blankrook School's student body, all clamouring to escape their Tuesday afternoon tortures of Latin, Egyptology and Victorian History to regain feeling in their numb bums, hearts and minds.

Charlie was last to leave the classroom and nearly tripped over Elliot, who was on his hands and knees in the doorway, frantically scurrying around trying to recover the contents of his briefcase that were rolling, flapping and spreading across the emptying corridor. Charlie bent over to pick up the battered, brown leather case, with 'E.H.B.' embossed in gold at the handle and handed it to the small bespectacled boy at his feet.

"Was it Jack Wilson again, Blake?" he asked, both amused and feeling sorry for Elliot.

"Upon reflection," replied the flustered boy, unconvincingly, "it was probably my fault."

"You were probably just in the way," joked Charlie.

"I was definitely in his way," snorted Elliot, annoyed at himself.

Charlie extended a hand, which Elliot took, and dragged him to his feet.

"Don't worry," chuckled Charlie, "I know a great trick for getting footprint stains out of school uniforms."

Elliot sighed as he picked up the last few pieces of paper and pencils.

"Why are you such a pushover, Elliot?" Charlie asked.

Elliot pushed his glasses back up his nose with his middle finger as he spoke. "My dad always says: 'He who hides and runs away, can run away another day'."

"He sounds like a joker," laughed Charlie.

"No, he's a taxidermist," replied Elliot. "I don't think he's laughed since mum left and went back to Jamaica."

"I didn't know," apologised Charlie.

"He's my family," shrugged Elliot. "You only get one, right?"

Charlie's shoulders tensed and he stared at his shoes, avoiding eye contact with Elliot.

Elliot's face dropped as he apologised. "Sorry Charlie. I didn't think."

***

Charlie was six years old when it happened.

He came home from school, excited to tell his mum and dad that he had passed his Bikeability cycling test, the only one in his class that managed to not knock down a single miniature cone in the playground that afternoon. He propped his bike up against the shed (he could put it away later) and bounded into the utility room. He kicked off his trainers into the dog's bed and padded into the kitchen in his odd socks to find his auntie standing there, wearing his mum's washing up gloves.

Auntie Maureen lived in Blackpool which, even at six years old, Charlie knew was too far away from Kingston-upon-Thames for her to pop in for a visit. He had not seen his dad's sister in a couple of years, but he did not remember her eyes being so dark and puffy. The woman standing in the hallway wearing a police uniform was not his mum either. She introduced herself as PC Aisling Taylor, a family liaison officer, whatever that was. She did not look much like a police officer to Charlie. Her black hair was braided into cornrows and she was incredibly beautiful. Her dark skin was flawless and her fingernails were long and painted white. She sat him down and tried to explain why his mum and dad were not coming home anymore.

A gas explosion. In his parents' sweet shop.

It still shamed Charlie to remember that his first thought on hearing the news was how cool it would have been to see bonbons, truffles and pralines bursting into the air like a fireworks display. Then his second thought, and the harsh reality, hit him squarely in the heart. He crumpled, like a puppet with its strings cut, into the arms of PC Taylor while his Auntie Maureen sobbed into his mum's marigolds.

A few days later a sweaty man with a combover and an ugly tan suit visited the house from Bull & Moloch solicitors. The insurance pay-out would be huge enthused the man in charge of the will. Charlie asked if a pile of cash could cuddle him, or play football in the garden with him, or stick plasters on his knee and sing him to sleep?

Of course not, Mr. Moloch had said. Don't be silly.

What it could do, was pay for Charlie to go to a posh boarding school after he had moved to Blackpool for a while until the insurance paid out. His Auntie Maureen had protested the idea with the family liaison officer. "His uncle Alan and I don't have the room," she blustered. "Blackpool's no place for children."

PC Taylor pointed out that Blackpool boasted not only a beach, a zoo, a water park and an aquarium, but also a theme park with the biggest roller coaster in Britain. Auntie Maureen relented and Charlie spent the next year in their fifteen-bedroom B&B with a sea view. A year later, on the day the insurance money came through, they bundled him off to Blankrook School. He had never looked back. The school was his family now. And families protect each other.

***

"I'll take care of Jack Wilson," he reassured Elliot.

"Thanks Charlie, you're the best. See you on Thursday morning for the field trip." Elliot scampered off in the direction of Falcon house.

Charlie picked up a shiny apple that was wedging open the History classroom door. No doubt a gift for old Duffers from Elliot's briefcase. Or an unnecessarily healthy snack. He rubbed it against his green Hawk house tie, before taking a large crunching bite.

"Wilson," he muttered decisively to himself with his mouth full. He picked up his rucksack and headed for the stairs.