Indigo's Star Page 4

  ‘I’m going to post something,’ she announced through the sitting-room door, and hurried away before anyone could say, ‘Not on your own, darling!’

  On the way to the letter box Rose did calculations. Today was Wednesday. Her letter would arrive on Thursday. Her father, she hoped, would be home by Friday at the latest. Then her mother would stop painting portraits of dead animals and come out of her shed, the car would be fixed, the cupboard shelves restocked, and most importantly, a way would be found to keep Indigo safe at school.

  ‘And I will show him my picture on the kitchen wall,’ said Rose aloud. Right after Indigo was sorted out, even before she showed him the empty cupboard shelves.

  ‘Not on your own, darling,’ said Eve, as Rose re-entered the house.

  ‘I’ve been,’ said Rose.

  Chapter Five

  Saffron and Sarah’s energetic encounter with the red-haired gang leader left him with two difficulties.

  The first was that it hurt to comb his hair. He stopped combing it. That was one problem solved.

  The second difficulty was that (for the moment) Indigo could not be touched. Another encounter with Saffron and Sarah was too horrible to contemplate. The leader’s subtle and resourceful brain went to work on this complication, but it did not bother him for very long. There were so many things that could happen at school which Indigo would not enjoy.

  One of them was started already.

  Everyone knew how squeamish Indigo was when being forced to witness the antics of the gang with a victim. It was easy to arrange that he should see some more. It was not even necessary to sacrifice one of the rabble to do so. Right on time, someone new had arrived. Tom, withering and scornful, asking for trouble.

  At first it was hard for the red-haired gang leader to turn the rabble from Indigo to Tom. They were not a very intelligent bunch. Over and over again they had to be patiently reminded, ‘Not him! Tom! Over there!’ It was a bit like training dogs.

  Indigo always hurried to defend Tom when the dogs were urged into action, but he soon found he was of very little use. He had become invisible again. When he hurled himself at the crowd as they shoved and jostled Tom, they parted before him, but closed up at once behind. They were deaf to his shouts. They did not seem to feel any pain when he hammered on their backs. The bony-faced red-haired leader smiled gently through him, as if he was a gap in a wall.

  That first week of term Tom’s possessions became more battered by the day, but inexplicably, Tom did not. No matter how outnumbered he was, he always fought back. He refused to be a victim, and it soon became apparent that he was the most difficult person the gang had ever undertaken to bully. The rabble had to be continually reminded to do their duty. Their leader had never had to work so hard. Part of his problem was that Tom would not stop talking.

  Indigo listened to Tom talking, and he did not know what to think. Obviously, he realised, Tom talked because he liked to be listened to. He liked an audience, any audience, even an audience of enemies, as long as they paid attention.

  Nothing could have been more detached, more reasonable, more self-assured, than Tom’s way of telling his unbelievable stories.

  ‘Your dad’s an astronaut, right, Tom?’ someone would ask.

  ‘Right,’ Tom agreed lazily.

  ‘An astronaut, you said?’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘What d’you mean, at the moment?’

  ‘Well, obviously he wasn’t always an astronaut. You’re not born an astronaut.’

  Then there would be a pause. Rabble members, ignored-but-protecteds and casual hangers-on would consult together. Obviously, a person was not born an astronaut. Did he think they were stupid?

  A new questioner emerged and took over.

  ‘What was he before?’

  ‘Baseball player.’

  Nobody in Tom and Indigo’s class, nobody in the entire school, knew anything about baseball players, but still, it sounded improbable.

  ‘Liar.’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘You mean a good baseball player?’

  Tom always seemed to have a rubber ball about him somewhere. He took one out of his pocket and began tossing it from hand to hand, but the questions persisted.

  ‘You mean a proper baseball player?’

  Tom bounced his ball off the ceiling, caught it, and glanced with raised eyebrows at the questioner. His glance asked the world, ‘What kind of a fool is this?’

  ‘You mean a professional baseball player?’

  Tom lost interest and drifted away, still bouncing his ball off the ceiling. He left behind him a trail of small circular grey marks high above his head, and a whole crowd of people saying, ‘What a liar! What a total liar!’

  ‘Who is a liar?’ demanded the red-haired gang leader, walking through Indigo as if he was fog. ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Levin? Tom Levin? Yes,’ said the gang leader virtuously, ‘Yes. He’s a liar.’

  Tom did no work at all in class. Nothing. If he was asked a question he shrugged and replied, ‘Who knows?’ His watchful, scornful brown eyes said, even more plainly, ‘Who cares?’

  Sometimes he would take his ball out of his pocket and drop and catch it from hand to hand. The drops would start off very small, and the catches would be hardly a movement. Almost imperceptibly, however, they grew bigger. Tom’s chair would tilt back to give himself extra space. He made the game more interesting by catching the drops with his eyes shut. Then he would go for a bounce.

  Bounces were more than any teacher could put up with for long, and sooner or later Tom would be sent out of the room. He always went willingly. Inside the classroom they would hear the bounces of his ball, more and more faintly, as he wandered away.

  On Thursday afternoon Derek-from-the-camp turned up at the Casson house. He happened to be passing, he said, and had stopped off to say hello. Rose arrived home at just the same time, and in a moment of inspiration she asked him, ‘Are you any good at fixing cars?’

  Derek turned out to be spectacularly good at fixing cars, and cured the Casson one almost immediately by the simple but highly effective addition of petrol.

  ‘I knew there was something I was meaning to buy!’ exclaimed Eve, delighted to hear the good news.

  ‘Now you can go shopping,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Eve, unenthusiastically.

  Indigo and Saffron arrived back from school to find her busy with a shopping list, while Rose rewarded Derek’s car-fixing skills by adding his portrait to the collection of people in her picture on the kitchen wall.

  ‘Hello Saffy, hello Indigo,’ said Eve. ‘Batteries, turpentine, hair dye…Don’t talk to me! I’m trying to think! Darling Derek has mended the car!’

  Derek’s glance went upward, a little surprised, and Rose said severely, ‘She calls everyone darling! Keep still!’

  ‘I don’t call everyone darling!’ protested Eve. ‘Do you need any more pastels, Rose?’

  ‘Yes please. I always need more.’

  ‘Batteries, turpentine, hair dye, pastels for Rose. Some flowers would be nice, those big pink lilies…What else should we buy?’

  ‘Food,’ said Saffron sternly.

  Eve gave a big sigh and asked, ‘What sort of food?’

  ‘Things for breakfast,’ said Rose immediately. ‘Things for supper, things for in between, Diet Coke and coffee to keep you awake, and stuff Daddy likes in case he comes home tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Rose,’ said her mother. ‘Daddy would have said by now if he was coming home tomorrow.’

  There was a little silence, while everyone looked at Rose. Rose did not say anything, but she stopped drawing Derek and instead began sketching very rapidly near the bottom of her picture. In no time at all the deep water that lapped the walls of the house was filled with the dorsal fins of cruising sharks.

  ‘Rose,’ said Derek, watching her, ‘you are absolutely fantastic at drawing.’

  Rose gave him a quick s
ideways look to see if he was making fun of her. He wasn’t, she decided, and she began to like him very much.

  ‘Derek,’ said Saffron, asking something they had all wondered about. ‘What do you do in your camp?’

  ‘Write my thesis. Book,’ he added for Rose’s sake. ‘Write my book.’

  ‘Gosh. In a tent?’

  ‘Up on the moors. Bronze age sites all over up there. Stone circles, standing stones. Unfortunately there’s also a great big quarrying company that wants to take out all the side of the hill from underneath.’

  ‘From underneath?’ asked Indigo.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then won’t everything on top just fall down?’

  ‘Too true everything on top will fall down,’ said Derek, grinning. ‘That’s why we are there. We’re a protest camp!’

  Later, when he had gone, and Eve had driven away to the shops, Rose asked Indigo, ‘What do protest camps do?’

  ‘They protest,’ explained Indigo. ‘They make a fuss about things they think are wrong. Instead of just putting up with them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rose. ‘Well, I know something you should make a fuss about because that boy in my class who’s got a brother in your class told me…’

  ‘I don’t want to know what he said!’ Indigo interrupted crossly. ‘You stop listening to that boy!’

  ‘I was only going to say you and Tom could have a protest camp!’

  Indigo glanced out of the window at the steady rain, and he could not help laughing.

  ‘Derek does,’ pointed out Rose, but she had to add fairly, ‘that’s why he’s always covered in mud.’

  ‘I think he comes here to get warmed up,’ remarked Saffron. ‘Has that boy and his gang been bothering you again, Indigo?’

  ‘No,’ said Indigo.

  ‘They’d better not! I didn’t know you and Tom were friends.’

  Indigo almost began to say that neither did he, and then thought a little further. Perhaps they might be friends. They were definitely on the same side, anyway. Why shouldn’t they be friends?

  ‘Why shouldn’t we be friends?’ he said aloud to Saffy.

  ‘No reason at all,’ said Saffy, cheerfully.

  Indigo went into school on Friday with this thought in mind.

  All that morning the weather got worse and worse, until by lunchtime it was so bad that no one could be sent outside. Indigo’s class, who were considered to be a particularly pleasant and responsible group of students, were told they would be allowed to stay unsupervised in their classroom until the afternoon lessons began.

  Almost the whole class were gathered together by the time Indigo finished his lunch and came to the room. As soon as he walked through the door he realised that trouble was coming. The red-haired gang leader was watching out for him. Indigo, as he was meant to do, caught the quiet words, ‘Not him. Levin.’ as he came into the room.

  Indigo looked quickly around for Tom. He was over by a window, entertaining an audience as usual. He looked very much in control, flicking a ball across the room to a random selection of rabble members, and deftly catching it every time it came flying back.

  ‘You miss that ball and it will go right through the window,’ the red-haired gang leader told him.

  ‘As if you care,’ said Tom, eyebrows raised in scorn, and threw it at his head. The red-haired gang leader caught it and threw it carefully back, as if he really did care. Tom, looking annoyed, stuffed the ball in his pocket. Obviously, he did not consider the game worth playing if there was no risk of broken glass.

  Indigo began to relax, now that the ball was safely out of the way. One of the rabble, not wanting the entertainment to stop so soon, called out, ‘Hey Tom, tell us about your mother! How’s the bears getting on?’

  Tom shrugged irritably, crossed the room, and banged himself down at a table. Just as he did so, right under Indigo’s nose, the red-haired gang leader reached out and twitched his chair away.

  Tom sat down on nothing with a sickening thump and the room erupted with laughter.

  Tom groaned. With a face the colour of wet paper he doubled up and retched, knocking his forehead against his knees. Indigo dropped beside him and grabbed his shaking shoulders. He said urgently, ‘Don’t try to move! Put your head down!’

  Tears of anger and pain streamed down Tom’s face.

  ‘Kiss him better, Indigo,’ said the red-haired gang leader.

  ‘Run and fetch your sister,’ suggested someone else.

  Tom struggled free from Indigo’s grasp and tottered upright. He looked around and he tried twice, but he could not speak. Lurching from table to table for support he began to stumble towards the door. Indigo hurried in front of him, clearing a path through the sniggering rabble and guiding him out of the room.

  Nobody followed as they made their way down the back stairs and along a corridor. Tom was white and sweaty and he walked silently, as if he was alone.

  They came to a small service door that led outside, to the back of the school. Tom swayed against it, and after a moment, pushed it open. Indigo followed him outside, and watched as he stood leaning against a wall, gulping the rainy air.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked, when at last Tom began to breathe more easily. ‘I’ll go home with you if you like. Or go and find a teacher to help you.’

  ‘Leave me alone. I don’t want anyone.’

  ‘I can’t just leave you alone.’

  Tom shrugged and turned away.

  They were in the back playground, one of the most dismal parts of the school, and the grey wet day made it seem even worse. On one side stood the canteen and kitchens. Beside them was an old fire escape, a metal spiral staircase that came down from an upstairs door. It was chained off across the bottom step, and strictly forbidden. Tom made his way across to it and began painfully to climb the chains. The rain came down suddenly hard, turning the back of his grey T-shirt black all in a moment.

  Indigo saw Tom’s shoulders flinch, and then begin to shake.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and pulled off his jacket and held it out.

  Tom did not seem to see. Even when Indigo climbed up right beside him he did not look up. He did not move when Indigo bent down and wrapped the jacket around his shoulders.

  The rain squall passed and turned to drizzle again. Behind them in the school bells rang, footsteps hurried, doors opened and closed.

  ‘I’m going back in for your coat and your stuff,’ said Indigo, when it began to look as if Tom meant to spend the afternoon hunched on the fire escape in the rain. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. Then we’ll go home.’

  Tom did not move.

  In the classroom an English lesson was now in progress. The teacher who was taking it had been told that Tom was sick and Indigo had gone out with him, and no further details.

  ‘Is Tom feeling any better?’ he asked as Indigo dashed into the classroom.

  That was a question with too many answers for Indigo to begin to think of. He said, ‘He wants his jacket,’ and seized it from the back of a chair. A red rubber ball fell out of one of the jacket pockets, and he bent and scooped it up.

  ‘Does he want that too?’ enquired the teacher, rather snidely, because he did not admire Tom’s ball-bouncing skills.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he being looked after?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Indigo, thinking he himself was looking after Tom.

  ‘Well, then, please sit down! You have wasted enough time. The lesson is nearly over. Tom can manage without his jacket for a few minutes longer, I’m sure.’

  ‘But I said I’d fetch it for him!’

  ‘Sit please, Indigo! And take down the homework set on the blackboard. Then you can go.’

  Furious, Indigo sat down. Across the aisle from him the red-haired gang leader leaned over and murmured, ‘You want to be more careful, Casson! You could really hurt someone, pulling away a chair like that!’

  Indigo swung angrily round to face him. From across the room the teacher cal
led sharply, ‘What’s going on over there?’

  ‘Indigo’s a little upset,’ explained the gang leader. ‘Because of Tom. Tom sat down and missed his chair and Indigo couldn’t help laughing…’

  ‘Of all the stupid, dangerous tricks!’ exclaimed the teacher. ‘Why did no one tell me before? Where is Tom now?’

  ‘He’s fine, Sir,’ said the red-haired gang leader smoothly. ‘I saw him when I went out to fetch those books for you. Someone was with him.’ He glanced quickly at Indigo, as if to say, I am controlling this.

  Out in the corridor a bell sounded.

  ‘Get off for your next class everyone,’ ordered the teacher, glancing irritably round at the rabble’s eager faces. ‘Indigo, stay here!’

  The class melted discreetly away. Indigo said, ‘I didn’t pull Tom’s chair away!’

  ‘Did anyone say you did?’

  ‘I didn’t laugh, either!’

  ‘I should hope not. You know, Indigo, that this school does not tolerate bullying?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Or fighting. Look at your hands.’

  Indigo realised then that his hands were raised, clench-knuckled, in the air. He lowered them slowly.

  ‘That’s better. Have you and Tom quarrelled?’

  ‘No. Tom’s my friend.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Tell him I want to see him before the end of the day, please.’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ said Indigo, knowing that he had been away much too long and now only wanting to get away quickly.

  The teacher nodded and hurried away to his next class. Indigo turned and ran down the corridor.

  One glance through the door to the back playground showed him that Tom had gone.

  ‘Lost your little friend, Casson?’ asked the red-haired gang leader, shouldering by with a troop of rabble.

  ‘Oh, leave me alone!’ shouted Indigo.

  ‘We do,’ said a passing voice, ‘That’s what we do!’ and then there was a wave of laughter.

  Indigo waited until they had passed and then opened the door again. Tom was nowhere in sight, but the jacket he had lent to him was hanging across the chain that closed off the fire escape.