The Daydreamer Read online

  So what made Barry Tamerlane a successful bully? Peter had given this question a great deal of dreamy thought. His conclusion was that there were two reasons for Barry’s success. The first was that he seemed to be able to move in the quickest way between wanting something and having it. If you were in the playground with a toy and Barry Tamerlane liked the look of it, he simply wrenched it from your hands. If he needed a pencil in class, he just turned around and ‘borrowed’ yours. If there was a queue he would walk right to the front of it. If he was angry with you he said so and then hit you very hard. The second reason for Tamerlane’s success was that everyone was afraid of him. No one quite knew why. The very name Barry Tamerlane was enough to make you feel an icy hand reaching into your stomach. You were frightened of him because every- one else was. He was frightening because he had a reputation for being frightening. When you saw him coming, you got out of his way, and when he asked for your sweets, or your toys, you handed them over. That’s what people did, so it seemed sensible to do the same.

  Barry Tamerlane was a powerful boy about the school. No one was able to stop him having what he wanted. He wasn’t able to stop himself. He was a blind force. He sometimes seemed to Peter like a robot who was programmed to do what- ever he had to do. How strange that he didn’t mind being without friends, or having everyone hating and avoiding him.

  Of course, Peter kept out of the bully’s way, but he took a special interest in him. Barry Tamerlane was a mystery. On his eleventh birthday Barry invited a dozen boys from school to a party. Peter tried to get out of it but his parents would not listen. They themselves liked Mr and Mrs Tamerlane, and so, by the terms of grown-up logic, Peter must surely like Barry.

  The smiling birthday boy met his guests at the front door. ‘Hello Peter! Thanks. Hey, Mum, Dad, look what my friend Peter has given me!’

  That afternoon, Barry was kind to all his guests. He joined in the games and did not expect to win every time just because it was his birthday. He laughed with his parents and poured out drinks and helped clear away and wash the dishes. At one point Peter peeped in Barry’s bedroom. There were books all over the place, a train set on the floor, an old teddy on the bed wedged against a pillow, a chemistry set, a computer game – it was a bedroom just like his own.

  At the end of the afternoon Barry gave Peter a gentle punch on the arm and said, ‘See you tomorrow Peter.’

  So Barry Tamerlane leads a double life, Peter thought as he walked home. Each morning, somewhere along the way from home to school the boy turns into a monster, and at the end of the day, the monster turns back into a boy. These thoughts led Peter into daydreams about potions and spells that trans- form people; and then, in the weeks after the birthday party, he thought no more about it. It is a mystery in itself how we can get used to living with mysteries, and there were far greater puzzles in the universe than Barry Tamerlane.

  One of these puzzles had been on Peter’s mind a great deal lately. He had been walking along the corridor outside his class- room, on his way to the library, when two big girls from the upper school walked by.

  One of them was saying to her friend, ‘But how do you know you’re not dreaming now? You might be dreaming that you’re talking to me.’

  ‘Oh well,’ the friend said. ‘I could just pinch myself and it would hurt and I’d wake up.’

  ‘But suppose,’ the first girl said. ‘Suppose you were just dreaming that you pinched yourself, and you just dreamed that it hurt. Everything could be a dream and you would never know …’

  They turned the corner and were gone. Peter stopped to think. This was an idea he himself had half formed, but he had never put it quite so clearly. He looked about him. The library book in his hand, the bright, broad corridor, the ceiling lights, the classrooms off to the left and right, the children coming out of them – they might not be there at all. They might be no more than thoughts in his head. Right by him on the wall was a fire extinguisher. He put his hand out and touched it. The red metal was cool beneath his fingers. It was solid, real. How could it not be there? But then, that was how it was in dreams – everything seemed to be real. It was only when you woke that you knew you had been dreaming. How was he to know he was not dreaming the fire extinguisher, dreaming the red, dreaming the feel of it?

  The days passed and Peter thought more about this problem. He was standing in the garden one afternoon when he realised that if he was just dreaming the world, then everything in it, and everything that happened in it, was caused by him. Far above him an airliner was beginning its descent. Sunlight flashed silver on its wings. The people up there who were straightening their seat backs and putting away their magazines could have no idea they were being dreamed by a boy on the ground. Did this mean that when a plane crashed it was his fault? What a terrible idea! But then, if that were so, there were no real plane crashes any- way. They were just dreams. Even so, he stared at the plane and wished hard that it would make it safely to the airport. It did.

  One night, a couple of days later, Peter’s mother came into his bedroom to kiss him good-night. Just as her lips touched his cheek he had another thought. If he was dreaming, what would happen to his mother when he woke up. Would there be another mother, more or less the same, only real? Or someone completely different? Or no one at all? Viola was rather surprised when Peter put his arms round her neck and wouldn’t let go.

  As the days passed and Peter turned the problem over in his mind, he began to think that it was probably true that his life was just a dream. There was something quite dream-like about the way the children streamed into school in the mornings like a human river, and the way his teacher’s voice floated around the classroom walls, and the way her skirt stirred as she moved across to the blackboard. And it was just like a dream, the way the teacher was suddenly standing over him and saying, ‘Peter, Peter? Are you listening? Are you day- dreaming again?’

  He tried to tell her the truth. ‘I think,’ he said very care- fully, ‘I was dreaming about daydreaming.’

  The whole class laughed. It was lucky for Peter that Mrs Burnett had a soft spot for him. She ruffled his hair and said, ‘Pay attention,’ as she walked back to the front of the classroom.

  So this was how it came about that during playtime Peter was standing by himself at the edge of the playground. Anyone watching would have seen a boy standing by a wall, holding an apple, staring into space, doing nothing. In fact, Peter was thinking hard. He had been on the point of eating his apple when he had had another brilliant idea. A breakthrough. If life was a dream, then dying must be the moment when you woke up. It was so simple it must be true. You died, the dream was over, you woke up. That’s what people meant when they talked about going to heaven. It was like waking up. Peter smiled. He was about to reward himself with a bite of his apple when he glanced up and found himself looking into the round pink face of Barry Tamerlane, the school bully.

  He was smiling, but he did not look happy. He was smil-ing because he wanted something. He had walked across the playground in a straight line towards Peter, cutting right through the games of football and hopscotch and skipping.

  He held his hand out and said simply, ‘I want that apple,’ and smiled again. Silvery sunlight flashed on his brace.

  Now Peter was not a coward. He had once limped down a mountain in Wales with a twisted ankle without a word of complaint. And he had once run into a rough sea fully clothed to drag a lady’s dog out of the surf. But he had no heart for fighting. He shrank from it. He was strong enough for his age, but he knew he could never win a fight because he could never bring himself to hit anyone really hard. When a fight broke out in the playground, and all the kids gathered round, Peter felt sick in his stomach and weak in his legs.

  ‘Come on,’ Barry Tamerlane said in a reasonable voice.

  ‘Hand it over, or I’ll smash your face in.’

  Peter felt the numbness stealing up his body from his feet. His apple was yellow streaked with red. Its skin was a little slack bec
ause he had brought it into school a week ago and it had been sitting in his desk, filling it with a sweet, woody scent. Was it worth a smashed face? Surely not. But then again, could he give it away just because a bully had demanded it?

  He looked at Barry Tamerlane. He had edged a little closer. His pink, round face was flushed. His glasses magnified his eyes. A little bubble of saliva clung between the rim of his brace and a front tooth. He was no bigger, and certainly not stronger, than Peter.

  Already a few children, sensing that a drama was building up around Tamerlane’s corner of the playground, were beginning to gather in a ragged circle.

  ‘G’wan Pete. Smash ‘is gob!’ someone said unhelpfully. Barry Tamerlane turned round and glared, and the boy slunk away to the back of the crowd.

  ‘C’mon Barry! C’mon Bas!’ other voices said.

  Barry Tamerlane did not like being refused. He was getting ready to fight. He had withdrawn his hand and made a fist and turned sideways on. His knees were bent slightly and he swayed from side to side. He seemed to know what he was doing.

  More children were joining the circle. Peter heard the call go out across the playground – A fight! A fight! People were running in from all directions.

  Peter’s heart was thudding in his ears. The last time he had been in this situation he had been a cat with a human trick up his furry sleeve. But this was not so simple. Playing for time, he transferred the apple from one hand to the other and said, ‘You really want this apple?’

  ‘You heard me,’ Tamerlane said in a flat voice. ‘That apple belongs to me.’

  Peter looked at the boy who was preparing to hit him and remembered the birthday party three weeks before when Barry had been so warm, so friendly. Now he was scrunching up his face to make himself look as mean as possible. What gave him the idea that when he was at school he could do anything or take anything he wanted?

  Peter dared take his eyes off Barry for a moment and saw the circle of excited, fearful faces pressing in. Eyes were wide, mouths hung open. Someone was about to be floored by the terrible Tamerlane and there was nothing anyone could do about it. What made pink plump Barry so powerful? Immediately, from out of nowhere, Peter had the answer. It’s obvious, he thought. We do. We’ve dreamed him up as the school bully. He’s no stronger than any of us. We’ve dreamed up his power and his strength. We’ve made him into what he is. When he goes home no one believes in him as a bully and he just becomes himself.

  Barry spoke again. ‘S’your last chance. Gimme the apple or I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.’

  In reply, Peter raised the apple to his mouth and took an enormous bite. ‘You know what,’ he said slowly through his mouthful. ‘I don’t believe you. In fact, I’ll tell you something for nothing. I don’t even believe you exist.’

  There was a gasp from the crowd, and a few giggles too. Peter sounded so sure of himself. Perhaps it was true.

  Even Barry frowned, and stopped swaying. ‘What was that?’

  All Peter’s fear had gone. He stood right in front of Barry, smiling as though he rather pitied him for not existing. After weeks of wondering whether life was really a dream, Peter had decided that Tamerlane the bully certainly was one, and that if he hit Peter in the face with all his strength, it would hurt him no more than a shadow could.

  Barry had recovered and was getting ready for the kill.

  Peter took another bite of the apple. He put his face close up to Barry’s and peered at him as though he were nothing more than a funny picture on a wall. ‘You’re just a fat little pink jelly … with metal teeth.’

  There was a hoot of laughter in the crowd which spread and took hold. There were cackles and giggles and whoops. Children clutched at each other, or slapped their knees. They were acting up, of course. They wanted to show each other they were no longer afraid. Fragments of the insult were tossed around the crowd. ‘Pink jelly … metal teeth … a jelly with teeth!’ Peter knew his remark was cruel. But what did it matter? Barry wasn’t real anyway. He was flushing bright pink, brighter than any jelly. He was hating this.

  Peter pressed on before Barry could find his anger. ‘I’ve been to your house. Remember? On your birthday. You’re just a nice ordinary little boy. I saw you helping your mummy with the washing-up …’

  ‘Aaaaaaah,’ sang the crowd in a long descending note of mock affection.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Barry spat out. His eyes were bright.

  ‘And I looked in your bedroom and saw your teddy tucked up in your bed.’

  ‘AAAAAAAh,’ cried the crowd. The sound tumbled from an even higher note, swooping down in scorn. ‘Ooooooh. Lickle ickle Basy … teddy weddy … aaaah.’

  Of course there was not one single child there who did not still secretly love a battered old stuffed animal and cuddle it at night. But how wonderful to know that the bully had one too.

  Barry Tamerlane probably still had it in mind to whack Peter in the face. As the shouts and jeers rose, he raised his arm and weakly clenched his fist. And just then something terrible happened. He burst into tears. There was no disguising it. The tears came in quick trickles down both sides of his nose, and his breathing was no longer his own to control. His whole body heaved as he fought for little lumps of air. But the crowd knew no mercy.

  ‘Lickle Basums wants his mama …’

  ‘Wants his teddy weddy …’

  ‘Ooooooh. Look at him …’

  And now the crying came on so strong that poor Barry did not even have the strength to walk away. He simply stood in the circle of children, and wept snottily into his hands. Everything and everyone was against him. No one believed in him. The dream bubble had burst and the bully had vanished with it.

  Slowly, the taunts and laughter subsided and an embarrassed silence settled on the crowd. The children began to drift away, back to their games. A teacher came hurrying across the playground, put her arms round the shoulders of the solitary boy and led him away saying, ‘Poor little thing. Has someone been picking on you?’

  For the rest of that morning in class, Barry was subdued. He hunched over his work and would not look up or meet anyone’s eye. He seemed to be trying to make himself look smaller, or disappear altogether.

  Peter, on the other hand, was feeling full of himself. He came in from the playground and took his place at his desk, right behind Barry, pretending to ignore the winks and grateful smiles all around him. He had thrashed the bully without lifting a finger, and nearly the whole school had seen it. He was a hero, a conqueror, a superman. There was nothing he could not achieve with his brilliant cunning intelligence.

  But as the morning passed, he began to feel rather different. His words began to haunt him. Had he really said them? He became aware of the crumpled figure of Barry Tamerlane in front of him. Peter leaned forwards and tapped him on the back with a ruler. But Barry shook his head and would not turn. Peter winced as he remembered more of what he had said. He tried to remind himself of how awful Barry had been. Peter tried to concentrate on his victory, but he no longer felt good about it. He had mocked Barry for being fat and having a brace and a teddy and for helping his mum. He had wanted to defend him- self and teach Barry a lesson, but he had ended up making him an object of scorn and contempt for the whole school. His words had hurt far more than a straight punch to the nose. He had crushed Barry. Who was the bully now?

  On his way out to lunch Peter dropped a note on Barry’s desk. It read, ‘Do you want to play soccer? PS. I’ve got a teddy too and I have to help with the dishes. Peter.’

  Barry had been dreading facing everyone at the next play- time so he gladly accepted. The two boys got up a game and made a point of being on the same team. They helped each other score goals, and walked off at the end arm in arm. It didn’t make sense for anyone to go on jeering at Barry. He and Peter became friends, not close friends exactly, but friends all the same. Barry pinned Peter’s note to the wall above his desk in his bedroom, and the bully, like all bad dreams, was soon forgo
tten.

  Chapter Five

  The Burglar

  All the neighbours were talking about the burglar. Months ago he had broken into a house at the bottom of the street. He had wriggled in through a back window in the full light of a sunny mid-afternoon when the house was empty. He had made off with knives and forks and a painting. Now he was working his way up the street, a house on one side, then a house on the other.

  What a nerve! people kept saying. He’s bound to get caught. Last night he did number eight, next week it will be number nine.

  But no, he would wait for three weeks, or four, and he would leapfrog to number eleven. Then he would come the very next day and rob number twelve. He stole televisions, video machines, computers, statues, jewels. He knew how to pick locks, scale up drainpipes, silence burglar alarms, slide back window catches, make friends with the angry dogs, and how to stroll away with his loot in the middle of the day without being seen. He was a magician, a maestro of theft. He was invisible, silent and weightless. He left no footprints in the garden beds, or fingerprints on door handles.

  The police were baffled. Two plain-clothes men were sent to watch over the street in an unmarked car. Everyone knew who they were. They sat doing crosswords and eating sand- wiches until they were called away to more important work. Half an hour later, the burglar struck again, and carried off a box of expensive perfumed soap and a silver-topped walking- stick from the home of Mrs Goodgame, a rich old lady with protruding yellow teeth who lived alone. The stick had belonged to her great-grandfather, a famously fierce missionary. He used it to beat African children when they didn’t study their Bible lessons.