37
THE PEOPLE DON’T COME the next day or even the next week. The paperwork gets lost in the post. Someone leaves a Post-it on someone else’s desk but the intended recipient doesn’t receive it. There is a backlog of requests, a backlog of letters. There is a general lack of motivation within the team. There is an occasional lack of competency. Lackadaisical is the word. Sedate is the word. There are more pressing things to do. That person is on leave now anyway. Annual leave, maternity leave, paternity leave, parental leave, sick leave. They have left. Gone to work somewhere better paid. Gone to work somewhere better organised. Gone to work literally anywhere else.
But whatever. You go to school. You come back from school. Before you know it, your mum is coming home. She kisses you on the forehead, chucks you under the chin. Also before you know it, the teacher is handing back the essays. He winds his way around the desks, returning them one by one.
‘Very good, Jade.’
‘Good try, Jess.’
‘All right, Dave.’
Eventually, the teacher comes over to you. He leans over your table, speaks quietly as he slides your essay before you.
‘Don’t worry about it, OK?’ he says.
From what you can see, everyone else has a grade written in red pen on the top of their essay. Your essay doesn’t. Instead, at the bottom, there is a note: ‘You weren’t supposed to write a piece of fiction. Please see me after class.’
After class, the teacher shakes his head at you, before launching himself into sentences with too many ‘unfortunately’s.
‘Unfortunately, I specifically needed you to write an essay on a hobby or interest, not a work of fiction. So I couldn’t mark it, unfortunately.’
You want to say you did write an essay on a hobby or interest.
‘I liked the descriptions of Serbia. They were very creative…’
You want to say that Wilfrid Voynich was sent to a penal colony in Siberia, not Serbia – that Serbia and Siberia are two separate places.
‘I liked a lot of your sentences, actually. But as boring as it sounds, you really do have to answer the question at school. You have quite the imagination. It’s intriguing stuff. But I needed a hobby or interest, not a story about a made-up man and a made-up language.’
You want to say Voynichese might be a made-up (i.e. constructed) language, that this is a valid theory – though not one you subscribe to.
‘Are you listening?’
You blink. ‘You needed a hobby or interest.’
The teacher nods. ‘See,’ he continues, ‘Michael here wrote about his love of ice hockey. He wrote about how he got into the sport and how much he enjoys it. When he gets better and comes back, he’ll be very pleased with the mark, I’m sure.’
You say nothing, look out the window. You can see some of your classmates exiting the gates. Beyond that, rooftops and pavements, cul-de-sacs and car parks. Then you look at the clock on the wall. It’s 15.34. It’s possible this conversation will last you till 15.45. If you walk instead of taking the bus, you will get home at 16.30. If you walk slowly instead of fast, you will get home at 16.45. After this, there will only be four hours and forty-five minutes to kill till you can feasibly fall asleep.
‘Are you still listening?’
You look at your shoes. ‘Yes,’ you say.
‘Is there a sport you enjoy playing, at all? Or even just watching?’
You shrug. ‘Sure.’
‘What sport is it?’
You pause. ‘Climbing.’
The teacher gives you a look. ‘I know you find it hard to look at people,’ he says. ‘But maybe you should practise it sometimes, because then it’ll get easier. It’s a life skill. For whatever reason, society has decided that it’s necessary to look at people when you talk to them, or they talk to you.’
You try to look at the teacher’s face, but find that you cannot. Your eyes and his eyes are like the wrong ends of magnets. They repel.
‘OK,’ you say, looking at his receding hairline instead.
‘Well, if you could get that to me by the end of the week, that’d be great.’
‘Sure.’
‘I know that’s a quick turnaround but, at the moment, I can’t pass a work of fiction. And as I’ve said, this essay is very important. The mark will determine which set you are placed in next year.’
‘OK.’
A pause passes between you. During this pause, you wonder if you should be leaving already, if there was something unspoken you missed.
‘Is your mum OK?’ the teacher asks, eventually. ‘Back at home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really good.’
‘I know.’
THAT EVENING, YOU REWRITE your essay at the kitchen table. Unlike your previous essay, this essay is not an essay. Instead, it is a work of fiction. In this work of fiction, you write about your love of climbing. According to your work of fiction, you have always liked climbing things: playground apparatus, trees, and walls to name just three of the things. The work of fiction adds that you are good at it; you are fast going up and steady going down. Even better, you are unafraid of heights and have a level of flexibility and strength many can only aspire to. One day, you hope to climb mountains: Ben Nevis, Mont Blanc, Mount Kilimanjaro, and Everest. One day, you also hope to climb competitively but, for now, climbing is just a hobby or interest.
Then you think about Wilfrid Voynich. Wilfrid Voynich’s wife was called Ethel. Ethel’s mum was called Mary. Mary’s uncle was called George. George was the surveyor general of India. His last name was Everest, and the famous mountain was named after him.
Then you think about the Voynich Manuscript. You are wondering if you still care about it. You think that you do.