start and a stop with no chance of further resuscitation. There was no pattern; it was chaos theory exemplified. Ali Naidu and I lived in Great Chesterford, a small village just south of Cambridge in a house owned by Mrs Grey.
Never was a woman more aptly named. Sheâd housed university students for twenty years and the house, and its contents, were unchanged since the first lodger took up residence. Every scrap of colour and every vestige of fun were long drained from the place, just like her pale, tasteless vegetables, which had been boiled to buggery. Mrs Grey, everyone called her Mrs Grey, not only had an aversion to vegetables that might offer the merest resistance to a strong set of teeth, she also had something against heat. The front room, small and overpopulated with heavy threadbare chairs, had a wonderful fireplace, but fire never adorned its splendour. Occasionally when it was a âbit chillyâ, which for Mrs Grey meant either snow or frost so thick it had to be chipped from the front path with a shovel, she put an electric bar heater on for half an hour. The heater had two bars, but one was broken and the one that worked only got an orange glow along three-quarters of its length. Ali and I learnt to live in four layers of clothing. We became well practised in the art of manoeuvring and eating with arms hardly able to bend. Some nights the sound of Aliâs teeth chattering kept me awake. Poor Ali, how must he have felt coming from Cairo to Great Chesterford? I had enoughtrouble even if she was slightly more recognisable to me from my visits to Grandmotherâs farm.
Ali was on the same physics course as I was, though we hadnât spoken in the two weeks before we moved in with Mrs Grey. We became friends quickly. This was the first time Iâd met anyone of equal intellect. I know that sounds elitist, but thatâs how it was for me and how I found Cambridge. I met people every day who understood relativity and quantum theory the way others might understand multiplication or division. I was no longer a freak, always fighting to be accepted as normal; suddenly I was among equals and I could begin exploring the boundaries of my intellect. It was a wonderfully liberating experience and I grew like a limp lilo with a new foot pump: fast and in every direction. Cambridge may have been frosty and cold but already it was my intellectual home. The only thing the place lacked was Mary.
I flew into a New Zealand summer. Even early in the morning, heat was beginning to subdue Auckland. I saw Mary first, not surprising since I was looking out for her the moment I rounded customs control. We gripped each other, Mary shaking with a sob. Dad shuffled on the periphery, embarrassed at our affection. Finally, after Mary released me, I went to him and we shook hands. He stared over my shoulder at some distant point on the back wall, unable or unwilling to look me in the eye. We walked to his car, loaded up and I said goodbye to Mary, just minutes after greeting her, though we would meet later that day.
âGood flight?â They were the first words spoken by Dad, who still had that faraway gaze.
âYeah,â I lied. Iâd worried the entire journey and was sure the arm rests had the indentation of my fingertips on their underside.
I waited for further comment, but our conversation was done.Even though I hadnât seen Dad for almost a year, I might as well have just stepped off the bus after being away for the afternoon. Poor Dad, I donât think he got the Cambridge thing or, to be more precise, I think he chose not to understand. It was easier that way. This was how he dealt with life now. There was a time when he understood, but all that went when Mum left him. Life was much simpler and less worrisome if looked at in monochrome. There was no need for detail any more.
âI expect youâll go up to the bach sometime, will you?â he added some hours later as though the
Never was a woman more aptly named. Sheâd housed university students for twenty years and the house, and its contents, were unchanged since the first lodger took up residence. Every scrap of colour and every vestige of fun were long drained from the place, just like her pale, tasteless vegetables, which had been boiled to buggery. Mrs Grey, everyone called her Mrs Grey, not only had an aversion to vegetables that might offer the merest resistance to a strong set of teeth, she also had something against heat. The front room, small and overpopulated with heavy threadbare chairs, had a wonderful fireplace, but fire never adorned its splendour. Occasionally when it was a âbit chillyâ, which for Mrs Grey meant either snow or frost so thick it had to be chipped from the front path with a shovel, she put an electric bar heater on for half an hour. The heater had two bars, but one was broken and the one that worked only got an orange glow along three-quarters of its length. Ali and I learnt to live in four layers of clothing. We became well practised in the art of manoeuvring and eating with arms hardly able to bend. Some nights the sound of Aliâs teeth chattering kept me awake. Poor Ali, how must he have felt coming from Cairo to Great Chesterford? I had enoughtrouble even if she was slightly more recognisable to me from my visits to Grandmotherâs farm.
Ali was on the same physics course as I was, though we hadnât spoken in the two weeks before we moved in with Mrs Grey. We became friends quickly. This was the first time Iâd met anyone of equal intellect. I know that sounds elitist, but thatâs how it was for me and how I found Cambridge. I met people every day who understood relativity and quantum theory the way others might understand multiplication or division. I was no longer a freak, always fighting to be accepted as normal; suddenly I was among equals and I could begin exploring the boundaries of my intellect. It was a wonderfully liberating experience and I grew like a limp lilo with a new foot pump: fast and in every direction. Cambridge may have been frosty and cold but already it was my intellectual home. The only thing the place lacked was Mary.
I flew into a New Zealand summer. Even early in the morning, heat was beginning to subdue Auckland. I saw Mary first, not surprising since I was looking out for her the moment I rounded customs control. We gripped each other, Mary shaking with a sob. Dad shuffled on the periphery, embarrassed at our affection. Finally, after Mary released me, I went to him and we shook hands. He stared over my shoulder at some distant point on the back wall, unable or unwilling to look me in the eye. We walked to his car, loaded up and I said goodbye to Mary, just minutes after greeting her, though we would meet later that day.
âGood flight?â They were the first words spoken by Dad, who still had that faraway gaze.
âYeah,â I lied. Iâd worried the entire journey and was sure the arm rests had the indentation of my fingertips on their underside.
I waited for further comment, but our conversation was done.Even though I hadnât seen Dad for almost a year, I might as well have just stepped off the bus after being away for the afternoon. Poor Dad, I donât think he got the Cambridge thing or, to be more precise, I think he chose not to understand. It was easier that way. This was how he dealt with life now. There was a time when he understood, but all that went when Mum left him. Life was much simpler and less worrisome if looked at in monochrome. There was no need for detail any more.
âI expect youâll go up to the bach sometime, will you?â he added some hours later as though the
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