Is (6 page)

‘Well, it's all very nice, Is, but I don't see why you needed to show it to me.'

‘I told you, it's very important to me,' said Is, her forehead creased as she concentrated. ‘My father built it, you see.'

‘Your father built it?' I repeated. ‘Don't be daft. He can't have. This tunnel must have been built years and years ago. You said that yourself.'

Is cut across me, repeating firmly: ‘My father built it.'

‘Your father? What do you mean, your father?'

‘Marc Brunel.'

‘Your father's not Marc Brunel. What are you talking about? Your father is Mr Williams.'

‘Only in this life.'

By now I was beginning to get more than a little nervous at the way she was talking, I can tell you. ‘You're not making sense. Really you're not. And, in any case, we ought to be getting back now. We never should have come here anyway. It wasn't a good idea.'

‘But don't you see,' she said quietly, ‘I'm Isambard.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Robert?' she asked in a very serious way.

‘Reincarnation? What do you mean? Like being reborn as somebody else, you mean? I've heard about it I think. When someone dies, some people say their spirit or whatever carries on and is reborn in another body. Is that what you're talking about?'

‘Sort of. Do you believe it can happen?'

‘Well, no, not really. I don't think I believe it anyway.'

‘You should.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I've been reincarnated.'

My jaw dropped open in total disbelief. I'd never heard anything so absolutely ridiculous before. But she said it so seriously, I didn't know what to do.

‘What?' was all I could muster.

When she answered, she spoke very slowly and deliberately.

‘I wasn't always Isabel Williams. I have simply been reincarnated in this form. I was born on the 15th of September 1959, that's exactly 100 years to the day that Isambard died. That's who I was in a previous life. And that, in truth, is who I still am.' Then her voice took on a strange shrillness that I found very disconcerting.

‘Don't you see, Robert, I am Isambard Kingdom Brunel.'

5

Father Figure

That night, when I got to bed, I lay awake a lot of the time thinking about Is. What was it with her? All this talk about Isambard Brunel was ridiculous. I really didn't think I could handle it.

My reaction to what she had said had been to burst out laughing.

Her dark eyes had narrowed and her lips become tight at that. Then she threw her head back and hurled angry words at me.

‘That's it. Go on, laugh! Laugh your silly head off!'

In that confined space her voice had echoed up and down the tunnel. There had been a dozen or so people waiting for trains and they all turned and stared at us.

‘Ssh!' I said. ‘People are looking.'

I thought that would quieten her. But no, she turned round and faced the passengers down the platform.

‘And what are you lot staring at?' she said in a forceful but controlled voice that made them all turn away instantly.

Luckily, just at that moment a train came in with a whoosh and we got on. We travelled back home from Wapping in silence.

Incredibly, the next day it was as if nothing had happened. I saw Is just as we were due to go into school.

‘Hello,' she said cheerfully, ‘got your story all sorted out have you?'

‘Oh, yes, I think so. I was just going to say I was sick when I woke up, food poisoning or something.'

‘Where's your note then?'

‘I haven't got one. Have you?'

‘Course.' And she pulled an envelope out of her blazer pocket. On it, in really posh handwriting, was written: ‘Mr Gregory, St Leonards School'.

I was impressed. ‘You never got your mother to write you a sick note, did you?'

‘Don't be daft.'

‘Well who did then?'

‘I did, stupid.'

‘You did?' I didn't believe her. I'd seen Isabel's writing many times by now and it was rather spidery and small. The writing here on this envelope was altogether grander with lots of swirls and flourishes: very adult I thought.

‘You can't have.'

‘Suit yourself,' she answered and carried on into registration. It was only then that it struck me that I was going to be asked for my sick note. I should have thought of that.

We got into our classroom about a minute before the black bat shape of Mr Gregory swept in. ‘Ah!' he said, as he spotted Is and me. ‘The wanderers have returned! And what excuses do you both have for not being here yesterday? 
Eh? 
Morgan! 
I'm talking to you!'

‘Sorry, Sir,' I stammered. ‘I was sick.'

‘Sick! I bet you were. Sick of what? Sick of having to go to school, I suppose, eh?'

At that I went bright red. As I said, I'm really not very good at lying.

‘No, Sir, I had food poisoning.'

‘Food poisoning? A likely story! Where's your note?'

‘I – er – forgot it, Sir.'

At this Mr Gregory swept up the aisle and pushed his fat face right up close to mine. Judging by the smell of his breath, he would never suffer from food poisoning: the germs wouldn't survive.

‘Just make sure you bring it in tomorrow then, boy!' he hissed at me.

As his breath engulfed me, it was like I imagine drowning. I was fighting for air.

But then he turned to Is.

‘And what about you, Isabel Williams? Did you go down with sudden food poisoning too?'

‘No, Sir.' Unlike mine, her voice didn't quaver. It was clear and precise. She had changed so much from the tiny, shy girl who first came into the class only a few weeks back.

‘Then why weren't we all blessed with your presence yesterday?' continued Mr Gregory.

‘I had an epileptic fit.'

I looked over to Isabel in astonishment.

‘You had what?' said Mr Gregory with obvious disbelief. ‘And how long have you suffered from epilepsy?'

‘For a year or two now,' replied Is calmly.

‘I see. Your mother never mentioned it.'

‘My stepmother,' Isabel corrected. ‘And it's not a problem usually. I take these anti-convulsive tablets, you see. Only – I forgot to yesterday. And that's what happens.'

‘Oh, really?' said Mr Gregory. ‘And I suppose you have forgotten your note too?'

‘No, Sir.' She pulled the envelope from her blazer and handed it to him.

Mr Gregory wheezed slightly as he read the note then put it down on his desk.

‘I see,' he said, clearly convinced. ‘That seems to be in order. But your mother – er stepmother – should have let us know. We need to know these things. Just in case, you understand. Well I hope you're feeling better today, Isabel.'

‘Yes, thank you, Sir,' she replied and I couldn't help shooting a grin at her.

‘Right, the register and then to work!' said Mr Gregory.

Unfortunately our first lesson that day was English, which meant that we had Mr Gregory to start with. It seemed that every awkward question he could throw at me he did.

‘What's the main difference between an adjective and an adverb?' he demanded.

‘I – er – I don't know, Sir,' I stammered in reply. And so it went on.

‘I didn't know you were epileptic,' I said to Is as we stepped out into the corridor.

‘I'm not.'

‘But you told Mr Gregory…'

‘What's it matter what I told him?'

‘Oh I don't know what to believe with you,' I said, exasperated.

‘And what's that supposed to mean?' She stopped suddenly, facing me.

‘You know.'

‘No I don't.'

‘All that stuff yesterday about Isambard Brunel.'

‘It's true.'

‘You're this famous Victorian engineer reborn as Isabel Williams?'

‘Yes.'

‘His reincarnation?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I'm sorry but…' my words were cut short by the leering face of Kevin Ryder, who had come up behind us as we stopped.

‘What you talking about flowers for?' he started. 

‘Flowers?' I asked, at a loss to know what he was talking about.

‘Yeah, you were talking about carnations. I heard you. Gonna buy your girlfriend flowers, are you Rob?'

‘She is not my…' I stopped myself from saying any more. ‘And we weren't talking about carnations.'

‘I heard you.'

‘Actually we were discussing reincarnation, Kevin,' chipped in Isabel. ‘Do you know what that is?'

The blank look on Kevin's face clearly showed he didn't.

‘No, I thought not,' Is continued. ‘Well, Kevin, reincarnation is nothing to do with flowers. It is to do with the belief that when someone dies, their spirit lives on and can be reborn in another body. Do you understand?'

‘Not really,' Kevin admitted, trying to grapple with the concept.

‘No, I thought not,' said Is again. ‘If you were reborn, Kevin, what do you think you would come back as?'

‘I dunno,' he said frowning. ‘Someone really famous I expect.'

‘I think you're more likely to come back as an earthworm,' said Is triumphantly.

‘Or a slug,' I added, laughing. But, seeing the look on Kevin's face, I stepped back quickly. I'd obviously gone too far.

‘What you say?' he thundered, his hands folding up automatically into a tight fist.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all, Kev.'

‘Yeah, well you better not. You know what,' he added, ‘I think you two are really weird.' And with that he sloped off down the corridor to our next lesson.

When Mr Cummings, the maths teacher, handed out last week's homework books, I discovered that Kevin had already put his homework scheme into action. Amazingly he must have managed to sign up about five people from the class to Brains United. But the scheme failed for one very simple reason: all the answers were exactly the same. Now that shouldn't have been a problem in a subject like maths where there is only one answer. Except that unfortunately all the answers Kevin's brother's mates supplied were wrong. Identically wrong. And Mr Cummings smelt a rat.

‘It is quite apparent to me that five of you have colluded to do your homework, or have had someone do your homework for you,' he said as he threw the homework books back to the offenders, who struggled to catch them as they flew through the air. ‘For your trouble,' he continued, ‘you will each spend an hour each evening this week in a special homework class, where you will be supervised. And don't ever dare try this one again!' He scowled at everyone in the class just to make sure that we all got the message and wouldn't even think about trying such a thing in future. I was astonished to see that Kevin himself wasn't among those who were caught. It was only later that I found out he had got away with it through his own stupidity: he'd copied down most of the wrong ‘answers' wrongly.

Lunchtime couldn't come soon enough as far as I was concerned. I wandered out into the sunlight with three or four others, including Is. I was just about to set off home for a quick lunch when I spotted a woman walking up and down outside the playground looking very agitated.

‘Oh, God, what's she doing here?' said Is. She instantly lost all the cool she had had when facing Mr Gregory. Now she was no longer calm and collected. Her face had gone really white, which made her dark brown eyes look almost black.

‘Who is it?' I whispered.

‘My stepmum, of course,' Is answered.

‘Well, aren't you going to go over? She's looking for you I expect. Otherwise what else would she be doing here?'

‘I don't know. And I don't want to know.'

‘Oh don't be silly. She's probably got something to tell you. Go on, it might be important.'

‘Let's go back inside,' was all she said, and she started grabbing my jacket. But too late: Is and I had been spotted.

‘Isabel! Isabel! Over here!'

‘You'll have to go now,' I whispered. 

‘Come with me.'

‘All right,' I agreed.

With obvious reluctance, Isabel dragged herself over to her waiting stepmum, while I tagged behind. She doesn't look so bad, I said to myself when we got closer. She seemed very out of place though, standing there outside the wire fence.