The Ability (Ability, The) Read online

  “A good day? I haven’t seen a good day in years. What’s so special about today that you think this one should be any different?”

  Chris opened his mouth to speak, but his mother didn’t wait for him to answer.

  “Nothing. This day is as meaningless as yesterday, as the day before that, and every single day before that one. Do you understand?” she asked, and then, without waiting for a response, she turned back to face the television.

  “Close the curtains on your way out,” she said, dismissing him.

  Chris considered saying something in response but decided that he would be wasting his breath. He walked up to the curtains and closed them. He was about to turn to leave the room when the doorbell rang. He looked at his mother.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” he asked, confused.

  “Of course not,” she said, looking at Chris accusingly. “Who did you invite?”

  “I didn’t invite anybody,” he said.

  “Tell them we don’t want whatever they’re selling. And that if they come around again, we’ll call the police.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “I’ll get it,” said Chris redundantly.

  Chris opened the door and saw Miss Sonata leaning on the railings in front of his house, searching through an open brown-leather briefcase. She looked up.

  “Oh. Hello! I didn’t think you were in. I was going to leave you a note.”

  She stood up and walked over to Chris, standing silently in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry I got you into trouble today,” she said.

  “That’s okay. It wasn’t your fault,” said Chris uncomfortably.

  “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me turning up unannounced. I tried the home phone number on the school records, but it wasn’t working, so I thought I’d come round instead.”

  “Oh,” said Chris.

  “Can I come in? I just wanted to have a quick chat with you and your mum, if she’s in.”

  Chris closed the front door behind him a bit.

  “It’s just that Mum’s not been very well for a while, and I didn’t want to upset her more, so she doesn’t know I’ve been suspended. I spent the day at the park until school finished,” he explained in a hushed voice.

  Miss Sonata nodded.

  “That’s fine. I won’t say a word. I just want to make an appointment for you to do the test. I’d really like you to give it a go.”

  “What’s it for?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s for a new school—a very exclusive school—that the government is opening up soon.”

  “But . . . well . . . I’m not really a good student,” he confessed, surprised that this wasn’t already obvious enough to Miss Sonata.

  “We don’t care how you’ve done at school so far, Christopher. We want students who have something different to offer.”

  “Like what?”

  “Creativity. Imagination. Other things like that,” she said. “I know we only spoke for a moment this morning, but I have a strong feeling you’ll do well.”

  Chris thought about it for a moment.

  “I’ll check with my mum.”

  “Great,” said Miss Sonata. “I’ll wait here.”

  “All right, I’ll be back in a second,” said Chris, leaving the door open behind him as he went back into the living room.

  Miss Sonata leaned against the porch and waited. She heard the sound of muffled voices, and although she couldn’t make out what was being said, she could tell the conversation was getting heated. She heard footsteps and a door slam.

  “You do what you like . . . I’m going to my room!” shouted Chris’s mother, and before Miss Sonata had a chance to look away, she appeared in the hallway.

  “What are you looking at?” said Chris’s mother, her hair matted and disheveled, her face lined and worn. Miss Sonata stood opposite her, suddenly conscious of her expensive haircut and her tailored suit, and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Mum, please,” said Chris, appearing beside her. He touched her arm to try to calm her, but she shrugged it off angrily.

  “I’ll come back another time; I don’t want to cause any trouble,” said Miss Sonata.

  Chris’s mother shrugged and turned to walk up the stairs. “You go ahead and do your test with him or whatever it is you want. I’m going to sleep. Don’t bother making me any dinner,” she said to Chris without looking back, and with that she disappeared around the corner of the landing, into the upstairs darkness.

  Chris and Miss Sonata stood awkwardly for a moment.

  “Are you all right?” asked Miss Sonata.

  Chris nodded but said nothing. He was both embarrassed and upset in front of Miss Sonata for the second time that day.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asked gently.

  Chris shook his head. “You might as well come in now; Mum won’t come down again tonight.”

  “Is there anyone I can call—maybe someone from your family could come round and help with dinner?” asked Miss Sonata.

  “No, it’s all right, honestly,” said Chris. “This happens all the time. I’m used to it.”

  Miss Sonata hesitated and then closed the front door behind her. She had already been warned about Chris’s home situation from a quiet word on the side with the school secretary, but she was still shocked when she walked in. The house was dark and in desperate need of renovation. The paint was peeling as a result of the damp patches behind it, and strips of it had come off over the years, exposing the bare brickwork. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare and coming up at the edges, though she could see that there had been clumsy attempts to fix it in place with tape. Above her hung a cable with a light fitting that was missing a bulb and farther down the hall she could see a couple of mousetraps on the floor. There was a smell of damp, and it seemed to be colder inside than it was outdoors.

  “We’re, er, having some work done to the house. Sorry,” said Chris, not looking at her. She followed him silently into the living room.

  Chris quickly walked over to the sofa and picked up the blanket so that Miss Sonata could take a seat.

  Miss Sonata smiled and sat down. She opened up her briefcase on her lap and rummaged through it.

  Chris took a seat at the other end of the sofa.

  “There it is,” said Miss Sonata, and pulled out a glossy printed card. She handed it to Chris.

  “This is the school I was telling you about,” she said.

  He looked at the front. The words “Myers Holt Academy, Center for Excellence” were written across the top in an ornate gold script, and underneath there was a picture of a Regency townhouse with wide steps leading up to a black front door and a gold plaque. He turned the card over, but there were no more photographs, just a paragraph, which he read to himself:

  The Myers Holt Academy is a newly established, government-approved school situated in the heart of Bloomsbury, directly opposite the British Museum. Places are limited and are offered to a select number of students for a period of one year only. In this time, the staff at Myers Holt will provide pupils with an intensive, specialized curriculum aimed at stretching and developing the mind in a small class setting. In addition, pupils will enjoy a range of extracurricular activities, ensuring that your child will leave Myers Holt with the skills to guarantee him or her success for the future.

  For further information, please contact:

  The Admissions Office

  Myers Holt Academy

  40 Montague Street

  London WC1 6JO

  “The interview only takes about ten minutes—plenty of time to see if you have what we’re looking for. What do you think? It could be a very good opportunity,” said Miss Sonata.

  “It looks expensive,” said Chris, studying the photograph on the front.

  Miss Sonata smiled. “Actually, quite the opposite. We’re very keen to admit students who will get the most benefit out of the education that Myers Holt will be providing, regardless of income or background. As
such, we will cover all costs for schooling, including books and uniform and any other school-related expenses. Not only that, but we would also provide you with a full scholarship to fund all your further education.”

  “So I wouldn’t have to pay for anything at all when I’m at the school?” he asked, checking.

  Miss Sonata nodded.

  “Not even lunch?”

  “No, you’d be boarding, so all your meals would be provided.”

  “Boarding?” asked Chris.

  “Yes,” said Miss Sonata. “You would have phone contact and come home on holidays.”

  Chris thought for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, but even if I did get in, and I don’t think I would, I couldn’t leave Mum on her own,” he said.

  Miss Sonata nodded sympathetically.

  “I completely understand. All I can say is that it is a small school of only one class, as we want to be able to offer a very individualized curriculum. There is a maximum of six places available, and we are testing over two thousand pupils. If you were to be offered a place, then perhaps something could be arranged to help you both out. If not, well, you’re in no different a situation than you’re in now. In other words, you don’t lose anything by taking the test.”

  Chris shrugged.

  “Okay. I’ll do it. When?” he asked.

  “We could do it now,” said Miss Sonata, “it’ll only take ten minutes but, if you’re busy, we could arrange for you to come to us instead. We’re in Central London.”

  “I can do it now. I’m not doing anything.” said Chris flatly.

  “Okay, well, good.” Miss Sonata looked around for a surface to work from, but the only one she could see, a small round coffee table by the armchair, was cluttered with a pile of old television guides.

  “If you need a bigger table, we can go into the kitchen,” said Chris, picking up the two mugs his mother had left on the floor.

  Miss Sonata smiled and stood up. He led her down the hallway, through an archway, and into the kitchen at the end, which, although old and in poor repair, was immaculately clean. At least his mother cleans the place, she thought, then looked over and saw Chris turning on the taps to carefully wash up the mugs. At that moment she felt a great sadness for this young boy with too many adult responsibilities. She walked over to the small sunroom, which was dominated by an imposing oak dining room table surrounded by a collection of worn, mismatched chairs. She pulled one back and took a seat.

  Opening up her briefcase, Miss Sonata took out a dark red folder and pen and waited as Chris prepared them each a cup of tea. She shivered and then noticed a bucket in the corner, full of water. Looking up, she saw that there was a panel missing from the glass roof. She decided not to say anything about it.

  Chris sat down opposite her and placed the mugs on the table.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Sonata, placing her hands around the mug for a moment to warm them. “Right. Let’s get going.” She smiled. “As I said, we’re not really interested in how you’re doing in school. We value certain skills far more than academic results. As such, the set of questions I’m going to put to you is a little unusual.”

  “What kind of skills?” asked Chris.

  “Imagination, observational skills, empathy, for example. That doesn’t mean that you won’t be learning mathematics and English and the other school subjects at Myers Holt, but we think that you’ll make the most progress if we work on the way you think, rather than on the facts that you know. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes,” said Chris, although he didn’t have a clue what Miss Sonata was talking about.

  “Good,” she said, opening up her folder. Miss Sonata took out a photograph and handed it to Chris.

  “Have a good look at this, please, and in one minute I’m going to take it from you and ask you some questions about it,” said Miss Sonata. She picked up a stopwatch he hadn’t noticed before and pushed a button.

  Chris quickly looked down at the photograph and saw that it was of a young boy, maybe four years old, with a large present in his lap. He was sitting on a carpeted floor beside a brightly lit Christmas tree, and on the left of the picture Chris could see the corner of a television set on a wooden cabinet. He tried desperately to take in as many details as possible, his eyes flitting across the picture until Miss Sonata asked him to stop and hand the picture back to her. She carefully opened the folder and placed it back inside. She pushed the closed folder into the center of the table.

  “Now, please keep your eyes on the folder while I ask you some questions. Don’t worry too much about getting the correct answer. Instead, try to let your mind go blank, and respond with the first answer that comes to your mind. If you don’t know the answer, just say, ‘pass.’ Is that clear?”

  Chris nodded, and Miss Sonata picked up her clipboard and pen.

  “Number one. What color were the boy’s pajamas?”

  “Green-and-blue striped.”

  Miss Sonata wrote something on her paper. Chris looked at her for a reaction to indicate if he was correct, but saw nothing.

  “Please keep your eyes on the red folder here,” she said instead, tapping the table. “Question number two: What color slippers was the boy wearing?”

  “He wasn’t wearing any slippers,” said Chris with confidence. “He had bare feet.”

  “Good. Question number three: How many presents were under the tree?”

  “Six,” said Chris, relieved that he had already anticipated that question.

  Miss Sonata scribbled something quickly and continued:

  “Question four: What was the boy’s name?”

  Chris hesitated for a moment.

  “I’ll have to rush you. Just say the first thing that comes into your head.”

  “Matthew,” said Chris, suddenly remembering the name in white lettering on the stocking that hung from the mantelpiece in the corner of the photograph.

  “Finally,” said Miss Sonata, “what was inside the present the boy was holding?”

  Chris looked up, confused.

  “There are no right answers to some of these questions, Christopher. You just say whatever comes to your mind,” said Miss Sonata, reassuring him.

  “Umm . . . a penguin?” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It was a terrible answer.

  Miss Sonata didn’t show any reaction and calmly wrote it down.

  “Is that all right?” he asked.

  She looked up, saw his worried face, and laughed.

  “You’re doing just fine. Now, let’s get back to your penguin. Tell me about it in a little more detail.”

  “Ummm,” said Chris, looking back down. He put the picture of the penguin back in his mind and tried to give it some detail.

  “It was wearing a yellow bow tie. With red dots on it. And a black top hat on its head.”

  Miss Sonata wrote his answer down and looked up again.

  “Good, good,” she said, putting her clipboard down. “That’s part one finished. Are you ready for the next set of questions?”

  Chris nodded.

  Miss Sonata pulled out a folded map and opened it out across the table.

  “Do you know what this map is of?”

  Chris immediately recognized the river cutting across the page.

  “Yes, it’s London.”

  “Good, good. See this cross here?” She pointed at a small red X just north of the river in the middle of the map. Chris nodded.

  “Now, I want you to look at it until your eyes go fuzzy and just let your mind wander,” said Miss Sonata.

  Chris focused on the center of the map and squinted until the details started to blur.

  “Now imagine that you’re dropping down from the sky, onto the red X. You break through the clouds and see the street below you. Tell me when you’re standing on the ground and we’ll begin.”

  As he watched the map blur in front of him, the thought briefly crossed Chris’s mind that this was the strangest test he had ever had to take. Never
theless, he followed Miss Sonata’s instructions and imagined a blanket of gray cloud below him, rapidly looming larger as he fell toward it; then, for a brief moment, he saw nothing in his mind but a gray fog before suddenly emerging above the unmistakable London cityscape. He imagined himself slowly falling down toward the ground directly below him; he looked around and saw that the streets were alive with the traffic of people and cars, colorful dots moving in all directions. As he became accustomed to the bird’s-eye view, he began to recognize familiar landmarks: the Thames, like a dark ribbon dropped on the landscape; Piccadilly Circus, with its lights in the distance; and the two fountains of Trafalgar Square below him. He imagined the statue of Nelson, high atop its column, not far in the distance. He concentrated on the scene below and watched as his feet gently landed on the gray sidewalk of the busy street. He looked about at people rushing past him, seemingly oblivious to his presence. He waited.

  “Um, okay, now what?” he asked, after a long silence.

  “What do you see?”

  “People. A street. Cars.”

  “Can you be more specific? Can you tell me exactly what you see?”

  Chris lifted his head, eyes closed, but the image seemed to be fading in his mind.

  “I can’t really see much. Everything is going gray, like a fog.”

  “Look down again, Christopher. I think you’ll find the image will come back to you.”

  Sure enough, Chris looked back down at the table, and the image of the busy street started coming back to him.

  “I see a family walking past me, and a row of cars waiting at the traffic lights.”

  “What buildings can you see?”

  “There’s a bookshop and a cafe next to it. And there’s a theater on the other side of the road.”

  “Hmmm,” interrupted Miss Sonata. “Okay. Can you walk to your right a bit and tell me what you see?”

  There was a pause as Chris imagined walking quickly along the street.

  “Yeah, Trafalgar Square’s in front of me. There’s a church on my left, and there are people sitting on the steps outside.”

  “Walk over to the church and look for a number on the pavement in front of the church.”

  “A number?”

  “Yes, just have a look and see if you can see anything.”