At school, I was constantly drafted into one competition or another. One day they volunteered me for the chemistry Olympiad. Naturally, I took this as a sure sign of my intellectual brilliance.
When my mum found out (a chemist herself, whod clung to her aristocratic maiden name until she met my dad), she acted like one of those sitcom mums from the telly. Normally, she laughs in a polite, Austen-esque sort of way. Not this time. She practically spilt her tea and let out a guffaw so hearty it wouldve made the Vicar blush.
That was the first and last time I saw Mum in stitches. Soon after, they shipped me off to the boroughs physics contest. And then another and another. It dawned on me with a certain bleak British clarity that my headmaster had found a clever way to regularly export me, thus giving other students the chance to actually learn in peace.
When the biology Olympiad came round, I wasnt alone. They saddled me with Tony Cartwright. He, too, had a dazzling grasp of biologycould tell a deer from a hedgehog at a hundred paces. The biology teacher nearly called a hunger strike upon learning who would represent the school. But theyll be out of class all day! I suspect the head and deputy head assured her. In the end, Tony and I were plonked into a cavernous lecture hall with sixty other would-be biologists. Each of us received an A3 sheet that unfolded like a broadsheet.
At that precise moment, a woman behind the podium began her rousing speech, chest adorned with the sort of glass brooch you only see at village fetes. Her message was this: none of us were there by accidentlife was ahead of us, and if we misbehaved now, wed spend our lives stacking crates at Sainsburys. Not that, she added, there was anything wrong with an honest days graft.
Glancing around, I tapped the shoulder of the girl to my right. She blushed and lowered her carefully mascaraed lashes. Suddenly, everyone started scribbling as if their lives depended on it, which utterly rattled Tony.
I saydo you have any clue what were supposed to do? What do we do?
To be fair, he genuinely believed wed been brought here for complimentary Robinsons squash and custard creams. On closer inspection of the sheet, I twigged: in those pristine white gaps, we were meant to write answers. I imparted this revelation to Tony. The brooch lady politely asked me to simmer down.
So, where do I look up the answers, then? Tony wondered aloud.
Brooch Lady, feigning casual interest, asked which school these two inquisitive boys hailed from. To those who frequent the local constabularys youth room, this was standard procedure. St Basils One-Seven-Two, I replied. She jotted that down on both my sheet and Tonys, then scribbled in her own notebook for good measure.
But were from St Basils One-Seven-Five, arent we? Tony whispered.
Shut up, you plank, I hissed.
Tony kicked me for good measure and accidentally caught the chair of the freckled girl in front. She whipped her head round like an owl, sized us up as non-edible, and asked us not to make a habit of it. Those freckles stuck with me.
Whats your problem, anyway? Tony shot back. Button it, yeah? Dont be a nuisance.
The brooch lady delivered the girl a final warning. She promptly burst into tears. To console her, brooch lady offered some comforting, matronly advice: Trust in yourself, love, and youll manage just fine. Teachers really did know how to persuade back thenthe girl wiped her eyes, and indeed, started to manage just fine.
I found myself in a bind: recall the birth and death dates of Carl Linnaeus, while simultaneously being distracted by this girls mascaraed lashes. It was Linnaeus or lashes, but both together conjured up a Linnaeus sporting falsies. Not a pleasant mental picture, whoever he was.
How many species of fish are in the Thames? Tony inquired unexpectedly.
912, I answered with immense confidence.
For sure?
You dont joke about these things.
I answered the Linnaeus question so masterfully you could have slipped it into Beatrix Potters biography and no one would notice, unless you really fussed over detail.
Wanna go to the cinema? I wrote on a scrap for the mascaraed-lash girl, folding it and tossing it her way. The reply came a minute later: Im already seeing someone, beautifully penned. Im still amazed by the female inability to say ‘yes’ outright. Good grief, I hadnt the slightest intent to break up her relationshipjust to expand her social circle. I was already friends with two girls who were friends. The boys dating those girls slept blissfully undisturbed, but my dad paid the price, doling out pounds on a regular basis.
Is he better than me? I sent next. Yes, came the quick reply. Then why isnt he here at the Olympiad? That one actually made her pause. I felt her pain.
You havent mixed up the Thames with the Pacific, have you? Brooch Lady quipped, cruising past Tony for the third time, clearly on the hunt for crib notes in our patch of the hall. But to have crib notes, you have to at least understand the subject. With us, she was really scraping the barrel.
Tony sat there like a sullen child in need of NHS intervention, which was just his natural state, though Brooch Lady wouldnt have known that.
Whats with her and the ocean? Tony nudged me, ruining any discreet social correspondence I had left. Theres not a single question about oceans here.
Whos Who with Roger Moore? I scribbled and tossed. No! came back with a doodle of a giggling face, pigtails and all. Those earshonestly, ears are way more intriguing than eyelashes. Todays emojis just dont compare. I was nearly infatuated, but then Tony the would-be biologist bothered me again.
Alright, quick question, he began earnestly, channelling some knock-off Attenborough. Level of con for for something in hair keratin? Is keratin the answer? Sounds Welsh. Squirrels have ginger hair, dont they?
I confirmed. Turns grey in winter.
Tony dutifully wrote: Ginger, but in winter, the squirrel is grey. He could blend in anywhere.
The freckled girl leaned in and whispered, Alpha-helix.
Where? I said, looking around.
Structure levelits called an alpha-helix, she explained, then turned away.
I studied her ears. They had appeal, too. I jotted down the answer, tore a scrap from my rough sheet, and scribbled: How about seeing a film? One must persist.
Alright, landed softly on my desk. A minute later, from the right: Go on then, lets.
Existential crisis: two offers simultaneously. And as I mulled over the question, What do you call a baby rhinoceros?let me tell you, its very hard to answer zoology questions when twinned with the pressure of new relationships. Baby rhino? Rhinet? Calf? Tonyrhino? Lashes on my right, freckles aheadend of the road. I wrote: A baby rhinoceros.
The freckled and I lasted until winter, when squirrel coats turned grey. The mascaraed one simply didnt show up to the pictures. Women, I ask youpure mystery.
Meanwhile, I wound up taking second place at the biology Olympiad and got a certificatethough it arrived two months later. Theyd run themselves ragged trying to trace that boy from St Basils One-Seven-Two. Only one pupil with my surname turned upa first-year. To the headteachers rhetorical lamentHow could he possibly have been at the Olympiad?the child burst into tears and promised never to do it again. Eventually, they tracked me down.
I was the only one from the whole ragtag gathering of scientific hopefuls who actually knew what you called a baby rhinoceros. Turns out, scientists still argue over it. And thats how I entered the scientists club and made myself at home. And then, wellyou can see for yourself, things went downhill from there.
