-•✦--✦--✦•-
Christmas holiday started with a bang… for everyone else. I on the other hand, spent a much-deserved time sleeping as much as I could to catch up on some lost hours. Supplemented by reading Harry Potter, eating, and sleeping again. I probably finished reading the book first time around in about ten hours because I took my time enjoying it. I mean, I couldn't say that this was the first thing I had read that didn't trigger the revelation in me. Even my past self had not read many books that a primary-school child would read. But this was supposedly the most popular book series of all time, and clearly my past self liked it. After having read through it, I understood it completely. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was a children's book written with enough technical ability, yet with simplicity, that people of any age could enjoy.
It also depicted a world that was much brighter and more magical than this. I couldn't help but wish for my Hogwarts letter, and in just a few years I'd be eleven too, and my letter could be delivered. My Muggle parents would have to reluctantly let me go to a boarding school in Scotland — what a riot that would be! Knowing it was a fantasy didn't stop me from fantasising about it.
For Christmas the Price household had a schedule as busy as beavers. On Christmas Eve, we visited Manchester again to say hello to my grandparents on my mum's side. Grandpa and Grandma were not as Welsh as my mum when it came to accents, which was always a shocking experience for they have lived almost all their lives in Wales. Cardiff apparently had a different accent or maybe my Mum just played up the valley accent that she didn't quite earn.
We went out to see the sights in Manchester. Then took a ferry that kept us on the canal for hours on end. All the while Father joked about going to France rather than Liverpool. I wanted to go to France, and it didn't seem all too hard to do if one were in London. We begged off from the return trip and decided to take the train instead. It didn't do favours to anyone to stay cooped up for too long. When we returned to Manchester, mum and I helped my grandmother prepare her Christmas roast and put the lathered chicken into the oven.
"Are Daf and Jono coming for Christmas?" Mum asked Gladys, my grandmother.
She made a face. "Why do you think we've moved all the way to Manchester? Stop those pitiful looks — your tad and I prefer being alone."
It was then that I realised my grandparents were indeed lonely. They had retired with not much money at hand and clearly weren't doing all that great. Life of hard work for a drafty old house far from family. I promised to get them out to Cardiff near Aunt Dafina if I got rich. When I got rich.
In the meantime, I would try to dig out of Mum why they had arrived in Manchester and not stayed in Cardiff. Usually English folks retired to Wales, not the other way around. When we arrived back home, she told me simply, but with some jealousy,
"Daf's wedding gift was their old home in Cardiff."
I knew my grandparents lived in one of the seedier parts of Manchester, but usually I chalked it up to being compared to Chester. A city that if you exclude Blacon and Saltney over the river — looked like a proper fantasy city. Not much could compare to that. Turns out they had not chosen Manchester for it's culture nor comfort.
"Do you think Grandma would prefer Cardiff or Chester?" I had asked.
"Cardiff, no doubt. We've got too much family there, and she'd love it."
It didn't sound like a good enough reason. Why couldn't they have just gotten another place in Cardiff instead of Manchester?
Perhaps they just wanted to retire quietly in a new town with new things to explore before they found themselves growing older and more stationary. That sounded partially right to me, anyway.
"What did you want for Christmas?" Mum had asked me.
"Umm…" I had thought furiously back then, but I only got the answer when I was laying on the couch with a stuffed stomach. Wish is something you have when you're content but still want something extra.
"Mum…" I said as I stared up to the ceiling, imagining the skies above it "I want to be an actor and go on to play Harry Potter."
"Oh, is that the book that you bought three copies of for no reason at all? You know they all have the same words written in them, right, sweet?"
I couldn't help but huff indignantly. Not a recommendable task with a full stomach. Mum had been giving me hell for it. One would think that a librarian wouldn't mind seeing multiple copies of a book. Apparently not and I would have to hear it for ages and ages.
"Yerp," was all I could mutter with a blown-up belly.
"You were brilliant in that show. Maybe you can join The Gateway Theatre." Mum suggested, and I immediately lapped up the idea.
Everyone had to start somewhere.
—✦—
On Boxing Day, my dad brought us to our local football club, where I watched Chester City beat Hull City 2–1. I liked the football but mostly loved seeing my Dad who had never displayed the passion he was showing today. However, I couldn't say that I particularly enjoyed the crowd as much. They were a loud bunch, and some of the chants were honestly quite scary. Friendly faces I saw every day were long gone, in their place stood five thousand Cestrians screaming bloody murder. By the final score even the opposing team seemed to agree.
After the game the Price family enjoyed shopping and tottering about the Rows and the Cross, a famous landmark of Chester. I'd been here many times, but it never grew tiring, it was simply a beautiful street that seemed unlike anything else in England. In time, I would leave Chester to seek out fortune out in the world but this place I'd recommend it to anyone with the means to visit. There probably weren't that many cities in the entire world that still had the medieval feel.
The shops on the street were all black and white and had that interesting English Tudor element where the upper floors were wider than the ground floor. Avoiding taxes while building beautiful houses, nothing could be more English than that. The architecture of every building had function and decoration that couldn't be matched by modern construction.
We also saw the Gateway Theatre, which — while looking unique and interesting — felt really out of place in its modernity. A whole side of the building was jutting out and hanging about midair at a near 45-degree angle. You'd think the council would protect the city from such horrendous eyesores but there you have it.
My mum told me historical detailing of the sights and explained them as we went, going into the deep and long Roman history of Chester. She'd worked as a guide through the summer while she studied. Being one of the last Roman cities around, it had retained most of the structure of the past intact. Mum either had an amazing memory or giving these tours had completely ingrained those into her brain because she could point to a random broken stump of a stone pillar and paint me a picture of what it looked like before it had crumbled. There were many of those that you'd take merely as litter or poor maintenance.
Some eyesores were remnants of a beautiful structure and a simpler time.
—✦—
Friday, January 16th, King's School, Chester
Christmas had left me fatter and happier than ever. All good things must end though and school started back again. I went back to my tutoring with Mrs Ramsdale. Bless her heart because she tried to cram as much as possible into my brain as the test came looming.
Today was going to be the test for UKMT, Junior Division, which had a hard limit for only accepting primary-school children. Being honest, I tried to be as excited about it as possible, but the excitement had dipped and frozen over as I completed my paper in ten minutes. The test was everything I had already done before, just repackaged into a different-coloured design with different numbers. I probably would've — rather, I knew — gotten a perfect score even if had not practised at all.
After waiting a few minutes just to check if anyone would step up, I decided to give my paper and leave. Mum stood waiting and was worried until I explained the situation.
My mother had to accompany me as we were at King's School because Woodfield did not have a registration with UKMT to host their exams. Academic excellence was not quite the focus in my school as it was in this school. Our headmaster Chris Hale had somehow roped my mum into getting a tour for King's School. The reason seemed obvious, King's School was great.
The place looked like a historical building or something straight out of Pride and Prejucide — well, maybe not quite as glamorous, but it got close enough for Chester. Mum held my hand as we were ushered by a lady with a posh London accent who preached to us about the history of the school. As we exited the main building, she pointed upwards.
A small statue of King Henry VIII lay overhead in it's small recessed cavity. Almost like one of those gatehouse statues only smaller.
"King Henry VIII started this school in 1541, and we have ever been the guiding hand of children's education since. Many great pupils have attended this school and left a legacy. Hugh Lloyd MBE, Bishop Godfrey Ashby, Hagan Bayley — a decorated professor at Oxford — Patrick Mercer OBE, currently a colonel in the army, just to name a few. All their names are carved into a brick right over there. As are the names of all graduates of our bastion of education," the lady explained.
"Brilliant," Mum and I answered in the same tone.
I'll be honest. I couldn't relate to posh things, and it probably came from my mother, who didn't like posh people or posh things. Carving their name into a brick, I'd thought that was mainly for war memorials. But then again, I wasn't posh enough to know how the world worked around these parts.
For Mum and I, this entire tour could be summed up as an uptight woman judging us for being poor.
"What are the fees? This is a private school, is it not?" Mum asked, trying not to show she cared for money. Budget? Never heard of it.
"Primary school is about £2,250 per term. But if Wilfred joins us in Secondary, it would be about £3,000. Subject to lunch fees at £150 per term, of course." the lady answered kindly.
Her kindness seemed to irritate my mum more than the astronomical price, though she hid it well.
"Are there any extracurriculars? Wilfred recently played Oliver in a school play and was extraordinary. I would love to cultivate that sort of talent in my son."
"Of course, Mrs Price. We have a selective drama class that is separate from our compulsory music class. Each term, every grade gets to put on a play or a musical. The hall we were in just now is the auditorium. We've also got brilliant props and costumes that we've been crafting and collecting for years and years. You can even enjoy making them if you join the Arts & Crafts version of the class. All the backstage tech skills are there for learning management. We collaborate with Queen's School for these plays. It's quite hectic and fun."
Because King's School was a boys only school. Though the woman had reiterated many times that it will turn coed soon.
"Thank you. Those all sound lovely," Mum replied, impressed but also withdrawn due to how much it cost.
Hearing the hesitancy, the woman upped her sales pitch.
"We, of course, have a football pitch. Two of them. Also our school sends out a few teams to compete with neighbouring schools. We have a competitive rowing team and those who win the internal competition gets to compete at a national level. Our school is the only school in Chester that has a dedicated rowing class, club and priority. Of course, we share our privileges with other school to create the most competitive field possible. Year Fives and above can join to take a boat along the River Dee. That's the boathouse," the lady pointed as we rounded a corner.
She was talented and clearly used to giving this tour.
"Wow," muttered my mum at the sight. What was more posh than having a damned dock at your school?
"This has been amazing; thank you for the tour. Can you let me know what we need if Will here is to transfer?"
"Of course, Mrs Price. Please follow me to the desk; I've got a few copies of our brochure and a handbook for transferring students."
I chuckled silently. This school was so far ahead of Woodfield that it was laughable. I mean, who had brochures and handbooks ready for transferring students? But it made sense — the fees of the school were insane. Mum and Dad did fine, but I wasn't sure they earned thrice that in a year. Almost £7,000 per year seemed extreme and £30,000 would be an amazing salary for Mum if it was true. She hadn't shared such details with me — who would do that with their eight-year-old?
—✦—
We went on a walk to go back home, or rather just find a café where we could have a butty and tea while all the locals left the school. Our tour had taken so long — since I had finished my paper in just ten minutes — that all the students had started pouring out. It made the bus stop swamped, so Mum treated me to a butty with pulled pork. I liked it because pork was tasty as hell, but I enjoyed the pulled pieces catching onto my teeth. Maybe because I was a kid, I had weird likes? I didn't know why. "Did you like the school?" Mum asked me. I felt the tension in her shoulders — one of the first things Mr Ross had taught me. "I'm fine at Woodfield; I don't mind," I told my mum truthfully. "Oh, you don't mind? Is it not posh enough?" Whoa, where'd that come from? "I mean, ehh — you must feel that this school is a lot better than Woodfield, right?"
I made an exaggerated thinking face but stopped before Mum cuffed my cheek. "Yeah, it's a lot better." Mum's face looked defeated. "But I really like Woodfield because my friends are there." "Friends? You have friends?" Mum asked me, incredulous. I gave her a stink eye in return, but she smiled, thinking I was cute. "Henry Harrison's my friend," I said matter-of-factly. "Oh, Dodger. He was absolutely brilliant — best actor in the play, good voice too," Mum complimented the boy who wasn't even there. "Best?" I asked in shock. "Surely you mean second best." Mum's voice twinkled in a chortle. "No, Wilf. I will call you the best actor when you are one. Don't worry; he's older than you, so of course he'd be better."
I sighed in a small bit of annoyance, but mostly acceptance. It was good that my mum was a realist and would tell it true for what she'd seen. But I also didn't like the fact that I lost to an eleven-year-old boy. I had no idea how old I was before I arrived here, but surely older than eleven. It ruffled my feathers, but Henry was an amazing friend to have. My social life had been improving by leaps and bounds just by befriending Henry; it also helped that I was Oliver in the school play. Eight-year-olds were not as good conversation buddies, but eleven-year-olds — the ones Henry was friends with — were just fine to talk to. "So you don't mind continuing your education at Woodfield?" Mum asked me, hopeful. "Not at all." I smiled at her brilliantly. I hoped she wouldn't doubt me.