Full Circle – Opening Chapters

 

1

THE DAYDREAMER

JENNY STARED AT THE POSTER of the boy. What schoolgirl wouldn’t? He was very handsome.

His pale-blue eyes gazed lovingly back at the lime-green eyes of the royal blue school-uniformed mass of infatuation. Jenny. Jenny Sullivan. Jenny in a dream.

In no time at all, Jenny’s mind wandered off to a far distant paradise …

There they were, strolling hand-in-hand along the sun-kissed shore, arranging the date of their wedding. He with his long buttery blond hair, and she with her shoulder length black hair. Two fifteen-year-olds in love.

“I know, let’s wear our pyjamas,” said Jenny enthusiastically. “That would shock a few people. Why, just imagine the Pope’s face!”

Of course, it stood to reason that they would marry in the Vatican.

“No, no, let’s just not bother to wear anything at all,” replied the boy, laughing hysterically.

Then Jenny decided to break free from his loving hand and run into the refreshing deep blue sea. She was hoping to impress him with her swimming and immediately plunged into her only stroke, which had taken her years upon years to learn—the dog paddle.

But then, all of a sudden, a screaming giant octopus the size of a mountain rose out of the sea in an exploding column of seawater. It stretched out one of its greedy tentacles and grasped poor little Jenny.

As her panic-stricken cries rang out, people interrupted their sunbathing and raced to the shoreline; their hearts raced too.

They watched in a mixture of terror and amazement as the whopping tentacled monster tossed Jenny high into the air with one tentacle before catching her wriggling, screaming body with another. The octopus seemed to be playing a game with her helpless body.

“Leave her alone, you big potbellied monster,” shouted Jenny’s lover. And in true heroic fashion, he swam in powerful butterfly strokes quickly towards the action, ready to fight against immeasurable odds.

When he reached the giant octopus, he shouted out to Jenny, who was spinning violently in the air, having just been unleashed by one of the monster’s uncoiling, flicking tentacles, “It’s all right, Jenny. I’m here. I’ll save you.”

And he did just that.

He punched the creature in the eye so hard that it swam off screeching in agony.

Naturally he caught Jenny as she returned through the sea-sprayed air from the last of the giant octopus’s powerful tentacle tosses.

“Oh darling, you saved me!” croaked Jenny, and once again she felt safe and secure in the arms of her dream boy.

She stared longingly into his eyes as he lowered his head to kiss her passionately amid the cheering crowd who had gathered on the shore.

But before his lips could meet hers, his face froze …

And once again, the boy was simply an image on a poster displayed upon a newsagent’s window along the Station Road near London’s city centre.

“And to think I already have a boyfriend that I love very much,” muttered Jenny. “Oh well …”

Jenny smiled, then sighed, as she took one last glance at the buttery blond-haired handsome face before she finally tore herself away from the window and resumed her journey to school.

Jenny Sullivan was easily distracted and often lapsed into daydreams. No wonder she was frequently late for school. This morning was no exception. Already she had stopped to talk to a forsaken dog chained outside a bookmakers, stopped to take a quick browse around a new fashion shop, stopped to talk to someone she hardly knew (Jenny was extremely sociable), and, of course, there was the poster affair. If you were to add up all the minutes she had interrupted her journey to school, it added up to her being well behind schedule.

“Crumbs, I’m going to be late! If I miss my music practical exam, Mum will kill me!”

It was then that the fifteen-year-old fifth form pupil from St Mary’s Girls Comprehensive Community School decided that perhaps, just this once, she would take a risky shortcut down one of the side streets. It was “risky” for two reasons. First, because she had only just moved into the City of London six months ago from the English countryside, and so her unfamiliarity would probably result in her getting lost. Second, because her parents had always warned her not to venture into them because children and adults had gone missing in them.

Jenny had never bothered her head before seeking out a shortcut through the side streets and much preferred to take the longer route along the Station Road with all its attractions—some would say distractions. However, this morning she knew she would have to find a shortcut if she was to have any chance at all of reaching the school in time for her music practical exam.

Like many teenagers of her day, she had adopted the habitual habit of endlessly chewing bubblegum, and endlessly failing to blow any bubbles with it. But she decided that if she was going to have to concentrate, she would have to reluctantly dispose of it. She had to find a suitable side street, and time was running out.

Quickly, she put her hand to her mouth and spat out the bubblegum … which, accidentally, and quite unfortunately, landed on the head of a passing toddler, lodging itself in his hair as he and his mother brushed past Jenny along the busy Station Road.

“Oh dear,” exclaimed Jenny, as she watched the gum bob up and down on the boy’s thick brown hair.

“Yuk!” yelped the mother the moment she noticed the slimy well-used bubblegum.

She tugged her son to an immediate halt.

The toddler gasped in surprise.

The mother squatted and carefully extracted Jenny’s sticky ex-bubblegum from the boy’s hair.

“What on earth is this?” she said, straightening up and holding the offending slimy substance closer to her inquisitive eyes.

The toddler’s eyebrows quickly scrunched up and his eyes seemed to explode with anger. Up he leapt and snatched the bubblegum from his mother’s hand.

“That’s mine! That’s mine! I left it there for later!” he roared before greedily popping it into his mouth and starting to chew happily away.

“Disgusting little mite!” scolded his mother. But she didn’t say any more. She simply tugged her resisting son onwards with great force. Perhaps like Jenny, she was late for an appointment too.

“The good thing about silly little boys,” said Jenny to herself, “is that they can, with a bit of luck, grow up into handsome big boys. Anyway … I MUST CONCENTRATE …”

And so, Jenny kept her eyes peeled for a potentially suitable side street shortcut; unusually for her, concentrating fully.

Then it happened …

Her eyes met with an unusual sight …

It was a street sign, all right. Though it did look a bit different from the other street signs she had seen in that it was, although new looking, a bit old-fashioned in its design. She had to blink to be certain that she had not misread the sign. But no, she had not misread it, and the words “THIS WAY” embossed in large black capitals on a white shiny painted iron rectangular plate, repeated themselves in her bemused mind.

“I suppose it must be the way I should go—especially with a name like that,” she said to herself, still finding it hard to accept that someone had named a street “THIS WAY”.

“Yes, I’ll definitely take it,” she said. And this was a decision which would take her on the start of an adventure far more incredible than any of her daydreams.

 

2

THIS WAY

NO SOONER HAD JENNY walked a few paces into the street when a strange feeling came upon her. She felt a chill spread from her feet right up to her head, and the noise from the city seem to lower to such an extent that it felt almost quiet. She glanced back at the street sign. Still it read, “THIS WAY”.

“There’s something strange about all this,” said Jenny quietly to herself. “The weather seems to have instantly changed, and it’s as if I’m in an entirely different city.”

The farther she walked down the street, the more she noticed that the houses on either side seemed to be quite old-fashioned, yet not particularly old. What did it mean? Every car she passed, though there were not too many, was coloured black and looked more suited to a museum than a city street. But at least they looked almost brand-new. Finally, she began to notice the odd person walking along the street or pottering about in their front gardens. Their clothes were very old-fashioned.

“Have I gone through a time warp and travelled back in time?” murmured Jenny to herself, befuddled. “No, no, that’s ridiculous. Let me think …” Jenny stroked her chin, deep in thought. “Ah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve got it now. This must be a street full of fanatics who like to live as people did in the old days. The street sort of reminds me of a London street from a Second World War film. Strange that the whole street would go along with this nonsense. Mum and Dad will never believe this. The houses, the cars and the clothes. What a palaver. Nutters, complete nutters. And I thought I was bad.”

But then Jenny saw a sight that disconcerted her a little. She saw in the distance a gang of children just a few years younger than her charging down the street in her direction. She was disconcerted because they too were wearing old-fashioned clothes. The boys were wearing short trousers. Now she could imagine adults suffering from a stupid fanaticism—but kids like herself. Surely an impossibility.

“I’m going to put this online,” she said, plucking her smartphone from her larger inside school uniform blazer pocket.

Jenny tapped on her smartphone and activated its camera. She wafted her smartphone slowly about in every direction, getting a good all-round panoramic video of the street. And as the gang of about six or seven kids began to noisily reach her in their highly enthusiastic undisciplined charge, she steadied her smartphone on them and concentrated on getting a quality video.

Most of the kids swept right around her, as if she wasn’t there, as if she was too boring. However, a boy and a girl quickly decelerated to a stop, having apparently taken an interest in her videoing.

“Oi, girly,” said the boy. “What’s that thingy in your hand? Why are you pointing it at us?”

“I’m just doing a video for the Internet,” said Jenny.

The children looked at her, puzzled for a moment, before looking at each other.

“Are you from France?” said the girl. “You’re either stark raving mad or you’re translating some of your words all wrong. What’s a video? And what’s the in-test-net when it’s at home?”

“I’m not the one who’s stark raving mad,” snapped back Jenny. “You two and the rest of the people in this street are blooming bonkers. Were you paid to dress up in those old-fashioned clothes? And you,” she said, turning her attention to the boy, “how on earth did anyone convince you to wear short trousers at your age?”

The boy and the girl were stunned into silence … but not for long.

“Ooh missus, ’ark at you with the posh royal blue school uniform,” said the boy, with more than a hint of sarcasm, looking Jenny Sullivan up and down judgmentally.

“Cheeky trout,” added the girl sternly, also giving Jenny the once over.

“Okay, girly, just tell us what that thing is in your hand,” insisted the boy. “It looks like some sort of weapon. You’re not from France, but I’ll bet you’re from Germany. Yeah, that’s right. You’re a spy, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jenny. “I’m just filming you and your street on my smartphone.”

“What smart phone, Kraut lover?” said the girl. “That’s not a phone. It doesn’t even have a dialler on it.”

“Yes it does,” insisted Jenny. “You just tap out any numbers or call one up from the smartphone’s address list.”

“Come on, Sheila,” said the boy. “Let’s go and catch up with the others. This schoolgirl’s cuckoo-doodle-doo.”

“Yeah, she’s off her rocker,” added the girl, her face creasing up with laughter.

And with that, the boy and the girl charged off.

“Very strange …” murmured Jenny.

She quickened her stride, determined to get out of the street, hoping that she would find a street she recognised when she emerged out of it, a street that would quickly lead her to her school in time for her music practical exam.

The more she walked, the more confident she became that there must be a rational explanation for the street and its people. Her fear that she might have somehow walked through a time warp slowly subsided. But she became angry because she realised she had been distracted again.

“I’m so easily distracted, you know,” she called over to a tiny rough-looking girl who was happily skipping on the other side of the road.

The girl appeared to ignore Jenny, giving her only a cursory glance, and she started chanting in time to her skipping:

All the men have gone to war,

I know not the reason for.

If bombs should fall

and I should die.

Tell my father.

Ask him why.

“Stranger and stranger,” whispered Jenny, thinking that the little girl was using very harsh words for her age. Jenny remembered that when she was that age and skipped in the front yard, she only sang simple verses like:

D, O, N,

K, E, Y,

spells

Donkey.

Stranger and stranger, maybe. But for Jenny, things would soon get stranger still …

As she approached the end of a block of terraced houses. She noticed a fruit and vegetable store on the other side of the road on the end of its own block of terraced houses. She started to make out the name of the shop that was stencilled in huge gold letters on the shop’s front windows.

She was shocked that the first four letters she quickly made out read “S”, “U”, “L”, “L” … And sure enough, a few strides later, she read, “SULLIVAN’S”.

“Gosh, my name!” gasped Jenny Sullivan, her eyebrows rising. “On all the days in all the streets, why has such a coincidence paid me a visit?”

Ogling keenly across the narrow street, through its wooden-framed windows and wooden-framed glass door, Jenny could see quite clearly into the shop … It was well stocked with shelves of fruits and vegetables, and a stockily built woman was serving a handful of customers. All of them were dressed in Second World War fashioned clothes.

And outside, in front of the shop’s main window, resting on some tables, were open wooden boxes full of fruits and vegetables, and also an old-fashioned mechanical shop till. The boxes were positioned at a slight slant so that their goods were clearly displayed. Attending the tables standing just to the side of the till was a happily smiling man ready to serve.

Jenny took one last glimpse at the shop as she continued to purposely stride ever onwards, absolutely determined to maintain a semblance of concentration and finally complete her walk through the strange street.

However, she couldn’t help thinking that there was definitely something odd about the shop. Really odd. And it wasn’t just the fact that it was old-fashioned, or that her surname fronted the shop. There was something else … Something most peculiar indeed …

Suddenly, Jenny stopped in her tracks.

Her eyes opened wide.

Her face drained of blood.

Her heart missed a beat.

Goosebumps spread in a fast moving wave all over her skin, and her legs started to wobble.

“What, wait, could my mind be playing tricks on me?” whispered Jenny in a shuddering, shaky voice.

But when she turned slowly and apprehensively to look back at the fruits and vegetables, she realised her mind was not playing tricks on her …

“Oh, my giddy aunt! The fruits and vegetables! They’re all the wrong colours!”

 

3

THE STRANGE FRUITS AND VEGETABLES

JENNY DECIDED TO investigate the peculiar phenomenon. Her music practical exam would just have to wait.

Cautiously, she crossed the road and approached the shop.

She stared in curious fascination at the fruits and vegetables, at their incongruous colours. The apples were a sky-blue; the pears, bright-pink; the grapes, pale-yellow; the Brussels sprouts were orange; and speaking of oranges, they were brown.

And so it was the same with all the other fruits and vegetables. The pea-green carrots struck Jenny as rather interesting. Unless, of course, they were equally strangely coloured parsnips.

Jenny pinched the back of her hand and slapped her face. But still the bizarre colour scheme of the fruits and vegetables remained. For reality to outdo her daydreams was quite an extraordinary affair.

She eyed somewhat warily the shopkeeper, who had taken to sitting on a plain wooden chair by his chunky mechanical steel till.

He noticed her and raised a right eyebrow.

Then to her surprise, he sang a few lines of a song to her:

You’ll find the answer, my love,

by the light of the crescent silvery Moon.

The shopkeeper picked up a silver-coloured banana and tossed it spinning high up into the air with his left hand. For a split second, it hung just above the shop sign “Sullivan’s”, as if it was the crescent silvery Moon. Then it came spinning down and landed quite comfortably in the shopkeeper’s right hand.

“And what can I do for you, me dear?” he said to Jenny, smiling.

His pleasant manner put Jenny at ease, but she found herself unable to speak.

She noticed that the price labels were all showing pre-decimalised currency—sterling. A currency that ended on February 15th, 1971.

Jenny finally plucked up the courage to open her mouth as her curiosity overpowered her fear.

“Why are all the fruits and vegetables the wrong colours? Why are all the prices in old money? Why is this street so old-fashioned? Why do—”

“Just ’old on,” interrupted the shopkeeper, showing Jenny the flat of his hand. “My, you do ’ave a lot of questions, young lady. Let me answer them like this. The street you see around you is simply a street out of time and out of place—to you, that is. And these fruits and vegetables ’ere, there what you might call ‘magical’, Jenny.”

“Huh?” Jenny was slightly taken aback by the strange words of the shopkeeper—and that he knew her name! “How d’you know my name?”

“Flesh and blood, me dear. Flesh and blood.”

“You’re related to me?”

“Sullivan’s the name, ain’t it?” The shopkeeper then changed the topic. “Fancy a banana, Jenny.” He held up the silvery, leathery-looking banana, which despite its colour looked quite healthy.

Although Jenny thought the situation to be as daft as a brush, she found herself playing along with it. If she was the victim of a hidden camera show, at least she could put on a good, innocent performance.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a blue apple. Judging by their sky-blue colour, I wouldn’t be surprised if they fell out of the sky.” Jenny found the apples, particularly mesmerising, for some unexplainable reason. They seemed to be begging her to take them.

“Sorry, Jenny. They’re not for sale. I never sell the sky-blue apples. Too powerful those. Too magical. And magic can be a dangerous thing, even if there’s an explanation found in science that powers it.”

“Seems a bit silly putting something on display that’s not for sale, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“The more you say, the ’appier it makes me. Now would you like this luvverly jubberly silvery most scrumptious tasting banana you ever did get your gnashers on?”

“So it’s not poisonous? It definitely tastes of banana and not something like aluminium? And it really somehow has magical effects?”

“Correct on all three scores. An ’at-trick of truth if ever I ’eard one.”

“Okay. Since you insist …” Jenny held her hand out expectantly.

“I don’t insist, love. It’s up to you. You pays your money, and you takes your choice.”

“Oh, I definitely would like the banana. I’m a bit of a daydreamer, I am. Probably because I’m so curious about everything. It’s probably an unhealthy combination. So you see, the banana will be quite filling in more ways than one, Mr Sullivan.”

“That’s the spirit, girl,” said the shopkeeper heartily, quickly weighing the banana on his old-fashioned weighing scales and packing it into a small brown thin-paper bag. “Ere you go, Jenny,” he said, passing over the bag. He leaned forward, and said in a hushed undertone, “In this out of time and out of place street, it just so ’appens that bananas are so rare as to remain peculiar miracles to most. So think yourself lucky. To anyone else, even a boring old yellow-coloured ordinary banana would ’ave seemed magical. And yet ’ere you are with a silvery grey.”

Jenny quickly stuffed the bag away in her school backpack.

“That’ll be tuppence.” The shopkeeper put out an expectant hand.

“Erm, ‘tuppence’? Is that two pence?”

“It is that, me dear”

“Gosh, is that all.”

“In this out-of-time place, I assure you, that’s a veritable fortune.” The shopkeeper impatiently shoved his hand a little farther forward.

Jenny quickly plucked a ten pence piece out of her outside blazer pockets and handed it over to the shopkeeper.

“What’s this?” said the shopkeeper, examining the coin. “This sort of money is no good to me.” He handed the ten pence piece back to Jenny.

“Of course, I see,” said Jenny. “You obviously want old sterling type money. But I’m afraid I’m from the Decimal Age.” Jenny started to unzip her backpack to take out the packed banana and give it back to the shopkeeper.

“No need for that,” he said. “I was only joking about the money. The banana’s a gift from me. After all, we’re family. Now don’t you ’ave an urgent appointment to get to? I think you’ll find the road to your school is just at the end of this street.”

“Ah yes,” said Jenny, remembering her music practical exam. “Thanks for the banana, Mr Sullivan.” Jenny quickly threw her backpack on her back and started to run down the street.

“Good luck in your music practical exam, Jenny!” shouted the shopkeeper after her.

“Stranger than stranger than strange,” said Jenny without looking back at the shopkeeper. “I didn’t tell him I had a music practical exam. How could he know that?”

She turned a sharp bend to her left and then to her right, and found herself on Lime Avenue, just a hundred yards from her school.

“Blimey,” she exclaimed, looking ahead towards the picturesque school buildings. “I’m going to make it!”

St Mary’s Girls Comprehensive Community School was originally known as St Mary’s Roman Catholic Convent. And although the buildings were dated back to the Victorian Age, like many of London’s historical buildings, they seemed to fit in perfectly with the modern ones. Behind the school buildings loomed the Shard, a soaring, sharply pointed skyscraper covered in glass, a skyscraper that kept its modern eye lovingly on the Victorian Age school buildings beneath it.

Jenny ground to a halt and looked back to the street she had just emerged from …

There was no sign of it.

“Blimey!” she exclaimed once again.

She quickly stuffed her smartphone into her backpack’s security pocket, as mobile phones of any sort were not allowed to be used or seen on the school’s premises, then decided to not only resume her running but push the pace on a bit.

However, Jenny was never an athlete. And the run from the shop was starting to take its toll. Every ten yards or so, she would stop and catch her breath, adjust her clothing and shake her shoulder length black hair out of her eyes.

Then at just twenty yards from the school entrance, Jenny felt her shoelaces come undone, and she squatted down quickly to retie them.

“Oh bother,” she muttered, realising she had absentmindedly put on her red shoes that morning while daydreaming. If her registration class teacher spotted that she had red shoes on instead of regulation school endorsed black shoes, he would immediately send her to the Drama department where she would be forced to wear shoes more suitable for the rest of the school day. And he would give her an after-school detention for sure.

She quickly gave her red shoes a sufficient smear of disguising dirt before straightening herself up and preparing to charge the last twenty yards.

Eventually, she reached the school and rushed into the premises like a bride late for her marriage ceremony.

Minutes later, she arrived at the huge oak door of her 11B registration classroom. She stared at the door’s “Room 3” metallic sign and listened for a few seconds …

She quickly realised her registration class teacher, Mr Sims, was almost through calling the register.

Immediately, she twisted around the dark brown porcelain doorknob, quietly pushed open the door a touch, and sidled into her classroom. She closed the door quietly behind her, and stealthily crept to her desk at the back of the classroom, keeping her shoes, as much as she could manage, out of Mr Sims’s vision.

Just after Mr Sims called out the name of Sabrina Zachary, the last name on the register, Jennifer, seated at her desk, quickly called out, “I’m here, Mr Sims. It’s me, Jenny Sullivan. Sorry I’m late, sir.” She then ducked down sharply to busily get out some of her school books from her backpack. She was hoping to avoid Mr Sims’s strict glare.

But Mr Sims, a teacher of great experience, knew exactly what she was up to. He waited for her to show her head.

“‘It is I,’ not ‘it’s me.’ Grammar, Miss Sullivan,” barked Mr Sims in the tone of a rabid dog. He continued, “Jennifer Sullivan, this will never do. Why are you late for the umpteenth time?”

For a split second, Jenny thought the teacher’s head had turned into the head of an Alsatian that was foaming at the mouth. But this was no time for descending into a daydream, so she concentrated and quickly tried to think up an excuse. Every head in the classroom was directed towards her.

“Erm … Oh yes, I’ve thought of one,” whispered Jenny to herself.

“What was that?” shouted Mr Sims. “I’m sure we would all love to hear today’s ridiculous excuse. It must be terribly difficult to keep making them up. This isn’t the lackadaisical English countryside. This is the City of London. This is the nation’s capital. And we’re busy people who like to get things done. Not just for us, not just for the nation, but for the entire world. Now, pray, do tell us. Why were you late this morning?”

“I had a cough last night that came on all of a sudden. So I took some cough syrup. Anyway, Mr Sims, I was so busy, diligently doing my homework, hoping to one day contribute to serving our entire world that I didn’t notice how much cough syrup I was taking. The next thing I knew, the cough syrup bottle was empty. I realised the cough syrup would make me sleepy. So I rushed up to bed early and fell asleep. Of course, the cough syrup had quite an effect on me and I fell into a deep dreamless sleep and didn’t even hear my two alarm clocks go off in the morning. Luckily, my mum checked my room and saw I was still asleep. So she shook me awake. It was like I was a rag doll or something. Shoving me and twisting me and pushing me up and down on my mattress, and—”

“Jennifer Sullivan,” interrupted Mr Sims, amid the growing laughter that was filling the room, “that is quite enough of your excuse-ridden nonsense for today. Had I completed the registration process before you had entered the classroom, I would have given you an hour’s after-school detention. Nevertheless, as you seem to insist on making lateness a virtue, I have decided that in the future, unless you enter the classroom before I get to your name on the register, it’s an hour’s detention for you. Have I made myself quite clear, Miss Sullivan?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll try cough sweets next time. I should be all right tonight though as my cough has miraculously disappeared. I suppose that’s the benefit of drinking a full bottle of cough syrup.”

Mr Sims’s eyebrows angrily knotted, and he started to shake. He was about to explode—but fortunately, the end-of-registration-period bell sounded.

In response, like a swarm of busy army ants, 11B swarmed out of Room 3 and headed to their various classrooms and other areas of interest.

One of them, feeling as if she had somehow luckily evaded the hangman, headed to the Music Block for her music practical exam.

Despite all her daydreaming and the strange adventure she had experienced in the out of time and out of place street labelled “THIS WAY”, Jenny had made it in time for her music practical exam. Would miracles never cease?

 

4

TASTING SILVER

IT WAS WHILE sitting outside Music Room 2 in the main Music Block corridor that Jenny grew immensely fidgety and nervous. She had made her appointment, but now that she had to actually participate in it …

Jenny’s anxiety did not escape the attention of the stereotypical blue-eyed blonde Alison Thompson, who was sitting beside her, as both of them were scheduled as two of three girls to be examined before the morning break. Sabrina Schumacher was in the room, playing a reasonable rendition of Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto in E Flat.

“Not nervous are you, Jenny?” asked Alison. “You’re in their next. They’re doing it alphabetically, you know. Today’s the last day of these music practical exams. It’s surnames from S to Z. And as far as music practical exams go for this year, that’ll be our lot.”

“Yes, I know that. I might not be the brightest star in the night sky, but I’m not that stupid.”

“The dullest moon in the night sky, more like,” said Alison sarcastically, turning her face away from Jenny.

Jenny looked sourly at Alison. She was an excellent musician, and she knew it, and she wanted everyone else to know it. Jenny knew that Alison hated her because of her popularity with the boys from the nearby mixed intake sixth form college, Shard College. Everybody knew that Jenny would sneak out of the school on many occasions to visit her boyfriend Peter Salazar. Of course, no one would ever dream of reporting her as many of the girls would also sneak out of the school. Alison Thompson would love to have reported her even though she never sneaked out of school herself, not having much success with boys, despite her every effort.

“I’m Grade VIII on the piano now,” said Alison, turning her head back to Jenny and looking at her down her nose.

“Bully for you,” said Jenny sarcastically. “It’s such a shame that as I’m to be examined next, I won’t get to hear your magnificent piano playing through the door.”

“Yes, and it’s such a shame that I’ll get to hear your pathetic piano playing attempts and get to see you leave the room a complete and utter embarrassing dismal failure. How is your so-called pop group these days? I don’t know how Peter, Sanjay and Mike put up with your silly synthesiser efforts. You couldn’t even play a version of Chinese Chopsticks that an industrial robot could dance to.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about my band, don’t you?”

“Helen Murgatroyd told me all about it. Peter, on the rhythm guitar; Sanjay, on the bass guitar; and last and least, that male monstrosity Mike, the one with a hairstyle more becoming of a mop, on drums.”

Despite Alison’s putdown attempts, Jenny knew exactly how to irritate her, even though she was easily a good 20% less intelligent than her.

“As it happens, I failed my Grade III piano yet again, just last week. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with Peter … but it’s all been very much worth it. Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more? And as for my band, we’ve written quite a few songs lately, which is great fun, though I don’t think they’re that good. But who cares, if you’re having such fun? I mean, you’re a blonde, Alison. And they do say blondes have more fun. Don’t you agree?”

Alison did not answer. Instead, she turned her head away again from Jenny and let out a sneering hiss as if she were a snake that had been insulted by her snake charmer. Blondes might have more fun, but not if they have a face that appeared to have literally launched a thousand ships.

And so an uncomfortable silence ensued, with only the noise within the music room trumpeting its way through the music room’s door to make it bearable.

In the relative silence, Jenny grew so nervous she decided to give herself something to do while waiting. What better to do than to consume a silver-coloured banana, a reputedly magical banana?

“Excuse me,” said Jenny, standing up from her chair. “Nature calls.”

“My, we are nervous today,” said Alison with a particularly nasty sneer bitterly twisted all over her face.

Jenny hurried into the nearby toilets that were conveniently right next to the music room, but not before she had answered Alison with a gesture of her right forefinger.

Inside the toilets, the moment Jenny had locked herself into a toilet cubicle was the moment she felt she had locked herself out of the world.

She pulled down the lid of the toilet seat, took off her backpack, and sat down on it.

She rummaged about inside her backpack and was pleased to see herself plucking out the brown, thin paper bag.

Good, she thought to herself, I was beginning to think I daydreamed the whole anachronism of this morning. Everything so out of kilter. So out of time and place. So impossibly wrong.

She pulled the banana out of its bag.

Still silver. Not yellow. What have I got to lose?

She peeled the silver leathery fruit and was slightly surprised that it was a very light grey colour inside.

How can I eat this?

Jenny sniffed the fruit, and it surprisingly smelled very pleasant. A powerful banana aroma the likes of which she had never smelled before.

“I’ll just try a nibble …” whispered Jenny.

The first taste of the banana was delicious. Irresistible. And like the fictitious bottle of cough syrup in her excuse for being late for school, before she knew it, she had consumed the whole banana. She quickly put the peeled silver skin of the banana into its brown paper bag and stuffed it back in her backpack.

And then the most delicious banana she had ever eaten began to take effect …

An incredibly satisfying sensation came over her. She felt a warm surge of energy spread from her stomach throughout her entire body. The sensation eventually subsided with a distinct, electrifying tingle running through her fingers, which she found herself wiggling at great speed.

“Gosh,” she said loudly as her fingers stopped wiggling, not caring if anyone had sneaked into the toilets, “I’ve never felt so good and also so confident in my entire life. I hope the banana wasn’t injected with drugs. Maybe that might explain the silver colour. Funny though, I don’t feel scared.”

Just as she approached the exit door of the toilets, she heard a voice.

“Jennifer Sullivan,” said the voice. Jenny recognised it as the voice of the strictest teacher in the school, the Head of the Music and Drama department, the once world famous Russian concert pianist Mrs Anna Nikolayeva. “Where is that girl?”

Jenny came enthusiastically barging out of the girls toilets.

“Here I am, Mrs Nikolayeva!” she cried. “Fit and ready for action!” Jenny’s lime-green eyes gleamed brightly. She couldn’t have been more filled to the brim with confidence. Alison’s mouth fell open at Jenny’s unusual appearance, but her mouth soon formed into a sneer as if she believed such put-on bravado would soon evaporate once Jenny sat on the piano stool.

“Well, hurry up then. I dismissed Sabrina Schumacher five minutes ago. I know you must be nervous, but surely you didn’t need to spend that long in the toilets, did you?”

“I ate something unusual, Mrs Nikolayeva. I think it affected me.” This was an honest statement by Jenny, even if Mrs Nikolayeva quite naturally misinterpreted it.

“I see,” said Mrs Nikolayeva. “Well, let’s hope you can manage not to interrupt your examination. Any time spent out of the room will score against you.”

“There’s no chance of that, Mrs Nikolayeva,” said Jenny cheerfully. “I’m primed and ready to go.”

Mrs Nikolayeva gestured for Jenny to enter the room, then she followed in behind her, closing the door.

Inside the room was Mr Armstrong, Jenny’s music teacher who had been unsuccessfully attempting to teach her to play the piano. There was no doubt in his mind, or anyone else’s, including Jenny’s, that Jenny was the most untalented pupil Mr Armstrong had ever had the impossible task of teaching. But despite this, like most teachers, except for her registration class teacher Mr Sims, he liked her because of her innocent and kind, carefree character. He once said in the Staff Room that if Jennifer Sullivan was the mother of every man, woman and child on the Earth, then there would be no more wars. Mr Sims quipped back that they would be nothing worth having a war over. That nothing would be done, and what would be done, would be next to useless.

“Come and sit on the stool, Jenny,” said Mr Armstrong. “There’s no need to be nervous. All you have to do is your best. That’s all we can ask of anybody.”

“Mr Armstrong,” said Jenny, “I’m not nervous at all, and I’m very much looking forward to playing for you and Mrs Nikolayeva. You’re probably the best teacher in the world, but Mrs Nikolayeva is definitely the best pianist in the world. So what pupil could ask for more? Certainly not I.”

“Enough of the platitudes,” snapped Mrs Nikolayeva. “You won’t receive extra marks through such obvious boot licking. You’re lucky our school doesn’t have a gulag, or you would spend most of your school life in it. Now sit down on the stool and prepare to play the pieces we shall reveal to you shortly.”

“Righto, Mrs Nikolayeva,” said Jenny, quickly sliding herself onto the piano stool with her fingers raised, ready to plunge down on the keyboard when commanded.

“Now let me see …” murmured Mrs Nikolayeva to herself, lifting up her clipboard from the lid of the harsh mahogany polished grand piano. “Yes … Of the three pieces you were given to study, I have selected Ludwick van Beethoven’s ‘Fur Elise’.”

Mr Armstrong’s face took on a particularly stricken look. Of the three choices, this was by far the hardest.

“I see that look on your face, Mr Armstrong,” said Mrs Nikolayeva. “However, you need not be too disheartened, for the difficult middle piece is not compulsory in Jennifer’s case.”

Mr Armstrong breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Nevertheless he still looked mightily concerned because he had never got Jennifer to even manage the first few bars of the piece successfully.

Mrs Nikolayeva looked at Jenny. “I’m afraid in order to get even the lowest pass mark, you will need to perform the easy beginning and end of the piece reasonably adequately. It seems such a shame for such amateur fingers to tickle the ivories of our school’s great grand piano. I had it personally imported from Moscow. However, we must all humble ourselves in this short life, must we not? So with that, are you ready, Jennifer Sullivan?”

“Are you?” retorted Jenny, surprising herself at her out-of-character unsubstantiated swagger, looking up confidently at Mrs Nikolayeva with a tooth exposing almost Draculian ear-to-ear smile. Her fingers began rapidly wriggling in eager anticipation, ready for their downward plunge.

“Just get on with it, Jennifer,” snapped Mrs Nikolayeva, “and don’t put my humility any further to the test.”

Jenny directed an audacious wink at Mr Armstrong, causing him to gasp and adjust his glasses in disbelief.

“Here I go …” said a smiling Jenny, as her eyes widened and her fingers plunged gracefully and somewhat dramatically downwards …