Not Really Galileo

NOT REALLY GALILEO

  By Richard Kerr

  Copyright 2011 Richard Kerr

  Totally For Real

  1s Upon A Time

  A Right Stitch Up

  NOT REALLY GALILEO

  When I see a low moon in the sky I have a flashback to one incident that began while Matthew Keely and I were playing on a rope swing. It was at the edge of suburbia on unused land that was marked for development: a rutted mess of sandy earth, ragged bushes and meagre trees. On the far side was a large, grey derelict house which, naturally, we knew to be haunted. The rope swing itself was tied to a thick branch of a near-dead tree which overhung a sandy pit. The trick was to swing over the pit and land on the other side: that was all, and we did it all day. If you fell into the pit you simply bounced up, as kids can. If it had rained the day before the sand stuck to us in damp patches. It didn’t take too many mis-swings to get soaked, but that didn’t matter. Yet if my mother had told me to have a bath in anything that wet I would have kicked up stink so I suppose wetness is subjective. ‘Subjective’ is the sort of word that Matthew would be using in five years time. It would take me another ten years to get it into my vocabulary.

  On this particular day Matthew skipped a turn on the swing and instead looked thoughtfully at the derelict house. I let him and played on. When I ran around the pit he was still musing, with one hand on his chin. He indicated with a finger toward the abandoned building.

  “The bit of flat roof would be an ideal place to watch the eclipse.”

  “Wha’?”

  “The eclipse of the moon, in two days time. At eleven-oh-six p.m. I can’t see it from my house. But we could see it from that roof.”

  The ground floor of the house was larger than its upstairs. It had a grand, high room to one side that had very tall windows. These were now boarded up but someone who’d managed to get inside had told everyone it was a ballroom. And sometimes you could still hear music. The roof of the ballroom was flat. The landing on the next storey had doors that led out onto it.

  “It’s possible to get onto that flat roof. I’ve seen people up there. Let’s do it.”

  “But at night time? It is nearly…” and I’m sure I said this ominously “Halloween.”

  “Really,” Matthew sighed. “It isn’t haunted. Do you believe the stories?”

  “People have heard things.”

  “Once. There was a mad man who lived there. He had a laboratory and he stuck bits of people together and brought them back to life. But that was donkey’s years ago. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Tuh! People will believe anything.”

  “Who told you that story?”

  “I heard it ages ago - when I was six.”

  This stung so I saved face by suggesting that we check out how to climb onto the roof while it was still daylight. We picked up our bikes and wheeled them across the field. The empty house seemed to draw the flotsam of dereliction towards it since the ground nearby was strewn with tyres, broken palettes, shopping carts and more. The box-shaped building was three storeys high with a Georgian arched front door. This side of the ballroom, the south side, didn’t offer up much for scaling the walls. We went around to the dark side that faced away from town and discovered a trove of debris and trash. Chief among it were two rusted oil barrels. When we stacked them on top of each other – god they were heavy – and we were already halfway up the wall. Better than that, there were some rusted spokes sticking out of the wall – don’t ask me what they were for – that allowed us to scale the rest. I went first and got as far as looking over the top. The roof was covered in moss with a few beer cans, which made the place feel a bit less haunted. I climbed down and Matthew took his turn. He went the whole way and got onto the roof. He strolled around and disappeared from view.

  “It’s easy, isn’t it?” I called up. He looked down.

  “It’s perfect. The moon should be just about there.” He pointed over the field to a distant line of fir trees.

  “Is this not a bit extreme?” I asked. “I mean, it’s only the moon.”

  “It’s an eclipse.” Matthew groaned at my stupidity. “We’ll never see another as long we live. Or not for another twenty years at least.”

  I didn’t know what an eclipse was so I said nothing.

  When he had climbed down I asked, “What time should we meet at?” It felt conspiratorial discussing this in the shaded corner of a ruin.

  “Ten forty-six. That’ll give us twenty minutes to climb up and set the telescope up.”

  “What telescope?”

  “Your dad does have a telescope, doesn’t he?” Matthew reminded me. How did he know that? I’d forgotten about it.

  “And it has a tripod?”

  “Sure,” I replied, but I wasn’t. I’d seen the telescope out of its box once. “But, you know, it’s my dad’s.”

  “What if you ask him nice? Or promise you’ll wash the car?”

  “The car’s not there. He’s gone away for a few days.”

  “Better still! You don’t have to ask.”

  “Are you sure we need to bring it?”

  “It’s an eclipse! Have you ever seen one?”

  “No.”

  “Of course we need a telescope.”

  “So what are you bringing then?” I wanted to redress the balance of responsibility.

  We walked our bikes back to the road. Matthew listed: torches, maps of the moon, matches...”

  “Rations!”

  “Rope!”

  I was well into the notion of a midnight flit but I still had no idea what an eclipse was and I couldn’t see why it needed my dad’s telescope.

  My dad was given the telescope as a prize but it had stayed in its box unused. Why it had any status within his possessions I don’t know. Maybe it represented potential – new horizons and a new lease of life. Most probably it was because it was the only thing he’d ever won. It was a prize, therefore it was to be prized.

  My mother worked part-time in a shop. When at home she was omniscient and could see into all corners of the house. It took me all of the next day to furtively locate the telescope in a cupboard above dad’s wardrobe. I couldn’t see how I was to reach it, remove it, replace the box, get it into my room and find a hiding place when my mother who, whilst in the bath could hear you eating a stolen marshmallow, was in the house. On top of which I had a younger brother who, having written his own dictionary, redefined ‘attention’ as ‘pest’ and ‘affection’ as ‘annoying’. I knew mum was working tomorrow so I left it.

  Next day was eclipse day. It hadn’t been mentioned on TV so I was none the wiser as to what it was. We sure didn’t have any books on the subject, which Matthew obviously had. I didn’t feel we were much poorer than Matthew’s family. I guess the Keely’s pumped all their money into their children as an investment whereas my parents used theirs solely for day to day expenses. When mum was working granny looked after us. Grannies in those days where the frizzy haired, arthritic variety who had never heard of trainers. Unlike Mum, Gran could generate peace simply by believing we were angels. In trusting us she concentrated her sphere of awareness to the TV and her knitting. I was able to get the telescope, put it in a carrier bag, and hide it under some bushes in the back garden. It also had, I was relieved to discover, a tripod.

  Later on I met with Matthew briefly, before being called in for dinner.

  “And it has a tripod?” he asked.

  I tutted. “Of course.”

  “We’ll rendezvous at the Green Man at ten-forty.”

  “Rodger and out.”

  Sneaking out of the house was probably the most tense but uneventful part of the escapade. My brother’s bed was empty; he often slept with Mum when Dad was away. She slept better too. When I e
ventually closed the back door I let out a long sigh. I rescued the telescope from its hiding place and cycled, oh-so-nervously, into the street.

  The Green Man was nothing more than someone’s ostentatious gate post on a street corner. It was a small statue covered in lichen. Matthew was there. He pushed a button on his digital watch to illuminate the red LED.

  “A minute late.” The digit changed. “Two minutes late.”

  “Well stop wasting time showing off and let’s get a move on.” I wanted to be as far away from nosey adults and policemen as possible.

  We left the houses behind and started across the field. We were plunged into darkness and Matthew turned his torch on. The moon, as he predicted, was behind the fir trees. It showed intermittently between the treetops and, from the little I could see of it, it looked very large