•✦—✦•
December 18th, Brook Lane, Chester, UK
Things were frankly getting quite hectic at school. But this day was special in many ways—as it lit a fire under me and paved the very first stone I would walk on. My mother had plans for the holidays, and I was to be introduced to the other side of the family. I suppose, it might be best to start with an introduction to my own parents.My mother was called Erin Price. She was what you would call a proper Welsh woman. The name itself was pronounced simply as it was written, and each time my mother said something, it always took on the beautiful quality of her strong Welsh accent.
I knew not everyone would feel that way about Welsh accent. In fact, even Cestrians—the local population of Chester—didn't always share the sentiment. I suppose, I should explain better. The River Dee was a beautiful river that separated the cross-bearing Englishmen from the "unwashed Welsh peasants". But were you to cross the river, the sentiment was reversed, with proud Welshmen thanking the river for washing away the stink of the English. While there was no love lost between the Englishmen and Welshmen, both parties were, in a way, just fine with each other. Since Chester was largely an English city and Saltney was a Welsh town just a couple of miles away, a lot of back-and-forth travel happened between the two.
My mother, Erin Price, had met a lovely English chap in that town and gotten pregnant, resulting in my arrival to this world. She was a kind and sweet woman, and I loved her more than I could explain without resorting to poems or songs.
My father was an interesting person. He was English as they came—true blood from Trafford, a borough of Manchester, which wasn't really far away from Chester. I didn't know much about his family, but based on what I had learned, I knew he had issues with them—after all, not many men take their wife's last name.
"Get onside now, we better get going!" Mum shouted down the hall.
"Coming!" I shouted back, scrambling into my coat.
We lived in a terraced home, much like any you'd see strewn around England. Interestingly, my revelations offered almost no knowledge about it. I loved my house because, while the front looked absolutely ugly, we had a terrace (without a roof!) and a small backyard where Mum grew root vegetables and spices if the weather suited.
"Wilf, you better get down!" Mum shouted again.
"Aye-aye!" I shouted as I put on my clothes. I was wearing double layers of everything on account of the famous English weather.
Happy that I had put on everything Mum commanded me to wear, I left my room and went downstairs. Despite being a two-story, everything in the house felt cramped due to the width of the house but it still felt cozy. Mum was in the kitchen frying some eggs.
"I'm here!" I called out.
"There you go!" she said, handing me a plate with egg, bread, and a small scoop of beans without even looking at me.
I devoured it quickly and drank my orange juice. My orange juice had more flavor than the butty, but I still loved Mum for her care. My revelations had told me that a child had more taste buds than an adult, and thus sweets were the only flavors we preferred. I understood, because I also had memories of eating butties—though never without beans. Memories were an odd thing and in it I had hated sweets.
"So where are we off to?"
"Manchester!" Mum replied enthusiastically.
I never understood it—my Welsh grandparents lived in Manchester instead of somewhere like Cardiff or Wrexham.
"Can I watch Blue Peter?" I pleaded.
"You can put it on, but we'll be going as soon as Oliver shows up."
I absentmindedly nodded as I started the old CRT TV. Blue Peter was a children's program, and I enjoyed it like any other child, mostly because of one massive reason: it was a lovely show that parents could watch without any problem, so it had themes I could appreciate and often learn new things from. The show lasted barely thirty minutes, and I loved how the hosts and interviewers covered completely new topics every episode. Today's episode was on BBC2, because it was a rerun of yesterday's show. It started with the host doing a challenge with a child but soon shifted to Konnie Huq, who was slowly becoming my crush. I was eight years old, and it was funny that I felt a kinship with Konnie for reasons I couldn't explain.
•✦—✦•
[Scene: Konnie in a nice woolen top, speaking to the screen.]
"Children have imaginations that can't be matched by anyone, and I thought it would be brilliant to meet those who weave the books you end up reading. I found a woman who wrote a whole book in a café in Edinburgh. Her name is J.K Rowling!" Konnie said.
Unknown to her, she had started a process for a boy in Chester. The boy had his head slumped, and spit dripped from the corner of his mouth.
Konnie continued: "J.K. Rowling is actually called Joanne! And Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was her first book."
Konnie, sitting in a random castle in Edinburgh, sat down on a bench with Joanne and asked the burning question.
Konnie: "Why put J.K. on the cover and not Joanne?"
Joanne: "That was the publisher's choice rather than mine. I think they thought J.K. Rowling was a more memorable name. But also because they thought it was a book that boys would enjoy. They might've wanted to hoodwink a few boys into thinking a man wrote it."
Konnie nodded in understanding but did not press the question further. She might have received something unique as unbeknown to her, Joanne was a huge feminist.
Joanne then explained how she came up with Quidditch and crafted other names by observing her surroundings and collecting new words.
Joanne: "The headmaster of the school is called Dumbledore. That's an old English word for bumblebee because I imagine him humming to himself all the time—because he's fond of music."
Konnie: "Oh…"
The scene shifted to a shot of Nicolson's Café & Bar. Konnie sat with Joanne at the very table where the author had written her book.
Joanne: "It's very lonely sitting at home all day, on your own with a computer. If you come out and are surrounded by other people, then you feel like you've seen other human beings all day."
Konnie: "What was it like when you first saw your book in the shop?"
Joanne: "That was the best moment of all—better than anything that's come since. It was a real book! In a proper, real bookshop. It was wonderful!"
Konnie (narrating): Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone is the first of many books Joanne has planned.
Joanne: "There will be a second—I've finished number two, which will be published next summer. It's called Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and Harry finds out that he has a certain power that sets him apart from other wizards. It's got quite scary stuff in it as well! I'm writing three at the moment."
Konnie: "Have you got any advice then for budding authors out there, who want to write their first book?"
Joanne: "The way I arrived at writing a book was that I'd been writing for years and years since I was very young and outside of school. You need to practice and work out what worked and what didn't work. You have to keep going and start by writing about something you know about—your own feelings and subjects you know about."
[Scene ends.]
•✦—✦•
I opened my mouth and closed it, my eyes fixed on the screen as J.K. Rowling spoke to my TV presenter crush. It was brilliant—I received so much information in a moment that I felt my brain hurting, as if a nail had been driven right into my cerebral cortex.
My revelations had come in many different lengths—sometimes a tiny memory defining a single thing, or otherwise a full-length movie lasting hours. This time, I had possibly hundreds of hours of memories, movies, books, general knowledge, and more that I could hardly understand in full. It was safe to say this lady being interviewed by Konnie Huq was perhaps the biggest sensation of all time. Her books would go on to become one of the biggest cultural phenomena in the world. It was hard to imagine how the crazy children and crowds could even be real, but my eyes didn't lie—and the revelation's words were confirmed by every word uttered by Joanne Rowling herself.
For the first time in my life, a revelation arrived without everything being played instantly in my mind. I found that I could think about it and start to receive a portion of the knowledge if I focused. I was shocked—revelation could actually give me time to absorb knowledge over time if it were big enough.
I started to cry crocodile tears because it was a form of entertainment I wasn't spoiled by—shown all at once instead of being allowed to enjoy it slowly. I prayed the memory wouldn't be immediately absorbed again, but as I saw J.K. Rowling finish her interview and the show go on, I smiled like an idiot.
"Mum! Mum! Let's go to Manchester! We need to buy something!" I shouted.
I was given a swat as Mum covered her ear.
"Wilfred Price, you better watch your volume. I'm right next to you, boy… Why are you crying?"
I couldn't help but laugh, and Mum's concern deepened.
"I really like this book this woman wrote. She's just released it, and I want to read it. Please, Mum, can you buy it for me in Manchester?"
Erin's eyes softened, but she had a surprised look—as if her son had never shown so much expression or motivation about anything before.
"Of course, my baby! Let's get going, shall we? OLIVER?! WHERE ARE YA?"