•✦—✦•
Christmas holiday started with a bang. I spent a much-deserved time sleeping as much as I could to catch up on some lost sleep, which I supplemented by reading Harry Potter, eating, and sleeping again. I probably finished reading the book 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 fantasizing about it.
For Christmas the Price family were busy as beavers. For 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, which was always shocking. We went out to see the sights in Manchester and even took a ferry while Father joked about going to France rather than Liverpool. I wanted to go to France, and it didn't seem all too hard if one were in London. My mum and I helped Fioled-my grandmother prepare her Christmas roast and put the lathered chicken into the kitchen.
"Are Daf and Jono coming for Christmas?" Mum asked Fioled, my grandmother.
She made a face. "Why do you think we've moved all the way to Manchester? Stop those pitiful looks — your father and I prefer being lonely."
It was then that I realized my grandparents were indeed lonely. They had retired with not much money and clearly weren't doing all that great. I promised to get them out to Cardiff near Aunt Dafina if I got rich. Meanwhile, I would try to dig out of Mum why they had arrived in Manchester and not in Cardiff. When we had arrived back home, she had told me simply, but with some jealousy, "Daf's wedding gift was their old home in Cardiff."
I knew my grandparents lived in a seedier part of Manchester, but I mostly thought of it as just not comparing to Chester, which — other than Blacon and Saltney, over the river — looked like a proper fantasy city. Not much could compare to that.
"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."
I didn't think it was a good enough reason. I mean, why couldn't they have just gotten another place in Cardiff instead of Manchester? But maybe they just wanted to retire quietly in a new town before they found themselves growing older and more melancholic. That sounded 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. "Mum, I want to be an actor and play Harry Potter."
"Oh, is that the book that you bought three copies of for no reason? You know they all have the same words written in them, right, sweet?"
I couldn't help but huff indignantly. She had been giving me hell for it, and I thought I would 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 Gateway Theatre." Mum suggested, and I immediately lapped up the idea.
•✦—✦•
On Boxing Day, my dad brought us to our local football club, where I watched Chester City beat Hull City 2–1. I loved the football but mostly the passion in my dad that I hadn't seen before today. But I couldn't say that I enjoyed the crowd as much; they were a loud bunch, and some of the chants were honestly quite scary. Five thousand Cestrians screaming was quite something, and by the score even the opposing team agreed.
The Price family enjoyed the Rows and Cross, a famous landmark of Chester, for our Boxing Day shopping and walkabout. I'd been here many times, but it never became boring; it was simply a beautiful street that seemed like another universe. I would recommend it to anyone with the means to visit. There probably weren't that many cities that still felt like medieval times hadn't left. The shops on the street had that interesting English element where the second and third floors were wider than the ground floor, and 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 it looked unique and interesting — felt really out of place for its modern look, as one side of the building hung at almost a 45-degree angle. My mum told me the sights and explained them as we went, going into the deep and long Roman history of Chester. Being one of the last Roman cities around, it had retained most of the structure of the time intact. Mum also had an amazing memory and would point to broken stumps of a stone pillar and paint me a picture of what it looked like before it had crumbled.
•✦—✦•
January 16th, King's School, Chester
Christmas had left me fatter and happier than before, and when school started back again, I went back to my tutoring with Mrs. Ramsdale. Today was going to be the test for UKMT, Junior Division, which only included primary-school children. I'll be honest, I tried to be as excited about it as possible, but my excitement had dipped and frozen over as I completed my paper. It was everything I had already done before, just repackaged into a different-coloured design. I probably — rather, I knew — that I would've gotten a perfect score had I not practised at all.
King's School was chosen mainly because Woodfield did not have the registration with UKMT to host their exams, so Chris Hale had somehow roped my mum into coming to see King's School. I'll be completely honest: King's School was great. The place looked like a historical building or something straight out of Downton Abbey — well, maybe not as glamorous, but close enough for Chester. Mum held my hand as we were ushered by a lady with a posh London accent who told us about the history of the school.
"Henry VIII started this school, and we have ever been the shining guide of education since that time. Many great children 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 there, as are the names of all graduates of this 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. So for the two of us, this entire visit resembled an uptight woman screaming at us for being poor.
"What are the fees? This is a private school, is it not?" Mum asked.
"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, 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 talent in my son."
"Of course, Mrs. Price. We have a drama class that is separate from our compulsory music class, and we put on a play for each grade every term. The hall we were in before is the auditorium, and they've got brilliant props and costumes that we've been crafting for years and years. You can even enjoy making them if you join the Arts & Crafts version of the class; all the backstage techs are there and learn management as a skill. It's hectic and fun."
"Thank you; that sounds lovely," Mum replied, impressed but also withdrawn due to how much it cost.
"We, of course, have a football pitch, and our school sends out a few teams to compete with neighbouring schools. We even have a girls' team, and they are fierce rivals with Queens Park — erm, that's the girls-only school nearby. Our two schools are the only ones here in Chester that have a rowing class. 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.