Time passed.
Richard and Rikki were moved to a small residential centre on the south coast – a division of the Rechner Institute for Neurological Studies. It contained just a handful of patients, who shuffled slowly along the corridors. Dr Warren visited as often as he could, and made careful notes. The second head continued to grow, and whilst a pair of physiotherapists worked on muscular control and movement, it was immediately clear that speech therapy wasn’t necessary.
Richard’s headmaster wrote to reassure the family that his place at school was being kept open. His best friend, Jeff, sent the most beautiful Get Well card. Richard loved aeroplanes, so he got every pupil in the class to draw one and sign it. ‘See You Soon!’ ran the caption, in puffs of clouds under a burning sun. Richard put it on his bedside table, and began to feel stronger. He wrote a letter thanking everyone, and he even dared to say that he hoped to be returning soon.
‘By the end of the month,’ said Dr Warren. ‘I think you’ll be ready.’
‘I want to go home,’ said Richard.
‘Of course you do.’
‘Has it changed at all?’
‘I doubt it. Why would it change?’
Rikki smiled. ‘You’re lying again, Doc. Everything changes.’
Mrs Westlake bought new T-shirts, and made careful adjustments to them. She found a coat with an extra-wide hood, and a skilful tailor adapted the Green Cross school uniform. Mr and Mrs Westlake collected their son together, and soon he was walking up the familiar garden path.
It had been his grandfather’s house, originally. Richard had been a baby when they moved in, and it had all made sense. His grandad could still manage stairs, if he was careful, so he’d had rooms on the first floor, overlooking the vegetable plot at the back. Beyond that was the lawn where his father had set up goalposts, and beyond that was the dangerously high tree house, with the swing . . .
Richard and Rikki breathed in familiar smells, and made their way up to the bedroom. They drew the curtains and covered the mirror.
The next day, a text from Jeff came through. ‘We’re waiting!’ it said. ‘We’re keeping your locker tidy – nothing’s been taken: DON’T WORRY!!’
‘OK, thanks,’ wrote Richard. ‘What else is happening?’
‘Football tournament. We need you!’
He visited, then: twice. Mrs Westlake apologized, but kept him at the door. Richard was still too self-conscious, she said, and Rikki was settling. She was hopeful that things would improve.
Towards the end of the next week, Richard felt brave enough to pick up the phone.
‘Hi, Jeff,’ he said, after a pause.
‘Richard! Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
The second head said nothing.
‘How are you, man?’ said Jeff.
‘I’m almost ready. I’m getting there. Do I, er . . . sound the same?’
‘Exactly the same! When are you coming in?’
‘Tuesday,’ said Rikki. There was a pause, and Richard said, ‘Tell me what I’ve missed.’
‘Oh, everything!’ said Jeff. ‘Eric’s in trouble again, and Bra-low’s going crazy. We get tests every day, and Salome asked after you – so did Mark and Carla. You’re really coming back? Let me call for you? We’re dying to see you, buddy.’
‘I’m not sure. Dad was going to drive us . . . Hang on.’
Jeff pressed his ear to the receiver, and heard anxious voices.
‘That would be great,’ said Richard, at last. ‘We’ll walk together, yes? Like it was.’
‘Eight-ten, Tuesday. I’ll knock for you – just like it was.’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Rikki.
‘What?’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you,’ said Jeff. ‘You nervous?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be nervous, Richard. It’s going to be good.’
The next Monday, the headmaster called a special assembly in the dining hall. All the children sat in rows on the floor, and a number of parents sat on chairs around the walls. Dr Warren was on the stage – a special guest – sitting quietly to one side. He stroked his beard and stared at his laptop. The headmaster gazed at his audience.
‘We have many things to be proud of at Green Cross,’ he said.
The children were silent, cross-legged and straight-backed. Mr Prowse was a strict head teacher, who stood for hard work and self-discipline. They knew what was coming.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘And I hope you’re proud of each other. As far as I’m concerned, there is no other school where children are as polite and tolerant, and I believe we are a genuinely happy community. Turn round, please, Eric.’ He paused. ‘One of the most important things in that community is the tradition of support and care. Any pupil here can expect support and care when things go wrong. Is that true, children?’
‘Yes, Mr Prowse,’ murmured the school.
‘I hope so. Because my chosen theme for today’s gathering is a proverb. A difficult word, that – can anyone tell us what it means?’
A hand shot up.
‘Damien?’
‘A famous saying,’ said a small boy in the second row.
‘A famous saying. Yes. A proverb is a famous saying that usually contains words of wisdom. And the proverb on my mind is one you may have heard before: “Two heads are better than one.” Why have I chosen that self-evident truth? Because – as you are no doubt aware – Richard Westlake is coming back tomorrow, and I want us to be ready.’
He nodded to Dr Warren, and the lights dimmed. A large slide-photograph of Richard and his recent addition was thrown up onto a screen. There was an audible gasp.
‘An unusual picture, children – I know. That’s why I wanted to show it to you without embarrassing Richard. It was taken a few days ago, by his mother – and she sent it to me in the full knowledge that I would be sharing it. Er, number two, please.’
The photograph changed to a close-up. The two heads stared at the assembly, with blank expressions.
‘Number three.’
There was a shot of just the second head, slightly thinner in the face than the Richard everyone remembered, with fiercer eyes.
‘You’ll notice something unusual on Richard’s shoulder.’ Mr Prowse paused, and the children stared. ‘That is Rikki. Rikki, I can assure you, is Richard. Richard and Rikki are the same person, though they do, I’m told . . . have some little differences in character, some of the time. It’s an unusual situation – I’d go so far as to say rare. But I have a feeling we’re going to get used to it very quickly. I am confident that Green Cross School will benefit enormously from the presence of both Richard and Rikki, because this is a school that embraces the new. Can any of you remember what special achievement Richard was so proud of last term? Hilary?’
Hilary’s hand was straining. ‘He won the long jump, Mr Prowse.’
‘Yes he did. Joe?’
‘He was bus monitor for the infants.’
‘He most certainly was. What else? . . . Nicola?’
‘He was runner-up for the Kidspeak prize.’
‘Right behind Aparna, you’re absolutely spot-on. And I will never forget his contributions to those meetings, because he was polite, organized and constructive, because Kidspeak could be rather important this term.’ He paused. ‘Rikki and Richard are going to have a wonderful time, aren’t they?’
There was a loud murmur: ‘Yes, Mr Prowse.’
‘Two heads are better than one. To solve a problem, it is always wise to consult a second problem-solver. When we feel lost or lonely, how wonderful to have someone to turn to. That is why Richard is luckier than all of us. Never will he be alone, for he has a companion right beside him – and I suggest to you that when you get to meet that companion, you will have the pleasure of getting to know not one stimulating personality, but two.’
He turned, smiling broadly.
‘Children. I want to introduce you to our guest. This is Doctor Warren, and Doctor Warren is a very important man – the Rechner Institute does ground-breaking work studying the human brain. He’s agreed to help us, and you’ll be seeing him around the school from time to time. Please make him feel welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dr Warren, standing. He clasped his hands in front of his chest. ‘It’s really nice to be here, so thank you for having me. One thing I want to say is that Richard’s first day could be the most important one. Does that makes sense?’
The children stared at him. Some nodded.
‘Richard’s been a good friend to many of you, by the sound of it. So he – and Rikki – are hoping that those friends will make a difficult time easier.’
He paused, conscious that his audience was scarcely breathing.
‘My advice is, don’t stare. After all, he’ll be feeling a little self-conscious. Speak of him in the singular, and not in the plural – that means “he” rather than “they”. Let’s treat him as we would any other boy, and when you chat, look him in the eye in the same way as you would anybody else. He may not want to talk about his recent experiences, because . . .’ He stopped and looked at the photograph. ‘Because he’s got so much to get used to.’
Nobody spoke or even twitched. The silence was absolute.
‘Rikki’s brain, you see, is newly formed, and has inherited only parts of Richard’s memory. It’s a fascinating situation. We will need to be understanding, and help him adjust. Shall we do that together? Let’s make the resolution now: we’re going to help Richard and . . . Rikki feel comfortable and secure. Is that a cool thing to do?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the children.
‘I do agree – absolutely,’ said the headmaster, stepping forward. ‘That’s a first-rate idea, and I tell you now: this is going to be a test for all of us. A test to see how open and adaptable our community can be, and how we can all work with one another. Are we going to make sure Richard and Rikki are happy?’
‘Yes, Mr Prowse.’
‘Then let’s say it with conviction. Will this boy be made welcome tomorrow?’
‘Yes, Mr Prowse!’ chorused the children.
‘Very well. Good. Excellent. We will turn to page seventy-two and all sing together: “One More Step”. And we have the usual end-of-assembly treat: Aparna, here, is going to play the piano. As you know, Aparna achieved grade two just last week, so we’re very lucky to have such a talented young pianist playing for us. Aparna, take the stage! A round of applause, please . . .’
Aparna was a slim, nervous girl of eleven. She made her way to the piano-stool, cringing with embarrassment as the children clapped. The words of the hymn appeared on the screen, and everyone sang with gusto. Her hands danced over the keys, hammering out the chorus as the school gazed at the faces of Richard and Rikki, staring from under the text.
One was thinner, with back-combed hair and eyes that seemed harder than ever. The other was the face the children remembered, and he looked very slightly mournful.
The heads stared at their audience, as if they were listening to the music but unable to sing.