After training, I tell Oscar that I saw his rocks and that they made me feel better about life.
‘Did they inspire you with their blueness?’ he asks, pitching his shaggy eyebrows at a startling angle. He’s sitting on a chair, peeling an orange, and looking quite deeply concerned.
‘I’m not sure if it was the blueness or the togetherness or just the way something as ordinary as a blue tea towel transformed them, but whatever it is I think you’re really great, Oscar. You’re a transformer.’
‘Why, thank you. I like to be a transformer.’ He relaxes his brow and holds out a piece of orange for me, then frowns again. ‘Can’t seem to transform my handstands yet.’
It’s true. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever be able to do a handstand, and yet he never gives up. I had always marvelled at how he kept trying and trying, even though it was useless. But right then it made sense because Oscar just didn’t see it as impossible or even unlikely. For him, everything is always possible, even a handstand from someone who has trouble balancing on his two feet. That was what really made Oscar different. More than his brain injury, it was his belief in something other than what we know. He believed in something else; something beyond, some wild, invisible, shimmering possibility that sung out to him in the tones of magic.
‘You will one day. I bet you’ll transform the whole idea of what a handstand is,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course, let’s see. A handstand is a way of seeing the world tip upside-down. It’s to clean the soles of your feet with air. It’s a body’s willing flip into unfamiliarity…’ He begins to gesture broadly as if delivering a speech, and I laugh.
Seeing all the action, Caramella comes over. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Oh, just Oscar holding forth on handstands. But actually,’ I say, ‘there is something strange I need to tell you both.’ With that I launch into the story of Harold Barton, including his hard life and his juggling ambitions.
Oscar says, ‘I think it’s magnificent. Harold Barton. A juggler.’
Caramella doesn’t say anything for a while. She frowns and seems perplexed. Of course Harold Barton had always teased her a lot and called her Zit-face. She more than any of us would never want to trust him. After a while she says, ‘Is he good? Can he really juggle?’
‘I don’t know, but I guess he must be okay because he knows all the names.’
She nods and says nothing more, at least not until we get home. The whole way there she’s been quiet and thoughtful and I’m worried that I really disturbed her by bringing up the monstrous Harold Barton, so I try to reassure her by saying that if he did get into the Flying Fruit Fly Circus at least we wouldn’t have to see him round here anymore.
‘But I’m thinking about Mohammed,’ she says, frowning and shaking her head.
‘Mohammed?’
‘Yes. This might be a crazy idea, but I was thinking that maybe Mohammed is scared of all the physical stuff in the circus. Maybe he’s just not good at that stuff, like me. But juggling is something that boys can learn, isn’t it?’
She looks at me with worry in her eyes, but I’m not sure what she’s getting at. She finally says it. ‘Couldn’t we get Harold Barton to come to training to teach juggling?’
I stop dead still. So she’s not scared of Harold Barton. She’s even prepared to invite him in.
‘God! It’s a great idea, but wouldn’t you hate that?’
‘I’d put up with it.’ She sighs and seems to relax, as if just saying it has given her the courage.
‘You never know, it might transform Harold too,’ I say, and I think to myself that transformation is obviously my new thing. That, and compassion. I give Caramella a hug.
‘You know, Caramella, you’re so forgiving, you’re already a Buddhist, I think.’ And then I go home to ring Harold and also to wait for Kite to call. Surely he’ll call tonight.