And still they kept coming. And coming. And coming.
My standards dropped. I slouched, I lay on top of my bed all day, sighing and singing rude songs, shouting at babies.
But here was the weird thing. Even though they came in their hordes, and queued patiently, and handed over their money – even though it was clear they’d all gone to some effort to get to our cottage and have a good look around – most of the grown-ups didn’t seem to enjoy it much. They were always so preoccupied. They liked to tell their kids off a lot, and seemed obsessed with whether anyone needed a wee.
They spent a lot of time taking photos on their phones and then sending those photos to everyone they knew. This gave us one thing in common, I suppose: we were both used to letting other people stare at our lives. Maybe they were worried about being forgotten too.
Even the rare ones who did seem interested, who booked themselves into the Paint Your Pets sessions with Dad’s hologram, engaged with all the interactive exhibits and willingly sat through the documentary on the Cliffstones tsunami – even they ended up with what I came to call The Look on their faces.
A shell-shocked expression. Like they’d realised somebody else’s life was pouring into them, and they didn’t like it.
Their smiles would become strained. Their eyes would dart to the windows and they’d gasp: ‘Outside?’ Where they’d all breathe a sigh of relief as if they were filling up with themselves again.
And they’d whisk themselves off in the direction of the car park without so much as a backward glance. Then they’d fold themselves up into their flying cars and disappear off into the smog of the twenty-second century. And I’d never see them again.
Because no one ever returned.
Apart from one boy, that is.
A funny-looking boy in a funny-looking top.
Who didn’t seem able to stay away.
HE FIRST APPEARED at the beginning of August, in the early gasps of the school holiday madness. Even among the crowds he was hard to miss, in his oversized pink T-shirt covered in lurid lime squiggles.
His skinny body floundered around in that T-shirt like it was quicksand. And his face was as pale as his top was colourful.
He came to my house about three times a week and even shelled out for a Repeat Visitor card, drawing surprised looks from almost all the staff although they tried to hide them. But he never gave the impression that he actually wanted to be there.
In fact, he seemed more interested in his shoes than anything else.
But once or twice – if he had to navigate a particularly busy crowd out in the hallways, for example, and if our paths were crossing – his narrowed green eyes would land almost directly on me.
He can see me! I’d think, with panicky delight.
But then almost immediately his face would glaze over, and it would become clear he hadn’t spotted me at all. At times like this I’d feel both disappointed and relieved. If you’ve been invisible for a while, you get used to it. The idea of being seen for the first time in over a century made me nervous. Plus he looked like hard work.
The man he was with though seemed much nicer.
Unlike the boy, he had an interested, polite manner. He was always careful not to push in queues, and went to great lengths to smile at all the Room Sentries. His chubby pink cheeks and soft caramel-coloured hair made him look as meek as the boy seemed sharp. The man wore clothes that soothed me just to look at them – velvety corduroy, faded denim, things in calming colours. He had a habit of blinking a lot, quite rapidly, as if he found crowds alarming, which made him look so harmless and shy I thought he must do something very mild and sweet for a living. Like breeding hamsters, or knitting things.
And he carried a big, stained, black leather bag with him at all times, as if he wanted to be prepared for anything. Perhaps he was a Scout leader, or a teacher of something practical, like geography.
Although, if he was a geography teacher, he can’t have been a very good one. He had a dreadful sense of direction for one thing. It didn’t matter how many times he came to the cottage, he never seemed to remember which room was which. If all the crowds were wandering in one direction, he’d go in the opposite. He opened doors marked Private and once he went straight into the staff room and interrupted Chrix’s sacred hard-boiled-egg-eating.
The man and the boy spent hours at the cottage when they visited, but I never saw them buy anything at the café, although the boy would occasionally throw longing glances in its direction. And whenever they left, the man would lay an arm casually across the boy’s shoulders, making him jump slightly, and say, ‘Seen anything interesting today?’ And the boy would shake his head firmly, which endeared him to me even less.
If you ever want to forget something completely or make it utterly invisible, here’s a piece of advice. Put it somewhere you’ll see it every day. Ideally in a frame, and at eye level, somewhere you’re likely to walk past a few hundred times a week.
As August drew to a close, as the grass out on the lawn began to die, so did my memories. It was hard for me to even see the framed photographs, copies of Birdie’s drawings, the replica motivational posters in Mum’s study. Even the holograms became harder to notice. (Every cloud …) The more I saw them, the less I saw them. We had turned into the past; a faded snapshot on a wall.
The only thing that felt vivid, unavoidable and impossible to ignore, was the crowds.
Clogging up the narrow corridors
