Something Invisible Read Online Free Page A

on about?
    â€œI mean,” Stella went on, “I like to use the right word when I know what it is, but I don’t like using ugly words. That’s the dilemma, you see. Dilemma’s a nice word, I hadn’t noticed that before. Do you like it?”
    Jake went on staring. He couldn’t think what to say.
    â€œI collect words,” Stella said. “It’s my hobby. But it’s a bit like collecting seashells—you can’t collect them all, so I only collect the beautiful ones. Like ‘mackerel,’ and ‘plinth,’ and ‘obloquy’ I try to go by the sounds, not the meanings, but sometimes the meanings do get in the way, like ‘tryst,’ for example. I don’t know whether I really like that word, or whether it’s just the idea of it. Do you see what I mean?”
    Jake coughed. “I like mackerel,” he said at last.
    â€œIt goes back and back,” Stella said, nodding at the house. “Like to come in? You could see my word collection if you like. It’s in my room.”
    â€œNo,” said Jake.
    â€œOK,” said Stella, unexpectedly. She pushed past Jake and opened the gate. Suddenly, there were children everywhere: two swung out of a tree in the front garden; two tumbled out of the front door, squawking gleefully. One waddled around the side of the house, a small one, barefoot and wearing nothing but a nappy and a blue cotton sun hat, and stared at Jake.
    Stella skipped up a couple of shallow steps and onto the garden path. When she got to the front door, she turned and waved at Jake. “Bye so,” she called.
    â€œBye,” said Jake, crestfallen, and watched as she scooped the smallest child up and swung him onto a bony hip, then pushed the door wide open. The children all swarmed around her and she touched each one lightly on the head, as if counting them. The children piled in the door, and the house gobbled up their delighted squabblings. The door closed behind them, and the air was full of an uncanny silence.
    Jake stared at the door. Then he shrugged and turned away.

CHAPTER
    14
    Jake’s mum sat in her study in her dressing gown in the mornings and tried to write. Nothing came. That had never happened to her before, she moaned. Always, something came. All her creativity was going into her milk, she said. Jake thought that wasn’t a nice thing to say. Women shouldn’t talk like that in front of boys. It was embarrassing.
    â€œI wish I smoked,” she said.
    â€œWhat!” Jake was aghast.
    â€œPoets who can’t write smoke. It’s better than nothing.”
    â€œNo, it’s not, it gives you cancer,” said Jake darkly. “And strokes. And heart attacks. And bad breath. And varicose veins. And nightmares.” He just threw in the last one for effect. Also, he was interested to see if she would challenge him on it.
    She didn’t even notice.
    â€œOh, don’t worry, I’m not going to start now. It’s just that it would be something to do. It would be nice to have something to do. With my hands. With my mouth. You know.”
    Jake didn’t know. It was his feet that gave him trouble when he had nothing to do, not his hands or his mouth. They kept wanting to kick things. Football helped, but sometimes you couldn’t play football, like in the middle of the night or in a snowstorm or at Sunday lunch. It was amazing the number of times you couldn’t play football, if you set your mind to thinking about it. In school, in church, in any building, actually, come to think of it. On the bus, on the train, at the airport. On Sundays in Scotland. In bed, in the shower, at the swimming pool. And in Jake’s back garden, because there was a sunroom at the back of their house with glass panels. Breakable glass panels, as his parents frequently told him. Expensive-to-replace glass panels.
    â€œâ€˜The Daisy follows soft the Sun—’” said Jake’s