Andie's Moon (10 page)

“What’s with your mum?” Kris asked, as they waited for the bus. “Why’s she so strict?”

“Oh, she’s just not used to…well, to London. She likes it, but she thinks I’ll get lost or kidnapped the second I leave the flat.” Andie felt an uncharacteristic desire to stand up for her mother. “They’re a bit disappointed today, Mum and Dad. They went to look at some flats yesterday, but they turned out to be much too small.” And dilapidated, Mum had said, and none too clean, and not in streets she’d want to live in, either. “That’s one drawback to staying here in Chelsea Walk,” Dad had pointed out. “We’re getting used to standards of luxury we’ll never afford for ourselves.”

“Oh, too bad,” Kris sympathized. “I hope you find somewhere fairly close, anyway.”

Andie could have told her that there was little chance of that. Estate agents’ details were arriving by post several times a week, but, as Mum put it, what she could afford she didn’t like, and what she liked she couldn’t afford. To make it worse, there was a flat for sale farther along Chelsea Walk, but when Mum had rung to ask the price she had put the phone down again very quickly.

Andie wasn’t going to let today be spoiled. She and Kris did some very splashy rowing on the Serpentine, then walked all the way across the park to Speaker’s Corner, where, Kris said, anyone could stand up on a box and make a speech. “Only no one’s doing it today. Quite often someone’s on about the love of God or macrobiotic diets or miners’ unions, or whatever they’re into. Votes for women, it used to be – did you know a suffragette used to live in your apartment? Even went to prison, Patrick told me. She was Anne Rutherford’s great-aunt or something.”

But now here were the paintings, the artists, ranged along the outside of the park fence, so that Bayswater Road had become a linear art gallery. Pictures were hung from the fence or propped against it – landscapes, portraits, fantasy scenes, prints, pastels, oils or delicate watercolours, enamel work, miniatures, models and sculptures, sewn pictures and collages – every kind of artwork Andie could imagine. Most had price labels on them, and were much less expensive than Andie had seen in shops. She looked at the people with interest, because they were artists like her. Some were sitting on the ground, one was even asleep, curled up with her dog on a big cushion, while others tried to chat with passers-by or offered to draw them as caricatures.

Kris had very definite tastes, marching past anything she didn’t like, straight to those pictures that caught her eye. The ones she liked best looked Chinese, in bold ink and wash, and somehow gave the effect of sweeping rain.

“If I could paint, that’s the sort of thing I’d do,” Kris said. “Only there are chimpanzees who can paint better than me. How ’bout you?”

Andie hesitated, then said, “I do paint. Painting’s what I do.”

Kris looked at her in surprise. “Why didn’t you say? I mean, I’m no artist, but I’d like to see your stuff.”

“I don’t know.” Andie wished she’d kept quiet. “I mean – you live with Patrick, a rea– I mean, he’s a professional. What I do would seem like messing about.”

“But that’s how everyone starts. Trying things. Seeing what works and what doesn’t. He does a lot of messing about himself. You will let me have a look, won’t you? Oh, go on! I’d really like to.”

“Well, perhaps,” Andie said cautiously. Maybe Kris would forget about it, or was only taking a polite interest. But when they got back to Chelsea Walk, and Andie was about to say, “Bye, see you tomorrow,” Kris said, “Wait up – what about your paintings? Aren’t you going to show me?”

“Well, all right. But only if you don’t say anything to Patrick. Promise?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like people seeing them. I mean,
you
can – but anyone else, it’s kind of too risky. We’ve got this awful art teacher at school who thinks I’m rubbish, and – if anyone else tells me that, I might start to believe it.”

Kris shrugged. “Okay. I promise not to tell you you’re rubbish.”

“But then,” Andie said, newly anxious, “you mustn’t say you like them unless you really do!”

“Andie – just get them, will you?”

They went upstairs. Mum was getting tea in the kitchen; Kris chatted to her, in her easy way, while Andie went into the bedroom and took her paintings out of their folder. She hadn’t shown these to anyone else: not Prune, not Mum, not Dad. Mum would only say, “Very nice, love,” or something as empty as that; Dad might advise her to paint baked-bean tins instead and call it Pop Art.

Andie laid out the paintings on Anne Rutherford’s candlewick bedspread, and fetched Kris.

Kris looked at them without speaking, while Andie remembered how critical she’d been of the paintings in the park – giggling, derisive (though not within earshot of the artists), pouring scorn on those she dismissed. I shouldn’t have given in, Andie thought. They’re mine – private. When someone else looked at them, it was as if the paintings were pinned in the glare of harsh spotlights that showed up all their flaws. She frowned, knowing they weren’t good enough. What was it, with her own work? No matter how pleased she was when she’d finished painting, or when she looked at her work last thing at night, it took less than a day to become dull and flat, no better than anyone else could do. Now her moonscapes looked garish and clumsy, the colours too bold, the perspectives all wrong.

“Andie!” Kris finally said, and her voice was full of reproach.

“TARGET MOON” was on the front cover of the
Radio Times
, with a picture of a rocket lifting off. Moon excitement was everywhere; the papers and the TV news were counting down the days to the Apollo 11 launch on Wednesday. The astronauts, Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins, had to practise being weightless, and moving around in their bulky suits that made them look like space toys. It would take till Sunday for them to reach the moon. How amazing, Andie thought, to be going where no human being had ever been before! Would it change them for ever? How could you fly to the moon, then come back home to ordinary life?

They would collect samples of moon rock and moon dust and bring them back to be analysed. From that, scientists hoped to learn more about how the moon had formed – whether its mountains were really volcanoes, how its craters had been made, whether there was or had ever been water on the moon, and how far it was similar to Earth. The likelihood of the mission succeeding was discussed endlessly. Even if the astronauts landed on the moon, what were the chances of them returning? What if the lunar module simply sank into the moon dust and disappeared? Or what if the astronauts
did
come back, but brought deadly bacteria with them?

“Everyone’s Gone to the Moon” was being played again and again on the radio. Andie heard the words, over and over in her head, while she worked on her paintings. Although she knew it was silly, she didn’t like the thought of
everyone
watching the moon, thinking about it, wondering; it made it less
hers.
The moon would surely prefer to be left alone.

In her pictures, though, she could roam the moon of her imagination.

“Hey,” Kris had said, in the bedroom. “You’re
good,
Andie! Really good!”

Andie felt herself glowing all over again, remembering. Kris wouldn’t say that just to be polite. Andie was encouraged, and carried on painting. Her moonscapes became ever more intricate, their colours more intense. The Earth, reduced to a shilling-sized disc in the sky, floated above, casting cool greenish earth-light, reflected from the sun.

Mr. and Mrs. Kapoor invited everyone in the house to a Moon Party at the weekend, which would start late on Sunday night and go on through the early hours of the morning. It seemed likely that TV coverage would continue all night long, so that the moon landing could be shown as it was happening. Andie’s head reeled at the idea of TV coming live from the moon – like watching
Dr Who
or
Star Trek
, only this would be real, actually happening, while people all over the world gazed at their television screens.

Term had finished now at St. Dunstan’s, and Sushila was busy helping her mother with fundraising for the Indian charity she worked for. Prune spent her afternoons in the Kapoors’ flat, putting leaflets into envelopes, addressing them and taking bundles to the post. At least, Andie thought, Prune wasn’t likely to get into trouble while she was with sensible Sushila.

Ravi seemed to spend quite a bit of time playing cricket, or practising with friends, but sometimes Andie saw him in the garden, or coming in through the side gate. Once he was playing chess with Kris under the walnut tree: “But it’s so
boring
,” Kris said. “He always wins.”

While Andie watched, Ravi finished off the game in three decisive moves. “Checkmate
again
!” Kris moaned. “And just when I had something really clever worked out.”

Ravi gave one of his shy looks from under his fringe. “But you’d complain if I let you win.”

“Well, course,” Kris humphed. “If I win, I want to win properly. Some chance.”

Ravi was already putting the chess pieces away in their box. Although Andie had only the most basic idea of chess, she would have liked a go, if he’d asked; but he only said, “See you later,” and went indoors.

“I don’t get it,” Andie said to Kris. “Sometimes he’s friendly, and sometimes he isn’t.”

Kris smiled. “No, it’s not that. He likes to keep his friends in separate compartments. Me for chess, a friend from school for cricket practice, someone else for swimming.”

“And, er, me for star-watching, then,” Andie confessed. “While you were away, and once before.”

Kris didn’t seem particularly surprised. “Prowling round the chimneys at night? Moon mania, that’s what it is. There’s no getting away from it. Even I’m starting to get hooked.”

There was more skywatching on Tuesday night. At last, with practice and the help of
The New Astronomer
, Andie was finding more of the skymarks for herself: not just the Plough but the whole of Ursa Major, and Cassiopeia, and Lyra and the Summer Triangle. The night sky was changing from a confusing sprinkle of stardust into recognizable constellations and clusters. Soon, though, hazy cloud put an end to gazing, and Ravi unscrewed the telescope from its tripod.

It was Kris’s idea that the three of them should go to the Science Museum on Wednesday, to watch the Apollo 11 launch live from America. Ravi must have decided that this was a special enough occasion for him to be with two friends at once, and agreed.

Lots of people had the same idea. Opposite the lift on the first floor, a room was set aside for radio broadcasting, and a demonstration of colour television, which Kris and Andie had seen on their first visit. Soon, people who could afford it would have colour TV in their own homes, just like going to the cinema. But for the moon mission, a much larger screen had been installed, with a direct link to Cape Kennedy. Andie, Kris and Ravi joined the crowd of people – adults and children – who had gathered in the warm, stuffy room, some standing, some sitting on the floor.

The launch tower made Andie think of the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Next to it, tethered and steaming quietly, was the Saturn rocket, elongated and elegant, like something from
Thunderbirds.
The astronauts were already on board, right at the very top, waiting. The television showed them eating their breakfast earlier, steak and eggs and orange juice, looking like people getting ready for an ordinary day at work; then, bulky and padded in their spacesuits, being driven to the launch pad, going up by lift to the command module, and being helped inside.

It would be a while yet. Andie felt too tense to watch any more. What must it be like, belting yourself into the top of a space rocket, knowing that some people estimated their chance of returning as only fifty-fifty? She wandered off with Kris into the adjoining gallery; Ravi wouldn’t budge, but stood absorbing every detail.

Excitement mounted as time for the launch drew near, with more and more people packed into the room, those outside getting as close as they could to the doorway. Andie lost Kris altogether in the crush, and could just see Ravi towards the front of the audience. Nothing seemed to be happening, nothing at all, but “Four minutes and counting,” said an American voice, unbelievably calm. A countdown began on the screen, stretching out the seconds for longer than felt possible. “Ignition sequence starts – six – five – four – three – two – one – zero –” Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, and there was the tiniest of pauses before the rocket began to lift. Andie had expected it to soar off at extreme speed, like an exploding firework, and was astonished that it could rise so slowly – more like a lift going up, she thought, than the great whoosh she’d expected. “All engines running – tower cleared—” and the commentator’s voice was drowned by clapping and cheers and exclamations. The rocket was soaring now, with a fiery tail; just a slim, pencil shape.

Everyone’s gone to the moon.
In their imaginations, anyway. It was hard to think about much else.

Chapter Thirteen