I tried to get excited about going to a school at the age of 12, but compared to going to Cambridge it did not seem a very interesting thing to do. I said: But what if I’ve already done everything?
He said: You’ll probably find you haven’t and anyway it won’t hurt to consolidate. Besides, it won’t hurt you to branch out. People expect scientists to be well-rounded; it won’t hurt you to put in some time on the humanities. You can pick up a language or two—that should stand you in good stead.
I tried to imagine explaining to Sibylla that I had won a scholarship to Winchester. I tried to imagine Sib not asking who had provided a reference. I tried to imagine Sib believing that Winchester had been impressed by a reference from my teacher at Bermondsey Boys Junior Judo.
He must have thought I didn’t like the idea of studying languages, because he said: I know how you feel, when you start out there’s just so much to know you can’t stand wasting time. But it can’t hurt to keep your options open at this stage. You can get some experience on the practical side—have you ever even been in a lab? No, I thought not.
I tried to imagine explaining to Sorabji that I was not his son in the genetic sense of the word.
Sorabji kept pacing up and down talking about the school. His eyes were flashing; he waved his hands; gradually he made it sound more and more attractive. It was not as exciting as going to the North Pole or galloping across the Mongolian steppe, but it seemed to be something that could definitely happen. He talked about the teachers at the school; he talked about boys at the school who would be friends for life. He seemed so happy and excited now that there was something he could do. I was beginning to think if we fought with real swords I would kill him; I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t his son because it was true.
Besides, why shouldn’t I go to the school?
I thought: What if there was some way to do it?
If he was right then I really could do it. I could get a scholarship and go to the school and if he ever found out about the trick it would be too late. They would not take the scholarship away just because he said to; they wouldn’t take it away if he said he only gave me the reference because he thought I was his son, and anyway how could he say that was why he gave me the reference? Sibylla would have more disposable income if I went; she could buy Schürer’s History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, the brilliant four-volume update by Vermes and Millar which no home should be without. If I could persuade a Nobel Laureate that I was his longlost son surely I could persuade my own mother that I had got a scholarship to Winchester.
I thought: Why can’t I do that?
If it didn’t work out I could always go to Cambridge at 13 instead. It might work out. At least it would be better than another winter on the Circle Line.
He was looking at me sympathetically.
I said: I don’t know.
I thought: Why wouldn’t it be right not to tell him? Sibylla would be happy. He’d be happy. He’s obviously been going around for years feeling guilty because there was nothing he could do, and now there’s something he can do. What’s wrong with letting him think there’s something he can do?
The phone rang.
He gave me a sort of rueful is-there-no-end-to-it smile. He said: I won’t be a moment.
He went to the desk and picked up the phone. He said: Sorabji!
He said: Yes, what seems to be the problem?
There was a long pause.
He said: I couldn’t agree with you more, Roy, but what do you imagine I can do about it? I’m not even on the committee—
There was another pause.
He said: I’d be only too delighted to help if there were anything I could usefully do, but I really don’t see any way round it—
There was another pause.
He said: That’s a very interesting suggestion.
He said: It would certainly be unorthodox, but that’s not to say—
He said: Look, Roy, could I call you tomorrow? I’m in the middle of something right now. I don’t want to raise false hopes, but let’s not rule out any possibilities.
He said: Good. Yes. Thanks for calling.
I kept looking at him. I couldn’t work out what was going on. I couldn’t work out what had been going on with Dr. Miller, and I couldn’t work out what had been going on with the Australian astronomer; I couldn’t even really work out what was going on with his three children and the pages of problems. All the relevant evidence did not seem to be available; I could not see any way of getting all the relevant evidence. Based on the evidence available, the last person I would ask for further relevant evidence was Sorabji.
I thought that if I let him do something I would have to be his son. I wouldn’t have guessed, from the TV show, that if you went to him in a crisis he’d start interrogating you on petroleum by-products—but was that the end of the world? I could avoid him in a crisis. The rest of the time he would probably take me up in a helicopter and teach me to climb a rope ladder, or take me flying across the Channel, or explain things that were so hard it helped to have them explained. There was obviously more to him than met the eye, but how much more? How much did it matter?
It seemed to me that things were easier in the days when I just had Val Peters to worry about. He had his faults. Mixing up DNA and RNA. Dabbling in sexual tourism. One could go on. But no one would ever blame me for having a father like that—he just came that way. Whereas—
I said: What was that about?
Sorabji looked astonished. He said: Curiosity killed the cat.
Then he smiled and shrugged. He said: Just some administrative kerfuffle. Somebody’s nose out of joint.
I knew I couldn’t do it. I thought: But why do I have to tell him?
I wanted to say I would send the application and then just not send it. It would be easy because once I left he would never find me. If he talked to the woman he would find out that she had not had a child. If he didn’t talk to her then he would never know.
I knew I was going to have to tell him. I thought I’d better do it before I lost my nerve.
I said: You might not want to write me a reference
He said: What, because someone might suspect something? They won’t think anything of it. A brilliant, self-taught boy comes to my attention; I do what I can to put him in contact with the right sort of people—what could be more natural? There’s the resemblance, of course, but a lot of boys have their hair shorter than that—if you get yours cut before you go I don’t think anyone will notice.
I said: You might not want to write me a reference because I’m not really your son.
He said: What?
I said: I’m really not your son.
He frowned as if to say What?
I said: I made it up.
He said: You— He said: Don’t be absurd. I can understand your resentment but you can’t go around with a chip on your shoulder. You look exactly like me.
I said: My mother says you look like Robert Donat. Are you related?
He stared at me. He said: So you— He said: Might I ask why?
I explained about Seven Samurai.
I don’t know what he was expecting. He said: That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense.
I said I thought it made sense.
He looked down at the pages of Fourier analysis and spread them slightly on the table with his hand. Then he crumpled them up suddenly and dropped them in the bin. He said: So I have no son.