He set off down the beach path, and Jasmine and Sarah followed him without question. They simply didn't want to be by themselves. They'd rather traipse out to Rock Point and look at a jellyfish that they didn't really want to see than spend most of the day on their own.
And that was it, 3-2 decided. We'd won. Robert's encyclopaedic knowledge of jellyfish had tipped the balance in our favour. Alex and I followed behind the trio, gloating inwardly at our easy triumph. We weren't surprised - Robert always came out with stuff like that. Most of the time it turned out to be useful. Now all we had to do was find a way to make him go away.
“Did Chris Watling say if it was alive or dead?” Sarah asked suddenly. As usual, when she spoke it was always pertinent.
“He said it was moving when he saw it,” I supplied.
“Then it might still be alive,” Robert said.
We increased our pace, crossing the hot sand of Carbis Bay and making our way along towards Rock Point. We finally reached the huge rocks that bordered Rock Point and clambered up them. Alex was the first one of us to reach the top. He peered over.
“I can't see a jellyfish,” he stated, putting just the right amount of righteous indignation in his voice. “I bet Watling was lying.”
“They're not all that easy to see,” Robert panted.
For the briefest of moments, a look of distaste crossed Jasmine's face. I wondered what it had been in response to.
Robert's knowledge of things was almost an advantage of a kind - a sort of balance to him being fat. It was his edge. Everyone has an edge in one thing because they have a deficiency or a lack in another area. Robert lacked leanness and grace and athleticism, so he had a lean and graceful and fast mind. He was smart. He Knew Lots of Things.
Every day at school, our form teacher, Mr Watts, asked the class a general knowledge question. Whoever answered correctly first got a merit. One day during the last school term, Mr Watts asked a general knowledge question about snooker and pool. Mr Watts had a friend who could play pool, but not snooker. Why not?
As the class pondered, Robert put his hand up. He was always first to put his hand up.
“Let someone else have a chance, eh, Robert?” Mr Watts said, mock-solemnly. And then mock-waited.
A few inane answers followed as we sluggards valiantly tried: he didn't know the rules of snooker; he couldn't count below twelve; he had no memory; and so on, ad nauseum. All wrong. All stupid. Finally, the unbearable-because-anticipated moment arrived.
“Well then, Robert… Would YOU like to put everyone out of their misery?” Mr Watts asked. It was his own particular favourite question. He enjoyed asking it. It made his lips wet when he said the words. If he'd looked carefully at Robert, he'd have seen that Robert was (as always) starting to look uncomfortable, but Mr Watts never looked carefully at anything. No one ever did.
“It's because he's colour-blind,” Robert said and as he spoke a collective sigh of realisation went through the class. Of course! How could we have overlooked such an obvious answer? Only, it hadn't really been that obvious at all. And still wasn't to some.
“Yes,” Mr Watts said, unnecessarily. “He's colour-blind, so therefore it means…” Vast tracts of time made Mr Watts' voice fade away. Robert had no need of Mr Watts' approbation. Nor had we. We all knew that every time Robert opened his mouth he was right. He never spoke unless he knew what he was talking about. Being colour-blind means you can play pool but you can't play snooker. Lucky break. There are metaphors in everything. Triangles too.
Of course, Robert got awarded a merit for his answer, but he didn't need or want such trinkets - he'd already gained whatever reward he was ultimately after long before that moment - long before the question was asked, was thought of, was etymologically formulated, if the truth were known. Robert was strange like that - he generated hundreds of merits, but didn't really want - or care about - any of them. In fact, he often got in trouble for giving them away. He simply didn't seem to care about the things that everyone else, including me, cared about. It was as though he was his own arbiter in all things, as though he acknowledged no source of value other than his own. Sometimes I tried to make myself not care about stuff, in imitation of him, but it never felt as though it meant anything when I did it.
