Nicola Barker - Darkmans

Charles Bartlett came over to stand beside her.

‘Of all the books I’ve ever recommended,’ he told her, reaching inside the box, ‘I’ve always found that parents find this one by Sally Yahnke Walker especially useful…’

He held it out to her. It was called Stand Up For Your Gifted Child: A Survival Guide for Parents of Gifted Kids .

‘It’s published by Prufrock Press,’ he continued, pointing to the spine, ‘they tend to specialise in this area, so it’s definitely worth heading to their website every once in a while to see what new stuff they have on offer…’

Elen took the book and quickly flicked through it.

‘Giftedness can be a mixed blessing,’ he continued, ‘because if a child is bright but their talents aren’t properly nurtured — if they aren’t challenged or stretched —then those early gifts can so easily go to waste. Clever kids tend to get bored easily — as you’ll probably have noticed — and because children are — by their very nature — fundamentally conformist, instead of drawing attention to their predicament and demanding something better they’ll prefer to just coast, or — worse still — they’ll become disruptive. I’ve a theory that some of the baddest apples in society are those gifted kids who’ve somehow slipped under the radar, intelligent kids who’ve ended up redirecting their positive energies — through simple frustration — into negative acts.’

‘Is it American?’ Elen asked, closing the book and turning it over. He nodded. ‘They’re leagues ahead of us in this particular field, and much more accepting — as a culture — of excellence than we are. While we’ve always had a strong tradition of tolerance in this country, we tend to confuse excellence with superiority. We think intelligence is elitist, is snobbish, even. Bright kids make us uneasy. Although…’ he pulled a handful of printed sheets from the box, ‘it’s not all bad news. We’ve made some good progress over recent years. There’s the National Association for Gifted Children — which I mentioned earlier, and the World Class Tests…Have you heard of them, perhaps?’

Elen shook her head.

‘Well I’ve enclosed a few of their dummy papers here…’ he passed her the sheets. ‘You’ll find everything you could possibly need to know about their organisation on www.worldclassarena.org…’

He pointed to the internet address at the top of a page. ‘It costs a certain amount to sign up to the programme, but it’s definitely a good investment. By submitting Fleet for the tests within his age range you’ll really be able to challenge him — put him on his mettle — see how he holds up against the national average…’

Elen looked horrified.

He chuckled, sympathetically. ‘Don’t look so worried. There’s no obligation. It’s just one of a whole host of possible courses of action…’

He returned the book and the papers to the box. ‘It’s often just nice to have a few different options…’

‘I’m afraid it might take me a little while to get my head around this whole thing,’ she murmured. As she spoke, a loud noise — something akin to a snore or a snort — emerged from the adjacent room. Charles Bartlett turned, surprised.

‘What’s this?’ Elen quickly shoved her hand into the box and removed a second book.

‘Uh…’ he turned back. ‘ Oh …Yes…’ He looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘I just thought you might…’

‘Isn’t that your name?’ she pointed. The book — entitled The Lily of Darfur and subtitled: The Liquid Life of Eva Bartlett— was written by a Dr Charles Bartlett.

‘You’re a doctor?’

She glanced up at him.

‘Gracious, no,’ he snorted, ‘not a proper doctor — a useful doctor. Just a doctor of modern languages.’

‘And this book is about your daughter?’

He nodded.

Elen inspected the beautifully reproduced black and white cover photograph of a young woman sitting squarely — confidently — astride a huge, bald-kneed, baleful-eyed camel. She was a strong, lean, fierce-looking creature, scowling down (somewhat exasperatedly) at the photographer, dressed entirely in white robes (her dark hair obscured by an Arabic-style headscarf). She was holding the camel’s reins in one hand and what looked like a map of some kind — or an architect’s plan, perhaps — in the other, with an old rifle supported casually across her lap.

‘The Lily of Darfur?’

He nodded. ‘That’s what they called her. About five months after she disappeared we received a large, brown envelope containing over 400 letters, most of them written in unschooled Arabic. Many from children. And that one, special phrase — that poetic tribute — was used in virtually all of them…’

Elen turned the book over and inspected the photo on the back. This second image was of Eva (aged about seven), standing on a beach in her swimwear, her dark hair curling around her pinched, little face, scowling (once again), her arms folded, defiantly, across her chest and a small plastic spade propped under one elbow. Behind her, the sea was slowly devouring a huge, ornate sandcastle, a magnificent structure which reminded Elen (in spirit, at least) of some of the early works of that wonderfully eccentric and devout Spanish architect–

‘ Gaudí ,’ Charles murmured (as if reading her thoughts). ‘For about six months all she’d do was talk about Gaudí, think about Gaudí, emulate Gaudí’s work…’

‘Did you always know Eva was special?’ she wondered.

‘Every parent thinks their own kid is special,’ he shrugged, ‘but yes, I suppose we did. Eva had an old soul. From her first days on earth she had this…’ he shook his head, ‘this strangely exhausted quality about her. And this unquenchable thirst. This hunger . It could be quite terrifying just being around her. She was such a creature of extremes. So vulnerable — lost— haunted even, yet so joyful, so inquisitive, so eager …’

As he spoke Elen’s eye ran down the assorted eulogies on the back cover: Winner of the Prairie Rose Standard, Joint Winner of the International Origins Award, Short-listed for the Mary Trask Prize for Non-fiction, and then, ‘Rich, dark, funny, heartbreaking; a book which grapples with the fundamental issues of how it feels — and what it means —to be human.’ Sunday Times.

‘Essential reading for both parents and non-parents. A truly modern parable.’ Daily Express .

‘Not hectoring, not preachy, but funny, cruel, horribly unrelenting and real . Superb.’ Time Out.

‘Unputdownable. Savage but redemptive. Tender but dispassionate. An unalloyed tear-jerker.’ Marie Claire .

‘A book which really makes you hate yourself for having poked fun at the “clever kid” in class. Heartbreaking.’ Sunday Mirror .

‘[The Lily of Darfur] should be sent out, free, to every college, every nursery and every school in this country. It’s required reading.’ Marie Knoakes, Health Issues , Radio 4.

‘This book not only changed my mind, it transformed my world.’ John Myers MBE.

Then, at the very bottom, a highlighted strip which read: Soon to be made into a Motion Picture.

‘What amazing reviews,’ Elen exclaimed.

‘Publisher’s guff,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m convinced they make half of that stuff up…’

‘Do they?’ she looked shocked.

He took the book from her and placed it firmly back into the box. ‘But is there a film?’ she persisted.

He nodded. ‘It came out late last year.’

‘Was it any good?’

‘Good?’ he frowned, plainly conflicted. ‘Uh…Let’s just say the jury’s still out on that…’