Adam Mars-Jones - Pilcrow

I just about managed not to crow, ‘Mine’s better than yours!’ I decided that Gilbert and his Chemistry Set were quite able to speak for themselves. I just watched Julian give a miserable gulp. For a moment I even felt a little sorry for him. I said, ‘I expect yours is much better than mine really.’

I wasn’t being at all frank with my school-mates. What no one at Vulcan knew was that during the holidays Dad and I had already gone through all the experiments in Lotts. Dad was highly enthusiastic about chemistry. It gave him the chance to play under cover of supervising his son. When Mum said, ‘John’s going to do chemistry this afternoon,’ it really meant that Dad was going to do all the experiments, and John was going to watch. ‘Gives him a real chance to learn, m’dear,’ he said. ‘Too damn dangerous for him to attempt on his own!’ When he was in his playful vein, he tended to monopolise toys.

I didn’t mind too much being made to watch him playing with my chemistry set. Mum said, ‘I’ve told him he’s got to clear up all the mess and put it away afterwards,’ talking out of the side of her mouth the way she did when she was feeling subversive. ‘And don’t worry, I’ve kept next Tuesday afternoon clear for us. When Dad’s at work, you and me are going to do chemistry. I’ll have to do the experiments, but as I don’t understand the first thing about it you don’t need to worry. I’ll do exactly what you say.’ I was already fairly excited by doing chemistry with Dad, even if it meant just watching, so the idea of doing it with Mum as well, in secret on a Tuesday afternoon, was heavenly.

Dad did seven Lotts experiments that Saturday afternoon, with me watching, and we weren’t any too impressed by the results. We decided to be more adventurous the next Saturday. It had been raining all week, and when Saturday came the sky was very dark. There was a tremendous rainstorm, which created ideal conditions for doing chemistry — but even compared to the previous Saturday, our experiments gave poor results. Because of the raised atmospheric humidity the strontium nitrate had caked like lumpy sugar. The copper sulphate was distinctly gooey and the Congo Red was not only gooey but had turned anæmic. ‘This company cheats,’ said Dad with a thrilling sternness. ‘It’s only our second time using the set, and look what a tiny pinch of powder is left!’

He didn’t know about the intervening Tuesday, when Mum was my lab assistant, but the point held good. The quantities were measly. There was an element of triumph and point-scoring in Dad’s denunciation of Lotts. When we had been shopping for chemistry sets Dad had wanted to buy ‘Gilbert’, but Mum had put her foot down. She said we couldn’t afford it — ‘Not with you on forty cigarettes a day, Dennis! We shall have to settle for Lotts. That’s what Renee Utterson has bought for her boy Tim. I understand it’s very good.’ And that was why it had been Lotts.

Now, though, he had Mum just where he wanted her, thoroughly on the defensive. Dad made her squirm by saying, ‘What is it you’re always saying, m’dear? “You get what you pay for”?’ She had to admit that Lotts had been a bad bargain. The price of the better set was still high, but now that Dad was involved the resources could somehow be found. Gilbert had won, in a fair fight.

Dad’s interest waned as we had known it would, and Peter started to join in. Over time we became rather adventurous. When a standard experiment seemed uninteresting we added chemicals according to intuition. How could it be a proper experiment, we argued, if someone had done it already? We would end up with our adding a bit of everything we had to the crucible, and marvelling at the frothy bubbling mass that resulted. I always overdid it with the Flowers of Sulphur. I would be in ecstasies sniffing the little whiffs of acrid vapour being puffed into the air as the little blue flame began to spread over the powder like a mould on cheese. ‘What’s happening here’, I would explain with great joy, ‘is essentially what goes on inside a volcano.’

I wasn’t far wrong. After one experiment got out of hand and left a scorched crater in our wooden table, Dad banned the use of the meths Bunsen burner. Then the emphasis shifted to chemical gardening. We spent weeks watching rusty nails, copper sulphate crystals and shards of ammonium dichromate growing horns and feathers in a solution of isinglass.

Lotts for Tiny Tots

So when it came to a show-down between Lotts and Gilbert in a duel of stinks and bangs, I already knew the winner. I was being a proper little schemer.

Back in the Blue Dorm we fixed a chemistry session for Saturday afternoon. Willis, Raeburn and the rest of the teaching staff seemed unconcerned. I dare say they didn’t know much about chemistry and didn’t want to be shown up. The authorities gave us permission, saying that as long as we had an AB with us, they supposed it would be all right.

It rained heavily on Friday and again on Saturday. There was a damp smell in the air and there seemed to be moisture oozing out of the walls. Even before we started on the duel there were several abrupt flashes and bangs from the wiring, then a brief power cut accompanied by a subliminally acrid smell. God was doing some experiments of his own, helping the Gothic setting along.

‘I think we should do Julian’s experiments first,’ I said. Pure wickedness on my part. ‘His set has the most grown-up picture.’ So the Lotts Chemistry Set went on trial first. And guess what? The strontium nitrate had caked like lumpy sugar, the copper sulphate was so gooey it had started seeping into the cardboard tube — you could see the bluey-green stain even from the outside — and the Congo Red had lost much of its colour. It seemed to be in need of a transfusion. ‘Oh dear,’ I said, all helpfulness and dismay. ‘That’s not at all how it’s supposed to look, is it? I expect there’s a bit of cochineal in the kitchens. Perhaps we could try asking Grace if she’d let us add some of that …?’ Tireless Roger Stott, the AB in charge, offered to find out, but we soon decided that the best thing was just to get on with it.

We were in the big dining room. Before the adventure Biggie had said it was extremely chilly for May, and had given instructions for a big log fire to be made in the huge grate. In theory we boys were unsupervised and on our own, but Biggie kept popping in and out to see if everything was all right. In fact she couldn’t stay away. She seemed to have a fascination with our chemistry. Now she surged in, as if she had detected Julian’s distress from the other end of the premises, and brought the level of wickedness in the dining room right down. ‘Julian, perhaps we could pop your set nearer to the fire? Then while it’s drying you boys can try some of John’s experiments.’ Julian was sniffling quietly. I had kicked him where it hurt, right in the chemistry set. Biggie went to give him a cuddle, and the sniffling turned to full crying.

I was beginning to feel sorry for Julian myself, but the situation I had set up wasn’t entirely within my control. A boy called Norman Spencer saw his chance to be spiteful, and said sneeringly, ‘Nah! “Lotts” means “Tiny Tots”! Chemistry sets that don’t work specially made for boys who cry!’

‘Now that’s Quite Enough!’ snapped Biggie. Single-handedly she was keeping alive the knack of capitalising the spoken word. ‘I’ve told you boys not to Tell Tales, not ever! And that rule also covers chemistry sets. Specifically!! Come on Julian, darling … Come over with Biggie and we’ll sit by the hearth near all those damp chemicals — not too near, mind you! Why, I’m sure that after half an hour everything will be as right as rain …’