Matthew Moon, by Jo Wallis

At school he was always the awkward one in class, the one who made his teachers feel they really should try harder: try harder to find a latent talent, try harder to coax a smile or an opinion, try harder  to find him a friend.                                                                                                                                  

In final year at primary, Matthew had been last to be matched up in the school-wide penfriend scheme because he’d been unable to list any hobbies or interests; now fourteen and at secondary school he was still stolidly unknown.

Birthdays and Christmas had always been a challenge. Matthew didn’t make or draw things; he didn’t care for collecting; sports, music, and pets bored him; he didn’t like cooking, wasn’t keen on the outdoors. Book tokens expired dustily on his windowsill. Despite his mother’s suggestions, he would never agree to host a party because he didn’t know who to invite.

Matthew spent hours in his bedroom – a typical teenager, his mother said optimistically – and all he did was lie on his bed, staring silently at the ceiling.

He didn’t get into trouble; he didn’t get into anything.

One evening Mrs Moon noticed the back door was ajar and, looking out, she saw Matthew flat on his back in the middle of their little lawn (much prized in that part of London).

Whatever are you doing? she called.

Looking at the sky, said Matthew, his face mushroom-like in the kitchen light.

And most evenings that summer if Matthew wasn’t lying on his bed he’d be stretched out on the grass. Mrs Moon told her friends with some relief that she knew what he’d be getting for his fifteenth, since he’d developed a strong interest in astronomy.

Matthew didn’t shake the long cylindrical box he found on the birthday breakfast table, nor did his excitement quite match his mother’s when he finally opened it.

Mrs Moon expected Matthew to carry his telescope straight out into the garden that evening; instead he took it and his four cards quietly up to his room after tea.

I expect he’s waiting for it to go properly dark, Mrs Moon sighed, and then, later, he won’t get a view of the sky from up there, she worried, picturing banks of terraces one after another giddily jostling all the way to the city.

You’ll be better taking it in the garden, she called up the stairs.

Matthew didn’t reply. She guessed he’d turned in. He often went to bed early.

In the morning Mrs Moon asked Matthew if he’d liked his present. I’ve kept the receipt if it’s not right, she said.

Mum, it’s great, he said, I love it.

Oh, said Mrs Moon, thrilled by his show of enthusiasm, Oh I am glad.

That evening: a hammering at the door, an angry, impatient drumming. Alright, alright, said Mrs Moon, looking for her slippers as she left the sofa.

Mr Alford from across the road was on the doorstep. Your son, he said, disregarding her hello, your bloody gormless son.

Mrs Moon blinked, closed the door a little.

What’s the matter?

That telescope, spat Mr Rutherford.

Oh yes, Matthew loves his star-gazing.

Star-gazing..? How stupid are you? If he doesn’t stop training that bloody telescope on my Evie’s bedroom window I’ll make sure he’s seeing stars alright!