Multiple-choice reading

Leila had prepared for almost everything. She had studied openings with her coach every Tuesday since September, played hundreds of games online and even practised sitting still for three hours, which was harder than all the rest. What she had not prepared for was the noise of a room full of people trying to be silent: chairs scraping, clocks clicking, someone’s stomach complaining loudly in the third row.

The regional tournament was held in a school sports hall that smelt of floor polish. Leila found her table near the back, beside a radiator that was either broken or extremely enthusiastic. Her opponent was already seated. He was about seventy, with neat grey hair and a tartan flask, and he was reading a newspaper as if he had come to wait for a train rather than play chess.

“Mr Dunmore,” he said, folding the paper and offering his hand. “First tournament?”

She considered lying, then nodded.

“Mine was in 1968,” he said. “I lost every game. Wonderful weekend.”

Leila did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She had lost games before, plenty of them, but she had never once thought of losing as wonderful. The arbiter announced that play could begin, and Mr Dunmore, who had the white pieces, pushed his king’s pawn forward two squares without even looking at the board. It was the most ordinary first move in chess, and somehow it worried her more than anything unusual would have done.

For the first hour, she felt fine. She recognised the opening, and her coach’s voice ran through her head: control the centre, don’t move the same piece twice, castle early. Mr Dunmore played quickly and drank tea. Then, on move nineteen, he did something she had not expected. He offered her his knight. It was simply standing there, undefended, waiting to be taken.

Leila stared at it. She could feel her heart beating in her ears. Taking a free piece is usually good. Her coach would have taken it. Every online game she had ever played told her to take it. And yet Mr Dunmore had been so careful until now that it seemed impossible he had simply forgotten about it. She looked at the board for eleven minutes, while her clock ticked and his newspaper stayed folded on the table. Somewhere behind her, a boy groaned as he lost.

In the end she left the knight where it was and moved her bishop instead, closing a line she had suddenly realised was open. Mr Dunmore raised his eyebrows, just slightly. Five moves later she understood what she had avoided: if she had taken the knight, his queen would have reached her king in three moves. She felt cold, despite the radiator.

They played on for another two hours. Leila made one small mistake near the end and Mr Dunmore made none, and the game finished in a draw that felt, to her, very close to a defeat. She shook his hand and tried to look as calm as he did.

“The knight,” he said, packing his flask into his bag. “Most people take it.”

“I nearly did.”

“Nearly is the important word.” He smiled and tucked the newspaper under his arm. “You’ll lose plenty of games this weekend. Try to enjoy them.”

She lost two of the next four. It was, she decided on the bus home, a wonderful weekend.