away before the
whole school. Like a fool, I boasted to my friends of this triumph to come,
which was tempting fate.
I did not have
long to enjoy it. In my mother’s next letter she wrote that they had been
obliged to change their plans. They would not be able to come home this year
after all.
‘It’s nothing
to worry about, darling,’ she wrote, ‘but I’ve been a little under the weather
lately, and the doctor says it would be better to leave it until next year.
Daddy and I are so disappointed, though we know you will have a wonderful time
at Christmas with Auntie Mary. And next year, we shall try to come home for
longer.’
I know the
reason now. My mother had just discovered she was pregnant. Of course neither
she nor my father ever talked about it to me but it was easy enough to work out
when my sister was born the following May.
Sixteen years
is a long gap to leave between children. Perhaps my parents found it hard to
conceive another child. Perhaps my sister was an accident. Not that it matters
now. But it is strange to think that, if my sister had never existed, none of
this would have happened and I would have been quite a different person now.
And as for Faraday—
‘Try not to
mind too much, darling,’ my mother’s letter ended. ‘With fondest love.’
*
Nevertheless, I looked forward to
Christmas. If nothing else it meant getting away from school and going to a
warm house where there were four meals a day and I was never left hungry for
long. My aunt knew little about boys but she knew a great deal about creature
comforts. The vicar’s son would be home from school, which meant that for at
least part of the time I would have someone to go about with. And there would
be presents — and perhaps more generous ones this year because my parents would
feel I deserved consolation.
Two days before
the end of term, Mr Treadwell, my housemaster, sent a boy to fetch me. He was a
small, harassed man, a bachelor, who didn’t care for boys or anything else
except geology, which was his passion.
‘There’s been a
difficulty,’ he said, staring at the fire; he never looked at you if he could
help it. ‘I’m sorry to say that your aunt is unwell.’
He paused. I
did not dare interrupt him with a question. My housemaster believed boys should
hold their tongues unless asked to speak. He had a vicious temper, too — we
never knew how far he would go when roused.
‘She’s in
hospital, in fact. Pneumonia, I’m afraid.’ He was still staring at the fire,
but I saw the tip of his tongue emerge, lizard-like, from between his lips. ‘We
must remember her in our prayers. Must we not?’
I recognized my
cue. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We must hope
for a full recovery,’ he went on. ‘Not a good time of year to be ill. But
still.’
‘What about
Christmas, sir?’ I blurted out.
My housemaster
turned his head and glared at me. But he must have remembered the circumstances
for when he spoke his voice was almost gentle.
‘You will have
to stay at school,’ he said. ‘I have arranged with you to lodge with Mr
Ratcliffe. It will be best for all concerned.’
2
Christmas that year fell on a Wednesday.
‘Wednesday’s Child is full of woe,’ shrieked one small boy over and over again
as he ran round the playground, until one of the bullies of the Fifth Form
pushed him over and made him cry instead.
The school
broke up two days earlier, on Monday. It was strange to watch the familiar
routines unfolding and not be part of them: the station fly taking boys to the
station by relays; the steady stream of parents, always a matter of enormous
sociological interest; the boys queuing to shake hands with Mr Treadwell.
At that stage I
was not the only one to stay — two other boys at Treadwell’s did not leave with
the rest on Monday. For an hour or two, we revelled in undisputed possession of
a few amenities the house afforded — the billiards table with torn baize, for
example, and the two armchairs that leaked
whole school. Like a fool, I boasted to my friends of this triumph to come,
which was tempting fate.
I did not have
long to enjoy it. In my mother’s next letter she wrote that they had been
obliged to change their plans. They would not be able to come home this year
after all.
‘It’s nothing
to worry about, darling,’ she wrote, ‘but I’ve been a little under the weather
lately, and the doctor says it would be better to leave it until next year.
Daddy and I are so disappointed, though we know you will have a wonderful time
at Christmas with Auntie Mary. And next year, we shall try to come home for
longer.’
I know the
reason now. My mother had just discovered she was pregnant. Of course neither
she nor my father ever talked about it to me but it was easy enough to work out
when my sister was born the following May.
Sixteen years
is a long gap to leave between children. Perhaps my parents found it hard to
conceive another child. Perhaps my sister was an accident. Not that it matters
now. But it is strange to think that, if my sister had never existed, none of
this would have happened and I would have been quite a different person now.
And as for Faraday—
‘Try not to
mind too much, darling,’ my mother’s letter ended. ‘With fondest love.’
*
Nevertheless, I looked forward to
Christmas. If nothing else it meant getting away from school and going to a
warm house where there were four meals a day and I was never left hungry for
long. My aunt knew little about boys but she knew a great deal about creature
comforts. The vicar’s son would be home from school, which meant that for at
least part of the time I would have someone to go about with. And there would
be presents — and perhaps more generous ones this year because my parents would
feel I deserved consolation.
Two days before
the end of term, Mr Treadwell, my housemaster, sent a boy to fetch me. He was a
small, harassed man, a bachelor, who didn’t care for boys or anything else
except geology, which was his passion.
‘There’s been a
difficulty,’ he said, staring at the fire; he never looked at you if he could
help it. ‘I’m sorry to say that your aunt is unwell.’
He paused. I
did not dare interrupt him with a question. My housemaster believed boys should
hold their tongues unless asked to speak. He had a vicious temper, too — we
never knew how far he would go when roused.
‘She’s in
hospital, in fact. Pneumonia, I’m afraid.’ He was still staring at the fire,
but I saw the tip of his tongue emerge, lizard-like, from between his lips. ‘We
must remember her in our prayers. Must we not?’
I recognized my
cue. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We must hope
for a full recovery,’ he went on. ‘Not a good time of year to be ill. But
still.’
‘What about
Christmas, sir?’ I blurted out.
My housemaster
turned his head and glared at me. But he must have remembered the circumstances
for when he spoke his voice was almost gentle.
‘You will have
to stay at school,’ he said. ‘I have arranged with you to lodge with Mr
Ratcliffe. It will be best for all concerned.’
2
Christmas that year fell on a Wednesday.
‘Wednesday’s Child is full of woe,’ shrieked one small boy over and over again
as he ran round the playground, until one of the bullies of the Fifth Form
pushed him over and made him cry instead.
The school
broke up two days earlier, on Monday. It was strange to watch the familiar
routines unfolding and not be part of them: the station fly taking boys to the
station by relays; the steady stream of parents, always a matter of enormous
sociological interest; the boys queuing to shake hands with Mr Treadwell.
At that stage I
was not the only one to stay — two other boys at Treadwell’s did not leave with
the rest on Monday. For an hour or two, we revelled in undisputed possession of
a few amenities the house afforded — the billiards table with torn baize, for
example, and the two armchairs that leaked
Similar Books
