The Children’s Home by Charles Lambert Page A

after day, for almost four years in the end, I see that it didn’t appeal to the monk in me at all, but to the convict. I was a prisoner there, in the bareness, and that was what appealed to me.” He smiled. “But now I am a free man, Morgan. Besides, I would never have been a satisfactory convict. Convicts leave their mark as often and as deeply as they can.”
    “I should like to see it,” Morgan said, in a tone that struck them both as stubborn and contrary, although to what wasn’t clear; as though his wishes were being opposed.
    “If you wish. I could take you there if you like.”
    But the sudden willingness in the Doctor’s voice had a strange effect on Morgan. “I didn’t mean that I should like to leave the grounds,” he snapped.
    “Yet there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t,” the Doctor said in a low voice.
    “No earthly reason,” repeated Morgan. Crane said no more. Soon after this conversation, Morgan heard him leave the house. He heard Crane’s car start up, its wheels move briefly against the gravel. He is going back to his cell in the city, Morgan thought, to his narrow monk’s bed. I have disappointed him, he thought. Without Crane, with the children in bed, there was silence.
    He had always loved silence, the blanket of it, but the children bridled against it, as children do. They would wait for him to leave the room before beginning their racket once more, their shouting and sparring and rearranging of objects, to what purpose he didn’t know; perhaps there was no purpose, he would think, and be proved wrong. He imagined the willful destruction of toys and board games, child-sized pieces of furniture, only to find, when he investigated their cupboards and boxes at night and he could wander at will around the house, that everything was whole and in its place. They left no mark, other than those in his silence, dents and bruises on the surface of that frail receptacle into which he had always withdrawn, and in which he no longer found any comfort.
    That night, when Morgan couldn’t sleep for thinking, he heard a muffled rustling in the corridor outside his room. He lay there for a while, alert to what might be there, which seemed both light and numerous. It was hard to tell if the noise were produced by limbs or voices; it sounded like a mixture of whispering and shuffling; a leisurely ruffle of wings perhaps. He would have opened the door to see, but that would have had the unwanted effect of bringing the noise, which had begun to have the form of music, to an end. Movement, he thought, that’s what it takes. I am being reminded of movement.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    in which the car is prepared for service
    A few days later Morgan sent a note with Daisy to the head gardener.
    “What does it say?” she said.
    “Open it, my dear, and read it, if you like,” Morgan said. Daisy opened the note.
    “It says Dear Mr. Green I would be grateful if you would see what can be done to ensure that my father’s car is repaired and restored to full working order. No expense need be spared. Please inform me of your progress as soon as is reasonable,” read Daisy. She looked up. “Is that the old car in the garage with the cloth all over it? The one that’s been banged in at the front? The one with the rats in it?”
    “Yes.”
    “But what do you want it for?” she said. She sounded anxious.
    “Wouldn’t you like to be driven round the grounds in my father’s car?” Morgan said. “It used to be a very fine car indeed, the best that money could buy. My father was proud of it. Who knows, maybe one day we could even go for a ride outside,” he added, as though this thought had just that moment occurred to him. But Daisy didn’t seem to be impressed.
    “Have you told David you want to use the car?” she said in a low voice, hardly more than a whisper.
    Morgan laughed. “Now why on earth should I tell David?” he said. “You think I should first ask David for permission?”
    Daisy hung