seeds of something like her present conflict and uncertainty loomed in his eyes. âI was looking out of the window all the way,â he said, âwatching things. Then in Nottingham I had a pie and some coffee.â He glanced up.
âI want you to meet Frank,â she said. âHeâs living with mummy now.â
âHello,â Kevin said, not, as Frank observed, batting an eyelid. They walked out to the car. Frank fastened his case on the luggage rack. Pat embraced her son again. âDonât you think heâs handsome?â Frank agreed, but wondered why the boy wasnât shy of so much fuss. He sorted out the various combinations regarding their journey back. Should Pat drive and the boy sit in front with her? Or should he take the wheel, and the two of them sit together in the back? What about her driving, and Frank sitting beside her, with the boy behind? Which would be best for the wellbeing of their time together? They couldnât all sit in the front, and that was a fact â which was the worst of these mini cars. He laughed, to find himself blessed with so much consideration, only to wonder what the hell it mattered. Well, things do matter, he decided, pulling forward the front seat so that Pat and Kevin could get behind. But halfway to the village Kevin had to sit in front because he felt car sick.
For the first days he was taciturn, studious, and went only once to visit Wallerâs farm. Frank talked to him, spellbound him with facts and possibilities of the various machines heâd worked, discussed motor cars, and natural history which he had taken an interest in through Patâs books and on his walks.
The sensual monotony of their existence was broken. Kevin sat at the table for meals, and when he wasnât telling his mother about school he either ate silently, or looked at a book while slowly dealing with food on his plate. Pat didnât mind him reading at meals, and on this point Frank wondered whether she was spoiling him, or allowing so much freedom simply because it was good for her. Frank had the sense to treat him as another man which, in intellect if not experience, he often seemed to be. âIâm glad youâre here,â Pat said, after Kevin had gone to bed. âBefore, I think he used to be lonely, with me out on my calls so much of the time.â
âHe seems a good lad,â he remarked. âI canât make much of him, but then, you never can at that age.â
âI often donât like the idea of him being bandied about from one part of the country to another, yet itâs best, as things are, that heâs away at school.â Seeing how she treated him at home, he realized that she must have worried about him a great deal when he wasnât there, though she had kept it well concealed during the long autumn weeks.
On his ramblings he had noticed a small plantation of firs in an isolated hump of land beyond Panton Hall â trees that were part of the estate. He set out with a trowel, circled and undermined the roots until the slender trunk sloped into his arms and he could pull it clear. Steering a return course through the backbone of the night, head bent and breathing evenly under the coarse weight of the tree, he felt happy at having made off with a piece of greenery that had sprouted from the earth, land which he considered belonged to him, but was denied by circumstances or sham legislation. He felt nothing like a thief except in the caution of his getaway, and hoped the tree would be missed in the morning â likely, since heâd all but trodden a fence down to get at it. As for being tracked, heâd walked the half mile of a nearby road, and turned across fields from there. Low cloud held back stars and moon, and no one else was out on the broad earth. The frost had broken, loam softening underfoot, a smell of soil and bracken cutting his nostrils as he breached a hedge. It seemed as if the year
âI want you to meet Frank,â she said. âHeâs living with mummy now.â
âHello,â Kevin said, not, as Frank observed, batting an eyelid. They walked out to the car. Frank fastened his case on the luggage rack. Pat embraced her son again. âDonât you think heâs handsome?â Frank agreed, but wondered why the boy wasnât shy of so much fuss. He sorted out the various combinations regarding their journey back. Should Pat drive and the boy sit in front with her? Or should he take the wheel, and the two of them sit together in the back? What about her driving, and Frank sitting beside her, with the boy behind? Which would be best for the wellbeing of their time together? They couldnât all sit in the front, and that was a fact â which was the worst of these mini cars. He laughed, to find himself blessed with so much consideration, only to wonder what the hell it mattered. Well, things do matter, he decided, pulling forward the front seat so that Pat and Kevin could get behind. But halfway to the village Kevin had to sit in front because he felt car sick.
For the first days he was taciturn, studious, and went only once to visit Wallerâs farm. Frank talked to him, spellbound him with facts and possibilities of the various machines heâd worked, discussed motor cars, and natural history which he had taken an interest in through Patâs books and on his walks.
The sensual monotony of their existence was broken. Kevin sat at the table for meals, and when he wasnât telling his mother about school he either ate silently, or looked at a book while slowly dealing with food on his plate. Pat didnât mind him reading at meals, and on this point Frank wondered whether she was spoiling him, or allowing so much freedom simply because it was good for her. Frank had the sense to treat him as another man which, in intellect if not experience, he often seemed to be. âIâm glad youâre here,â Pat said, after Kevin had gone to bed. âBefore, I think he used to be lonely, with me out on my calls so much of the time.â
âHe seems a good lad,â he remarked. âI canât make much of him, but then, you never can at that age.â
âI often donât like the idea of him being bandied about from one part of the country to another, yet itâs best, as things are, that heâs away at school.â Seeing how she treated him at home, he realized that she must have worried about him a great deal when he wasnât there, though she had kept it well concealed during the long autumn weeks.
On his ramblings he had noticed a small plantation of firs in an isolated hump of land beyond Panton Hall â trees that were part of the estate. He set out with a trowel, circled and undermined the roots until the slender trunk sloped into his arms and he could pull it clear. Steering a return course through the backbone of the night, head bent and breathing evenly under the coarse weight of the tree, he felt happy at having made off with a piece of greenery that had sprouted from the earth, land which he considered belonged to him, but was denied by circumstances or sham legislation. He felt nothing like a thief except in the caution of his getaway, and hoped the tree would be missed in the morning â likely, since heâd all but trodden a fence down to get at it. As for being tracked, heâd walked the half mile of a nearby road, and turned across fields from there. Low cloud held back stars and moon, and no one else was out on the broad earth. The frost had broken, loam softening underfoot, a smell of soil and bracken cutting his nostrils as he breached a hedge. It seemed as if the year
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