waited as he came towards her. He put his face close to hers. 'Going to listen for me crying, are you?' he hissed. She shook her head and mouthed
no
. Then she put out her hand to his. For a second he looked at it and then dashed it away. 'Don't need your pity,' he muttered. 'Don't need anybody's.'
She watched him walk defiantly down the stairs and then went back into her room and closed the door.
I'll not cry, Simon thought. I'll not give him that satisfaction. Right now he hated his father. He hated his teachers too. Especially those who he knew enjoyed giving physical pain. Why should I be beaten because I can't answer a question? He had on occasion challenged his tutors, which had led to another stroke of the cane. I'm not academic, not scientific. I like art. I'd like to paint. But that isn't considered a suitable profession for the only son of a lawyer.
His father waited for him in his study. On his desk was a black cane Simon hadn't seen before. A small frown creased his forehead. Surely it hadn't been purchased especially to punish him? He watched as his father picked it up from the desk, testing its strength by flexing it between his hands. Then he thwacked it in the air with a swift whistling stroke, making Simon flinch.
'So have you anything to say in mitigation before I use this deterrent?' he asked coldly. 'Can you give me any reason why I should not punish you? I have received nothing but bad reports from your headmaster. They do not want you there any longer.'
'Good,' Simon said rebelliously. 'I'm glad to leave, Father. I hated it there and always did. I begged you to let me leave.' His voice cracked, his resolve failing as he saw his father's face redden.
'How dare you?' his father bellowed. 'How dare you question my judgement?'
Simon remained silent. His father didn't want an answer. He only wanted submission. Best to get on with it.
'I have ordered everyone in this household not to speak to you.' His father's voice was barely controlled, trembling with anger or passion. 'You will be sent to Coventry. No one must speak to you, and you must not speak to them. Is that understood?'
Simon merely nodded, understanding now why Eleanor was acting so strangely.
'Yes, Father,' he answered.
'And you will come down here every morning before you are sent to your new school and I will decide what form your punishment will take. Now. Hold out your hands.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
Simon's palms were cracked and bleeding. Never had he felt such pain. He wept when he got back to his room, and buried his face in the pillow. 'He's a sadist. And he said I shall get this again tomorrow unless I mend my ways. Well I shan't,' he sobbed. 'I shan't.'
The door opened quietly but he didn't look up. It's Eleanor, he thought. Come to gloat. But it was his mother, not his sister, who knelt by the bed and put her arm over him, her head close to his. He turned over and submitted to her tearful embrace. She can't speak to me, he thought, but she's here. He felt the comfort of her lips as she gently kissed his bleeding hands.
She got up and went out of the room and a few minutes later came back with a cloth and a bowl of warm water. She tenderly bathed his palms, which stung as she wet them, then covered them with salve. She tapped her mouth with her finger to acknowledge her silence, then blew him a kiss as she left.
A few minutes later the door opened again, and Eleanor slipped inside. 'I'm not supposed to speak to you,' she whispered. 'So you must promise not to tell. I'm so sorry, Simon.'
'No, you're not,' he muttered. 'It's all right for you being at home. You don't have to go to school.'
She shook her head. 'It's not all right,' she said in a low voice. 'It's quite hateful really.'
As they sat together, not speaking, the door suddenly crashed open and their father stood like a demon in the doorway. 'I knew it,' he bellowed. 'I knew I would be disobeyed. Get out of here.' He glared at Eleanor and pointed to the
no
. Then she put out her hand to his. For a second he looked at it and then dashed it away. 'Don't need your pity,' he muttered. 'Don't need anybody's.'
She watched him walk defiantly down the stairs and then went back into her room and closed the door.
I'll not cry, Simon thought. I'll not give him that satisfaction. Right now he hated his father. He hated his teachers too. Especially those who he knew enjoyed giving physical pain. Why should I be beaten because I can't answer a question? He had on occasion challenged his tutors, which had led to another stroke of the cane. I'm not academic, not scientific. I like art. I'd like to paint. But that isn't considered a suitable profession for the only son of a lawyer.
His father waited for him in his study. On his desk was a black cane Simon hadn't seen before. A small frown creased his forehead. Surely it hadn't been purchased especially to punish him? He watched as his father picked it up from the desk, testing its strength by flexing it between his hands. Then he thwacked it in the air with a swift whistling stroke, making Simon flinch.
'So have you anything to say in mitigation before I use this deterrent?' he asked coldly. 'Can you give me any reason why I should not punish you? I have received nothing but bad reports from your headmaster. They do not want you there any longer.'
'Good,' Simon said rebelliously. 'I'm glad to leave, Father. I hated it there and always did. I begged you to let me leave.' His voice cracked, his resolve failing as he saw his father's face redden.
'How dare you?' his father bellowed. 'How dare you question my judgement?'
Simon remained silent. His father didn't want an answer. He only wanted submission. Best to get on with it.
'I have ordered everyone in this household not to speak to you.' His father's voice was barely controlled, trembling with anger or passion. 'You will be sent to Coventry. No one must speak to you, and you must not speak to them. Is that understood?'
Simon merely nodded, understanding now why Eleanor was acting so strangely.
'Yes, Father,' he answered.
'And you will come down here every morning before you are sent to your new school and I will decide what form your punishment will take. Now. Hold out your hands.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
Simon's palms were cracked and bleeding. Never had he felt such pain. He wept when he got back to his room, and buried his face in the pillow. 'He's a sadist. And he said I shall get this again tomorrow unless I mend my ways. Well I shan't,' he sobbed. 'I shan't.'
The door opened quietly but he didn't look up. It's Eleanor, he thought. Come to gloat. But it was his mother, not his sister, who knelt by the bed and put her arm over him, her head close to his. He turned over and submitted to her tearful embrace. She can't speak to me, he thought, but she's here. He felt the comfort of her lips as she gently kissed his bleeding hands.
She got up and went out of the room and a few minutes later came back with a cloth and a bowl of warm water. She tenderly bathed his palms, which stung as she wet them, then covered them with salve. She tapped her mouth with her finger to acknowledge her silence, then blew him a kiss as she left.
A few minutes later the door opened again, and Eleanor slipped inside. 'I'm not supposed to speak to you,' she whispered. 'So you must promise not to tell. I'm so sorry, Simon.'
'No, you're not,' he muttered. 'It's all right for you being at home. You don't have to go to school.'
She shook her head. 'It's not all right,' she said in a low voice. 'It's quite hateful really.'
As they sat together, not speaking, the door suddenly crashed open and their father stood like a demon in the doorway. 'I knew it,' he bellowed. 'I knew I would be disobeyed. Get out of here.' He glared at Eleanor and pointed to the
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