The Red Necklace by Sally Gardner Page A

brought here, to answer this one question—was Sido well?
    Finally he said, “She is unhappy.”
    After an awkward supper that seemed to go on and on, with many courses and unanswered questions, Mr. Laxton took him into his study. On hearing of Têtu’s death, he told Yann that this was to be his new home. What he meant by this, Yann had no idea. The only family he had ever known was Têtu. Home couldn’t be counted in candlesticks and cutlery, of that much he was sure. Home for him had been simple. Home was Têtu.
    That night he lay awake, finding the soft mattress worrying, the smell of oranges unsettling. Finally he got out of bed and fell asleep in front of the fire, like a cat.
    The days that followed were encompassed by ticking clocks and dull, meaningless routine. Time dragged its weary feet for Yann in this grand house. The long, empty momentum of the minutes and the passing hours was something he had never been aware of before.
    A tutor had been employed for Yann, a Mr. Rose. He was as thin as a sheet of paper left flattened and forgotten in a book, and had about him the smell of dried-up ink. Knowledge had been beaten into him and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t be beaten into every other child. His philosophy of education was not one he had shared with Mr. Laxton.
    On the first day of his employment, what appeared before Mr. Rose was a well-dressed, intelligent-looking young gentleman.
    “Appearances can be deceptive,” Mr. Rose was to grumble three weeks later. “The boy is nothing more than a savage. No tailored garment is going to alter that fact.”
    This cutting remark had been his first complaint, followed by, “The boy has no aptitude for learning.”
    Mr. Laxton had spoken firmly to Yann, who stood in his study and said nothing.
    Another two weeks passed, by which time Yann felt as if his very life was beginning to be drummed out of him by this wizened leaf of a tutor. He would gaze out of the window, longing to be down in the street where life went on, until he could take it no longer.
    One day Mr. Rose, in a fit of temper, threw a book at Yann, hitting him on the head. Yann got up and calmly took the cane from his terrified tutor, breaking it across his leg before delivering a knockout blow. Mr. Rose almost flew across the room. He lay stretched out cold on the wooden floor, his nose bleeding profusely.
    Yann went down the stairs to Mr. Laxton’s study and told him exactly what he had done and why.
    There was a general commotion, a doctor was called for, and Mr. Rose, regaining consciousness, demanded that the boy be brought before a magistrate and sent to the clink for the savage he was. Then, seeing that Mr. Laxton was going to do nothing of the sort, he left, appalled, holding his handkerchief to his very sore nose.
    Immediately he went hurrying around to Lady Faulkner, whose son Jack had benefited greatly from his tutoring. For her part she had swiftly and delightedly passed on the news that the Laxtons, for want of a child, had taken in an alleycat.The scandal kept many a lady happy over her morning coffee and many a gentleman at his club wondering what the respectable banker was thinking of.
    The Laxtons took no notice whatsoever of the gossip, and employed another tutor who had no more control over Yann than the dreadful Mr. Rose. He lasted only a month before storming out of the house, announcing that the boy was unteachable.
    Finally free of his tutors, Yann took to leaving the house without permission and going off by himself to explore London. The vulgar tongue of the streets began to intrigue him: It was a stewpot of words and sounds that he was hungry to taste. It took him no time to speak these earthy words with a near-perfect Cockney accent.
    All attempts at keeping him at home failed. Locked doors and high windows were no barrier to him. He would frequently climb down the side of the house at night without being noticed by the night-watchman. He had always found the darkness