by Hilary McKay
He became silent then, but the next morning he brought the subject up again. He said, ‘It hurts. Football hurts. Rugby really hurts. Cross-country is agony. How’d you break your leg so bad?’
Peter hesitated for a moment, and then, for the first time, admitted the miserable truth.
‘Jumped off a train.’
The Bony One was far less shocked that Peter had expected him to be. He nodded thoughtfully and asked, ‘A moving train? Or a standing train?’
‘Moving.’
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even so,’ said the Bony One, still nodding, ‘it would only hurt once. You’d just have to shut your eyes and do it.’
He seemed, thought Peter, to be preoccupied with pain.
‘And if you changed your mind and didn’t want to,’ he continued, ‘you could always go on to the next station and get off.’
The bell for chapel rang, and the conversation ended, but Peter found himself concerned. He made up his mind that the next time he saw Bonnington he would make something plain. He would tell him that he wished he had not jumped off the train. And also that it hurt. In fact, it never stopped hurting. Jumping off the train had been a mistake. He would tell the Bony One this at bedtime, and make sure he understood.
However this plan turned out to be impossible because that night the bed next to his was empty. Peter, who, since the blond boy, had become sensitive to empty beds, noticed it at once.
He was alarmed. So alarmed that he slid out of bed (forbidden), crept out of the dormitory (banned), nipped down the back stairs (out of bounds), made his way along to the darkened junior common room (where no one was allowed after nine o’clock), and there was the Bony One halfway out of the window.
At first he would not tell Peter where he was going, or be persuaded to come back in. Instead he said he needed fresh air, he said he was interested in astronomy, he said he was going to look for a book he had accidentally left outside and he said he thought he’d heard owls.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Peter.
‘Don’t, then,’ said the Bony One. ‘It’s all right for you!’ And he looked bitterly and jealously down at Peter’s leg, and Peter looked at it too.
‘It hurts. It hurts all the time. They pinned it with steel plates to hold it together. I can feel the steel. It hurts to walk and it hurts to keep still. I have to wear a weird shoe. It’s rubbish.’
‘You didn’t tell me any of that before,’ said the boy accusingly.
Peter shrugged.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I was a coward.’
‘Why did you come after me?’
‘Why d’you think?’
‘To save me,’ said the Bony One, and climbed back down from the windowsill.
EIGHT
Simon the Bony One
So it was that Peter and the Bony One became friends, and when Simon (for that was the Bony One’s first name) had his family visit a week later he introduced Peter as the boy who had persuaded him not to jump from a moving train. Peter was taken out to dinner, forgiven for being sick in the car and introduced to Simon’s sister, Vanessa. In Simon he seemed to have found someone as completely unsuited to school as himself. He and Simon did not talk much, but it was nice to have someone to sit beside at mealtimes, or to stomp across the quad with when the bell clanged for morning chapel. They shared letters from home now and then. Vanessa sent postcards to Simon. Clarry painted butterflies for Peter: careful paper models to add to the collection he had started in Cornwall.
In chapel their friendship blossomed. They discovered the knack of fitting their own words to the rhythm and melody of the hymns. If anyone in the past had told Peter he would enjoy singing in chapel he would have dismissed them as insane, but Peter was changing.
‘Oh, God, our help in ages past,
I did not do that maths
He set us all for prep last night
So could I copy yours?’
‘Yes, if you want – I do not care;
I’m sick of everything.
The whole east wing is stinking of
That fish we had last night.’
‘I know, it must have been weeks old;
The breakfast eggs were green.
I’ve got some biscuits if you like
From our eternal home.’
They both could sing well, clear and in tune, but occasionally tears of silent laughter would roll down Simon’s nose and cause him to snort and gasp. This never happened to Peter. He took pride in maintaining an expression of perfect, blank-eyed calm. He enjoyed his friend’s snorts, however, and wrote about them to Clarry, which made a change for her from his usual list of commands and grumbles. He mentioned other things too, that he had not thought worth recording before, such as the problem of the common-room fire, which blew smoke down the chimney until people’s eyes watered and they went early to bed.
Clarry wrote back:
You remember Mr King, the rag-and-bone man who bought our old fish-smelling piano for one shilling and a pink geranium? Father is still complaining and Miss Vane says I should not talk to such people. But I do, because he is perfectly nice and so is his black-and-white horse, Jester. (Mr King is very proud of Jester because he came all the way across Devon by train.) Well, I saw him yesterday and he stopped Jester to say, ‘All right, missy, I hope?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘What are you collecting today?’
‘Worthless brass and copper,’ he said. ‘Terrible heavy old stuff that nobody wants but if you can’t do a kindness now and then, where would we be? I’m too soft-hearted, as my friends do like to say. I take it off folks’ hands and leave them a flower to remember me by. Saucepans, stair rods, candlesticks, old brass coal scuttles, pile them on my cart, missy, and I’ll have them out of your way. But you’ll have to be quick because I’ve a terrible smoky chimney to sort.’
‘How do you sort a terrible smoky chimney?’ I asked him, and he said, ‘Oh, that is a trick worth knowing, but if you’ve nothing for the cart I must be moving on at once.’
So I remembered that awful Indian table with the brass top that snags you every time you pass and it was so heavy he had to come and help me. But he told me about chimneys while we dragged it down the hall. Miss Vane came to the front door just as we reached it with the table and she was not happy. She made us put it down.
‘I am shocked,’ she said. ‘First that valuable piano, spirited away without a by-your-leave, and now this beautiful table!’
‘But it has such sharp edges,’ I said.
‘Sharp edges or not, I’m not taking no risks!’ said Mr King, walking very quickly backwards down the steps towards his cart. ‘Not in this house twice! You must mind your poor old granny, miss, and I must be off!’
Then he jumped into his cart and shouted, ‘Lively, Jester!’ to his horse, and Jester did go, very lively, clattering down the street, and Mr King blew kisses as they left.
‘That man is an impertinent scoundrel!’ exclaimed Miss Vane. ‘Really, Clarry, you should NOT let him into the house!’
Then she looked anxiously in the hall mirror.
‘I suppose I am getting old,’ she said very quietly, and she dabbed her eyes with one of her small hankies, the ones with heather in the corner that she bought from the church bazaar.
‘Angus would not know me now,’ she said.
‘Of course he would,’ I said. ‘You’re not old! Mr King was just being awful because he wanted the table.’
She shook her head and sniffed.
‘Who was Angus, anyway?’ I asked.
‘When I was eighteen, I danced with him at a party in London. A Christmas party. The last one I ever went to. I always remember how the snow drifted down in the lamplight outside the windows. Oh, well.’
I told her it sounded like a party in a story.
‘It was like that, Clarry,’ said Miss Vane.
‘Did you dance with him just once?’ I asked her, because she seem
ed to want to go on talking.
‘Three times,’ said Miss Vane proudly. ‘A country dance and two waltzes, and then we stood by the windows and watched the falling snow.’
‘Then what happened?’ I asked.
‘He was Scottish. He went back to Scotland. I believe he married a very nice Edinburgh girl,’ said Miss Vane, and then she started pushing the brass-topped table back down the hall.
I have drawn a picture of the way the rag-and-bone man said to clear the chimney and I don’t see why a fireworks rocket wouldn’t work instead. They have them in the shops just now.
Very much love from,
Clarry
P.S. It would be perfect if you were expelled.
Peter was very scornful to Simon about Miss Vane and her lost Scottish Angus, but the fireworks rocket idea appealed to them both. They followed Clarry’s instructions and became rather pleased with themselves. Rupert, to whom Clarry had given the almost impossible task of taking care of Peter without him noticing, saw that his cousin looked happier and was interested.
‘Introduce me to your friend!’ he said, meeting them one evening as they hurried down a corridor.
‘Oh,’ said Peter. ‘Well, he’s Bonnington. Bonners. Simon, or something. And this is my cousin. Rupert. Penrose. Rosy. Sixth form.’
Simon’s ears went scarlet, but he managed to say, ‘I know . . . I mean, I’ve seen . . . oh, God . . .’
‘So where are you both rushing off to?’ enquired Rupert, more to put an end to Bonnington’s agony than because he was interested.
‘Double detention,’ said Peter. ‘Because of mucking up the common room. If you must know.’
‘Course I must! Aren’t I a prefect? Both of you? What’d you do?’
‘Cleared the chimney,’ said Peter. ‘The smoke kept blowing back down.’
‘It always did,’ agreed Rupert, grinning. ‘How’d you clear it, then? Send up the skinniest first year?’
‘Firework rockets. Three.’
‘Ah!’ said Rupert. ‘I noticed you both had a greyish look, but I didn’t like to mention it. Double detention! How ungrateful of them! What’s a bit of soot?’
‘More than a bit,’ said Peter.
‘Generations,’ said Simon, and did one of his snorts, stumbled over nothing standing still, as he sometimes did in moments of crisis, and turned an even darker red.
‘Well, I think you showed great public spirit,’ said Rupert, kindly ignoring these antics. ‘Congratulations to whichever of you thought of it first!’
‘It was his sister,’ said Simon.
‘What, Clarry?’ exclaimed Rupert. ‘Brilliant! I might have guessed! I’m going to write and congratulate her tonight!’
Rupert drew a picture for Clarry of rooftops and chimneys, lit by an explosion of red and green stars.
Clarry, you are a genius! he wrote underneath.
Clarry was so pleased she stuck it up on the sitting-room mantelpiece, and it was still there when Peter came home at Christmas.
‘You should have seen the Bony One jump when the rocket went off,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like bangs.’
‘I wish I had seen,’ said Clarry. ‘What’s his real name?’
‘Simon. Simon Bonnington. Bonners. He lives quite near here, in this town, anyway, not that far away. He said to bring you over. He’s got a sister.’
‘You told me. Vanessa.’
‘That’s right. A bit older than him.’
‘What is she like? What does she look like?’
‘I don’t know! Tallish. Hair.’
‘Of course she has hair!’
‘Long, and very bright, like leaves.’
‘Not green?’ said Clarry, laughing.
‘No, no! Autumn leaves, and she’s got weird ideas. She wants to go and live in Paris.’
‘I think that’s a brilliant idea!’
‘I don’t know why,’ said Peter, rather grumpily. ‘I can’t imagine you in Paris. Anyway, I said we’d go tomorrow.’
‘Good. I couldn’t go now. I’m busy!’
‘You! Busy! Doing what?’
‘Decorating for Christmas,’ said Clarry. ‘I’ve made miles of paper chains. They’re up in my bedroom, waiting to be hung. And we’ve got a Christmas tree coming. A friend of mine is bringing it.’
‘That rag-and-bone man!’ guessed Peter.
‘Yes.’
‘What did you give him?’
‘A Sunday School prize. One of those awful books they give you. About doing good and dying, that sort of book.’
‘I suppose it’s one way to get rid of them,’ agreed Peter. ‘I don’t know why you want a Christmas tree, though.’
‘Because last year Christmas was so empty. Not one Christmassy thing except church in the morning, and you and Father wouldn’t come. Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember that you tried to cook a chicken with the insides still in,’ said Peter.
‘I’ve learned to do it properly this year,’ said Clarry. ‘And there’ll be a real Christmas pudding and something else too.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Miss Vane gave me the idea. Come and help hang up my paper chains.’
Peter was so glad to be away from school that he came and helped fairly willingly, and the next day set off across town with Clarry to visit the Bonningtons. There, Vanessa and Clarry made friends instantly, completely and for life.
‘Come to our Christmas party,’ begged Clarry as they left.
‘What Christmas party?’ demanded Peter. ‘Don’t be stupid, Clarry.’
‘We’re having a party on Christmas Eve. I’m arranging it all. Father said I could do as I liked so long as he wasn’t involved. There’ll be ten people, if Vanessa and Simon come. Ten is enough for a really good party!’
‘Ten?’ asked Peter. ‘Father’ll never let ten people into the house at once!’
‘He will. You and me. Mrs Morgan and Mr Morgan with their little grandson Christopher, who they’re looking after that night. Father. Vanessa and Simon. Miss Vane. There’ll be music too, because Miss Vane is bringing her gramophone and Mr Morgan his Spanish guitar . . .’
‘That’s only nine,’ said Peter, keeping count.
‘And Rupert!’
‘Rupert?’
‘Yes, and he’s staying all Christmas Day! The grandparents said he could. Vanessa, you will love him!’
‘Will I?’ asked Vanessa. ‘Do you?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Clarry.
At Clarry’s party there was a Christmas tree with silver paper stars and red candles and paper cones filled with sugar mice and toffees. Presents hung among the branches, bought by Clarry with the long-hoarded remains of her sovereign. There were two gold paper roses for Miss Vane and Mrs Morgan, a tin trumpet for Christopher, a guitar duster for Mr Morgan, a red handkerchief with holly printed on it for her father, Bengal matches for the boys, and a pink bead necklace for Vanessa. When Vanessa saw these presents, she took off her silver bangle, borrowed a pencil, found a scrap of paper, labelled it with Clarry’s name and hung it with the stars.
Miss Vane was sure the tree would catch fire, and said so several dozen times. Christopher choked on a sugar mouse and had to be turned upside down. Mr Morgan made his duster into a hat and played his guitar much too willingly for most people. Peter, to the barely concealed wrath of his father, stoked the fire to a cherry-red blaze. The children’s father gave sherry to the guests but drank whisky himself and constantly deserted them all to stalk into the street and check that the chimney had not caught fire.
None of these things in any way spoiled Clarry’s party. They ate gingerbread hearts brought by Vanessa, mince pies from Miss Vane, miniature sandwiches made by Clarry and Mrs Morgan, grapes and nuts and figs, and tangerines wrapped in silver paper. They played Hide the Thimble, Oranges and Lemons, Forfeits and Blindman’s Buff. Then the furniture was pushed back to the walls, the children’s father vanished in disgust, Peter operated the gramophon
e and they danced colliding polkas in the living room and gallops up and down the icy hall.
Miss Vane and Rupert: ‘Not so fast! Oh, my goodness! Oh, do take care of the Christmas tree!’
Vanessa and Mr Morgan: ‘What a brilliant party! I do like your hat!’
Mrs Morgan and Simon: ‘Come on, young man!’ Mrs Morgan ordered the petrified and bony one as she hauled him to his feet.
Clarry and Christopher: ‘This is my best spinning round!’
‘Wonderful, Christopher, it’s my best too!’
Afterwards they sang ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, ‘I Saw Three Ships’ and ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ with a lot of guitar strumming between verses. To finish, Rupert called, ‘Come on, Clarry!’
So Rupert was Good King Wenceslas and Clarry his loyal page, while Vanessa dreamed on the hearthrug, and Peter paused his fire stoking, and Christopher’s eyes were lollipop round, and the grown-ups were quiet, remembering other Christmases. And Simon the Bony One gazed in silence at the faces and the brightness, from the dusty folds and shadows of the faded scarlet curtains.
NINE
The Miss Pinkses’ Academy
Rupert stayed for five nights. Six days, thought Clarry, not whole days, of course, but nevertheless six days with Rupert in them. It was as if summer had arrived in midwinter. She had only really known him in Cornwall before. There, in the sunlight, with the sea glitter and the enormous light skies, he had blended into the brightness. Here, in winter, in their bare, damp house, he shone like a warm lamp. He was always humming. He laughed out loud. On Boxing Day he swung Clarry into a few steps of dance, twirled her round, glanced into her face and read her mind.
‘You’re worrying!’
‘I’m not.’
‘About me.’
‘Not really.’
‘Is Rupe bored? Is he cold? Does he mind the way Miss Vane appears so often? Is the food too awful? Does he understand about Father? Might he wish he hadn’t come? What will we do all day and will Peter sulk? Admit I’m right!’
‘A bit.’
‘I love Miss Vane. After a thousand years at boarding school, I’m never cold and no food is awful. My father is worse than yours. I love being here, I hardly ever see you. I think we should always do Christmases like this. We’re going to the theatre this afternoon! It’s going to be wonderful and silly.’
