* * *
At dinnertime Sonny managed to stop himself wincing with discomfort, even when his mother delivered a playful slap to his bottom.
‘How did yer like school, then?’ she asked, putting a bowl of potatoes on the table.
‘’Tis all right,’ said Sonny noncommittally, tucking hungrily into his meal.
‘By, that’s a change from this morning,’ replied Thomasin in surprise. ‘Yer don’t sound too sure about it. Is it not what yer expected?’
‘Oh, aye, ’tis all right,’ repeated her son, his eyes never leaving his plate.
‘Ye’ve not been fighting again, have ye?’ asked his father suspiciously. There was not a day went by without his younger son getting into one scrape or another. ‘Your mother’s right, ye don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘No!’ cried Sonny indignantly, then with a sideways glance at his brother pushed his empty plate towards Thomasin. ‘Can I have some more, Mam?’
‘There’s a bit of pork left – that’s if yer dad doesn’t want it?’
Patrick waved his knife indicating the negative.
‘Is it pig pork?’ asked Sonny, making them all laugh.
‘Is there any other?’ replied Thomasin, sharing the remnants of the Sunday joint between Sonny and his brother. ‘An’ can yer not sit still? Yer fidgetin’ around as though you were sat on an ants’ nest.’
Sonny threw another glance at his brother and tried to keep still, but it was hard; he could feel his trousers beginning to stick to his skin again – they would be the very devil to get off at bedtime.
After dinner he and Dickie returned to school, where George and his gang were waiting at the gate, bearing gifts ,to shower upon the conquering hero. Thomas Shaughnessy had brought two badges, Joseph Hagan, a small ball of twine which had miraculously fallen into his pocket in the haberdashery store when he had been sent to purchase a packet of pins for his mother, and George himself handed over four blue and white marbles, much cherished possessions.
The afternoon session was a quiet contrast to that of the morning. Sonny really enjoyed himself, learning how to write his name on a piece of slate. The only trouble was, when he had to rub it out in order to do something else he could never remember how to write it again. But Brother Francis was a man of infinite patience, never turning the little robin away whenever he appeared at his shoulder to ask for assistance.
Throughout the afternoon Sonny listened attentively to all that he was told, soaking up knowledge like Jimmy Flaherty soaked up ale. His fingers lovingly stroked the pages of the books that Brother Francis had allowed him to look at, enjoying the shape of the words, although he could not yet decipher them. At the end of the school day he, as did the others, handed in his slate. But unlike the rest Sonny lingered at the master’s desk while his brother gestured impatiently from the doorway.
‘You seem reluctant to go, Sonny.’ Brother Francis’s saintlike face peered down at him. ‘Have you enjoyed your first day at school?’
‘Oh, yes, Brother Francis,’ Sonny replied eagerly, but seemed loath to move.
‘Was there something else?’ enquired the master, lacing his fingers, still smiling.
Sonny faltered, then, with a quick glance at his gesticulating brother, broke out, ‘Please, Brother Francis, could I have one o’ them books to take home? Just to borrow, like,’ he added hastily.
Brother Francis seemed surprised; he had never had such a request before. He looked down into the expectant little face, hesitating. Would he be making a mistake? Would he ever see the book again if he complied with the boy’s request? He stared into the honest grey eyes before smiling and answering, ‘I do not see any reason why I should not loan you a book, my son. Have you any particular preference?’ He indicated the bookcase.
Sonny’s face burst with eagerness. ‘Oh, yes! I know exactly which one.’ He leapt towards the bookcase and, curbing his exuberance, reverently lifted out the book of his choice.
‘May I see?’ Brother Francis held out his slim fingers and Sonny placed the volume into his hand.
The master seemed pleased with his choice. His pious face reflected the splendour of the colourplates in the book. ‘You have chosen well, Sonny,’ he murmured.
‘Yes, Brother,’ replied the boy, not giving his real reason for choosing that particular book, that it was the vivid colours and not the religious content that transfixed his eye. If only he could paint pictures like that. His heart sank as he wondered how he could get some paints of his own; if he saved up all his pocket money perhaps one day…
He smiled again as Brother Francis handed over the book. ‘Take very good care of it, my boy.’
‘I will, Brother,’ shouted Sonny and, shoving it down the inside of his jacket, ran to join his brother.
‘What the devil have ye been gassing about?’ enquired Dickie crossly. ‘I’m famished.’
‘I asked Brother Francis to lend me a book an’ he did,’ said Sonny, still delighted at the teacher’s generosity. He tugged it from his jacket to show to his brother. ‘Just look at those pictures,’ he breathed. ‘Aren’t they just grand?’
Dickie sniffed and reached for the book which Sonny pulled out of his grasp.
‘Take your dirty hands off it! Sure, I’ll get the blame if there’s mucky fingerprints all over it.’
‘All right, keep your shirt on,’ replied Dickie airily. ‘I’m not interested anyway. Only I wouldn’t leave it lying around if I were you. Izzy Smith’ll pay me a good few shillings for that.’
‘Ye wouldn’t?’ barked Sonny, having visions of Brother Francis discovering his book in the pawnshop window.
‘Would I not?’ grinned Dickie. ‘Well, leave it lying around and see what happens to it.’
Sonny had just stuffed it back inside his jacket when he felt a cruel hand grasp a fistful of his hair, and was pulled up sharply.
Brother Simon Peter focused baleful eyes on his victim, twistirig his hand into Sonny’s hair. ‘Well, well… the lunatic is also a thief.’
‘I’m not!’ cried Sonny, looking to his brother for support. But Dickie sidled into the shadows.
‘Then what, may I ask, is this?’ The master reached into Sonny’s jacket and withdrew the book, waving it under the boy’s nose.
‘I didn’t steal it,’ protested Sonny, wriggling like a hooked fish. ‘Brother Francis lent it to me.’
‘A likely tale,’ scoffed Brother Simon Peter. ‘As if a master would allow a wretched little maggot such as you even to finger such a priceless edition.’
‘But he did.’ Sonny screwed his eyes shut in discomfort as the man tightened his grip. ‘Ask my brother, he knows.’
‘Even if your brother were here,’ answered the Brother, indicating the empty corridor, ‘I should give as much credit to his explanation as I do to yours. He is a liar too. All boys are liars.’
To Sonny’s dismay the master began to drag him back into the dimmed corridor. He struggled against the superior strength.
The cruel eyes narrowed and the master hissed into his captive’s ear, ‘You thought to beat me this morning, did you not? Well, you are about to find out that nobody beats me, boy. Nobody.’
‘What seems to be the trouble, Brother?’ The angry teacher started as Brother Francis appeared at his classroom door, his hands clasped calmly in front of him.
‘Trouble?’ spat Brother Simon Peter. ‘I shall tell you what the trouble is, Brother.’ His hand twisted Sonny’s hair once again, turning the boy to face the other master. ‘This boy, this thief – yes, I say thief!’ He brandished the book under Brother Francis’ nose. ‘For what other explanation can one offer when one finds such a book in his possession?’
‘I can give you a quite feasible explanation, Brother,’ interceded the other quietly. ‘If you had cared to enquire I would have told you that I have given Sonny the loan of this book.’ Brother Simon Peter appeared not to believe this. ‘Loaned?’ he whispered. ‘You loaned one of the school’s priceless books
to this, this…’
‘That is what I said,’ confirmed Brother Francis. ‘Now, will you kindly release the boy? I am sure you must be hurting him.’
Brother Simon Peter quivered. ‘Hurting him? But boys are meant to be hurt, Brother. How else will they learn?’
Sonny continued to wriggle.
Brother Francis sighed, then looked deep into the other’s face. His usually kind eyes were hard. ‘Brother, have I not just informed you that I am responsible for the boy having possession of the book? What, pray, is there for him to learn? If you were to see me walking out of the school with a book under my arm would you then treat me in such a fashion?’ Brother Simon Peter grimaced sarcastically. ‘Naturally I would not, but that is a different matter entirely. These boys were plotting to sell the book they had stolen.’
‘Brother, I have already stated the book was not stolen. Do I really have to keep repeating myself?’
The thick lips pursed out argumentatively. ‘Whether it was stolen or not they were still conspiring to sell it, I heard it for myself.’
‘I am sure you must have been mistaken, Brother,’ replied Brother Francis. ‘If that is so then where is his accomplice?’
‘Are you suggesting that I am lying?’ hurled Brother Simon Peter.
‘My dear Brother, I would not dream of such a thing. I am merely pointing out that we should perhaps ask the boy to offer an explanation.’
‘Is not my word sufficient for you?’ snapped the other. Brother Francis sighed again. ‘Of course I believe what you think you overheard, but that does not necessarily mean that you understood their intentions. Perhaps the boy would be good enough to give his version?’
Sonny was quick to leap to his own defence, and his brother’s, even though Dickie had deserted him. ‘We didn’t mean any harm, Brother. ’Twas just Dickie’s way of a joke.’
‘I accept your explanation, Sonny,’ replied Brother Francis. ‘I am quite certain that you would not misuse the book in any way.’
‘Oh, no, Brother.’ Sonny was adamant.
‘Then we can forget all about the matter,’ decided the master.
‘Forget?’ spluttered Brother Simon Peter; still holding on to Sonny.
‘Brother, you heard the boy’s story, you have, his choice of book in your hand, would you believe that a boy who makes such a choice could find it in his heart to lie?’
Brother Simon Peter felt his case begin to collapse. He glared into his opponent’s stern face then thrust the book roughly at Brother Francis and stormed off. Brother Francis held the book towards Sonny. ‘Off you go, boy,’ he said kindly.
In the schoolyard George waited patiently for his hero and was relieved to see him still in one piece. His freckled face relaxed into a happy smile as Sonny, along with Dickie who had emerged from his hiding place, bounced towards him.
‘I thought you’d had it when I saw old Codgob grab a hold on you,’ he said, skipping along beside them.
‘Huh! I’m not scared of him.’ Sonny straightened his jacket huffily.
‘Just ’cause ye got the better of him today doesn’t mean to say ye’ll do it every time,’ said his brother. ‘Ye’ll not be so cocky when it’s time for another of his lessons. He takes us for P.T. as well, ye know.’
‘What’s P.T.?’ enquired Sonny, squinting under his cap, then disappearing momentarily as he slipped on a patch of ice.
Dickie laughed and hauled him to his feet. ‘Physical torture. Well, training really, but with Codgob it’s torture.’
Sonny brushed the ice from his breeches and frowned. If an art lesson could produce such violent treatment from the master, what on earth would be the outcome of all this P.T. stuff?
‘Can I come to your house to play?’ enquired George, lifting their minds from the dreaded subject.
‘If ye like,’ replied Sonny nonchalantly, playing the big man when all the time he was as pleased as punch that a boy of eight wanted to be his friend.
When they arrived home he asked his mother if George could stay to tea.
‘I’ll clip your ear’ole,’ she scolded, when she had dragged him into the scullery. ‘There’s hardly enough for you two, let alone three. I’ve told you before about inviting people to tea. I can hardly turn him away when you’ve asked me in front of him, can I?’
‘I don’t mind sharing me tea with him,’ replied Sonny. ‘He’s my pal, he gave me these.’ He pulled the spoils of war from his pocket and held them up proudly as they returned to the other room.
‘By, you must be popular,’ exclaimed his mother. ‘I can’t think why. Here you are, then, make yourself useful, carry this plate o’ bread an’ butter an’ I’ll fetch yer a cup o’ tea.’
Black with the grime of the schoolyard, the boys began to reach for the bread with sooty fingers.
‘Oy, hands washed first!’ bellowed Thomasin, then noticed the bulge in Sonny’s jacket. ‘What the blazes have you got down there?’
Sonny pulled out the book and told her about Brother Francis’s kindness.
‘Well, fancy that! Best put it somewhere it won’t get mucky or torn.’ She turned over the pages, her eyebrows becoming a little higher each time. ‘By, your teacher must be a trusting soul! It’s a right fancy book is this.’
‘He likes me,’ explained her son, following the others to wash his hands.
When they returned Thomasin handed the plate of bread and butter to George and said, ‘Take some, George, there’s plenty for all,’ and gave a crafty glance at her younger son as George took three slices — That’ll teach you, said her eyes when Dickie had taken his and there was only one slice left. But Sonny did not seem to mind, he was too busy nudging his marbles around the table — until he received a sharp slap on the hand.
‘It was kind o’ yer to give our Sonny those, George,’ said Thomasin. ‘It’s nice for him to make friends on his first day.’
‘Oh, everybody likes Sonny, Mrs Feeney,’ enthused George. ‘He’s a real hero. Why, d’you know what he did today?’
‘I’m all ears,’ replied Thomasin with interest.
‘Er, is there any more bread, Mam?’ Sonny tried to veer the conversation away from the dangerous course it was taking.
‘Now yer know very well what I told you before.’ His mother glared at him, then turned back to the other boy. ‘What were you sayin’, George?’
‘Well, your Sonny…’
Sonny sank lower and lower into his chair, trying to reach his erstwhile friend’s ankle under the table, attempting to convey the silent message with murderous eyes.
‘We were in Codgob’s class – that’s Brother Simon Peter, well…’
‘Look out, ’tis the man with the stick!’ Patrick’s noisy arrival brought his sons leaping from the table in a relieved greeting at this fortuitous intervention.
‘Why, ’tis popular I am today an’ no mistake,’ laughed their father as his sons clambered over him. ‘Do I detect trouble in the air?’
‘Excuse me, George,’ said Thomasin. ‘I’ll listen to your story in a minute, I just have to get their dad’s tea.’ She pushed her sons back to the table and followed her husband through to the scullery.
Their parents gone, the boys descended on the hapless George. ‘Big gob! Are ye trying’ to get us a hiding?’
Poor George was mortified. ‘I just thought…’
‘Aye, an’ ye know what Thought did? Followed a muck cart an’ thought it were a weddin’,’ growled Dickie. ‘Did ye not hear us say this mornin’ that me mam’d kill us if she found out?’
‘Is it daft y’are?’ hissed Sonny. ‘I thought ye wanted to be my friend?’
‘I do,’ pleaded George.
‘Then sit down an’ shut yer gob,’ ordered the smaller boy.
‘Now, George,’ said Thomasin, reappearing with her husband’s meal and pulling up a chair for Patrick to sit down. ‘What were you tryin’ to tell me before?’
The boy looked helplessly at the glowering faces across the table and decid
ed that diplomacy was required if he were to escape unscathed. ‘Sorry, Mrs Feeney,’ he crammed the last of his bread into his mouth and quickly washed it down with the tea. ‘I’ll have to tell you some other time. Me Mam’ll wonder where I am.’
Thomasin frowned as the boy bade them all a hasty goodbye and left, reappearing seconds later to say, ‘Thank you for having me.’
‘Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?’ she sniffed. ‘He eats all our tea then buggers off. What’s up, doesn’t his mother feed him?’
‘Thomasin, will ye mind your foul tongue in front of the children?’ said Patrick, wolfing down his meal.
‘Please may I leave the table?’ asked Dickie of his father, who nodded.
Sonny made to follow him but a tap on the hand from Patrick’s knife held him in his seat. ‘Please may I leave the table?’
‘That’s better,’ said his father, mopping his plate with a piece of bread. ‘Now, off ye go, an’ try to stay outta trouble until bedtime.’
‘Neither of yer are going anywhere till yer get wrapped up,’ said their mother, threading a scarf around each neck and reaching for two pairs of ‘gloves’, the cuffs sawn off two old jumpers and stitcbed up at the ends to make mittens.
‘I’m sure there’s something gone off there,’ she mused, when they had gone.
‘Where?’
‘At school. Yer know what our Sonny’s like. I ’ope he hasn’t been in trouble already.’
‘Ah, well, boys will be boys.’ Patrick stretched his long body, then rose from the table to fetch his pipe.
‘I’ll wager we won’t hear yer sayin’ that in ten years time when they’ve got some poor maid into trouble!’
* * *
The January wind grew teeth which nibbled and gnawed at their noses, but the boys seemed unconcerned at its assault as they danced like dervishes on the pavement outside their home. Sonny showed his brother how he could write his name, but unfortunately the wall which he chose to autograph belonged to Miss Peabody. She chastised them most strenuously and demanded that they clean it off, but when she reappeared with pail and scrubbing brush they had vanished. However, when they trooped back into the house some time later it was to find that Miss Peabody had lodged a complaint. Their mother stood prepared holding a big wooden spoon; the boys knew what for; many’s the time they had felt its convex edge against their rumps.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 44
