Mrs. Glengarry hesitated. “I’m afraid she’s not in that hospital, dear,” she said. “She’s gone to a special hospital farther out, and she’s not allowed visitors at present. But you could write her a letter. Would that help?”
“Not really,” said Francis. “I’m not very good at writing letters. Mrs. Glengarry, what’s the matter with my mum?”
The old lady looked troubled.
“I think you’ll have to ask your dad about that, Francis,” she said quietly. “I’m sure he’ll explain. You’ve noticed your mother hasn’t been too well lately, haven’t you? I think it’s all the same thing. It’s not a dangerous illness; she just needs rest.”
“She had headaches and she cried,” said Francis, “but she wasn’t ill. May I leave the table, please?” Tears were welling up again, and he ran out into the yard and sought refuge in the cherry tree. It was just bursting into blossom, like a great white tent, and he had once imagined that he would sit here with Mum. Whatever would happen to them all without Mum? Perhaps Granny would come. He liked Granny, but she did not get along with Dad, and she would not be at all pleased about Gloria.
It would soon be sunset. He watched a thrush fly home to its nest in the hedge, and the sky, through the gaps in the young blossoms, glowed brightly, tinging the white petals with pink. It was so quiet, and Mum could have rested here. Then he saw Mrs. Glengarry go home to feed her cats, and he thought he had better get back to Wendy and Deb. There would be an awful row if he was not there when Dad came home.
Mrs. Glengarry had left everything in perfect order, and the little girls seemed unusually peaceful. When Dad came in they were all playing happily, and he switched on the television and sat down beside them.
“What’s the matter with Mum?” asked Francis. “Why can’t I go and see her?”
“Because she has gone to a hospital out in the country, and she will have to stay there for a time. She’ll be all right, Francis. It’s her nerves, and she just needs a good rest.”
“How long will she stay there?”
“I really don’t know, but don’t worry. We’re going to fix things up tomorrow. In the meantime, there’s supper to think about, isn’t there? How about going to the fish-and-chip shop, Francis, and bringing us all a nice hot supper?”
The little girls clapped their hands. They loved fish and chips.
Francis took the money and set off along the dark street. He walked slowly because he hated being at home without Mum, even with fish and chips. He was glad there was a line and he would have to wait, but he was not glad to see Spotty ahead of him. He turned his head as Spotty left the shop and hoped he had got rid of him, but when he finally made his purchase and stepped out into the street, there was Spotty waiting.
“I’m walkin’ home with you,” said Spotty mysteriously. “How come you told the police about our hideout?”
“I didn’t,” said Francis, startled. “I never told them nothing. Honest, I didn’t. She asked me questions and I just said—”
“Oh, yes, we know all about her,” said Spotty, who had known nothing about her till that moment. “And if you never told her nothing, how come they found the hideout and boarded it all up? Not that it bothers us—we’ll find another, but we shan’t tell you. I always said you were soft. Tyke’s going to do you in for this.”
He seized Francis’s package, flung it on the ground, and kicked him on the shins. Francis flew at him and punched him in the stomach. Spotty grabbed his hair, hit him in the face, and then sent him sprawling on the ground, after which he took to his heels. He did not really like fighting; it made him too breathless.
Francis got up slowly. His lip was cut and bleeding and his hands covered with mud, but, worst of all, the fish and chips had fallen out on the pavement. The fish was all in pieces, and however hard he tried to scrape the dirt off the chips, he could not remove it all. He wrapped them up again and crept home feeling sore and frightened. His father was in the kitchen setting the table.
“You’ve taken your time, haven’t you, Francis?” he snapped. “And—good night, what have you been doing? You look as though you have been fighting.”
“I fell down, Dad. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I fell on top of the fish and chips and it got a bit squashed.”
He handed the sad-looking package to his father, who stared at it in disgust. “Well,” he said at last, “it’s your supper, so you’ll have to make the best of it. But you’re a clumsy one, aren’t you! Can’t even go to the fish shop without messing everything up. Now call the girls and come and eat.”
Nothing went well. Wendy made loud and unnecessary remarks about the grit in her chips, and when it was bedtime, Debby started crying for Mum. Dad, who had tried hard to begin with, grew short-tempered, and Francis watched a program that did not interest him and then wandered up to bed. His lip hurt, he was miserable about his mother, and terrified of Tyke. Tyke could beat him up as easy as winking.
He wondered what would happen if he went down now in his pajamas, told Dad all about it, and asked him to protect him. His dad did not like him much, but there were moments when he had been kind. Once he had bought him a bicycle, twice he had taken him to a football game, and he had often bought him ice cream and taken him swimming. When Wendy was still little and had not started pinching, they had been quite good friends. And anyhow, even if he was very angry, his stepfather would not let him be beaten.
With a pounding heart he jumped out of bed and hurried downstairs on bare feet. Dad would be watching television in the living room. He crouched at the door listening. But the set was switched off, and Dad was talking and laughing in a way that he never did with Mum. And someone was talking back in an excited, giggly voice.
I suppose Gloria’s come to visit him, thought Francis. I’ll have to wait. I’ll leave the bedroom door open, and then I’ll hear when she goes.
But he never heard her go for he fell asleep, and next morning they all went off to school in a hurry, and there was no chance to talk. Francis spent his time out of class keeping well out of Tyke’s way. He jumped on the bus the minute school was over and ran all the way from the bus stop. It was a warm, sunny day, and the girls were playing in the yard.
“Dad’s got a visitor,” said Wendy. “We can’t have tea till he goes.”
“Do you mean she?” asked Francis rather drearily. This was getting to be too much of a good thing.
“No, it’s a he. Dad called him Dr. somebody. They’re in the living room. You’ve got to wait.”
Francis walked very quietly into the house and put down his school bag. The living room door was not quite shut, and he stood irresolute in the hall. He could hear most of what they said, and if this was a doctor, then he wanted to hear.
“I believe there’s some talk of a divorce, isn’t there, Mr. West?” said an even voice. “Could this be the real root of your wife’s trouble?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” answered Dad, sounding rather put out. “But we can’t go on like this. Unfortunately, things just aren’t working out between me and my wife—”
“I see. Well, she’ll have to be under care for some time. She’s in the throes of a very bad nervous breakdown, and what is troubling her at the moment is, What is going to happen to the children? I presume you can’t keep on your job and look after them?”
“Not really,” said Dad, “but I’ve been thinking it out, and I had a talk with the manager this morning. He was most helpful. The little girls can go to my mother, and I have asked for a transfer. Our business has a plant up north not too far from where my mother lives, and there’s a vacancy next week. I shall have to shut up the house for a time and get an apartment near my job.”
“And what about the boy? Will he go too?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s not my boy, and he’s a bit of a problem at the moment, getting into bad company and that sort of thing. My mother couldn’t possibly be responsible, and besides, she hasn’t room for three children. He will have to go into a f
oster home.”
“That seems rather rough on the little chap. Isn’t there another granny who could have him?”
“My wife’s mother lives in a one-room apartment and has arthritis. She’ll come down to be near my wife, but she couldn’t cope with the house and the boy. I think she’ll stay with friends.”
“I see. Then it’s just a matter of getting in touch with the Social Services and finding some place for the boy.”
Francis had stood rooted to the spot, but he suddenly realized that the conversation was coming to a close, and whatever happened he must not be found in the hall. Besides he would have to act very fast indeed. He knew about going into foster homes; he had a friend in one. Tyke would almost certainly beat him up if he was in a foster home, as it would not be like having his own folks to protect him.
And suddenly he knew where he was going. He got his bicycle and pedaled very fast down the path and into the road. “Tell Dad I’ve gone for a ride,” he shouted to Wendy. “I don’t want any tea.”
He was off, with the sweet spring wind blowing his hair backward, down the main road and off to the right. Now he was in the country, and the birds were singing. There were tufts of emerald on the hawthorn hedges, and the banks were starred with celandines and primroses, but apart from a general sense of greenness and hopefulness he did not notice much.
He was trying to decide what he was going to say. He could not help knowing that he had made rather a poor impression on his first visit, and this time he must do better. There was always plenty to do on a farm, and he would milk cows, feed pigs—anything. He was rather hazy about farms, but he would convince them that he was a wonderful worker, and the Easter holidays were just about to start. If only he could keep out of Tyke’s clutches till then, he would be safe. Tyke would never find him there.
He was coasting through the village, thinking of more and more things that he could do, and by the time he reached the bridge over the river he had come to think that they were very lucky to get him. The water had gone down considerably since the day of his great adventure. He could see the road that led right to the farm.
It was still broad daylight, and he stood for a time at the gate, considering exactly how to introduce himself. “I’ve come to help you with the cows”? But the cows, lying peacefully in the daisies, did not look as though they needed any help at all. “You’ll need some weeding done, now that spring’s come”? or, “I thought you might like an extra boy on the farm”? Any of those might do. He would decide when he got there.
He stuck out his chest, marched up the path, and knocked loudly on the door.
The farmer opened it and found himself looking down into the face of a small boy with a swollen lip and very bright, anxious, brown eyes, who seemed vaguely familiar.
And Francis, looking up at the large, friendly figure of the farmer, suddenly forgot all his fine speeches. His eyes filled with tears again.
“I’ve got to go into a foster home,” he blurted out. “I just wondered—do you think you could possibly care for me?”
9
Refuge
“Come right in,” said the farmer. “Aren’t you the little chap who took our boat?”
It seemed a bad beginning. Francis sniffed sadly and stepped inside. The family was having a noisy tea in the kitchen, but the farmer led Francis into a little sort of office, and they both sat down.
“Do your parents know you’ve come?” asked the farmer.
“Mum’s in the hospital,” replied Francis. “Dad knows I’ve gone for a bike ride. I’ve got to go into a foster home.
“So you said before,” said the farmer. “Have you had some tea?”
Francis shook his head. The farmer went away and came back with a mug of tea and a slice of homemade cake. When it was finished, the farmer leaned back in his chair. “Now tell me all about it,” he said.
And Francis, warmed and fortified by tea and cake, and encouraged by the deeply attentive man in front of him, went on. With the help of a few questions, he told everything, and by the time he had finished, the farmer knew all about Tyke, Spotty, the telephone booth, Ram, the fire, Mum, Dad, Wendy, Debby, and the police. It was quite a story, and when he had finished, Francis looked up pleadingly.
”So, you see,” he said, “If you can’t care for me, I don’t know where I shall go, and Tyke will get me. But you’d have to care for my cat too, ’cause she can’t go to Yorkshire, and she can’t stay alone, so she’d have to come, wouldn’t she?”
“Of course,” agreed the farmer. “If you come, the cat comes too. She could be the official barn mouser.”
Francis laughed gaily and had a queer feeling that it was the first time he had laughed like that for quite a while.
“I’m going to phone your father and talk to my wife,” said the farmer. He was gone for about twenty minutes while Francis thumbed through pamphlets about the milk board. When he came back he was smiling.
“Come on,” he said. “You can leave your bike in the shed. I’m taking you home to have a chat with your dad.”
They drove in silence for both had quite a lot to think about, and when they arrived, Mr. West came to the door to meet them, looking rather uncomfortable.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble. I had no idea where Francis had gone. Francis, go and eat your supper. Come in here, Mr. Glenny.”
They talked for quite a time. Then Dad put his head around the kitchen door and said, “All right, Francis, they very kindly say they’ll have you, and Mr. Glenny will take you now. There’s an empty suitcase in our bedroom. Run upstairs and collect what you need.”
Francis shot upstairs and shoved his clothes into the suitcase. He was just about to start on his toy cupboard when his stepfather appeared. “Come along,” he said. “You’ll only need your clothes. You can’t take all that junk. The gentleman’s waiting. You’ve got some nerve, haven’t you! However, it seems to be turning out for the best. Now, step on it!”
“I want my toys,” protested Francis, “and my stamps and my football cards. I can’t go without them.”
“You’ll do what you’re told,” said Dad, slamming down the lid of the suitcase and giving him a shove. “There’ll be plenty of toys where he comes from.” He hurried Francis downstairs to where Mr. Glenny stood waiting in the front hall. Francis stuck his head around the kitchen door.
“ ’Bye, Wendy, ’Bye, Debby,” he shouted. “I’m going away, and I’m not coming back till Mum’s better.”
And then a terrible thing happened. Wendy, who had been absorbed in a jigsaw puzzle, looked up and suddenly understood. She ran to him, flung her arms round his middle, and burst into tears. “Francis, Francis,” she sobbed, “don’t go, Dad’ll go out at night, and we shall be alone in the house. Oh, Francie, stay!”
Francis was too surprised to speak for a moment. He had always thought that he and Wendy hated each other, but now he was not so sure. She gazed tragically up at him, and he saw, for the first time in his life, how soft and pretty her hair was and how blue her eyes. He put his arm around her.
“You’ll be all right,” he said gruffly. “You’re going to Gran in Yorkshire. You’re lucky, you are.”
He quite forgot that he was not meant to know. Wendy’s eyes sparkled through her tears. “To Gran in Yorkshire?” she repeated joyously, and Debby said, “Gran in Yorkser gave me a teddy bear. ’Bye, Francis.”
“Mum’ll soon be better, and we’ll all come back,” he whispered to Wendy and gave her an awkward little kiss on the top of her head. Then he seized his suitcase, and everyone searched for the cat, who had disappeared. Francis found her under the bed and hurried to the car without a backward look. He stuck his head out the window and breathed in the warm spring night. At last he felt safe.
Everyone welcomed him and seemed glad to see him when they arrived. Kate was doing her homework at the table, and Martin and Chris sat by the fire in their robes, playing battleships. Mrs. Glenny took h
is suitcase. “We’ll show you your room when we’ve all had a cup of tea,” she said cheerfully. “It’s a little one all of your own, under the roof. John, dear, we’ve finished outside, and we waited for prayers till you came.”
I wonder what ‘prayers’ means, thought Francis. It sounds like school.
They gathered around the fire in a warm circle with their cups of tea, and little Chris climbed onto his mother’s lap. Their father picked up a Bible and turned the pages. “Only sixteen days till Easter,” he said, “so we’ll go on reading what Jesus said to his disciples the night before He died, in John 13.”
They were halfway through some story Francis did not know, so he did not listen. Instead, he found himself staring at that funny card on the wall and wondering what it meant. God Is Luv. Then he was suddenly arrested by the last words that Mr. Glenny was reading. “‘A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.’"
You did not seem able to get away from love in this house, however you liked to spell it. It drew him, and he wanted to think about it. Nobody had loved much at home. Mum and Dad quarreled, Wendy pinched, and when he tried to love Mum, she usually did not listen or seem to notice. Tyke and Spotty hated all the time. Being with them had been fun at first, but looking back now, it all seemed rather cold and sad and frightening. If they had loved, perhaps Mum would not have had headaches and gone to the hospital, and he would not feel so afraid of going back to school. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, loving was a better, happier way. But how did you start?
He thought about it again when he was lying in bed in his little attic, listening to the owls hooting and watching the stars through the skylight. Mrs. Glenny had helped him unpack, tucked him in, and kissed him good-night. Whiskers lay curled up on the quilt beside him because it was too late to take her to the barn that night. He felt cozy, sleepy, and safe. He remembered the night he had sat with Mum in the kitchen after the fire—and how Whiskers had purred on his chest after he had kicked her—faithful little Ram bringing him presents—Wendy flinging her arms round his middle. There was quite a lot of love about if you really looked for it. God Is Luv. He had better find out about God. They could do with a bit more love where he came from.
Patricia St John Series Page 64
