Read Online Arthur & George by Julian Barnes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julian Barnes
Tags: Fiction
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least arcane and least telepathic laws known to mankind.
George
George’s “apology” in the newspaper affords the Vicar a new line of inquiry. He calls on William Brookes, the village ironmonger, father of Frederick Brookes, George’s supposed co-signatory. The ironmonger, a small, rotund man in a green apron, takes Shapurji into a storeroom hung with mops and pails and zinc baths. He removes his apron, pulls out a drawer and hands over the half dozen letters of denunciation his family has received. They are written on the familiar lined paper torn from a notebook; although the penmanship varies more.
The top letter is in a childish, unconfident scrawl. “Unless you run away from the black I’ll murder you and mrs brookes I know your names and I’ll tell you wrote.” Others are in a hand which, even if disguised, seems more forceful. “Your kid and Wynn’s kid have been spitting in an old woman’s face at Walsall station.” The writer demands that money be sent to Walsall Post Office in recompense. A subsequent letter, pinned to this one, threatens prosecution if the demand is not met.
“I assume you sent no money.”
“Course not.”
“But you showed the letters to the police?”
“Police? Not worth their time or mine. It’s just kids, isn’t it? And as it says in the Bible, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will ne’er harm me.”
The Vicar does not correct Mr. Brookes’s source. He also senses something idle about the man’s attitude. “But you didn’t merely put the letters in a drawer?”
“I asked around a bit. I asked Fred what he knew.”
“Who is this Mr. Wynn?”
Wynn is apparently a draper who lives up the line at Bloxwich. He has a son who goes to school at Walsall with Brookes’s boy. They meet on the train each morning and usually return together. A while ago—the ironmonger does not specify how long—Wynn’s son and young Fred were accused of breaking a carriage window. Both swore it was the work of a boy called Speck, and eventually the railway officials decided not to press charges. This happened a few weeks before the first letter arrived. Perhaps there was some connection. Perhaps not.
The Vicar now understands Brookes’s lack of zeal in the matter. No, the ironmonger does not know who Speck is. No, Mr. Wynn hasn’t received any letters himself. No, Wynn’s boy and Brookes’s boy are not friends with George. This last is hardly a surprise.
Shapurji describes the exchange to George before supper, and pronounces himself encouraged.
“Why are you encouraged, Father?”
“The more people involved, the more likely the scoundrel is to be discovered. The more people he persecutes, the more probable it is he will make a mistake. Do you know of this boy called Speck?”
“Speck? No.” George shakes his head.
“And I am also encouraged in one respect by the persecution of the Brookes family. This proves it is not merely race prejudice.”
“Is that a good thing, Father? To be hated for more than one reason?”
Shapurji smiles to himself. These flashes of intelligence, coming from a docile boy who is often too much turned in on himself, always delight him.
“I will say it again, you will make a fine solicitor, George.” But even as he pronounces the words, he is reminded of a line from one of the letters he has not shown his son. “Before the end of the year your kid will be either in the graveyard or disgraced for life.”
“George,” he says. “There is a date I wish you to remember. The 6th of July 1892. Just two years ago. On that day Mr. Dadabhoy Naoroji was elected to Parliament for the Finsbury Central district of London.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Mr. Naoroji was for many years Professor of Gujerati at University College London. I was briefly in correspondence with him, and am proud to say that he had words of praise for my
Grammar of the Gujerati Language.
”
“Yes, Father.” George has seen the Professor’s letter brought
George
George’s “apology” in the newspaper affords the Vicar a new line of inquiry. He calls on William Brookes, the village ironmonger, father of Frederick Brookes, George’s supposed co-signatory. The ironmonger, a small, rotund man in a green apron, takes Shapurji into a storeroom hung with mops and pails and zinc baths. He removes his apron, pulls out a drawer and hands over the half dozen letters of denunciation his family has received. They are written on the familiar lined paper torn from a notebook; although the penmanship varies more.
The top letter is in a childish, unconfident scrawl. “Unless you run away from the black I’ll murder you and mrs brookes I know your names and I’ll tell you wrote.” Others are in a hand which, even if disguised, seems more forceful. “Your kid and Wynn’s kid have been spitting in an old woman’s face at Walsall station.” The writer demands that money be sent to Walsall Post Office in recompense. A subsequent letter, pinned to this one, threatens prosecution if the demand is not met.
“I assume you sent no money.”
“Course not.”
“But you showed the letters to the police?”
“Police? Not worth their time or mine. It’s just kids, isn’t it? And as it says in the Bible, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will ne’er harm me.”
The Vicar does not correct Mr. Brookes’s source. He also senses something idle about the man’s attitude. “But you didn’t merely put the letters in a drawer?”
“I asked around a bit. I asked Fred what he knew.”
“Who is this Mr. Wynn?”
Wynn is apparently a draper who lives up the line at Bloxwich. He has a son who goes to school at Walsall with Brookes’s boy. They meet on the train each morning and usually return together. A while ago—the ironmonger does not specify how long—Wynn’s son and young Fred were accused of breaking a carriage window. Both swore it was the work of a boy called Speck, and eventually the railway officials decided not to press charges. This happened a few weeks before the first letter arrived. Perhaps there was some connection. Perhaps not.
The Vicar now understands Brookes’s lack of zeal in the matter. No, the ironmonger does not know who Speck is. No, Mr. Wynn hasn’t received any letters himself. No, Wynn’s boy and Brookes’s boy are not friends with George. This last is hardly a surprise.
Shapurji describes the exchange to George before supper, and pronounces himself encouraged.
“Why are you encouraged, Father?”
“The more people involved, the more likely the scoundrel is to be discovered. The more people he persecutes, the more probable it is he will make a mistake. Do you know of this boy called Speck?”
“Speck? No.” George shakes his head.
“And I am also encouraged in one respect by the persecution of the Brookes family. This proves it is not merely race prejudice.”
“Is that a good thing, Father? To be hated for more than one reason?”
Shapurji smiles to himself. These flashes of intelligence, coming from a docile boy who is often too much turned in on himself, always delight him.
“I will say it again, you will make a fine solicitor, George.” But even as he pronounces the words, he is reminded of a line from one of the letters he has not shown his son. “Before the end of the year your kid will be either in the graveyard or disgraced for life.”
“George,” he says. “There is a date I wish you to remember. The 6th of July 1892. Just two years ago. On that day Mr. Dadabhoy Naoroji was elected to Parliament for the Finsbury Central district of London.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Mr. Naoroji was for many years Professor of Gujerati at University College London. I was briefly in correspondence with him, and am proud to say that he had words of praise for my
Grammar of the Gujerati Language.
”
“Yes, Father.” George has seen the Professor’s letter brought
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