Read Online Buried Fire by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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summer. Yet he had to switch off, or risk losing his footing in the red-grey half-light.
How stupid he had been to tell him. He could have been the only person in the world to know . . . and now he had sworn an oath Stephen would force him to justify. There was no way out. Unless . . . Perhaps he could persuade him to forget about it, treat it as a joke? Maybe, but it wasn't likely.
"Stephen—" His brother stopped and turned, and his look killed the words dead in Michael's throat. There would be no going back. Not now.
He smiled sheepishly at his brother and shrugged. Somewhere at the back of his eyes, something was aching.
"Well," said Stephen. "Shall we go on?"
12
Mr Cleever was standing at the door, and in the act of ringing the bell, when Sarah turned the car into the drive. He turned and beamed at her as she halted and got out.
"My dear, what perfect timing. I was just resigning myself to a long walk back again."
"Didn't the boys answer, Mr Cleever?" Sarah fumbled in her handbag with what she was conscious was a fluster, found the keys and unlocked the door. "Please come in."
"Thank you, Ms MacIntyre. I don't think Stephen and Michael can be home. I rang twice."
"They should be here. Michael's not well." She plumped the handbag down on the dresser and hurried to the foot of the stairs. "Michael? Stephen?" She called up, but the house was silent.
"All gone," said Mr Cleever beamingly, and then, as if it were a statement; "Boys."
"Yes." Sarah was disconcerted now, and angry. The job in Stanbridge had gone tolerably well, and she had been happy to return home early and attend to her errant brother with Stephen's help. Now it seemed that they had both gone walkabout. This was too much to endure; she could not bear it. "Would you like some tea, Mr Cleever?" she asked.
"Thank you. May I sit down?"
"Oh, of course, please." Mr Cleever sat in an ample chair, and while Sarah made the tea in the kitchen down the hall, regaled her with small talk about the interminable dealings of the Geological Society and the Parish Committee on Education.
"I cannot think," he concluded, "how things can have become so lax in these areas. Children can only suffer when taught with such moral looseness. Thank you, I will take sugar."
He sipped his tea. Ms MacIntyre seemed discomposed.
"My dear," said Mr Cleever, setting down his cup, "you are not happy. I will not ramble on any longer. What is the matter? If I can do anything, you may be sure I shall, if it is in my power."
"It is too stupid," said Sarah, her feelings welling up all of a sudden. "Really, I am embarrassed to talk about it." But Mr Cleever, with gentle sympathy, elicited the information he desired.
"It does seem highly singular," he said, when she had finished, "that Michael should . . . stray off the path so suddenly. After such a careful upbringing as he has enjoyed in your hands."
"It has never been enough," said Sarah. "He misses his mother."
"Of course he does, but you could not have done anything differently in all the time you have been here. You have been absolutely admirable. Where did you say Michael said he had spent the day?"
"Up on High Raise, on the Wirrim, he said. Why, is it significant?"
"Not really. I suppose he may have hiked across from Little Chetton. There are buses there to Stanbridge. Sarah – I may call you Sarah, mayn't I? – are you all right?"
"Sorry, it's just so close in here—"
"Say no more, we'll go into the kitchen. It'll be cooler there."
So it was, and Sarah cooled herself quickly by drinking two glasses of iced water. Mr Cleever, however, declined a glass himself, and still seemed flushed by the time he made his kind proposal.
"Sarah, my dear," he said, "you know, I expect, that I am Fordrace youth group leader. In this role I have dealt, on occasion, with children who are under the wrong influences, and I think I know the signs pretty well. There may be nothing in it. His denials, however strained, may be true; that is
How stupid he had been to tell him. He could have been the only person in the world to know . . . and now he had sworn an oath Stephen would force him to justify. There was no way out. Unless . . . Perhaps he could persuade him to forget about it, treat it as a joke? Maybe, but it wasn't likely.
"Stephen—" His brother stopped and turned, and his look killed the words dead in Michael's throat. There would be no going back. Not now.
He smiled sheepishly at his brother and shrugged. Somewhere at the back of his eyes, something was aching.
"Well," said Stephen. "Shall we go on?"
12
Mr Cleever was standing at the door, and in the act of ringing the bell, when Sarah turned the car into the drive. He turned and beamed at her as she halted and got out.
"My dear, what perfect timing. I was just resigning myself to a long walk back again."
"Didn't the boys answer, Mr Cleever?" Sarah fumbled in her handbag with what she was conscious was a fluster, found the keys and unlocked the door. "Please come in."
"Thank you, Ms MacIntyre. I don't think Stephen and Michael can be home. I rang twice."
"They should be here. Michael's not well." She plumped the handbag down on the dresser and hurried to the foot of the stairs. "Michael? Stephen?" She called up, but the house was silent.
"All gone," said Mr Cleever beamingly, and then, as if it were a statement; "Boys."
"Yes." Sarah was disconcerted now, and angry. The job in Stanbridge had gone tolerably well, and she had been happy to return home early and attend to her errant brother with Stephen's help. Now it seemed that they had both gone walkabout. This was too much to endure; she could not bear it. "Would you like some tea, Mr Cleever?" she asked.
"Thank you. May I sit down?"
"Oh, of course, please." Mr Cleever sat in an ample chair, and while Sarah made the tea in the kitchen down the hall, regaled her with small talk about the interminable dealings of the Geological Society and the Parish Committee on Education.
"I cannot think," he concluded, "how things can have become so lax in these areas. Children can only suffer when taught with such moral looseness. Thank you, I will take sugar."
He sipped his tea. Ms MacIntyre seemed discomposed.
"My dear," said Mr Cleever, setting down his cup, "you are not happy. I will not ramble on any longer. What is the matter? If I can do anything, you may be sure I shall, if it is in my power."
"It is too stupid," said Sarah, her feelings welling up all of a sudden. "Really, I am embarrassed to talk about it." But Mr Cleever, with gentle sympathy, elicited the information he desired.
"It does seem highly singular," he said, when she had finished, "that Michael should . . . stray off the path so suddenly. After such a careful upbringing as he has enjoyed in your hands."
"It has never been enough," said Sarah. "He misses his mother."
"Of course he does, but you could not have done anything differently in all the time you have been here. You have been absolutely admirable. Where did you say Michael said he had spent the day?"
"Up on High Raise, on the Wirrim, he said. Why, is it significant?"
"Not really. I suppose he may have hiked across from Little Chetton. There are buses there to Stanbridge. Sarah – I may call you Sarah, mayn't I? – are you all right?"
"Sorry, it's just so close in here—"
"Say no more, we'll go into the kitchen. It'll be cooler there."
So it was, and Sarah cooled herself quickly by drinking two glasses of iced water. Mr Cleever, however, declined a glass himself, and still seemed flushed by the time he made his kind proposal.
"Sarah, my dear," he said, "you know, I expect, that I am Fordrace youth group leader. In this role I have dealt, on occasion, with children who are under the wrong influences, and I think I know the signs pretty well. There may be nothing in it. His denials, however strained, may be true; that is
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