master. And as the weeks and months went by, there had been a change in the way the masters listened to him. What had once been genuine concern and compassion had become a kind of weary contempt. Only yesterday, after someone pushed him over in the playground, Piggy had run howling to Charlie Chin who, quietly but sharply, told him not to tell tales, not to be such a cissy.
For two and a half terms, nearly nine whole months, without any real friend, Tommy had increasingly sought the solace of his fictional one. Denied his regular Monday evening dose of Wagon Train (television was, naturally, banned at Ashlawn, along with all other inventions that threatened to make life in any way enjoyable), he now had to make do with the photograph of Flint McCullough that he had taped inside the lid of his tuck box. There were pictures of his parents there too, as well as his favourite one of Diane outside the Cafe Royal. But it was Flint who held pride of place.
The tuck boxes were stored on slatted wooden shelves along a corridor to which the boys were allowed access only after meals. But at those times it was always too crowded and noisy, so Tommy had developed the habit of sneaking in illicitly when he might have the place to himself. It was, like most other minor transgressions, a beatable offence, but he was careful and hadn't yet been caught. His black lace-ups had rubber soles which meant he could move silently on the tiled floors and at any sound he would freeze and wait in the shadows until the danger had passed. When he got to his tuck box he would unlock it with the key he kept on a cord looped to the belt of his shorts. And as he gently lifted the lid, Flint's face would slowly be revealed, staring at him with that slightly sad yet comforting little half-smile, as if he'd been expecting him.
Tommy was aware that treating his tuck box like a shrine and standing before it in communion with a cowboy actor teetered on, if not over, the brink of weirdness. In fact sometimes he wondered if he might be going a little mad. He never spoke out loud to the picture and would have fled in terror had those famous McCullough lips so much as twitched in response. But in his head, Flint's voice rang as clear as if he were there in person.
"How'd you get on last night?"
"I wet the bed, darn it. I'd been dry for nearly three weeks."
"Hard luck, son. But you're doing fine. How many I will nots are we saying now before we go to sleep?"
"Three hundred."
"Let's try upping it to four."
"Okay."
"And that thing Pettifer said to you after breakfast. About your mother having square tits. Don't let it get to you. He's just an idiot."
"I know he is."
"That's probably what his mother's look like."
"Yeah. Saggy too I should think."
"Real saggy."
"Thanks, Flint."
"You're welcome, Tommy."
"I'd better go now. I'll see you later. Okay?"
"You bet. You take care now."
"You too. Bye."
The only person who came anywhere close to being a mentor in real life was The Duck. Mr Lawrence was an old man—well, probably about the same age as Tommy's father—and wore tweed jackets with leather pads on the elbows. He had little whiskery patches on his neck that he missed while shaving and he smelled comfortingly of pipe smoke like Tommy's father. Some of the older boys said he must be a homo because (a) he wasn't married and (b) his first name was Evelyn which was apparently a girl's name. Tommy didn't care. He was kind and funny and full of fascinating stories. He was the master in charge of Tommy's class, 2B, and whenever he came into the room he would say, Ah, Two B or not Two B, that is the question and they would all groan. Best of all, he had an infectious passion for books.
When he discovered how keen Tommy was on westerns, he gave him a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage and then a collection of short stories by Jack London. Tommy was immediately hooked and was soon reading almost anything he could lay his hands on. The school library was small and
For two and a half terms, nearly nine whole months, without any real friend, Tommy had increasingly sought the solace of his fictional one. Denied his regular Monday evening dose of Wagon Train (television was, naturally, banned at Ashlawn, along with all other inventions that threatened to make life in any way enjoyable), he now had to make do with the photograph of Flint McCullough that he had taped inside the lid of his tuck box. There were pictures of his parents there too, as well as his favourite one of Diane outside the Cafe Royal. But it was Flint who held pride of place.
The tuck boxes were stored on slatted wooden shelves along a corridor to which the boys were allowed access only after meals. But at those times it was always too crowded and noisy, so Tommy had developed the habit of sneaking in illicitly when he might have the place to himself. It was, like most other minor transgressions, a beatable offence, but he was careful and hadn't yet been caught. His black lace-ups had rubber soles which meant he could move silently on the tiled floors and at any sound he would freeze and wait in the shadows until the danger had passed. When he got to his tuck box he would unlock it with the key he kept on a cord looped to the belt of his shorts. And as he gently lifted the lid, Flint's face would slowly be revealed, staring at him with that slightly sad yet comforting little half-smile, as if he'd been expecting him.
Tommy was aware that treating his tuck box like a shrine and standing before it in communion with a cowboy actor teetered on, if not over, the brink of weirdness. In fact sometimes he wondered if he might be going a little mad. He never spoke out loud to the picture and would have fled in terror had those famous McCullough lips so much as twitched in response. But in his head, Flint's voice rang as clear as if he were there in person.
"How'd you get on last night?"
"I wet the bed, darn it. I'd been dry for nearly three weeks."
"Hard luck, son. But you're doing fine. How many I will nots are we saying now before we go to sleep?"
"Three hundred."
"Let's try upping it to four."
"Okay."
"And that thing Pettifer said to you after breakfast. About your mother having square tits. Don't let it get to you. He's just an idiot."
"I know he is."
"That's probably what his mother's look like."
"Yeah. Saggy too I should think."
"Real saggy."
"Thanks, Flint."
"You're welcome, Tommy."
"I'd better go now. I'll see you later. Okay?"
"You bet. You take care now."
"You too. Bye."
The only person who came anywhere close to being a mentor in real life was The Duck. Mr Lawrence was an old man—well, probably about the same age as Tommy's father—and wore tweed jackets with leather pads on the elbows. He had little whiskery patches on his neck that he missed while shaving and he smelled comfortingly of pipe smoke like Tommy's father. Some of the older boys said he must be a homo because (a) he wasn't married and (b) his first name was Evelyn which was apparently a girl's name. Tommy didn't care. He was kind and funny and full of fascinating stories. He was the master in charge of Tommy's class, 2B, and whenever he came into the room he would say, Ah, Two B or not Two B, that is the question and they would all groan. Best of all, he had an infectious passion for books.
When he discovered how keen Tommy was on westerns, he gave him a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage and then a collection of short stories by Jack London. Tommy was immediately hooked and was soon reading almost anything he could lay his hands on. The school library was small and
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