meanly stocked. But every Wednesday, after tea, The Duck escorted into town any boys who wanted to go to the public library where they were allowed to take out three books. It was the highlight of Tommy's week.
The walk into town was a winding descent of about a mile and, even in the rain, the sense of freedom as they stepped out of the school gates was thrilling. It wasn't advisable to be seen talking too much to masters in case you got accused of sucking up or, worse—when it happened to be Ducky Lawrence—of being a homo. Nevertheless, either on the way there or the way back, Tommy usually managed to have a chat with him. The Duck always had some new book or writer to suggest.
"Been thinking about you, Bedford."
"Sir?"
"Have you read any Fenimore Cooper?"
"No, sir. Never heard of him."
"Last of the Mohicans?"
"You mean Hawkeye? I've seen it on the telly. It's great."
"The book's even better. Let's see if we can find it for you."
By now Tommy had read every western the library had. The nice old woman behind the desk always made a point of telling him when a new one had arrived and even ordered special transfers for him from other libraries. While he waited, with The Duck's guidance, Tommy tried other writers, such as Agatha Christie, P. G. Wodehouse and the most frightening ghost story writer in the whole world, M. R. James. But The Duck's best suggestion by far was Rudyard Kipling. Tommy found himself transported to places that were thrilling and exotic yet somehow reassuringly ordered. Where there was danger, even wickedness, but where truth and decency finally prevailed.
It was on one such Wednesday evening, in the middle of a damp and dismal June, that Tommy found himself, to his surprise and cautious delight, reacquainted with Dickie Jessop. Dickie preferred illegal comics and magazines to books and rarely came on these trips to the town library. They had just walked back through the school gates and Tommy was trailing a few yards behind the rest of the group, partly through self-protective habit but also because he had his nose buried in the new Zane Grey novel he'd just borrowed. It was called The Arizona Clan and he was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Dickie had dropped back to walk beside him.
"What did you get?"
Tommy showed him.
"I thought Zane Grey was dead."
"He is, but he wrote a lot, so the books keep coming out."
"You read more than anyone I ever met."
Tommy shrugged.
"I just like it."
"Is it true your sister's going to be in a film with Gary Cooper?"
If anyone else had asked this, Tommy would have sensed a trap and denied it. Any item of personal information usually got twisted around and used against you. He would be accused of lying or boasting or they would call Diane a tart or make some insulting remark about her looks. But Dickie wasn't like the others.
"Yes," he replied, simply.
Dickie nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. Tommy couldn't tell if he was impressed or not. So, trying to sound casual, he went on.
"She's over in Hollywood at the moment, actually."
Dickie still didn't say anything. He just nodded again and stared away across the playing fields that had been transformed by weeks of unremitting rain into an ocean of mud. A watery sun flashed for a moment on the driveway puddles.
"How did you know? I mean, about the Gary Cooper thing."
Dickie kicked a stone into a puddle.
"I dunno. Someone saw it in a magazine or something."
Tommy guessed that getting confirmation of this story was probably the only reason Dickie had come back to walk with him. But having got it, he didn't seem in a hurry to go. His silence was more unsettling than it was surprising. Dickie Jessop had changed almost beyond recognition since those first few days when Tommy thought they were best friends. Not that he had become one of Tommy's tormentors. He never called him Bedwetter, just ignored him. And Tommy didn't take this personally because Dickie now ignored nearly everyone. In his own, more
The walk into town was a winding descent of about a mile and, even in the rain, the sense of freedom as they stepped out of the school gates was thrilling. It wasn't advisable to be seen talking too much to masters in case you got accused of sucking up or, worse—when it happened to be Ducky Lawrence—of being a homo. Nevertheless, either on the way there or the way back, Tommy usually managed to have a chat with him. The Duck always had some new book or writer to suggest.
"Been thinking about you, Bedford."
"Sir?"
"Have you read any Fenimore Cooper?"
"No, sir. Never heard of him."
"Last of the Mohicans?"
"You mean Hawkeye? I've seen it on the telly. It's great."
"The book's even better. Let's see if we can find it for you."
By now Tommy had read every western the library had. The nice old woman behind the desk always made a point of telling him when a new one had arrived and even ordered special transfers for him from other libraries. While he waited, with The Duck's guidance, Tommy tried other writers, such as Agatha Christie, P. G. Wodehouse and the most frightening ghost story writer in the whole world, M. R. James. But The Duck's best suggestion by far was Rudyard Kipling. Tommy found himself transported to places that were thrilling and exotic yet somehow reassuringly ordered. Where there was danger, even wickedness, but where truth and decency finally prevailed.
It was on one such Wednesday evening, in the middle of a damp and dismal June, that Tommy found himself, to his surprise and cautious delight, reacquainted with Dickie Jessop. Dickie preferred illegal comics and magazines to books and rarely came on these trips to the town library. They had just walked back through the school gates and Tommy was trailing a few yards behind the rest of the group, partly through self-protective habit but also because he had his nose buried in the new Zane Grey novel he'd just borrowed. It was called The Arizona Clan and he was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Dickie had dropped back to walk beside him.
"What did you get?"
Tommy showed him.
"I thought Zane Grey was dead."
"He is, but he wrote a lot, so the books keep coming out."
"You read more than anyone I ever met."
Tommy shrugged.
"I just like it."
"Is it true your sister's going to be in a film with Gary Cooper?"
If anyone else had asked this, Tommy would have sensed a trap and denied it. Any item of personal information usually got twisted around and used against you. He would be accused of lying or boasting or they would call Diane a tart or make some insulting remark about her looks. But Dickie wasn't like the others.
"Yes," he replied, simply.
Dickie nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. Tommy couldn't tell if he was impressed or not. So, trying to sound casual, he went on.
"She's over in Hollywood at the moment, actually."
Dickie still didn't say anything. He just nodded again and stared away across the playing fields that had been transformed by weeks of unremitting rain into an ocean of mud. A watery sun flashed for a moment on the driveway puddles.
"How did you know? I mean, about the Gary Cooper thing."
Dickie kicked a stone into a puddle.
"I dunno. Someone saw it in a magazine or something."
Tommy guessed that getting confirmation of this story was probably the only reason Dickie had come back to walk with him. But having got it, he didn't seem in a hurry to go. His silence was more unsettling than it was surprising. Dickie Jessop had changed almost beyond recognition since those first few days when Tommy thought they were best friends. Not that he had become one of Tommy's tormentors. He never called him Bedwetter, just ignored him. And Tommy didn't take this personally because Dickie now ignored nearly everyone. In his own, more
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