Read Online The Latchkey Kid by Helen Forrester - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Forrester
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away.”
Crestfallen, he and Ian had driven to Ian’s house, but Mrs. MacDonald had gone to an art exhibition and Mr. MacDonald to a service club meeting. Ian’s kid sister, who was playing mothers and fathers with her friends in the crawl space under the porch, said it was marvellous, so they had to be content with this infant praise and with taking her and her mud-covered friends for a ride round the block.
Wrathfully indignant at his mother’s lack of appreciation of his efforts as a mechanic, an idea which had long been in his mind, that of writing a novel, had crystallized. He would write a book which would cause a sufficient furore to upset both his parentsthoroughly, and make them realize that he was a person to be reckoned with. To do it, he had to have more privacy than his room allowed, and he had tentatively approached Captain Dawson, who was home on leave and was painting the porch, for permission to put a table and chair in the garage, so that he could work there.
Captain Dawson sensed that there was more behind the request than was readily apparent. He was used to handling a great variety of young men, and his piercing stare, as he considered the request, made Hank quail; he had a suspicion that Peter Dawson could make his wife quail at times, and in this he was right.
“Why can’t you work at home?”
Hank decided that, in this instance, honesty was the only policy possible and had said frankly that he wanted to try to write a book. He did not feel he could write freely if the typescript was readily accessible to his mother.
The Captain wiped the paint off his hands and carefully avoided showing his amusement. He agreed that a mother’s censorship would be very limiting, and, after consulting Isobel, who was enchanted with the idea, he said that the furniture could be brought in.
“You had better change the lock on the door,” she had teased, “because I might be tempted to peep at the manuscript.”
He had gravely changed the lock and kept both keys. She had, however, through the months of work, taken a real interest in what he was doing, and he found himself confiding in her more and more. It was she who, when the manuscript was ready, had given him an introduction to Alistair MacFee, a professor of English at the university. Professor MacFee had read it, had been startled by its undoubted merit, and had carefully discussed it chapter by chapter with him, suggesting how to improve it. Glowing with hope, Hank had gone back to the garage and pruned and polished. Then the professor and Isobel, both young and enthusiastic, had helped him to choose a likely publisher to whom to send it. The English firm which they first suggested returned the typescript. Undaunted, Hank sent it to a New York firm and they accepted it. He was so excited that he forgot about the revenge the book was supposed to wreak on his parents.
Now, The Cheaper Sex had been out in the States for some weeks, and it seemed as if everyone under the age of twenty-one wanted a copy. On the day of its publication, Hank had gonejubilantly to Isobel’s back door, armed with an autographed copy for her and her husband.
He had found an ashen-faced Isobel, showing none of her usual gaiety or cordiality. She had written a receipt for the month’s rent for the garage, which he had proffered at the same time, and had received the book with a watery smile. She had then wished him good luck with the sale of his book and had quietly shut the door in his face.
Bewildered and hurt at her lack of interest, too shy to ask what the trouble was, he had gone back to the garage completely mystified, and had spent the rest of the evening painting his jalopy electric blue.
When he finally went home, he saw the Tollemarche Advent . It informed him in letters an inch high that Captain Peter Dawson had been murdered in Cyprus.
His first instinct was to rush back to Isobel. Then he told himself that he was just a nut who had written a book in her
Crestfallen, he and Ian had driven to Ian’s house, but Mrs. MacDonald had gone to an art exhibition and Mr. MacDonald to a service club meeting. Ian’s kid sister, who was playing mothers and fathers with her friends in the crawl space under the porch, said it was marvellous, so they had to be content with this infant praise and with taking her and her mud-covered friends for a ride round the block.
Wrathfully indignant at his mother’s lack of appreciation of his efforts as a mechanic, an idea which had long been in his mind, that of writing a novel, had crystallized. He would write a book which would cause a sufficient furore to upset both his parentsthoroughly, and make them realize that he was a person to be reckoned with. To do it, he had to have more privacy than his room allowed, and he had tentatively approached Captain Dawson, who was home on leave and was painting the porch, for permission to put a table and chair in the garage, so that he could work there.
Captain Dawson sensed that there was more behind the request than was readily apparent. He was used to handling a great variety of young men, and his piercing stare, as he considered the request, made Hank quail; he had a suspicion that Peter Dawson could make his wife quail at times, and in this he was right.
“Why can’t you work at home?”
Hank decided that, in this instance, honesty was the only policy possible and had said frankly that he wanted to try to write a book. He did not feel he could write freely if the typescript was readily accessible to his mother.
The Captain wiped the paint off his hands and carefully avoided showing his amusement. He agreed that a mother’s censorship would be very limiting, and, after consulting Isobel, who was enchanted with the idea, he said that the furniture could be brought in.
“You had better change the lock on the door,” she had teased, “because I might be tempted to peep at the manuscript.”
He had gravely changed the lock and kept both keys. She had, however, through the months of work, taken a real interest in what he was doing, and he found himself confiding in her more and more. It was she who, when the manuscript was ready, had given him an introduction to Alistair MacFee, a professor of English at the university. Professor MacFee had read it, had been startled by its undoubted merit, and had carefully discussed it chapter by chapter with him, suggesting how to improve it. Glowing with hope, Hank had gone back to the garage and pruned and polished. Then the professor and Isobel, both young and enthusiastic, had helped him to choose a likely publisher to whom to send it. The English firm which they first suggested returned the typescript. Undaunted, Hank sent it to a New York firm and they accepted it. He was so excited that he forgot about the revenge the book was supposed to wreak on his parents.
Now, The Cheaper Sex had been out in the States for some weeks, and it seemed as if everyone under the age of twenty-one wanted a copy. On the day of its publication, Hank had gonejubilantly to Isobel’s back door, armed with an autographed copy for her and her husband.
He had found an ashen-faced Isobel, showing none of her usual gaiety or cordiality. She had written a receipt for the month’s rent for the garage, which he had proffered at the same time, and had received the book with a watery smile. She had then wished him good luck with the sale of his book and had quietly shut the door in his face.
Bewildered and hurt at her lack of interest, too shy to ask what the trouble was, he had gone back to the garage completely mystified, and had spent the rest of the evening painting his jalopy electric blue.
When he finally went home, he saw the Tollemarche Advent . It informed him in letters an inch high that Captain Peter Dawson had been murdered in Cyprus.
His first instinct was to rush back to Isobel. Then he told himself that he was just a nut who had written a book in her
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