You Owe Me Five Farthings

by Jane Anstey

  The boy considered this. “Perhaps he does,” he allowed. “But he’s not very interested in me, is he, Mummy? I don’t think I’m special enough for him, probably,” he added. “I expect he’d have liked to have had a son who was brilliant at maths or sport or something. More like Sarah than me.”

  Rose hugged him tightly. “That’s nonsense, Robert,” she said briskly, trying to hide the distress she felt at this sad philosophy. “You’re not a bit ordinary.” The very fact that he could talk like that about his father was proof of that. “Besides, think how much you enjoyed that time with him at the Maritime Museum at half-term.”

  Robert nodded. “Yes, I did. And he enjoyed it, too, I think. But all the time he was saying goodbye to us, wasn’t he, Mummy? That whole week was one long goodbye.”

  She thought about this comment for a few minutes. That whole week was one long goodbye. Perhaps he was right. Even though Clive had probably meant to try again, had intended to make something of their family life, such endeavours had never stood a chance. It’s been over for years, really, she said to herself sadly. But I didn’t allow myself to think about it.

  She realised that, in just the same way, she wasn’t allowing herself to think about Simon and what his imminent departure from the village meant and would mean to her––whether she should try again to make contact with him in these changed circumstances. She didn’t dare, because she couldn’t face the implications. What a coward I am. A braver woman wouldn’t have made such a mess of it all.

  “We’d better get our coats on and go to school, Robert,” she said, putting the thought aside in favour of more practical action. “We’re going to be late as it is.”

  They walked together silently along the lane towards the church, hearing the clock chime nine long before they reached the school gate. Everyone else had gone in to class, but as Rose said goodbye to Robert, she heard running feet from the other direction and looked round in time to see the twins scudding down the lane with Mike coasting on his bicycle behind them.

  “Rob, wait for us!” called Bethan as they set off in Robert’s wake.

  Mike slid to a halt beside Rose, his school backpack shifting dangerously on his shoulders as he did so.

  “Can’t stop,” he told her, cheerfully. “It’s chaos this morning. I’m biking to school––I missed the bus getting the two of them ready, and we break up at lunchtime so there’ll be no bus home anyway. Just as well it’s the last day of term, so it won’t matter much if I arrive halfway through assembly.” He grinned, and pedalled off in the direction of Northchurch.

  Rose looked at her watch. It was nearly three miles to Northchurch, and the college was at the far side of it. She wondered what crisis had occurred at the rectory to put Mike in charge of getting the twins to school. For a moment, she considered whether she should go down and find out, in case she could help. But then she rejected the idea. She wouldn’t be any use to anyone in her present state of mind. Lorna would have caught the bus to school, and the others were all on their way. And Liz and Jeremy were perfectly capable of handling their own affairs.

  ~ * ~

  Jeremy, sitting in a rush-hour traffic jam on the northern edge of Winchester, might not have agreed with this sentiment. He had cleared his diary so as to go with Liz to Oxford for her interview only to have an early phone call just before they were due to leave, to say that George had regained consciousness and was asking for him.

  “He’s still on the critical list, though his condition is improving,” the staff nurse on intensive care told him. “It would be a real help if you could come.”

  Jeremy sighed inwardly, though professional etiquette kept him silent. “I will come as soon as I can,” he said, and went to find Liz.

  “Oh, Remy! I did hope you’d be able to come with me.”

  He grimaced at this instinctive reaction.

  “But of course you must go to see George,” she added quickly. “I understand that.”

  “I think it’s still a matter of life or death.”

  She nodded. “He’s always looked to you.”

  “And I failed him last time,” Jeremy reminded him. “I should have followed my instincts and gone to see him, and I didn’t. I find it hard to forgive myself for that, whatever you tell me,” he added, to stop her arguing with him about it. “But I’m sorry it’s this morning, just the same. I wanted to come with you.”

  “I know. I’ll be fine. You’d be bored to tears anyway, I expect. I bet there’ll be a lot of waiting around.”

  “I’m never bored when I’m with you,” he said.

  There was a small silence. “Mike breaks up at lunchtime,” she reminded him.

  “Should I go and collect him? I don’t think the hospital will want me to stay with George too long––unless he’s actually dying, and it doesn’t sound as though he is. I can probably make it back by lunchtime.”

  “He said something about taking his bike, because I thought neither of us would be here to collect him. I’d leave that arrangement as it is. The weather isn’t too bad, and he won’t come to any harm cycling a few miles home.”

  “Okay,” said Jeremy. “You’d better get moving now if you’re going to catch the train.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be back about three, I think, but I’ll let you know what happens anyway.”

  They kissed briefly, and Liz went to say goodbye to the children while Jeremy picked up his emergency valise, which contained the communion elements and some consecrated oil. He thought George would probably need every ministration he could give.

  Twenty-six

  Mike missed registration and most of assembly, and having signed in late, went straight to his first lesson, which as it happened was English with Mr Hellyer. He found the teacher sorting stacks of exercise books to hand out to pupils before the Easter break.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Mike.” Simon looked at his watch. “Not in assembly?”

  “I was late,” Mike explained. “Had to get the kids to school this morning. Mum and Dad were off out early.”

  Simon raised his eyebrows but enquired no further. He could hear the thump of feet and conversation wafting in as the rest of the class made their way up the stairs to his classroom. He picked up a stack of books.

  “Hand these out for me, will you, Mike?”

  Mike put his bag down in his usual seat and began reuniting exercise books with their owners as the class poured in, quiet in respect for their teacher, who expected order and purposefulness as soon as they crossed the threshold––and usually got it, even on the last day of term.

  A few of the students were missing, and Mike handed their books back to Simon before taking his own seat.

  Simon glanced around the class to get their attention before speaking. “Before we begin today’s lesson,” he said, “I need to tell you all something.”

  The last tiny murmurings and shufflings died away, and a profound silence descended as all eyes were fixed on him.

  “This is my last lesson with you.”

  He waited while the gasps of amazement and groans of disappointment died away. “I’m going to teach at another school in Oxford next term. Look after those exercise books,” he added, “because it will be no use telling your new teacher I’ve got them, and there’s a lot of work in there that you’re going to find useful.”

  “But it’s our GCSE exams next term, sir!” called out a dismayed voice.

  “I know,” he nodded. “And I’m sorry to desert you in your hour of need. But we’ve covered the whole syllabus, you’ve been to see Julius Caesar in the theatre, and Mr Furlough will help you with your revision. He’s going to take over my lessons as well as his own for a few weeks next term, so you won’t have to get used to anyone new.”

  Mike sat glued to his seat, his heart hammering. Not to have Mr Hellyer as a teacher any more, especially when he’d hoped to go on to do A-level English Literature, which was always taught by the head of department…! But Oxford
. If Mum got the job, that’s where they’d be living. He could ask to go to whichever school it was that Mr Hellyer was moving to. A small, inexperienced prayer dribbled into his mind that Mum would get the job––he felt sure it would be good for her, and even Dad seemed keen on the idea. He didn’t usually subscribe to the family belief that God was in charge of events. But if this worked out, perhaps he’d change his mind.

  He could think of nothing else all morning, and the head teacher’s exhortations to Year 11 at the final assembly to revise wisely and diligently over the Easter holidays washed over him without even being heard. It wasn’t until he’d packed his books into his bag and fetched his bicycle from the racks at the front of school that he remembered The Book. He had spent some time with Simon familiarising himself with Middle English, with a view to going back to Whitehill Abbey to see it in its home––this time with some hope of deciphering its mysteries. But it occurred to him suddenly that if his mother was successful at her job interview, she would start at the college in Oxford after the holidays. He thought probably his father would stay in St Martin with the children so that he could do his GCSEs at Northchurch College, in which case he might have another term in Hampshire. But Mr Hellyer wouldn’t be there, and everything would change, anyway. It was possible he might never get another chance to go to Whitehill Abbey.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing The Book again. The strange characters, the air of mystery that had surrounded it, the weird old monk librarian who was clearly devoted to it and protective of it, all drew him like a magnet. He must see it again, today. No one was at home, and he had his bike. He knew the way, though he wasn’t quite sure of the mileage. But he thought he could easily manage it, if he took his time. It was a fine day, although chilly, and he had a warm coat.

  The only problem was his schoolbag. Its shifting weight had caused him some trouble on the way to college, particularly on sharp bends or if he had to brake. The route to the abbey led him along lanes that wound up steep inclines onto the heathland near White Hill itself. The bag would be a nuisance, and he decided to leave it behind. Either he could cycle back via college and pick it up later, or one of his parents could collect it from the front office when they were next in town. Or he could catch the bus into Northchurch tomorrow morning and pick it up himself. Any of these options was better than taking it with him. But he didn’t want to risk it going missing with some of the books he needed for holiday revision.

  He unloaded some cash and his house keys into his pockets and carried the bag down to reception, where the school administrator had her office. “Can I leave this with you until later?” he asked. “I’m not going home just yet and I don’t want to carry it around everywhere with me.”

  The administrator looked at him. She knew Mike well, as he had been at the college for several years, but this was an unusual request. Where was he going that he needed to leave his bag behind?

  “How long will you be?” she asked. “Now that term’s over, we’ll be closing the office in a couple of hours, though I’ll be in tomorrow morning as well.”

  “I won’t be long,” he told her, and was assailed by guilt. It was very hard to lie comfortably, if one had been brought up in a rectory, and he always felt uncomfortable doing so. He knew he couldn’t possibly be back in a couple of hours––it would take him nearly an hour to cycle to the abbey. “If I miss you, can I pick it up tomorrow?”

  She seemed reassured. “Sure. I’ll be here from ten until two, tidying up everything for the break. That okay for you?”

  He smiled with relief. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, curiously.

  He nearly blurted out his destination but just managed to stop himself in time. “It’s okay. My dad’s picking me up,” he added, trying to stave off her interest.

  She frowned, as though in two minds whether to question him further.

  “Thanks for looking after my bag,” he said, quickly. “I’ll see you later.” And he beat a retreat, feeling her gaze pursuing him all the way out of the door and down the path to the bike racks. He picked out his own machine and mounted it.

  It was further than he’d thought to Whitehill Abbey, and the roads were steeper, but he reached it in the end, wishing he’d thought to buy himself some lunch in town before he set out. He was hungry and tired as he cycled up the long drive to the abbey, but the impact of the building at first sight as he rounded the last bend was still great.

  The little monk who had greeted them when he came to the abbey with his father opened the door to him again.

  “Father Abbot is busy with one of our postulants just now,” he told Mike. “Was it him you came to see?”

  There was a suggestion of surprise about this question, as though the monk had expected Mike’s father to come with him. Mike decided to brazen it out. “I’ve come to see the librarian,” he said. “We brought back a book that belongs to the library last time, and Father Petrowski said I could come and see it again.”

  The monk smiled. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m sure that Father Abbot will want to speak to you later, but for now, why don’t we go down to the library?”

  “I know my way,” said Mike hurriedly, not wishing to allow doorkeeper and librarian to compare notes on the subject of his arrival.

  “I’m glad to hear that. But I’d like to set you on it, nevertheless.” And he led the way cheerfully down the long corridor and out into the cloisters. “There you are,” he said, pointing to the library building ahead of them. “I’ll leave you to make the rest of the journey yourself. I will tell Father Abbot that you are here.”

  That isn’t particularly helpful, thought Mike. But perhaps Father Petrowski will be busy with this postulant––whatever that is––for a while. He did say I could come and see The Book, so I can’t see that he will actually be angry or try to stop me, even if he does arrive while I’m here. He tried to think of a plausible excuse to give to the librarian, without fomenting more lies to cover his tracks, and began to wish he hadn’t had the impulse to come here this afternoon or that he had been able to overcome it.

  He hesitated outside the library door for some moments, trying to raise the courage to push it open and go in. He was just about to do so when the door opened and he saw the tall gaunt figure of the librarian in the aperture, wrapped in a cloak and holding a bundle in his arms. At sight of Mike, he drew back for a moment with a gasp, looked round the cloister carefully, then thrust out a hand that grasped Mike’s arm firmly and drew him into the room.

  “I am just going out. I don’t have time to show you anything now.”

  He looked more closely at Mike and seemed to recognise him. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, putting his bundle down carefully on the desk. “You’re the boy who brought the manuscript copy back, aren’t you?”

  Mike nodded, but he felt rather frightened. There was an inexorable purpose about the monk that puzzled him but was also somehow a threat. But it was too late to run away. “I came to see The Book,” he explained. “Father Petrowski said I might.”

  The monk seemed to withdraw into himself for a moment, almost as though he was afraid. Then he recovered.

  “Ah. That book. The copy.”

  What else? thought Mike. You said the original was lost. “May I see it, sir? I won’t keep you long, but we may be moving away and then I won’t get another chance.” He moved quickly towards the display cabinet and in his haste as he passed the librarian’s desk he dislodged the bundle, which fell on the floor, disgorging its contents. Mike had halted as he felt the impact, and turned back quickly to pick it up. He was closer than the librarian, and being young moved more swiftly, but he heard the sharp intake of breath from the old monk as he tried to intercept him.

  He straightened up and laid the bundle of parchment on the desk. Then he looked up at the librarian. “It’s The Book!” he said. “The real Book. You said it was lost!”

  “It is no business of your
s,” said the monk angrily, and tried to put him aside. But Mike had something of his father’s grasp of the mysterious and knew there was more to this than met the eye.

  “Why did you tell lies to your own abbot?” he demanded. “What are you planning to do with this?”

  The monk glared at him, and Mike shrank from the fanatical gleam in his eye. “I am leaving here,” he said. “This is my treasure. Mine. Get out of my way.”

  “But it isn’t yours,” objected Mike, forgetting to be afraid in the face of this fantasy. “It belongs to the abbey, surely?”

  “You are a boy. You do not understand,” the librarian replied, and his eyes flashed fiercely. “All these years I have guarded it, for this moment. Do not stand in my way!” And he reached for the manuscript.

  Mike was aghast. Even the glimpse he had had of the parchment manuscript, with its decorated letters and its ancient binding, so much more glorious even than the copy he had revered, had convinced him that this was not a treasure to be carrying around in a loose bundle with who knew what purpose. The monk was clearly deranged, and the manuscript incredibly historic. He must be stopped.

  “This isn’t yours,” he said again, moving to stand between the monk and his desk. “Does Father Petrowski know you have it?”

  “No one knows,” the monk hissed. “I have looked after it, cared for it. It is mine!”

  At that moment, they both heard steps outside in the cloister, and the door handle began to turn. Mike laid a hand protectively on the manuscript, to prevent the librarian from snatching it, and in that moment Brother Andrew reached inside his cloak and drew out a knife.

  “Out of my way!” he cried.

  Twenty-seven

  Simon had sorted through the drawers of the desk in his classroom during the morning, and packed his belongings into a small crate. After all the pupils had left, he loaded this into his little sports car and went to the administration block to say goodbye to the school secretary.