William could hardly wait to see the cottage. During the months he’d been away it was the thought of home that he’d clung to when he felt most miserable, but when they came around the corner and through the gate he felt vaguely disappointed, though he wasn’t sure why. Nothing had changed. A broken wheel stood leaning against the wall, half of one of its spokes missing, just where it had been the day he left. A corner of the thatch still needed repairing, and there was a puddle in the yard where a pothole needed to be filled. He was glad to be home, but the cottage bore a faint air of neglect that he’d never noticed before.
He went inside while his father saw to the horse. A fire was lit and the room was warm, and something was cooking on the stove. His mother’s books were on the shelves against the wall, and the scarred table where they ate their meals was where it had always been. William thought of his father there alone while he was away at school, imagined him reading the letters he wrote. Walking to the pub in the village in the dark to find the warmth of company.
The following morning after breakfast, William told his father he was going to walk into the village. His father looked doubtful, but William assured him he could manage. He took his cane, and all the way there he imagined how surprised his friends would be when they saw him. He went to the cottage where Jim Coleman lived and found him and some of the other boys throwing stones at some jars they had put on the wall. When they saw William they stopped what they were doing.
‘I thought you were livin’ at that posh school,’ Jim said.
‘Yes I am, but everybody goes home at the end of term.’
The boys all looked at him silently. He wondered what was wrong with them because they were so quiet.
‘Where’s your crutch then?’ Jim asked.
‘I can manage without it now. For a bit anyway.’ He demonstrated by walking a little way along the lane. When he turned around the boys were smirking and nudging one another.
‘I say chaps, I can manage without it now,’ Jim suddenly said, parodying William’s new way of talking. He began to walk with a grossly exaggerated limp, one shoulder down, the knuckle almost trailing on the ground. The others laughed cruelly, and in a moment they were all trying to outdo one another while William’s face burned with confusion and the pain of being rejected by boys he thought were his friends. When Jim came close to him, all the humiliation William had endured over the past months erupted in anger. He lashed out with his fist and caught Jim in the mouth, splitting his lip. In a second they were rolling on the hard, cold ground, throwing punches and kicking one another while the other boys crowded round egging them on.
‘Get ‘im, Jim!’
‘Garn, smash ‘is face!’
Finally, a woman came out of her house and chased them off. Jim and the other boys ran away. They called William a ‘snot-nosed bastard’ and threatened to get him if they caught him in the village again.
‘Bugger off back to yer posh school.’
William remembered how they used to climb the chestnut tree by the manor wall and shout the same insults at the boy and his sister when the boy threatened to set the gardener on them.
After the fight with Jim Coleman, William spent the rest of the holiday with his father. He helped him in the forge and went for long walks in the woods. They set snares for rabbits and shot pigeons and pheasants to cook for their supper, and in the evenings while his father smoked his pipe, William read The Odyssey, or studied Latin grammar.
When it was time for William to return to school his father hitched the horse to the cart, and they drove to the train station in Brixworth. Neither of them spoke very much. On the platform they hugged one another tightly. When the train pulled away, William opened the window and waved until his father was out of sight. He felt as if he was leaving one life behind and returning to another, but he was no longer sure to which of them he really belonged. As the carriage swayed and the wheels rattled on the tracks with a hypnotic rhythm, he wondered what it would be like to stay on the train and never get off. And then before long he saw the spire of St Peter’s, and apprehension formed a tight ball in the pit of his stomach.
In the dorm, on the evening of the boys’ return to school, Yardley grew bored with tormenting Carmichael, who had quickly become a victim because he could be relied on to blub and beg for mercy. When William went to the bathroom, Yardley was sitting on one of the basins as if it were a throne.
‘I think we neglected you a bit last term, Reynolds, you despicable little peasant,’ he said unpleasantly as two other boys grabbed William’s arms. ‘We don’t want you to forget your place, after all.’ He slid down and adopted an arrogant pose, his hands in his pockets. ‘By the way, what is your place, Reynolds?’
As always William refused to speak, which did not surprise Yardley, who expected nothing more. Yardley grinned. ‘I say, you chaps, it seems we’re just in time, Reynolds has forgotten already.’
‘Gosh, we’d better remind him then hadn’t we?’ Thompson piped up, taking his cue.
They began to drag William towards a toilet cubicle, and though he struggled as much as he possibly could it was no good. He lashed out with his feet, but they had learned to keep well clear of him now and his attempts were ineffectual. As he was dragged by an open cubicle he glimpsed Carmichael inside, sitting on the floor crying. His hair was soaking wet and he was naked, his thin, pale body smeared with shit.
When they reached the next cubicle William redoubled his efforts to escape, or at least to inflict injury on one of his tormentors. Yardley put a meaty arm around his neck and squeezed tightly, bending him towards the toilet bowl where a large turd floated in the water.
‘I saved this for you especially, Reynolds,’ Yardley said.
He and the other boys thrust William’s head into the bowl. William screwed his eyes shut and held his breath. His heart pounded and he heard the rush of blood in his ears. Just when he thought he would suffocate, they pulled him out gasping for air.
‘Yum yum, eh Reynolds,’ Yardley gloated. ‘I expect that reminds you of having your dinner at home doesn’t it?’
They went off laughing among themselves, while William wiped the shit from his face. He threw up every morsel in his stomach, retching until his stomach ached and his throat was raw. Eventually he cleaned himself up, and when he went back into the dorm he went straight to Yardley’s cubicle. When Thompson nudged him, Yardley turned around and was surprised when he saw William.
‘What do you want, Reynolds? I say, chaps, perhaps he’s come for his pudding.’
They all laughed, but then William bunched his fist and hit Yardley on his chin with every ounce of strength he could muster. The force of the blow snapped Yardley’s head back and knocked him onto the floor. For an instant there was stunned silence, and then with a bellow of pained rage Yardley leapt to his feet and threw himself at William with a flurry of fists and feet. The fight was over quickly, and Yardley’s size and weight combined with William’s lack of agility meant William didn’t stand a chance. Nevertheless, he managed to land one or two decent punches and at the end of it they both had bloody noses.
After that Yardley and the other boys contented themselves with snide insults where William was concerned.
CHAPTER 4
1908
At five o’clock in the morning the course of the river could only be discerned by the trees along its banks. They stood gaunt and grey above the mist veiling the water meadows below the town.
Pausing to lift his gaze to the lightening sky, William watched a hobby, one of a pair that nested nearby each year. He remembered a painting Mister Watson had done of one of them, though it has been three years since Watson left the school. The little falcon rose with rapid wing beats, searching for an unwary blackbird or thrush and was lost from sight.
William began to run down the hill. At seventeen he was tall and lean. To begin with he favoured his left leg very slightly, but as he settled into a familiar rhythm this became less obvious, so that a casual o
bserver would not even register it. Nowadays, it is only in the winter when there is a particularly cold spell that he feels an ache deep in his thigh that will cause him to limp, and very occasionally he has to use a cane for support.
He climbed a stile to the path that led across a field to the river. There was nobody else about. Sometimes he would see a figure herding cows to the milking shed, or later in the year when there was hay to be cut or crops to harvest he would see people working in the fields, but they are only distant glimpses. He had followed this route every morning since his first term at the school all those years ago now, though of course he could barely walk then. It was the solitude he liked more than anything.
As William descended to the meadow the mist cloaked him from the world. The grass was wet with dew. An animal dashed in front of him, a blur of brown fur, perhaps a hare or even a fox. When he reached the river the mist was thick between the reeds along the bank. His breath clouded before him. A pair of stately swans appeared gliding silently on the water and vanished again, like pale ghosts.
By the time he reached the ruins of Fotheringhay castle the temperature had risen and the mist was lifting, though a few shrouds still lingered around the mound. Sometimes, William imagined he could feel vibrations in the atmosphere, a humming below the pitch at which things could be heard or felt in the ordinary sense. Mary, Queen of Scotland, had been imprisoned in the castle a little over three hundred years ago, and eventually she was exectued there. Did such things somehow leave their indelible mark on the fabric of time and space? An imprint of melancholy, the extremes of the range of human feeling. It was said that when the castle was demolished the staircase was used in the Talbot Hotel, and that Mary’s ghost has been seen walking down them on the way to her execution. William had seen a figure on the mound more than once. He was sure it was a woman. She stood gazing out across the field, though he sensed she couldn’t see him. An aura of loneliness surrounded the place, a feeling he understood.
He turned away and began the run back towards the town, where the spire of St Peter’s was visible for miles around, pointing towards heaven, if there was one.
Before he reached the square he passed a large Georgian house built from the local stone. He paused and bent down on one knee, pretending to tie a loose lace. He saw a figure looking out from a window on the uppermost floor. Her name was Emmaline, a girl of sixteen with long chestnut coloured hair and wide, dark eyes. He had seen her several times about the town before he’d spoken to her in the cake shop one day. She knew he ran along the river every morning and she was always at her window when he came back. He raised a hand to her and she waved in return. When he stood up he felt as if he could run on air, and he sprinted the rest of the way back to the school.
On Sunday afternoon, William saw Emmaline walking across the square. He caught up with her and asked where she was going.
‘I was bored indoors, so I decided to come out for a walk.’
‘Can I walk with you?’
She smiled. ‘If you’d like to.’
When they reached the church gates, Emmaline suggested they take the path through the churchyard. There were few people about and they walked slowly.
‘Where’s your aunt today?’ William asked.
‘She’s gone to visit Mister Barnes and his wife. I didn’t want to go so I told her I wasn’t feeling well.’
Emmaline lived with her father and his sister. Her mother had died when she was young.
‘Is your father at home?’
‘No, he’s away on business,’ Emmaline said.
‘If you’re not in a hurry then,’ William suggested, ‘we could sit and talk for a little while if you like.’ He gestured to a seat.
‘My father would be furious if he knew I was here alone with you.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to get you into any trouble.’
‘Well, I suppose it’ll be alright. You are an Oundle boy, after all.’ She smiled to show that she was teasing him. ‘Anyway, I don’t care what he thinks.’
It was the first time they had been alone. They sat a foot apart from one another.
‘I expect you’re going home for Easter aren’t you?’ Emmaline said.
‘Yes.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In a village called Scaldwell.’
‘Do you like living there?’
‘There isn’t much there really.’
‘Where will you live when you finish at Oundle?’
‘I’ll be going to Oxford.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Emmaline said. ‘My father doesn’t approve of girls attending university. He wouldn’t even let me go away to school. Instead I’ve had to put up with Mister Willis. He’s my tutor. What will you be studying at Oxford?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Perhaps law.’
‘Is your father a barrister?’
‘No.’ William faltered. He didn’t want to tell her that his father was a blacksmith. ‘Actually it was my grandfather’s idea. He lives in Birmingham.’
He told Emmaline that his grandfather owned several businesses, and that he’d advised William to study law because it provided a sound basis for almost any career. He knew he was giving the impression that he was much closer to his grandfather than was really the case. In fact, William only saw him twice a year, and always felt that his grandfather’s visits were undertaken more in the spirit of somebody who was keeping an eye on his investment than for any other reason. However, when William was offered a scholarship to Oxford his grandfather had promised to provide an allowance to enable him to take it up, and for that, William was grateful.
‘I wish I could get away from here,’ Emmaline said enviously. ‘It’s even worse during the holidays. The town seems so quiet and empty.’
She looked away, her face shaded by her hat. William thought she was beautiful. ‘I wish I could stay here,’ he said.
‘Why on earth would you wish that?’
‘Because while I’m away I’ll miss you.’
‘Will you really?’
‘I think about you all the time. When I go for a run in the morning I can’t wait to get back, just so that I can see you in your window.’
‘I always make sure I get out of bed early and wait for you,’ she confessed.
They laughed at themselves. He longed to touch her, just to hold her hand. If he could do that, he thought he’d be happy to sit there for ever. Neither of them spoke. William’s mind was completely blank. He couldn’t think of anything at all to say to her and was sure she would think he was a fool. All the time his heart was pounding so hard he thought she must be able to hear it. Suddenly she made a frustrated sound and turned away from him a little.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You must think I’m an idiot!’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re alone at last and I can’t even carry on a conversation. I’ve dreamed about being together like this, just the two of us, and now it’s happened and I can’t think of a single word to say.’
He was almost delirious with happiness to hear her say that she had dreamed of being with him. ‘I was thinking the same thing myself. I was afraid that you must be trying to think of an excuse to leave. I’ve never met anybody like you,’ he told her. ‘Or felt like this.’ He wanted to kiss her, and as he looked into her eyes he was sure she felt the same way. He leaned towards her and as she closed her eyes their lips met for a few moments.
When they parted, somebody came along the path and they moved away from each other. William longed to kiss her again, but he was afraid they would be seen.
‘Shall we find somewhere else to sit?’ he asked.
‘If you like.’
They got up and followed a path towards the back of the graveyard, where the bushes and trees grew thickly near the wall. They paused to read an old, worn gravestone.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emmaline said eventually. ‘I don’t know how you should kiss somebody. I’ve never done it before.’
‘I don’t know how to either. But I do know there’s nothing I’d rather do than kiss you again.’
William placed his hands on Emmaline’s waist. She turned her face up to him and closed her eyes, and this time they kissed for longer. He was overwhelmed with feeling for her, drowning in sensations of touch and smell and he moved closer, drawing her against him. She acquiesced willingly. When at last they parted, they held one another tightly, breathless with emotion.
Later, when he walked her home, he thought of the holidays coming up and wondered how he would stand to be away from her.
Near her house they parted. ‘I’ll write to you every day,’ he said but she told him he mustn’t.
‘My father doesn’t know anything about you. When you come back we’ll think of a way for you to meet my aunt, and then you can come to the house and meet my father.’
William’s spirits sank.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure your father would approve of me.’
‘What do you mean? Why shouldn’t he?’
Suddenly, he didn’t know what to tell her. Every perception she had of him was wrong. No doubt she imagined he came from a reasonably well-to-do village family, that his father was perhaps a doctor or something. How would she react when she discovered that he was the penniless son of a blacksmith? And what would her father think?
William was ashamed of himself for concealing the truth. He was certain that Emmaline wouldn’t care about his background. After all, he would have a degree from Oxford one day, and then he would be able to begin a respectable career. Perhaps once her father met him and saw what sort of person he was he wouldn’t care where he came from. He decided that he would tell Emmaline the truth about himself, but he would wait until he had the time to explain everything to her properly.
‘I simply mean that I shouldn’t think any father approves of a fellow his daughter wants him to meet,’ William joked.
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