They dressed by the kitchen fire. The farmer’s wife piled on more logs, and the flames leaped up afresh. Kate was setting the table, and there was a delicious smell of bread baking. Francis longed to stay, but there was nothing to stay for. The farmer returned and told them to come, and his wife escorted them to the door.
“ ’Bye, boys,” she said, “and don’t you ever do a silly thing like that again. Thank God you’re both safe!” She smiled into their upturned faces and laid her hands for an instant on their hair. A moment later they were climbing into the Landrover, and Francis, looking back through the window, could see Martin and Chris squatting by the fire, laughing, while clear on the wall above them stood out the words that seemed to embody the spirit of the house, God Is Luv. Then the engine started up, and the window was hidden behind the barn.
They dropped Ram and his bicycle at the end of the street, and he scuttled home without a backward look, while Francis pressed a little closer to the farmer. Somehow, he did not want to say good-bye to this big man who had appeared at that moment of terror and saved him, who was not angry any longer, and who had understood completely that it was not Ram’s fault. The farmer too was driving more slowly, as though uncertain of what to do.
“That’s my house,” said Francis rather sadly.
“Is it?” said the farmer, drawing up at the roadside. But he did not move. “Why on earth did you do such a silly thing as that, Francis?” he said at last. “You nearly drowned that poor little Indian. You knew he couldn’t swim, and, besides, it was stealing. It wasn’t your boat. Your parents should know about it, or you may do something like that again.”
Francis said nothing. He just climbed out of the Landrover, lifted out his bicycle, and led the farmer in through the back door.
The kitchen was in an awful mess. No one had cleared the table or washed the dishes. His mother’s voice, tearful and angry, called sharply from the top of the stairs. “Francis, where have you been? How dare you stay out so late! I shall tell your Dad when he comes in, and you deserve all you’ll get.”
“He won’t come in till midnight, not on Saturday he won’t,” whispered Francis. “And she won’t tell him nothing, ’cause he’s usually drunk.”
“I see,” said the farmer, looking around thoughtfully. He squatted down beside the boy and looked deep into his eyes.
“Promise you won’t do silly things like that anymore.”
“Promise.”
“And come and see us again.”
“Promise.”
The huge hand pressed his shoulder and a moment later the farmer was gone, leaving Francis standing irresolute in the kitchen, fighting back his tears. It had been a very big, important day for him, but now he felt tired, cold, and desolate. He had run away and tasted freedom. He had nearly been drowned. He had also had a glimpse of something-that-might-have-been—a glimpse of a firelit home where everyone seemed happy and of anger that was both just and kind and did not make him feel angry in return. He longed to run to his mother and tell her all about it, and he seemed in luck, for Wendy and Debby were sitting in front of the television absorbed in a film.
He ran upstairs. She had been lying down, and the bedclothes were thrown back, but she was sitting on the bed clasping and unclasping her hands. She had been very anxious about him, but now that he was safely home, the sight of him standing there looking so pleased with himself merely annoyed her.
“I don’t know how you can be so selfish, Francis,” she burst out. “You knew how worried I’d be. Don’t you care? Where have you been anyway?”
“Out on my bike, Mum. I fell into the river and the river’s flooded and I nearly went over the dam, but a man pulled me out. Mum, I nearly got drowned.”
Her face went rather pale. “You’ve no business to go anywhere near the river,” she snapped at him. “And I believe you’re making all this up, anyway. Your clothes look perfectly dry and clean. It’s very naughty indeed of you, Francis.”
“But Mum, the lady put them into the spin dryer, and we sat by the fire—and I did nearly drown, honest Mum. The man said so—he brought me home in his Landrover and—”
A car drew up outside. She leaped to her feet and ran eagerly to the window and peered out. A moment later she spoke again.
“I thought it was your dad,” she said in a dull flat voice, “but it’s for the house next door.”
She did not come back. She stood staring down the road, still clasping and unclasping her hands. She had forgotten all about Francis and the river.
He waited for a moment and then turned away. He went into the living room, gave Wendy a good pinch, clasped his hand over her mouth to shut her up, and settled down with her on the sofa to watch the end of the film.
4
The Cherry Tree Again
Francis heard no more of his adventure. His mother came down late on Sunday morning looking ill and tired and seemed to have forgotten all about it. After breakfast she shut herself up in the bedroom with Dad, and their voices grew very loud. When she came out she looked as though she had been crying. Dad was in a bad mood, and the little girls were fussing. Francis made himself scarce.
Out in the yard things were better. Fluffy clouds scudded across a blue sky, and two daffodil buds had opened right out and turned into daffodils. Birds sang everywhere, and it was impossible to feel dull. Things were shooting up out of the damp soil so fast that you could almost see them coming.
He kicked his football around for a time, but the lawn was very small. He looked thoughtfully towards the gate, and then he stiffened and stared very hard indeed, for something peculiar had happened to the gate. There were ten brown knuckles arranged along the top of it, and two very bright black eyes peered through the crack. Someone was watching.
Francis knew who it was at once, and he was glad. Ram was not much of a footballer, but he was better than nobody, and he had not made a fuss or blamed Francis even when he had nearly gotten drowned. It would be fun to talk over their great adventure, and because they had nearly died together, Francis decided to show him the hiding place in the cherry tree. He went and opened the gate just a chink. Ram slipped inside and looked at him with shining eyes.
“I come, Francis,” he whispered, glancing nervously at the house. “You well? Your Mum, she cross?”
“Not really,” said Francis. “I don’t think she really believed me. My clothes were too clean. Ram, there’s a secret place where I go. I’ll take you if you like, but you mustn’t tell anyone ever. No one knows about it ’cept me.”
Ram looked startled. Yesterday Francis had led him into terrible trouble, and he did not want it to happen again. He hesitated, but Francis seized his hand.
“Come on, Ram,” he urged, “it isn’t dangerous. It’s a tree. And hurry ’cause I don’t want anyone to see us. Creep behind that laurel hedge and run across the grass. Now quick, climb!”
Ram, quite relieved that he was not expected to disappear down a subterranean tunnel, climbed up nimbly enough, with Francis after him. It was a tight fit, but they managed and sat there pressed together peering through the swelling twigs. “We shall soon be completely hidden by cherry blossom,” said Francis. “It will be like white curtains all round us. Look, Ram. There’s Mrs. Glengarry putting all her cats out before she goes to church. She can’t see us. She doesn’t know we’re here. But we can see her. We can see everything!”
He laughed out loud, and Ram laughed too. The tree swayed slightly in the spring breeze, and somewhere behind them church bells were ringing. They opened the box and spread out their treasures, and Ram produced a packet of jelly beans out of his pocket. They sat sucking, swinging their legs, and reliving their adventure of the day before, and Ram felt happier than he had ever felt since his arrival in cold, gray England six months before.
All winter he had suffered from chilblains, and he had never really felt warm at all. School was misery, and he had never made a friend because he was so small and shy, and the English language was so di
fficult. The others had not meant to be unkind, but they were all in such a hurry and made such a noise that he had never found time or a loud enough voice to explain that he would like to play too. So he had felt very lonely and never really safe except at home with his mother and little sister.
But now everything was different. He was sitting close to his new friend in the rather uncomfortable fork of a tree, sucking jelly beans, and the birds were singing, and the bells were ringing, and the English sun seemed warmer than he had ever known it before. He expanded and began to speak the English language better than he had ever done before. There seemed nothing he could not say in his own way. He talked about India, the journey, the plane, and his family, whereas Francis talked about football and all the adventures he was planning for the future.
The world seemed as bright as the daffodils and the sunshine until Francis said, quite suddenly, “Do you like school?”
The light died out of Ram’s eyes, and he shook his head violently.
“I not like school,” he said, and looked miserable.
“Why not?” asked Francis. “It’s all right. Our teacher’s all right, and we play football and go swimming. What’s wrong with that?”
Ram turned great tragic black eyes on him.
“I no like school,” he repeated with a little shudder. “I afraid.”
“Afraid? What of?”
“I afraid of Spotty and Tyke. They run after me. They say they do something bad for me.”
He was whispering and peering round as though Spotty and Tyke might be hiding in the bushes, and Francis hugged himself excitedly for that sounded like the beginning of another adventure.
Spotty was a rather overgrown thirteen-year-old with pimples, hitting back at a world that made fun of his fat body and spotty face, but Tyke was something different. Tyke was strong and wiry and an excellent runner. He went about with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip, when the teachers were not looking, and drank beer, stolen from his dad. Francis thought he was wonderful and spent a great deal of time during the lunch hour trying to make Tyke notice him. Both boys lived at his end of town, and he occasionally met them in the fish-and-chips shop.
“They’re all right,” said Francis. “Why should they do anything to you? And, anyhow, when do they talk to you?”
Ram’s eyes became even more frightened.
“They have a little house,” he whispered, “near our house. One day, I pick blackberries—I not know they in little house—I hear them talk bad things, and I run away quick. Then they saw me.” He shuddered. “They run fast, fast, fast, and they take me so—” He seized the collar of Francis’s shirt. “They say they do bad things to me if I tell—they come to my house—they kill me if I tell.”
He had worked himself up into a terrible state, and his hands were cold and clammy. He had never told anyone, but his whole life was blighted by the shadow of Spotty and Tyke. The thought of them haunted him at night, and he had nightmares in which he imagined they were coming in at the window. He was sure that they followed him home from school, and once or twice they had really done so, in order to show him that he had better look out.
And he had looked out, carrying his terrible secret all by himself until that sunny Sunday morning when the birdsong and the sweetness of having a friend had made him forget his misery, and he had blurted it all out to Francis. But Francis was safe; Francis would never tell. He could trust Francis. He would tell him everything forever.
Francis stared. He felt quite jealous that Tyke should have paid so must attention to Ram. And to think that they had a place—not far away—a secret hideout where they probably kept knives and bombs. It was whispered that Tyke had once started a fire, and he had other friends beside Spotty who smoked with him behind the gym. Perhaps they were a gang, and Francis could do something to make them notice him. After all, he was a very fast runner.
Somewhere near the back door, an angry voice shouted his name, but he took no notice.
“Tell me about the hideout,” he said. “Where exactly is it?”
“Down our street another street,” said Ram, talking very fast, “and down end of other street fields and blackberries. And last house in other street burned—and behind burned house, little house not to live in. There Tyke and Spotty and other boys go, and when I pick blackberries I hear them, and they see me in a little window and they say very bad things to me.”
“Yes, yes,” said Francis, who did not want to hear that all over again. “But when do they go there?”
“I see them Sunday,” said Ram, “I see Tyke and Spotty and sometime others go along the road before night.”
“Do you mean about sunset?”
“Yes, when not dark, but soon dark. I see them go.”
“Do you see them come back?”
“No. My mother she pull the curtain.”
How stupid he is, thought Francis, holding out his hand for another jelly bean. I should watch and watch and clock them in and clock them out. He was not listening to what Ram was saying anymore. His imagination was carrying him away. Tyke was waiting for him outside the fish-and-chips shop, drawing him aside. “Our gang needs a runner,” he was saying, “a very fast, small runner. How about it?” He suddenly wanted to be alone to think and plan.
“I’m going in now,” he said to Ram. “You’d better go home.”
Ram looked disappointed. It had been so wonderful spilling out all his fears to Francis, and, having shared them, he felt much less afraid. But there would be other days, plenty of other days. He scrambled to the ground.
“I come again?” he inquired timidly.
“Maybe, some day,” said Francis without looking at him. He had almost forgotten Ram. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered toward the back door. As he turned the corner of the house he nearly bumped into his stepfather, who was cleaning the car.
“Where have you been?” said his stepfather, irritably. “You know perfectly well you’re meant to help me wash the car on Sunday morning. I’ve told you before.”
“I was only in the yard,” replied Francis, sullenly kicking the step.
“You were not in the yard,” shouted Dad. “I searched and called everywhere. I’m sick of your lies and your laziness. It’s just about lunchtime now, but this afternoon you stop right here and do what I tell you, and no nonsense!”
Francis escaped into the kitchen. His afternoon’s plans were all spoiled now, and he would have to wait a whole week till next Sunday. He aimed a hard kick at a chair leg and then noticed his mother standing quite still looking out the window, her hands resting on the sink. It was as though she was watching something so intently that she had never even heard him come in.
They were quite alone, and she was quiet and not busy. If he went to her now and told her about the house in the cherry tree, then one day when Dad and Wendy and Debby were out in the park and the blossoms were out in the tree, he would take the stepladder, and she would come and sit with him in a secret white world. It would be rather crowded, but he could sit higher up. He would buy some mints, and they would talk, just she and he, like they used to long ago when Wendy was still quite a baby, before Mummy started getting headaches, and before Dad started going out all the time and being so cross. If that happened, then he would not bother about Tyke and Spotty. He would stay at home and be good and help her. He took a step toward her.
“Mum,” he whispered.
She turned with a start, and the sight of him standing there, with smears of green bark all down his clean jersey, irritated her beyond endurance. If he had behaved himself her husband would have been in quite a good humor by now. It was always Francis who upset him, and the little wretch did not seem to care at all. He was grinning at her as though he had done something clever.
“What are you creeping up behind me and making me jump like that for?” she said angrily. “And where on earth have you been? You know perfectly well you are meant to help your father on Sunday mornings. You—you just spoil every
thing, Francis! Now for goodness sake, go and wash your hands and don’t start a row during lunch. He’s here little enough as it is!”
Something seemed to snap in her, and she turned to the oven with a little sob. Francis fled from the room. The fragile, white world of the cherry tree had vanished, and he knew that he would join a gang as soon as possible—a really bad gang that blew things up and hurt people. He wanted to start right away, but the only victim in sight was Whiskers, his own tabby cat that he had had since she was a kitten. She purred at the sight of him, but he ran at her and kicked her out into the yard as hard as he could, then slammed the door on her squeal of pain and fear.
5
The Gang
One result of happenings of that Sunday morning was that Ram became Francis’s faithful little shadow. He waited to go to school with him, followed him about all day, and longed for another invitation to come and sit in the cherry tree. But it never came. Francis quite enjoyed Ram’s admiration, and he liked the little presents Ram brought him, but he found him a bit of a bore when his other friends were around and usually could not be bothered with him. But Ram was unoffended and put Francis’s coldness down to English manners, which were quite different from Indian manners and were something you had to get used to, like the English food and weather and always being in a hurry.
Besides, Francis had a great deal to think about. He had followed Tyke and Spotty at lunch hour and strolled past their hideout as though by mistake, just when they were enjoying their daily smoke. They had seized him and threatened him with terrible punishments and a beating if he told on them, but he assured them that he was just starting to smoke himself and would be delighted to join them. He then tried to buy a pack of cigarettes, but the lady in the shop refused to sell to him. So he collected his father’s stubs, went up the cherry tree to experiment, and was very sick into Mrs. Glengarry’s yard. It seemed a losing battle.
But at least they had noticed him, and they knew that, although he was so much younger, he was on their side, and that encouraged him. When Sunday came around again, he took no risks. He cleaned and rubbed the car till it shone, and his stepfather praised him, and his mother told him, rather absent-mindedly, that he was a good boy. She was unable to concentrate on anything that morning because she was not sure whether Dad was going to stay home that afternoon and take them out, or not.
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