Black Wreath by Peter Sirr

Author:Peter Sirr [Peter Sirr]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781847177124
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2014-10-15T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-One

A Visitor

James was kneading dough when John Purcell came home. James’s arms were covered with flour and he had managed to sprinkle liberal amounts of it on all of his clothes.

Sylvia was watching him with amusement. ‘Faster,’ she said. ‘Imagine there’s a line of impatient customers with empty bellies outside the door.’

Purcell took in the scene and shook his head. ‘Is this what you’re at?’ he asked, a note of genuine bewilderment in his voice. His own stout arms were sprinkled with blood from the day’s work at his butcher’s stall. He took off his deeply stained apron and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Well, I suppose you can always get a job as a cook’s maid if all else fails.’

‘Or a baker’s boy,’ Sylvia chipped in.

‘And is that enough, do you think?’ Purcell asked.

James looked at him. He supposed Purcell thought his work not manly enough and maybe he thought James was wasting his time at home with the women all day. It was certainly true that he preferred this indoor world to the life he had been leading. ‘I like to be busy,’ he said simply.

‘I’ve been thinking about you, you see,’ Purcell said. ‘One of my customers is Dr Smith, the master of the Bluecoat School. I told him about you, and he said there might be a place.’

James looked at him in surprise. It was a long time since he had thought about school. He rubbed the flour from his arms. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

‘You’re not like us,’ Purcell said. ‘You weren’t born to be a butcher or a baker, or a runabout urchin. And if you’re to be a proper lord, you’ll need to know how to acquit yourself in high society.’ He grinned. ‘So it’s hard benches and long books for you, lad.’

‘What about me?’ Sylvia asked, a small trace of jealousy in her voice.

‘You can have my books,’ James said, ‘and my long nights poring over them.’

And so James found himself inside the building he had looked at when he passed it on his way to the hide in the Phoenix Park. There was a stir in the large room full of boys when James was brought in. He wriggled in the uncomfortable blue tunic and felt his face redden under the scrutiny of so many new faces. The master was a grave, thin man in a dark coat, perched on a high desk, and he barely nodded at James, stretching out a bony finger to indicate the desk where James should sit.

‘I am told you are a savage ignoramus,’ the master said when James had taken his place.

The remark was greeted with a titter. James felt himself redden again and beads of perspiration pricked the small of his back.

‘I hope I’m not an ignoramus,’ he said.

The master regarded him evenly. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We shall see. You are familiar with arithmetic?

James nodded.

‘Well then, imagine you are a farmer. You do know what a farmer is, don’t you?’

More titters.

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