Broken Voices (Kindle Single) (7 page)

Once outside, I
showed Faraday my booty. He reacted with gratifying horror.

‘If you’re
caught, they’ll chuck you out,’ he whispered.

‘What does it
matter?’ I said grandly. ‘I don’t care.’

He glanced at
me under the brim of his cap and I felt reproved by the misery in his eyes. By
buying cigarettes I was merely toying with the risk of expulsion. It was
improbable I would be caught smoking and doubly improbable that I would be
expelled for doing it, particularly in the school holidays. But Faraday almost
certainly faced expulsion already: and if by any chance he was allowed to stay
at school, the alternative he faced was almost worse — years of persecution. In
either case I pictured the shame of the stolen postal order pursuing him
through his blighted adult life until his miserable death.

In the meadows
between the Cathedral and the river, there stood a steep, heavily wooded hill,
which had once formed part of a little castle made of earth and wood. It was as
safe as anywhere to smoke. I scrambled up it, with Faraday trailing after me
because he had nothing better to do and my company was better than his own.

At the top was
a clearing of rough grass with a rotting summerhouse that stank of foxes. I
stood on the remains of the little verandah in front of it and smoked two
Woodbines in swift succession. I tried my best to give the impression that I
was enjoying an exquisite pleasure but in truth the cigarettes made me feel
rather sick.

Meanwhile
Faraday moved restlessly about the clearing. As I was smoking the second
cigarette, he came back to my side.

‘I say,’ he
said. ‘You know the anthem? The one that was lost?’

I squinted
through the smoke at him. ‘Yes.’

‘It would be
marvellous if it was found after all this time. Wouldn’t it?’

I shrugged. ‘I
suppose so. For choirboys and chaps like that.’

‘Just because
it hasn’t been found, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’

My mind filled
with a picture of all those lost notes, black blobs with little tails and other
attachments, floating in the air like dead leaves in a strong breeze.

‘But where?’ I
said. ‘I’m sure they looked everywhere.’

‘I think it’s
in the tower,’ Faraday said. ‘I mean, that’s where he was when he fell. He had
his pen and ink with him, remember.’

‘Don’t be an
ass. They must have searched especially hard up there.’

‘But perhaps
they didn’t look hard enough. Look — just suppose we looked for it, and we
found it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? They’d make an awfully big fuss. I
shouldn’t wonder if they put it in the newspapers. And we’d be — well, we’d be
sort of heroes, wouldn’t we?’

He stared
expectantly at me, his mouth open, the rabbit teeth displayed.

My imagination
was beginning to stir, even though the idea had come from Faraday. It would
make a huge stir at school if we found it. I imagined the news filtering
through to my aunt, miraculously restored to full health for the purpose, and
even to my parents in India. I imagined their delight, their pride.

‘What do you
think?’ he said.

‘But we can’t
get up there.’

‘I bet we could
find a way. I’ve a plan.’

I was careful
to preserve my dignity by not showing too much enthusiasm. ‘There’d be a
beastly stink if they catch us.’

‘Not if we find
it. They wouldn’t mind what we’d done. They’d wipe the slate clean.’

I understood at
last what Faraday meant, what his motive was. He thought that the lost anthem
was his chance of salvation, perhaps his only one. If he found it, it would
neutralize the disgrace of the postal order; it would make up for his broken
voice and for no longer being head of the choir. The school would come back
next term to find him a hero. And I would be a hero, too.

If he found it.

I dropped the
cigarette butt and ground it into the wet earth with my heel. ‘All right,’ I
said. ‘At least it’ll give us something to do.’

In my heart of hearts, I didn’t believe
that Faraday would do anything. It’s easy enough to come up with these schemes
but quite another to put them into practice.

He didn’t
mention the idea again for an hour or two. We went to the Veals’ for lunch, our
midday dinner. Afterwards I walked up to Angel Farm, followed by the reluctant
Faraday, in case Mr Witney had decided on a second day of ratting. But the
farmyard was deserted apart from a dog that barked furiously at us and made
savage little runs towards us to the limit of its chain.

‘Let’s go to
the Cathedral,’ he suggested.

I didn’t say
anything but we fell into step together and, as we had done the day before,
walked through the long street leading from the green to the west door.

It was much
earlier in the afternoon than it had been on our last visit. The Cathedral,
even on this grey day, seemed brighter and more welcoming. I took this as a
good omen. We stood in the very centre of the space beneath the west tower and
looked up at the painted ceiling.

More than a
hundred feet high, Mr Ratcliffe had said.

‘You can’t see
the trapdoor,’ Faraday said, clearly disappointed.

I wondered what
a fall from that height would do to a man. Would it compress him, ram his legs
into his body and his head into his shoulders?

‘What’s the
painting of?’ I said.

Faraday stared
upwards. ‘I don’t know. It looks like angels playing harps and things.’

He went over to
a short flight of steps in the thickness of the wall, almost invisible because
it was in the shadow of one of the great columns that supported the tower. At
the top of the steps was a heavy door. This was where the stairs to the tower
began.

I glanced over
my shoulder. No one was in sight. I tried the door. It was locked. We stood and
looked at it. The door was made of old, scarred oak with great iron hinges. The
lock looked more modern, judging by the size of the keyhole, and smaller than I
would have expected.

There was a
clattering behind us as a small party of visitors burst through the west door.
One of them had a guide book in hand and was acting as tour leader.

None of them
gave us a second glance but we scurried away like a pair of startled animals.

I had underestimated Faraday, or perhaps
underestimated the power of his desperation. When we went to the Veals’ for tea
that evening, Mr Veal was not at home. He had gone to visit an assistant verger
who was in hospital after breaking his leg by falling off his bicycle.

‘Never liked
those bicycles,’ Mrs Veal said. ‘Nasty dangerous things. Against nature.’

She gave us scrambled
eggs and filled us up afterwards with bread and dripping. It’s strange how
clearly I remember the food she gave us. I suppose it must be because we were
so poorly fed in term time.

After we had
finished, Faraday touched my arm. ‘Take the plates out to her,’ he whispered.
‘Ask her how she makes her eggs like that.’

‘What are you
talking about?’

‘Go on.’ He
gave me a little push. ‘Ask her anything you like. Just keep her in the kitchen
for a few minutes.’

I did as he
told me, though it seemed quite wrong that Faraday should be giving me
instructions. I didn’t need to ask Mrs Veal about her scrambled eggs. She was
already washing up so I dried the plates and cutlery for her, and she asked me
about my aunt in hospital and my parents in India. She was a kind woman, kinder
than we deserved.

When I returned
to the parlour, Faraday was sitting by the lamp and reading, or pretending to
read, the local paper, which Mr Veal had left on the arm of a chair. He looked
up as I entered and gave me a small, sly smile.

We walked back
to the Sacrist’s Lodging through the College.

‘I’ve got the
key,’ he said. ‘It says “West Tower Stair” on it.’

‘Won’t Veal
notice?’

‘I don’t think
so. There’s two other ones there on the same hook. This is one of the spares.’

We walked in silence
for a moment. Faraday was probably right. The verger had finished his inventory
of the keys, so he would have no need to look closely at them. Besides, the
Cathedral was now locked up for the night.

I was suddenly
struck by such an obvious and insuperable objection that I laughed out loud — partly,
I suspect, from relief.

‘What is it?’
Faraday said, staring down and looking at me.

‘It’s all very
well us having the key to the stairs,’ I said. ‘But the Cathedral’s locked up
at night. And we can’t go up in daytime. Someone would see us for sure.’

He gave a
snicker of laughter. ‘Don’t worry about that. I can get in the Cathedral
whenever I want. We can go tonight.’

I nearly kicked
him. The smug little Rabbit.

We passed an interminable evening with
Mr Ratcliffe, the three us reading by the fire. I was bored. Living with Mr
Ratcliffe was turning me into an old man like him, a creature of habit. On the
other hand, part of me wanted this time by the fire to last for ever. Part of
me wanted to be bored.

Mordred
disgraced himself again. He brought in another mouse, which he played with,
despite our attempts to stop him, and then allowed to escape for the time being
into the relatively safe haven of the floor beneath the piano. During the
struggle he scratched my hand, drawing blood. Finally he went to sleep on the
hearthrug with the air of a job well done.

‘I’m so sorry
he injured you again,’ Mr Ratcliffe said. ‘He’s quite unteachable, I’m afraid,
and I suspect he doesn’t have a very nice nature to begin with.’

‘Why do you
keep him then, sir?’ Faraday asked.

‘One must try
to make the best of animals, don’t you think? And of people, for that matter.
He’s a farm cat by breeding, you see. Mrs Thing’s sister is married to a
farmer, and I believe he came from there… But farm cats never truly adjust to
living in houses. They never quite lose their wildness.’

At last it was
time for bed. The sky was still cloudy but the rain had gone, and most of the
wind. It was colder.

‘We’ll have
snow before long, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Mr Ratcliffe said.

Faraday nudged
me behind Mr Ratcliffe’s back. This time I kicked him. I was growing tired of
his nudges.

Mordred rose
and stretched. He stalked out of the sitting room and sat by the front door,
where he miaowed like a rusty hinge.

‘Let him out,
would you?’ Mr Ratcliffe said.

I opened the
door. Mordred slunk outside and disappeared into the darkness.

‘Where does he
go at night, sir?’ I asked.

‘Mordred?
Heaven knows. Better not to enquire.’

‘He can’t stay
outside all night, can he? Not in this weather.’

‘I’m sure he
manages quite well.’ Mr Ratcliffe locked up and hung the key on the hook beside
the front door. ‘He’s not an animal to go without his creature comforts.’

In our bedroom,
I began to undress.

‘Don’t take too
much off,’ Faraday hissed. ‘There’s no point. It’ll probably be freezing.’

‘I’m tired.
Let’s do it tomorrow.’

‘No, it’s got
to be tonight. We need to get the key back tomorrow. Besides, it’s going to
snow. If we wait till after that we’ll leave tracks.’

I shrugged.
‘This is stupid.’

‘I know what it
is,’ Faraday said. ‘You’re yellow.’

‘I’m not
yellow.’

‘Yes, you are.’

We glared at
each other across the room.

‘Well,’ he
said. ‘It’s easy enough to prove it, isn’t it?’

I said nothing.
But I put on my pyjamas over my underclothes.

He was still
watching me. His face was flushed. ‘We’ll have to wait until Ratty’s in bed and
fast asleep.’

‘It’ll be
hours.’

‘I don’t care.
I’ll stay awake.’

We got into
bed. I didn’t bother reading. I turned on my side, away from Faraday, and
closed my eyes. I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I was too angry. Too afraid. So I sent
up a prayer to my provisional God, promising to believe in Him for the rest of
my life if He made Faraday fall asleep at once and stay asleep until morning.

Later, much later, I was wrenched from a
deep sleep. Faraday was standing over me. He hadn’t lit the gas but a candle
was burning on the mantelpiece, sending the shadows flickering across the room.

‘Go away,’ I
said and shut my eyes again.

‘Come on,’ he
whispered. ‘It’s time.’

He pulled back
the covers and cold air washed over me. I sat up abruptly and pushed him away.

‘You’re crazy,’
I said. ‘Mad as a coot.’ I tried to pull the covers back over me.

‘You’re
yellow,’ he said. ‘Yellow.’

I swore at him
and swung my legs out of bed. The bed creaked.

‘Don’t make a
noise,’ he said.

‘Shut up, you
ape. Bloody Rabbit. Go to hell.’

I pulled on the
rest of my clothes, fumbling interminably with the buttons. Faraday opened the
door. Carrying our shoes, we tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs. At
every step we paused to listen for sounds from Mr Ratcliffe’s bedroom.

We reached the
hall without mishap and put on our shoes, hats and coats. We took it in turns
to shield the candle flame, for light can betray you as much as noise.

By now I was
fully awake. It would be too much to say that I was entering into the spirit of
the thing but taking second place to Faraday was beginning to irk me. I pushed
him aside when he was about to lift the key from its hook. I was the one who
unlocked the door and lifted the heavy latch. It made much less noise than I
had expected. We slipped outside and closed the door behind us.

There were
still clouds, though fewer and wispier than before and moving rapidly across
the sky. The stars shone down between them.

We crossed the
yard in front of the Sacrist’s Lodging and let ourselves out through the gate
in the wall. The lawn that bordered the east end of the Cathedral was covered
in frost. Two of the lamps that burned all night stood at this end of the
College — one nearby, at the gate leading to the north door, the other on the
far side of the lawn. Yellow coronas of moisture hung around their lamps.