The Flyer (4 page)

‘I can’t walk very far because of my leg, sir.’
Oi carnt wark very far because of moi leg.
 

‘Of course, I’m sorry, I forgot.’ Mister Watson regarded William thoughtfully. ‘This painting reminds me of my summer holidays,’ he said. ‘I spent several weeks watching another pair of hobbies near my parents’ house in Scotland. I used to take long walks every day, whether it was fine or wet. I always took my sketch pad and binoculars with me.’

William didn’t know what to say to this, though Mister Watson didn’t seem to mind his silence.

‘Do you know, William, my father is a Hindu,’ he went on. ‘You don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name do you? And you must call me Mister Watson rather than ‘sir’ all the time. Do you know what Hindu is, by the way? It’s a type of religion practised in India where my father comes from.’ Watson paused to light a cigarette.

‘I was quite a lonely child at school. The other boys made fun of me because of the colour of my skin. They called me a half-breed. That’s why I became interested in bird-watching. It was a way of escaping, if you like.’

William understood that Mister Watson was telling him that they had something in common. It made him feel better to know that he wasn’t quite as alone as he had thought.

‘I would like to propose something to you, William,’ Watson said. ‘I suggest that you come here every day for extra tuition. I will teach you the things that the other boys have already learnt. That is to say, I will give you lessons in English grammar and also Latin and Greek. I think you’ll find that you will catch up with the other boys quite quickly. Between you and I, there are no geniuses among them.’ He smiled. ‘The other thing I will teach you is how to speak like them. It will take time, but I’m sure that if we are both prepared to put in the effort we will succeed. What do you think?’

A clock on the table ticked.

‘Thank you, sir,’ William answered. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good,’ Watson said. ‘Now, why don’t you have another biscuit.’

*****

William’s life at Oundle changed. Every day after lessons ended he went to Mister Watson’s rooms for extra tuition, where for half an hour he practiced his elocution, and then for another hour either English grammar or Latin and Greek. Mister Watson was a patient teacher and William looked forward to his lessons. The young master’s rooms became a kind of sanctuary where William could escape the taunts and bullying of Yardley and the other boys. The process of learning itself was an escape from his misery. He became interested in the wider scope of the subjects he was learning. He not only wanted to be able to translate the Latin poets and Greek philosophers, but wanted to understand them too, and in Mister Watson’s rooms, William’s love of reading English novels was rekindled.

The speed with which William improved surprised both himself and his teacher. Encouraged by his success, William practiced alone whenever he could, and for once his disability worked to his advantage since it precluded him from fagging, and gave him more time than he might otherwise have had. He spent it in the library, where he absorbed everything he read.

As the weeks passed and William gradually lost his country burr, he noticed that he was less often the victim of derision and bullying because of the way he spoke. He began to think that with determination and work there was nothing he couldn’t overcome, and one afternoon Mister Watson discovered him trying to walk without his crutch. William was unaware that he was being watched until he fell to the floor as he tried to take a few steps across the master’s living room. He got up and reached for his crutch, burning with humiliation and anger at his own weakness.

Mister Watson put down the tea tray he was carrying and left the room, returning a few moments later with a cane.

‘Would you like to try with this?’ he offered.

He cleared a space between two chairs, and when William tried again, this time he didn’t fall down.

‘You can keep it if you like,’ Mister Watson said. He took William’s crutch and leaned it against the wall. ‘Why don’t we leave this here, and then you’ll know where it is anytime you want it. Now, shall we have some tea before we get back to Virgil?’

From that day, William began to take daily walks around the school grounds using his new cane. Though progress was initially slow, he endured the muscle cramps and blisters that formed on his feet, and ignored the cruel mockery of the other boys. At first it didn’t seem to make any difference. In fact the pain and swelling he suffered made walking more difficult than ever, but he persisted. Sometimes at night he cried silently in his bed, something that Yardley and Thompson and the others had never been able to make him do. The pain became so terrible that Mister Watson was afraid that he would do permanent damage to himself. He tried to persuade William that he should relent, at least for a little while, but stubbornly William refused. Eventually, by small degrees, he began to notice an improvement, though rather than welcome the easing of his discomfort, William’s response was to ask Mister Watson if he would give him permission to leave the school grounds so that he could lengthen his daily walks.

‘I want to see if I can get as far as Fotheringhay by the end of term,’ William explained.

‘But it will take you hours to walk that far,’ Mister Watson said. ‘Where will you find the time?’

‘I can go early in the morning,’ said William, having already thought it through.

Mister Watson was dubious, concerned that William was pushing himself too hard on all fronts, but he agreed to speak to his house master. In the end, since physical ability was admired at least as much, if not more than academic prowess at the school, permission was given. For the rest of the term William got out of his warm bed at half past four every morning and went out into the freezing dark. He walked down through the town to the path along the river that led eventually to Fotheringhay, increasing the distance a little bit every day. He steeled himself against the frequent cold and the wind and rain. Since he was used to being alone the solitude didn’t concern him at all, and by degree he was rewarded as his leg became stronger with every passing week.

Towards the middle of December, William received a Christmas card from his grandfather. Inside was a short note expressing the hope that William was working hard at his studies and reminding him that his mother would have wanted him to do his very best, and that he should endeavour to do justice to her memory. Before term ended and the boys went home for the Christmas holidays, Mister Watson gave William a copy of Homer’s Odyssey translated into English.

‘It’s the story of Odysseus. After the Trojan wars he struggled for many years against great hardships to return to his kingdom of Ithaca. I think you might enjoy it, William. It seems to me that you share Odysseus’s spirit.’

‘Thank you, Mister Watson.’

Inside was written;
For William, happy Christmas from your friend E. Watson
. He turned the book over in his hands. It was bound in dark blue leather with gold lettering, the pages inside crisp and white. It had a distinct smell of libraries; of learning and history, and immediately the book became William’s most treasured possession. He vowed that he would keep it always, and that one day he would fill an entire room of the large house he would live in with other books just like it, though this one would always hold a special place. He felt that the packet of tobacco that he had bought for Mister Watson was a poor gift in comparison, though his teacher seemed very pleased and surprised.

‘Enjoy your holiday, William. I’ll see you when you come back,’ he said as they shook hands.

The following day, William caught the train to Brixworth and was met at the station by his father, who hugged him tightly and said that he was glad that he was home. The familiar smells of his father’s clothes evoked a sudden, unexpected welling of homesickness. There in his father’s strong embrace was the forge with its smoky heat, the ring of hammer on red hot iron and the stamp of a horse’s hoof, the snap of meadow grass underfoot and the dew frozen white by a hoar frost. There were the scents of the cottage too, of the stove in the kitchen where a rabbit or pigeon cooked in the oven, the sweet tang of hops from a glass of beer his father drank after his work and the smell of the pipe tobacco he smoked by the fire.

When they parted, William tried to hide his tears, but his father’s eyes were as wet as his own and they sniffed and laughed at one another with awkward love.

‘You’ve grown, Will,’ Reynolds said when he could look properly at his son and then his brow creased in puzzlement. ‘Where’s your crutch?’

‘I can manage with a cane now,’ William told him proudly. ‘At least for a little way. My leg feels much stronger.’

He explained his regime of walking, and talked about the encouragement Mister Watson had given him. As he spoke, William’s father looked increasingly bemused until in the end William had to ask what was wrong with him.

‘It’s how you talk, Will. You sound like a proper gentleman already. Your mam’d be proud as can be if she heard you.’ He smiled, though there was a shade of sadness in his eyes too.

On the way back to the village in the cart, William answered his father’s questions about the school, elaborating on what he had already told him in his letters. He said that he was doing well in his classes, though Latin and Greek were difficult. He had a lot to catch up on, as the other boys already knew quite a lot, though he was getting better now that Mister Watkins was helping him.

‘Who are your friends, Will? You never write about them,’ his father wanted to know.

‘Oh, there are lots of them. All the boys in my dorm. There’s Thompson of course, you met him when you took me to Oundle on my first day, and then there’s Carmichael and Yardley, they’re in my dorm too.’

His father seemed reassured, and if he noticed that William never mentioned any of their names again during the holidays he didn’t say anything. After he’d painted a rosy picture of his life at the school, William asked all about the village and his friends, and how things were at the forge, and for the rest of the journey they didn’t speak about Oundle again.

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.