The Sword Bearer (2 page)

Don't let me give you the wrong idea about Grandma Wilson. She was kind. She did all she could to make John happy. She was a smiling, fat old lady whose white hair had a yellow streak in it and was tied in a bun at the back She always wore white blouses and dark gray skirts that came down to her ankles. She read John stories long after he could read for himself. There was something special about the way Grandma read which made the stories seem more exciting than when John read them alone. He especially liked the stories by Nesbitt, like
The Phoenix and the Carpet.
So for years he had coaxed her to read and had sat on the floor, snuggling against her knees and feeling the warmth from the fire as he closed his eyes and listened.

She was proud of John and even more proud after he had won his scholarship to Salford Grammar School, a sort of special high school for boys only. Salford Grammar School was a mile from Pimblett's Place, the side street John lived on, and he walked there and back twice a day. At that school they had forms instead of grades, and John was in a form called third form removed, a form for bright students who were skipping a year.

He liked the school, but soon after he arrived in form 1 (the equivalent of seventh grade) things became difficult, not at school, but on Ellor Street. No one from anywhere near where John lived had ever gone to Salford Grammar School before. It was a school for "toffs" and "snobs" and "sissies"—or so the boys on Ellor Street said. What made it worse was that John had won money with his scholarship so that he could buy things like the school uniform. And it was the uniform, just as it had used to be the pink ribbon, that caused the problem.

There were gray shorts and gray socks with green bands round the top. There was also a green blazer trimmed around the edges, and the collar had a bright yellow ribbon. On the pocket a yellow lion was embroidered, glaring defiantly. And from the front of the green school cap John had to wear, the same yellow lion clawed aggressively at anyone who cared to take notice.

And a gang of boys roaming Ellor Street were happy to do so, snatching the cap from John's head and tossing it from one to another. Grandma Wilson had taught John not to fight. But John soon found that it was fight or go under. He decided one day that a sudden and ferocious attack on the leader of the gang would be the best strategy, fists pummeling as accurately as possible on the gang-leader's nose. I don't know that he was right in his decision, but after a couple such attacks—all of which ended in victory—the gang became decidedly friendlier. There was no more hat snatching and no more name calling.

He held his head higher after that He was not only clever. He was tough—or so he thought. Secretly he began to look down on the Ellor Street gang. Who else was smart enough to go to Salford Grammar School and strong enough to hold his own against this gang?

John Wilson continued to hobble, right foot in the gutter, left foot up on the curb and twelve more lamp posts to go. He also continued to whistle. He was not only happy about his birthday cake and the solution to his mystery, but about something that had happened in school that afternoon. The teachers, who were all men and were called masters, wore black gowns over their jackets, gowns that were something like modern graduation gowns, only much more full and having sleeves that hung low. And among the boys there was a competition to see who could tear the biggest piece of silk from a master's gown.

This was easier to do with some masters than with others.The German master's gown was in tatters. The French master's gown looked perfectly new. The French master never smiled. He had a little black lump in the middle of his forehead that he could move. He spoke quietly, and you knew just by looking at him that to fool with him was to invite disaster. German lessons tended to be rowdy, whereas French lessons were orderly and subdued. You really got to know French, but even if you were good you barely scraped through in German. I
think
the German master enjoyed getting his gown torn and just pretended not to notice when it was happening. Or he would say, "Oh, confound it! I'm forever ripping this dratted thing!"

To tear a master's gown you had to wait until he stood beside your desk with his back to you. You then hooked his gown on a nail on the side of your desk, or else trapped it under your desk lid and leaned hard with your elbows on the lid. Some of the masters had the habit of moving suddenly toward the front of the classroom, and there would be a ripping noise as a new tear was made.

It took at least two and sometimes three or four tears before you could actually capture a ragged bit of black silk and John Wilson had captured his first piece that afternoon. I can't say I approve, and I approve even less of the fact that he was hugely delighted.

In his dreamy mind it was not just a piece of black silk, it was a piece of King Saul's robe and John Wilson was David, waving it in triumph. Then it was a piece of yellow silk cut from the robe of an enemy of the Genghis Khan, who was telling him that from then on he would be given the fastest horse on the steppes of Asia and that he would ride beside his master in triumph to the very heart of China.

His dream began to fade as he stared into the deepening obscurity. The light from the next lamp had not appeared. He took off his glasses and rubbed them carefully with his dirty handkerchief. One lens was loose and he wiped it cautiously, taking care not to push it out But he could see no better when he put his glasses back on. Cautiously he edged forward into the foggy darkness.

What happened next took place too suddenly for John to realize what was going on.

He bumped against something or someone very solid, tripped and fell, banging his head against a lamp post as he did so, and knocking off his glasses. From above his head there came the sound of breaking glass. Pieces of glass fell on him and on the pavement around him. A familiar voice was muttering curses. He had bumped into Mr. Leadbetter the lamplighter, jerking Mr. Leadbetter's lighting pole through the glass of the lamp far above them both. (Mr. Leadbetter had a pole with a hook and a flame on the end of it, the hook to turn the gas on and the flame to light the mande.)

"Oh, Mr. Leadbetter, I really am sorry," John said. "I couldn't see you."

"Is that young John Wilson?" the lamplighter asked. "I suppose it couldn't be 'elped, lad. Are you all right?"

John fingered his forehead where a lump was slowly rising. "I've knocked me glasses off," was all he said.

Carefully the lamplighter rested his long pole against the wall of a store beside them. Then he got down on his hands and knees with John, groping around in search of the spectacles. "I 'ope it's not smashed," Mr. Leadbetter said slowly. " 'Ere. What's this?"

In the dimness John could see his glasses in Mr. Leadbetter's big hands. "Thanks, Mr. Leadbetter," he sighed with relief. "One of the lenses is loose."

"Ay, an' it's not there now."

It took them a little longer to find the lens, and to John's delight it was not broken. "It's not even cracked, lad," the lamplighter said as John clicked the lens back into place.

Slowly they walked together, and John waited at each lamp post while the lamplighter pushed his flame-tipped pole up inside the lamp. With the hook he would turn the gas on, and John could hear the faint hiss followed by a popping sound as the mande suddenly glowed white and clear.

"It's me birthday today," John said after a while.

"Is it now? Many 'appy returns, lad! 'Ow old are you?"

"Thirteen," John answered proudly.

"Ee, bah gum! Thirteen! They'll be 'avin' you in long pants before you know what's 'appened!" English schoolboys wore shorts in those days.

"Me granny's going to get me a suit when she's got the money."

Soon they arrived at Pimblett's Place, where the lamps had already been lit. "Good-by, young John. Eat a piece of cake for me, will you? Don't forget now!"

His tall figure dissolved into the fog and John waited until his muffled footsteps grew silent before turning toward home. Pimblett's Place was a short street ending in a tall brick wall topped with broken glass. The terraced houses, blackened with grime and soot, huddled together as if to comfort one another. There were no gardens. Front doors opened directly onto the pavement.

John hurried down the street to his grandmother's house. Squeezed against a high brick wall, it was the last house on the left. He opened the door shouting "Hello, Granma! I'm home!"

But the house was in darkness. "That's funny. She must have gone to the shop for something," he murmured, groping his way forward into the blackness. "I wonder why she didn't leave the gas light on." His foot met something solid, and he pitched forward and fell for the second time that evening. He found himself lying on a cloth-covered mound. For a moment he did not move.

"Granny?" he breathed at last. His hands groped along the clothing until his fingers found her cold face, and he gave a gasp of fear.

"Granny!" Then louder, "Granny!" But there was neither sound nor movement. With a half sob, his panic mounting, he pushed himself up and carefully found his way over her and into the kitchen in search of the matchbox which she always kept on the mantlepiece above the fireplace. With shaking fingers he pulled a match from the box but immediately broke it in his eagerness to light it.

Another match, fingers still shaking. Then the soft glow, the low hiss of the gas and a popping sound as the gas mande burst into light He turned and saw his grandmother, her skirt and legs in the kitchen where she had fallen at the entrance to the hallway and the rest of her beyond in the darkness.

"Granny—you'll be all right, Granny. Don't worry, Granny, I'm going to get Mrs. Smith." He knelt beside her body, his own body shaking as he tried to shake hers. "Granny, it's me, John. You're all right now."

He got up quickly and ran to the scullery. A flannel, that's what she needed, a wet flannel. That would make her come to.

But the flannel didn't make her come to, and as he turned her head toward him, he was shocked to see her eyes were wide open and staring, staring fixedly beyond his shoulder. "Oh, no!
No,
Granny! You'll be all right I'll go and fetch Mrs. Smith. She'll know what to do. Just lie here a minute and wait"

He ran into the foggy darkness to rap on the door of the next house. "Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith! Something's happened to me granma! Mrs. Smith! Hurry, Mrs. Smith!" He continued to knock at the door.

" 'Ere, lad, what's tha' doin'? What's tha' makin' such a to-do about?"

"It's me granma! She's lyin' in th' hallway! She's ill! Please come, Mrs. Smith."

The tall lady wasted no time. She pushed past John and hurried into the hallway of his grandmother's house. A man's voice called from somewhere in the Smith's house. "Is she all right Elsie? What's 'appened?"

John was standing in the corridor behind Mrs. Smith who was kneeling down by his grandmother. He could hear Mr.Smith's footsteps walking hurriedly from the one house to the other.

"I think she's gone, 'Arold. I think she's gone. She must 'ave 'ad a stroke. Go an' fetch th' doctor. Tell 'im to come at once."

The man turned and began to run down Pimblett's Place toward Ellor Street and the nearest doctor. John was still shaking as he watched Mrs. Smith pull the woolen shawl from around her shoulders and lay it gently across his grandmother's head and shoulders to hide the staring eyes.

"Mrs. Smith!" John's voice was not working properly. "Is she—is she ... ?"

Mrs. Smith rose to her feet and pulled him close to her, holding him against her warm body and rocking him gently from side to side. For a few moments she said nothing. Then, "It'll be all right. It'll be all right, young John. You see if it won't. You're goin' to be all right."

But John knew, knew by what Mrs. Smith had not said as well as what she had already said.
Gone
meant "dead." His grandmother was dead and Mrs. Smith didn't want to tell him.

His panic had left him, and he was strangely calm. His eyes were tearless and his mouth dry. He felt very, very wide awake, but at the same time felt as though nothing was quite real.

He let himself be held by Mrs. Smith who seemed to be talking to herself as much as to him as she repeated endlessly, "It'll be all right, luv. It'll be all right."

They sent John upstairs, not as a punishment but because they said, "It would be better that way." Mrs. Smith promised to bring him some hot cocoa later on. "An' there's a birthday cake on th' kitchen table. Just imagine! On your birthday, young John. Well, well! These things do 'appen. Don't cry, lad. Don't cry."

Now though John did not feel in the least like crying, he was glad Mrs. Smith seemed to think he was. He knew he
ought
to cry. People in books always "wept piteously" when somebody died, and he felt guilty because he could not have wept piteous-ly even if he had tried. He tried to read a book but gave up. Grandma Wilson was dead. His mind could not grasp the idea. Nothing seemed real. What would happen to him? Would they let him stay in the house by himself? Why was he not crying? He felt only fidgety, restless and strange. The whole world was different, dreamlike.