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  The door opened. Even with advantage of the small step Madame Grey had no more than a head on Tristan. Her hair was long and greasy, some strands black, others whitening, each falling where it would so that her eyes were veiled and she had to cock her head to look at him.

  ‘Tristan. What do you have for me?’

  ‘A package for Mr Simpson, Ma’am,’ Tristan said, bobbing his head down in careful respect. He did not know why he did this. No one had ever told him to, but each time he faced her he felt it happening.

  ‘Mr Simpson passed in the night, Tristan.’

  Tristan looked to his feet and muttered a reflexive prayer.

  ‘But no point it going to waste,’ Madame Grey smiled. She thrust out her hand, her one visible eye daring him to argue. Tristan knew what was in the bag: he had seen the priest measuring it out. A dried herb for the pain, shredded like wood shavings, its scent sweet and pungent.

  ‘There will be others, Tristan, who can use it just as well. It will save you coming back here tomorrow.’ With her other hand she pressed a carefully folded note into his small palm.

  ‘You are a good boy, that he can trust you in this way. A little extra for a prayer, Tristan, and say one for him yourself. May his soul reach heaven too quick for the devil.’

  She touched her forehead in the customary manner and Tristan did the same.

  There was movement within and Madame Grey pulled back to the shadows. Two young men, sleeves rolled up, manoeuvred Mr Simpson’s gaunt frame through the doorway. Their hands were at his shoulders and his head lolled back, stretching the neck until Tristan was sure it should snap. Tristan backed away, both appalled and fascinated by the way the exposed skin dented to every touch and how the dead man’s gums had receded, making his yellowed teeth appear unnaturally long. One of the men noted Tristan’s interest and offered a conspiratorial leer.

  Tristan turned and ran towards the darkening sky. There was rain coming. That was good. When it rained Father Carmichael let the boys shelter in the choir loft. When it rained Tristan got to watch the service.

  The church was small and spare, well matched to its congregation. Tristan looked down on their ailing heads, the exposed scalps dry and flaking. Only those who could no longer work attended daytime services, and those who could not work did not have long to make their peace with God. There were four other errand boys in the loft. They busied themselves with the usual games, bruising the air with silent farts and shaping obscenities with their fingers. Tristan played along, but his mind was on the lilting sermon. He watched Father Carmichael’s bony figure turn, splendid in its priestly robes, and heard his voice grow strong with authority. Father Carmichael was a man who mattered. When he spoke others listened. The exact opposite of Tristan’s father.

  Tristan loved his father, but he did not wish to become like him. He knew he would not be strong enough to carry the suffering.

  Tristan looked at The Holy Works open on the altar, its pages extending wider than his young arms could reach. A person who could read a book like that would never need worry about his place in the world. A man with knowledge like that would never go hungry.

  After the service, Tristan followed the priest into the sacristy.

  ‘Excuse me, Father.’

  The old man turned.

  ‘Tristan, what are you doing back here?’

  ‘I have come to ask a favour.’

  ‘And what favour might that be?’

  Tristan paused, understanding at once how important the answer would be.

  ‘I would like you to teach me to read, Father, please.’

  Father Carmichael looked away as if he did not trust his first reaction and returned to the task of folding his vestments. Tristan watched the priest’s hands. He had not noticed them before. The knuckles were sculpted huge by arthritis, making claws of the fingers. The skin though was smooth like a child’s.

  ‘What good do you think such learning would do, Tristan?’

  Still the priest did not meet the young boy’s eyes.

  Tristan considered the question carefully.

  ‘Will you die soon?’ he asked.

  ‘I expect so.’ A smile took hold of Father Carmichael’s face. ‘But that does not answer my question.’

  ‘I will not die soon,’ Tristan explained. ‘I am young. That is why you should teach me to read. That is the good it will do.’

  Father Carmichael crouched and ruffled Tristan’s hair. He stared, as if he had never seen a boy’s face before. Tristan hopped from one foot to the other, bursting with not knowing.

  ‘What will your father say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he might be pleased.’

  Father Carmichael shook his head and Tristan saw sadness in his eyes.

  ‘You must ask him first. I need his permission. Do you understand?’

  Tristan nodded.

  ‘And I cannot teach you if you do not practise. Do you promise me you will practise every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are there books in the house for you to practise on?’

  Again Tristan nodded, although half of it was a lie. There was only one book: a pocket edition of The Holy Works, stuffed in a gap beneath the window to keep out the draught, coated in dust and disinterest.

  ‘Very well. If your father agrees, you can come here early tomorrow morning, as soon as you’ve had your breakfast. There is little time to waste.’

  It wasn’t that Tristan did not intend to ask. He rehearsed his question during each mouthful, determined to speak just as soon as he’d swallowed the stringy meat. But the words refused to come free, as if some other great force had hold of them. He felt a tightness in his chest, a crushing sensation. The walls felt closer that night; the acrid smell from the street latrine burned more sharply in his nose. The overhead bulb dimmed and glowed, and shadows pulsed across his father’s tired face. The workers’ quarter was rationed to one hour’s electricity each day. They used it for this—cooking and eating together. When the time was up, they retired to bed.

  ‘How was your day?’ his father asked.

  ‘I stayed indoors, as you told me to,’ Tristan lied.

  This then would be his tactic. He would lie to them both. He was used to it. When he could read properly he would surprise his father with his skill. It would be his gift to him. The plan grew solid as the words slipped free. ‘I’m glad I did. The rain was heavy this afternoon.’

  ‘It was,’ his father agreed, carefully dividing the last portion of bread in two and handing his boy the greater share. ‘Come on, eat quickly, before the darkness comes.’

  Father Carmichael was an enthusiastic teacher. They read together from The Children’s Illustrated History of the Church. Tristan loved the pictures, rendered in the brightest colours he had ever seen. He read of the early prophets, Plato and Jesus, the crumbling of the Roman Empire and the coming of Augustine. Tristan liked the battle scenes best, the way the artist had captured the blood and pain. He imagined being amongst the soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, holding their line against the crusading Christians. The chapter’s final image portrayed a dark-skinned Augustinian hero, bloodied but unwearied, his silver sword plunged deep into the breast of the last of the invaders.

  Within five months Tristan was able to read the picture’s caption:

  Again God stood with those who stayed loyal to Him. And He will stand strong with you too, if you are brave enough to accept His call.

  Tristan practised his reading whenever he could. Father Carmichael offered to let him take The Illustrated History home but Tristan knew there was no place he could hide it. He struggled his way through the works of the Saint instead. The words Augustine used were not particularly difficult, but the concepts they explored were too dense for Tristan’s young brain and he felt it wrinkling with the effort. Will, freedom, destiny, grace and time. He couldn’t hope to grasp them. Sometimes he asked Father Carmichael for help with this, and although the priest seemed delighted by his interest, he
had the infuriating habit of meeting each question with another of his own:

  ‘How is it, Father, that I can be free, if God knows what it is I will do?’

  ‘Why should it not be like this?’

  ‘Because they do not go together.’

  ‘Why do they not go together?’

  ‘Because they are opposites, Father.’

  ‘Are night and day opposites?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘But don’t night and day go together?’

  ‘Not at the same time they don’t, Father.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ And here Father Carmichael would smile and bring the tips of his fingers to his lips in satisfaction. ‘And so we come back to time. Always we come back to time.’

  Tristan was not dispirited. He knew he was still young, and the prospect of one day understanding excited him. Knowledge sat on his horizon like a mountain waiting to be climbed. As he ran his errands he replayed his conversations with Father Carmichael, sometimes word for word, other times inserting new questions that came to him as he stepped over the cobbles, questions so ingenious that the teacher would be forced to admit defeat.

  Tristan found a new feeling taking hold of him, something lighter than happiness. His thoughts drifted more and more from the present to the future. Hope. That was it, even if he couldn’t name it. Hope lifted his gaze and floated his mind. He had no idea what lay ahead of him, but he knew it was something. Something beyond the workers’ quarter.

  He had only just turned into the street when he heard the shouting. It was his father’s voice, raised to a threat, the sound so wrong that it stopped Tristan dead. Wrong because his father did not come home during the day. Wrong because their small room never received visitors. And wrong because when he was angry Tristan’s father grew quiet not loud; his mouth closed up and his complaints stuck in his throat. But there was no denying it was his father’s voice. Tristan edged forward, frightened and curious. He tried to look through the window but the interior was too dark and he could make out only two figures, adult-sized shadows both turned towards him.

  ‘Tristan! Get in here now.’

  The two men faced off, as if contemplating an unlikely fist fight, Tristan’s father to the left, Father Carmichael to the right. Tristan slunk to the side wall, one eye on the door. He looked to Father Carmichael, hoping he might explain, but the priest said nothing.

  ‘Is it true, Tristan?’ his father demanded. ‘Is it true you have been lying to me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘So, you’ve been lying to me about more than one thing, have you?’

  ‘No.’ Tristan looked to the ground, digging at the dirt with his bare toe. He was caught in a trap he did not understand.

  ‘Then I’ll have none of your questions. Have you been lying to me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tristan admitted, feeling the insistent pressure of a seven-year-old’s tears.

  ‘About this?’

  His father stepped forward, thrusting the battered copy of The Holy Works into his small hands.

  ‘Father Carmichael—’

  ‘Don’t blame Father Carmichael.’ Tristan had never seen his father like this. Anger inflated him, making him taller, and wider at the shoulders.

  ‘He has been teaching me to read.’

  ‘I know; he has told me. So you can read now, can you? Come on then, read to me. Do it.’

  Tristan had imagined this moment many times, but never like this. His hands fumbled with the pages and he felt his future rise up before him, twisting into a shape he did not recognise.

  ‘You are great, Lord, and highly to be praised. High is your—’

  His father grabbed the book from Tristan’s grasp and hurled it to the ground, spitting where it landed. Tristan’s world turned watery.

  ‘Tell him then.’ His father prodded at the air that separated him from the priest. ‘Tell him what you asked me.’

  Through his tears Tristan saw that Father Carmichael remained unnaturally calm.

  ‘I am sorry, Tristan.’ The voice was soft and measured. ‘I thought you had told him. I asked you to, at the outset.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Tristan stammered. ‘I am sorry if I have got you into trouble. I just wanted to read.’ He turned to his father. ‘I just wanted to read, Dad. I thought you would be happy for me.’

  ‘Tell him!’ his father repeated, his eyes fixed on the priest.

  ‘I came here to ask your father’s permission. Your work, your reading and your questions, Tristan, they mark you out as an exceptional student. I have been to St Augustine’s to make your case. You have been granted a scholarship to study there.’

  Scholarships to St Augustine’s were rare. They went to the children of the aspiring classes: the nurses, teachers and clerks who could find money for tutoring. But a boy from the workers’ quarter? Such a thing was beyond dreams. Tristan waited for the joy that he knew belonged to such an announcement, but none came. He looked to his father, trying to understand the rage he could see still trembling on his lips.

  ‘Do you see, Tristan? He wants to take you from me. When your mother died, they…But I said no. I told them it would never happen, and now…Now they are back again.’

  ‘It is not as you think,’ Father Carmichael said.

  ‘Will he be taken from my house for this schooling?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then it is exactly as I think!’ his father shouted. ‘Tristan, tell him. Tell him you do not want to go.’

  Tristan had lied to his father many times, but he could not lie now.

  ‘But I want to go. I would like to go to St Augustine’s. It is just that—’

  His father would not let him explain.

  ‘Get out then,’ he roared, and Tristan knew he would never forget the pain that flashed in his father’s eyes. ‘Leave with him now and never come back. Go!’

  Tristan, his small frame racked with sobbing, did as he was told.

  She was moving again, her head slipping down to his chest, her shoulder digging into his as she sought an anchor. The pain was too much. He heard the sound of his scream echo itself to exhaustion.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘did I?’

  ‘My shoulder.’

  ‘You all right?’

  He wasn’t, of course. She knew that. Yet he lied. For politeness. For the rector.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I was just trying to move my back; it’s starting to…’

  She didn’t attempt to finish the sentence.

  ‘You made me cry,’ she said. ‘Your story made me cry.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I like it.’

  ‘You like crying?’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Pictures of St Augustine’s great entrance returned, magnified once more by the perspective of a small, breathless boy.

  ‘I started at St Augustine’s.’

  ‘And what was it like?’ she asked.

  ‘It is all you have heard. And more…’

  Nothing in Tristan’s short life had prepared him for the sights and scents of power. Above his head stone arches strained against the weight of their own existence. Delicate leaves carved from stone twisted their way around thick pillars which served no purpose other than to be twisted about: form for the glory of the Maker. It was grand and it was cold too; he understood this immediately. The floors were hard and the high ceilings curved into darkness. He felt small.

  Tristan stood in the middle of the row. Instinct placed him there, humility and caution both tugging in the same direction. The college had sent a list detailing the belongings the boys could bring with them and each of the new entrants stood with the single regulation bag at his feet. Father Carmichael had sourced the items for Tristan and had been careful to pack nothing extra. Tristan saw the other boys had not been so restrained. Their bags bulged against the zips, stuffed with illicit comforts.

  The rector was a tall man, with a thick waist, and balding, with a long arrowh
ead nose and eyes that hovered just on the other side of crossing. Tristan noticed none of these things. He did not notice the way the sash sank beneath the rector’s protuberant belly, or the polish of the shoes on his splayed feet. All he knew was that suddenly the rector was standing before the boys, as much a presence as a man. Every one of them took a small involuntary step back. The rector walked slowly up and down the line in which they had waited for thirty-five minutes, the fidgeters like Tristan aching with discomfort.

  ‘Welcome.’ His voice was oddly high for such a large man and his hands, Tristan noticed, were unexpectedly thick and strong. St Augustine’s was the City’s nursery, the place where its future germinated. The best of these boys would in time become the leaders. They would set the rates, fund the research institutes, write the prayers carved into the stones of the Grand Promenade. The boys held their collective breath as the rector glided by. When he reached the end of the line he waited, the pause perfectly matched to the capacity of small lungs.

  ‘Take your bag,’ the rector instructed, ‘and place it before the boy to your left. You at the end, take yours to the other end of the row.’

  Tristan set his bag at the feet of a boy with a soft fringe and haughty gaze. The recipient’s jaw muscles twitched, betraying his attempt to appear unmoved. The boy to Tristan’s right was soft and dimpled. He placed his belongings reluctantly at Tristan’s feet. Tristan smiled his thanks, but received nothing in return. Whatever the good fortune that awaited him in that bag, there would be a price to pay.

  That evening the rector lectured them on the foundations of Augustinian philosophy for three solid hours. At the end he threw questions at his startled audience, probing for weakness. Any boy that could not provide a satisfactory answer was brought to the front and made to pray for God’s grace. Tristan was one of only three boys who made no mistakes. Although that was a mistake as well. The hardest people to love are our betters. Many years later the rector explained this to him.

  Tristan’s attackers waited until the night lights had been extinguished and the brothers had returned to their rooms. A firm hand was placed across his mouth although it wasn’t necessary; Tristan knew better than to scream. He was dragged from his bed and taken to the courtyard. There they pushed him up against the fountain. Nobody spoke. The game was simple. They held his head under the water until he struggled. When he struggled they pulled him up and beat the remaining air from his gasping body. On the third ducking he worked it out: stay down, do not resist, find out what it is they want. Tristan pretended to black out, going limp in their arms. They counted to five then hauled him from the water, throwing his flaccid form onto the paving.