August (3 page)

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 arrowhead 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.