England's Lane by Joseph Connolly

glimmering of fear—and I well know what that looks like because I see it in the mirror every bloody morning—but even then, only barely: the very tiniest glimmering, really. Won’t talk, of course. Won’t say anything to me about it, so you’re just left to wonder. Hardly speaks at all, now. Days can pass without a single word. Wearing, after a while. Very. Then later, when I’ve seen to Anthony and all of his doings—and that’s a day’s work in itself, believe you me—and once young Paul comes to fetch him and theyboth go off to school (and I thank the Lord for him, young Paul, I bless his head) … well then I bring her up another cup of tea, don’t I? Take away the old one, which she won’t have touched because she never ever does, and put down the fresh one in its place. And yes I did try, didn’t I? Of course I did. I did try not taking up the first of them—waste of money, waste of effort—but Christ Alive, you should’ve seen the state she got herself into. Agitation, that’s the word. Fingers all stiff and trembling, and up to her lips. Head going this way and that. So I went back to taking her up her early morning tea, and she went back to staring right at me, like I wasn’t even there at all.
    It’s just as well for Anthony that I’ve got this little confectioner’s. If I had, I don’t know—the ironmonger’s instead, Stammer’s say, then I don’t honestly reckon anyone at Anthony’s school would talk to him at all. Apart from Paul, I mean. He’s a good boy, Paul—really goes out of his way for our Anthony—and it’s uncommon in a lad, that is. Healthy young lad. Thinking of others. Because my Anthony, well … he’s got to slow him down, hasn’t he? Clunking along behind him in those blessed metal calipers that every morning I have to strap him tight into. Like he’s one of those poor little devils in a legend, or something—some young innocent, minding his own business, not doing any harm to a living soul, and here he is—trapped in a daily struggle, locked into a nightly torture. Not fair, is it? Not fair at all. And eternal. Relentless. Never ending. Until, of course, it does end. So no—it’s hardly fair, hardly fair at all. But then who ever said it would be? Life isn’t, is it? Famously. Ever fair. It’s a cheat, that’s what it is: a lying cheat. And being the sweetshop owner’s boy, Anthony, he’s heard all of the jokes: “Ah—Polio. The mint with the hole.” Yeh. Not so funny after the first few hundred times. It’s his life that’s got the hole. Right through the bloody middle. It’s his life that’s got the hole. Jesus wept. Lovelylad, though. Doesn’t complain. Love him so much. Asks me, time to time, when he’ll be better. Don’t know son, I say to him. Soon, I hope. I daresay soon. You keep up with all the exercises and what have you and you’ll be breaking the four-minute mile. Once he came home from school and he said that all the boys were going to get vaccinated. So if I get vaccinated, Dad—will it all go away? Not sure son, I say to him. Not sure that’s how it works. Not too sure that’s the way it goes. And he’s the only one in his year who’s cursed with the damn thing, you know, and that’s against all the odds. So why was it me then, Dad? Don’t know son, I say to him. Just the way of it, I suppose. How it all falls out. Lovely lad, though. Doesn’t complain. Love him so much … Anyway.
    I think it was the first sight of him, though, with his little crutches and all—I think, looking back, that’s what tipped my Janey over. Over the edge, sort of thing. I mean, she wasn’t A1 even before. Always nervy. Delicate little thing. Spent half her own childhood in a bloody hospital. Then there was Freddie, our first. Nine