instead.
He went up to his son and awkwardly patting the top of his arm said, 'You know the easiest way is to do what you're told. The more you make a fuss, the more you'll make it difficult for yourself.'
'Like you, you mean?' said Patrick under his breath. 'Bugger that.'
School work was hard and he was not excused doing it. Indeed, he was made to stay in until it had been achieved. His class teacher, Mr Murdoch, who also taught maths, used the famous and chilling lines, 'I'm not going anywhere. I've got all night if necessary . . .' Which Patrick was inclined to believe. It wasn't that maths wasn't interesting, or that he couldn't do it - it was being told to do it that riled him. Then the teachers began disciplining him in earnest - even to slapping his head when he pinched a smaller boy - which he took very badly. It made him ill and he went home and he told his mother. Florence, this time with George in tow, since both parents had been requested, set off for the school and the Headmaster.
'Tell him, George ’ she said, as they stood facing Mr Henning across his desk. 'Tell him about hitting Patrick.'
But George was privately rather in favour of it.
'It seems to me ’ he said, 'that if it is true and Patrick has hurt someone, then he must learn how it feels by being hurt back.'
It was one of the longest sentences Florence had ever heard him utter. The Headmaster shook his hand, nodded sternly at Florence.
And they left.
Back at home she told Patrick, 'Your father said to Mr Henning that it was all right to hit you any time they like.'
Patrick glared at his father. George returned to his armchair on one side of the range like a dog sent back to its basket. He could never win. Well, not in this life anyway. And he hoped to God there was nothing of the same going when you passed over to the other side. He was counting on Heaven being a Florence-free zone. Perhaps even with Lilly in it. He had begun to think about her again, even to dream of her. He missed her very much. He had given her up for the sake of his fatherhood, and his fatherhood had not made it worth his while.
On Fireworks Night Jimmy knocked on the door (bold as brass, as Florence put it) and asked Patrick out. 'I knew you'd want to help with the guy,' said Jimmy, rubbing his hands and ignoring Florence's angry face.
'Oh no,' said Patrick, 'not that. It's because they're building a bonfire.'
Down in London, Little Audrey (who now requested, with dignity, that they should not call her Little any more) asked if she could help with the bonfire they were building on the bomb-site at the end of the street. Despite the Dawning of the New Elizabethan Age, as her mother and the neighbours were wont to remark sardonically, they still had a fair few such places round their way. Audrey rather liked these patches of wildness in among all the dull, new buildings. 'Bonfire?' said her father. 'Don't be daft.'
But she went up there anyway and stood at the edge of the space and watched the boys and the men throwing on old chairs and orange crates and rotten floorboards. It looked fun and dangerous but very haphazard. 'Keep back,' she and the Bamber girls were told. 'Right back, now.'
She watched as flaming objects, having been hurled on willy-nilly, tumbled off again. 'Wouldn't it be better if they made up the bonfire properly before they lit it?' she asked the night air, since no one else was listening.
In Coventry, with his mother wringing her hands and when she wasn't wringing them adjusting his scarf and cap and buttons,
Patrick Parker stood on the sidelines and told the teachers and the handyman where to put the planks and chairs and sticks just so. 'I'll give him where to put the sticks ...' muttered Cherry, the school caretaker. But he was only half - hearted in his irritation since the boy's suggestions worked. Even Mr Murdoch smiled at him but Patrick only gave him a haughty look back and went on pointing an imperious, absolutely confident, finger at
He went up to his son and awkwardly patting the top of his arm said, 'You know the easiest way is to do what you're told. The more you make a fuss, the more you'll make it difficult for yourself.'
'Like you, you mean?' said Patrick under his breath. 'Bugger that.'
School work was hard and he was not excused doing it. Indeed, he was made to stay in until it had been achieved. His class teacher, Mr Murdoch, who also taught maths, used the famous and chilling lines, 'I'm not going anywhere. I've got all night if necessary . . .' Which Patrick was inclined to believe. It wasn't that maths wasn't interesting, or that he couldn't do it - it was being told to do it that riled him. Then the teachers began disciplining him in earnest - even to slapping his head when he pinched a smaller boy - which he took very badly. It made him ill and he went home and he told his mother. Florence, this time with George in tow, since both parents had been requested, set off for the school and the Headmaster.
'Tell him, George ’ she said, as they stood facing Mr Henning across his desk. 'Tell him about hitting Patrick.'
But George was privately rather in favour of it.
'It seems to me ’ he said, 'that if it is true and Patrick has hurt someone, then he must learn how it feels by being hurt back.'
It was one of the longest sentences Florence had ever heard him utter. The Headmaster shook his hand, nodded sternly at Florence.
And they left.
Back at home she told Patrick, 'Your father said to Mr Henning that it was all right to hit you any time they like.'
Patrick glared at his father. George returned to his armchair on one side of the range like a dog sent back to its basket. He could never win. Well, not in this life anyway. And he hoped to God there was nothing of the same going when you passed over to the other side. He was counting on Heaven being a Florence-free zone. Perhaps even with Lilly in it. He had begun to think about her again, even to dream of her. He missed her very much. He had given her up for the sake of his fatherhood, and his fatherhood had not made it worth his while.
On Fireworks Night Jimmy knocked on the door (bold as brass, as Florence put it) and asked Patrick out. 'I knew you'd want to help with the guy,' said Jimmy, rubbing his hands and ignoring Florence's angry face.
'Oh no,' said Patrick, 'not that. It's because they're building a bonfire.'
Down in London, Little Audrey (who now requested, with dignity, that they should not call her Little any more) asked if she could help with the bonfire they were building on the bomb-site at the end of the street. Despite the Dawning of the New Elizabethan Age, as her mother and the neighbours were wont to remark sardonically, they still had a fair few such places round their way. Audrey rather liked these patches of wildness in among all the dull, new buildings. 'Bonfire?' said her father. 'Don't be daft.'
But she went up there anyway and stood at the edge of the space and watched the boys and the men throwing on old chairs and orange crates and rotten floorboards. It looked fun and dangerous but very haphazard. 'Keep back,' she and the Bamber girls were told. 'Right back, now.'
She watched as flaming objects, having been hurled on willy-nilly, tumbled off again. 'Wouldn't it be better if they made up the bonfire properly before they lit it?' she asked the night air, since no one else was listening.
In Coventry, with his mother wringing her hands and when she wasn't wringing them adjusting his scarf and cap and buttons,
Patrick Parker stood on the sidelines and told the teachers and the handyman where to put the planks and chairs and sticks just so. 'I'll give him where to put the sticks ...' muttered Cherry, the school caretaker. But he was only half - hearted in his irritation since the boy's suggestions worked. Even Mr Murdoch smiled at him but Patrick only gave him a haughty look back and went on pointing an imperious, absolutely confident, finger at
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