the growing structure. He wanted it to be the best, and it would be.
There was such an air of certainty about him that pretty and dapper Peggy Boxer, in her perfect little felt jacket (made by her mother) and her spot-on little pixie hood of fluffy angora (made by her mother) and her bunny-ears gloves with bobbles (bobbles made by Peggy, the rest by her mother) came and held his hand. Just slid up slyly beside him and wriggled her hand into his.
'Get back at once,' said Florence. 'It's dangerous.' And she pulled the girl away and put her back with the other assorted pixie hoods and berets and plaits. Patrick, much interested at the warmth and softness of the very small hand, turned and waved at her. She waved back and beamed with pleasure, putting her chin on her gloved hands, much as she had seen Shirley Temple's pose in Animal Crackers.
The helpers built the bonfire higher than had ever been achieved before. Cheffy took the praise for it, squinting at Patrick to see how the land lay, but everyone knew it was really down to the boy. Patrick let it pass for he was now absorbed elsewhere. Between two women. Twelve-year-old Peggy eyed middle-aged Florence, and was eyed back in turn. Well over thirty years' difference in their ages but they both knew what was going on in that little scene.
Mr Murdoch persisted with Patrick. Maths was important and Patrick was good at it when he concentrated. It was a boy's school and it prided itself on its good results in the Sciences. Patrick was again to be kept in. 'But it's my birthday tomorrow,' he said.
'And how old will you be, boy?'
'Thirteen. Sir.'
'You'll be a little Euclid by your fourteenth birthday ’ said Mr Murdoch sarcastically. 'Or one of us will be six feet under. And it won't be me ...'
What Florence called Spirit - and the school called the Devil in Him
- made him perverse. Sometimes he refused to do his work, stuck out his lower lip, folded his arms, sat back in his desk and stared at the ceiling. Mr Murdoch, having warned him that he would be treated like an infant if it happened again, duly shut him in the stationery cupboard. Fortunately it had two glass panels. When the doors were opened at the end of the lesson, they found him sitting cross-legged on the floor with a construction made up of large and small paint brushes and ink bottles, rulers and pencils. 'What is it?' asked the teacher, amazed at its complexity. But Patrick was in no mood to be civil. In any case, anyone could see perfectly well that it was a bridge.
'When I leave school,' said Patrick, in a voice that had the teacher's fingertips tingling, 'I shall become the greatest builder of bridges since Brunel .'
'In that case,' said Mr Murdoch, swiping at the back of his head, 'you will first need to cross the Pons Asinorum ...' Patrick looked at him blankly.
'Pons - bridge, Asinorum - of asses: in other words, Parker - know your Euclid: the bridge of donkeys, the bridge of the ignorant, the bridge of learning which you must cross over in order to achieve building your Brunellian wonders ...'
Patrick looked up, smiling. 'Oh no, sir,' he said. "The bridges will be mine - they'll be known as Parkerian wonders ...'
Mr Murdoch said nothing, but he thought that they probably would be.
Audrey sent him a cake she had made at school. It was not a very good cake, as Florence pointed out, but he was impressed. When he telephoned her to thank her and they started to talk about the whole horrible business of class work, he said that he'd begun to see the sense of numbers. At least with sums you were right or wrong and that was that. Audrey laughed. That was the problem with sums. There was only ever one answer and if you didn't know it you could go hang. You had to be clever for them and she certainly wasn't that. She much preferred Poetry and English - you had a bit of leeway there. Even her little brother was better at numbers than she was. Oh no. She just couldn't make sense of them beyond adding and
There was such an air of certainty about him that pretty and dapper Peggy Boxer, in her perfect little felt jacket (made by her mother) and her spot-on little pixie hood of fluffy angora (made by her mother) and her bunny-ears gloves with bobbles (bobbles made by Peggy, the rest by her mother) came and held his hand. Just slid up slyly beside him and wriggled her hand into his.
'Get back at once,' said Florence. 'It's dangerous.' And she pulled the girl away and put her back with the other assorted pixie hoods and berets and plaits. Patrick, much interested at the warmth and softness of the very small hand, turned and waved at her. She waved back and beamed with pleasure, putting her chin on her gloved hands, much as she had seen Shirley Temple's pose in Animal Crackers.
The helpers built the bonfire higher than had ever been achieved before. Cheffy took the praise for it, squinting at Patrick to see how the land lay, but everyone knew it was really down to the boy. Patrick let it pass for he was now absorbed elsewhere. Between two women. Twelve-year-old Peggy eyed middle-aged Florence, and was eyed back in turn. Well over thirty years' difference in their ages but they both knew what was going on in that little scene.
Mr Murdoch persisted with Patrick. Maths was important and Patrick was good at it when he concentrated. It was a boy's school and it prided itself on its good results in the Sciences. Patrick was again to be kept in. 'But it's my birthday tomorrow,' he said.
'And how old will you be, boy?'
'Thirteen. Sir.'
'You'll be a little Euclid by your fourteenth birthday ’ said Mr Murdoch sarcastically. 'Or one of us will be six feet under. And it won't be me ...'
What Florence called Spirit - and the school called the Devil in Him
- made him perverse. Sometimes he refused to do his work, stuck out his lower lip, folded his arms, sat back in his desk and stared at the ceiling. Mr Murdoch, having warned him that he would be treated like an infant if it happened again, duly shut him in the stationery cupboard. Fortunately it had two glass panels. When the doors were opened at the end of the lesson, they found him sitting cross-legged on the floor with a construction made up of large and small paint brushes and ink bottles, rulers and pencils. 'What is it?' asked the teacher, amazed at its complexity. But Patrick was in no mood to be civil. In any case, anyone could see perfectly well that it was a bridge.
'When I leave school,' said Patrick, in a voice that had the teacher's fingertips tingling, 'I shall become the greatest builder of bridges since Brunel .'
'In that case,' said Mr Murdoch, swiping at the back of his head, 'you will first need to cross the Pons Asinorum ...' Patrick looked at him blankly.
'Pons - bridge, Asinorum - of asses: in other words, Parker - know your Euclid: the bridge of donkeys, the bridge of the ignorant, the bridge of learning which you must cross over in order to achieve building your Brunellian wonders ...'
Patrick looked up, smiling. 'Oh no, sir,' he said. "The bridges will be mine - they'll be known as Parkerian wonders ...'
Mr Murdoch said nothing, but he thought that they probably would be.
Audrey sent him a cake she had made at school. It was not a very good cake, as Florence pointed out, but he was impressed. When he telephoned her to thank her and they started to talk about the whole horrible business of class work, he said that he'd begun to see the sense of numbers. At least with sums you were right or wrong and that was that. Audrey laughed. That was the problem with sums. There was only ever one answer and if you didn't know it you could go hang. You had to be clever for them and she certainly wasn't that. She much preferred Poetry and English - you had a bit of leeway there. Even her little brother was better at numbers than she was. Oh no. She just couldn't make sense of them beyond adding and
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