sit about all day. I’ve told you the boy is out. Like enough he won’t be back till all hours – with the company he keeps. He’s a regular worry with his late hours and bad habits. Isn’t that so, Malcom?’
‘Malcom nodded sulkily.
‘You see!’ Mrs Glennie rushed on. ‘ If I was to tell you everything you’d be amazed. But it makes no difference, we’re Christian people here, we look after him. You have my word for it – he’s perfectly well and happy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Polly spoke primly; politely stifling a slight yawn with her glove, ‘for I’ve come to take him away.’
‘What!’ Taken aback, Mrs Glennie fumbled at the neck of her blouse, the colour flooding, then fading from her face.
‘I have a doctor’s certificate,’ Aunt Polly enunciated, almost masticated, the formidable phrase with a deadly relish, ‘that the boy is underfed, overworked and threatened with pleurisy.’
‘It’s not true.’
Polly pulled a letter from her muff and tapped it significantly with the head of her umbrella. ‘ Can you read the Queen’s English?’
‘It’s a lie, a wicked lie. He’s as fat and well fed as my own son!’
There was an interruption. Francis, flat against the door, following the scene in an agony of suspense, leaned too heavily against the rickety catch. The door flew open, he shot into the middle of the shop. There was a silence.
Aunt Polly’s preternatural calm had deepened. ‘Come over, boy. And stop shaking. Do you want to stay here?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Polly threw a look of justification towards the ceiling. ‘Then go and pack your things.’
‘I haven’t anything to pack.’
Polly stood up slowly, pulling on her gloves. ‘There’s nothing to keep us.’
Mrs Glennie took a step forward, white with fury. ‘You can’t walk over me. I’ll have the law on you.’
‘Go ahead, my woman.’ Polly meaningly restored the letter to her muff. ‘Then maybe we’ll find out how much of the money that came from the sale of poor Elizabeth’s furniture has been spent on her son and how much on yours.’
Again there was a shattered silence. The baker’s wife stood, pale, malignant and defeated, one hand clutching at her bosom.
‘Oh, let him go, Mother,’ Malcom whined. ‘It’ll be good riddance.’
Aunt Polly, cradling her umbrella, examined him from top to toe.
‘Young man, you’re a fool!’ She swung round towards Mrs Glennie. ‘As for you, woman,’ looking straight over her head, ‘you’re another!’
Taking Francis triumphantly by the shoulder, she propelled him, bare-headed, from the shop.
They proceeded in this fashion towards the station, her glove grasping the fabric of his jacket firmly, as though he were some rare and captive creature who might at any moment escape. Outside the station, she bought him, without comment, a bag of Abernethy biscuits, some cough drops, and a brand-new bowler hat. Seated opposite him in the train, serene, singular, erect, observing him moisten the dry biscuits with tears of thankfulness, extinguished almost by his new hat which enveloped him to the ears, she remarked with half-closed, judicial eyes: –
‘I always knew that creature was no lady, I could see it in her face. You made an awful mistake letting her get hold of you, Francis dear. The next thing we’ll do is get your hair cut!’
III
It was wonderful these frosty mornings to lie warm in bed until Aunt Polly brought his breakfast, a great plate of bacon and eggs still sizzling, boiling black tea and a pile of hot toast, all on an oval metal tray stamped Allgood’s Old Ale . Sometimes he woke early, in an agony of apprehension; then came the blessed knowledge that he need no longer fear the hooter. With a sob of relief he burrowed more deeply into his thick yellow blankets, in his cosy bedroom with its paper of climbing sweet peas, its stained boards and woolwork rug, a lithograph of Allgood’s Prize Brewery Dray Horse on one wall, of Pope
‘Malcom nodded sulkily.
‘You see!’ Mrs Glennie rushed on. ‘ If I was to tell you everything you’d be amazed. But it makes no difference, we’re Christian people here, we look after him. You have my word for it – he’s perfectly well and happy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Polly spoke primly; politely stifling a slight yawn with her glove, ‘for I’ve come to take him away.’
‘What!’ Taken aback, Mrs Glennie fumbled at the neck of her blouse, the colour flooding, then fading from her face.
‘I have a doctor’s certificate,’ Aunt Polly enunciated, almost masticated, the formidable phrase with a deadly relish, ‘that the boy is underfed, overworked and threatened with pleurisy.’
‘It’s not true.’
Polly pulled a letter from her muff and tapped it significantly with the head of her umbrella. ‘ Can you read the Queen’s English?’
‘It’s a lie, a wicked lie. He’s as fat and well fed as my own son!’
There was an interruption. Francis, flat against the door, following the scene in an agony of suspense, leaned too heavily against the rickety catch. The door flew open, he shot into the middle of the shop. There was a silence.
Aunt Polly’s preternatural calm had deepened. ‘Come over, boy. And stop shaking. Do you want to stay here?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Polly threw a look of justification towards the ceiling. ‘Then go and pack your things.’
‘I haven’t anything to pack.’
Polly stood up slowly, pulling on her gloves. ‘There’s nothing to keep us.’
Mrs Glennie took a step forward, white with fury. ‘You can’t walk over me. I’ll have the law on you.’
‘Go ahead, my woman.’ Polly meaningly restored the letter to her muff. ‘Then maybe we’ll find out how much of the money that came from the sale of poor Elizabeth’s furniture has been spent on her son and how much on yours.’
Again there was a shattered silence. The baker’s wife stood, pale, malignant and defeated, one hand clutching at her bosom.
‘Oh, let him go, Mother,’ Malcom whined. ‘It’ll be good riddance.’
Aunt Polly, cradling her umbrella, examined him from top to toe.
‘Young man, you’re a fool!’ She swung round towards Mrs Glennie. ‘As for you, woman,’ looking straight over her head, ‘you’re another!’
Taking Francis triumphantly by the shoulder, she propelled him, bare-headed, from the shop.
They proceeded in this fashion towards the station, her glove grasping the fabric of his jacket firmly, as though he were some rare and captive creature who might at any moment escape. Outside the station, she bought him, without comment, a bag of Abernethy biscuits, some cough drops, and a brand-new bowler hat. Seated opposite him in the train, serene, singular, erect, observing him moisten the dry biscuits with tears of thankfulness, extinguished almost by his new hat which enveloped him to the ears, she remarked with half-closed, judicial eyes: –
‘I always knew that creature was no lady, I could see it in her face. You made an awful mistake letting her get hold of you, Francis dear. The next thing we’ll do is get your hair cut!’
III
It was wonderful these frosty mornings to lie warm in bed until Aunt Polly brought his breakfast, a great plate of bacon and eggs still sizzling, boiling black tea and a pile of hot toast, all on an oval metal tray stamped Allgood’s Old Ale . Sometimes he woke early, in an agony of apprehension; then came the blessed knowledge that he need no longer fear the hooter. With a sob of relief he burrowed more deeply into his thick yellow blankets, in his cosy bedroom with its paper of climbing sweet peas, its stained boards and woolwork rug, a lithograph of Allgood’s Prize Brewery Dray Horse on one wall, of Pope
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