delighted Tom. Discipline rolled off his back, but a visit from Riley was a jewel beyond measure.
Tom was standing outside the Head’s study when Riley appeared, and grinned like a loon at the sight of him. Riley grinned back, his constricted harlequin smile. Just then, two seniors lounged past, which distracted Tom for a moment. One of them, Slater, had on a previous occasion suggested that Tom’s mother was negligent, as she never appeared at sporting events. ‘Oh no,’ Tom had said, ‘I have no ma’ – with a flick of his big blue eyes – very like his mother’s, in fact – which had led Slater to think that perhaps Locke’s mater was a runaway. ‘Has she bolted then?’ Slater had asked, scenting prey. ‘You could put it that way,’ Tom had said, with the slightly amused-looking expression he used for covering what he point-blank refused to talk about. His mother – Julia. Julia. Joooolia – had been dead for ten years, died having Kitty, the kid sister – bad bargain probably. Of course he didn’t talk about her. A chap wouldn’t even talk about a living mater, let alone a dead one. And anyway Nadine was a perfectly good substitute.
And anyway if he started talking about mothers he’d have to start thinking about them, and fathers too. Nadine had said, during Tom’s last exeat, ‘Peter is so much better than he has been, isn’t he, Tom, since he went to France with Riley? I’m so glad he’s writing his book now.’
The book was about Homer and the Great War. Tom had shrugged. Perhaps when Peter came out of his study he wasn’t as odd and unpleasant as he used to be, and he smelt a bit better, but Tom still had nothing to say to him.
Not that any of that was any of Slater’s beeswax. So Slater had been confused, and, not being very intelligent, had marked Locke as an enemy and potential victim.
Now, as they ambled by, Slater and his companion caught sight of Riley’s face, or to be precise its unlikely shape, and the scars which held it together. They stalled, walked on, giggled, then turned back and behind Riley’s head started a little dance of mockery, fingers pulling at the flesh of their own young faces, eyes rolling, at Tom.
Tom flared.
‘What is it?’ said Riley, turning. The T was lost in the ghost of the cockney accent of his childhood; the entire phrase just caught in his rebuilt mouth.
‘Wo’ issit?’ leered Slater.
So Tom lurched forward, punched him, kicked the other in the balls, and to his shame let the words escape him, ‘Don’t you bloody laugh at him, you bloody snobs!’
Riley, though he felt as strongly as ever the instinctive, instant urge to pull the lad out, restrained himself. His reason was impeccable: if his patched-up face were to suffer a blow he could lose the remains of his jaw, and be a half-head once again, and God knows what would become of him. He had promised Nadine, after the contretemps during the strikes in Wigan in 1919, to be careful. In fact, he’d promised her again last week, when he’d told her about dropping the splint while cleaning it, and needing to see Mr Gillies about a new one. Of course he had learnt that he had to behave.
So he stood back, just barked ‘Tom!’ and the Head came out. An unpleasant scene ensued. Slater was made to apologise, Riley was made to listen to it, and Tom was expelled.
They thought they might as well go home to London immediately, as soon as Matron had Tom’s trunk packed up.
Tom, a black eye rising mauve and cloudy on his white face, was simultaneously delighted with his fearsome defence of Riley’s honour, and deeply embarrassed by the fact that Riley knew what it had been over.
‘Don’t do it again,’ Riley said. ‘It’s understandable but not useful.’
‘Never?’ said Tom. Though many didn’t, Tom understood Riley’s constricted speech clearly. He wanted to, which helped.
‘Never,’ said Riley.
‘So, you’re saying, violence is never to be used?’ said Tom.
‘It’s very rarely a useful response,’ said Riley. ‘Don’t put words in my mouth’ – with a little smile. He looked tired.
‘Shall we see if we can get a cup of tea?’ Tom said. ‘Evans will probably make one for us.’
So they slipped off to the sickbay, where Evans the under-under-matron, sixteen and as pretty as a Renoir, laughed and glanced and provided not just tea but digestive biscuits, with a fair amount of ‘Oh, I shouldn’t,’ and ‘If Mrs Dale catches us!’ and ‘He’s got us all eating out of his hand, Mr Locke, sir.’
Riley was accustomed to being Mr Locke on such occasions, and let it pass. Evans may well have been wondering why Tom Locke, pale and blond and tall for his age, looked nothing like his broad-shouldered, black-curled dad, but then Tom said: ‘I’m off, Evans – been chucked out again …’ Her face actually fell, and her ‘oh!’ was small and soft.
Riley noticed that Tom did not notice.
Walking out to the car, Riley said, ‘By the way—’ but by the time he said it, Tom had already seen. A long tall figure was leaning against a narrow tree, smoking. Tom found that his face had gone a little hard and he was looking at the ground. He’d have to go in the back of the car now. And – Peter! Out of doors!
‘Hello, Tom,’ Peter said. He dropped his cigarette on the hard muddy path and came forward.
There’ll be hell to pay for someone, Tom thought. Cigarette ends in the grounds. ‘Hello,’ he said, with just enough courtesy not to annoy Riley.
‘Didn’t want to swim, eh?’ said Peter. ‘Thought you liked swimming.’
Since when did you ever know anything about me? Tom thought.
‘Not always, sir,’ he said, and glanced up, and saw that Peter didn’t seem saddened by this response, and that Riley looked almost approving. It’s so hard to tell with grown-ups if they ever actually feel bad about anything at all. They’re just oblivious or happy or angry. Perhaps sadness is only for children.
It was not the first time he’d thought this. But when you are born into sadness, and normality is based on it, it is difficult to winnow out what sadness actually is. Happiness now – happiness was a recognised stranger, to be welcomed with a big embrace and clung to like a departing parent. Tom always had his eye out for happiness, and grabbed it where he could. For example: Tom had very much looked forward to being with Riley, and talking as they drove back up to London. He thought it definitely worth being expelled for. But with Peter there, it could not be. As well as Peter being the gooseberry, it was much harder to follow Riley’s speech over the engine noise when you were sitting in the back. You couldn’t see his face.
Riley said, ‘We need to find you another school. Assuming there’s any left that will have you.’
Tom’s eyes flickered over the dull green fields outside; heavy wet English summer. He appreciated Riley’s attempts to interest him in ordinary education and proper work. He terribly wanted to indulge him, but he couldn’t care less about education – and how could he say
