William copies out the last line of Martin’s writing. Martin’s smile is infectious. They grin at each other.
‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ Martin rests his hand on William’s shoulder.
‘What?’
‘How useful this is.’ He reaches across to William’s rough book and turns to a clean page. ‘Can you do your mum’s without having anything to copy?’
‘Of course.’
Martin puts one hand on the top of his head in excitement. ‘Write this,’ he whispers. ‘Dear Mr Atkinson, please excuse William from all homework this term. He is worn out and on the verge of collapse. Yours sincerely, Mrs Lavery.’
William laughs.
‘Or …’ Martin looks up to the corner of the ceiling, his broad teeth resting on his lower lip. ‘Dear Mr Atkinson, William was sick over Christmas. The doctor thinks he is allergic to fish, and says that he mustn’t eat kippers.’
William briefly imagines the relief of not having to swallow the soft bones every Friday, before shaking his head. ‘Imagine the trouble if I was found out.’
‘You could do one from my parents.’ Another wave of inspiration washes over Martin’s face. ‘Or anyone’s!’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You’d charge. Tuck rations.’ He sits up straighter and twists to face William. ‘We could be a team! I find the customers, you write the letters.’ His eyes dart round the room. ‘You’d have to do them before the Christmas holiday, then they can take them home and post them from there, so they’d have the right postmarks!’
‘I’d have to write the envelopes as well.’ William surprises himself by talking as though he is actually going to do it.
By the time Mr Hawthorn has given out prep questions, Martin has a list of boys to approach and William has a tangle of wire wool in his guts.
Mark Nettles is first, a tiny boy in the year above them. They are in the dorm, due at supper in ten minutes. Martin nods at Mark’s pocket.
‘Have you got everything? Sample writing? Note paper? Envelope?’
Mark nods back, his pointed face serious as he pulls out an envelope.
‘One of my mum’s letters is inside.’ He talks to Martin but passes it to William.
William can feel the spring of the folded letter squeezed into the envelope. He pulls it out and smooths it on the bed. The writing is a neat, italic script, not unlike his teacher in class two.
‘And I’ve written what I want you to say on the back of the envelope.’ Mark points.
William turns it over.
Dear Mr Atkinson,
Mark keeps feeling faint during evensong on Wednesday after rugby. Our doctor thinks if he doesn’t have to do Games he won’t feel faint and will sing better.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs Nettles.
William kneels down next to the bed, leaning the fresh paper on the dorm bible. ‘Tell me if you think I get anything wrong.’
‘Don’t worry, Mark, he won’t.’ Martin looks smug. William hopes he won’t let them all down.
It doesn’t take long and when it’s done, the boy’s face seems to lose its sharp edges and his eyes soften.
‘Brilliant!’ He stands holding the letter.
‘Hang on, I’ve got to address the envelope so you can post it from home.’
‘Impressive.’ Mark hands it back.
‘Get a move on, we’ve got to go and eat,’ Martin says.
‘Just think!’ Mark laughs as they leave the dorm. ‘No Games!’
‘And only half your tuck allowance for the first half of next term, plus this week’s.’ Martin pats Mark on the back.
As they walk into the dining hall and Cook’s face lifts ever so slightly when she sees him, William feels he’s crossed a threshold.
During the last week of term, he writes three more letters: one to get Charles out of dips due to a weak chest; one for Anthony, asking for bigger portions at lunch because the doctor says he’s too skinny; and finally for Martin (against William’s advice), whose mother demands that the tuck shop starts stocking shoe lace liquorice.
William’s first term ends in a sugar rush, as he and Martin chomp through Black Jacks, Fruit Salads and Bazooka bubble gum. Often, when he slides his hands into his pockets, they land in sticky sweet wrappers. Smiling, he sucks the goo from his fingers and runs to catch up with Martin, who is always striding a few paces ahead of him.
21
He wakes to ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’. Their flat is small enough to be filled with the noise coming from any one room and the smells of cooking from the kitchen. Today, it’s bacon and the rich coffee made in the metal jug from Italy. Pulled from the back of the cupboard to make the black syrupy stuff he loves to smell, the jug is synonymous with special occasions. His bedroom door swings open, the music and aromas increase, and Evelyn dances in with a tray, wearing her nightie, a Father Christmas hat, and green tinsel round her neck.
‘Happy Christmas to his Lordship.’ She moves towards his bed, hips swinging one way and the tray in her arms the other.
‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’ He grins, sitting up and putting his pillow behind his back. She places the tray on his lap; a mug of cocoa with a swirl of evaporated milk on top and a plate of bacon, eggs and fried bread.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she says, dancing out of the room. The music is turned up, and seconds later Evelyn returns with her own tray, identical to his, except with coffee instead of cocoa. She settles herself on the end of his bed and piles her fork with egg and bacon. William dips his fried bread in the deep yellow yolk. They both concentrate on the food, moving their heads to the music and smiling as they catch each other’s eye.
William, a faster eater after a term as a boarder, puts his tray on the floor and then reaches under his bed for the parcel.
‘You know, William,’ Evelyn says, taking her last mouthful, ‘whatever you’ve got me for Christmas will be a disappointment. You shouldn’t have bothered.’
William smiles, puts the parcel on the bed, lifts the tray gently from her lap and sets it on the floor next to his.