And then it fell into place in his mind like the moving parts of a Mouse Trap game. He supposed it had been obvious. Ma was blackmailing Mr White — blackmail, a sinister word; the Black and White Minstrels under their paint. Mr White had transgressed, and Ma had somehow found out about it. That would explain the whisperings; the way Mrs White looked at Ma; Mr White’s anger, and now his contempt. This man was not his father, he thought. This man had never cared for him.
And now blueeyedboy could feel the tears beginning to prick at his eyelids. Terrible, helpless, childish tears of disappointment and of shame. Please, not in front of Mr White, he begged of the Almighty, but God, like Ma, was implacable. Like Ma, Our Father sometimes needs that gesture of contrition.
‘Are you OK?’ said Mr White, reluctantly putting a hand on his arm.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said blueeyedboy, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know how you got the idea that—-’
‘Forget it. Really. I’m fine,’ he said, and very calmly walked away, keeping his spine as straight as he could, although he was a mess inside, although it felt like dying.
It’s my birthday, he told himself. Today, I deserve to be special. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, whatever punishment God or Ma can possibly inflict on me —
And that’s how, fifteen minutes later, he found himself, not back at school, but at the end of Millionaires’ Row, looking towards the Mansion.
It was the first time that blueeyedboy had been to the Mansion unsupervised. His visits with his brothers and Ma were always strictly controlled, and he knew that if Ma found out what he’d done, she’d make him sorry he’d ever been born. But today he wasn’t afraid of Ma. Today, a breath of rebellion seemed to have taken hold of him. Today, for once, blueeyedboy was in the mood for a spot of trespass.
The garden was shielded from the road by a set of cast-iron railings. At the far end there was a stone wall, and all around, a blackthorn hedge. On the whole, it didn’t look promising. But blueeyedboy was determined. He found a space through which to crawl, mindful of the twigs and thorns that snagged at his hair and stuck through his T-shirt, and emerged on the other side of the hedge into the grounds of the Mansion.
Ma always called it ‘the grounds’. Dr Peacock called it ‘the garden’, although there was over four acres of it, orchard and kitchen garden and lawns, plus the walled rose garden in which Dr Peacock took so much pride, the pond and the old conservatory, where pots and gardening tools were kept. Most of it was trees, though, which suited blueeyedboy just fine, with alleys of rhododendrons that flared brief glory in springtime and in late summer grew skeletal, encroaching darkly across the path, the perfect cover for anyone wishing to visit the garden unseen —
Blueeyedboy did not question the impulse that had driven him to the Mansion. He couldn’t go back to St Oswald’s, though, not now, after what had happened. He dared not go back home, of course, and at school he’d be punished for being late. But the Mansion was quiet, and secret, and safe. Simply to be there was enough; to dive into the undergrowth; to hear the summery sounds of the bees high up in the leafy canopy, and to feel the beating of his heart slow down to its natural cadence. He was still so immersed in his agitated thoughts that, walking along an alley of trees, he almost ran into Dr Peacock, who was standing, secateurs in hand, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, at the entrance to the rose garden.
‘And what brings you here this morning?’
For a moment blueeyedboy was quite unable to answer. Then he looked past Dr Peacock and saw: the newly dug grave; the mound of earth, the rolled square of turf laid aside on the ground —
Dr Peacock smiled at him. It was a rather complex smile; sad and complicit at the same time. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the act,’ he said, indicating the fresh grave. ‘I know how this may look to you, but as we grow older our capacity for sentiment expands to an exponential degree. To you it may look like senility—’
Blueeyedboy stared at him with a perfect lack of comprehension.
‘What I mean is,’ Dr Peacock said, ‘I was just bidding a last goodbye to a very loyal old friend.’
For a moment blueeyedboy was still unsure of what he’d meant. Then he remembered Dr Peacock’s Jack Russell, over which the old man always made such a fuss. Blueeyedboy didn’t like dogs. Too eager; too unpredictable.
He shivered, feeling vaguely sick. He tried to remember the name of the dog, but all he could think of was Malcolm, the name of his would-have-been-sibling, and his eyes filled with tears for no reason, and his head began to ache —
Dr Peacock put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be upset, son. He had a good life. Are you all right? You’re shivering.’
‘I don’t feel so w-well,’ said blueeyedboy.
‘Really? Well, then, we’d better get you in the house, hadn’t we? I’ll get you something cool to drink. And then perhaps I should call your mother—’
‘No! Please!’ said blueeyedboy.
Dr Peacock gave him a look. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I understand. You don’t want to alarm her. A fine woman in many ways, but somewhat over-protective. And besides—’ His eyes creased in a mischievous smile. ‘Am I correct in assuming that on this bright summer morning, the delights of the school curriculum were not enough to keep you indoors when all of Nature’s syllabus demanded your urgent attention?’
Blueeyedboy took this to mean that his truancy had been noted. ‘Please, sir. Don’t tell Ma.’
Dr Peacock shook his head. ‘I see no reason to tell her,’ he said. ‘I was a boy myself, once. Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. Fishing in the river. Are you fond of fishing, young man?’
Blueeyedboy nodded, even though he’d never tried it; never would. ‘Excellent pastime. Gets you outdoors. Of course, I have my gardening—’ He glanced over his shoulder at the mound of earth and the open grave. ‘Give me a moment, will you?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll fix us both a drink.’
Blueeyedboy watched in silence as Dr Peacock filled in the grave. He didn’t really want to look, but he found that he couldn’t look away. His chest was tight, his lips were numb, his head was spinning dizzily. Was he really ill, he thought? Or was it the sound of digging, he thought; the tinny rasp of the spade as it bit, the sour-vegetable scent, the crazy thump as each packet of earth clattered into the open grave?
At last Dr Peacock put down the spade, but he did not turn immediately. Instead he stood by the burial mound, hands in pockets, head bowed, for such a long time that blueeyedboy wondered if he had been forgotten.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ he said at last.
At his voice, Dr Peacock turned. He had taken off his gardening hat, and without it the sunlight made him squint. ‘How sentimental you must find me,’ he said. ‘All this ceremony over a dog. Have you ever kept a dog?’
Blueeyedboy shook his head.
‘Too bad. Every boy should have one. Still, you’ve got your brothers,’ he said. ‘Bet that’s lot of fun, eh?’
For a moment, blueeyedboy tried to imagine the world as Dr Peacock saw it: a world where brothers were lots of fun; where boys went fishing, kept dogs; played cricket on the green —
‘It’s my birthday today,’ he said.
‘Is that so? Today?’
‘Yes, sir.’