Grundy’s yellow eyes. He had that funny white spit that old blokes get at the corners of their mouths.
“Well?”
“Brantford, sir.”
“Striking?”
Lawrence nodded.
Grundy’s face hardened. He pointed at Fenton.
“Scrapper,” said Fenton.
“Explain.”
Fenton’s father worked for a company that dismantled and cleaned ovens and fryers from takeaways and restaurants that had gone bust. They turned the equipment round and sold it for a profit.
“A grafter,” Grundy said with satisfaction, before addressing Lawrence. “I’ve seen your lot. Civil disobedience, attacking the police◦– it’s a disgrace! No wonder you’ve turned out the way you have. I’m thirty years a teacher and never have I seen an injury to a member of staff before. Never mind a woman.” He shook his head. “For Pete’s sake.”
The boys stared at the floor.
“But at least Fenton’s had the grace to stay… You, Newman, leaving others to clean the mess, thinking you’ve the run of it. Thinking you can do what you like. You’ll be the death of this country, fools like you.”
There was a coffee ring scarring the varnish on Grundy’s desk. Lawrence studied its circumference as the old cunt steepled his fingers. It didn’t matter that Barry Fenton was a cash-in-hand man for a bent little outfit, that all he did was hose the grease off those cookers into a shallow trench so he could watch it burn; Lawrence was from rabble-rousing stock. You can’t wash grease down drains because it blocks them. You can’t burn fat without the risk of it getting out of control. Fenton was suspended and Lawrence expelled. Sons of bogeymen had no place at Fernside Grammar.
“You’re lucky you’re not being reported to the Yorkshire constabulary. Miss Potts is refusing to press charges.”
Since that afternoon it had been surprisingly easy for Lawrence to hide what had happened from his parents. Their phone had been cut off so Fernside had to rely on letters, and with the school situated over the borough line the notices and meeting requests were stamped with an identifying postal mark. The letters could be intercepted easily.
Mam and Dad were clueless anyway. They’d hardly noticed the signs of Lawrence not being in school. Days became matters. Matters of staying out of sight and hoping nosey parkers wouldn’t grass. Lawrence knew his secret couldn’t keep, but until it broke the hassle of his parent’s discovering it was easily worth the trouble of keeping the truth from them. It was almost a way of testing them, to see if they thought to give a shit. How big the fuck-you could be when they found out his life had unravelled under their noses.
“Lawrence!”
Evie was calling: her voice had filled his summer. Swarsby days: growing older and feeling it, wood smoke and teenage secrets, Evie’s slender legs a set of tracks that only a password might part.
“Where you taking us?” Lawrence heard her say. He’d take her everywhere if she’d only let him.
“To the summit,” he replied. Since getting in with the Swarsbys, he was careful to speak properly. “There’s a great view from up on top.”
Fucking Duncan was puffing away by Evie’s side, his sister who was apparently never out of breath. Evie was the type to make others wait rather than hurry herself and break a sweat.
“This better be worth it,” she said, arms folded and shorts ending so high that her legs looked like those of a bird, some shallow wader in a lake.
“It is, or don’t you believe me?”
Evie produced a compact from her bag and examined her face. Her complexion had adjusted now that she spent time outdoors that she claimed would normally have been enjoyed at friends’ houses, or her room in London.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said there’s a great view from up on top. Or do you not you believe me?”
The little round case snapped shut. “You’re always banging on about something, Lawrence. If you’re not careful I’ll leave you behind and so will Seb.”
Lawrence said, “Fine by me if you want to run ahead.”
“Just hurry up.”
She was only rude because she cared. Lawrence led the way. Since their first meeting he’d waited for Evie daily at the tree cave. She visited after her lessons with her tutor◦– which she took at home◦– always with Duncan in tow, barely giving Lawrence the time of day if she could help it, although it was telling that she still came, her need for company as recognisable to Lawrence as his own face.
“I’m tired, Lawrence,” Duncan said after they’d walked a little further. “I need a rest.”
“Seb’s stopping.” Evie laughed. “Stop the press.”
Duncan touched Lawrence’s elbow as he went to sit, hand lingering in that unbearably close manner of his. Evie sat too. She picked a dandelion clock and blew the hours of the day up to five. Lawrence hadn’t met many people in his life, yet the Swarsbys were like no other. One was as suspiciously playful as a once-mistreated cat, the other had eyes like puddles in the marl pits, who being around made you feel like a stranger had come and sat next to you on a nearly-emptied bus.
“You’re always tired,” Lawrence said. He was forever wanting to prod Duncan to see what came out. He’d been the victim of cruelty so often that he never thought he’d impose it on anyone else, but supposed some people were just your targets. It was impossible to leave them be.
“I like to take my time,” Duncan said.
“That’s because you’re unfit.”
“Where we’re from there’s better ways to kill your days than climbing hills,” said Evie. She had dandelion spores in her hair and the width of her thighs expanded as she knelt to commence work on a bird’s nest from dead leaves and grass.
“What, like sitting on your backside? Sounds soft to me.”
“There’s a difference between soft and civilised.”
“You’re hardly civil.”
Evie grinned.
“Suppose your dad can afford to pay for you to sit about,” Lawrence said, encouraged. “He probably sacked the personal trainer.”
“Not likely,” said Duncan. He was so wet, so willowy.
“Yeah, right, I can see your house. Loads of stuff hidden under a dustsheet in the garage. Croquet sets and golf clubs and… boules!”
“Boules?” said Evie.
“You know what I mean.”
“Don’t be crass,” Duncan said, his face sharpening as he exchanged a look with his sister. “And anyway, why are you talking like this when you’ve got everything at your place?”
Lawrence had told the Swarsbys all sorts. Arthur was in business, Shell was a teacher. They took him abroad on their jolly holidays. They had a five-door saloon, ate cooked breakfasts and in the spare room there was a hi-fi. Fast, faster, fastest. He was saving up for a motorbike, he was going to America and didn’t need school so he’d fucking ditched the place.
“I’m joking,” he said quickly. “I’m winding you up. You shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive.”
“You are a bit.”
Duncan rose. Even the way he stood was arrogant. “It’s just you always make having money sound like a bad thing.”
“I never said that.”
“You imply it.”
Lawrence wondered whether Evie would still talk to him if he grabbed a handful of earth and mushed it all over her brother’s teeth. He pictured the black loam pasted across Duncan’s mouth and chin. The nest Evie had made was posed in the middle of them now like a cave, ready to suck them if they could only imagine it.