“Good night, Appleby.”
He wonders if “Privet”—for Tommy has heard the other boys secretly referring to the teacher by this nickname — will remember who he is.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Wilson.”
He worries about his answers, but this being his first day perhaps he will be forgiven for getting most of them wrong.
“Wilson.” He stops but is afraid to immediately turn around. When he does so, he can see that Hedges has a biro in his hand and is gesturing with it towards his almost totally shrouded shoes. “I recommend a good-quality belt, if you get my drift?”
He hears some boys chuckling, but a quick swivel of Hedges’s owl-like head restores order.
“Yes, sir.”
He moves now with his eyes down, sure that everybody is laughing at him, and wishing that just one person — that would have been enough — could have made the effort to be his friend. He feels sure that when they see him play football, they will want to know him, but as he threads his way through the jostling crowds in the narrow corridor, he can’t remember whether the games period is tomorrow or the next day. He does, however, remember where the toilets are. Once he has finished, he looks around and is surprised to see that the pristine walls are unblemished by either hastily scribbled girls’ names or rumours and, increasingly implausible, counterrumours. He holds his hands under the cold water tap and quickly rubs them together, pretending that they’re lathered in soap, and he begins now to focus his mind on the task of meeting up with his brother.
Tommy stands by the school gates and waits until the deluge of excited boys reclaiming their freedom becomes a dribble. He screws up his eyes, hoping to see Ben emerging out of the glow of the fading sun, but the rush of pumping arms and legs appears to have dried up entirely. And then he sees Ben standing nonchalantly at the bus stop across the street with a group of twelve-year-old boys all of whom are greatly amused by whatever it is his brother is saying. Tommy looks both ways and begins to cross towards him, but when he sees the embarrassment on Ben’s face, he decides to keep walking. Behind him he hears his brother’s raised voice (“See you tomorrow”), the chorus of voices that confirm the appointment (“Yeah, tomorrow”), and then the pitterpatter of a short, unenthusiastic jog that concludes when Ben reaches level with him.
“Hey, what’s the matter with your trousers?”
Tommy stops now and turns and looks at Ben’s grinning face.
“Pull ’em up, our kid. Simon Longbottom says you look like a dick.”
“Who’s Simon Longbottom? And what does he know about it?”
“He’s my new best mate.”
Ben pauses and points to a thin pipe cleaner of a boy who lingers by the bus stop as though waiting for Ben to disappear from view. Simon Longbottom’s circular wire-frame glasses are recognizable as health service handouts.
“Him and some of the others have invited me to a boys’ club on Thursday night.”
“To do what?”
“I don’t know, do I? Nesting in the woods. Maybe some footie.”
Ben walks on, and it’s now Tommy’s turn to chase after his brother, who seems to have found a way to make Mrs. Swinson’s baggy clothes fit his gawky body. He’s noticed that whenever Ben walks in a group, even if he’s lagging behind, it always looks as though everybody’s following him.
“You know she’ll not let you go.”
“Well, I won’t know that till I’ve asked, will I?” His brother loosens his school tie as he walks. “Our teacher, Mr. Rothstein, he sometimes calls us by our first names. And you know what else, it turns out that Simon Longbottom’s dad is in the army, and he’s got a skull and crossbones tattooed on his forearm. Apparently he’s based in Germany, and before that he was in Gibraltar.”
“Has he been?”
“Has who been where?”
“Simon Longbottom. To Gibraltar. And Germany.”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
They continue to walk, but Tommy feels hopelessly inadequate given the evidence of his brother’s second day at school. He puts his hand in his blazer pocket and gently cups his fist around the watch.
“You’ll never guess what I found at dinnertime.”
“Where did you get that? It’s a beaut.”
“I found it on the floor of the changing rooms. It was lying under a bench, and there was no teacher to ask or anything. It’s one of those that you can wear underwater. Do you like it?”
“What were you doing in the changing rooms?”
“It was just somewhere to go, and the door was open. Do you like it?”
His brother shakes his head.
“You’re mental, you know that, don’t you? You’re not supposed to just go into the changing rooms.”
Ben begins to walk faster, and Tommy scurries after him and catches up with his openly frustrated brother as they turn into Mrs. Swinson’s street.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Look, Tommy all you ever do is think about football.”
“You’re just copying what Mam says.”
“Well, it’s true. And I’ll tell you what, when Simon Longbottom asked me if I had any brothers or sisters, I said no.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Why do you reckon?”
Tommy pushes the watch back into his blazer pocket and tugs at Ben’s arm.
“You’re not going to squeal on me, are you? About the watch.”
“Why should I care? You got yourself into this mess.”
Tommy had hoped that the watch might be something that the two of them could share and take turns wearing, something that might make them forget Mrs. Swinson and her house. As he’d picked it up off the changing room floor, he was thinking only of his brother and trying to imagine the look on Ben’s face when he showed him the watch. His brother has now stopped by Mrs. Swinson’s front gate and is gesturing at him.
“Well, are you coming in, or what?”
Mrs. Swinson opens the door and looks down at them. She has unclipped her bun so that two strands of plaited grey hair now frame either side of her face, making her look like an old lady version of a doll.
“You’re late. I was expecting you both ten minutes ago, so I called the vicar to see what I ought to do.” They remain poised on the doorstep and look up at her. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s be having you into the kitchen so I can take a good look.”
They stand before her as she perches now on a stool by the Aga and pats Simla, the youngest of her three husky dogs. It occurs to both boys that they will most likely be inspected like this at the end of each day. Tommy looks over at the dogs, but he keeps his distance, for he doesn’t much care for Simla and the other two. Mrs. Swinson blinks furiously as she speaks, but not in time to the words so everything appears to be frantic and out of control.
“Well, I explained to the vicar that you weren’t quite ready this week, but he’s looking forward to meeting the pair of you on Sunday. You have been baptized, haven’t you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t know why I bother.” She points at Ben. “And I don’t want to see you with your tie like that.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Swinson.”
“And look at the state of the both of you. What am I supposed to do with this hair of yours? Can you run a comb through it?” Ben opens his mouth to speak, but she continues. “Well?” She points now at Tommy. “How was your first day at school? And you”—she jabs her finger in Ben’s direction—“how was your second day?”
“It was grand.” Ben immediately senses that he’s said the wrong thing, but it’s too late.
“Grand, was it? Well, be off with you upstairs and get changed; then I’ll see you back down here for your tea, and for heaven’s sake, no noise, for my head’s splitting as it is, and Simla’s feeling a bit under the weather.”