Tommy Glover's Sketch of Heaven (18 page)

In the morning the church bells remind us that it's a Sunday. We breakfast in almost total silence, with the occasional word from me. I feel uncomfortable without a bit of talking. But I soon see I don't know the rules to this game, and I shut up.

Then Uncle Jack rises from the table and starts to put on his coat. “Church,” he says. We put our coats on too, and our gloves and hats. Just as we are about to go out of the door, Aunty Joyce unhooks a brush from the hall wall and brushes Uncle Jack's coat collar.This is what she always does, but today I feel a huge relief that he lets her do it.

As soon as we arrive at our place in the third pew from the front, we all kneel down to pray briefly. I've become used to doing this with them, although I usually just say, “Blah, blah, tits and bums. Our men,” in my head for a few seconds, whereas I'm sure they are saying something more meaningful.

Today I imagine Uncle Jack is saying, “Please God, let it not be true” about Aunty Joyce, but I can't imagine what she is saying. I'm cross with her, actually, for not believing me about Mr Fairly. She obviously hasn't said anything to Uncle Jack. And now she's happy to sit behind Fairly, without so much as hitting him over the head with her Book of Common Prayer.

It is morning service, and to top it all, Mr Fairly is giving the sermon as a lay preacher. He stands at the golden eagle because he has been quoting from the Bible.

“We have endured a long and taxing war,” he begins, gripping the sides of the eagle. “Everyone has had hardship, and some …” he affects a dolorous pause, “… more … than others.” He looks genuinely grief-stricken for those who have lost loved ones. “And it is not surprising that we wish to enjoy ourselves, to eke out every last bit of pleasure we can from these days of shortage, of grief, of loneliness.” He looks around at the faces in the congregation, like a reproachful headmaster. Aunty Joyce looks down at her prayer cushion, and Uncle Jack adjusts his hymn book.

“LUST!” cries Mr Fairly suddenly, seizing the golden eagle by the wings as if it might take off. “We must all soar above it! Look around at what it has done to our community! Look around at the relaxation of values we used to hold dear! Where were your daughters last night? And where …” he looks around again, over his reading spectacles, “… were your wives? Oh, yes! It's easy to think that anything goes in times of crisis, but while our young men are away fighting, what favours are we doing them if they come back home to find their wives and daughters and fiancées the victims of unhealthy matches made in the heat of the moment, born out of a loss of self-control, born out of
lust
?”

I'm not too sure about ‘lust', but I get the gist of it. I can feel Aunty Joyce shrinking on my left, and on my right Uncle Jack rearranges his hymn book, re-counts his collection money and furiously brushes dust from his trousers that does not exist.

“No one knows more than I do, in charge of Heaven House, what the fruits of such slack self-control can be. Oh, yes! Be in no doubt, that lust will find you out! Even those of you who come to church every Sunday and sit there with your collection money in your spotless Sunday best, not even
you
…” (here he looks directly at Aunty Joyce and Uncle Jack, and I see her begin to tremble) “… can escape the
weakness
of the flesh! And I say to you – I say to you all – confess your sins, and God will forgive you. Put Satan behind you, arrest your slide down the shameful slippery slope …”

I feel a sudden movement on my left, and realize that Aunty Joyce has stood up.

People don't turn round, as such, since she is standing in the third pew from the front; they merely divert their attention from the preacher and land it, with intense curiosity, on Aunty Joyce. They are curious perhaps about whether her sudden stance means she objects, has left a pie in the oven, or is merely busting for a wee. But interest turns to surprise when the blonde enigma of Weaver's Cottage squares up to Mr Fairly and opens her mouth to speak. Since few but me, Uncle Jack and Mr Fairly can see the look of defiant rage on her face, it is not until the words come out that the shivers of awe go bristling round the nave.

“How DARE you! HOW DARE YOU!”

People brace themselves. This is going to be a good one.

“
You! You
stand there and preach to
us
about lust! YOU!” (Mr Fairly's face alters slightly, but only a twitch betrays the nerves behind his composure.) “You, who have betrayed the whole neighbourhood with your lust for young boys –” A sharp collective intake of breath makes her turn towards the congregation: “
Yes!
While we've been falling over ourselves to admire this … pillar of the community,
Mr Fairly
here has been satisfying his own warped pleasure with the orphans in his care –”

“That is utterly –” he begins.

“Don't even
think
about denying it, you … you self-righteous little …” She looks up at the ceiling for help.

“Bully!” I supply in a whisper.

“… bully!”

“Joyce!” hisses Uncle Jack, leaning across me and trying to tug his wife inconspicuously back to her seat. “Joyce!”

Mr Fairly musters a half-smile at Joyce. “Well, I think we all know why my sermon got
you
worked up, don't we?”

It is a powerful counter-attack, and one which makes Uncle Jack cover his face with his hands. But Mr Fairly has underestimated Aunty Joyce. She rounds on him with such venom that children grip their mothers, and ladies dig ridges into their handbags with their nails.

“You evil, slimy little BASTARD!”

Nice one, Aunty Joyce. She raises her arm and points one of her beautiful fingers at him. “
You
murdered my daughter!” Her voice begins to wail: “You killed my little girl!” She sobs. Then she takes a great breath and rallies, turning to the congregation again. “Yes! He killed Rosemary.
He
did! Because my little girl saw him at it one day! He watched her drown! He kicked her and kicked her and watched her
die
! And she screamed … oh God … I know she screamed … and he didn't … and he …”

She is heaving with rage and tears, and Uncle Jack, now horrified and confused at the revelation, looks at Mr Fairly for a clue, along with the rest of the congregation.

And it is all there: the anger in his face, as he smarts with fury, betrays a far less kindly pillar of the community than they have seen before. This is a new face, with narrow eyes and flared nostrils, and only to the front two pews – the Heaven House boys – is it utterly familiar.

I find myself taking Aunty Joyce's hand, and she clings on to me, sobbing. Uncle Jack puts his arm around both of us. Whether instinctively, or to keep up appearances, I don't know, but it's a good move. I'm so proud of him I could cry.

The gasp at Aunty Joyce's revelation makes the church seem full of whispers, and people exchange glances for support and direction. Mr Fairly makes one last bid for his good character, slamming shut the heavy Bible in front of him and striding down the side aisle, snarling, “You'll be very sorry for this, Joyce Shepherd.
Very
sorry!” The fierce words are interspersed with his heavy clop clop on the stone floor, and just before his exit he beckons roughly to his wife, who rises and shuffles after him, her hand clasped over her mouth.

If anyone was confused by all the goings-on, Mr Fairly's sudden change of character convinces them. And before long the fact that he is ‘not frum round 'ere' – whereas Joyce Shepherd was born and bred not two miles away – becomes a significant factor too.

I have never seen Uncle Jack in such turmoil. He has watched as his wife's treachery was so nearly revealed to the world, braced himself for perpetual humiliation, and all of a sudden the plot has changed. And it is much darker than before. It is as though he were sentenced to death, but now he's let off the hook, only to be told that the world might explode at any moment.

The church service disintegrates. People hang around the churchyard for ages afterwards, but we go home as soon as we can. Miss Lavish takes me next door into her house for some reason, and I'm most put out. I try to hear noises coming through the wall, try to work out if the wails and sobs and silences are shared grief or not. But Miss Lavish spots my game and puts the radio on.

I try to turn it down and stand next to the wall while she puts the kettle on, but she turns it back up again.

She tells me Aunty Joyce and Uncle Jack need some time on their own together, and she gives me a nice cup of tea.

At teatime Aunty Joyce calls me back, although none of us has the stomach for eating. We sit at the table, Uncle Jack, Aunty Joyce and I, fiddling with a jar of last summer's greengage jam and pushing slices of bread around our plates. Uncle Jack wants me to repeat the whole story again, to tell him exactly what I told Aunty Joyce. I have never been allowed to speak so much at table, but my words put such a torment into his face that the telling of it makes me feel sick.

They talk more than they've ever talked in front of me.

“If it's true … what a
fool
I've been!”

“It
is
true,” says Aunty Joyce. “Look at the way he behaved in church!”

“Of course it is! It all makes sense!”

“What have we done to that poor boy? Poor, poor Tommy!”

“Yes, poor Tommy.” He closes his eyes as if to block out the sight of it all. “What wretches we are!”

“To think that …
bastard
pretended to be our
friend
!” Aunty Joyce speaks through gritted teeth, her eyes still red with hours of crying.

Uncle Jack hears the swear word and lets it go. Free as you please.
And
uses one of his own: “If I ever get my hands on that monster, I'll … bloody well tear him limb from limb!” His mouth is turned down and rigid, as if trying to stop itself doing anything reckless, like crying, perhaps. “I bloody well will!”

She puts her hand across the table and lightly presses his fingers into the cloth.

“Jack!”

It is half pleading, half comforting. It is a hand stretched out, that is all. But I look at the raw pink knuckles of her pretty hand, the hand that's made do and mended for seven long years, and realize that I haven't seen it there before, touching his. I am invisible again, and glad to be.

There is a knock on the door, and Lady Elmsleigh comes straight through to the back kitchen, resisting all attempts to show her into the front room.

“Mr Fairly has been arrested,” she says. “I thought you would like to know.”

It seems that after the church service, Tommy took all the boys to Lady Elmsleigh's, all twenty-one of them, and Lady Elmsleigh heard their story and telephoned for the police. “He's been taken to Gloucester, and let's hope that's the last we'll see of him.” She stands up and goes over to Aunty Joyce, taking her hand in both of her own. “You've had such a
dreadful
time of it, Joyce! I don't know how I can help, but you must let me do anything I can.”

She doesn't stay long, but I'm shooed off to bed, and I can just hear Uncle Jack's gratitude as she leaves, and mention of Tommy. So it all seems to have turned out for the best, my betrayal of Tommy's secret. I shouldn't have done it – I promised I wouldn't tell, but now there are twenty-one happy boys and the monster is where he should be.

But, I should have known, nothing is quite that simple.

The following day, a Monday, Tommy is not at school, and neither are any of the other Heaven House boys. I am the centre of attention, of course, and everyone flocks around me, thirsty for more of the bad news they heard in church. I play my part happily enough, but when Tommy doesn't appear on Tuesday either, I begin to feel uneasy.

It is on the last leg of my journey home, the bit I do on my own between the Heaven House path and Weaver's Terrace, that I see him. He is suddenly there, fox-like, in the hedgerow. He emerges from behind an ivy-clad tree so silently I don't see him until I am almost upon him.

“Tommy!”

“Listen!” He looks around and lowers his voice. “I'm leaving this evening. This time you can't come with me. I'll be out the back of your house to say goodbye at eight o'clock, if you want.”

I laugh in disbelief. “
Again
? But why? Fairly's locked up.You don't
have
to go now.”

“Oh, I do all right!”

“No, you can stay and work on the farm. Or go on to study till you're old enough to be a proper pilot.”

“He'll be out again soon.”

I'm not smiling now, because I can see that he's serious. He really is going to go, and I don't think I can stop him.

“It'll be
years
before he's out. You'll be a proper pilot by then.”

“No.” He leads me off the lane and behind the tree, still looking in all directions. Then he takes me by the shoulders and looks as if he must make me understand something I am too young to grasp. “It's like I told you, Kitty. If I say anything, I'm a dead man. Even if they put him away, he'll find me. And if they don't – and he's a clever man with friends in the right places – if they don't, I'm as good as dead. I'm the only witness, see. He'll be after me. I'm not saying nothing. I'm just gonna go.”

“But then he'll go free!”

“Yes – and I'm gonna be out of here!”

“But what about the others? Don't you care about the others?”

He draws his hand over his face slowly. “Of course I care. Lady Elmsleigh'll take care of things. I know she will. And any road, any one of them boys could put him away if they wanted. Let them do it. I said I saw nothing. And I'm saying nothing.”

I can't understand his wish not to tell. It goes against one of my greatest childish instincts: to tell on someone who's done wrong, to save my own skin. Sunday school may have taught us to turn the other cheek and so forth, but if Tommy's being godly then I want to thump him. I can't imagine what strange force is holding him back. The thought of this odd resignation makes me so angry with him I want to shake him into telling the truth to the world.

“Where'll you go?”

“To sea,” he says, confidently.

“You can't – you're not old enough.”

But one look from those anxious conker-coloured eyes reminds me it was I who betrayed his trust in the first place, who dug him this terrible dark ditch.

At eight o'clock I say goodnight and slip out of the house to the lav. Up the back of the garden I hover behind the newly creosoted shed and see his dark figure waiting for me. I put my hand out to touch his gabardine coat, to get the feel of him.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm sorry I broke my promise. Facky Nell. I've ruined everything, haven't I?”

He gives me a huge, deep bear hug, holding me against him so tightly I know he forgives me. He puts his nose in my hair and I nuzzle mine into his neck. We smell each other like sheep sniff their lambs. Even now a whiff of creosote brings back the smell of parting and the oily wool of his pullover, and a longing that seems to grow as each year passes.

“I'll write,” he says, and picks up his bag to go.

“Behave,” I say, remembering my father's words to me when I left. “And no fackin' swearing.”

Then, as though this is wholly inadequate, he puts it down again, holds me again. “You're the most precious thing in the world to me,” he says. I cling on to him, aware at last that this is no game, and that in a few moments he will be gone. “Don't ever forget that. Wait for me. I'll find you.”

We hold hands, and then just fingertips. I feel like a film star, but before I can really take it all in, he has gone: halfway across the field with no moon.

When I go back in the house no one notices the state I'm in because Lady Elmsleigh is there, sitting in the parlour again in Uncle Jack's armchair.

“Out?” breathes Aunty Joyce. “Free?”

“I'm so sorry,” says Lady Elmsleigh. “Tommy wouldn't repeat his story – even though he'd told me – so there was no case to answer for.”

“What about the other case – the other boys?”

“None of them will speak out.”

“Not one?”

“Not one.”

“What are they playing at?” Uncle Jack is cross.

Lady Elmsleigh frowns sadly. “It makes you wonder what on earth they've been through. They're all so very
frightened
. Tommy is the oldest, and he was fourteen yesterday, so he's free to go. Perhaps if we all work on Tommy …” She turns to me. “Kitty, perhaps you could persuade him how important it is to tell his story – to get this monster locked away …”

“And we could do something,” whispers Aunty Joyce. “We could welcome him back into our house.” She fiddles with the neck of her housecoat. “We've been so unkind. He needs to feel safe.” She puts her hand to her mouth and looks so full of sorrow that Lady Elmsleigh insists it is not her fault.

“That man must not be allowed back near any of those boys. I'll keep them with me if needs be.”

I want to go home now. There's no point me being here without Tommy, so I say one of the boys can have my room. But all the grown-ups agree there are still V2s over London, and I must stop here for the time being.

I want to scream, I want to smash everything. I can't believe Tommy was fourteen yesterday, and I forgot. I can't believe I am being charged with setting the world to rights just moments after I have let the possibility slip through my fingers for ever. I feel all the wretchedness of being only nine.