14

Stepping inside a school was not a pleasant experience for Joseph, but while this one smelled the same as the last, and the anxiety it dredged up in him was identical, everything else was markedly different.

The size was different. It loomed over the boy the second he walked into the yard, and felt no less intimidating once inside, either. As much as he hated to admit it, Syd had been right, too – there was something unnerving about the sight of Clarence hanging menacingly on the wall. It was ridiculous to think that a thin stick could be watching you, but Joseph felt its presence anxiously, under no illusion that they would become more intimately acquainted sooner rather than later.

He took in the rest of his immediate surroundings: stone walls pocked with holes and flaking grey paint, a wooden floor, dusty and parched, and an honours board, out of date by two years. But there was one thing missing, especially given the scale of the building – and that was pupils.

Aside from Syd, he hadn’t seen a soul, and while Joseph welcomed this in some ways (no one had irritated him so far by trying to engage him in conversation), it made every footstep slap an echo eerily around the place.

If he’d thought about it he would’ve also realised that an absence of pupils spelled bad news for him. Fewer pupils meant less chance to hide: both his challenging moods, and his educational shortcomings...

‘You, boy, yes, you!’ came a voice, louder than Joseph’s footsteps, and bouncing off so many walls that it took him a few seconds to work out where it was coming from. ‘Come here.’

The voice came from a man, who on first sight, was clearly the headmaster, Mr Gryce.

Joseph took him in. He looked a little like Clarence: whip-thin and aged. He must’ve been pushing sixty, and moved quickly across the wooden floor, but without the accompanying footsteps. Joseph found it eerie. Were his feet beneath his gown even touching the floor? Was he some kind of spectre?

‘Now,’ he said, voice quick and harsh, ‘you must be the boy. Margaret Farrelly’s charge.’

Joseph had no idea what a charge was, and so hesitated, which wasn’t appreciated.

‘So... You are... ?’

‘Well, I’m here.’ The words came without thinking.

‘And you will soon be wishing you weren’t, should such insolence continue. Now, name.’

‘Joseph.’

‘And did your mother deem to give you a surname as well?’

The boy knew the answer to this, obviously, but was momentarily thrown by the mention of his mum. Right now he hated her more than ever.

‘Well?’

‘Palmer.’

‘Palmer, what?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘Palmer, SIR.’

Joseph saw a pulse throb in Gryce’s neck. Then the man pointed, without uttering another word, in the direction of Clarence. He’d done it again and he knew it. Alienated someone from the word ‘go’.

‘Palmer, SIR.’

‘You will do well, round here, to remember one thing, Master Palmer. Manners maketh the man. Fail to remember this and you and Clarence will become the firmest of friends. Now, follow me.’

Joseph did exactly that, marvelling again at how only his own footsteps could be heard on the parquet floor.

They swept down a long dark corridor, until they reached a classroom at the end. With a sweeping flourish of Gryce’s arm, Joseph was introduced to the rest of the class. All nine of them. Syd, two older boys, and six younger children, some barely of school age. Syd might have denied it, but from first sight, they were an odd bunch.

‘Miss Doherty, children – this is Joseph Palmer. He will be joining you from this point on. You know where both Clarence and I are, should you require our help. And Master Palmer, I shall look forward to seeing your progress during my Friday test at the end of the month.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Do be ready.’

And with that threat burning itself deep inside Joseph, Gryce ghosted from the room.

Miss Doherty, in a break from tradition in this city, approached Joseph with a smile. It made him suspicious.

‘Joseph, hello, my name is Miss Doherty. You’re very welcome. Why don’t you come and join the others?’

He eyed the rows of empty chairs. He was going to stand out here very quickly, and it scared him.

‘Is this it, then?’ he asked.

She looked confused. ‘I’m sorry?’

He pointed at the empty bank of desks.

‘Yes, the others were all evacuated – mostly to Yorkshire.’

‘Lucky them,’ Joseph said quietly.

‘So it’s just we few, we happy few,’ she said.

There was a singsong quality to her voice that suggested she normally taught much younger children.

‘So, Joseph. Tell me about your old school.’

‘Nothing to tell,’ he said quietly, fearing anything he said would give away the fact that he could remember little. He’d blanked a lot of it out.

‘Well, was it a large school?’

‘Not really.’

‘Small, then. How lovely. And the teachers there. Good, were they?’

‘Mostly like him,’ he motioned in the direction Gryce had left. ‘Only good when they had a piece of wood in their hands.’

She blushed, and wrung her hands together, as if trying to squash such an unpleasant image.

‘Well, Joseph, perhaps you could come and read to me. Just for a minute, so I can see where you’ve got to.’ Her words seemed to lack any kind of certainty, like she already knew she had hit on a sensitive spot.

And she was right, it sent Joseph into a spin. ‘My glasses are broken,’ he blurted. It was pathetic, but it was all he had in the moment.

‘Oh dear. Well, let’s try anyway shall w—’

‘I can read.’

‘Of course,’ she said, surprised by his irritation. ‘Of course you can. I mean, you are clearly, what, eleven years old.’

‘I’m twelve.’

Cue more blushing. ‘Lovely. So, why don’t you pop yourself on that chair over there and read me a page of the book on the desk. That way, we won’t strain your eyes and I can find you something you reallywant to get stuck into.’ She waved her fist encouragingly, like so many did in the war effort posters.

This was hell. A hell that he had visited on too many occasions already. The classroom was quiet, and he knew it would stay that way if she forced him to read. His eyes scanned the room and the other kids. The smaller ones wouldn’t say a thing, but the older boys? He knew, he just knew.

Slowly, he walked across the classroom floor, hoping for some kind of miraculous intervention, ignoring the eyes fixed on him.

He breathed deeply, brain still empty of excuses, but filling quickly with anger at what was about to happen. But as he reached the desk, and made to sit, he heard from behind him: ‘Bloomin’ Northerners. Why don’t he clear off back where he came from?’

Followed by: ‘No, this should be good. Cos if he reads as well as he speaks, then I don’t reckon he’ll be troubling the top of the class.’

And that was it. The fuse sparked and spat, and so did Joseph. They’d given him everything he expected and feared: and with a simple whip of his arms, the book, the desk and the chair, all went tumbling.