33

They could smell the burning from miles away. On every step of their walk to school.

‘Do you think there’s anything left standing over there?’ Joseph asked, peering at the smoke that clung to the horizon.

‘Hard to tell,’ said Syd. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

‘I can smell it,’ Joseph grimaced. ‘Even from here. What bit of the city is that?’

‘The docks. Auntie says they’ve bombed it to stop supplies getting in and out. Says Hitler won’t stop till we’re on our hands and knees, begging him to.’

Joseph felt himself bristle. No way he’d be doing that.

‘What’s she like, your auntie?’

Syd took an unusual amount of time to answer. ‘She’s all right,’ she said, pausing again. ‘She’s just not my mum.’

Her response made Joseph pause too. He understood what she meant but had no idea how to say anything that would help.

‘You should see her run to the underground station, though, when the siren goes. I told her she could win a gold medal.’

‘You not got a shelter in her yard?’

‘There’s no room. Plus, the tube station is only at the bottom of the road.’

‘Must be weird down there at night.’

‘No weirder than being underground at the bottom of the garden. Plus, there’s other people there to keep us company. People bring playing cards, or sing. If you were down there, we could practise your reading, make sure you passed Gryce’s test every month!’

It didn’t raise a smile, so she went on. ‘It’s different to being in a small shelter, that’s all.’

‘Enough space to hide a gorilla down there?’

Syd laughed. ‘Don’t think so. Unless we put him in a frock, give him a shave and teach him some manners first. It’s packed down there. Not just people sleeping on the platforms and in corridors. They sleep head to foot on the tracks as well.’

‘So how do you hide a gorilla?’ he asked. He would have smiled at the absurdity had it not been such a pressing, troubling question.

It stumped Syd.

‘That’s just it,’ he said, when she said nothing. ‘You can’t hide him. And I’ve thought about it. Whether Mrs F could move him to a different cage, build a smaller one somewhere secret, like in the cellar under the aquarium, but even if she could – and she can’t – how would we even get him down there? He’s hardly likely to hold my hand and follow us, is he?’

‘If you could get hold of bananas any more, I reckon he’d follow you anywhere.’

‘Well, we’ve got to come up with a plan soon. Clock’s ticking, isn’t it?’

‘I’m just pleased you’ve changed your mind about him,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t want to sound cruel or harsh, but you hated Adonis at the beginning. First time I met you, you were chucking stones at him.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘But you don’t hate him now?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, what?’

‘Oh for Pete’s sake, Joseph, stop being so flipping difficult. If you don’t hate Adonis now, then tell me why?’

‘Because... because...’

‘Go on...’

But he didn’t know how to explain it to Syd without sounding soft. How it felt when he touched his hand, how good it was to know Adonis had tried to save him from Bert and Jimmy.

‘Come on, Joseph. Tell me...’

‘Just feels like... I dunno, like there’s enough death going on without adding another one.’

It wasn’t a lie, he felt it, believed it, and it was easier to think that than trying to order all the other thoughts zooming round his head.

‘There HAS to be something we’re not thinking about,’ she said. ‘A letter, maybe, to the newspaper. Yes, that’s it. Because adults like that, don’t they? Stories about children and animals. We can tell them all about you, about how Adonis has been your only friend since you got here – well, apart from me, but we don’t have to tell them that bit. Artistic licence, they call it. It pulls at the heartstrings. Gets everyone writing letters to the editor at the paper, dozens of them, hundreds, even, and before we know it, the government will have to listen. There’s no way they’ll touch Adonis, not then, when everyone’s happy for once. What do you think?’

Joseph had thoughts, and plenty of them. But the speed at which she spoke meant that he needed a little bit of time to catch up. And besides, they’d reached school, just as a shrill ringing started.

‘There goes the bell,’ he said, realising that his big moment with Gryce was just hours away. He traipsed into class, his mind no longer on Adonis, but on Clarence instead.

An apprehensive mood hung over the classroom all morning. Joseph was aware not just of his own tension, but everyone else’s too. Even Miss Doherty’s. As the morning progressed, she made her way around every child, including Jimmy and Bert. Joseph watched as she bent over them, drilling them on their sums, which made him feel momentarily better. She stayed with them for some time, too: it was clear that whatever she was teaching, they still weren’t grasping it.

Finally, she arrived at Joseph’s shoulder, tentatively, as always. ‘Now, Joseph,’ she said, gently, ‘I know this is the first time you’ve sat one of Mr Gryce’s tests, and you may be, well, nervous. But I wanted to tell you how proud I am of the work you’ve done. Your maths is... well, phenomenal. And I’ve told Mr Gryce that he should look at that carefully, especially in light of... well...’

‘My reading?’ Joseph offered.

‘I realise you don’t find it easy...’

‘I’ve been practising.’

‘You have?’ She seemed surprised and relieved, touching him lightly on the shoulder before realising what she’d done. ‘That’s wonderful. Would you like to practise some more with me now?’

He shook his head. He didn’t want to get it wrong and expose his plan before the headmaster arrived.

‘S’all right, Miss. I’ll do it on my own,’ he said coolly, relieved when she moved onto preparing Syd (not that she needed it).

He concentrated hard, rehearsing the lines in his head. He could hear Syd in his mind, the endless advice she’d offered him.

‘You don’t just have to read the words, remember,’ she’d said, on more than one occasion, ‘you have to act them. Make Gryce believethat you’re reading them fresh off the page.’

‘Do I look like an actor?’ he’d asked her.

‘I don’t mean you have to be over the top, or polished. It might actually be more believable if you stumble over a few sentences. Read too well, and he might well smell a rat.’

The thought of it made him anxious. It was one thing to do this as he sat by Adonis’s cage, and quite another to do it under pressure. What if Gryce wanted to grill him on more than he’d learned? He really would be in trouble then.

By lunchtime, he was beyond nervous.

‘Try thinking about something else for a bit,’ said Syd, but that just led him back to Adonis and an anxiety of a different kind.

She tried again. ‘Try eating, then.’ But every mouthful tasted like he was chewing sand.

Syd saw he was in a dark place, and wisely chose to stay out of striking distance until the bell called them back into lessons to face Gryce’s judgement.

The first thing that threw Joseph when he walked back into class was the parents. They’d arrived and were milling around at the back of the classroom as Miss Doherty clucked and fussed and told them how well their children were doing. She looked flushed, apologetic even, presumably as she knew Gryce’s methods caused unnecessary stress for everyone. Joseph scanned the faces present, relieved that there was no sign of Bert’s father anywhere.

The second thing to affect Joseph was Mrs F’s absence from the group. It was clear very quickly that she hadn’t come. It wasn’t unusual for an adult to let Joseph down, yet she’d been adamant that she’d be there. He felt a ridiculous mixture of disappointment and mild relief because she knew him better than Gryce, and as a result was more likely to see through his plan.

‘No Mrs F?’ whispered Syd, as she waved at her aunt, a mousy-looking woman, as seemingly meek as her niece was bold.

‘I knew she wouldn’t come,’ Joseph said.

‘She’ll be here. I prom—’

But there wasn’t time to reassure him any further, as through the door swooshed Gryce, with Clarence twitching and flexing in his hand.

‘Good afternoon, everyone!’ said Gryce. There was a different tone to his voice, a theatricality, presumably for the parents’ benefit. ‘I’m delighted to see so many of you here again. As you know, it’s important that in these difficult and uncertain times your children have the normality of school to fall back on. But more than that, that they continue to flourish. After all, the only way we will beat Hitler is through application, dedication and knowledge.’

He stopped momentarily and looked to the parents. Joseph wondered if he was expecting applause for his stirring words, but when none came, he moved swiftly on, telling both the children and adults to sit, which they all promptly did.

‘We will start with mathematics. Twenty questions, each targeted at your child’s individual age, and twenty minutes in which to finish them. Parents, Miss Doherty has copies of the sums for you to peruse.’ Miss Doherty scuttled between them, distributing textbooks, until she had only one left in her hand. Presumably, from the embarrassed look she gave Joseph, this was meant for Mrs F.

‘Twenty minutes, then, class,’ Gryce barked. ‘You may begin.’

Joseph did just that, relieved in some ways that they were starting with maths. He was even more relieved, when he scanned the questions in front of him. They were no different to the sorts of algebra and geometry puzzles he’d solved many times for Miss Doherty before. He was careful though, not to whizz through them too quickly and draw Gryce’s attention to him. Gryce was prowling around peering over shoulders, tutting, and no doubt making every child and their parents incredibly nervous. Eventually he told everyone to stop and put their pens down.

‘While Miss Doherty marks the mathematics, we will move onto reading. Oration builds confidence and character, and that is what we need these days more than ever, is it not?’ he said, clicking his fingers at Tim, one of the younger children, to summon him to the front of the class.

Tim, head down, approached the front tentatively, as Gryce sat on a chair, making his gown billow with a whip of his wrists.

Joseph watched, keen to see how long each student would be tested for, but it seemed to vary. What he did notice was that Gryce grew bored if someone read well, waving them away quickly, which heaped further pressure on Joseph. Start badly, or nervously, and he ran the risk of making Gryce stretch it out. Do that, and he knew he would eventually be exposed.

He decided not to watch, hoping it would ease his nerves, and his gaze fell to Miss Doherty, who upon seeing him, lifted his maths book up discreetly and mouthed ‘Brilliant,’ at him. The word soaked through his skin and warmed him, if only momentarily.

But eventually, his time in the spotlight came. Bert and Jimmy had blundered and stalled, but passed with a stern look and promises of ‘greater application’, while Syd was second-to-last, commanding the space with her normal poise, which seemed to bore Gryce, making her read for what seemed to be little more than thirty seconds. He tapped Clarence weakly on the desk, as close to an ovation as he could muster, before sending her away.

‘Palmer!’ Gryce boomed, ‘I believe this leaves us with you. If you would be so kind?’ He beckoned Joseph forward with Clarence, which did little for his nerves.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Gryce asked as he arrived.

Joseph hadn’t a clue and panicked. Was he supposed to thank him, or bow? What had he missed?

‘Your book, boy! How on earth are you expecting to read without your book?’

The short walk back to his desk was a shameful one, but he took a small amount of solace from Syd’s supportive smile as he passed.

‘I’m ready, sir,’ he said, when he finally stood beside Gryce.

‘Well, start at the beginning then,’ the headmaster replied, and stood for the first time, moving in front of Joseph, like he had bought the most expensive seat in the theatre, at the expense of the view held by anyone else.

Joseph peeled the dog-eared book open, moistening his lips with his tongue. You can do this,he told himself. You know the words, you do.

‘The night was dark,’ he began, quiet at first, but getting louder for fear of being told to start again. ‘And the clouds hung low and heavy.’

He took it slow, allowing the words to come back to him, but at the same time working hard to not be too fluent, just like Syd had said. He used his finger as a prop without actually looking at the words, pretending to trace the phrases as he read.

Five lines in, though, and he made the mistake of actually focusing on the words instead of his finger, and felt the nausea rise as they spun and rolled, forcing his tongue into what felt like a knot that he could never untie.

He felt eyes on him, saw Gryce stop prowling and tap Clarence’s tip on his calf, just once. Joseph wiped at a stray bead of sweat on his nose, nodding slightly as he saw Syd do the same, encouragingly.

He started the line again.

He was doing a good job, good enough surely, and he allowed himself to look up briefly, seeing Miss Doherty willing him on like a proud parent.

Two lines later, though, and Joseph felt the tension rise again. How long until Gryce called him off? He must have read for longer than anyone else.

But finally, eventually, as Joseph neared the end of what he had rehearsed and considered how quickly he’d have to move to outrun both Gryce and his cane, the headmaster finally said something. It wasn’t aimed at Joseph, though his stare most definitely was.

‘Miss Doherty.’ Gryce smiled thinly. ‘You are to be congratulated. Such fluency and understanding in our newest student.’

Joseph felt his blood swirl. He hadn’t expected praise from Gryce, so he didn’t trust it either.

‘I enjoyed your performance so much, Master Palmer, that I wonder if –’ he moved behind Joseph, his bony finger coming into view – ‘that I wonder if you could possibly read this line again for us.’

His finger landed midway through the page, around six lines from the top.

‘Why, sir?’ Joseph dared ask, though he knew he shouldn’t have. Challenging the man was never going to make him change his mind.

‘Because you read it so beautifully. With such colour and eloquence, I think we would all benefit from hearing it again.’

Joseph’s stomach capsized. He hadn’t a clue what the line said.

‘Come on, Master Palmer,’ Gryce said as he circled endlessly, finally stopping at Joseph’s left shoulder.

Joseph’s head was chaos, recapping the story, trying to recall what the right line might be.

‘Quickly now, boy. Come on!’

He felt sweat force itself free across his forehead before he could wipe it away.

‘READ!’

So he did. He made a guess, a wild stab in the dark, knowing full well that it would take a miracle of biblical proportions to see him start in the right place.

And of course, there was no miracle. No parting of the sea or water into wine, just a boy exposing himself for what he was: a chancer and a cheat.

These were the words that Gryce bellowed at him as he ripped the book from his hands and tossed it to the floor.

‘You’re not reading this at all, are you? You’ve simply memorised it, to hide the fact that you cannot read! Did you really think you could fool me with this charade?’ he roared. ‘You should be ashamed. Pretending to read like that. To mock not just me, but your teacher. The teacher who expected and frankly deserved much more.’

Joseph’s panicked eyes fled to Miss Doherty, her shocked expression, hands at her face. It wasn’t clear if she were appalled at Joseph or fearful of what would happen to him next. She wasn’t alone. The parents looked like they would rather be anywhere else than here.

‘Well, let me tell you something, boy,’ Gryce went on. ‘If you dare to make a fool of me, I can promise you that you will never, EVER, dare do it again.’

He felt the headmaster grab at his wrist, turning his palm skywards, and then saw Clarence arc its way up.

Joseph braced. Not just his hand, but his entire body. He knew what was coming and how it would feel, but feared it anyway, and did not try to hide the pain when the cane tore at his palm, shockwaves shooting to every part of his body.

He lifted his head to the ceiling, managing to see the others through his tears, their faces uncomfortable, wincing.

But Joseph knew that wasn’t it. Gryce was merely warming up, and it took every inch of courage he owned to raise his palm back up, and swallow hard, ready.

But the next blow didn’t come. Clarence didn’t sing as he tore through the air. Instead Gryce’s arm remained at the top of its arc, held not by the strongest of arms, but by the most powerful of voices, that demanded from nowhere: ‘What on earth is going on?’