Adam woke with the feeling that something good was going to happen. For a start, it was light, which meant it couldn’t be a school morning. There was the sound of a radio playing downstairs, and the smell of toast. It took a few moments for him to remember that he was going to see the movie later.
Adam stretched and sat up, knocking a precariously-balanced pile of books off the end of the bed. The thud alerted Mam, who came in to see what had happened.
‘Was that you falling out of bed? Maybe we should put you back in your cot!’ She smiled mischievously.
Adam grinned back, delighted to see her in good form. She was wearing jeans and an old red sweatshirt, and her long hair was tied back in a ponytail. ‘You look really nice, Mam,’ he said. ‘You do! You look like a teenager,’ he insisted, as she began shaking her head.
Deirdre looked down at her old jeans and pulled at the faded top. ‘You must be joking! These are my rags!’ But she was smiling, and she gave him a quick hug and ruffled his hair.
‘Are you coming with me to see Grandad this morning?’ she asked, the smile beginning to fade from her eyes. ‘He loves to see you, and –’
‘Sure!’ interrupted Adam. ‘You don’t have to make me go, Mam. I like seeing him.’
Deirdre paused on her way out the bedroom door. ‘I know, love. I only meant you’re very good with him and he loves to see you.’ She closed the door and began going downstairs.
‘But we have to be back in time for me to go to the pictures!’ Adam yelled down the stairs after her. Deirdre didn’t reply.
* * *
Grandad was sitting bolt upright in a chair which had a wooden table attached to it. He had his arms folded and there were some loose sheets of paper and a pen on the table in front of him. His eyes were fixed on some point towards the far end of the room. Birdy was on the other side of the ward, in his favourite chair, chirping softly. Two old ladies sat huddled together, leafing through a copy of Woman’s Own without speaking.
Deirdre had gone to park the car, as usual, so Adam came in alone. It seemed to take her longer to park the car at each visit. Then sometimes she’d have to talk to the nurses, keeping her out of the ward for another five minutes or so.
Adam walked quietly over to his grandfather, his shoes squeaking on the lino. The sound seemed huge in the silent room. He sat in the chair beside the old man.
‘Morning, Granddad.’
‘Shhh! Shhh!’ whispered Grandad urgently. ‘Fold your arms. She said fold your arms, Billy. She’s just gone out to talk to the master.’
Adam hastily folded his arms. He leaned over and whispered into the old man’s ear, ‘What are you looking at?’
Grandad hurriedly glanced at the door to see that no one was coming before he replied, ‘The board. The board, Billy. We’ve to learn that poem up on the board by the time she gets back!’ He began murmuring:
‘Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands …’
Adam followed his gaze. There was a blank wall, flanked on either side by wheelchairs; a small table, with a vase of wilting flowers perched off-centre on it; and a big gilt-framed picture showing a farmyard scene. No blackboard.
So we’re in school, thought Adam. And I’m Billy. ‘Hey, Grand – I mean Joe.’ Adam nudged Grandad’s elbow. ‘What age are we?’
‘What kind of a question is that, you eejit! We’re nine! We’ll be in with the master and the big boys next year. Oh, I hope she’s not telling him about us!’
‘Telling him what?’
Grandad nodded in the direction of the window. ‘About the yard. About throwing stones in the yard.’
Suddenly Adam remembered an old story that his grandad had told him, before he’d become ill. It was Grandad’s most famous school story – the one where he’d been caned. He had been caught throwing stones in the yard, so the story went, and had been sent to the master and beaten. But Grandad had always maintained that he and his friend hadn’t been throwing stones, they’d been pitching them – little gentle throws, designed to land in a specific spot. Billy must have been the friend who had got in trouble with him. Adam thought he remembered that Grandad had actually gone straight home after the beating, he’d been so upset. When he’d arrived home and told his mother the sorry tale, she had marched him right back to the master for another beating! Tough days, thought Adam.
Then he had an idea. ‘But we weren’t throwing stones, Gr – Joe!’ he said reassuringly. ‘The mistress knows that.’
‘We weren’t?’ quavered the old man, with watery eyes.
‘Nah, of course not. We were collecting them. Yeah, that’s right. There was a big pothole in the tarmac …’
‘What are you talking about, Billy?’ demanded Grandad, his expression anxious.
I’d better get this right, thought Adam. ‘Miss – the teacher asked you and me to collect those stones at break-time. That’s right. She said there was a hole in the ground and one of the little ones might fall into it. So she asked you and me to collect enough stones to fill the hole.’ He paused for effect. ‘And then we were to pitch the stones into the hole.’ He hoped the word ‘pitch’ would ring a bell. He waited, smiling and nodding in an effort to convince Grandad.
The old man began to look more hopeful. ‘Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Adam firmly. ‘And now she’s telling the master how great we are.’
‘No!’ Grandad’s voice was trembling.
‘Yep!’ said Adam. ‘She’s telling him that we helped her and we should get a reward.’ He was worried he’d gone too far. Did they get rewards in those days?
But he needn’t have worried. The old man relaxed and, at last, unfolded his arms. ‘Do you know what, Billy?’ he said, turning to Adam. ‘I think you’re right. That must be what she’s doing.’
By the time Deirdre came in, Grandad had dozed off, resting against his ‘school desk’.
‘Don’t wake him, Mam,’ said Adam. ‘He’s had a tough day at school.’