August Read Free

manner and Tristan did the same.
    There was movement within and Madame Grey pulled back to the shadows. Two young men, sleeves rolled up, manoeuvred Mr Simpson’s gaunt frame through the doorway. Their hands were at his shoulders and his head lolled back, stretching the neck until Tristan was sure it should snap. Tristan backed away, both appalled and fascinated by the way the exposed skin dented to every touch and how the dead man’s gums had receded, making his yellowed teeth appear unnaturally long. One of the men noted Tristan’s interest and offered a conspiratorial leer.
    Tristan turned and ran towards the darkening sky. There was rain coming. That was good. When it rained Father Carmichael let the boys shelter in the choir loft. When it rained Tristan got to watch the service.
    The church was small and spare, well matched to its congregation. Tristan looked down on their ailing heads, the exposed scalps dry and flaking. Only those who could no longer work attended daytime services, and those who could not work did not have long to make their peace with God. There were four other errand boys in the loft. They busied themselves with the usual games, bruising the air with silent farts and shaping obscenities with their fingers. Tristan played along, but his mind was on the lilting sermon. He watched Father Carmichael’s bony figure turn, splendid in its priestly robes, and heard his voice grow strong with authority. Father Carmichael was a man who mattered. When he spoke others listened. The exact opposite of Tristan’s father.
    Tristan loved his father, but he did not wish to become like him. He knew he would not be strong enough to carry the suffering.
    Tristan looked at The Holy Works open on the altar, its pages extending wider than his young arms could reach. A person who could read a book like that would never need worry about his place in the world. A man with knowledge like that would never go hungry.
    After the service, Tristan followed the priest into the sacristy.
    â€˜Excuse me, Father.’
    The old man turned.
    â€˜Tristan, what are you doing back here?’
    â€˜I have come to ask a favour.’
    â€˜And what favour might that be?’
    Tristan paused, understanding at once how important the answer would be.
    â€˜I would like you to teach me to read, Father, please.’
    Father Carmichael looked away as if he did not trust his first reaction and returned to the task of folding his vestments. Tristan watched the priest’s hands. He had not noticed them before. The knuckles were sculpted huge by arthritis, making claws of the fingers. The skin though was smooth like a child’s.
    â€˜What good do you think such learning would do, Tristan?’
    Still the priest did not meet the young boy’s eyes.
    Tristan considered the question carefully.
    â€˜Will you die soon?’ he asked.
    â€˜I expect so.’ A smile took hold of Father Carmichael’s face. ‘But that does not answer my question.’
    â€˜I will not die soon,’ Tristan explained. ‘I am young. That is why you should teach me to read. That is the good it will do.’
    Father Carmichael crouched and ruffled Tristan’s hair. He stared, as if he had never seen a boy’s face before. Tristan hopped from one foot to the other, bursting with not knowing.
    â€˜What will your father say?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I think he might be pleased.’
    Father Carmichael shook his head and Tristan saw sadness in his eyes.
    â€˜You must ask him first. I need his permission. Do you understand?’
    Tristan nodded.
    â€˜And I cannot teach you if you do not practise. Do you promise me you will practise every day?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Are there books in the house for you to practise on?’
    Again Tristan nodded, although half of it was a lie. There was only one book: a pocket edition of The Holy Works , stuffed in a gap beneath the window to keep out the