August Read Free Page A

draught, coated in dust and disinterest.
    â€˜Very well. If your father agrees, you can come here early tomorrow morning, as soon as you’ve had your breakfast. There is little time to waste.’
    It wasn’t that Tristan did not intend to ask. He rehearsed his question during each mouthful, determined to speak just as soon as he’d swallowed the stringy meat. But the words refused to come free, as if some other great force had hold of them. He felt a tightness in his chest, a crushing sensation. The walls felt closer that night; the acrid smell from the street latrine burned more sharply in his nose. The overhead bulb dimmed and glowed, and shadows pulsed across his father’s tired face. The workers’ quarter was rationed to one hour’s electricity each day. They used it for this—cooking and eating together. When the time was up, they retired to bed.
    â€˜How was your day?’ his father asked.
    â€˜I stayed indoors, as you told me to,’ Tristan lied.
    This then would be his tactic. He would lie to them both. He was used to it. When he could read properly he would surprise his father with his skill. It would be his gift to him. The plan grew solid as the words slipped free. ‘I’m glad I did. The rain was heavy this afternoon.’
    â€˜It was,’ his father agreed, carefully dividing the last portion of bread in two and handing his boy the greater share. ‘Come on, eat quickly, before the darkness comes.’
    Father Carmichael was an enthusiastic teacher. They read together from The Children’s Illustrated History of the Church. Tristan loved the pictures, rendered in the brightest colours he had ever seen. He read of the early prophets, Plato and Jesus, the crumbling of the Roman Empire and the coming of Augustine. Tristan liked the battle scenes best, the way the artist had captured the blood and pain. He imagined being amongst the soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, holding their line against the crusading Christians. The chapter’s final image portrayed a dark-skinned Augustinian hero, bloodied but unwearied, his silver sword plunged deep into the breast of the last of the invaders.
    Within five months Tristan was able to read the picture’s caption:
    Again God stood with those who stayed loyal to Him. And He will stand strong with you too, if you are brave enough to accept His call.
    Tristan practised his reading whenever he could. Father Carmichael offered to let him take The Illustrated History home but Tristan knew there was no place he could hide it. He struggled his way through the works of the Saint instead. The words Augustine used were not particularly difficult, but the concepts they explored were too dense for Tristan’s young brain and he felt it wrinkling with the effort. Will, freedom, destiny, grace and time. He couldn’t hope to grasp them. Sometimes he asked Father Carmichael for help with this, and although the priest seemed delighted by his interest, he had the infuriating habit of meeting each question with another of his own:
    â€˜How is it, Father, that I can be free, if God knows what it is I will do?’
    â€˜Why should it not be like this?’
    â€˜Because they do not go together.’
    â€˜Why do they not go together?’
    â€˜Because they are opposites, Father.’
    â€˜Are night and day opposites?’
    â€˜Yes, Father.’
    â€˜But don’t night and day go together?’
    â€˜Not at the same time they don’t, Father.’
    â€˜Ah yes.’ And here Father Carmichael would smile and bring the tips of his fingers to his lips in satisfaction. ‘And so we come back to time. Always we come back to time.’
    Tristan was not dispirited. He knew he was still young, and the prospect of one day understanding excited him. Knowledge sat on his horizon like a mountain waiting to be climbed. As he ran his errands he replayed his conversations with Father Carmichael, sometimes word