August Read Free Page B

for word, other times inserting new questions that came to him as he stepped over the cobbles, questions so ingenious that the teacher would be forced to admit defeat.
    Tristan found a new feeling taking hold of him, something lighter than happiness. His thoughts drifted more and more from the present to the future. Hope. That was it, even if he couldn’t name it. Hope lifted his gaze and floated his mind. He had no idea what lay ahead of him, but he knew it was something. Something beyond the workers’ quarter.
    He had only just turned into the street when he heard the shouting. It was his father’s voice, raised to a threat, the sound so wrong that it stopped Tristan dead. Wrong because his father did not come home during the day. Wrong because their small room never received visitors. And wrong because when he was angry Tristan’s father grew quiet not loud; his mouth closed up and his complaints stuck in his throat. But there was no denying it was his father’s voice. Tristan edged forward, frightened and curious. He tried to look through the window but the interior was too dark and he could make out only two figures, adult-sized shadows both turned towards him.
    â€˜Tristan! Get in here now.’
    The two men faced off, as if contemplating an unlikely fist fight, Tristan’s father to the left, Father Carmichael to the right. Tristan slunk to the side wall, one eye on the door. He looked to Father Carmichael, hoping he might explain, but the priest said nothing.
    â€˜Is it true, Tristan?’ his father demanded. ‘Is it true you have been lying to me?’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜So, you’ve been lying to me about more than one thing, have you?’
    â€˜No.’ Tristan looked to the ground, digging at the dirt with his bare toe. He was caught in a trap he did not understand.
    â€˜Then I’ll have none of your questions. Have you been lying to me?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Tristan admitted, feeling the insistent pressure of a seven-year-old’s tears.
    â€˜About this?’
    His father stepped forward, thrusting the battered copy of The Holy Works into his small hands.
    â€˜Father Carmichael—’
    â€˜Don’t blame Father Carmichael.’ Tristan had never seen his father like this. Anger inflated him, making him taller, and wider at the shoulders.
    â€˜He has been teaching me to read.’
    â€˜I know; he has told me. So you can read now, can you? Come on then, read to me. Do it.’
    Tristan had imagined this moment many times, but never like this. His hands fumbled with the pages and he felt his future rise up before him, twisting into a shape he did not recognise.
    â€˜You are great, Lord, and highly to be praised. High is your—’
    His father grabbed the book from Tristan’s grasp and hurled it to the ground, spitting where it landed. Tristan’s world turned watery.
    â€˜Tell him then.’ His father prodded at the air that separated him from the priest. ‘Tell him what you asked me.’
    Through his tears Tristan saw that Father Carmichael remained unnaturally calm.
    â€˜I am sorry, Tristan.’ The voice was soft and measured. ‘I thought you had told him. I asked you to, at the outset.’
    â€˜I am sorry,’ Tristan stammered. ‘I am sorry if I have got you into trouble. I just wanted to read.’ He turned to his father. ‘I just wanted to read, Dad. I thought you would be happy for me.’
    â€˜Tell him!’ his father repeated, his eyes fixed on the priest.
    â€˜I came here to ask your father’s permission. Your work, your reading and your questions, Tristan, they mark you out as an exceptional student. I have been to St Augustine’s to make your case. You have been granted a scholarship to study there.’
    Scholarships to St Augustine’s were rare. They went to the children of the aspiring classes: the nurses, teachers and clerks who could find money for