Crooked Heart Read Free Page A

said Mattie, looking pleased.
    â€˜I just need the WC,’ said Noel, and ran upstairs. He peered out through the round spyhole window on the landing and saw Uncle Geoffrey still standing in the lane, looking unhappily back at the house. Noel ducked down, counted to a hundred and looked again. Geoffrey had gone.
    â€˜Why didn’t we want him to come in?’ he asked Mattie, that evening.
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Uncle Geoffrey.’
    â€˜They all know each other,’ she said. ‘Wardens. All authority is linked, Angus, that’s how the world is run. Independence is one’s only hope. You must promise me one thing.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜To never tell anybody anything.’
    â€˜All right,’ he said. ‘You called me Angus,’ he added, after a moment.
    â€˜I did not.’ She spoke with absolute certainty.
    That was the first time he really felt afraid; soon, he began to carry the feeling around with him, a cold scarf wrapped around his neck, a stomach full of tadpoles.
    The autumn was warm and dry. Noel raked and burned leaves while Mattie did other things. He wasn’t sure what. The two of them had started to revolve in different directions, moving into alignment only three or four times a day, at meals, or in the drawing room where Mattie would delve around in the desk, rearranging papers, while Noel sat in the window seat and read all of Edgar Wallace and then all of Dashiell Hammett. Sometimes he sat and watched the lorries lurching along the track.
    They had no more visitors, apart from delivery boys, and the postman, and once a woman who was collecting for the North West London Branch of the Army Comforts Fund. Noel watched from the drawing-room window as she sprinted away up the lane, Mattie shouting after her. Uncle Geoffrey made no further appearances, and neither did the local warden. Noel would walk round the outside of the house every evening, making sure that no chinks of light were visible.
    Winter seemed to start suddenly. He woke one morning, and saw his own breath. The scuttle in the kitchen was empty, and he went outside to the bunker and raised the heavy sliding door. A cascade of small coals tumbled out, and then a slither ofpaper. Letters, open and crumpled. A thick sheaf of forms, torn in half. He crouched and fingered them, and saw his own name under the smears of black. Gathering the whole lot up, he took them to the summerhouse.
    It was in a corner of the garden: a fretwork chalet, built on a turntable so that it could revolve to chase the sun. At some point it had rusted and stuck, facing east, and then ivy had crept across the roof so that now it was just a green hillock, rarely used. The wood of the front rail was silky with age. Noel knelt on the cold boards of the porch, and spread out the papers:
    A letter from Mr Clegg, the headmaster of St Cyprian’s, suggesting that Noel should join them in Llandeilo:
    . . . unless, of course, you have made other arrangements for his education, in which case perhaps you would be kind enough to let our bursar know as soon as possible, and to settle your outstanding account accordingly. Places at St Cyprian’s are greatly sought after, especially in light of the current international situation, and I think you may find that your godson’s capricious approach to study, coupled with his reluctance to participate in team activities may not be catered for with the same degree of tolerance at other educational establishments . . .
    National registration forms, dated 7th September:
    There is a legal requirement for you to furnish such details as are requested on the following pages. Without this information, we will be unable to issue the ration book that you will need for basic food purchases, or the national identity card, which it will be necessary for you to present whenever requested by authority. Please use black ink. Erroneous or deliberately misleading information will result in