On a Clear Day Read Free Page B

That car grease is far worse than bicycle stuff.’
    ‘That’s true, Ellie. It’s far heavier, it has to be, for the moving parts are so much bigger. But it’s hard on you, love, that has to wash them.’
    ‘Never worry yourself. Sure when you get the shop won’t I send it all to the laundry and act the lady?’ she’d say, laughing at him.
    Clare loved to hear them talking about the shop. It would be a bicycle shop because that was what Uncle Harry had and he was going to retire one day and Daddy was going to buy it and it would have Samuel Hamilton over the door instead of Harold Mitchell. Her father had all sorts of plans for when he took over. Most of all he wanted to branch out into the sale and repair of motorbikes. He loved motorbikes and in the photograph album there were pictures of him in the Isle of Man at something called the TT which was a race. He said he never won but that wasn’t the point, it was experience. You learnt more about a bike by riding it than by stripping it down and putting it together again.
    He had sold his motorbike when they got married. Her mother didn’t want him too but they needed the money to buy furniture and besides, in Edward Street, there was nowhere to keep it. But one day when they had a house with a garden and a workshop, he would have his own motorbike again and she and William would go for rides on the pillion. That was what you called the seat for the passenger and when you rode you would have to put your arms round his waist and hold on tight.
    There was a knock at the classroom door. Surprised, Clare looked up and saw that Mr Stinson had come in. He didn’t have an inkbottle or a window pole in his hand but when Miss McMurray handed Mary Bratten back her work and looked up at him he took a piece of paper from his top pocket and said something to her in a low voice with his head turned away towards the blackboard.
    Miss McMurray stared at him and shook her head.
    ‘Alison Hamilton,’ she said aloud, as she turned back to scan the front desks and the unfamiliar faces of the juniors who sat there.
    No one moved and although Clare was quite sure the message was for her, for a moment, she was too surprised to put her hand up.
    ‘Please miss, I’m Clare Hamilton.’
    ‘Have you a wee brother called William in the infants?’ asked Mr Stinson quietly.
    She nodded and watched as the two adults exchanged glances.
    ‘Clare, the principal wants to see you in his office,’ began Miss McMurray. ‘Leave your work here and take your schoolbag with you. Mr Stinson will go with you.’
    There was complete silence in the classroom as Clare put down the joined fragments of blue fabric, run but not felled, and fastened the buckleson her schoolbag. She stood up and found her legs were shaking. Something was wrong. Something had happened to William. He’d fallen down and broken his leg and he wouldn’t stop crying or he’d forgotten where he lived. This was what happened in books. They always sent someone to fetch the hero, or heroine, like in David Copperfield. But that was his mother.
    An awful thought hit her. Maybe it was her mother who was ill. She’d not been well this morning. She’d had an awful headache and in the middle of washing William she’d had to run outside to the lavatory. When she came back she was pale and her forehead was damp but she’d said she was fine.
    ‘Women sometimes feel bad at certain times, Clare. You’ll understand when you’re older. I’ll away and lie down when you go off to school. I’ll be as right as rain by the time you come home.’
    The principal’s desk was empty when Mr Stinson knocked and opened the door but the school secretary was at her typewriter under the window and sitting on one of the hard upright chairs by the door was William. He appeared to be completely absorbed in studying a marble he had taken from his pocket.
    ‘There ye are,’ said Mr Stinson quietly. ‘I’ll leave you with Mrs Graham and your wee