Mother’s Boy, page 13
He glanced to his right and saw a poem barely five lines long, full of crossings-out. He glanced the other way and was relieved to see another boy, like him, had found time to write a fair copy to make reading out easier, even though their poem, too, looked little longer than a limerick.
Reading round the class followed an invariable pattern, starting with the boy nearest the door and winding back to the boy nearest the radiator in the far corner. When they did Latin translation they followed this route, and when they read Shakespeare or history books. Only maths classes saw questions peppered across the class like unpredictable bullets. On this occasion Mr Sleep followed the usual route but made the torment worse by having each boy walk to his dais and read his poem from there, while he gave nothing away with his unvarying scowl and made cryptic notes in his ledger.
Shakespeare aside, Charles was not a great poetry reader, although he often read the hymn book discreetly during sermons as the verses there tended to be more interesting and dramatic when divorced from their tunes. But he knew the poems he was hearing were pretty terrible. Several had interpreted greed as gluttony and droned on about favourite food. Several were full of empty rhetorical questions. Several boys had metre that limped or tripped their readings up entirely and many of the rhymes on show were so bad they raised a laugh, at which the readers grinned too, reassured that they were indeed not at risk of being poets. Charles’s turn came all too soon.
He approached the dais, took a breath, looked to Mr Sleep for the weary nod that said he should start, and read. He had to concentrate because his lines and sentences were quite long and he was careful not to gabble the way several boys had done. But nobody tittered or groaned and nobody cheered after. He returned to his desk in silence, feeling slightly dizzy from the attention and grateful it had moved on.
When they were all done there was not much time left, luckily, for Mr Sleep to tear their work apart the way he did when handing back essays. He said they were all to hand in fair copies by the end of the day and that for the most part their work had been poor, shoddy and ‘as easily forgotten as your formless faces. Especially your disgraceful offering, Bailey, which was barely recognisable even as doggerel. You’ll be reciting the first three sonnets from memory here on Monday.’ There were loud cheers for poor Bailey, who grinned. Mr Sleep silenced them with a dusty hand. ‘Just one of you has understood the challenge you were set and for that boy I am going to do something I have never done in my long career at the school. Causley, you get full marks, as well as a copy of the Shakespeare Sonnets. Very well done indeed, that man. Applause for Causley, boys. Very good. Yes, yes. That’s enough.’ And he swept out for the mid-morning break.
Usually Charles left the classroom after most, using tidying his desk as a pretext for letting the rowdy boys out first, but on this occasion he was mobbed, given back slaps and hair-ruffles and somehow swept out by the crowd quite as though he had scored the clinching try or thwacked a cricket ball clear over the heads of the crowd at a match. Old Weary never gave top marks, yet somehow Causley had swayed him! As they moved along the corridor, other boys were told the story and his fame spread.
Even the headmaster heard and came over to shake his hand, having never even spoken to him before, and said, ‘I gather congratulations are in order, Causley. Well done. Keep it up. We must print the poem in the school magazine.’
Ginger was fleetingly before him and said, ‘Bravo, Charles,’ embarrassingly using his first name, which nobody ever did in school time.
And then Joe came over. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I never read poems, but can I read yours?’
‘Of course,’ Charles said, and let him carry off the fair copy to read during maths.
The fuss soon died down. Maths had its usual deadening effect on his confidence and spirits and only a couple of people mentioned the poem at lunch. Even routine tries were celebrated for longer than a top marks poem. But the news continued to spread because Mother had heard and welcomed him home with a proud hug and a lemon curd Victoria sponge. She also demanded to read the poem. Even as she was reading it, moving her lips as she did when reading required concentration, he registered an odd shame because she so wanted to say the right thing and didn’t know the poem meant nothing to him. It had been an exercise, nothing more, no more imbued with honest feeling than a page of quadratic equations. He felt this even more excruciatingly when Vera insisted on reading it when she came home from work, and she repeated lines back at him and said, ‘Very strong, that.’
And yet, making himself reread it on his bed that night, he saw in some way he was present in the poem, all his thoughts and feelings of that morning, about Ginger and Joe and popularity and Stella Dallas and how very much he did not want to live all his life in a small-minded, interfering place like Launceston. They had studied some basic codes in maths when starting algebra: substitution codes and so on. The poem was a piece of code, he realised. It didn’t expose him directly, as writing a story or essay might, not like writing anything in the first person singular, but it locked his thoughts and feelings safely in a place where only those granted the key would ever access them.
NEW SUIT – 1933
It was extremely hard to keep secrets from Charles; he was far more observant than men usually were. Nothing escaped his notice: not a shoe in need of repair nor a loose label on an overcoat. They were not people who touched, it seemed, but he couldn’t let Laura leave the house without reaching out to correct a collar that wasn’t sitting right or picking a stray hair off her shoulder. His close observation made her almost nervous.
Laura wouldn’t have minded had he not grown up so secretive himself. She had always believed that motherhood would guarantee her one person she knew as well as she knew herself, a loving confidant who told her all their thoughts and worries as she had done with Em when they were small. Since starting at the grammar school, however, or maybe even before that, Charles had begun to hide himself from her. Always good at tidying and cleaning his own room, he deprived her of any pretext to open his door, and she would never have opened his door when he was there without knocking first.
Before she got married to her chap and moved away, Vera had been a great help as she had grown up with a host of brothers. ‘Once they start shaving,’ she said, ‘you’ll know and hear nothing unless they’re hungry or want something washed or mended.’
When Laura wrote to Maggie that she worried Charles was shutting her out, Maggie wrote a surprisingly forthright letter back saying, ‘Thank heavens for that. You really don’t want to know the things that go through a young man’s mind, Laura. Besides, did you tell your mother anything at his age?’ She had been quite right, of course. Laura had loved her mother dearly but perhaps more later in life than when growing up. She had certainly never confided in her, or in her older siblings. Em had briefly gone into service at fifteen and from then until Laura left for Teignmouth, Stanley had been the keeper of her secrets, such as they were, and had taken them with him to Canada and his early grave.
So, corrected by those who knew, she did her best not to fret when she suspected Charles was worrying about something and not telling her. He had a loyal friend in Ginger, who hung on his every word. The small age difference between them seemed to have lessened as they grew older. He had even a friend of sorts in Joe Luke, which she would never have predicted. She taught herself not to complain when Charles said that although he still came to church because he sang in the choir and enjoyed that, he wasn’t sure he believed any more and reserved the right not to take Communion if the mood wasn’t on him. She tried not to be querulous when he didn’t want to come for a walk with her on a nice day, or chose to shut himself in his cold bedroom with one of his precious books rather than sit with her when she had gone to the trouble and expense of lighting a fire.
She took his smart new suit off its hanger in her wardrobe, where she had been hiding it for weeks now, folded it carefully with some tissue paper she had saved especially, then wrapped it in some smart striped paper she had found at Brimmell’s. Her slyness in taking his latest measurements to Treleaven’s, so the tailor there could ensure the fit was perfect, had almost shocked her.
She chose a dark, hard-wearing worsted with a nice texture to it and for the cut nothing too fashionable, lest it date. She paid for it, as had long been her intention, with the very last of Charlie’s legacy, which had been quietly earning interest in a savings account. They would not know themselves with Charles finally out of school and earning as well, and being paid considerably more than her, even on his starting salary.
She had kept that news a secret as well, which had been even harder than the suit secret because the excitement of it made her feel like a boiling kettle whenever he was around. She had never known what it was to have a husband bring home a pay packet and had always listened with an uneasy mix of envy and curiosity when married women let slip details of being given ‘housekeeping’ and even ‘pin money’ from their husbands’ wages. Even more interesting were those who expected to be handed the entire pay packet and then counted out of that spending money for the husband. Certainly this seemed the norm among her siblings in their marriages; the husbands were the primary earners but the wives ran the household finances, settling bills, placing orders and usually being better informed than their men, especially now that times were so hard, of what the essentials of life should cost.
As it was an important day, effectively the start of his life as a man, Laura had splashed out on a non-essential and treated them to a shop-bought cherry cake, one of his favourites, which she had gussied up with a nicely tart lemon glaze. The Padstow train pulled out of the station and she glanced instinctively at her watch and then at the kitchen clock to check they agreed. Now that the summer holidays were starting, the North Cornwall line would soon be busy with visitors heading to the coast. They often stretched their legs between the two train journeys, walking up the hill from the stations to look at the castle ruins, consulting guidebooks and exclaiming loudly in harsh, unfamiliar accents and pointing, or even laughing, at the locals quite as though they were visiting a zoo. Only the other day an upcountry woman had pointed a camera at Laura as she lugged her laundry basket down the hill from Miss Bracewell’s and told her to stand still for a moment. Told her, not asked her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Laura had muttered. ‘Basket’s far too heavy for that,’ and the woman had laughed and said, ‘Oh, I love the way you speak!’
Aggie would have thought of some sharp retort, but Laura just stumbled past, hot in the face.
She set the kettle to boil again, moved the teapot to the shelf at the back of the range so it could warm. It was hot out. Perhaps she should have bought ginger beer instead? But Charles was no longer a child. And why on earth was she so nervous? Almost jumpy. She realised she was still wearing her housecoat. She took it off, hung it on its peg by the brushes behind the kitchen door and was just smoothing out her dress when she heard his voice as he let himself in. Ginger was with him.
‘Hello,’ she said, meeting them in the hall. ‘Hello, Ginger.’
‘Hello, Mrs Causley.’
‘You two sit in the front room and I’ll bring tea in.’
‘We can sit in the kitchen, Mother. It’s only Ginger, not the mayor.’
‘It’s a special occasion,’ she said. ‘You go in there, Ginger, and pay him no heed.’
Charles opened his mouth to object on principle, but she saw him relent as he relished a special occasion and might be pressed to play something on the piano. It was funny that she knew him so well in a host of small ways and yet found whole chambers of his nature closed against her.
She had bought a brown loaf along with the cake. She continued to bake their white bread but had never mastered the art of producing a brown loaf as fluffy as the baker’s, so brown had long been their weekend treat. Sure enough, as she was setting cups and saucers on the tray beside the cake and plates she heard Charles strike up a dance tune. She sliced and buttered half of the loaf now, seeing that Ginger was there, and spread the slices out on a plate. She didn’t have the patience to keep up with the latest songs the way Charles did, but she recognised this as one she had heard several times recently. They couldn’t afford to keep buying records like some people, although they had a wind-up portable gramophone her brother Dick had given her when he and Mabel upgraded to a fancier electric one in a mahogany cabinet. She much preferred having Charles play the piano, not least because she didn’t have to keep getting up out of her chair to wind him up or turn him over. He picked up the latest tunes as sheet music, often borrowed from friends, and had only to play them through a few times to have them off by heart. It was a gift he had.
Ginger was standing behind the piano stool as she entered. He had one hand on Charles’s shoulder but took it off seeing her come in. Charles broke off playing and they both sat expectantly at the table as she sat across from them and cut slices of cake while waiting for the tea to brew.
‘Cherry cake!’ Charles exclaimed. ‘And you iced it too. What’s the special occasion?’
‘The end of school, of course,’ she said. ‘Did you all celebrate?’
‘We sang the school song at Assembly,’ Charles said lugubriously.
‘Nothing else? Didn’t the headmaster make a speech to send you on your way?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Ginger, ‘but he’s always doing that.’
She poured their tea and passed them bread. Ginger thanked her. He had lovely manners but then the poor lad had been standing in for his dead mother for years and was probably used to smoothing the way for his father socially. Douglas was a nice enough man but quiet to the point of awkwardness.
‘And then we had our end-of-term marks,’ he added.
‘How did you do?’
‘Ginger came top,’ Charles said.
‘Well done. That’s quite something when you think you’re nearly a year younger than most of that group.’
‘Well I have to work hard. I want to get to medical school.’
‘Good for you. No such dreams for Charles.’
‘I have dreams, Mother.’
‘Yes, but not practical ones. Nothing that’d pay the bills.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Ginger put in loyally. ‘Charles is good at things other than science.’
‘Indeed he is,’ she agreed, remembering it was Charles’s big day. ‘Help Ginger to a slice of cake, Charles,’ she said. ‘I just need to fetch you something.’
Too late she regretted the silly touch of wrapping the suit up like a present when it was, after all, what he’d be wearing for work. She had not forgotten his terrible disappointment on his fifteenth birthday as he unwrapped the practical woollen dressing gown she had bought him in place of the silk one she knew he wanted, unlike no other fifteen-year-old in town.
She did her best to set the parcel on the table beside him as though it was just another plate of bread and butter.
‘Is it your birthday?’ Ginger asked. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘It’s not my birthday,’ Charles told him rather sharply, and looked across the table at her as she poured them all more tea. ‘You know very well.’
‘Well, don’t keep us all in suspense,’ Laura said, nervously adding, ‘It doesn’t have one of those silly fashionable cuts like Jimmy Cagney’s that will date while there’s still wear in it.’
Charles looked across at Ginger, seeking an audience in his pain. ‘She always does that,’ he said. ‘Spoils the surprise.’
‘Sorry,’ Laura said. ‘It’s the tension. Just open it.’
‘Oh, very well,’ he said, and opened the wrapping the way she had taught him, carefully, so that the paper could be flattened and ironed and used again.
‘Very smart,’ he said carefully.
‘Mr Treleaven had all your measurements but you’d better check. He said they can always alter it if need be.’
He stood, took off his school blazer and pulled on the new suit jacket, seeming to age five years in the process.
‘Oh, Charles,’ Laura sighed. ‘You look so grown up! It fits perfectly. Bend your arms.’
He bent his arms at the elbows, revealing just enough cuff.
‘Perfect,’ she said.
‘So why a suit now?’ Ginger asked.
‘Yes, Mother. Why a suit now?’
She felt herself smile at the relief of finally unburdening herself of secrets. ‘You’ve a job,’ she said. ‘I got you a proper grown-up desk job working for Mr Finn.’
‘The builders’ merchant,’ Charles said.
‘No, the undertaker’s. Yes, of course the builders’ merchant. He’ll pay twelve and six a week, more than I make, even for your starting wage, and he’s said you needn’t start until Monday week so you can have a whole week of summer holiday rather than jump straight into it.’
‘So, you’re not carrying on at school after all?’ Ginger asked.
‘Of course he isn’t, Ginger. Whatever for? It’s not as though he’s burning to study engineering or to be a doctor like you, and this house needs a man who earns his keep. And you are a man, now you’re nearly sixteen. Oh, Charles, I’m so proud of you. Mr Finn knew exactly who you were from the choir, of course, and said you were a very bright, polite boy and exactly what he was looking for to deal with orders and invoices. Aren’t you happy? Charles?’
But Charles had snatched up the suit trousers and his blazer and walked swiftly from the room. There was a brief thunder of shoes on stairs before his bedroom door overhead was closed with an unmistakable slam.
‘Should I go after him?’ Ginger asked softly after a moment.
‘Best not,’ she told him. ‘That room’s private. Nobody goes in without an invitation.’
‘Ah. Lovely cake, Mrs Causley.’
‘Thank you, Ginger. It’s only store-bought but it’s his favourite. Another slice?’
