what used to be a word has become a fact.
He missed Peg in these trying times. The grief at her going had been great, but diminished by those last years of opposition, tears, drinking, wandering in the mind. Yet as the days went by and he searched Bristol for a job, that Peg was fading, to be replaced by the Peg he had married seventeen years ago. He needed to cuddle against her, to converse softly with her in the night, to seek the only kind of sexual solace he deemed truly satisfactory-one wherein love and friendship contributed at least as much as passion. There was no one left to talk to, for though his father was firmly on his side, Dick would always look down on him as too soft, a trifle spineless. And Mum was Mum-cook and scullery maid in one. In a few years William Henry would be his equal; then all he would lack was sexual solace. And that, Richard had resolved, would have to be put away until after William Henry was grown to full maturity. For he would not inflict a stepmother on this beloved only child, and whores were a kind of woman he could not stomach no matter how he ached for the simplest, most basic relief.
On Monday, which was the last day of June, Richard left at the crack of dawn-very early at this time of summer solstice-to walk the eight miles of hilly road between the Cooper’s Arms and Keynsham, a hamlet along the Avon made larger and much dirtier by folk like William Champion, brass maker. Champion had patented a secret process for refining zinc from calamine and old tailings, and it had come to Richard’s ears that he was looking for a good man to deal with zinc. Why not try? The worst that could happen was a refusal.
William Henry left for school at a quarter to seven as usual, grumbling because the Head had insisted that school be held on the last day of June when it fell on a Monday. His grandmother’s response was a good-natured cuff over the ear; William Henry took the hint and departed. Tomorrow was the commencement of two months of holiday, for the wearers of the blue coat as well as the paying pupils. Those who had homes and parents to go to would doff their blue coats and quit Colston’s until the beginning of September, while those like Johnny Monkton who had neither parents nor home would spend the summer at Colston’s under a somewhat relaxed code of discipline.
Dadda had explained why he could not keep William Henry company over the next two months, and William Henry understood completely. He was well aware that all of Dadda’s efforts were on his behalf, and that put a burden on his young shoulders that he did not even know was there. If he worked very hard over his books-and he did-it was to please Dadda, who valued an education more highly than any nine-year-old boy possibly could.
At the gates of Colston’s School he stopped, amazed; they were festooned with black ribbons! Mr. Hobson, a junior master, was waiting just inside them to put a hand on William Henry’s arm.
“Home again, lad,” he said, turning William Henry around.
“Home again, Mr. Hobson?”
“Aye. The Head passed away in his sleep during the night, so there is no school today. Your father will be notified about the funeral, Morgan Tertius. Now off you go.”
“May I see Monkton Minor, sir?”
“Not today. Goodbye,” said Mr. Hobson firmly, giving William Henry a little push between his shoulder blades.
At the Stone Bridge the child paused, frowning. What a bother! Dadda off to Keynsham, Grandpapa and Grandmama busy with the Monday chores-what was he going to do all day without Johnny?
This was the first time that life had presented William Henry with the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted without anybody’s knowing. The Cooper’s Arms thought him at Colston’s, yet Colston’s had sent him home. There to kick his heels to no purpose. Mind made up, William Henry galloped off the Stone Bridge, but not in the direction of home. In the direction of Clifton.
The steep, bluffy cone of Brandon Hill was his first stop; he scrambled all the way up to its top fancying himself a Roundhead soldier in Cromwell’s army besieging Bristol, and there stood to gaze across the lime kiln chimneys and marshlands, then to the ruins of the Royalist fort on St. Michael’s Hill. Game over, he leaped down from ledge to ledge until he reached the footpath and hopped, skipped and jumped to Jacob’s Well, which had once been the only convenient source of water for Clifton. There were houses around it now, none of them attractive to a small boy. So he gamboled on past St. Andrew’s church, turned somersaults on the springy turf of Clifton Green, and decided to walk to Manilla House, last in the row of mansions atop the hill.
“Holloa there, young spindle-shanks!” said a friendly voice outside the stable yard attached to Boyce’s Buildings.
“Holloa yourself, sir.”
“No school today?”
“The Head died,” William Henry explained briefly, and perched himself on the gate-post. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Richard the groom.”
“Richard is my dadda’s name too. I am William Henry.”
Out came a horny hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
For two hours he followed Richard the groom around, patting the few horses, peering into mostly empty stalls, helping draw buckets of water from the well and fetch hay, talking merrily. At the end of it Richard the groom gave him a tankard of small beer, a hunk of bread and some cheese; greatly refreshed, William Henry waved him a cheerful goodbye and continued on up the road.
Manilla House was as deserted as Freemantle House, Duncan House and Mortimer House-where to now?
He was still debating his alternatives when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves behind him, and turned to discover that the rider bore a very familiar and much-loved face. “Mr. Parfrey!” he called.
“Good lord!” said George Parfrey. “What are you doing here, Morgan Tertius?”
William Henry had the grace to blush. “Please, sir, I am on a walk,” he said lamely. “There is no school today, and Dadda has gone to Keynsham.”
“Ought you to be here, Morgan Tertius?”
“Please, sir, my name is William Henry.”
Mr. Parfrey frowned, then shrugged and held out his hand. “I see more than perhaps you know, William Henry. So be it. Hop up and come for a ride, then I will see you home.”
Ecstasy! In all his life he had never been upon a horse! Now here he was, sitting astride the saddle in front of Mr. Parfrey, so high off the ground that looking down made him feel quite dizzy. A whole new world, like being in the top of a tree that ran! How smooth and regular the motion! How wondrous to be on a new adventure with a friend almost as best as Dadda! William Henry succumbed to absolute bliss.
They cantered off up Durdham Down, scattering several flocks of sheep, laughing at anything and everything they chanced upon. And when William Henry let him get a word in edgeways, Mr. Parfrey revealed that he knew about lots of things besides Latin. They rode to the parapet of the Avon Gorge, where Mr. Parfrey pointed out the colors in the rock and told the eager little boy how iron tinted the grey and white of the limestone those richly ruddy pinks and plums; he pointed with his crop at the flowering plants in the summer grass and recited their names, then minutes later jokingly quizzed William Henry as to the identity of this one or that one.
Finally the bridle path atop the gorge led them down to the Hotwells House on its ledge jutting into the Avon.
“We may find some dinner here,” said Mr. Parfrey, letting the boy slide to the ground before dismounting. “Hungry?”
“Yes, sir!”
“If I am to call you William Henry away from the portals of Colston’s, I think you must call me Uncle George.”
There were very few people taking the waters in the pump room-a few consumptive, diabetic or gouty men, a very old lady and two crippled younger women. It had seen better days; the gilding had tarnished, the wallpaper was peeling, the drapes had frayed and accumulated visible layers of dirt, the spindling chairs needed new upholstery. But the sour lessee-who was still in the midst of a battle with Bristol over the rates he charged to drink the waters-provided dinner of a kind. To William Henry, accustomed to much better food at the Cooper’s Arms, it tasted of nectar and ambrosia simply because it was different-and because he shared it with such a magical companion. Who, when they were done, suggested a walk outside before they rode back to the city. The old lady and the crippled women cooed over William Henry as they left; he suffered their exclamations and pats with the same patience he used to give his dead mother, a side of him that fascinated George Parfrey.
For George Parfrey had found a magical companion too. It had been, in fact, a magical day, starting off with the
