PART ONE

SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND – OCTOBER 1957

Wonderboy
Some mother’s son
Turn your sorrow into wonder
Dream alone
Go have your fun
Life is lonely
-- Ray Davies

CHAPTER 1

Jeremy Mackenzie, still recovering from the flying tackle and punch to his stomach, barely heard the voice.  He was too busy fighting the spinning nausea, too busy holding what he believed to be a fierce, stubborn glare straight into the eyes of the enemy who gripped his chestnut hair—an older, much larger boy named Ben Tucker.

Jeremy had had enough of Ben and his friends, their bullying, their demands of money from him and his schoolmates. He finally decided to call them on it, calling Ben a “storshunist.” He meant to say “extortionist”—a word he’d gotten from his father the night before when he casually asked him about people who take money from others.  But it was enough that the label brought a comical, puzzled expression to Ben’s face.  That, and the laugh from the crowd that gathered to watch the David and Goliath display, sealed his fate.

Ben’s friends chased Jeremy down and fell upon him, knocking the wind out of him.  They pulled him up, pinning his arms as Ben got in one solid punch to the boy’s stomach. He groaned and sagged to the ground, and the others forced him back on his feet.  Ben grasped him by the hair with one hand to hold his head up, and curled the other hand into a hammy fist.  Still Jeremy stubbornly held his enemy’s eyes with his own, refusing to flinch—just like he’d seen the heroes do in the movies.

Then a voice interrupted, and Jeremy was vaguely aware that it was coming from one of Ben’s friends.  “Eh, Ben, lookit Croyden.”

“What?” Ben scowled, maintaining his stance but turning his head.

Jeremy peered around Ben to see Neil Croyden approaching—a thin, quiet boy he vaguely recalled from a few classes. Neil had his nose buried in a magazine as he walked, and barely looked up in time to keep from bumping into them.

“Sorry,” Neil murmured.  He looked up, then quickly returned his full, wide-eyed attention to the tattered copy of Monsieur.

Ben lowered his fist slowly. “Where’d you get this?”  He grabbed the magazine with his free hand, flipping pages clumsily.

“There’s a fair stack of ‘em by the dustbin outside Jenkins’ News,” Neil replied. He glanced from side to side, as if checking for spies.  Satisfied, he continued, his voice low. “Paul an’ Terry almost took this’un from me, made me tell where the rest was.  They’re halfway there by now, I guess.  You could cut through Roahrig’s, get there first if you hurry. Or else,” he added with a shrug, “Paul an’ Terry’ll nick ‘em all.”

“Gol, c’mon Ben, let’s go,” one of Ben’s minions whined.

Ben thought for a moment, exasperated, trying to measure his love of power against his raging hormones. More often than not, in a thirteen-year-old boy, hormones will out; and Ben Tucker was no more or less than average.

“Awrite, let him go.”  They released their prey and took off.  Ben dropped the magazine, caught Jeremy by his jacket and shoved him against the brick wall of the schoolyard. “We ain’t done, Mackenzie,” he muttered darkly.  He knocked the boy’s head against the wall, then let him drop to the ground. Ben spun around, looking for the magazine, and saw Neil holding it up with a neutral expression.  He eyed him suspiciously, then snatched it away and ran to catch up with his friends.

Jeremy leaned against the wall to stop his trembling.  He glanced at Neil, who said nothing. When his heart stopped pounding, he feigned an air of self-assurance. “Lucky for them you came along, I was just about to let ‘em have it … ”

“Well, if we stay on, you may get your chance.”

“W-whatcha mean?”

“There ain’t no other magazines. I figured if they thought there was more, that’d keep ‘em away for awhile. So if you really wanna thump ‘em, we could wait around, I’m sure they’ll be back soon … ”

“Well, Mum is cookin’ tea. Really shouldn’t be late, she hates that,” Jeremy cut in, grabbing his books from the ground and bolting for the gate. “C’mon.”

Neil followed him and they raced to the Mackenzies’ home.  As they stood at the door catching their breath and wiping their feet, Jeremy punched Neil in the arm.  “Ta,” he said.  Neil responded by shoving him through the doorway.

It wasn’t long before Ben and his friends realized they’d been had.  Two days later, Jeremy approached Neil and was surprised to see his new friend’s face transform from a smile of recognition into pale terror. Puzzled, he glanced over his shoulder and saw them—Ben, his friends, and Paul and Terry, as well—charging full speed.  Jeremy and Neil ran for all they were worth, but the other boys were much bigger and quickly caught up to them.  As everything around them spun in a kaleidoscope of dust and raining blows, Neil thought maybe he should’ve minded his own business in the first place.

“Wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Jeremy remarked when it was all over, wiping his bloody nose with a sleeve.

“Bad enough,” Neil groaned.  “Why’d ya have to call Ben ‘Tucker fucker’? He hates that.”

“That’s why I had to do it, innit?”  Jeremy shrugged.

Neil glared at him. “You just made him madder! Stupid sot … ”

“We’re gonna be heroes when word gets ’round we took them big chaps on … ”

“We didn’t take ‘em on, they chased us down and beat th’ bloody shite outta us.”

“S’all how you tell it.  Just let me do the talkin’.”

They stood up painfully, brushing some of the grime from their clothes. Jeremy pointed at Neil’s blackening eye. “That’s gonna be a beaut.  Your mum got any raw meat at home to put on it? I saw that in a movie once.”

Neil said nothing but dug in his pockets and rattled some coins. “C’mon, let’s go to Castro Grill.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, then Neil said, “You really gonna lie to the guys at school about this?”

“It ain’t lyin’, it’s im-bellishin’,” Jeremy replied with a nudge. “Cor, ya got so much to learn. Good thing you met me.”

“Oh aye, luckiest day of my life.”

“Can’t be a hero without battle scars to show for it.”

Neil considered this, and remembered what happened recently at the movie theatre, when he saw From Here to Eternity.  He recalled the scene in which Private Prewitt was badly beaten in a fight … he could still hear the gasps and sighs from the girls in the audience, their hearts going out to Prewitt.  And he found himself hoping for a shiner the likes of which his schoolmates had never seen.

* * *

Word quickly spread around school, and Neil was surprised to find that Jeremy was right—they did become heroes, of a sort.  (“There musta been twelve of ‘em,” Jeremy told an enthralled audience, and Neil rolled his eyes.)  Not only that, but the older boys seemed changed toward them, no longer standing by to trip them and take their meager shillings, or knock books from their arms as they left school. Neil brought this up to Jeremy one day as they sprawled lazily atop a hill at Meersbrook Park, gazing at the clouds.

“That’s the criminal mind,” Jeremy explained.  “My sister was readin’ a book about it. Seems a blighter’s got to give ya the boot before he’ll respect you.”

“That don’t make sense.”

“That’s what it said.”

“Wonder if that would work on my ol’ man.”

“Whatcha mean?”

Neil looked startled.  “Oh ... nothin’, just thinkin’ out loud.”

“Your dad a bully?”

A wave of “ah, here we go,” washed over Neil, and he prepared to tell Jeremy to mind his own business.  He glanced over cautiously; Jeremy was leaning over to tie a shoe.  “He’s ... well, he don’t hurt Mum or me.  But he drinks an’ yells a lot. I was sick for awhile, in an’ out of hospital. Now that I’m home, I think he’d just as soon I was back in hospital.  He don’t seem to want nobody around.”

He paused, grateful that Jeremy didn’t press.  He was so weary of doctors telling him not to overdo.  All the adults treating him like a freak, when all he wanted was to get out and play football with the other boys.

“How ‘bout your mum?”

“She talks back to him sometimes, an’ he says things I don’t understand, but they hurt her. Then she goes to Aunt Maggie’s, that’s her sister, an’ I always wanna go with her, but she says I’d help her a lot more by stayin’ on.  So she goes, an’ Dad yells at me, I dunno what he’s on about but I stay ’cause that’s what Mum wants.”

He stood up and walked a few paces, bent down and absently examined a stone. “Then Dad leaves, too, an’ sometimes he’s gone for days.  Once the pair of ‘em was gone nearly a fortnight. Then they come back, Mum’s cryin’, Dad tells us both he’s sorry an’ it’ll be different from now on. An’ it’s sound for awhile, then it starts up again.”

He put the stone in a pocket, straightened up and looked around, shifting from one foot to the other. He turned back and dropped down on the ground next to Jeremy. “It ain’t like anyone gets hurt.”  His voice lowered, barely above a whisper, and it was out before he even realized he was saying it, “but I don’t know why Mum never takes me with her.”

He fell silent, head down, elbows resting on his knees.  He suddenly thought of all the doctors he had seen so far, and why couldn’t just one of them come up with some shot for this wave of misery brought on from having said too much, knowing you can’t take it back.  He waited with dread for Jeremy to mutter something about having to get home, it was late.

“I get it,” Jeremy said. “You’re like that bloke in the story, fightin’ off the dragon for the damsel in distress— ”

“G’wan.”

“No, Gawain. Aye, you’re Sir Gawain, an’ your mum is Lady Caplet ... ”

“I don’t think that’s the same story ... ”

“—an’ your dad is the bloody dragon.”  He jumped to his feet, took up a branch from the ground and began pantomiming Errol Flynn with uncanny accuracy, right down to the wide-screen dazzling smile and hearty laugh.  “Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-HAAA!”  Neil found another branch and joined in, and they made a game of topping each other’s insults aimed at Neil’s father until they had exhausted all the foul language they’d stockpiled so far in their young lives.

After a few minutes, Jeremy said, “Maybe he just don’t know what to say to you. That’s how my dad is.  My Uncle Fred called him a bean counter once and laughed, but Dad didn’t laugh.  I dunno what that means.  Dad’s all right, but it ain’t easy to talk to him.”

“Does he get mad?”

“Nah, just don’t invite chat, that’s all.  But he’s all right to me an’ Llewellyn—that’s my sister—he don’t drink much, an’ he’s never hurt Mum ... ”  Jeremy’s voice trailed off. “I mean—well, that’s how he is.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyroad, only thing gets on his wick is he don’t like anyone messin’ about, thinks everything should be just so.  I’d like to be like him, he always knows what to do.  I fancy the thought of growin’ up a gent.  They get the prettiest girls, don’t they?  Y’know, like Cary Grant.”

“Y’have to steer clear of Ben an’ his mates if you’re goin’ to be a gent.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy agreed, recalling his father’s lecture after the fight. “Were you for it from your parents for that?”

“They was gone when I got home.  They ain’t back yet.”

“Ya mean you got nobody to cook tea?”

“S’all right, I can make somethin’,” Neil answered gruffly, hoping Jeremy wouldn’t invite him to tea. 

“You cook your own tea?” Jeremy cried. “I’ll have to see this for m’self!”

“G’wan, you don’t want t’come to th’ house.  Me dad may be back ... ”

“The bloody dragon?  Sod him, I got Excalibur.”  He jumped to his feet and took up the branch again.  Neil was still apprehensive.  Jeremy dropped the branch and scratched his head, impatient as he struggled to find the right words. “You stood up to Ben,” he finally said.  “I reck I could face your dad.  He’s nowt to do with you.”

“Well … ”

“C’mon, let’s go,” he said, giving him a shove.  They ran down the hill and grabbed the bicycles they’d dropped on the grass.

Neil led the way to a row house on Paget Street, in the East End. Upon entering, it was obvious to Jeremy that the family wasn’t as well off as his own.  Bedsheets served as curtains, nailed crazily to the woodwork surrounding the windows. The sparse rugs were threadbare, the plaster walls cracked in places. But it was peaceful enough at the moment, Neil’s parents having gone their separate ways for the time being. 

“Hey, we got an egg! An’ some sugar.  Thought it was all gone,” Neil remarked, putting the kettle on to boil.

Jeremy looked around.  Something about the house made him feel uncomfortable.  His wandering eyes rested on a frayed, mangled wire running along a floorboard, and he wondered if Neil’s father might have pulled the telephone out of the wall. He shook himself, as if to push the thought out of his head.

Neil cooked the egg and split it between them, rounding it out with toast.  “Blimey, you’re just like me sister in the kitchen,” Jeremy taunted.  Neil threw a piece of toast at him, starting a full-fledged food fight.

“Lemme get somethin’ outta my room, then we can go,” Neil said, glancing around, still nervous about his father showing up.  They left the kitchen a shambles, and he led the way upstairs to his room.  He switched on the light, and Jeremy stared.

One wall was covered with small drawings and watercolor paintings, remarkably good.  Some of the drawings were caricatures, and Jeremy laughed as he recognized a few of their more dreaded teachers and the headmaster himself.  Others depicted simple landscapes, drawings of squirrels, birds and other small creatures indigenous to Sheffield. There were even a few attempts at portraits of movie stars.  Jeremy whistled, and Neil quickly said, “Right, lay off.”

“Bollocks, are ya soft, these are great,” Jeremy exclaimed.  “Didn’t know you could draw. I always wished I could.”

“It ain’t hard, I jus’ dabble a bit ... ”

“Dabble! You’re gonna be famous, like the chap that dabbled the Mona bloody Lisa.  Or th’ one who painted them Sixteen Chapels.” Jeremy tried his best to remember the names of famous works from an art book Llewellyn had borrowed from the library.

“Ah, shut it, I jus’ mess about.”

“You ever show any of this to Mr. Millington?” Jeremy asked.  Mr. Millington was the art instructor at school, one of the few teachers the students found approachable.  Everyone looked forward to his class.

“Are y’daft, I couldn’t.”

“Hey, could I have a go?”

“What, y’want to paint?  Now?”

“Sure, show me how to do somethin’ like that.” He pointed at a watercolor of a cat.

Neil looked around the room. “Yeah, okay.”  He brought out paper and supplies, and they began to work on a copy of the study on the wall. It went well for awhile, then Jeremy’s impatience set in. He began adding impossible objects to the background—floating elephants, alligators, and a giant praying mantis poised to bite the luckless cat’s head off.

“Reck this’ll get us into Royal Academy?” Neil asked.  When Jeremy didn’t respond, he turned to see him examining one of the bottles of paint.

“The school’s name’s on this,” Jeremy said, holding up the bottle.  He looked up and noticed Neil’s startled expression.  “You nicked it, didn’t you?”

“No! ... well, that is ... Well, so what if I did?” Neil stammered. Jeremy had a glint in his eye that Neil already was learning to fear—the same glint he’d seen right before Jeremy had called Ben names. “I suppose you never nicked nowt, I’ll believe that when pigs fly!  I was jus’ borrowin’ ... ”

“Hell, I don’t care, I ain’t turnin’ you in. Not if you take some of these,” he indicated the pictures, “an’ show ‘em to Mr. Millington.”

“But that’s ... that’s ... ”

“Yeah, it’s blackmate,” Jeremy said eagerly.  “I saw it in a movie once.  This guy finds out that another chap killed this lady.  So he gets him to—”

“I ain’t doin’ it.”

“You wanna be a famous artist or not?”

“Sod off, you’re dreamin’.”

“My Uncle Fred told me, if you can’t go far in dreams, you won’t do nowt in wakin’ hours.”

Neil paused, wistfully contemplating this intoxicating possibility. But he shook his head. “Go ahead an’ tell.  I’ll say you took it, not me.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Okay. I prob’ly better go home.” He set the paint down and turned to leave.  Neil frowned, picked up the bottle and placed it in a drawer.  He glanced around the room, snapped off the light, and they clamored down the stairs.

“You sortin’ this out?” Jeremy asked as they passed through the messy kitchen.

“You offerin’ to help?”

“You daft?” Jeremy grinned, and reached for the door handle.  The door was opened from the outside, and he found himself face-to-belt-buckle with Dennis Croyden.

“What’s iss?” Dennis asked, and Jeremy noticed a slight scent of whiskey.  He craned his neck and chanced a glance at Neil’s father, saw fleshy, unshaven jowls, salt-and-pepper hair, blue eyes, slightly bloodshot, and a mild expression.  Though unkempt, Jeremy thought the man didn’t look much worse for drink than he’d seen his own father at times.

“That’s Jeremy.”

“Cheers,” Dennis said with a slight slur.  He pulled his hand from his coat pocket and scattered a few wrapped pieces of candy on the table. “Brought ‘em from pub, know how your mum loves ‘em.  Here, lad, take one,” he added, offering one to Jeremy.

Jeremy took it, nodding his thanks, and Dennis ruffled his hair.  Maybe things weren’t so bad, he thought.  Maybe Neil had made it out to be worse than it really was.

Then Dennis spun around. “Don’ you be takin’ nowt till your mum gets home,” he ordered his son, the murmur more ominous than if it had been a shout. “G’wan, kid, y’best go home, now.”  He grabbed Jeremy, roughly shoved him out the door and slammed it shut.

He stood outside the house for a few minutes, hands in pockets. The bloody dragon. Then he brightened as he remembered something—and he pulled from his pocket a watercolor he’d removed from the wall when Neil wasn’t looking.

He heard nothing from inside.  He folded the painting and stuffed it back into a pocket. He spun on his heels, grabbed his bicycle and pedaled away—not noticing the flicker of a curtain in a side window of the unhappy house.

* * *

Later, Neil would declare it was one of the best things he ever did.  But that afternoon, standing on the threshold of Mr. Millington’s classroom, sweaty hands clutching an envelope filled with samples, his feelings were quite the contrary.  That rotter Jeremy had no idea what an effort this was, he thought, or he never would’ve started it.

What a shock it had been that day last week, when Neil entered art class and saw one of his own pictures from home on his desk, Mr. Millington leaning over it with interest.  He had turned quickly to look at Jeremy, whose head was bent over some project—giving whatever it was far more undivided attention than was needed, Neil thought grimly.  He slowly approached his desk and Mr. Millington asked him about the drawing; yes, he responded, it was his, he’d done it at home.

And now here he stood with more samples in hand, at Mr. Millington’s request.  He feared he might throw up.  He paused before opening the door and glanced over at Jeremy, who leaned against the wall.

“Y’ain’t gettin’ cold feet, are ya?” he asked. Neil scowled and stepped into the classroom.

Mr. Millington sat behind a large desk, papers spread out before him.  He was a pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties, one of those fortunate individuals who genuinely love what they do for a living—teaching young minds the joys of art and creative self-expression.  He maintained decorum, but the boy inside the man was never too deeply buried.  He treated everyone equally, could be trusted to keep a confidence and was able to make the most untalented students feel good about themselves.

He looked up as Neil entered the room. “C’mon in, Croyden,” he said, waving at him to approach the desk.

Neil shifted from one foot to the other. “I—I did like you asked, sir, I brought some stuff from home, so y’ can tell me if it’s shite or not.”

Jeremy, listening at the door, shook his head. Neil’s face turned ashen as his crude words echoed in his ears.

Mr. Millington smothered his impulse to laugh. “Well, that’s one way of puttin’ it,” he said, rising and walking around his desk to stand before the boy, who was crimson and trembling. The teacher leaned against the desk and gestured to the envelope Neil grasped tightly. “Take care, lad, you’ll damage those.”

Neil loosened his grip and the envelope fell to the floor. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered, and bent to pick it up.

“Never mind.”  Mr. Millington swept up the envelope and walked back behind his desk. “You did these at home, eh?” He raised his eyebrows at Neil, who nodded, and he sat down and went through the works, his amusement giving way to genuine surprise. There was a unique style and strength of technique he had seldom seen from an eleven-year-old.

At length he looked up.  “You did all these?” he asked again.

Neil found his voice.  “Aye, sir ... ’cept the one with the praying mantis an’ the cat who’s for it, Mackenzie helped on that’un ... ”

“Well, I can tell you this,” Mr. Millington said, rising.  “You’ve got something here.  It wants refinin’ but that’s why we’re here, eh?”

Neil blinked, wondering if he’d heard right. “Y’what? You sayin’ ... ”

“What I’m saying, lad,” Mr. Millington placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward, “is, they ain’t shite.”

“Blimey!” Jeremy exclaimed.  He’d never heard a teacher say ‘shite’ before.  And ‘ain’t’ too, all in one sentence.

Mr. Millington’s eyes shifted toward the door, then back to Neil, who was now glowing. “I haven’t seen work like this from you in class,” he remarked. “Why?”

“Dunno, sir,” Neil replied uncomfortably.  “Jus’ can’t do it around other people.”

Mr. Millington nodded. “I see.” He stood up straight, looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to come in after school a few times a week, if you’re keen.”

Once again Neil couldn’t believe his ears. “C-could we, sir, y’ don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you flounderin’ in some garret somewhere, now, can we?” He sat down and scribbled a note.  “Give this to your parents so they’ll know why you’re comin’ home late on occasion.” He held out the piece of paper.

“Oh, no need for that, sir, they won’t notice.”

Mr. Millington eyed him steadily.  “Well, take it just the same,” he insisted.  Neil took the note and started toward the door.  He spun around, trying to find the words to thank him, and the teacher was touched to see the change in him.  “Right, we’ll start next Wednesday, back here, same time,” he said. “And be prepared to work.”

Neil was walking on air when he joined Jeremy in the hall. “Didja hear? S’like bloody private lessons.”

But Jeremy’s mind was focused elsewhere. Neil followed his gaze to the object of his attention: a pretty, auburn-haired girl approaching them. Her sunny smile grew as she came closer.

“Well, then, Felicity,” Jeremy hailed her jauntily.

“Well, then, Jeremy,” the girl returned, amused. Jeremy was just a boy, nearly two years younger.  But she liked him.  And who was his friend with the lovely gray eyes?

Jeremy said, “This is Neil.  He’s goin’ to be a bloody famous artist someday.”

“Is that right?” Felicity looked at Neil and flashed a smile. Neil’s mouth turned to cotton.

“Oh, aye, straight up. An’ I’m goin’ to be his agent.” Jeremy boasted, grabbing the opportunity to turn Felicity’s attention back to himself.

“How exciting!”  Felicity turned again to Neil.  He started to speak, but nothing came out but a croak.

“Don’t talk too much, remember what th’ doctor said,” Jeremy interjected, thumping at Neil’s chest with his hand.  “He’s larengetical,” he explained to Felicity in a hushed tone.  “It’s from practicin’ for his lecture tour.”

“Croyden!”

Mr. Millington’s voice made both boys jump.  Neil wildly wished he were invisible.  “Here, lad, you forgot your artwork.”  He handed the envelope to Neil, then smiled at the girl.  “I’m almost finished, love, we’ll be going home soon.”

“All right, Dad,” Felicity returned his smile. “See you chaps later.”  She followed
Mr. Millington into the room.

“She’s great, eh?” Jeremy said dreamily as they started away from the classroom. “Wish I was older ... ”

“What’d ya tell her all that rubbish for?” Neil exploded.

“Ah, so now you can talk!” Jeremy laughed. Neil threw the envelope to the floor, and Jeremy backed away. “C’mon, just a joke,” he insisted quickly. “Felicity don’t pay no mind, she knows I’m jus’ talkin’ ... ”

Neil cried out and leaped at him.  They fell to the floor, only to be interrupted once again by Mr. Millington.

“Mackenzie!”

Neil stopped throttling Jeremy and they both looked up questioningly.

Mr. Millington held up the watercolor. “Next time you try to draw a praying mantis, concentrate more on perspective.  You got the wings too short, the back legs don’t quite make sense. Get Croyden here to help you.”

“Oh, aye, cheers, thanks a lot, sir,” Jeremy replied, all wide-eyed innocence from his prone position on the floor, Neil’s hands still clutching at the collar of his shirt.

“Right.” Mr. Millington turned to go, adding offhandedly over his shoulder, “Glad to hear your laryngitis is clearin’ up, Croyden.”

CHAPTER 2

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Jeremy’s father Rowan had advised him after the fight with Ben.  He had frowned, trying to understand what on earth his father was talking about, wincing as his mother Patricia dabbed iodine on his wounds.

Jeremy didn’t look for trouble, but he was seemingly incapable of turning the other cheek.  Once in the enemies’ hands and at their mercy, he usually found just the thing to say to infuriate them even more. He also frequently intervened in fights that didn’t concern him, in defense of the underdog.  He did his best to keep news of his scrapes from his parents, preferring instead to confide in his sister Llewellyn or his Uncle Fred, Rowan’s brother.  Both listened sympathetically, applauded his willingness to help others, let him blow off steam, then reminded him to try to treat others the way he would want to be treated.  They seemed to understand him, adding liveliness to a household that was kind enough and comfortable, but somewhat reserved and proper.

The Mackenzies were not longtime members of the Sheffield community. Rowan and Patricia met and married in London during the war years.  At the time, Rowan was a financial consultant for Lewisohn Corporation, a company that was weathering the war fairly well—a comfort to Rowan’s ego, which smarted after he learned that he would be unable to serve his country due to a childhood illness. Married, and with baby Llewellyn on the way, he threw himself into his career. Despite the hardships, they managed well, Rowan secured important business contacts, and he took pride in Patricia’s grace when they attended or hosted social functions for his associates and their wives.

Two years later, Lewisohn’s employees were informed that the war had taken its toll, necessitating some changes.  Rowan’s supervisor informed him of a pay cut, as well as notice that he eventually would be transferred from London to their smaller offices in Sheffield. Rowan’s stride homeward was slow that evening, though he took comfort in the fact that at least he still had a job. He also considered a bright side of moving to Sheffield—his brother Fred lived there, it would be wonderful to be closer to him once again.

Though tempted, Rowan resisted the urge to stop at the pub; he would not be one of those men who drown their sorrows and give their family the short end of it. He would go home and discuss matters with Patricia, and together they would calmly figure out how to tighten the belt for awhile.  He congratulated himself on having married a down-to-earth, sensible girl, and was feeling almost himself as he entered the flat.

His spirits lifted further as he walked into a warm drawing room, cozy fire, candlelight, and Patricia turned out in one of his favorite of her dresses—all quickly followed by a dizziness as she informed him with a luminous smile that she was pregnant.  As if on cue, Llewellyn gurgled from the back room. Patricia excused herself to tend to their daughter, and Rowan braced himself to inform her that the unfortunate timing made her news a mixed blessing, indeed.

As time passed, Rowan did his best to keep his worries to himself throughout Patricia’s pregnancy, not wanting to burden her.  One day, he took the train to Sheffield—partly to have a look at what would probably be their new home, also to visit Fred, and talk about his troubles.

Fred smiled and waved from the train station platform. He was older than Rowan by several years, but no one would have guessed to look at them.  Rowan usually dressed formally, was far more serious; Fred appreciated practical jokes, could hold his own with a few pints, and loved to drop to the floor to play with children.

Fred led his brother to a nearby pub.  “Now, what’s goin’ on down there in the big city?” he asked, after they had settled. “War’s over, must be a bit dull now.”  His tone was light, but inside he said a prayer. He didn’t care that the war was over.  He was glad about Rowan’s transfer; he would feel much better when the family was closer, so he could keep an eye on them.

“Just worried ‘bout makin’ ends meet,” Rowan replied.  “I don’t know how we’re going to manage.  Seems hard enough as it is, without another baby.”  He looked up and saw Fred beaming.  “Look at you, you ain’t even listenin’.”

“Sorry, Ro.  Y’know how much fun I have with Llewellyn.  Can’t help but be glad about another one on the way. Still, you’re right, the responsibility, the money … it’s a lot to think about.”  He tried to sound serious, but he continued to beam.

Rowan snorted. “I don’t know why I bother!  You’re such a dreamer.”  But he smiled at Fred’s enthusiasm. Maybe it didn’t fix anything, but it felt good just to talk.

“All right, let’s talk facts,” Fred said, lighting a cigarette.  “You still got a job.”

“Aye.”

“Everyone’s healthy, right?  Pats, she’s having no problems, right?”

“Aye.”

“You’re bringing home less brass now, but your cost of living will be lower when you move here, right?”

“Well, aye … ”

“And you’ll have free babysitting service once you’re here—when I’m not travelin’ for my job, that is. Right?”

Rowan scratched his head.  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, there ya are. It ain’t so bad. Also, Pats is a sensible girl, she don’t go spendin’ money foolishly. You’re both smart and level-headed, your kids can’t help but follow in your path. Seems to me there’s nothing to worry about, it’ll all get sorted.”

“Maybe,” Rowan nodded, feeling some relief.  “Still, sometimes, when I’m in the throes of it … ”

“You need to get your mind off things once in awhile, Rowan.  You always was too serious,” Fred advised.  He glanced up, looked past Rowan, and raised his eyebrows.  “Look over there,” he said, nodding his head.  “See that thick-lookin’ cove with the pretty lass?”

Rowan turned to see a couple seated at a table across the room.  “So?”

“That’s Flynn, he’s a mate from work.  Stole ten quid from me last week.”

“He stole from you?” Rowan’s eyes widened.

“Well—he won it in a round o’ darts.”

“Oh, he won it.  That’s a different story.”

“You don’t understand. He’s a rotter, showin’ me up in front of everyone.”  Fred took a drink from his pint, wiped the foam away with his sleeve. “And the lady he’s with, he knows I been chattin’ her up for weeks now.  Brought her in just to show off, no doubt.”

Rowan looked around the room.  “Show off to whom?  He couldn’t have known you would be here.”

Fred looked at his brother, exasperated. “Gol, ya just don’t get it.” He stamped out his cigarette and leaned closer.  “The point is, I can’t let him get away with this.”

“Ah, Fred, no,” Rowan pleaded. “At least wait till I’ve gone. I don’t want to be any part of it.”

“Of what?”

“Of whatever cockeyed scheme you’re plannin’, I know you!”

Fred continued as if he hadn’t heard him.  “Now here’s what I want you to do.  Go up to his table and throw a fit. Pretend you’re his, ah, companion, and be shocked to see him with someone else, much less a woman. Say something like ‘surely this ain’t your mum!’”

“You out of your mind?”

“C’mon, it’ll be funnier comin’ from someone he’s never seen before. Remember, his name’s Flynn … ”

“You completely daft?  Y’know I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Ro.”

“N–O—no, son. End of story.”

Fred shook his head sadly. “It’s plain tragic that you never learned this particular form of self-preservation. Reck I’ll have to do it myself.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, you can’t do it. She knows you, she knows you fancy her. You make a scene like that, she’ll never go out with you. All you’ll do is ruin Flynn’s chance with her.”

“Sometimes women have to wait, brother.  There’ll be other women, Sheffield’s full of ‘em.  But this is a question of honor. You teach your enemies one good lesson, you never have to worry about ‘em again.”  He stood up and winked at Rowan. “Watch a master, and learn.”

“I ain’t watchin’ anything!  I’m off to the loo till it’s all over.” And Rowan scurried off to the men’s room, where he waited for the inevitable. He had been down this road many times and knew it all by heart: the sounds of the scuffle, usually followed by his brother being thrown out the door.  He chuckled softly. At least it took his mind off his troubles for awhile.

Late one rainy night in October, Patricia gave birth to a boy. He was a charmer, with a full head of dark hair and velvet brown eyes with long lashes. It had been a difficult birth; she’d almost lost him. Rowan, struggling with his feelings alone in the waiting room, nearly cried with relief when he finally was told that mother and child were safe and sound.  He had superstitiously wondered whether the complications had been a grotesque answer to his occasional vague prayers for some sort of relief from the extra responsibility.

When his mewling son was placed in his arms for the first time, a strange thing happened.  The infant fell silent and seemed to study his father for a moment. The little red face relaxed into something remarkably like a warm, sympathetic smile. Rowan felt he could almost hear a tiny voice: “Ah, that’s the way of it sometimes, eh, Dad?” It was uncanny, as if a brief flash of wisdom crossed the baby’s face.

Rowan felt a thrill from this happenstance, and his earlier concerns vanished for a time.  Where once he had seen just another mouth to feed, he now saw something special.  He began to think of the boy joining him in the business world; he might even be a prodigy. At last, Rowan was able to indulge in the pride that befits the father of a new son.

He also was scared as hell.

* * *

Jeremy could barely remember one of the first times he stretched tiny hands to grasp a book Llewellyn was reading to him.  She had lifted it up, turning pages so he could see the pictures.  He laughed at the bright illustrations of Peter Rabbit and friends, and he was hooked. He became a voracious bookworm, mirroring his sister’s passion.  Encyclopedias, cookbooks, magazines ... anything with pages and pictures could keep him occupied for hours.

His enthusiasm was equally boundless when it came to music. As he got older, he could memorize melodies and lyrics after two or three listenings.  Operas, musicals, classical music, big bands ... and when he heard rock ’n roll for the first time, he fell in love. Yet another example of what was to become one of his major obsessions, American pop culture.

This passion led to one of his first friendships—Brian Brisby, a baker’s son. He met Brian outside the News Theatre, where Rock Around the Clock was showing.  Brian and a few of his friends were trying to figure out how to stretch money for three tickets into money for four.  “Won’t work, no matter how we count it,” Brian mumbled, shaking his head.

“How bad do you lot wanna see it?” a voice asked them, and they turned to see Jeremy leaning against one of the pillars of the theater’s façade.

“Whatcha mean?” Brian asked.

“One of ya sneaks in, is what I mean,” Jeremy replied. “Door’s in the back. I’ll keep a lookout if y’like, for a price.”

“Lookout?” Brian repeated with a sneer.  “Reck I can sneak in without payin’ someone to look out for me.”

Jeremy stared at him, amazed.  “You reck y’can? Y’mean you’ve never done it?”

“Jus’ never needed to before, that’s all.”

“Crikey, you don’t do it ‘cause you need to. Ya do it to keep in practice! You never know when you’ll need to.”

“That’s daft.  You just don’t see the movie if ya ain’t got the money,” Brian retorted.  But he felt his friends looking at him questioningly.

“Right, well, you can wait till you got the quid, if ya want.  I’ll show your friends here how it’s done.  All right, fellas?” Jeremy motioned for the others to follow him around to the emergency exit in the back of the building.  “Noisy, ain’t they?” he quipped over his shoulder to Brian, as the boys obliged without a word.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it!  Jus’ don’t need anyone lookin’ out for me,” Brian snapped, following them as they rounded the corner and approached the side door.

“Okay then, you go first.  Unless you’re scared,” Jeremy said.  “I mean, you’ve never done it before, have you?” he added hastily, suddenly aware that Brian was nearly twice his size.

Brian felt his friends’ eyes on him again. “Right, outta my way,” he said, and he reached for the door.

“Wait! Ya don’t wanna—” Jeremy cried, but it was too late.  Brian quickly swung the door open, and an alarm sounded. The other boys turned and ran as fast as they could.

“C’mon,” Jeremy said, darting for the corner.  Two ushers appeared before Brian could move—one at the open door and the other from around the corner, stopping Jeremy in his tracks.  He looked up at the imposing figure staring down at him, then began jumping up and down excitedly. “We saw ‘em, mister! We saw ‘em open the door.  They went that way!”  And he pointed in the direction of the disappearing figures.

The usher and his partner ran after the boys.  Jeremy caught the door before it closed and beckoned Brian to follow him.  Brian glanced down the street toward his friends … then he looked at the open door, and quickly slipped into the theater.

Through Brian, Jeremy met Roddy Lemon, a cheery boy whose passion was food.  Roddy’s father was killed in the war, which led Mrs. Lemon to be overly protective of her only child.  Her indulgences resulted in his being pasty and overweight.  But he was a good sort; he had a healthy sense of humor and was surprisingly resilient at times, despite having been coddled profusely at home.

Neil, however, became Jeremy’s kindred spirit, a brotherly camaraderie developing quickly between them. After spending time at the Croyden house and seeing firsthand what Neil put up with, Jeremy felt less critical of his own surroundings.  Still, he sometimes wearied of his father’s stodginess, which only seemed more oppressive the older he got.  Rowan had little patience for what he considered trivialities—a category under which he placed many of his son’s strongest passions.

Rowan planned to establish a fund for his children so they could attend university. For Llewellyn, this was a given; she decided early on that she wanted to become a teacher.  Her parents were pleased with her enthusiasm for history, and encouraged her as she set about exploring their family tree.  They hoped this interest would rub off on Jeremy. It did, but not until he learned that a few Mackenzies had been thrown into the Tower of London for being political upstarts.

“He would be interested in the black sheep,” Rowan grumbled one evening, shaking his head.  He heard a whoop of delight from his son in the drawing room, and rolled his eyes as Jeremy loudly informed Llewellyn he had just discovered a genealogical entry about a Mackenzie ancestor who had been a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool pirate.  Patricia said nothing, but sympathetically poured another cup of tea for her husband.

One day, after Rowan snapped at him about “that damned American music,” Jeremy took his injured feelings to Fred, who put him to work sorting old photographs. “Don’t let it get you down, lad,” Fred comforted him.  “Your dad’s probably just thinkin’ about business. End of fiscal year, y’know.  Makes him impatient and a bit thoughtless, that’s all.”

“He must think ‘bout business most wakin’ hours,” Jeremy replied quietly, positioning tiny black triangles onto a clean scrapbook page.

“He was always old in spirit, even when he was younger than you are now.  Never even got picked on at playground when we were in school.  Real high morals, your dad’s. He was always givin’ me the stern eye over something ... didn’t even like to hear me say ‘bloody’.”

“Bloody git,” Jeremy mumbled, and grinned as Fred laughed.

“Aye, he can be a pain!  But your dad’s a good man.  And I will say, he’s never been hypocritical about anything.”

“Never been what?”

“Hypocritical ... he practices what he preaches. He won’t say ‘you shouldn’t do that’ an’ then turn around and do it himself.”

“Oh.”  Jeremy examined a stack of photographs. “You were in the army, weren’t you?”

“I was a cook, if you can imagine.”

“Sure, your teas are clinkin’.”

“Well, none of the men died from my cookin’, at any rate.  Now, your dad, he couldn’t go. Ear infection when he was a little chap, kept him out of service.”

“Y’ever see a bloke die?”

“Cooks were kept away from the action, for the most part,” Fred replied evasively, frowning.  He pulled a snapshot from the album and passed it to Jeremy.  “Here’s your dad an’ me at school, when he was just about your age.”

“Crikey, cop a load o’ that! What’re you both wearin’?”

“It’s what we wore then, lad, show some respect!”

“If the pair of you showed at our school in that kit, you’d really be for it from Ben Tucker.”

“I held my own in my day with far worse than Ben Tucker. Look, here’s one taken the day I met your mum.”

“Look at that, will ya, Dad looks younger here than in the last one.”

“Bein’ in love can do that for a chap. An’ don’t be pullin’ that face, you. It’ll happen to you one day, and I’ll be there to point an’ laugh at you when it does.”

Jeremy sniffed; but Felicity Millington came to mind, and he smiled.

“There, y’see? You’re thinking about someone already, aren’t ya?”

“Nah, just hungry. All this work, an’ you ain’t offered tea yet,” Jeremy said, and Fred stood up from the kitchen table to put the kettle on.

“Why do they lose this look, Uncle?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Mum an’ Dad don’t look at each other like this.”  Jeremy held up the picture. “I never seen ‘em look like this.”

“Well, not everyone loses it.  Don’t even know that I’d go so far as to say your mum and dad have lost it. Sometimes people lose sight of it … they get busy, they get preoccupied, and it slips by the wayside for a time.”

“More like they misplaced it,” Jeremy suggested.

“Aye, that’s about the size of it.”

Jeremy frowned at the picture. “I’m not gonna let that happen between me an’ my missus. Dad oughta forget about work, he looks a lot better here.  Maybe take Mum on holiday or somethin’.  Didn’t know she was such a swell tomato.”

“You been watchin’ James Cagney at cinema again, haven’t you? Aye, your mum was an eyeful. Still is, rather.  Careful, it’s hot.”  Fred set a steaming cup of tea before him.

Jeremy picked up a photograph of Fred in uniform.  “Good thing Dad had the ear infection,” he murmured thoughtfully.  “They woulda kept him outta service anyway, once they found out how he is. He would’ve been for it the first day, tellin’ some general off for swearin’. I’ve seen war movies, an’ I dunno how a chap could watch his mates get blown up for real without the occasional ‘bloody hell’ or the like slippin’ out.  I mean, I know you don’t hear that kinda talk in the movies, but that’s the movies, innit?  Y’ain’t gonna hear John Wayne yell ‘fuckin’ shite’ when everything’s gone all to cock around him. Nah, I reck it’s best Dad stayed home an’ married Mum.”

Fred shook with mirth as he sliced a small cake and offered a piece to his nephew. “I’m inclined to agree, son. But you might want to keep that speculation between you and me.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Jolly well can’t tell Dad about it, can I?  He’d kill me for usin’ that kinda language.” He sipped his tea carefully, bewildered in a pleasant way at Fred’s sudden burst of laughter.

* * *

Much to the eternal dismay of parents everywhere, children love to play around construction sites.  Dire as the warnings may be, from potential injuries to threat of punishment, buildings in progress are irresistible to youngsters.  And so it was that, one hot summer day, Jeremy and his friends found themselves at the site of new housing on its way up from a recently completed foundation.  “Cop a load o’ that,” Brian said as they gazed across the wide expanse ... stacks of lumber and brick, support beams and girders in place, their significance not yet apparent at such an early stage of the building’s development.

“Must be what the Grand Canyon looks like,” Roddy gasped.

“Nah, the Grand Canyon ain’t concrete, for starters,” Neil said.

“Let’s have a closer look,” Jeremy said. The others followed him as he scrambled down to the site.

“What’s that?” Brian puffed, pointing at a wide, flat board sticking out from one of the building’s levels, about thirty feet above the ground. “Looks like a divin’ board.”

“C’mon, let’s jump off it! It ain’t that high,” Jeremy urged, and he began to climb up the side of the construction. His friends hesitated only a moment, then followed him up. There was barely room for the four of them to stand on the ledge to which the board was attached.

“It ain’t that high, he says,” Roddy gulped, looking down from the ledge.  “Crikey.”

“All right, who’s jumpin’ first?” Jeremy asked briskly.

“You daft?”  “Ya must be soft!”  The protests flew, immediate and heartfelt.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared?  It’s nowt, that.”

“Right, then show us how easy it is. You go first,” Brian suggested.

Jeremy looked at the three faces staring expectantly at him. He glanced down, gauging the distance, then looked at them again.  “All right.”  And he started to edge out onto the beam.

“C’mon, Jeremy, don’t be stupid. It’s too high,” Neil said.

“Bollocks, I could do this in me sleep.” He stepped out a little further, then grinned.  “It’s like walkin’ the plank, innit?”

“Arrrr, let’s keelhaul th’ blighter!”  Roddy imitated a pirate he’d seen in the movies.

“Don’t think Blackbeard was quite so keen on desserts as you are, Rod,” Jeremy teased.

“Sod off, you ain’t exactly Burt Lancaster.” Roddy stomped on the beam, which caused it to bounce.  Jeremy cried out and barely regained his balance. “Cor, sorry, Jer,” Roddy apologized, eyes wide.

Jeremy quickly recovered.  “Told ya, this is nowt!” he boasted, forcing his heart back from his throat to his chest.  “Any of you lot seen The Fountainhead? Saw it last week.  Gary Cooper plays this archi—arch—this builder, right? He gets all caught up in bad business an’ shite.  He stands about watchin’ buildings go up, always lookin’ a bit off.” He struck a pose, hands on hips, gazing up and down as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Bet he’d put a pool in under this divin’ board, if he had anything to say about it.  Prob’ly let us use it, too.”

“He’s got his own pool in Hollywood,” Neil said. “He’d just tell us to bugger off.”

“I meant the chap he played in th’ movie, not himself.”

“Instead of wishin’ there was a pool here, let’s go out to Millhouses an’ go swimmin’,” Brian suggested.  The others nodded and started to climb down.

“Hang on, where ya goin’?  You sayin’ I’m gonna have to walk the plank by myself?” Jeremy asked.

“You ain’t jumpin’ an’ you know it,” Brian scoffed.  “You would’ve done it by now.”

The glint appeared in his eye. “Didn’t know you was in such a hurry, Brian.” He turned, crouched, and sprang off the side of the beam.  Neil shouted, Roddy closed his eyes, and they all held their breath as he sailed from the board, arms and legs flailing, roughly hitting the target he’d spotted just before leaping: a dump truck loaded with sand.

“Jeremy, you rotter!” Roddy yelled, as they rushed to lower themselves down the side of the structure.

Jeremy stood up shakily atop the sand in the truck.  “Buncha wee girls ya are, comin’ down the hard way when I’ve just shown ya the easy way!”

Neil started to yell something back, but his words died in his throat as he lost his footing and fell to the ground below.  Jeremy hoisted himself over the side of the truck, and Brian and Roddy raced down to join him, where Neil lay motionless.  “Cor, what should we do?” Brian whispered.

“Shouldn’t move him,” Roddy said.  “Reck we should go get someone.”

“Neil,” Jeremy leaned down and nudged him. Neil groaned and shifted slightly, and his friends sighed, relieved.  “Gol, Neil, y’all right?”

“Aye ... I think so,” he replied, dazed. He sat up and winced at a sharp pain in his left wrist. “This hurts a bit.”

“Can y’ make a fist?” Roddy asked. Neil tried to clench his fingers and cried out. “That’s bad,” Roddy added gravely, shaking his head.

“Dr. Lemon,” Brian smirked.

“Jus’ so happens I broke me arm once,” Roddy retorted.

“Y’think it’s broke?” Neil asked, eyes wide.

Roddy shrugged.  “Maybe. Better go home, have your mum take ya to hospital.”

“Ah, that’s no good,” Jeremy said. “Come to our house.  My mum’ll take ya.”

Neil looked at him.  “Whatcha mean by that?” he asked softly.

“Well, y’know ... I mean, not much point you goin’ home,” Jeremy replied awkwardly.

“Why’s that?” Neil pressed, his voice softer still; but an odd tone had crept in, and his eyes flashed.

“W—well, that is ... y’know how it is with your mum.”

“An’ just how is it?”

“Well ... she may not even be about,” Jeremy stammered.

“She’s home, she’ll look after me,” Neil mumbled, slowly standing up.

Jeremy knew he should leave it, but he couldn’t. Cooking your own tea was one thing.  A possible fracture was something else.  “Blimey, Neil, she won’t look after you,” he heard himself exclaim. “She won’t do fuck-all, an’ you know it.”

“Shut it, Jeremy,” Neil growled, his face flushing.  Brian and Roddy stared.

“I can’t.  I hate her. She don’t give a toss for anyone ’cept herself. She don’t care what happens to you, long as she’s safe from your dad.”

“Bastard!” Neil stunned them all by throwing himself bodily at Jeremy, kicking and punching, knocking him to the ground.

Jeremy tried to fend him off without striking back.  “Y’stupid nutter, ya might already have somethin’ broke as it is.” Brian got a hold on Neil and pulled him back.

“Take it back, y’bugger! Brian, lemme go,” Neil demanded, struggling.

“But Neil—”

“Take it back! Y’don’t understand her, y’don’t know what she goes through.  Take back what ya said, or I’ll kill ya.”

“All right, all right.”  Jeremy swallowed hard, as if forcing down some distasteful drug that would enable him to lie. “Sorry, mate.  You’re right, what do I know about it?”

Neil relaxed, and Brian loosened his grip. “Right.  Don’t ever say owt like that again.” The rage that had colored his face was gone, and he winced as he carefully lifted his wrist.  He turned without another word and limped away from the construction site.

“See ya, Neil,” Roddy piped up.  “Reck I should be goin’, too.”

“It is kinda late,” Jeremy murmured, staring after Neil. They all fell silent as they walked home, unknowingly sharing the thought that they were in complete agreement with Jeremy’s opinion of Alice Croyden.

As Neil approached his house, he heard voices inside—Alice and Maggie. The door opened, and there stood his mother and aunt, a small suitcase in Alice’s hand. “Oh, Neil, whatcha been at now?” she demanded, noting his disheveled appearance. Maggie clicked her tongue.

“I—I been ... where ya goin’, Mum?”

“I’m goin’ to Auntie Maggie’s for a few days, dear.  Your father—well, he’s due back tonight, an’ ... well, darling, y’know how he is, I simply can’t face it tonight.  Mummy’s got one of her headaches again.” Alice’s robust voice quickly turned thin and wheedling at this last.

“C-can I come with ya?”  Neil summoned up the courage to ask. “I - I think I broke me arm or somethin’, hurts real bad,” he added hastily, hoping this might soften Maggie’s heart.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Maggie snapped. “Alice ... ”

Alice opened her purse.  “Now, Neil, y’know there’s not much room at Auntie Maggie’s.  I’m sure you didn’t hurt yourself too badly.” She handed him some money. “Here, dear, take this an’ get yourself to the hospital.  Ask for Dr. Taylor, he’ll sort it out. If that’s not enough, just have him add it to our account, all right?  There’s a good lad.”  She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “See you soon, darling. Mind ya don’t irritate your father, he’ll be tired.”

“Tired?  He’ll be bloody exhausted from liftin’ all them pints all day,” Maggie snorted, pushing past Neil.

“Oh, Maggie,” Alice said reproachfully, closing the door and following her sister down the walk, without another word to her son.

Neil stood and watched them until they turned the corner and disappeared from view. His earlier satisfaction at defending his mother’s honor gave way to regret that he had fought Jeremy so hard. A sudden intense throb from his wrist brought his thoughts back to the present, and he started out for the hospital.

He had walked several blocks when a voice hailed him.  “Eh up, Neil!” He turned to see Jeremy, leaning out the window of his Uncle Fred’s car.

“C’mon, lad, we’ll give ya a ride,” Fred called out. Neil eyed Jeremy sharply.

“Yeah, c’mon.  I ... well, I ran into Uncle Fred, an’ told him you took a fall … an’ ... ”

“And I just happened to recall that your parents don’t have a car right now,” Fred added tactfully.

“Aye!  So we came to drive you an’ your mum to hospital,” Jeremy finished, looking around as if he expected to see Alice.

Neil approached the car. “Ah, Mum ... well, she’s ... ”

“Of course,” Fred broke in.  “She must be at that parents’ meeting at school, eh? Same as Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“Oh, aye, bet she is.” Jeremy grinned at Neil.  “Roomful of teachers an’ parents, with headmaster thrown in for good measure. Bloke wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Neil laughed, then grimaced as another sharp pain sliced through his wrist. “Right, let’s go,” Fred insisted, reaching back and opening the door. They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Fred said, “Neil, I know you may feel like goin’ straight home after you’ve seen the doctor.  But if not ... well, I made a sight more shepherd’s pie last night than I’ll ever be able to finish on my own. Don’t know what come over me.  Sometimes I act like I’m still cookin’ for the army.  Anyroad, you’d be doin’ me a favor if you’d come by, take some of it off my hands.”  He reached over and ruffled Jeremy’s hair. “This rotter’s already agreed. Three of us could make a night of it, eh?  Maybe take in a movie.”

Neil swallowed.  “Aye, I’m keen. Ta, Mr. M.”

Jeremy turned around from the front seat.  “We could leave a note at your house so your mum’ll know,” he suggested. “Croydens don’t have a phone right now,” he added, as explanation to Fred.

“That’s a good idea,” Fred agreed, pulling up to the hospital.  “You two go on in.  I’ll leave word at Neil’s and come back to collect you.”

As the boys approached the entrance to the clinic, Neil said, “Ah, Jeremy, I, ah—”

“Y’know, The Fountainhead’s still playin’ at the Cinema House,” Jeremy interrupted smoothly. “Let’s get Uncle Fred to take us.  Then we’ll both know it, an’ we can one-up Brian an’ Roddy next time we go to that bloody buildin’.”

“Aye, imagine their faces, us both knowin’ ol’ Gregory Peck’s lines ... ”

“Gary Cooper, ya twit, not Gregory Peck.”  Jeremy shook his head as he opened the hospital door. “When ya gonna start listenin’?”

Neil laughed, the pain in his wrist a mere pinprick in light of the repaired friendship. “I’m listenin’, mate.  When you’re right, you’re right.”

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