In His Father’s Footsteps

A young boy has a change of heart in this moving short story by Hilary Spiers.

Ralph received some inspiring words from an unexpected source . . .

YOU’VE crossed the line once too often, Cawthorne,” Mr Jenkins said, adjusting his gown with an irritable shrug. “I will not tolerate rudeness to masters.

“Your behaviour over this term has been deplorable. Yes, I know things are difficult for you at home at the moment . . .”

Difficult, Ralph thought. You don’t know the half of it – what with Ma in pieces and Dad just gone . . .

“But that is no excuse for insolence. Nor for sheer bone idleness. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” Ralph said sullenly, his skin prickling as he imagined what his father would say if he heard about this.

Mr Jenkins tapped angrily on his desk with a silver penknife; the fountain pen on his jotter jiggled with the vibration.

“War is hell, Cawthorne, I can tell you. I went through the last one.”

Don’t we know it, Ralph thought sourly.

Every assembly they had to listen to him droning on about duty and sacrifice.

It wasn’t him out there being shot at and bombed. Stupid old fool.

“I know you’re finding your father’s absence hard, but other boys – some of them considerably younger than you – are having just as bad a time of it and are, frankly, bearing up rather better. And no thanks to you. I think you know what I’m talking about.”

Ralph stared at the floor. He didn’t like the way he was feeling. Half of him wanted to slam out of the room, and the other wanted to confide in the old man about the night terrors, vivid dreams of blood and death.

He chose silence.

“I’m talking about Albert Jones, Cawthorne.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A young lad, only nine, struggling quite a bit with homesickness –”

How wet, Ralph thought.

“. . . and you refuse to take him under your wing, to show a bit of leadership.

“You’re twelve, boy, twelve! We expect better of our pupils here at Lockwood House.”

Ralph shuffled his feet, feeling an uncomfortable mix of shame and fury.

Idiotic kid, Jones, with a pinched little face and pleading eyes, hopeless at cricket and caught with a teddy bear in his satchel.

A teddy bear, for heaven’s sake!

And Ralph was supposed to look after him.

Fat chance.

Mr Jenkins looked at Ralph over his glasses.

“I’ve no option but to

move you, Cawthorne, after the latest fracas with Giggs. I have –”

“He started it!” Ralph shouted before he could stop himself.

The headmaster raised a hand to silence him. His voice was even icier, if that were possible.

“I’m not going to discuss it any further. The matter is closed. You will move to Mr Richardson’s class.”

Ralph’s head reeled under the blow of Mr Jenkins’s words.

His fists clenched and the blood pounded in his ears. He gulped and tried to control the fury that washed over him.

“But that’s for . . . Sir, please, sir, you can’t . . . ”

“Yes, it is for pupils who need extra help. That does not just mean academically, Cawthorne. Now, on your way.

“Don’t let me see you in here again, or it will be your final visit.”

Mr Jenkins returned to his papers.

Ralph stood for a moment, rooted to the spot with mortification and indignation.

Richardson’s class! Full of no-hopers like George Parsons, and Leonard Connell.

Besides, Giggs had landed the first punch! It was so unfair.

Ralph’s cheeks burned with humiliation. He left the room, only just resisting the temptation to slam the door, and made his reluctant way towards his new classroom, seething with the injustice of it all.

****

Two weeks passed.

Two weeks of purgatory – the few friends he had not yet alienated ragging him about his demotion, the others – led by Giggs – openly jeering as they passed him in the corridor, or sniggered under their blankets after lights out.

“Enjoying it with the babies, Cawthorne?”

“Learned to write yet, Cawthorne?”

Ralph did not retaliate. He knew Mr Jenkins had not been exaggerating.

On Sundays, when they wrote home, he was careful not to burden Ma with any of his problems, composing bland letters about homework, the horrible food and the cross-country running.

Cross-country running was the only activity he still enjoyed; pounding the tracks through the forest, speeding ahead of the pack, only the sound of his breathing for company, and his head clear for once.

He knew his times were improving, even as the other boys wilted in the summer heat.

This was one thing he really could do.

How proud Dad would be when he heard!

If he heard.

“Daydreaming again, Cawthorne?” said Mr Richardson said, suddenly materialising beside him.

Ralph started. He hadn’t heard the master approaching, despite his gammy leg. Typical of him, limping round the school, a daft half-smile on his lips.

Why on earth the others liked him so much was a mystery.

Ralph often saw him surrounded by an excited group of boys as he crossed the quad, or ensconced in a quiet corner talking softly to someone on their own.

“Any danger of you doing some work, Cawthorne?

“Legend has it that you used to be quite good at English composition. Like to let me see something?”

Ralph considered not replying. He didn’t like the faintly mocking tone of Mr Richardson’s voice. Then, with Mr Jenkins’s warning still fresh in his mind, he thought better of it.

“Pen’s broken,” he mumbled, then added after a fractional beat, “sir.”

Mr Richardson picked up the damaged pen, holding the distorted nib up to the light.

“Looks to me as if someone has jabbed it into the desk.”

He looked at Ralph questioningly. Ralph did not reply.

“Well,” Mr Richardson said, reaching into an inside pocket, “you’d better borrow mine for the moment.”

He handed Ralph a fountain pen.

It was green and black, mottled like marble, with a fine gold band around the top. Ralph’s fingers closed around its familiar shape.

He looked at Mr Richardson, astonished.

“This is my father’s pen,” he said, cursing the break in his voice.

Mr Richardson smiled and shook his head.

“It’s an unusual pen, I grant you, but not unique. Try it.”

Ralph glowered at the teacher’s back as he walked back to his desk.

Outside, storm clouds were gathering over the playing fields.

Fat raindrops were already beginning to explode and fizzle on the playground’s hot surface. Ralph looked across the classroom to see Jones scribbling furiously.

At that moment, the other boy looked up and smiled nervously, as he caught Ralph’s eye.

Ralph did not smile back. He turned his head away very deliberately and stared at the pen.

It looked identical to his father’s pen, the one that always sat on his desk at home. The one that was now no longer there.

Ralph swallowed hard and, taking off the cap, put the nib to the paper.

Words began to flow. No hesitation, no consideration.

The pen met the blank page and moved effortlessly across it.

But they were not Ralph’s words, not his thoughts, he was committing to paper.

No, the words seemed to flow from the pen itself.

“It’s very hot today.” Ralph tried to lift his hand off the page, but the pen went on writing. His fingers felt weightless, no longer part of him.

He watched his hand move smoothly left to right, left to right, the page filling up without a break.

Mesmerised, he stared at the words.

It didn’t even look like his handwriting. It did look familiar. It looked . . .

Yes. It looked like Dad’s writing.

“It’s very hot today. I’ve never felt heat like this. It presses down on you, every breath becomes an effort.

“All of us are pretty fed up with it, especially at night. Sleep under a sheet and you cook; sleep on top and these vicious mosquitoes get stuck in.

The words seemed to flow from the pen itself

“In the morning, we compare the damage: they seem to find old Smithy particularly appealing.

Poor bloke looks as if he has the measles.

“What gets to us all is the boredom. The waiting for what we know we’ve to do.

“I try to think of other things, happier times. I think a lot of Ralph. If only he had been home that last night . . .”

Ralph stared. Stared at the words hard. Reread them. He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes, and looked again. The words were still there.

His father, wherever he was, was writing to him.

To Ralph, sitting in an English classroom on a sultry summer’s day.

How was this possible? How on Earth –

“Cawthorne? Didn’t you hear the bell? Put the cap on that pen, there’s a good chap.” Mr Richardson picked up Ralph’s workbook and smiled.

“So, we got you to apply yourself at last, did we?” Ralph found his voice. “Sir?”

“Good lad, neater than your usual work. Most encouraging.”

He took the pen from Ralph’s nerveless hand.

Before the boy could say anything further, Mr Richardson was gone, his gown billowing behind him as he swayed down the corridor.

Ralph sat for a long while, staring sightlessly out of the window as the rain drove across the field.

It was some minutes before he found sufficient strength to pull himself upright and stumble from the room.

****

The next morning, Ralph was early to the classroom, ears anxiously attuned to Mr Richardson’s footfall.

But it was Jones who entered first, fearfully peering round the door.

His face lit up at the sight of Ralph, who scowled.

He had wanted to catch Mr Richardson alone, talk to him about yesterday.

Now, the wretched Jones had scuppered that.

“I saw you on the run the other day, Cawthorne,” Jones said timidly. “You’ll win the cup, I bet.”

“Will I?” Ralph snapped, just as Mr Richardson, surrounded by a bunch of chattering boys, came through the door and called them all to order.

He passed back their workbooks and Ralph tore his open to find the last page he had written.

Exciting stuff, Mr Richardson had written. Very vivid. Well done.

Ralph devoured the words once more.

Mr Richardson was writing questions on the blackboard. Ralph looked at them with dismay.

“Sir? Sir?” Ralph was very conscious of the stares of the other boys as he called out, his voice wobbling slightly. “Couldn’t we finish our stories?”

“Not this period, Cawthorne. It’s history, as you are well aware. Do it in your own time if you’re that keen.”

Mr Richardson turned back to the board.

Someone at the back of the class snorted. Ralph felt a fool. He sat, staring mutinously at the master.

“I can’t do this anyway, sir, I’ve forgotten my pen.” Mr Richardson sighed. “Just when I thought you were starting to improve. You’ll have to borrow one from someone else.”

“But I don’t want –”

Ralph started, just as Jones leaned across to slip a pen on to the page in front of him.

Ralph could have cried. “Thank you, Jones,” Mr Richardson said with heavy sarcasm, “as I’m sure Cawthorne meant to say.” The morning felt endless. Ralph feverishly completed every piece of work demanded of him.

When the lunch bell rang, he leapt to his feet to gather in all the others’ workbooks, to Mr Richardson’s surprise.

“Well, Cawthorne, this is the first time I’ve seen you do anything helpful. Are we turning a corner?”

Ralph avoided the master’s eyes as he neatened up the pile of books on the desk.

“Sorry, sir.”

Mr Richardson said nothing. The silence hung heavy in the now deserted classroom.

“You see, sir,” Ralph said miserably, “my father’s abroad, sir.”

“Yes,” Mr Richardson said surprisingly gently, “so I gathered. He didn’t have time to say goodbye, is that it?”

Ralph nodded.

“I was staying with my cousin. Dad got twenty-four hours’ notice. When I got back, he had gone.”

“That’s hardly your father’s fault, is it?”

“He should have tried harder!” Ralph cried. “I don’t even know where he is!”

Mr Richardson smiled. “But you’re guessing somewhere hot?”

Ralph looked away.

“I’m not . . . I didn’t . . .” “Didn’t what?”

Ralph couldn’t form the words; it all sounded so ridiculous now.

“Nothing. But sir, could I borrow your pen again? Could I, please? Borrow your pen? Stay and write?”

“Well,” Mr Richardson said with a laugh, “far be it from me to stifle creativity.”

He withdrew his pen from his pocket and presented it to Ralph with a flourish.

Ralph took the pen carefully, almost reverently, his eyes gleaming.

“Thank you, sir.”

As Mr Richardson limped off, Ralph put the nib to the page.

“Today has been hotter than ever. Hard to imagine that’s possible. The sun, the sun we long for in cold old England, is almost a curse here. Some are suffering more than others.

“Granger, for one. He burns horribly. I lent him my hat – poor lad looked as if he might cry. He’s only a boy really, only seventeen.

“Puts me in mind of

Ralph in some ways, a bit prickly sometimes, but solid as a rock underneath.

“Just the sort of person you know you can rely on when the chips are down.”

Ralph blinked away tears.

****

Each lunchtime for the following fortnight, Ralph borrowed Mr Richardson’s pen.

Each day his father’s calm narrative shrank the many miles between them.

Thoughts of his father filled Ralph’s every waking moment. He hugged the words to him, his secret and comfort, the one certainty in a world awry.