The Eyes of a King (9 page)

“You should not believe everything you read in the newspaper,” I told her. “And it is pointless to worry about silent fever. It goes around and people catch it, and whether or not you are careful the chances are the same.”

“That’s not true,” said Grandmother. “Being careful is always sensible. Exhaustion, Leo—that was what Father Dunstan said. And that is what these soldiers have, the ones who are passing on the illness.”

It was pointless to worry about silent fever; I was not just saying it to aggravate her. No one really knew how it was passed
or how to treat it. “People are only scared of it because of the symptoms,” I told her. “Because you lose your sight and fall unconscious and can’t speak. They think it’s a serious disease, because the symptoms come on fast, when in fact most people recover.”

“There are more serious strains,” she told me. “Slow-developing silent fever, class B silent fever. Do you know about those strains, Leo?” I shrugged helplessly. “You are not going back to school,” she told me. “You need to rest for a while longer.” And I did not argue.

By Thursday evening I was going crazy with boredom. “I’m going out,” I told Grandmother and Stirling, putting my boots on.

“Where?” asked Stirling. “Can I come?”

“You are not going out,” Grandmother told me.

“I’m getting bored here in the house,” I complained. “I need some fresh air.”

“The air is not fresh; it is full of disease. Leo, stay in the house.”

“Can I come to church with you later, then?”

“Stay in the house,” Grandmother said. “Please, Leo. Or go out to the yard to get some air.”

I went down to the yard. It was in shadow, although it was only five o’clock and the sun was shining in the street. There was a warm breeze blowing down the alley, and I stood beside the gate, where it was strongest. A breeze was unusual out here, for the houses rose so high on all sides that only a southeasterly wind could get in at all. Looking around the dingy space, I thought that Maria had been right: some plants would improve it. It could be a walled garden. A courtyard.

I paced round the walls, imagining that this was a garden. But the yard was too small. If I had a garden, I would like mainly grass, acres of it. If I was rich. Gentle slopes planted with trees, and a lake or a stream, like the grounds of a palace in the country. You could ride a horse across it. You can do whatever you want if you’re rich. Maybe if I trained in magic and became as famous as Aldebaran. Or more likely, if I was high up in the army. But I’d never get anywhere in the army. I paced faster.

A noise made me start, and I turned and saw Maria coming out into the yard.

I
noticed that I was walking in a circle, and stopped where I was. “Just … er … getting some fresh air,” I said.

“Me also,” she said, and crossed to the gate and leaned over to look down the alley into the street. “I am glad to see you well again.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for helping me … you know, the other day.”

“It was nothing,” she said. And then, turning to me, “You looked so tired and pale—you look quite different with some color in your face.” Of course, she looked just the same as I remembered, only perhaps even prettier.

“Where is Anselm?” I asked her.

“He’s asleep—for once,” she said. “Upstairs. My mother is with him.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Oh, he makes me so tired! It is a lot of work caring for a baby, and yet I get bored with it. I cannot agree with people who say that a
woman’s work is nothing but bringing up children and cooking and cleaning.”

I laughed. “Then you are in a minority for sure these days.”

“Perhaps I am.” She smiled.

“Of course I love him dearly,” she went on. “I don’t mean that I don’t. He is so sweet; who could not love him? But … I don’t know! Today he cried for three hours, hardly stopping for breath; I was in despair! And then my mother came through the front door and said at once, ‘He wants his blanket.’ I told her that he already had his blanket, in fact two, and she said, ‘No, Maria, his yellow blanket.’ And she went and got it, and laid it on him, and he stopped crying straightaway. And then she said something about a ‘mother’s touch.’
I’m
a mother. She’s not to be believed! I tell you what—she is the one who drives me to distraction, truly, not Anselm.”

“It must be annoying,” I said, into the silence. “If she always thinks she can bring up a child better than you.”

“That’s exactly what she thinks,” she said. “But it’s not as if he is her baby.” I was watching her mouth as she talked.

“No,” I said.

“I cannot be expected to know everything that she does, but she doesn’t even give me a chance. And she has only brought up one child anyway. That does not make her an expert.”

“Maybe that is why she is like that,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps she feels threatened by you. As if she doesn’t want you to be better than her at looking after children. I mean, not exactly that … but …”

“No—it’s a good point.”

“Just a thought.”

We stood in silence. Maria twisted a loose splinter from the gate, frowning, and dropped it distractedly. “It annoys me,” she said, “the way she’s always telling me I’m wrong, or else looking disapproving, like this.” She showed me, pulling her mouth into a tight line and raising her eyebrows. I laughed, but she looked beautiful even when she did it.

“I’m surprised if she really looks like that,” I said.

She laughed too. “Well, perhaps not so bad, but you know what I mean by it. It’s driving me insane.”

“I’d guess that it would.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know. I know nothing about that sort of thing, as no doubt Stirling will have told you.” They seemed to have been talking often since Maria had arrived.

“Not at all,” she said. “He never has anything but the highest praise for you. Only yesterday he was saying that he missed you at school because you always looked after him.”

“Truly?” I was pleased. “Typical Stirling.”

“You are too hard on yourself, perhaps. His praises seem to be justified.” She caught my eye. “I’m sorry,” she went on. “I see I have embarrassed you; I did not mean to.” I put my hand to my face, and she laughed out loud at me then. “Come on, Leo! It is not as if I asked you to marry me or something!”

“Anyway, about your mother …” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “What would you do if you were me?”

“If I was you. Probably …” I considered it. “I’d shout and swear. And throw things.”

She raised her eyebrows, starting to smile at that. “Not at people,” I said hastily, and she laughed out loud. “Seriously,” I said, trying to think of what she wanted to hear. “I suppose you
could … well … thank her when she offers you advice, and … keep on mentioning how helpful she is to you …”

“So that she doesn’t find me threatening? Do you think that would work?”

“I don’t know. You are asking the wrong person, to be honest.”

“No—you are a good listener.” I felt guilty then, because I had been watching her, yes, but some of the time I had not been listening. “It might work.” She smiled at me. “Thanks, Leo.”

But her smile faded, and I noticed how tired she looked. “I wish I could just leave home,” she said desperately.

“Maybe you can, one day.”

“Where would I get the money?” She looked, and spoke, as if she could get it right out of her pocket. But she was living on Citadel Street.

Watching her, I wished she would smile again. I spoke before I had even thought about it. “If you get tired of being with your mother,” I said, “you can always come over to our apartment. I am there all day at the moment, and I would like to have someone to talk to. I’m not used to being at home all the time.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I might hold you to that. I get so lonely, and none of my girlfriends live near this part of town.”

“I’d be glad if you came round. Anytime. Bring Anselm and all.”

“Thanks,” she said again. “Though I’d sooner leave him.” And she laughed.

She pushed herself up off the gate, where she had been leaning. “I suppose I had better get back.” I nodded. When she reached the door, she turned. “Thank you, Leo. I really need a friend.” All I could manage was another nod. She slid round the
door. The way that she did it, for a stupid moment I thought she was going to blow me a kiss. Maybe that was what was so enthralling about her mouth: it looked always as if she was about to blow someone a kiss. Anyway, she did not, and the door swung shut behind her. Lucky, really. I could not have coped with that.

T
he next morning there was a knock on the door at about eleven o’clock. I glanced in the mirror, straightened out my shirt collar, ran my fingers through my hair, and went to answer it. It was Maria, of course, carrying the baby. “Hello,” I said. “Come in; my grandmother is out.” She was wearing a dressing gown.

“Hello, Leo,” she said. “You are looking dashing this morning.” Dashing? She did it on purpose, for sure.

“Sorry about what I’m wearing,” she said. She said this as if she had on a dress that was too old or too casual for a party, not a dressing gown in front of a boy. “Anselm threw up on my clothes—little angel—and the rest are drying.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Er … sit down.” She did.

“This is a change from sitting about by myself,” she said.

“What—sitting about with me?”

She laughed. “Your mother’s always out?” I asked.

“Yes, she works at the market full-time now. At the fruit and vegetable stall.”

“Mr. Pearson’s?”

“How did you know?”

“My grandmother talks to him sometimes. I don’t know him well.”

I was trying to think of something to say before the silence drew out any longer, when the downstairs doorbell jangled loudly. “Probably my grandmother,” I said.

“Should we answer it?”

“Mrs. Blake downstairs will. She always does.”

I stood up to go to the apartment door. But the voice that came from downstairs was not my grandmother’s; it was a man’s deep monotone, asking a question that I could not hear. Mrs. Blake answered quietly. The man spoke again, more loudly, and I could have sworn that I heard “Leonard North.”

“Did he just say my name?” I whispered, frozen in midstep halfway to the door.

“Is your real name Leonard?” Maria whispered back.

“Originally.”

“Then he did. It was ‘Leonard North.’ ”

“But who—” A loud thumping on the door interrupted me. I stepped forward and opened it without thinking.

The man looked to be about fifty, with a sharp-boned face and reflective glasses that captured the whole room. I saw the worry in Maria’s face reflected there and, stupidly, smiled at her tiny reflection. I realized I was actually smiling at the man. He did not return it. Instead, he flashed some sort of official pass at me but snapped it back down to his side before I could see what it said.

“Ethan Dark,” he said. “Truancy officer. Are you Leonard North?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that you should be in school?”

“Er … yes, I’m aware of it….”

“Why aren’t you there, then?”

I explained what had happened the week before. “You passed out?” said the man, as though he was not impressed by that. I nodded. “So that was last week,” he said. “And you are still at home.”

“I’m supposed to be resting. It’s dangerous to go out with so much silent fever about.” The man smiled, curling his lip up like a snarling dog, as if I was an anxious old woman, and I did not appreciate that.

Anselm began a shrill wailing. Maria tried to quiet him, and the man frowned. “Legally, I am not required to be in school,” I told him loudly.

“I think I know better than you what the law is on this matter.”

“Most fifteen-year-olds are working. You do not trace them like this because they are not at school.”

“Mr. North, you are among the privileged few. You are officially registered as a military cadet. If you wish to work, clear that with the authorities. If not, you are required to be in school, eight-thirty to three-thirty, five days a week. Do I make myself clear?”

“Is this standard? Do you hunt down everybody who misses two weeks’ school?”