Inner Circle by Jerzy Peterkiewicz Read Free Book Online

his daddy’s headboard. He liked the schoolboys doing the same silly things to the masters, which the masters had previously done to them, but since he himself was a day-boy, he couldn’t quite imagine the strange dormitory described in the book. It was no use rushing to Patrick Saint Ginger for a quick explanation, for Patrick Ginger had his angry moods, and kept squeezing his spots out with one hand only. Besides, he didn’t look like a chap who would crawl under beds, dragging a chain. There were two bedrooms in Dolly’s small house, but no dormitory.

    ‘Have you got a whip under your bed, Dolly-mum!’ Patrick inquired in his serious voice.

    The second mummy reacted with a shocked flush, which came up through the powder on her face.

    ‘I have nothing of the sort, Patrick! Neither under nor over, nor inside my bed. I wouldn’t dream of punishing you like some mothers do. Have I ever struck you, my pet!’
    Patrick shook his head violently and repeated ‘oh, no, no!’ while Dolly-mum scrutinized him with her sharp eyes. Then she said very quietly: ‘Run to the loo, Patrick, like a good boy. You’re always holding it up.’

    ‘I’ve been, Dolly-mum. Twice.’

    A week or two after the Easter holidays, Patrick received a present from abroad.
    Even before he opened the dainty box, the ginger Patrick asked for the stamps and was promised them in exchange for eight spelling snorters in that book. The bargain seemed fair. Inside the box there lay something like a cat, very shiny though, because it was made of porcelain. And it had Ricordo di Venezia across a funny boat, inside which the cat was sitting, its mouth wide open. Taking the straw out from the bottom, Patrick found a card rimmed with gold. This time he had a harder struggle with the spelling and got stuck half-way.

    Questo Batto cantante mandato con molto affetto al mio carissimo bambino Boris. Love Mother V. One of the cleverest yes-fathers, who also answered to the name of Pio, read the card aloud to Patrick, translated it into English as far as bambino Boris, asked who that was, and finally admired the singing cat in the boat.

    ‘That’s in Bulgarian, isn’t it, yes-father?’

    ‘No, Patrick, it’s in Italian.’

    ‘Are you sure, yes-father?’

    ‘Don’t say yes when you ask a question, child. I am positive. I spent ten years in the Vatican.’

    ‘That’s an awfully long time, Father Pio. I am also Boris. . . .’ Patrick hesitated, ‘my first mother thinks I am Boris.’

    ‘A nice name,’ said the cleverest yes-father and departed.

    Patrick called the cat Boris, but only for a day. Then he changed his mind because one of the boys made a rude remark about the boat and said the cat wasn’t singing or rowing, but something-something, and so everybody laughed, at Boris, not at Patrick. From now on the cat went about hidden under Patrick’s blazer and under the new name ‘Ricordo’. Ricordo had a cool fur which was strange to touch.
    The boat somehow got lost, and Ricordo went on singing in mid-air, until one evening his mouth, his whiskers, his tail and the rest became bits of porcelain on the floor. Patrick wept in his bedroom, fell asleep, woke up and began praying to Father Pio, who was the cleverest yes-father and knew Saint Vatican personally.

    Again he sent himself to sleep, but after dreaming about the poodle and some people from the house next door, he got up in a different mood. The taste of the rolls speeded up his morning associations. All of a sudden he was caught up inside the foul sublimation.

    With a piece of chalk in his pocket he jumped onto a bus, but didn’t go as far as the school. Instead he took another bus, number thirty-one, and arrived at World’s End before nine. He entered the familiar doorway, very quietly, walked up the stairs to the first landing and stopped outside his father’s bedsitter. One look round just in case. A sleepers’ den it really was, not a soul stirred at this hour. Patrick’s