Perfect Gallows by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online

bits home from the NAAFI it was still only bacon or egg in Fawley Street.
    â€œYou go and eat,” said the darkie, turning the child round and pushing her towards the table. She came a few steps, saw Andrew and stopped in her tracks.
    â€œIt’s only Master Andrew, ducky,” said Mrs McHealy. “And this is our Hazel, what’s off to the panto with the choir, and if she don’t start now she’ll get either no breakfast or no choir-treat.”
    â€œThe panto in Southampton?” said Andrew. “How are they getting there?”
    â€œCoach from the Golden Harp,” said Jack.
    â€œD’you think there’d be room for me? I’ll pay. I don’t mind standing.”
    Jack didn’t answer, but looked for directions to Mrs McHealy. She shook her head, not in answer to Andrew’s question but at the whole idea of his going.
    â€œYou see,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I don’t think I want to inherit this house. I’ve got my own life I want to live.”
    â€œIt isn’t only the house,” said Jack. “There’s a pile of money goes with it. How much, Sammy?”
    â€œNine and a half million pounds.”
    â€œThat’s before death duties, acourse.”
    Andrew was lifting a carefully composed fork-load of toast, bacon and egg towards his mouth as the darkie spoke. His hand didn’t quiver as it rose. He chewed, enjoying the perfect mixtures of tastes, and shook his head.
    â€œYou’re being very kind,” he said. “But, well, I know it sounds stupid but I don’t want the money either. And I really do want to go back to Southampton. There’s something I want to do there.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re saying,” said Jack.
    Perhaps that was true, but Andrew didn’t care. Perhaps it was the drama of the refusal, the immense sacrifice for the sake of his career, that appealed to him. Logically there was nothing impossible about starting rich, in fact there were obvious advantages, but his long-planned chart of his rise to stardom didn’t include them. Perhaps tomorrow he would curse his choice, but for the moment the notion of the coach to Southampton with a load of children actually bound for the panto where he could have been helping was far more solid in his mind than the fantasy of wealth. In any case, there was no certainty that Uncle Vole would leave him a penny. These people were only servants. What did they know? He shook his head again, smiling.
    â€œWhat do you say, Sambo?” said Mrs McHealy. “Wake up, love. Gone into one of his moods.”
    Andrew looked up. The darkie was standing where he had been a moment ago, but was waggling his head from side to side with a slow, loose, lolling motion, as though his neck were broken. I might use that for something one day, Andrew thought.
    â€œI said what do you say,” said Mrs McHealy more loudly.
    â€œThis house is a trap,” said the darkie in a bloodless mutter. “Baas, he built it for a trap.”
    â€œCheerful,” said Jack.
    â€œWake up,” snapped Mrs McHealy.
    The darkie blinked, pulled his head straight and nodded.
    â€œYou give Master Andrew his ration-book, Mary,” he said.
    Mrs McHealy snorted and seemed about to argue. The snort became a sigh and she waddled round the table to the dresser that ran most of the length of the inner wall, displaying on its shelves enormous oval plates made to carry whole roast joints. She lifted the lid of a soup tureen, groped and brought out a wad of ration-books tied together with pink tape. Slowly she undid the knot and took Andrew’s book from the top of the pile, but instead of handing it over she began to leaf through it, holding it at arm’s length, like old Mr Singleton studying a pawn-ticket.
    As Andrew was cleaning the last salty bacon drippings from his plate with a corner of toast his eye was caught by