The Citadel by A. J. Cronin Read Free Book Online Page A

a pity you must keep Idris home from school.’ Idris was Joey’s younger brother.
    Mrs Howells raised her head quickly, a resigned little woman with shiny red hands and work swollen finger knuckles.
    ‘But Miss Barlow said I needn’t have him back.’
    In spite of his sympathy Andrew felt a throb of annoyance.
    ‘Oh?’ he inquired. ‘And who is Miss Barlow?’
    ‘She’s the teacher at Bank Street School,’ said the unsuspecting Mrs Howells. ‘She come round to see me this morning. And seein’ how hard put I was, she’s let little Idris stop on in her class. Goodness only knows what I’d have done if I’d had him fallin’ over me as well!’
    Andrew had a sharp impulse to tell her that she must obey his instructions and not those of a meddling schoolmistress. However, he saw well enough that Mrs Howells was not to blame. For the moment he made no comment, but as he took his leave and came down Riskin Street his face wore a resentful frown. He hated interference, especially with his work, and beyond everything he hated interfering women. The more he thought of it the angrier he became. It was distinct contravention of the regulations to keep Idris at school when Joey, his brother, was suffering from measles. He decided suddenly to call upon this officious Miss Barlow and have the matter out with her.
    Five minutes later he ascended the incline of Bank Street, walked into the school and, having inquired his way of the janitor, he found himself outside the classroom of Standard 1. He knocked at the door, entered.
    It was a large detached room, well ventilated, with a fire burning at one end. All the children were under seven and, as it was the afternoon break when he entered, each was having a glass of milk – part of an assistance scheme introduced by the local branch of the MWU. His eyes fell upon the mistress at once. She was busy writing out sums upon the blackboard, her back towards him, and she did not immediately observe him. But suddenly she turned round.
    She was so different from the intrusive female of his indignant fancy that he hesitated. Or perhaps it was the surprise in her brown eyes which made him immediately ill at ease. He flushed and said:
    ‘Are you Miss Barlow?’
    ‘Yes.’ She was a slight figure in a brown tweed skirt, woollen stockings and small stout shoes. His own age, he guessed, no, younger – about twenty-two. She inspected him, a little doubtful, faintly smiling, as though, weary of infantile arithmetic, she welcomed distraction on this fine spring day. ‘Aren’t you Doctor Page’s new assistant?’
    ‘That’s hardly the point,’ he answered stiffly, ‘though, as a matter of fact, I am Doctor Manson. I believe you have a contact here. Idris Howells. You know his brother has measles.’
    There was a pause. Her eyes, though questioning now, were persistently friendly. Brushing back untidy hair she answered:
    ‘Yes, I know.’
    Her failure to take his visit seriously was sending his temper up again.
    ‘Don’t you realise it’s quite against the rules to have him here?’
    At his tone her colour rose and she lost her air of comradeship. He could not help thinking how clear and fresh her skin was, with a tiny brown mole, exactly the colour of her eyes, high on her right cheek. She was very fragile in her white blouse, and ridiculously young. Now she was breathing rather quickly, yet she spoke slowly:
    ‘Mrs Howells was at her wit’s end. Most of the children here have had measles. Those that haven’t are sure to get it sooner or later. If Idris had stopped off he’d have missed his milk which is doing him such a lot of good.’
    ‘It isn’t a question of his milk,’ he snapped. ‘He ought to be isolated.’
    She answered stubbornly. ‘I have got him isolated – in a kind of way. If you don’t believe me look for yourself.’
    He followed her glance. Idris, aged five, at a little desk all by himself near the fire, was looking extraordinarily pleased with life. His