The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher Read Free Book Online

Uncle, the millionaire elephant in a city of skyscrapers, Beaver Hateman at his heels. Chairs were supplied and, greedily taking five books with him, head down and not acknowledging the look of the librarian, whether approving or sour, he went to sit. At first he could hear his sister: she was talking to someone downstairs, in her “mature” voice, as he called it; maturity, much evoked, had become her favourite virtue, and whenever she thought of it her voice dragged and drawled to the point of a groan. “No, we’re moving up here in a few months’ time. Yes, from London. We thought it best to sample the local amenities. I do hope you don’t mind us coming in—my brother’s the real reader in the family …”
    And then the voice somehow faded away. The old library, in Kingston, he’d been going to since he was four, and had read every book in their children’s section, except the I-books, which he didn’t like, when people told you a story and said I. Here, there were so many new and different books, and what his sister’s voice had faded into was a book, a little childish but funny, about a bushranger called Midnite, and “bushranger” was the Australian word for “highwayman,” with a cat called Khat, and, look, Queen Victoria, and—
    It was quite short, and he had almost finished it by the time his sister, hot and bored, came to fetch him. She had left the library to explore the little parade of shops. “Come on,” she said. “Time for lunch.” He followed her, the last five pages abandoned; perhaps he could come back later. And perhaps he could keep the two pounds—you could spend it on books in London, too.
    “We’ve found a house,” Bernie said, coming into the hotel dining room while they were still eating their lunch. He was glowing with relief and satisfaction. The dining room, hung with velvet wallpaper and dark curtains, had been daytime dingy, and the children had been talking in whispers, not daring to bicker, but there was Francis’s dad, as if he hadn’t noticed anything. “You’ll like it, kids.”
    “I’ve found a book,” Francis wanted to say to complete everyone’s happiness. “I’ve found lots of books.”
    “It’s nice,” Alice said, sitting down in a flop and looking first, with concern, at Francis. She had something to console him with. “You’ll like it.”
    “My name is—”
    She began to write. But the paper was resting on the lawn. Her pen tore through the paper on the y of “my,” and then she was writing on grass through torn paper. Jane was lying on her stomach in a secret part of the garden. She cocked her head and listened. She kicked her heels up, bouncing them against her bum. There was nobody about.
    She took the paper and, rolling over, sat up to write properly. At the end of August, the grass was dry and brown, crackling like a fire. Under her legs, it was itchy with gorse droppings, and she could feel a holly leaf or two. The holly tree in the far corner was constantly shedding leaves. Nowhere in the garden was ever completely free of them. She folded the paper, and wrote: “My name is Fanny.”
    Jane paused. For as long as she could remember, her name hadreally been Fanny. Her paper-name, the name of the heroine of her book when it should be written. Now she was fourteen, it was time to write it.
    It was a great shame, really, that it was the end of August. She’d let so much of the summer holiday go by without writing anything. Now that she had written four words, she regretted it had taken so long. Until now, it had been a running, contiguous commentary in her head, a third voice putting her smallest actions into a sort of prose—Jane left the house, shutting the door behind her. In the garden there were birds singing. Her mood was black—but now she was writing something.
    She had switched on the lawn-sprinkler. The wet earth started to smell dense and delicious in the dry heat. The holly tree dripped with a tropical rhythm, irregular,