The Red Judge by Pauline Fisk Read Free Book Online Page B

feelings. At Grace’s funeral he hadn’t shed a tear. The packed church had wept openly, but Pawl had sat upright, his face stiff beneath his pork-pie hat, his eyes completely dry.
    Even when our mother came down afterwards to sort out Prospect House, prior to the builders moving in, Pawl didn’t cry. And he certainly wasn’t crying now, but I wondered how often he let himself in like this, and wandered round the empty rooms in the early-morning light, telling himself that he liked things better when they stayed the same.
    I gave him a hug, and said I agreed. I wouldn’t have hugged my Fitztalbot uncles or aunts, and I certainly wouldn’t have hugged my father, but Pawl belonged to the old days when Grace had been my family and he had been a part of it. We went downstairs together, and he sorted out the electricity and heating by a mere flick of a switch, then went back to the tin house to fetch me some provisions.
    While he was away I looked for the phone, wanting to find out what was happening at the hospital. But I couldn’t see it anywhere, and Pawl didn’t seem to know where it was either, when he came back. I helped him unload the red wicker sled, which was weighed down with what looked like half his belongings. While I was upstairs making up a proper bed with a duvet, bed linen and pillows, Pawl cooked us both breakfast, his hat still on his head, a bin bag for an apron round his waist and an expression of pure contentment on his face.
    He sang as he cooked. You could hear him all over the house. I wished that I could be more like him – could take life as it came instead of always getting in such a state.
    â€˜Once I get back to Pengwern,’ I promised myself, ‘I’m going to turn over a new leaf. I’m going to be nicer to everybody, especially my parents. I’m going to get a grip, and I’m going to work harder. I’ll straighten up in school, pass my exams and prove to the Fitztalbot family that Cary’s not the only one who’s got a brain.’
    Pawl called out that breakfast was ready. I hurried downstairs, and he might have trouble with his words, but it was obvious that Pawl could cook. I sat down before the perfect breakfast, especially for a boy who’d eaten almost nothing for the last two days. Bacon that was thick and crisp; sausages that were juicy without being fatty; scrambled eggs that were as light and soft as summer sunshine; toast that was as crumbly as if the bread had only just been baked; butter that tasted like home-whipped cream, and jam that smelt of early-morning dew in Grace’s strawberry patch.
    I ate it all, washed down with coffee that achieved the impossible and actually tasted as good as it smelt. The whole thing was astonishing. In all the years I’d been coming down to Wales, I’d never seen this side of Pawl before. You think you know people, but you don’t.
    He ate his breakfast too, beaming with pleasure as I heaped praise upon him. In between mouthfuls, he tried to tell me all the local gossip. But I couldn’t understand the half of it and, besides, the combinationof food and warmth was finally getting to me.
    My eyelids drooped and, in the end, I had to make my excuses and go up to bed. The house was warm now, and I was comfortable. Finally the trauma of the last few days was catching up with me. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep.
    When I awoke, it was getting dark. I could smell more cooking coming from the kitchen, and went downstairs to discover that, flushed with his success, Pawl had gone berserk. Covering every available work-surface were racks of biscuits, sponge cakes, muffins, sausage rolls and mince pies. Some of them were burned, but some of them were fine. In the oven was a loaf of bread, and on the brand new hob sat a hotpot of what my grandmother always used to call ‘sweet mountain lamb’. Dishes were piled in the sink, and the dishwasher was full.
    The fridge