The Apothecary Page 0,10
be one, just because your father is. That seems very—I don’t know. Nineteenth-century.”
Benjamin slumped back in his seat. “It’s not nineteenth-century, it’s just English,” he said. “There’s an expectation.”
“That you become what your father is?”
“In some cases. In my case. The Society of Apothecaries pays my school fees, and I wouldn’t be at St Beden’s without them. I’d be at some grim secondary modern, getting mullered every day.”
“Mullered?”
“Pounded on. But the Society assumes that if they pay for my school, I’ll become one of them.”
“So why don’t you want to?”
“Because it’s bloody boring! My father’s just a pill-counter!”
“He gave me a powder for homesickness.”
Benjamin looked interested. “Did it work?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. The hot water bottles did.”
Benjamin’s interest vanished, replaced by contempt. “You see? He sells hot water bottles. And ointments for babies’ nappy rash. It’s so pedestrian. There’s nothing less interesting.”
“So what do you want to be?”
He paused. “I want to live a life of travel and adventure and service to my country.”
“You want to be a soldier?”
He seemed embarrassed to have said so much. “No.”
Then I realised. He had tailed me unseen, and thought my parents were spies. “You want to be a spy!”
He frowned. “If that was true, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I think you just did tell me.”
“Well—I’d like to work for the Secret Intelligence Service,” he admitted. “In some way. But don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded. I guessed the Secret Intelligence Service must be England’s spies. I glanced across the aisle and whispered, “I think that man in the bowler hat heard you.”
He looked quickly to see, but the man was so buried in his book that he wouldn’t have noticed if the train ran off the tracks. Benjamin smiled, relieved. He looked down at his shoes. “It’s just that I’ve never told anyone,” he said.
A garbled voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing Hammersmith Station, and the train started to slow.
“This is my stop,” I said, getting up. I hated to do it. It was the first time in England that I’d felt so happy and comfortable, and I didn’t want to get off the train. Benjamin followed, and we stood facing each other on the platform as people streamed around us. Benjamin’s dark eyes were actually a warm brown, with bright flecks of copper in them, like the scattering of freckles across his nose.
I glanced away, unsettled, and tried to think what to say. It didn’t seem right to invite him to the studio, and my parents would tease me if I showed up with a boy. Across the platform, the train going the other direction pulled in.
“I should go,” Benjamin said. “I still have deliveries to make.”
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
“Listen,” he said. “What are you doing Saturday?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Meet me on the steps of the school at two and I’ll show you Hyde Park.”
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Look, if your parents let you take the Underground alone, they’ll let you go to Hyde Park.” His return train was about to leave.
“Okay,” I said.
“Terrific!” He started across the platform.
I walked away, thinking dizzily that I had a date, when I heard Benjamin’s voice say, “Janie, wait!”
I turned, wondering what I would do if he tried to kiss me.
“I forgot to ask,” he said. “Do you play chess?”
CHAPTER 5
Sherwood Forest
At Riverton Studios, in a grey mist, I pushed open the two heavy doors of the soundstage and walked into a green canopy of trees, warm with light. There was a rope swing hanging from one of the trees, and a log bridge. The trees were all made of fabric and papier-mâché and plywood, but the effect was beautiful. There was a hut that was clearly the heroes’ hiding place. I would have loved to play inside it when I was just a tiny bit younger—and in all honesty, I still wanted to. I didn’t see any actors, and thought they must not be filming yet. No one noticed me, and I stood for a moment taking it in.
My parents were across the soundstage, talking to a tall woman with piled-up red hair, and I could tell that my father was acting out a scene. He did that all the time—he couldn’t just suggest a story idea, he had to act it out. My mother stood with her arms crossed and watched him with her full attention, and with an expression that could be adoring one second and sceptical the next, depending on what she thought of his idea. It always made me feel that she