A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,13

could go wrong.

But now he was going to have to tell his mother. He looked at her face, smiling at him questioningly through the windscreen. At least she knew enough not to get out of the car, like she used to, and call out really embarrassing things like, ‘How did your spelling test go?’ But she would still want to know whether Mr Williams had said anything about scholarships. And then he’d have to tell her, and then the glow would be gone.

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t be pleased. It was that she’d be too pleased. She’d talk about it too much, and ask him all about it, and ask how many other boys were in the scholarship class, and what had Mr Williams said to him exactly, and then tell her again, start from the beginning, and tell her which lesson they were in when he said it, and had they mentioned which schools they might sit and was anyone trying for a scholarship at Bourne?

He’d have to tell her all about it, and talk about it all the way home, and then hear her tell Hannah, and his father, and probably everyone else in the world as well. It would be like the time he won that clarinet competition, and she’d told every single mother in his form. It was really embarrassing.

As he neared the car, she leaned back and opened the rear door for him.

‘Jump in,’ she said. ‘Good day?’

‘All right,’ he muttered.

‘Did anything happen?’

‘No. What’s for tea?’

‘Hannah’s doing it. Something special, I’m sure.’ She backed the car smoothly out of its parking space, and out of the school drive. A few moments’ silence elapsed. Daniel stared doggedly out of the window. Andrew was reading a comic that he must have borrowed from someone at school. Daniel glanced at him.

‘Can I read that at home?’ he said, sotto voce.

‘OK,’ said Andrew, without looking up.

‘What’s that?’ said their mother brightly.

‘Nothing,’ said Daniel. His mother hated comics; she said they should be reading books, even though she spent the whole time reading big shiny magazines with more pictures than words. He shouldn’t have said anything; maybe she would look round and ask Andrew what he was reading. He sat very still and tried to think of something harmless to say. But it was no good.

‘And so . . .’ she said in a bright voice. Daniel looked out of the window; perhaps she wasn’t talking to him. ‘Daniel?’

‘Yes?’ he said discouragingly.

‘Did you have Mr Williams today?’ Perhaps he should lie. But that never worked. He went bright red and his voice shook and she always found out.

‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Oh good!’ She turned round briefly to flash him a bright smile, and he felt the glow begin to fade. The whole point was that it was a secret glow. He stared at the passing houses and furiously remembered the exact smile Mr Williams had given him; the exact thrill of hearing his name out loud like that; the way Xander, his best friend, had looked at him—kind of casually impressed . . . But her voice cut through his thoughts inexorably, breaking them up and spoiling them. ‘And did he say,’ she paused to negotiate a roundabout, ‘. . . did he say anything to you about the scholarship class?’

By eight o’clock, Marcus was sick of the subject of scholarships. He had arrived home from work to find Anthea in triumphant mood, even though, as far as he could make out, nothing had actually happened beyond some teacher at Daniel’s school saying he could try for a scholarship. Well, big deal. It was hardly surprising, given the number of times Anthea had mentioned scholarships to Daniel’s teachers. They must have realized their lives wouldn’t be worth living unless they recommended Daniel for the scholarship class. She was completely obsessed by the idea. Marcus, meanwhile, was ambivalent, and resolved, almost unwillingly, to say something to her about it.

After supper, he made a jugful of strong, dark coffee—decaffeinated, at Anthea’s insistence—and took it into the drawing-room. The boys had volunteered to help Hannah stack the dishwasher, which meant they could hang around the kitchen, breathing in illicit cigarette smoke and Radio One, Marcus shrewdly realized. He had to return to the kitchen for a jug of milk, and as he went in, he saw them both sitting on the kitchen floor reading comics—strictly forbidden by Anthea. Daniel jumped, with a startled, deer-like movement inherited from his mother. Andrew, meanwhile, looked up