Paupers Graveyard Read Online Free PDF Page B

warning to them not to laugh. When the meal was finished, his father went outside with the slop bucket to feed the pig.
    Timmy and the others helped their mother clear up, and then get ready to wash the younger ones. She placed a chair in front of the fire and took an old enamel basin from a nail in the wall. When his mother had half-filled it with cold water from the bucket, Timmy brought the kettle from the hearth and allowed the hot water to dribble into the basin until it was warm enough. Each of the children squirmed as she scrubbed necks, ears and between sticky fingers with a soapy rag, determined to root out any trace of dirt. We may be poor, she often told them, but that’s no excuse for filth.
    Timmy was glad he no longer had to endure this nightly ritual. When she had finished with the others, he emptied the bowl. This was refilled as before and handed to him. He took it into the other room, the sleeping place for them all. The beds were planks of wood tied together with rope and covered with straw. One set in the corner for his parents and a larger one for the children. A frayed blanket lay in the centre of each one and this was all the bedding they had. When the weather got too cold, they dragged the beds into the kitchen and slept by the fire. The only other furniture in the room was a stool, and it was on this that he placed the bowl.
    The threadbare cloth they used for a towel had hardly enough fabric left in it to dry him; still damp, he carefully manoeuvred the jumper over his head and elbows. There were so many holes in the sleeves, that he once managed to put his head through one, stretching it even further. As he was carrying the basin outside, his father loomed from out of the darkness.
    â€˜Hurry to bed, boy, the spring planting has to be done on Saturday. You’ll need all your strength for that.’ He brushed past his son without looking at him and went inside. Timmy heard him talking to his mother and the tone was sharp.
    Timmy did not look forward to spending a full day in the fields with his father, but the planting of the potatoes was the most important event of the year. He waited outside for a while, watching shadows moving within the cabin, caught by the light of the fire. The three small ones went from the kitchen to the bedroom, then the large, lumbering shape of his father, followed them. At last his mother was alone. He crept inside, closing the door as quietly as he could.
    His mother brought her fingers to her lips, nodding towards the other room. He understood that they could speak only when they heard the thundering snores of his father. They sat in silence before the fire, his mother trying to darn one old jumper with wool from a more threadbare one. He studied her face as she worked. He found it hard to imagine that she had once been young, except when she smiled; her eyes lit up and then she seemed like someone else, not like his mother at all.
    As the sounds from the bedroom signalled their release, she put aside the jumper. Timmy knew what to do. They had been doing the same thing for over a year, since he had grown old enough to be trusted.
    He crept to the turf pile, moved aside a few sods and felt for the loose brick. After prising it out, he reached inside and pulled out a package wrapped in old rags. This he placed on his mother’s lap and watched as she opened it. The book inside was so old, the pages had come loose, but that didn’t matter. It was the words that were important and also the stories they told.
    â€˜We’ll start on a new one tonight.’ She smiled at him, moving to one side of the chair, and allowing him to squeeze in beside her.
    Slowly he moved his fingers across the page, sounding out in a whisper the more difficult words, until he had finished the first paragraph. He was pleased and looked at his mother for approval. She was gazing at him with an odd look in her eyes, a sort of sadness. But she kissed his forehead and told him