The Pupil Read Online Free PDF Page A

faith in her son’s abilities, fully expecting him to achieve anything he wanted.
    ‘That’s wonderful. Is it a good firm?’
    ‘It’s called a set, Mum. A set of chambers.’
    ‘Oh. Is it a good set?’
    ‘Brilliant. The best there is.’ Anthony remembered to show the letter to his mother. She liked the tangible evidence of his successes, and kept all his prizes, diplomas and certificates, piling them up against the day of his absence, so that she could trace and recall him. She read Michael Gibbon’s letter now as though it told her something of the deep, mysterious future.
    ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’
    ‘Isn’t it? God, yes. If this goes well, I mean, if they like me and I do well, then they might take me on as a tenant.’
    Anthony and his mother had discussed this often enough for her to know what such a thing would mean. A chance for success, to turn the academic intangible into a prosperous reality. Money, an escape from the smaller, drearier end of suburbia. As for doing well and being liked, neither she nor Anthony had the remotest doubt that he would do both. But then, neither of them knew anything, as yet, of the existence of Edward Choke.
    When she had fully digested the wondrous news, and stowed away Michael Gibbon’s letter with Anthony’s other trophies, which started with a jigsaw won at the mixed infants sports day and ended, so far, here, Judith turned her attention to the evening meal. She saw the carrier bag of lemons standing by the sink.
    ‘Anthony, what on earth am I meant to do with these?’ she demanded. She was vexed at the prospect of throwing them out, helpless in the face of her upbringing. Waste not, want not.
    ‘Len suggested pancakes.’
    ‘Oh. Len.’ Len’s wit did not amuse her.
    ‘I tell you what. I’ll take half of them round to Dad’s tonight.’ Anthony could never bring himself, in spite of his father’s requests, to call him Chay.
    ‘Oh, I’m glad you reminded me. I’ll just make something for myself. Put the news on, will you?’
    ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ called Anthony, going through to switch the television on. ‘I’ve told Barry that we’re both supposed to be going round, but he’ll probably back out at the last minute.’
    But Barry, when he returned home with the fruits of his academic labours stuffed in a dilapidated sports bag and a Hawkwind album under his arm, responded to Anthony’s reminder of their father’s invitation with enthusiasm.
    ‘Oh, yeah, that’s right! Good. I want to see this new girlfriend of his. Hope she’s better than the last one.’
    Judith said nothing. Although she absorbed all the information that her sons brought home concerning their father, she never asked any questions. She lent Anthonythe car keys, ate a solitary omelette, and after watching the news for the second time that day, went to bed with some marking and lay, pondering the hope, the brilliance, that was to be Anthony’s future.

    It was quite a long way to the Chay Cross Islington squat, and by the time they got there, even Anthony’s high spirits had begun to flag. They had stopped at Unwins to buy a bottle of white wine, which was warming well in Barry’s grasp as they mounted the wide, echoing staircase to Chay’s flat.
    Strictly speaking, the flat was not Chay’s. As a squat, it had originally housed a commune of five people, all dedicated to the arts and vegetarianism. One by one, they had succumbed to Chay’s oppressive influence, and left. Quite how someone who smiled so benevolently and constantly, whose voice was never raised in anger or complaint, and who never imposed his views or his music on others except in moderation – quite how this model of self-effacement had managed to wear down four like-minded individuals was a mystery even to themselves. But there he remained, smiling and alone (except for the ever-present, ever-changing girlfriend), quite unperturbed by the disdain and resentment of his law-abiding,