ABSTRACT
Mr McMorine occupied himself sifting bits of paper his speech unusually clear and simple:
“I have talked to M. Aubert, and he has agreed for you to start at the seminary this coming academic year. It is called ‘Le Petit Séminaire’ in Coutançes, which is a small town in the peninsula area of Normandy known as La Manche, south of Cherbourg and north of Granville, if you look on the map. I have the details for you here. You can fly from Eastleigh airport in Southampton and then take a bus, or you can get the ferry to Cherbourg and take a bus or train. I’ll give you your travel expenses to get there, which M. Aubert has provided. You’ll meet him when you get to the school. A ‘petit séminaire’ is a 70seminary, a school from which some of the pupils go on to train to be priests, but otherwise it is like a normal school as you will see from this leaflet. Your job will be to help teach the younger children—aged between five and eight—how to speak English. M. Aubert will help you and look after you and guide you regarding lessons. You will live at the seminary and all your meals will be taken care of. You will be paid a salary, I think of 110 French francs per month. Is all that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Do you have a passport?”
“No.”
“Then you will need to get one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Fine. Good luck. I’ll leave it to you to make the arrangements.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr McMorine handed papers three weeks later instructions at dawn passport small bag set off Liverpool Lime Street station Southampton Cherbourg first flight of life relief unknown sights raced past thick fast grey box parents school background disappearing was this freedom? Settled down journey of journeys flying trees unwrapping field after green field picked up whisperings in the carriage.“She is following you.”
“She can get you, you know.”
“You’ve done something wrong.”
“You don’t think this is going to work, do you?”
The woman called mother had got on the train an incinerator lit on her behalf flared up excitement fuel for 71criticism as night follows day relief curiosity torched by dread self-hatred had it not always been so? Past allegations so taken root so cultivated HE was responsible for contempt that lashed him.“Bad, wrong. Stupid. Completely stupid. Don’t you ever learn? You’ll never get away.”
Insinuation emotional force petrol on pyre of propaganda not propaganda the propaganda says a child’s mind out of control alienated from itself must capitulate to propaganda face the truth unfit for life no getting away nothing changes. One twist reserved for emergencies an accusation that everything that went wrong with his mother’s life which was everything was his fault slid into his mind as the man called father hopped on board to round off her attacks disdain derision diabolical truth. The man called father knew that an attacked child seeks solace no one being there too much to bear the very moment to slice at the knees knew the child thinks the woman called mother’s attacks will not be repeated twice in short succession moved in with quieter instrument to open the gates to hell. Two batterings two deaths self-effacing automaton always misinterpreted as shy shame dissolution sought out as an ordinary person seeks comfort. No peace embers respite too much had happened too little had happened asylum somewhere anywhere recuperate France marshal energy fuel for the incinerator forced him to rethink self-hate couldn’t go on like this he would die call it “flu” some other symptom lie low until it passes you do when you’re ill. Fresh start too ambitious rest recuperate The Woods the cars Vespa France.