The Invisible Wall Read Online Free Page B

if my mother hadn’t stopped him, pushed both of them aside, grasped me by both shoulders, and said, “Where have you been? We were looking all over for you.”
    I hung my head and muttered, “I went on an errand.”
    â€œWho sent you on an errand?”
    â€œSarah.”
    â€œThat’s where we saw him last,” interjected Joe. “That’s where the bloody little bugger was standing when we were playing hopscotch outside the ’arrises’ house.”
    â€œWhere did she send you?” my mother asked.
    â€œTo Gordons’.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œA bottle of ginger beer.”
    â€œShe’s got some nerve, sending you there alone,” my mother said angrily. “I’m going to have a talk with her when I see her. And I’m going to tell her mother, too. She shouldn’t be sending you off to Gordons’ for ginger beer all by yourself at night. Now all of you go up to bed.”
    She was very angry, otherwise she might not have said that. On summer nights she always let the older children sit up a bit longer to read after they came in from play. Tonight’s order to stay in brought loud protests from my sisters and Joe, from Saul too, who considered himself an older one already, but especially Lily. She was the oldest, but besides that she had a lot of studying to do. She was always reading books and preparing herself for the scholarship exam.
    â€œIt’s not fair,” she protested. “It’s just not fair.” Then, notwithstanding the argument she’d had with her mother earlier that day, and the warning that had been given her, she said, bitterly, “I’ll bet Arthur Forshaw’s mother didn’t tell him to go to bed early when he was studying for his exam.”
    Perhaps if she hadn’t said that she would have stood a chance of staying up. My mother was now doubly furious with her, however, and in no uncertain terms ordered her to go up with the rest of us. “I thought I told you not to mention that boy’s name in this house again,” she added.
    Lily said nothing. The rest of us were a bit subdued, seeing the anger on Mother’s face. We did not see it often. She was more likely to be soft and gentle with us, but when the anger came it was always respected.
    In silence, we all began to troop up the stairs. As we did so my mother called out, “Don’t forget to throw your clothes down.”
    This was a ritual that we went through every night. My poor mother, though it would mean staying up longer to wash and mend the dirty torn clothes we would throw down, had made a game out of it for us, to give a little touch of fun to the bedtime hour, and perhaps to serve as a bit of an incentive to this least happy of all our moments. She was already regretting her anger; there had been too many outbursts from her that day, and she wanted to make up for it.
    It worked that night, as it always did. We scampered up the stairs and to the bedrooms, took off our ripped, dirty trousers and shirts, our evil-smelling socks, and clad in our underwear made our way back to the landing with the bundles of clothing in our arms. She was standing waiting for us at the foot of the stairs.
    â€œAre you ready?” she called up to us.
    â€œYes,” we shouted back to her, giggling with excitement and anticipation.
    â€œAll right. One, two, three.” She counted slowly, and our giggling grew louder. “Go!”
    We hurled our clothes down on her simultaneously, and screamed with delight as they fell on her. Some she managed to catch with her open arms, others rained down on her head, hit her in the face, or scattered on the floor around her feet. After gathering them, she sewed and mended and washed under the gaslight until late in the night.
    As for us, we scampered off to our beds, the two girls to theirs in one room, the three of us to the one we all shared in another room. It was not comfortable