The Last Kings of Sark Read Online Free

here,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to open the curtains, though, because the sun gets in my eyes.’
    It was a dark room that smelt of books and unbeaten cushions. The ceilings seemed lower than anywhere else in the house. Pip pushed his hair back off his face again.
    â€˜You look smart today,’ I told him. It tasted wrong as soon as I’d said it. Smart is such a dad’s word.
    He ruffled his hair out again, the way that Sofi had done. He shuffled in his chair, sat awkwardly, couldn’t get comfortable. Still, his back was straight for a sixteen-year-old. He wasn’t at all small. Even at the beginning of summer, his shoulders were wider than the chair’s, it’s just that he was sunken somehow. The mast and sails were there, but there was no wind.
    I asked him to tell me exactly what he wanted to learn from me. I had a vague idea we’d write ‘objectives’ on a piece of paper. We could draw tick-boxes next to each one; the path through summer would be set.
    â€˜I don’t know. This was Eddy’s idea. I don’t need a tutor.’ He touched the top buttons of his shirt as if their being done-up was proof of this.
    My face replied without me asking it to.
    â€˜I’ve never had teachers before,’ he continued, ‘and I’ve been fine.’
    â€˜â€œTeachers” doesn’t just mean the teachers you get at school,’ I said. I was speaking in sound bites and barely knew where they came from.
    â€˜I don’t need anyone,’ he said, but as soon as he said it, it seemed to both of us like such an impossible thing to feel that we moved on.
    This time, he talked to my forehead. He told me he’d just done his GCSEs: four days a week at Sark School, but on computers mostly, in a room with no working windows. The majority of lessons were online for students over fifteen, on video feeds from schools in England and the States. He said they went too slowly and he hated American accents.
    I later learned that when Pip chose to speak, he sometimes spoke very fast, like no one had ever let him speak before, so he was going to take his chance. This was one of those times. I asked him about his friends, if they were leaving Sark at the same time as him, if they were going to the same school. He said they had all left a long time ago.
    â€˜There are only three children my age at Sark School.’ He was so tall, I found it strange when he said children. ‘And the other two, they’re not exactly…’ He touched his temple. ‘They have special classes and stuff.’ He looked at the heavy curtain, a square halo of sun pushing through at its edges.
    Was he excited about leaving the island after the summer? He picked at the arm of the sofa. Scratch, flick, scratch flick. Had he visited the new school he was going to be going to in England? He shook his head. The seconds stretched.
    â€˜What does Eddy think I have to learn?’ he asked eventually.
    Maths and science, I said, were the subjects his father had stressed. I’d bought books off Amazon and tried to read them. Long division, X and Y chromosomes; there was so much I’d forgotten.
    â€˜Look, I’m not trying to be rude,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want to waste your time. Honestly. You have to believe me. There is no point in you doing this.’
    â€˜English?’ I tried. It sounded like my last breath.
    â€˜You probably don’t even like books …’ he said, turning away to the heavy velvet curtain.
    That was when I said, ‘I do, I do, I do,’ lots of times and very fast.
    And that was when he looked up, and looked me in the eye.
    â€˜You do?’
    I did like reading, it was true; I liked the idea of reading. ‘I’m a great fan of Proust,’ I said.
    â€˜You are?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Me too. I read it a couple of summers ago.’
    â€˜The first one?’ That’s what I’d