Read Spare for Free Online

cake, sorbet, and I was allowed to choose two flavors. I chose black currant.
    And mango.
    Mummy’s favorite.
    Birthdays were always a huge deal at Ludgrove, because every boy, and most teachers, had a ravenous sweet tooth. There was often a violent struggle for the seat next to the birthday boy: that’s where you’d be assured of the first and biggest slice. I don’t remember who managed to win the seat beside me.
    Make a wish, Harry!
    You want a wish? All right, I wish my mother was—
    Then, out of nowhere—
    Aunt Sarah?
    Holding a box. Open it, Harry.
    I tore at the wrapping paper, the ribbon. I peered inside.
    What…?
    Mummy bought it for you. Shortly before…
    You mean in Paris?
    Yes. Paris.
    It was an Xbox. I was pleased. I loved video games.
    That’s the story, anyway. It’s appeared in many accounts of my life, as gospel, and I have no idea if it’s true. Pa said Mummy hurt her head, but perhaps I was the one with brain damage? As a defense mechanism, most likely, my memory was no longer recording things quite as it once did.
8.
    Despite its two male headmasters —Mr. Gerald and Mr. Marston, both legends—Ludgrove was largely run by women. We called them the matrons. Whatever tenderness we got, day to day, came from them. The matrons hugged us, kissed us, bandaged our injuries, wiped our tears. (All except mine, that is. After that one graveside outburst I’d not cried again.) They fancied themselves our surrogates. Mums-Away-From-Mums, they’d always chirp, which had always been odd, but now was especially confusing, because of Mummy’s disappearance, and also because the matrons were suddenly…hot.
    I had a crush on Miss Roberts. I felt certain I’d marry her one day. I also recall two Miss Lynns. Miss Lynn Major and Miss Lynn Minor. They were sisters. I was deeply smitten with the latter. I reckoned I’d marry her too.
    Three times a week, after dinner, the matrons would assist the youngest boys with the nightly wash. I can still see the long row of white baths, eachwith a boy reclining like a little pharaoh, awaiting his personalized hair-washing. (For older boys who’d reached puberty there were two tubs in a separate room, behind a yellow door.) The matrons came down the row of tubs with stiff brushes, bars of floral soap. Every boy had his own towel, embossed with his school number. Mine was 116.
    After shampooing a boy the matrons would ease back his head, give him a slow and luxurious rinse.
    Confusing as hell.
    Matrons would also help with the crucial extraction of lice. Outbreaks were common. Nearly every week another boy would come down with a fierce case. We’d all point and laugh. Nyah, nyah, you’ve got nits! Before long a matron would be kneeling over the patient, rubbing some solution into his scalp, then scraping out the dead beasts with a special comb.
    As a thirteen-year-old I graduated from matronly bathing assistance. But I still depended on their nightly tuck-ins, still treasured their morning greetings. They were the first faces we saw each day. They swept into our rooms, threw open our curtains. Morning, boys! Bleary, I’d gaze up into a beautiful visage framed by a halo of sun…
    Is that…could that be…?
    It never was.
    The matron I dealt with the most was Pat. Unlike the other matrons, Pat wasn’t hot. Pat was cold. Pat was small, mousy, frazzled, and her hair fell greasily into her always tired eyes. Pat didn’t seem to get much joy out of life, though she did find two things reliably satisfying—catching a boy somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, and shutting down any bouts of roughhousing. Before every pillow fight we’d put a sentry on the door. If Pat (or the headmasters) approached, the sentry was instructed to cry: KV! KV! Latin, I think? Someone said it meant: The head’s coming! Someone else said it meant: Beware!
    Whichever, when you heard it you knew to get out of there. Or pretend to be asleep.
    Only the newest and stupidest boys would go to Pat