Read The Kind Folk for Free Online Page B

you both chairs, and what else would you like?"
    "That's Maurice right enough. He's thoughtful when he remembers to be," Freda says and gives Luke's hand a parting squeeze. "But I'm not, am I? You don't want to be standing round in your condition, Sophie."
    "Freda seems to like me on my feet, or Maurice does."
    "Why, you've brought it back," Freda says as if remembering a dream. "I was just the same when I was having—"
    She visibly wishes she hadn't relinquished Luke's hand. In a moment she says "Do you know what I think Terence would have loved? A bit of Luke's show while Luke was talking about him, and never mind it was a funeral."
    She's thinking of Luke's eulogy from the angular unadorned pulpit, where he'd felt as though he was performing an impression of a celebrant. While he hadn't claimed Terence was his uncle, he'd stopped short of saying the opposite, which left him feeling even more like a deceiver. "I wouldn't have wanted to offend anyone," he says.
    "You could have said it was for Terry. You could do it now."
    "I haven't brought your chair."
    "I'll be sitting enough when I'm old."
    "Maurice won't want me distracting people while he's in conference."
    "Who's saying what I want?" Maurice says and ambles over. "That's settled. Terry's boys are fine to stay on if we merge the firms."
    Luke senses Maurice feels he has regained his masculinity, even if Maurice wouldn't put it that way—the masculinity threatened by learning he wasn't Luke's father. Observing this with such detachment makes Luke feel disloyal if not worse, but Freda is saying "Do Terry's favourite. Be the Welsh headmaster."
    "He used to ask Luke to do it at Christmas," Maurice tells Sophie. "You remember, son."
    While Luke has kept his memories of the festival—the tree that sprouted lights, the doorways festooned with them as though magic places lay beyond, the impression that the house was full of hidden presents, the songs wending their way through the village—he feels as if all this belongs to someone else. "I'd like to see it," Sophie prompts him.
    "You reathly would."
    She looks puzzled, though not unamused. "Say that again?"
    "You'd reathly like to see Mr Futhlalove address the school."
    "Do his face," Freda urges.
    Luke could fancy that they're willing him to become somebody he's not, but hasn't that turned out to be his life? He lets his chin drop, lengthening the lower portion of his face, and shrinks his mouth, all of which seems to squeeze his voice high and thin. "I'm Mr Thlewethlyn Futhlalove and I'll be patrothling the school to make sure there's no sithly behaviour..."
    Several mourners have turned to watch and are hushing their companions. "Do his walk as well," Freda cries.
    Luke begins to waddle back and forth as if his legs are shackled. That's how a teacher at his school used to promenade in the classroom, and the face belongs to another one, but the language began with Terence—-with his song about Llangollen and pollen, which Luke apparently improved upon. Though it feels like abandoning more of his personality, Luke interlaces his fingers on his stomach and waggles them every time he lingers over mispronouncing a word. "I'm warning you I'll have no buthlying in my school. Not on your nethly, as they used to say when I was your age. No puthling anybody's hair, that isn't just a peccadithlo, and no name-cathling either. I don't want anybody being told they're smethly for a start. And don't be afraid of spithling the beans, because that's just the height of fothly. If you report bad conduct that isn't tethling tales, so I don't want any shithly-shathlying about it. If I think there's been any scoundrethly behaviour then by gothly I'll have all the suspects in my office for a grithling..."
    Most of the mourners are laughing. Onstage Luke often feels as if he's yielding up his individuality to the expectations of the audience. Doing so can distract him from self-consciousness, but just now he seems to be hearing himself say "I