Page 17 of Broken Country

The swoop of disappointment as I watch him walk away is almost as pronounced as my relief.

Out in the garden, Leo and I begin with the command “sit,” rewarding Hero each time he manages it with a little cube of cheddar or a piece of ham, treats I have brought with me from home. He catches on quickly, so we progress to “stay.” I demonstrate first getting Hero to sit, then showing him the palm of my hand, and repeating “stay.” Then Leo tries it and, each time, the puppy stays put, even when we start to walk away from him, one step at a time.

“This is going to be a cinch,” I say.

“Is he a genius?”

“I think he might be. But we should leave it there for today. Geniuses need their rest.”

“You’re not going already?” Leo says. “Do you have to?”

I can tell he’s spoken without thinking. And, in a flash, I see his loneliness. “How about you show me your tree house first?”

He looks so delighted.

Inside, the tree house is a revelation. It’s a fairly big space, tall enough to stand up in, around eight feet wide, with a big open window looking out over the grounds. The walls have been painted sky blue and the floor is covered with giant velvet cushions in gorgeous jewel colors:emerald green, ruby, sapphire blue. There’s a pile of comics and Tintin books, candles, an old-fashioned kerosene lamp, a box of dominoes, packs of cards, a Ludo board.

“I wish I had a tree house like this. It’s a proper den. Have you slept up here?”

“In the summer we will, my dad says. He loves camping. He used to camp by the lake when he was a boy.”

My heart lurches, but I ignore it.

“We painted it one weekend. We had our supper up here and played cards by candlelight. It was the best.”

I catch the wistfulness in Leo’s voice. “You need to invite some friends over. They’d love it up here.”

“Maybe,” he says.

“How are you liking school?”

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Doesn’t sound it.”

I see him weighing up whether or not to tell me the truth. “It’s no better? I thought you might be settling in now.”

“I hate it so much.” He looks angry suddenly.

“Did something happen?”

“I’m always in trouble. Every day I get sent to the headmistress. Or I’m made to stand outside the classroom.”

“Why?”

“I get cross. Sometimes I shout at the other kids. I hit a boy yesterday. He was saying mean stuff and I punched him. It just happened. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Does your dad know?”

“Not everything. Only what the teacher tells him.”

“That sounds hard. No wonder you hate it. It’ll feel better when you’re more used to it.”

“Doubt it.” He looks so glum, this young boy, it doesn’t feel right for him to be so unhappy.

“Fancy a game of Ludo before I go?”

“Yes,” he says, his face brightening as he reaches for the box.

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