Anna and the Black Knight: Incorporating Anna’s Book. Fynn

      ‘Nothing, I suppose. Just wondered. Well, don’t do it again then.’

      ‘Won’t,’ said Danny, ‘it’s Fynn’s turn next.’

      Both of us had spent a night in the lock-up. Not that we were really locked up, because Danny had spent his time playing Twenty One with the sergeant. I spent mine reading The Police Manual and drinking tea. We were both home in time for breakfast. This fact about Millie and the girls up at the top was something that neither John nor Arabella – the spinster sister who lived with him – knew about and none of us was going to tell them. Eventually it was PC Laithwaite who told them. I’m sorry to say that they understood much better than the Rev. Castle did. Maybe he was just too concentrated on souls, but he needn’t have worried because Danny and I had fixed them up with a place to pray in, and even though the Vicar had said an altar was out of the question. Well, the flowers were ‘by courtesy’ of the local park.

      I don’t know when, or how, I came to like John D. I never thought I would, but it wasn’t all that long before I found it a real pleasure to be with him. It could have been – possibly – that as my father had died so long ago Old John was coming to be important to me. Whatever the reason might be, it always gave me great pleasure being with him, even though he always seemed to be having a dig at me in one way or another. I know that I had never met anyone like him before. He could hardly utter a sentence without being sarcastic, but his dry manner of giving a lesson was something that excited me. I just liked listening to him. Even the dreaded ‘persuader’ didn’t bother me. It didn’t hurt all that much, and after a minute or two it was as if nothing had happened at all.

      I was just about to make my way home from school when he called me over to his car and first introduced me to his sister Arabella.

      ‘One of your friends has just changed the tyre for my sister,’ he said.

      ‘I wonder who that was,’ I began to say.

      ‘His name was Danny Sullivan.’

      ‘Good old Danny! He’s my fighting mate.’

      ‘So,’ he continued, ‘you are the one they call Fynn, are you? I’ve heard about you. I understand you have other things you like doing. Other than fighting and climbing impossible walls.’

      I nodded.

      ‘And may one ask what else young Fynn likes doing?’

      ‘Mathematics mostly. I guess I like that most of all.’

      ‘The art of the mind.’

      ‘What?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand that.’

      ‘The art of the mind,’ he said once again. ‘Mathematics.’

      That idea was a new one on me.

      ‘Have you many books on the subject?’ he asked me.

      ‘Not many,’ I said, ‘they are all falling to bits and I reckon they are a bit out of date now.’

      ‘Maybe. If you would care to come to my study after school is over, I’ll see if I can find anything for you. We mustn’t let our finest brains suffer from lack of books, must we?’ The sarcastic old so and so!

      ‘Who knows,’ he went on, ‘we may even manage to kindle some spark in that head of yours, but please keep it away from walls until I am able to see if there is anything inside! I doubt it. I doubt it very much, but it is just possible!’

      The next day after school had ended I went to his study. Away from the classroom he was a different person altogether. He was still dry, sarcastic as ever and never missed any opportunity to trip me up, but he asked me many questions. He handed me a bundle of books.

      ‘Here you are, young Fynn, see what you make of these. I don’t suppose you’ll make much of them, but you never know. What will you do, young Fynn, if you don’t understand them?’

      ‘Try to work it out, I suppose. I don’t know yet.’

      ‘You could always come and ask me if you get stuck. Come after school. I’m always ready to help you out. We really can’t afford to let the spark go out now, can we? That’s if we ever manage to kindle it.’

      I smiled and he turned his back on me.

      John had had a very bad time of it in the 1914–1918 War and would rarely speak of it. What with that experience and the deformities that he had been born with, he had become slightly sour. The very mention of the word ‘God’ or ‘religion’ often provoked an outburst of scorn and anger. He was that strangest of mixtures of outspoken bitterness and almost total generosity. I really had to be so careful with him and choose my words with great care.

      It was one of his great pleasures to be called a rationalist and, after World War I, Arabella and he had joined a new group called The New Liberation Society. From the little that I knew of it, I knew it was not for me. Even though in those days I did like a tight argument it appeared to me that the rationalists were carrying things a bit too far.

      The whole of John’s personal life was so strictly regimented and his possessions so carefully ordered that no room was left for any kind of spontaneous gesture. If a thing could not be calculated it more or less did not exist for him, so much of a rationalist was he.

      On the other hand, he could be very kind. He was more than willing to help those of his students who found it hard to grasp the point, and his willingness to help old comrades who had suffered in the war knew no bounds. On those occasions he was all gentleness and concern. He was an odd mixture, and the mix made it difficult for some people to understand him.

      It must have been late summer or so when I had gone to see Old John to ask him for help. I was completely stuck with a problem. Although I had tried all the various ways that looked possible, I was just unable to resolve it. He looked at the problem for a moment or two, pointed out my mistake and left me to it. Of course, it was such a silly mistake to have made. The resolution of it was so simple that I could have kicked myself. He edged his way through the door from the kitchen, bearing a tray of coffee and some buns.

      ‘Solved it, young Fynn?’

      I nodded. ‘I feel a right fool. How did I ever come to make that mistake?’

      ‘It’s one of the hazards of mathematics, Fynn!’ He laughed. ‘It so often turns out to be the simple thing. I’ve done it often myself.’

      It gave me a lot of comfort to hear that. He handed me a cup of coffee and asked, ‘Well, young Fynn, your sentence is almost up. Any idea what you are going to do with yourself?’

      It was true. I was of an age when earning a living was necessary. I had one or two ideas, but I hadn’t made up my mind.

      ‘Well, what might my young genius do?’

      ‘Not really sure yet, John,’ I replied. ‘Just don’t know. All I am certain of is that I can’t give up mathematics or physics.’

      ‘Glad to hear you say that, young Fynn. You’re always welcome here, you know that. But what about earning your keep, eh? An accountant? A teacher? There’s plenty of room in this world for anyone able to add two and two together.’

      ‘I know that, John, but I don’t think that I want to do that sort of thing.’

      ‘Why is that?’ he asked.

      ‘I know it sounds a bit daft, John, but I enjoy it too much! I suppose I just don’t want to lose the fun and magic of it.’

      His laughter at that filled the room. ‘Oh, Fynn, oh Fynn, I’ve always known that to be a fact. You are reasonably good at it, you know, even if occasionally you do some silly things. That makes you doubly welcome here. Have you no idea what you might do then?’

      This was the question I dreaded most of all, but the time had come to answer it.

      ‘John … well … I … I, er … think I would like to go into the Church.’

      I