Eight Days of Luke

“Oh, I know what that feels like,” Luke said. “My family was just the same. But there’s no sense in being miserable about it. Did you enjoy supper, by the way?”

“The cheese was all right,” said David. “What Cousin Ronald left of it.”

Luke chuckled. “I thought of burning the bread too,” he said, “but I didn’t want you to go hungry.”

“Tell me another,” said David.

“Seriously,” said Luke, although David could see from his face he was joking again. “Mrs Thirsk deserved it. What shall we do now?”

“I suppose we could play Ludo,” David suggested, looking mournfully at the scanty shelf of amusements by his bed.

“I don’t know how to play Ludo,” said Luke, “and I can see from your face that I shouldn’t like it if I learnt. I’ve a better idea. Would you like to see some of my doodles?”

“What are they?” David asked cautiously.

“What I used to amuse myself with in prison,” said Luke. “Look at that corner, where it’s darker, and if you don’t like them you can always tell me to stop. I can go on for hours.”

Dubiously, David looked at the corner of his room. A tiny bright thing appeared there, coasting gently along, like a spark off a bonfire. It was joined by another, and another, until there were twenty or thirty of them. They clustered gently together, moved softly apart, combined, climbed and spread, and were never still for a moment. It was rather like watching the sparks at the back of a chimney, except that these made real, brief pictures, lacy patterns, letters, numbers and stars.