Christy stood in Mr. Fenton’s spare bedroom. It was neat and tidy, like everything else, with a large bed, a chair and table, and a cupboard. Not dissimilar to Mr. Fenton’s own room. Christy took his things from his bag and put them away. He emptied the bag and looked at his possessions. It amounted to nothing. His chest hurt. Mr. Fenton had come in and tried to make the bed up with clean sheets, but Christy had taken them off him. He couldn’t possibly ask him to wait on him, not after the kindness he had already shown. So here he was. In a lovely room with clean sheets, a warm fire, a seemingly endless supply of candles, warm food and books, whilst his mother lived in a hovel with a madman and six children. He slumped on the bed and covered his eyes with his hand. It wasn’t even as though
