Free Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor Page A

down.”
    Did that thump mean that the boy was beaten often? Not likely. As far as Fiona knew, Greek mothers were, if anything, overprotective. Certainly she had been quick to comfort the boy after the punishment had been given. It was more probable that she spoiled the boy at home.
    â€œNow,” she said, “shall we continue?”
    The interview lasted for nearly an hour. By the time it was over, Fiona had been able to persuade herself that they had made some progress. She thought one of the little lad’s difficulties was that he had not yet fully developed the ability to make the critical connection between cause and effect. That actions—his actions—would lead to consequences, and understanding the simple fact was the basis for understanding the concept of personal responsibility.
    The parents had agreed that Dimitris would be allotted some specific tasks, like feeding the family dog—he’d seemed to be excited about that prospect—or helping his brother and two sisters with the washing up. Rewards and punishments had been defined. If he failed to wash his share of the dishes, his next meal would be served on the dirty plates. As a last resort, she had told the parents, if Dimitris was behaving badly, they should simply walk away from him and shut themselves in another room. That message had been passed by Dimitris with a look for Fiona that would have frozen water.
    She had privately resolved that he would need more attention from her and the other teachers—lots of TLC—but that was some of what teaching was about, not just the three Rs so beloved by the mathematics teacher.
    It had been agreed that they would meet again in one month to discuss Dimitris’s progress, and—Fiona had breathed a quiet sigh of relief—the parents would bring an adult friend to translate.
    As the family was leaving, the father said, “ Efharisto, Despeneice Kavanagh, ya tin prosohesou ston Dimitris. Adio. ”
    â€œMy father says, ‘Thank you, Miss Kavanagh, for looking after me.’ And”—he looked down at his neatly polished shoes—“I’ll try to be good. I promise.” He looked up at her. She could still see the imp that lurked behind those damson eyes, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching forward and tousling his hair.
    He grinned at her—and took off racing down the corridor, his mother yelling after him, “ Dimitris. Dimitris, pearpata, mean trayhes …,” which Fiona presumed meant, “walk, don’t run.”
    She shook her head, closed the door, and sat at her desk. Lord, she thought, the joys of parenthood. Once the cuddly baby stage was over, raising the little ones was a full-time job, and in her opinion did not receive the recognition it deserved.
    She asked herself, did she regret never having had children of her own? It was a tough question, but nothing, nothing, would have persuaded her to bring a child into the lunacy that was Belfast back in the ’70s. Perhaps if Davy—there he was again—perhaps if they could have come to Canada together, she would have enjoyed being the mother of their children, but it hadn’t happened, and now? The media were talking about a woman’s “biological clock,” and, at forty-three, she knew that hers was ticking very fast.
    Yes—she answered her own question—there was and always would be a tiny, nagging regret, but she knew that she, unlike Dimitris Papodopolous, did understand cause and effect. It had been her choice to be childless, and she now had to live with the consequences of that decision. And she did have a kind of a family—Dimitris and all of the other children in the school—and although the faces changed every few years, that family would never really age and move away. They’d always be there as long as she was a teacher. There was one other thing to consider (selfish as she knew the thought to be): Her