“Found,” said his Aunt, gasping for breath, “found!” She clasped her hands tightly and closed her eyes, repeating, “Ma lamb is found.”
Then with a sudden descent to the things of everyday, “Now then, Tommy Tregennis, here’s the rollin’ pin, ’n put your lame leg first and press forwards, ’n get your bit o’ pastry made, or we’ll be all behind with the cleanin’ up when your granfäather comes home.”
Tommy’s jam turn-over took up more time in the making than all the rest of the pasties and tarts put together. First of all the paste had to be rolled very heavily and very often; rolled so heavily and so often in fact that it wore too thin in the middle. It was then pulled and scraped from the board to which it stuck, and was all pinched up by grubby fingers into a lump again. When it had been rubbed once more into the shape of a ball, the rolling-pin was again used. By the time the size, shape and thickness of the pastry satisfied Tommy’s requirements, it was of a uniform grey colour relieved, here and there, by darker shades. Tommy then spread on the jam, doubled it over and pinched it well to keep the open sides together. Tough from much handling and hot from the oven the turn-over was eaten by Tommy himself at the end of dinner.
“Can’t think,” Granfäather Tregennis had said one Saturday, “can’t think why you let the boy eat that muck, Keziah Kate!”
“Must have a peck o’ dust in his lifetime, fäather.”
“Yes, ’n so he must, but surely ’n to goodness he needn’t have it all to wanst.”
Tommy, entirely unmoved, ate on.
When dinner was over Tommy grew restless. He had not been home since breakfast; that was a very long time ago and in his absence much might have happened.
He slipped from his chair and thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets. “I’d best be goin’ now, Granny,” he said, and when the old woman put her arms round him and kissed him he wriggled away, and addressed his Granfäather, for another man would understand.
“Granfäather,” he said, “ma Mammy’ll be missin’ me.”