AN: Another multi-chapter story that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Written in the same style of "The Fragile Heart" (which I am still working on studiously), this story shall attempt to fill in the gaps as to what Peter went through at school until Edmund joined him. It shall also attempt to show how Peter himself changed.
Reviews are treasured, and I hope you enjoy reading.
Disclaimer: No, I do not own The Chronicles of Narnia. Thanks for rubbing it in.
It's a difficult task: adjusting.
How Peter hates the word.
"Don't worry, dear," his mother tells him, "you'll adjust in no time."
But Peter has no inclination to adjust. He likes being himself and realises that to adjust is to give into the pressure of those who call themselves his peers. To adjust is to betray your better sensibilities, and to follow what is generally known as "the crowd".
"Boarding school isn't so scary, Peter," his mother tells him, kissing his forehead with maternal affection. "You'll see."
But Peter doesn't want to see. He wants to stay at home with Susan, Edmund and Lucy. He wants to go on attending the little primary school down the road, where everyone is accepted, and no one is excepted.
"Please, Mum," he begs, scuffing his toe against the carpet. "Please keep me here."
Tears well in Mrs. Pevensie's eyes as she shakes her head. "No, Peter," she tells him, with a show of harsh firmness, "you must get a fine education. No more arguments."
The subject is closed. Mrs. Pevensie has put her foot down, but the foot is liable to slide. She turns away from Peter's pleading eyes, and goes on with the packing.
"It'll be alright," Susan says, large blue eyes excited beyond measure. "You'll make a lot of new friends, and learn a lot of new games, and study a lot of --" she pauses, nose wrinkled in disgust "--- a lot of maths."
Seven year old Edmund grins rakishly and clambers onto the table in the centre of the room. "You hate maths, don't you, Susan?" he laughs, swinging his legs with a brisk momentum.
"Doesn't everybody?" wonders little Lucy, who is still in the early stages of grade school. "All that addition!"
Peter laughs grimly, still unwilling to leave the shelter of those he loves. Still unwilling to adjust.
"I'm going to boarding school soon, Peter," Susan observes, smoothing her cardigan with a critical eye. "And we'll be able to write letters to each other about... I don't know... things."
"I'll write letters to you too, Peter," crows Edmund, all smiles and twinkling eyes; "I'll write a letter a week until I join you. When will I join him, Mum?" he adds, turning his attention upon the woman with her head buried in the trunk.
"Oh, a year or two," is the absent answer. Mrs. Pevensie has discovered half a jar of marmalade buried among Peter's shirts; Lucy's contribution to her brother's journey.
"Yes," says Edmund, in a tone of satisfaction, "in a year or two. That's a lot of letters."
Peter stares down at his brother's pale face, and smiles, somewhat dolefully. He ruffles Lucy's golden hair and taps her jam-covered chin. He can't leave them, can he?
Unlike Peter, Susan is relishing the idea of going on a train a fair way from home. She is already planning for the great event, which she believes will happen in no time at all. The thought of adjusting does not bother her at all. Why should it?
The day finally arrives and Peter allows himself to be hugged and kissed by his respective family. His mother gives him a paper-bag lunch and a bottle of milk, together with a lip-sticked kiss and a warm embrace. His father gives him some good advice, worn well throughout many generations, and a manly shaking of hands. Susan's gift is a kiss to cheek, and a package of sticky toffee, well wrapped up in a soggy paper bag. And Edmund, with cheerful confidence, holds out a glass jar full of bugs.
"Thanks, Eddy," Peter tells the little boy, who's eyes are round with excitement.
"I'm glad you like them," says Edmund, cheeks puffing with pride. He gives his big brother a one-armed hug, and discreetly stashes the jar in Peter's open bag.
Lucy steps forward, her lack of height made up for by her ear-splitting grin. She holds out Russle, her dog, and with childlike incomprehension, expects him to love it as much as she does. Russle is old and (no pun intended) dog-eared; one paw is hanging by the seams, and the other is covered in a sticky plum-coloured substance.
Peter takes the toy from her outstretched hands, realising (as only a big brother may) that it is a great sacrifice on Lucy's part. He pats the dirty head gingerly and promises to take care of it. The next moment his arms are filled with a bouncing little girl, and he hugs her tightly.
"It's alright, Lu," he whispers in her ear. A muffled sob and a wet cheek rubbed against his own is the only answer. Lucy's eyes are filled with tears as she pulls away and retreats to the shelter of her mother's skirts.
With a heavy heart, Peter shifts his bag uncertainly. He is terrified, for now is the time when he must enter the train... alone. He must suffer the next few months alone, and the very thought makes his stomach clench painfully.
If they only knew how much it scared him, would they send him away?
"Good-bye, son," murmurs Mrs. Pevensie, smiling through her tears. He is the first of her children to go so very far from home; and he looks so young. So very small. His blonde curls are hidden beneath a cap and the eyes which peer out from beneath the brim are reproachful.
"Bye, Mum," he sighs. He grits his teeth to keep the tears from falling. "Good-bye, Dad. Bye Susan! Bye Ed! Bye Lu!"
The shrill sound of the whistle cuts into the farewells, and the gruff voice of the porter alerts Peter to the fact that he must get on the train now, or be left behind.
He is very tempted to loiter just a little longer.
"Come along now, Peter," his father says, "all aboard that's going aboard. Do you need a hand up?"
"N - no," says Peter, firmly despite the stutter. What if one of his future schoolmates is in the station or watching from the train? Dear me, the embarrassment. Peter smiles up at his father, a little uncertainly, and uses one hand to firmly grasp the train's rail-guard. His foot slides slightly on the step as he clambers in, and it is with one last backward glance that he enters the train.
Walking firmly, Peter gives his ticket to a man for verification, before walking a little less firmly down the train's corridor. Friendly and unfriendly faces look up at him from various compartments. It is with a little difficulty that he finds his own compartment, and stows his bag along the top.
Jumping eagerly onto the cushioned seats, Peter sticks his head out the narrow window and looks around for his family. It is Lucy's bright hair and Edmund's blue jumper which catch his eye first, and with considerable trouble, he sticks his left arm out to wave.
"Good-bye!" he shouts, his voice rather lost among the general clamour of the station. "Good-bye!"
The last thing he sees, before the train swiftly rounds the bend, is Edmund's blue-clad arm raised in farewell, and his Mother's tearful smile.
Withdrawing his head and arm from the window, Peter sits back down on the seat and draws his knees to his chest, feeling alone and isolated. The only other occupant of the compartment is a rather miserable looking boy, who sniffs depressingly and brings his sleeve to his nose.
"Hullo," says Peter, lifting his head. He feels as though he has a companion in misery, and, strangely enough, the thought cheers him considerably.
The boy answers with a flat and unoriginal, "Hullo," in reply, looking at Peter with red-rimmed eyes.
"Where you headed?" Peter presses, talking to cut the oppressive silence.
"Saint James' school," answers the boy, raising his head with a sigh. "I'm boarding there while Mum visits my Aunt Sarah."
Peter has no idea who this Aunt Sarah is, but he immediately feels brighter and more cheerful.
"I'm going there, too," he says, wondering at the odds of him meeting a future school-fellow.
The other boy seems suddenly exuberant, and he drops the sleeve in favour of grinning broadly and leaning forward, his chin on clasped hands.
"Are you scared?" he asks, his thick British accent growing thicker as he becomes more interested.
"Yes," Peter answers truthfully enough, "I am. But I think I'll be alright. Now that I know somebody."
The other boy's grin widens, and he holds out a sleeve-covered hand, suddenly remembering that they have not been introduced. "I'm Smithy," he says, with considerable pride. "Alfred Smithy."
"Pevensie," offers Peter, shaking the sleeve gingerly. "Peter Pevensie."
"Well, Pevensie," says Smithy, withdrawing his hand to push the sleeve back over his elbow, "what do you expect Saint James' to be like?"
"I -- don't know," says Peter cautiously, "my father went there when he was a boy; but times where different then, you know?"
"Aye," replies Smithy, with the air of an ancient reflecting on his past, "they were. My old man says that he could buy gum balls -- big ones, Pevensie! -- for ha' penny a bag. Those were the days."
Peter nods in agreement, biting his tongue to keep from laughing at Smithy's absurd expression.
"I hope the rooms are decent," Smithy continues, his voice slightly high and whiny; "the last school I went to -- well -- the rooms were horrid and the meals were worse."
Peter, feeling slightly inexperienced, nods dumbly and bites his nether lip.
"But, dear me, Pevensie, you should have been there. My, some of the games the lads got up to at my old school."
"How many schools have you been to, Smithy?" asks Peter.
"Three," is the sober answer.
"Were you -- expelled?"
"Uh, no, 'course not," Smithy laughs sheepishly, "but some of the lads were a bit lively, caused trouble, and fought a lot. My Mum pulled me out."
"Oh," says Peter uncomfortably, "is this school any different?"
"We won't know until we get there," answers Smithy, smiling brightly and fishing in his pocket for a hankie.
"Oh. Of course," says Peter, blushing slightly. He then ventures, as Smithy blows his nose with relish, "Why were you so miserable when I got on the train?"
"Hmm? Oh. I just hate moving around," sighs Smithy, returning his hankie to his pocket and inspecting his boots. "Mum doesn't want me around home, you see. Dad not being there and all. She says I mope."
Peter feels as though he is treading on private ground, and mentally searches for a different, and safer topic.
"I -- have a family," he offers lamely, bracing his feet against the carpeted floor.
"Naturally," is Smithy's curt response. "I have one, too. Do you have sibs, Pevensie?"
"Sibs?"
"Siblings. Brother. Sister. Both."
"Uh, yes," says Peter, "a brother and two sisters."
"I have an older brother," says Smithy morosely, as if to be burdened with a brother is the most difficult cross imaginable, "he annoys me half to death. Does your brother annoy you, Pevensie?"
"No," says Peter, smiling slightly as he settles back into the cushioned back of his seat; "he is the dearest little brother in the world."
A look of jealously crosses over Smithy's face, and, for a split second, it looks as though he is about to cry. He composes himself, however, and, turning his face from Peter, laughs a high, unnatural laugh.
"Well, yes," he mutters, the sleeve creeping up to his nose, "perhaps your brother loves you more than mine."
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence, both listening to the clack of the tracks as the train continues its journey. Twice does Peter sit up and try to speak, and twice does he fail. Smithy's face is so sober, so unhappy, that he finds it difficult to broach a change of topic.
They do not speak again until the train pulls into the station.