"Have you finished cleaning the clocks, boy?"

Mr Barrow was behind his desk, fiddling with a small mechanical piece of a broken clock. He was hunched over, but his face looked as stern as ever. He did not look up at his son.

"Yes, sir", Thomas replied, quivering.

The only working clock in the room ticked noisily as Mr Barrow continued to ignore his son. Thomas counted 84 seconds before the man finally looked up.

"Then you can go play. But I think you're getting to old to go off and play on your own. You should be out playing cricket with the other boys." He returned to his tinkering.

"I played cricket with them yesterday, sir. I'm still a little tired"

In truth, Thomas quite enjoyed playing cricket with the boys. He enjoyed being congratulated, hailed as a hero. The problem was, as soon as the excitement of the game had passed, the other boys no longer talked to him. They ran off to play their own games, which Thomas was never invited to join. He used to spend time after games playing with the girls, but his father had put a stop to that years ago.

Though I never saw the problem.

It was probably because he preferred to sit with the girls in the schoolyard as a younger child that the boys stopped wanting to play with him. He clearly remembered one day, around 4 years ago, when he was caught by the head teacher, Mr Emery, playing with one of the girl's dolls. He had received several lashings for that, both at school and at home.

It meant that Thomas didn't really have any friends. He was not ignored, but no one sat with him while he ate lunch, and no one talked with him of their own accord. He was lonely, but getting fairly used to it.

Eventually, Mr Barrow grunted. "Just don't bring that pansy notebook of yours", he spat.

Thomas ran off the second his father appeared to agree. He did grab his notebook and some pencils from under his bed, but hid them surreptitiously in his jacket pocket as he bolted back past his father's office and out the door.

He ran with all his might, past the boys who shouted after him to join their cricket match, almost slamming into a lady with a perambulator, and vaulting over fences as he escaped the confines of the village.

It was the height of summer, and Thomas's exertion paired with the heat of the middle of the day left him tired and sweaty as he finally made it to the tree on farmer Smith's field. The old man was kind to Thomas, and didn't mind him using the back field to play in.

Though every now and then he too asks if I have any friends.

Of course, at the age of 12, Thomas no longer spent his free afternoons in imaginary play. As a younger child, he had enjoyed his afternoons out at the fields, where he could play however he liked in peace. There were days where he pretended to be a knight galloping into battle, but there were other days where he pretended to be a father raising his children, or a famous artist, travelling the globe.

Maybe it's good that I have no friends – I can play however I like.

The field had one enormous tree that made growing anything under it quite impossible, that was perfect for climbing and sitting in.

Ensuring that his notebook and pencils was secure in his pocket, Thomas began to climb. One foot after the other, he ascended the tree, grabbing the holds that had become so familiar to him in the last few years. Finally, he reached the thick branch half way up, and sat down with a sigh of exhaustion.

I'm here.

Any closer to the village, and he would be pestered by the other boys, or even his father. Out here, up where no one could find him unless they stood right below the tree, he felt at peace. The branch he had chosen had a glorious outlook over the rolling fields, filling his eyes with hundreds of shades of green, and making him smile.

Thomas valued this alone time above all else. His father was a terrifying man, and Thomas hated every second he had to spend in the workshop. His father was not averse to hitting his children, quite hard, for even a minor mistake. Thomas had learned that the hard way, both through his own experience and watching his older siblings suffer brutally. One time, Thomas went to school with bruises all up his arms. The teachers pretended not to see, but Thomas at least got amusement out of telling extravagant stories to his peers about how he got them.

Whatever. One day I'll be long gone. I won't be sorry to see the back of him.

Thomas pulled out his notebook and opened it carefully to his most recent drawing. It was of a young teacher from his school, Mr Kaye. In the drawing, Mr Kaye stood beaming before the class, pointing to a dark haired boy in the front row, while the other children smiled and clapped.

A boy can dream, right?

Drawing was the one way Thomas could fantasise outside of his mind. Art had such an amazing ability to tell stories. Thomas reached into his pocket, pulled out a pencil, and began drawing on the next page. He was trying to draw another picture of Mr Kaye, though this time, just his head. Thomas was not sure that he could adequately draw the delicate fall of the teacher's hair, but he thought he'd try anyway.

I have nothing to lose after all, unless Father finds it…

Thomas was absorbed in his drawing for what felt like hours. His pencil carved subtle lines into the paper, and a drawing of a face started to take shape. After a while, he yawned and took a break, staring up at the sky.

Down below, he heard a sniffle. He practically jumped, and had to grab hold of the branch with his hands to regain his balance. He checked his battered old pocket-watch and realised he'd been sitting there for well over 2 hours.

Father will kill me if I'm home too late.

Thomas peered carefully below, conscious that anyone could be down there. After a few seconds of staring, Thomas felt confident enough to start back down the tree. He hid his notebook in his pocket again, and took a deep breath.

The sniffles got louder as Thomas made his way down the trunk and his shoes hit the ground. Thomas heard as someone gasped, a boy by the sound of it.

Thomas gingerly stepped round to the other side of the trunk to find a boy not much older than himself staring wild-eyed up at him. The boy's eyes were red from crying, which only seemed to bring out the blue in them more strongly. He wiped his eyes and stood up, face settling into a weak frown.

"G-go away. I mean it" the boy whispered, holding up loosely clenched fists.

"Why?" Thomas asked, inclining his head with a thoughtful frown. "This is farmer Smith's field. I don't see why you think you can tell me what to do".

The other boy relaxed his arms a little.

"Maybe I can help?" Thomas continued, taking a step closer to the boy.

Finally, the boy lowered his arms and sat down again next to the trunk.

"I'm James. James Emery. What's your name?" he held out a hand to Thomas, who was already taking a seat beside him.

"Thomas Barrow. Nice to meet you James", Thomas replied, shaking the boy's hand.

James nodded acknowledgement. He stared out at the rolling hills, and picked at the grass beside him.

"Emery did you say? Are you Mr Emery's son? The head teacher?"

"Yes." The boy replied sulkily. He didn't look up.

"Thought so." Thomas leant back against the tree, trying to work out how to be tactful. "So…uh…why were you crying then?" Thomas finally asked.

"I wasn't crying!" James protested, looking up at the other boy.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. James frowned again and resumed picking at the grass.

"I don't want to go back to school. Boarding school I mean. Father is forcing me to but…I hate it there. Everyone hates me, because they know I'm being supported by the school, and because they think I'm a sissy." James looked up again. "Did you go to the school here in the village?" he asked, quickly changing the topic.

"Yes. I just left. Maybe we were in the same class. How old are you anyway?"

James seemed to brighten up at this.

Maybe it's been a while since someone talked with him properly.

"I think you're right. I turned 14 a few days ago. You?"

"You're small for your age. I'm 12. 13 in a few months though."

"Oh."

There was an awkward silence. James resumed picking at the grass, while Thomas looked around awkwardly. He tried hard not to stare at James – he had a habit of staring at boys at church, which frequently got him a smack on the back of the head from his father. Thomas stared hard in front of him.

"Why aren't you still in school then?" James finally spoke again.

"My father wants me to start working. I'm going to help with the clocks for now, but he wants me to get a job in service I think." Thomas paused, turning to look at James again. "I'd rather be in school though."

"Trust me, you don't. School is awful. Especially for me because…well…I don't get on with most of the other boys. Most of my friends here were girls, but now…I'm sort of…alone."

James was frowning at the grass. His hands shook slightly, and he reached up to wipe his face on his sleeve. As it was, James still had the voice of a boy rather than that of a man, but as he spoke, his voice seemed to get higher and more vulnerable. James was clearly trying to be as nonchalant as possible, but Thomas saw right through it.

"I understand." Thomas whispered back.

"You what? Don't be stupid" James's bright blue eyes flared with anger.

"I do. The other boys only let me play with them because I'm good at cricket, but they barely talk to me. And if I talk to the girls, my father…well he gets angry. I spend a lot of time alone."

Thomas and James exchanged a look of understanding. Both blushed, and looked away within seconds. Thomas was the first to look back. He finally let go of his inhibitions and stared hard at James.

He was a pudgy boy, the kind of pudgy that young boys are before they have a growth spurt. Thomas's older brother looked not unlike that when he was a child. James had soft brown hair that fell lightly on his face, which was starting to see its first few pimples. Despite that, he had a handsome face.

I shouldn't think that way. Father said he'd kill me if I thought like that.

"You know, James. If…" Thomas blushed, and looked at the ground again. "If you're lonely. We can…we can meet sometimes. When you're not at school I mean."

Beside him, James seemed to sit up a little straighter.

"You're nice Thomas." James punched him lightly on the arm. "I would like to meet with you." He stood up as he spoke, and held up a hand to pull Thomas up.

Thomas accepted, and soon the two were standing. James was taller than Thomas, but not by much.

"Tomorrow then. Here, at 2." James smiled as he spoke.

"Okay. Race you back to the village then?" Thomas sped off before James had even reacted, not even trying to contain the grin etched into his face.