Donatien.

  

Divonne, January 1930.

 

Donatien.

 

    “Donatien! Hurry up, slowpoke.”

    “I’m going fast as I can, you ride too fast!”

    “Shush I don’t I’m riding normal. You’re slow.”

Donatien pedalled fiercely after his brother. His legs were six years younger and six years smaller than Freddy’s, but Freddy still insisted that he keep up. He was fast for a six-year old, much faster than the other kids. He could beat his brother in a running race. Their father had always told Frederic that one day, he would be man of the house and that he was the boss of Donatien, but no-one else. Donatien didn’t have a boss as far as he was concerned. Frederic was bigger, but not smarter and not quicker at running. Donatien was always first to the dinner table when they were called and always the first to be ready for school. Freddy was lazy, he was not.

     They pushed to the top of the hill. The mountain. The hill always turned into a mountain whenever they had to go up it, never when going down. Standing around the last corner was Jacques and Luc Rennard and Dominic Balfour. The Rennards and Balfours lived two streets down from them and they were not nice boys. They were even bigger than Frederic and much, much meaner.

      “Donnysticks!” They called him Donnysticks because his legs looked like sticks. Not funny, he thought. Mama said so too. They’re jealous, Donny. Because their legs can’t run fast like yours. Don’t listen to them.  

     Frederic shot a threatening glance at them. He didn’t shout, didn’t like to fight with the older boys, he knew his strength.

     “Hey, Donny! Behind you! A monster!”

     Monster?! Donny turned to look behind his back and lost his balance. He slipped and scraped along the frosty cobblestones, tearing the back seam of his pants and grazing his tender thigh.

    “Don’t slip Donny!” The three boys laughed and snickered at him. “A monster. Dumb kid, oh no! A monster!” They clutched their sides and pointed their bony fingers while Donatien held his leg, whimpering.

    “Don’t cry, Donny, just don’t cry,” said Frederic in Donatien’s ear. He thrust his bike to the ground, marched straight up to the sniggering lot and socked Jacques Rennard right in the jaw.

     “Hey! That’s it, Bessette you’ll get it…” Dominic swung for Frederic’s face and missed, answered swiftly by a perfect whack to the nose.

   “…off him! Little b*****d!” Cried Luc, swinging Frederic around by the shoulder to face him and threw his fist past Frederic’s ear and again, hitting his cheekbone, drawing blood.

    “Get off my brother, f****r! You f*****g talk like that again I’ll get my dad on you, he’ll kill you!” Frederic lunged to the ground, dragging Luc with him. Wrestling his collar free from his grip, he beat Luc’s head against the stone floor, yelling like a madman.

     “Stop! Freddy, stop! I want to go home. Stop!” Donatien heaved and sobbed, his thigh stung in the cold, his bike had broken a spoke. Freddy rose from the ground, bruised, and the three boys ran towards their homes, surely to tell their fathers. He leant on his knees for a moment to regain his breath. He walked slowly to his brother and sat on the cold stones with him.

     “You’ll be all right. Mama will patch it up.”

     “Freddy, you hit them. Why did you hit them?”

     “’Cause they’re scum, that’s why.”

     “Papa will be mad.”

     “Doesn’t matter.”

     “But…”

     “Shush, Donny. Come on, up.”

Freddy lifted his brother to his feet and they dragged themselves to the top of the hill and home.