‘So, you have just recovered from the measles, Hengrave, is that so?’ said Dr Vincent, the headmaster, looking up from a letter reputing to be from Lady Hengrave. Frank had turned out to be a fair hand at forgery – something Joe ‘The Card’ had taught him over the Easter holidays.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, standing with my hands clasped behind my back, my eyes on the wall behind him. I could sense Charlie shifting nervously by the door, ready to make a bolt for it if the ruse failed.
‘And your mother wants you to stay with your brother?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hmm. Well, I must say you do look a bit sickly. I understood from Lord Hengrave that you were a strong boy with a taste for sports.’
‘He is, sir,’ said Charlie quickly. ‘He’s stronger than he looks.’
‘We’ll see, we’ll see. It’s most irregular not to have a boy in the College Dormitory in his first year. I always think it’s better for all concerned that the house dame keeps an eye on the young ones.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him, sir,’ said Charlie.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Hengrave. You share a set with Avon, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. Avon’s offered to be my brother’s substance.’ (Charlie had explained to me that every new boy, or ‘shadow’, had to have a ‘substance’, or older boy, to sponsor him.)
‘Not ideal, not ideal at all. You both have a talent for mischief. I wouldn’t want your younger brother to come under bad influences in his first term.’
‘We promise to behave, sir.’
‘I’ll be watching you very closely to see that you do. Hurry along then. Show your brother where he’s to go. You’ve missed enough lessons this morning as it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Charlie towed me outside to where an anxious Frank was waiting.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘He bought it. Tom Cat’s in. We’re to take him to his form immediately.’
Frank seized my other elbow and they marched me briskly across the quad. The bells of Westminster Abbey began to strike the hour – eleven o’clock. In the space of five hours I had become a boy, been dressed in Frank’s old clothes, smuggled out, arrived back aboard a carriage loaned from the Avon stables and now enrolled in the Lower Form as the Honorable Thomas Hengrave. And all because I had told some old farts to go to hell.
‘You’re doing well,’ whispered Charlie in my ear. ‘Just remember not to twiddle your hair.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And don’t cross your ankles,’ added Frank.
‘Sorry.’ Was there anything else I had to remember?
‘How’s your Latin?’ asked Charlie.
‘Non-existent.’
‘Well, you might find the next class a bit tough then. Mama will dismiss the tutor when she hears how poorly he’s prepared you for school.’
‘I want to go home,’ I moaned as they pulled me through a high arched doorway.
‘No you don’t. Even Latin is better than a lock-up,’ said Frank cheerfully.
‘Just don’t do anything to earn the cane, will you, Cat? I’m not sure our plot would survive that,’ Charlie said with a frown.
‘Sit quiet, try hard, and you’ve nothing to fear. We’ll see you after lessons,’ Frank concluded. ‘Oh, and give this to the usher – it’s his fee.’ He pressed a guinea into my hand and pushed me through a door.
It opened on to a vaulted room full of boys sitting in rows, heads bent over slates. They looked up on our entrance. I gulped.
‘Yes?’ enquired the master, a young, tired-looking man with straw-coloured hair, dressed in a long black gown.
‘Mr Castleton, my brother Thomas has arrived at last,’ said Charlie, pushing me forward.
‘The younger Hengrave? Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you since September. Quite recovered now from your indisposition?’ I nodded and handed him the guinea as prompted by Frank. ‘Good, good. You can sit next to Ingels at the front here until we know where to put you in the class ranking.’ He pointed to a space beside a fat boy with dull eyes. I sat down, crossed my ankles and quickly uncrossed them again. Charlie and Frank gave me a last look and ducked out of the room. ‘We’re translating a passage from Horace as you can see, Hengrave.’
I looked up. On the blackboard was a verse – I could tell that from the arrangement – but I could not read a single word.
‘Carry on, Richmond.’
A small boy with dark hair and olive skin began to drone on, turning this impenetrable stuff into something resembling English. He stumbled over a word.
‘Come on, Richmond, you should know that one. Amor – we did the declension last week. Surely even you remember that?’
‘Er . . . hope?’ guessed the boy vaguely.
‘Ingels?’
My neighbour shuffled. ‘Cheese?’ he tried. A ripple of laughter passed across the room. I couldn’t help joining in.
‘Cheese? Cheese!’ cried the master in despair. ‘Your thoughts are on your dinner, not your lesson, Ingels. I despair of you. What about you, Hengrave? Save me from these imbeciles.’
My laughter died. All eyes turned to me. I wondered if they’d noticed that there was something very odd about their new classmate. It seemed all too obvious to me. I felt as if I had a big arrow suspended over my head emblazoned ‘Girl!’
‘Boy, I asked you a question.’ Mr Castleton picked up a thin cane on his desk and began to swish it against his leg.
Reminded of Charlie’s warning about beatings, I wrestled my mind round to the problem before me. Amor, amor. I knew a French word very like that.
‘Love?’ I hazarded.
‘Exactly.’ He tapped the board with his cane. ‘Amor means love. Thank goodness someone has something between their ears. Carry on, Richmond.’
My luck was holding. My complete ignorance of Latin had been hidden for one lesson. If Charlie and Frank gave me some intensive tutoring, I began to hope that I might just be able to fool my teachers for a week or two.