Towards the end of his first term Sasha felt he was becoming accepted by most of his fellow pupils. But that was before the incident, when overnight he became the most popular boy in the school and also made a friend for life.
It was during a playground kick-about in the mid-morning break that the incident occurred. Ben Cohen, another boy from the lower sixth, who played centre-forward for the Second Eleven, was running towards the goal looking as if he was certain to score, when Tremlett came charging out of his goalmouth, so Cohen passed the ball to another boy, who struck it into the open net.
Cohen raised his arms in triumph, but Tremlett didn’t slow down, and ran straight into him, knocking him to the ground. ‘Try that again,’ he shouted, ‘and I’ll break your neck.’
When they kicked off again, Cohen was about to shoot when he saw Tremlett once again heading towards him. He stood aside, and the ball rolled to Tremlett’s feet. He ran purposefully towards Sasha in the opposition’s goal, with everyone stepping out of his way. Sasha came out of his goal so he could cut down the angle, and when Tremlett entered the penalty box, Sasha threw himself to the ground and pulled the ball safely to his chest. Tremlett didn’t break his stride, and kicked Sasha squarely in the back as if he were the ball.
Sasha lay motionless on the ground as the ball trickled out of his hands. Tremlett jumped over him and hammered it into the open goal. He raised his arms in triumph, but no one was cheering.
Cohen ran across to help Sasha to his feet, to find Tremlett was standing over him.
‘Not quite as good as you thought you were, are you, Russki?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Sasha, ‘but if you check next week’s team sheet, you’ll find it’s you who’s still in the Second Eleven.’ Tremlett took a swing at him, but Sasha dodged out of the way, and the blow only brushed his shoulder. ‘And I don’t think you’ll make the boxing team either,’ said Sasha.
Tremlett turned red, and raised his fist a second time, but Sasha was too quick for him, and landed a blow on his nose that caused him to stagger back and fall to the ground. Sasha was about to deliver another punch when Tremlett was saved by the bell, calling them all back to their classrooms.
‘Thanks,’ said Cohen as they left the playground. ‘But keep your eyes open, because Tremlett likes causing trouble.’
‘He won’t be any trouble,’ said Sasha. ‘Trouble is when a KGB officer is pointing a gun at your head.’
*
When Sasha got home that evening, he didn’t tell his mother about the incident, as he hadn’t considered it that important. He was tucking into a plate of spaghetti when there was a knock on the door.
Elena put down her fork, but didn’t move. Knocks on the door meant only one thing. Sasha jumped up and left the table before she could stop him. He opened the front door to find a tall slim man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar and a trilby, standing in the corridor.
‘Good evening, Sasha,’ the man said, handing him a card.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Sasha, wondering how the stranger knew his name. He looked at the card, and thought he recognized the name. He certainly knew the address.
‘I was hoping to have a word with your mother,’ said Mr Agnelli, his accent revealing his heritage.
‘Please come in,’ said Sasha, and led Mr Agnelli into the kitchen.
‘Good evening, Mrs Karpenko,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘My name is Matteo Agnelli, and I’m—’
‘I know who you are, Mr Agnelli.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re having your supper, so I’ll get straight to the point. My chef has handed in his notice as he wishes to return to his family in Naples, and I have been unable to find a suitable replacement. So I would like to offer you the position.’
Elena couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d only been working for Mr Moretti for a few months, and had no idea that his greatest rival was even aware of her existence. Before she could reply, Mr Agnelli solved the mystery.
‘One of my regular customers told me he’d recently dined at Moretti’s, and that the food had improved beyond recognition, so I decided to find out why. On my instructions, our ma?tre d’ had lunch at your restaurant last week, and afterwards he warned me that we now had a genuine rival on our doorstep. So I would like to offer you the position of head chef at Osteria Roma.’
‘But—’ began Elena.
‘I can’t give you a flat above the restaurant, but I would be willing to double your wages, which would allow you to rent a place of your own.’ Sasha began to listen with greater interest. ‘Of course, the challenge would be considerable, as we have double the number of covers as Moretti’s. But from all I’ve heard, you seem to enjoy a challenge.’
‘I’m flattered, Mr Agnelli, but I’m afraid I’m in debt to Mr Moretti, who—’
‘And if I was willing to cover that debt, Mrs Karpenko?’
‘It’s not a financial debt,’ said Elena, ‘it’s personal. It was Mr Moretti who made it possible for Sasha and me to come to this country. That is not something I can easily repay.’
‘Of course, I understand. And how I wish it had been me who’d been travelling on that ship from Leningrad.’ Mr Agnelli handed Elena his card. ‘But should you ever change your mind . . .’
‘Not while Mr Moretti is still alive,’ said Elena.
‘Despite my countrymen’s reputation, I hadn’t thought of going quite that far,’ said Agnelli. ‘But if you insist . . .’ All three of them burst out laughing.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ said Elena, rising from her place and accompanying Mr Agnelli to the door.
‘Will you tell Mr Moretti about the offer?’ asked Sasha, when she returned to the kitchen.
‘Certainly not. He has enough problems of his own at the moment, without me threatening to leave.’
‘But if he knew about the offer, he might offer you a rise, even a percentage of the profits.’
‘There are no profits,’ said Elena. ‘The restaurant’s barely breaking even.’
‘All the more reason to take Mr Agnelli’s offer seriously. After all, you might not get another opportunity like this again.’
‘You may well be right, Sasha, but loyalty doesn’t have a price. It has to be earned. And in any case, Mr Moretti deserves better than that.’ Sasha still didn’t look convinced. ‘If you ever have to face a similar dilemma,’ said Elena, ‘just think what your father would have done, and you won’t go far wrong.’
*
‘The headmaster wants to see you, Karpenko,’ said Mr Sutton as he entered the classroom the following morning. ‘You’re to report to his study immediately.’
The tone of his teacher’s voice didn’t suggest it was anything other than a command. Sasha stood up and left the classroom, painfully aware that all the other boys were staring at him. As he walked along the corridor he wondered what the old man could possibly want. He knocked on the headmaster’s door.
‘Come,’ said an unmistakable voice.
Sasha entered Mr Quilter’s study to find him sitting behind his desk, grim-faced. Another man was seated opposite him, who didn’t turn around.
‘Karpenko, this is Mr Tremlett,’ said the headmaster. A large man with thinning red hair, whose sizeable paunch meant he couldn’t do up the buttons on his double-breasted suit, turned and gave Sasha a smug look that would have told any poker player he had a full house. ‘Mr Tremlett tells me you punched his son during a game of football yesterday, and broke his nose. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Tremlett has assured me that his son had done nothing to provoke you, other than to score a goal. Is that the case?’
The meaning of the word ‘sneak’ had been explained to Sasha in his first week at Latymer Upper, along with the consequences.
‘It’s called collaboration in the Soviet Union,’ Sasha had told his friend Ben Cohen. ‘But the consequences there are likely to be a little more serious than being sent to Coventry.’
The headmaster waited for an explanation, the expression on his face rather suggesting that he hoped there would be one, but Sasha made no attempt to defend himself.