‘In the circumstances,’ Mr Quilter said eventually, ‘you leave me with no choice but to administer an appropriate punishment.’
Sasha was prepared for detention, extra prep, even six of the best, but he was shocked by the punishment the headmaster prescribed, especially as it meant the school would suffer every bit as much as he would. But he suspected that wouldn’t worry Tremlett. Father or son.
‘And should such an incident ever be repeated, Karpenko, I will have no choice but to withdraw your scholarship.’ Sasha knew that would mean him having to leave Latymer Upper, because his mother certainly couldn’t afford the school fees. ‘Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter,’ were his final words.
*
‘Why didn’t you tell him the truth?’ said Ben Cohen when Sasha explained why he’d been demoted to the Second Eleven for the rest of the season.
‘Tremlett’s father is a school governor, as well as a local councillor, so who do you think Quilter is more likely to believe?’
‘This isn’t the Soviet Union,’ said Ben. ‘And Mr Quilter is a fair man. I should know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My father is a Jewish immigrant, and several other schools turned me down before Latymer offered me a place.’
‘I always think of you as English,’ said Sasha.
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Ben. ‘But the Tremletts of the world don’t, and never will.’
*
Sasha didn’t tell his mother the reason he was no longer playing in goal for the First Eleven. However, the rest of the school became painfully aware who was responsible for the team no longer having a clean sheet, while the Second Eleven were enjoying a vintage season.
When the headmaster asked to see Sasha at the end of term he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong this time, but felt sure he was about to find out. He knocked tentatively on Mr Quilter’s door and waited for the familiar ‘Come’. When he entered the study, he was greeted with a smile.
‘Take a seat.’ Sasha was relieved. If you remained standing, you were in trouble; if you were invited to sit, all was well. ‘I wanted to have a private word with you, Sasha –’ the first time the headmaster had called him by his Christian name. ‘I’ve been going over your mock A-level papers, and I think you should consider entering for the Isaac Barrow Prize for Mathematics at Cambridge.’
Sasha remained silent. He had no idea what the headmaster was talking about.
‘The Isaac Barrow is one of Cambridge’s most prestigious awards, and the winner is offered a scholarship to Trinity,’ Mr Quilter continued. The fog was slowly lifting, but it still wasn’t clear. ‘As Trinity is my alma mater, it would give me particular pleasure if you were to win the prize. However, I must warn you, you’d be up against pupils from every school in the country, so the competition will be stiff. You’d have to sacrifice almost everything else if you were to have a chance.’
‘Even playing for the First Eleven next season?’
‘I had a feeling you might ask me that,’ said Quilter, ‘so I discussed the problem with Mr Sutton, and we felt you could be allowed just one indulgence, especially as cricket has failed lamentably to capture your imagination, and captaining the school chess team hasn’t proved too demanding.’
‘I’m sure you know, headmaster,’ said Sasha, ‘that I’ve already been offered a place at the London School of Economics, subject to my A-level results.’
‘An offer that you could still take up should you fail to win the Isaac Barrow Scholarship. Why don’t you discuss the idea with your mother, and let me know how she feels?’
‘I can tell you exactly how she will feel,’ said Sasha. The headmaster raised an eyebrow. ‘She’ll want me to enter for the prize. But then she’s always been far more ambitious for me than she is for herself.’
‘Well, you don’t have to reach a decision before the beginning of next term. However, it might be wise to give the matter some serious thought before you make up your mind. Never forget the school motto, “paulatim ergo certe”.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ said Sasha, daring to tease the headmaster.
‘And while you’re at it, please warn your mother that I’m taking my wife to Moretti’s for dinner on Saturday evening to celebrate our wedding anniversary, so I hope it’s not her night off.’
Sasha smiled, rose from his chair and said, ‘I’ll let her know, sir.’
He decided to take a walk around the school grounds before heading home to tell his mother why the headmaster had wanted to see him. He strolled out onto the close to see that a cricket match was taking place on the square. The school were 146 for 3. Despite his fascination with figures, Sasha hadn’t mastered the subtle nuances of the game. Only the English could invent a game where logic couldn’t determine which side was winning.
He continued walking around the boundary, occasionally glancing up when he heard the smack of leather on willow. When he reached the other side of the ground, he decided to go behind the pavilion so he wouldn’t distract the players. He’d only gone a few yards when his reverie was interrupted by the sound of a girl’s voice coming from the nearby copse. He stopped to listen more carefully. The next voice he heard was one he recognized immediately.
‘You know you want it, so why pretend?’
‘I never wanted to go this far,’ protested the girl, who was clearly crying.
‘It’s a bit late to tell me that.’
‘Get off me, or I’ll scream.’
‘Be my guest. Nobody will hear you.’
The next thing Sasha heard was a loud cry that sent the starlings perched on top of the pavilion scattering high into the air. He ran into the copse to see Tremlett lying on top of a struggling girl whose skirt was pushed up around her waist, her blouse and knickers on the ground by her side.
‘Mind your own business, Russki,’ said Tremlett, looking up. ‘She’s only a local tart, so get lost.’
Sasha grabbed Tremlett by the shoulders and dragged him off the girl, who let out an even louder scream. Tremlett cursed Sasha, as he picked up his shoes and, remembering the broken nose, sauntered off through the copse.
Sasha was kneeling by the girl’s side, handing her her blouse, when the cricket master and three boys came running out of the back of the pavilion.
‘It wasn’t me,’ protested Sasha. But when he turned round, expecting the girl to confirm his story, she was already running barefoot across the grass, and never looked back.
*
‘It wasn’t me,’ repeated Sasha after the cricket master had marched him straight to the headmaster’s study and reported what he had witnessed.
‘Then who else could it have been?’ demanded the headmaster. ‘Mr Leigh found you alone with the girl, who was screaming before she ran away. Nobody else was there.’
‘There was someone else,’ said Sasha, ‘but I didn’t recognize him.’
‘Karpenko, you don’t seem to realize how serious this matter is. As things stand, I have no choice but to suspend you, and place the matter in the hands of the police.’
Sasha stared defiantly at the headmaster and repeated, ‘He ran away.’
‘Who did?’
‘I didn’t recognize him.’
‘Then you must return home immediately. I strongly advise you to tell your mother exactly what happened, and let’s hope she can bring you to your senses.’
Sasha left the headmaster’s study and made his way slowly home, any thoughts of Trinity or the LSE now far from his mind.
‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said his mother when he walked into the kitchen.
He sat down at the table, head in hands, and began to tell her why he’d come home early that afternoon. He’d reached, ‘I was kneeling by her side . . .’ when there was a loud banging on the front door.
Elena opened it to find two uniformed policemen towering over her. ‘Are you Mrs Karpenko?’ the first officer asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is your son Sasha with you?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘I need him to accompany me to the station, madam.’
‘Why?’ demanded Elena, blocking the doorway. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’