10
‘DO YOU FEEL READY to face the examiners, my boy?’ asked Old Jack.
‘As ready as I’m ever likely to be,’ replied Harry. ‘By the way, I took your advice, and checked over the examination papers for the past ten years. You were right, there’s a definite pattern, with some of the same questions coming up at regular intervals.’
‘Good. And how’s your Latin coming on? We can’t afford to fail that, however well we do in your other papers.’
Harry smiled when Old Jack said ‘we’. ‘Thanks to Deakins I managed 69 per cent in mocks last week, even if I did have Hannibal crossing the Andes.’
‘Only about six thousand miles out,’ chuckled Old Jack. ‘So what do you think will be your biggest problem?’
‘The forty boys from St Bede’s who are also taking the exam, not to mention the two hundred and fifty from other schools.’
‘Forget them,’ said Old Jack. ‘If you do what you’re capable of, they won’t be a problem.’
Harry remained silent.
‘So, how’s your voice coming along?’ asked Old Jack, who always changed the subject whenever Harry fell silent.
‘Nothing new to report,’ said Harry. ‘It could be weeks before I know if I’m a tenor, a baritone or a bass, and even then, there’s no guarantee I’ll be any good. One thing’s for certain, BGS aren’t going to offer me a choral scholarship while I’m like a horse with a broken leg.’
‘Snap out of it,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s worse,’ said Harry. ‘If I was a horse, they’d shoot me and put me out of my misery.’
Old Jack laughed. ‘So when are the exams?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer.
‘Thursday week. We start with general knowledge at nine o’clock, and there are five other papers during the day, ending with English at four.’
‘It’s good that you finish with your favourite subject,’ said Jack.
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Harry. ‘But pray there’s a question on Dickens, because there hasn’t been one for the past three years, which is why I’ve been reading his books after lights out.’
‘Wellington wrote in his memoirs,’ said Old Jack, ‘that the worst moment of any campaign is waiting for the sun to rise on the morning of battle.’
‘I agree with the Iron Duke, which means I won’t be getting much sleep for the next couple of weeks.’
‘All the more reason not to come and see me next Saturday, Harry. You ought to be making better use of your time. In any case, if I remember correctly, it’s your birthday.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I confess that I didn’t read it on the court page of The Times. But as it fell on the same day last year, I took a gamble and bought a small gift for you.’ He picked up a parcel wrapped in a page from one of last week’s newspapers, and handed it to Harry.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry as he untied the string. He removed the newspaper, opened the small dark blue box and stared in disbelief at the man’s Ingersoll watch he’d last seen in the display cabinet at Mr Deakins’s shop.
‘Thank you,’ Harry repeated as he strapped the watch on his wrist. He couldn’t take his eyes off it for some time, and could only wonder how Old Jack could possibly afford six shillings.
Harry was wide awake long before the sun rose on the morning of the exams. He skipped breakfast in favour of going over some old general knowledge papers, checking capitals against countries from Germany to Brazil, dates of prime ministers from Walpole to Lloyd George, and of monarchs from King Alfred to George V. An hour later he felt ready to face the examiner.
Once again, he was seated in the front row, between Barrington and Deakins. Was this the last time, he wondered. When the clock on the tower struck ten, several masters marched down the rows of desks handing out the general knowledge paper to forty nervous boys. Well, thirty-nine nervous boys, and Deakins.
Harry read through the questions slowly. When he reached number 100, he allowed a smile to cross his face. He picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and began to write. Forty minutes later he was back at question 100. He glanced at his watch; he still had another ten minutes in which to double-check his answers. He stopped for a moment at question 34 and reconsidered his original answer. Was it Oliver Cromwell or Thomas Cromwell who was sent to the Tower of London for treason? He recalled the fate of Cardinal Wolsey, and selected the man who’d taken his place as Lord Chancellor.
When the clock began to strike again, Harry had reached question 92. He quickly looked over his last eight answers before his paper was snatched away, the ink still drying on his final answer, Charles Lindbergh.
During the twenty-minute break, Harry, Giles and Deakins walked slowly around the cricket field where Giles had scored a century only a week before.
‘Amo, amas, amat,’ said Deakins as he painstakingly took them through their conjugations without once referring to Kennedy’s Latin Primer.
‘Amamus, amatis, amant,’ repeated Harry as they made their way back towards the examination hall.
When Harry handed in his Latin paper an hour later, he felt confident he’d scored more than the required 60 per cent, and even Giles looked pleased with himself. As the three of them strolled across to the refectory, Harry put an arm around Deakins’s shoulder and said, Thanks, old chum.’
After Harry had read through the geography paper later that morning, he silently thanked his secret weapon. Old Jack had passed on so much knowledge over the years without ever making him feel that he’d been in a classroom.
Harry didn’t pick up a knife or fork during lunch. Giles managed half a pork pie, while Deakins didn’t stop eating.
History was the first paper that afternoon, and didn’t cause him any anxiety. Henry VIII, Elizabeth, Raleigh, Drake, Napoleon, Nelson and Wellington all marched on to the battlefield, and Harry marched them back off again.
The mathematics paper was far easier than he had expected, and Giles even thought he might have scored another century.
During the final break, Harry returned to his study and glanced over an essay he’d written on David Copperfield, confident that he would excel in his favourite subject. He walked slowly back to the examination hall, repeating Mr Holcombe’s favourite word again and again. Concentrate.
He stared down at the final paper of the day, to find that this year belonged to Thomas Hardy and Lewis Carroll. He’d read The Mayor of Casterbridge and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but the Mad Hatter, Michael Henchard and the Cheshire Cat were not as familiar to him as Peggotty, Dr Chillip and Barkis. His pen scratched slowly across the page, and when the clock chimed on the hour, he wasn’t sure if he’d done enough. He walked out of the hall and into the afternoon sunshine, feeling a little depressed, although it was clear from the looks on the faces of his rivals that no one thought it had been an easy paper. That made him wonder if he was still in with a chance.