29
OLD JACK WAITED until Hugo had left Barrington House, but it was another half an hour before the lights finally went out in Miss Potts’s room.
Jack stepped out of the railway carriage and began to walk slowly towards Barrington House, aware that he had only half an hour before the cleaning ladies came on duty. He slipped into the unlit building and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor; after twenty-five years of Sir Walter turning a blind eye, like a cat he could find his way to the door marked ‘Managing Director’ in the dark.
He sat down at Hugo’s desk. He switched on the light; if anyone noticed it was on, they would simply assume Miss Potts was working late. He thumbed through the telephone directory until he came to the ‘St’s: Andrew’s, Bartholomew’s, Beatrice’s, Bede’s.
He picked up a telephone for the first time in his life, not quite sure what to do next. A voice came on the line. ‘Number please?’
‘TEM 8612,’ said Jack, his forefinger resting just below the number.
‘Thank you, sir.’ As he waited, Old Jack became more nervous by the minute. What would he say if someone else came on the line? He’d just put the phone down. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the desk in front of him. Next, he heard a ringing tone, followed by a click, then a man’s voice. ‘Frobisher House.’
‘Is that Noel Frobisher?’ he asked, recalling the tradition that each house at St Bede’s was named after the housemaster of the day. He looked down at his script; each line had been carefully prepared and endlessly rehearsed.
‘Speaking,’ said Frobisher, clearly surprised to hear a voice he didn’t recognize addressing him by his Christian name. A long silence followed. ‘Is there anyone there?’ Frobisher asked, sounding a little irritated.
‘Yes, it’s Captain Jack Tarrant.’
There was an even longer silence, before Frobisher eventually said, ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Forgive me for calling at this late hour, old fellow, but I need to seek your advice.’
‘Not at all, sir. It’s a great privilege to speak to you after all these years.’
‘Kind of you to say so,’ said Old Jack. ‘I’ll try not to waste too much of your time, but I need to know if St Bede’s still supplies St Mary Redcliffe with trebles for its choir?’
‘We do indeed, sir. Despite so many changes in this modern world, that’s one tradition that remains constant.’
‘And in my day,’ said Old Jack, ‘the school awarded a choral scholarship each year to a treble who showed exceptional talent.’
‘We still do, sir. In fact, we will be considering applications for the position in the next few weeks.’
‘From any school in the county?’
‘Yes, from any school that can produce a treble of outstanding quality. But they must also have a solid academic grounding.’
‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said Old Jack, ‘I would like to submit a candidate for your consideration.’
‘Of course, sir. Which school is the boy attending at the moment?’
‘Merrywood Elementary.’
Another long silence followed. ‘I have to admit that it would be the first time we’ve had an applicant from that particular school. Do you by any chance know the name of its music master?’
‘It doesn’t have a music master,’ said Old Jack, ‘but you should get in touch with the boy’s teacher, Mr Holcombe, who will introduce you to his choir mistress.’
‘May I ask the boy’s name?’ said Frobisher.
‘Harry Clifton. If you want to hear him sing, I recommend you attend Matins at Holy Nativity Church this Sunday.’
‘Will you be there, sir?’
‘No,’ said Old Jack.
‘How do I get in touch with you once I’ve heard the boy sing?’ asked Frobisher.
‘You don’t,’ said Old Jack firmly, and put the phone down. As he folded up his script and placed it back in his pocket, he could have sworn he heard footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. He quickly switched off the light, slipped out of Mr Hugo’s office and into the corridor.
He heard a door open, and voices on the stairs. The last thing he needed was to be found on the fifth floor, which was strictly out of bounds to anyone other than the company’s executives and Miss Potts. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Walter.
He began to walk quickly down the stairs. He’d reached the third floor when he saw Mrs Nettles heading towards him, a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, a woman he didn’t recognize by her side.
‘Good evening, Mrs Nettles,’ said Old Jack. ‘And what a fine evening it is to be doing my rounds.’
‘Evenin’, Old Jack,’ she replied as she ambled past him. Once he had turned the corner, he stopped and listened attentively. ‘That’s Old Jack,’ he heard Mrs Nettles say. ‘The so-called night watchman. He’s completely crackers, but quite harmless. So if you come across him, just ignore him . . .’ Old Jack chuckled as her voice faded with each step she took.
As he strolled back towards the railway carriage, he wondered how long it would be before Harry came to seek his advice on whether he should enter his name for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.