5
THE REVEREND SAMUEL OAKSHOTT MA (Oxon) stood, feet apart, at the centre of the stage. He peered benignly down on his flock, for that was certainly how the headmaster of St Bede’s viewed the pupils.
Harry, seated in the front row, stared up at the frightening figure who towered above him. Dr Oakshott was well over six feet tall, and had a head of thick, greying hair and long bushy sideburns that made him look even more forbidding. His deep blue eyes pierced right through you and he never seemed to blink, while the criss-cross of lines on his forehead hinted at great wisdom. He cleared his throat before addressing the boys.
‘Fellow Bedeans,’ he began. ‘We are once again gathered together at the beginning of a new school year, no doubt prepared to face whatever challenges should confront us. For the senior boys,’ he turned his attention to the back of the hall, ‘you don’t have a moment to lose if you hope to be offered a place at the school of your first choice. Never settle for second best.
‘For the middle school,’ his eyes moved to the centre of the hall, ‘this will be a time when we discover which of you is destined for greater things. When you return next year, will you be a prefect, a monitor, a house captain or a captain of sport? Or will you simply be among the also-rans?’ Several boys bowed their heads.
‘Our next duty is to welcome the new boys, and do everything in our power to make them feel at home. They are being handed the baton for the first time as they begin life’s long race. Should the pace prove to be too demanding, one or two of you may fall by the wayside,’ he warned, staring down at the front three rows. ‘St Bede’s is not a school for the faint-hearted. So be sure never to forget the words of the great Cecil Rhodes: If you are lucky enough to have been born an Englishman, you have drawn first prize in the lottery of life.’
The assembled gathering burst into spontaneous applause as the headmaster left the stage, followed by a crocodile of masters whom he led down the centre aisle, out of the great hall and into the morning sunshine.
Harry, his spirits raised, was determined not to let the headmaster down. He followed the senior boys out of the hall, but the moment he stepped out into the quad, his exuberance was dampened. A posse of older boys were hanging around in one corner, hands in pockets to indicate they were prefects.
‘There he is,’ said one of them, pointing at Harry.
‘So that’s what a street urchin looks like,’ said another.
A third, whom Harry recognized as Fisher, the prefect who had been on duty the previous night, added, ‘He’s an animal, and it’s nothing less than our duty to see that he’s returned to his natural habitat as quickly as possible.’
Giles Barrington ran after Harry. ‘If you ignore them,’ he said, ‘they’ll soon get bored and start picking on someone else.’ Harry wasn’t convinced, and ran ahead to the classroom where he waited for Barrington and Deakins to join him.
A moment later, Mr Frobisher entered the room. Harry’s first thought was, does he also think I’m a street urchin, unworthy of a place at St Bede’s?
‘Good morning, boys,’ said Mr Frobisher.
‘Good morning, sir,’ replied the boys as their form master took his place in front of the blackboard. ‘Your first lesson this morning,’ he said, ‘will be history. As I am keen to get to know you, we will start with a simple test to discover how much you have already learnt, or perhaps how little. How many wives did Henry the Eighth have?’
Several hands shot up. ‘Abbott,’ he said, looking at a chart on his desk and pointing to a boy in the front row.
‘Six, sir,’ came back the immediate reply.
‘Good, but can anyone name them?’ Not quite as many hands were raised. ‘Clifton?’
‘Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, then another Anne I think,’ he said before coming to a halt.
‘Anne of Cleves. Can anyone name the missing two?’ Only one hand remained in the air. ‘Deakins,’ said Frobisher after checking his chart.
‘Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr. Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr both outlived Henry.’
‘Very good, Deakins. Now, let’s turn the clock forward a couple of centuries. Who commanded our fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar?’ Every hand in the room shot up. ‘Matthews,’ he said, nodding at a particularly insistent hand.
‘Nelson, sir.’
‘Correct. And who was Prime Minister at the time?’
‘The Duke of Wellington, sir,’ said Matthews, not sounding quite as confident.
‘No,’ said Mr Frobisher, ‘it wasn’t Wellington, although he was a contemporary of Nelson’s.’ He looked around the class, but only Clifton’s and Deakins’s hands were still raised. ‘Deakins.’
‘Pitt the Younger, 1783 to 1801, and 1804 to 1806.’
‘Correct, Deakins. And when was the Iron Duke Prime Minister?’
‘1828 to 1830, and again in 1834,’ said Deakins.
‘And can anyone tell me what his most famous victory was?’
Barrington’s hand shot up for the first time. ‘Waterloo, sir!’ he shouted before Mr Frobisher had time to select anyone else.
‘Yes, Barrington. And whom did Wellington defeat at Waterloo?’
Barrington remained silent.
‘Napoleon,’ whispered Harry.
‘Napoleon, sir,’ said Barrington confidently.
‘Correct, Clifton,’ said Frobisher, smiling. ‘And was Napoleon also a Duke?’
‘No, sir,’ said Deakins, after no one else had attempted to answer the question. ‘He founded the first French Empire, and appointed himself Emperor.’
Mr Frobisher was not surprised by Deakins’s response, as he was an open scholar, but he was impressed by Clifton’s knowledge. After all, he was a choral scholar, and over the years he had learnt that gifted choristers, like talented sportsmen, rarely excel outside their own field. Clifton was already proving an exception to that rule. Mr Frobisher would have liked to know who had taught the boy.
When the bell rang for the end of class, Mr Frobisher announced, ‘Your next lesson will be geography with Mr Henderson, and he is not a master who likes to be kept waiting. I recommend that during the break you find out where his classroom is, and are seated in your places long before he enters the room.’
Harry stuck close to Giles, who seemed to know where everything was. As they strolled across the quad together, Harry became aware that some of the boys lowered their voices when they passed, and one or two even turned to stare at him.
Thanks to countless Saturday mornings spent with Old Jack, Harry held his own in the geography lesson, but in maths, the final class of the morning, no one came close to Deakins, and even the master had to keep his wits about him.
When the three of them sat down for lunch, Harry could feel a hundred eyes watching his every move. He pretended not to notice, and simply copied everything Giles did. ‘It’s nice to know there’s something I can teach you,’ Giles said as he peeled an apple with his knife.
Harry enjoyed his first chemistry lesson later that afternoon, especially when the master allowed him to light a Bunsen burner. But he didn’t excel at nature studies, the final lesson of the day, because Harry was the only boy whose home didn’t have a garden.
When the final bell sounded, the rest of the class went off for games, while Harry reported to the chapel for his first choir practice. Once again, he noticed everyone was staring at him, but this time it was for all the right reasons.
But no sooner had he walked out of the chapel than he was subjected to the same sotto voce jibes from boys who were making their way back from the playing fields.
‘Isn’t that our little street urchin?’ said one.
‘Pity he doesn’t have a toothbrush,’ said another.
‘Sleeps down at the docks at night, I’m told,’ said a third.
Deakins and Barrington were nowhere to be seen as Harry hurried back to his house, avoiding any gatherings of boys on the way.
During supper, the gawping eyes were less obvious, but only because Giles had made it clear to everyone within earshot that Harry was his friend. But Giles was unable to help when they all went up to the dormitory after prep and found Fisher standing by the door, clearly waiting for Harry.
As the boys began to undress, Fisher announced in a loud voice, ‘I’m sorry about the smell, gentlemen, but one of your form comes from a house without a bath.’ One or two of the boys sniggered, hoping to ingratiate themselves with Fisher. Harry ignored him. ‘Not only does this guttersnipe not have a bath, he doesn’t even have a father.’
‘My father was a good man who fought for his country in the war,’ said Harry proudly.
‘What makes you think I was talking about you, Clifton?’ said Fisher. ‘Unless of course you’re also the boy whose mother works –’ he paused – ‘as a hotel waitress.’
‘An hotel,’ said Harry, correcting him.
Fisher grabbed a slipper. ‘Don’t you ever answer me back, Clifton,’ he said angrily. ‘Bend down and touch the end of your bed.’ Harry obeyed, and Fisher administered six strokes with such ferocity that Giles had to turn away. Harry crept into bed, fighting to hold back the tears.
Before Fisher switched off the light, he added, ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow night, when I will continue with my bedtime tale of the Cliftons of Still House Lane. Wait until you hear about Uncle Stan.’
The following night, Harry learnt for the first time that his uncle had spent eighteen months in prison for burglary. This revelation was worse than being slippered. He crept into bed wondering if his father could still be alive but in jail, and that was the real reason no one at home ever talked about him.
Harry hardly slept for a third night running, and no amount of success in the classroom, or admiration in the chapel, could stop him continually thinking about the next inevitable encounter with Fisher. The slightest excuse, a drop of water spilt on the washroom floor, a pillow that wasn’t straight, a sock that had fallen around his ankle, would ensure that Harry could expect six of the best from the duty prefect; a punishment that would be administered in front of the rest of the dorm, but not before Fisher had added another episode from the Clifton Chronicles. By the fifth night, Harry had had enough, and even Giles and Deakins could no longer console him.
During prep on Friday evening, while the other boys were turning the pages of their Kennedy’s Latin Primer, Harry ignored Caesar and the Gauls and went over a plan that would ensure Fisher never bothered him again. By the time he climbed into bed that night, after Fisher had discovered a Fry’s wrapper by his bed and slippered him once again, Harry’s plan was in place. He lay awake long after lights out, and didn’t stir until he was certain every boy was asleep.
Harry had no idea what time it was when he slipped out of bed. He dressed without making a sound, then crept between the beds until he reached the far side of the room. He pushed the window open, and the rush of cold air caused the boy in the nearest bed to turn over. Harry climbed out on to the fire escape and slowly closed the window before making his way down to the ground. He walked around the edge of the lawn, taking advantage of any shadows to avoid a full moon that seemed to beam down on him like a searchlight.
Harry was horrified to discover that the school gates were locked. He crept along the wall, searching for the slightest crack or indentation that would allow him to climb over the top and escape to freedom. At last he spotted a missing brick and was able to lever himself up until he was straddling the wall. He lowered himself down the other side, clinging on by the tips of his fingers, said a silent prayer, then let go. He landed on the ground in a heap, but didn’t seem to have broken anything.
Once he’d recovered, he began to run down the road, slowly at first, but then he speeded up and didn’t stop running until he reached the docks. The night shift was just coming off duty and Harry was relieved to find his uncle was not among them.
After the last docker had disappeared out of sight, he walked slowly along the quayside, past a line of moored ships that stretched as far as the eye could see. He noticed that one of the funnels proudly displayed the letter B, and thought about his friend who would be fast asleep. Would he ever . . . his thoughts were interrupted when he came to a halt outside Old Jack’s railway carriage.
He wondered if the old man was also fast asleep. His question was answered when a voice said, ‘Don’t just stand there, Harry, come inside before you freeze to death.’ Harry opened the carriage door to find Old Jack striking a match and trying to light a candle. Harry slumped into the seat opposite him. ‘Have you run away?’ asked Old Jack.
Harry was so taken aback by his direct question that he didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes, I have,’ he finally spluttered.
‘And no doubt you’ve come to tell me why you’ve made this momentous decision.’
‘I didn’t make the decision,’ said Harry. ‘It was made for me.’
‘By whom?’
‘His name is Fisher.’
‘A master or a boy?’
‘My dormitory prefect,’ said Harry, wincing. He then told Old Jack everything that had happened during his first week at St Bede’s.
Once again, the old man took him by surprise. When Harry came to the end of his story, Jack said, ‘I blame myself.’
‘Why?’ asked Harry. ‘You couldn’t have done more to help me.’
‘Yes I could,’ said Old Jack. ‘I should have prepared you for a brand of snobbery that no other nation on earth can emulate. I should have spent more time on the significance of the old school tie, and less on geography and history. I had rather hoped things just might have changed after the war to end all wars, but they clearly haven’t at St Bede’s.’ He fell into a thoughtful silence before finally asking, ‘So what are you going to do next, my boy?’
‘Run away to sea. I’ll take any boat that will have me,’ said Harry, trying to sound enthusiastic.
‘What a good idea,’ said Old Jack. ‘Why not play straight into Fisher’s hands?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that nothing will please Fisher more than to be able to tell his friends that the street urchin had no guts, but then, what do you expect from the son of a docker whose mother is a waitress?’
‘But Fisher’s right. I’m not in his class.’
‘No, Harry, the problem is that Fisher already realizes he’s not in your class, and never will be.’
‘Are you saying I should go back to that horrible place?’ said Harry.
‘In the end, only you can make that decision,’ said Old Jack, ‘but if you run away every time you come up against the Fishers of this world, you’ll end up like me, one of life’s also-rans, to quote the headmaster.’
‘But you’re a great man,’ said Harry.
‘I might have been,’ said Old Jack, ‘if I hadn’t run away the moment I came across my Fisher. But I settled for the easy way out, and only thought about myself.’
‘But who else is there to think about?’
‘Your mother for a start,’ said Old Jack. ‘Don’t forget all the sacrifices she made to give you a better start in life than she ever dreamed was possible. And then there’s Mr Holcombe, who when he discovers you’ve run away will only blame himself.
And don’t forget Miss Monday, who called in favours, twisted arms and spent countless hours to make sure you were good enough to win that choral scholarship. And when you come to weigh up the pros and cons, Harry, I suggest you place Fisher on one side of the scales and Barrington and Deakins on the other, because I suspect that Fisher will quickly fade into insignificance, while Barrington and Deakins will surely turn out to be close friends for the rest of your life. If you run away, they will be forced to listen to Fisher continually reminding them that you weren’t the person they thought you were.’
Harry remained silent for some time. Finally, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Without another word he opened the carriage door and let himself out.
He walked slowly down the quayside, once again staring up at the vast cargo ships, all of which would soon be departing for distant ports. He kept on walking until he reached the dockyard gates, where he broke into a run and headed back towards the city. By the time he reached the school gates they were already open, and the clock on the great hall was about to chime eight times.
Despite the telephone call, Mr Frobisher would have to walk across to the headmaster’s house and report that one of his boys was missing. As he looked out of his study window, he caught a glimpse of Harry nipping in and out between the trees as he made his way cautiously towards the house. Harry tentatively opened the front door as the final chime rang out, and came face to face with his housemaster.
‘Better hurry, Clifton,’ Mr Frobisher said, ‘or you’ll miss breakfast.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry, and ran down the corridor. He reached the dining room just before the doors were closed and slipped into place between Barrington and Deakins.
‘For a moment I thought I’d be the only one licking my bowl this morning,’ said Barrington. Harry burst out laughing.
He didn’t come across Fisher that day, and was surprised to find that another prefect had replaced him on dorm duty that night. Harry slept for the first time that week.