6
THE ROLLS-ROYCE drove through the gates of the Manor House and up a long driveway lined with tall oaks, standing like sentinels. Harry had counted six gardeners even before he set eyes on the house.
During their time at St Bede’s, Harry had picked up a little about how Giles lived when he returned home for the holidays, but nothing had prepared him for this. When he saw the house for the first time, his mouth opened, and stayed open.
‘Early eighteenth century would be my guess,’ said Deakins.
‘Not bad,’ said Giles, ‘1722, built by Vanbrugh. But I’ll bet you can’t tell me who designed the garden. I’ll give you a clue: it’s later than the house.’
‘I’ve only ever heard of one landscape gardener,’ said Harry, still staring at the house. ‘Capability Brown.’
‘That’s exactly why we chose him,’ said Giles, ‘simply so that my friends would have heard of the fellow two hundred years later.’
Harry and Deakins laughed as the car came to a halt in front of a three-storey mansion built from golden Cotswold stone. Giles jumped out before the chauffeur had a chance to open the back door. He ran up the steps with his two friends following less certainly in his wake.
The front door was opened long before Giles reached the top step, and a tall man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat, pinstripe trousers and a black tie, gave a slight bow as the young master shot past him. ‘Happy birthday, Mr Giles,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Jenkins. Come on, chaps!’ shouted Giles as he disappeared into the house. The butler held open the door to allow Harry and Deakins to follow.
As soon as Harry stepped into the hall, he found himself transfixed by the portrait of an old man who appeared to be staring directly down at him. Giles had inherited the man’s beak-like nose, fierce blue eyes and square jaw. Harry looked around at the other portraits that adorned the walls. The only oil paintings he’d seen before were in books: the Mona Lisa, the Laughing Cavalier and Night Watch. He was looking at a landscape by an artist called Constable when a woman swept into the hall wearing what Harry could only have described as a ball gown.
‘Happy birthday, my darling,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Mater,’ said Giles, as she bent down to kiss him. It was the first time Harry had ever seen his friend look embarrassed. ‘These are my two best friends, Harry and Deakins.’ As Harry shook hands with a woman who wasn’t much taller than he was, she gave him such a warm smile that he immediately felt at ease.
‘Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room,’ she suggested, ‘and have some tea?’ She led the boys across the hall and into a large room that overlooked the front lawn.
When Harry entered, he didn’t want to sit down but to look at the paintings that hung on every wall. However, Mrs Barrington was already ushering him towards the sofa. He sank down into the plush cushions and couldn’t stop himself staring out of the bay window on to a finely cut lawn that was large enough to play a game of cricket on. Beyond the lawn, Harry could see a lake where contented mallards swam aimlessly around, clearly not worried about where their next meal would be coming from. Deakins sat himself down on the sofa next to Harry.
Neither of them spoke as another man, this one dressed in a short black jacket, entered the room, followed by a young woman in a smart blue uniform, not unlike the one his mother wore at the hotel. The maid carried a large silver tray which she placed on an oval table in front of Mrs Barrington.
‘Indian or China?’ Mrs Barrington asked, looking at Harry.
Harry wasn’t sure what she meant.
‘We’ll all have Indian, thank you, Mother,’ said Giles.
Harry thought Giles must have taught him everything there was to know about etiquette as practised in polite society, but Mrs Barrington had suddenly raised the bar to a new level.
Once the under-butler had poured three cups of tea, the maid placed them in front of the boys, along with a side plate. Harry stared at a mountain of sandwiches, not daring to touch. Giles took one and put it on his plate. His mother frowned. ‘How many times have I told you, Giles, always to wait until your guests decide what they would like before you help yourself ?’
Harry wanted to tell Mrs Barrington that Giles always took the lead, just so that he would know what to do and, more important, what not to do. Deakins selected a sandwich and put it on his plate. Harry did the same. Giles waited patiently until Deakins had picked up his sandwich and taken a bite.
‘I do hope you like smoked salmon,’ said Mrs Barrington.
‘Spiffing,’ said Giles, before his friends had a chance to admit that they had never tasted smoked salmon before. ‘We only get fish paste sandwiches at school,’ he added.
‘So, tell me how you’re all getting on at school,’ said Mrs Barrington.
‘Room for improvement, is how I think the Frob describes my efforts,’ said Giles, as he took another sandwich. ‘But Deakins is top of everything.’
‘Except for English,’ said Deakins, speaking for the first time, ‘Harry pipped me in that subject by a couple of per cent.’
‘And did you pip anyone in anything, Giles?’ asked his mother.
‘He came second in maths, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry, coming to Giles’s rescue. ‘He has a natural gift for figures.’
‘Just like his grandfather,’ said Mrs Barrington.
‘That’s a nice picture of you above the fireplace, Mrs Barrington,’ said Deakins.
She smiled. ‘It’s not me, Deakins, it’s my dear mother.’ Deakins bowed his head before Mrs Barrington quickly added, ‘But what a charming compliment. She was considered a great beauty in her day.’
‘Who painted it?’ asked Harry, coming to Deakins’s rescue.
‘László,’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I was wondering if the portrait of the gentleman in the hall might be by the same artist.’
‘How very observant of you, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘The painting you saw in the hall is of my father, and was indeed also painted by László.’
‘What does your father do?’ asked Harry.
‘Harry never stops asking questions,’ said Giles. ‘One just has to get used to it.’
Mrs Barrington smiled. ‘He imports wines to this country, in particular, sherries from Spain.’
‘Just like Harvey’s,’ said Deakins, his mouth full of cucumber sandwich.
‘Just like Harvey’s,’ repeated Mrs Barrington. Giles grinned. ‘Do have another sandwich, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington, noticing that his eyes were fixed on the plate.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry, unable to choose between smoked salmon, cucumber, or egg and tomato. He settled for salmon, wondering what it would taste like.
‘And how about you, Deakins?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Barrington,’ he said, and took another cucumber sandwich.
‘I can’t go on calling you Deakins,’ said Giles’s mother. ‘It makes you sound like one of the servants. Do tell me your Christian name.’
Deakins bowed his head again. ‘I prefer to be called Deakins,’ he said.
‘It’s Al,’ said Giles.
‘Such a nice name,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘although I expect your mother calls you Alan.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ said Deakins, his head still bowed. The other two boys looked surprised by this revelation, but said nothing. ‘My name’s Algernon,’ he finally spluttered.
Giles burst out laughing.
Mrs Barrington paid no attention to her son’s outburst. ‘Your mother must be an admirer of Oscar Wilde,’ she said.
‘Yes, she is,’ said Deakins. ‘But I wish she’d called me Jack, or even Ernest.’
‘I wouldn’t let it worry you,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘After all, Giles suffers from a similar indignity.’
‘Mother, you promised you wouldn’t—’
‘You must get him to tell you his middle name,’ she said, ignoring the protest. When Giles didn’t respond, Harry and Deakins looked at Mrs Barrington hopefully. ‘Marmaduke,’ she declared with a sigh. ‘Like his father and grandfather before him.’
‘If either of you tell anyone about this when we get back to school,’ Giles said, looking at his two friends, ‘I swear I’ll kill you, and I mean, kill you.’ Both boys laughed.
‘Do you have a middle name, Harry?’ asked Mrs Barrington.
Harry was about to reply when the drawing-room door flew open and a man who couldn’t have been mistaken for a servant strode into the room carrying a large parcel. Harry looked up at a man who could only have been Mr Hugo. Giles leapt up and ran towards his father, who handed him the parcel and said, ‘Happy birthday, my boy.’
‘Thank you, Papa,’ said Giles, and immediately began to untie the ribbon.
‘Before you open your present, Giles,’ said his mother, ‘perhaps you should first introduce your guests to Papa.’
‘Sorry, Papa. These are my two best friends, Deakins and Harry,’ said Giles, placing the gift on the table. Harry noticed that Giles’s father had the same athletic build and restless energy he’d assumed was uniquely his son’s.
‘Pleased to meet you, Deakins,’ said Mr Barrington, shaking him by the hand. He then turned to Harry. ‘Good afternoon, Clifton,’ he added, before sitting down in the empty chair next to his wife. Harry was puzzled that Mr Barrington didn’t shake hands with him. And how did he know his name was Clifton?
Once the under-butler had served Mr Barrington with a cup of tea, Giles removed the wrapping from his present and let out a yelp of delight when he saw the Roberts radio. He pushed the plug into a wall socket and began to tune the radio to different stations. The boys applauded and laughed with each new sound that was emitted from the large wooden box.
‘Giles tells me that he came second in mathematics this term,’ said Mrs Barrington, turning to her husband.
‘Which doesn’t make up for him being bottom in almost every other subject,’ he retorted. Giles tried not to look embarrassed, as he continued to search for another station on his radio.
‘But you should have seen the goal he scored against Avonhurst,’ said Harry. ‘We’re all expecting him to captain the eleven next year.’
‘Goals aren’t going to get him into Eton,’ said Mr Barrington, not looking at Harry. ‘It’s time the boy buckled down and worked harder.’
No one spoke for some time, until Mrs Barrington broke the silence. ‘Are you the Clifton who sings in the choir at St Mary Redcliffe?’ she asked.
‘Harry’s the treble soloist,’ said Giles. ‘In fact, he’s a choral scholar.’
Harry became aware that Giles’s father was now staring at him.
‘I thought I recognized you,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘Giles’s grandfather and I attended a performance of the Messiah at St Mary’s, when the choir of St Bede’s joined forces with Bristol Grammar School. Your I Know That My Redeemer Liveth was quite magnificent, Harry.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry, blushing.
‘Are you hoping to go on to Bristol Grammar School after you leave St Bede’s, Clifton?’ asked Mr Barrington.
Clifton again, thought Harry. ‘Only if I win a scholarship, sir,’ he replied.
‘But why is that important?’ asked Mrs Barrington. ‘Surely you will be offered a place, like any other boy?’
‘Because my mother wouldn’t be able to afford the fees, Mrs Barrington. She’s a waitress at the Royal Hotel.’
‘But wouldn’t your father—’
‘He’s dead,’ said Harry. ‘He was killed in the war.’ He watched carefully to see how Mr Barrington would react, but like a good poker player he gave nothing away.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘I didn’t realize.’
The door opened behind Harry and the under-butler entered, carrying a two-tier birthday cake on a silver tray which he placed on the centre of the table. After Giles had succeeded in blowing out all twelve candles with one puff, everyone applauded.
‘And when’s your birthday, Clifton?’ asked Mr Barrington.
‘It was last month, sir,’ Harry replied.
Mr Barrington looked away.
The under-butler removed the candles before handing the young master a large cake knife. Giles cut deep into the cake and placed five uneven slices on the tea plates the maid had laid out on the table.
Deakins devoured the lumps of icing that had fallen on to his plate before taking a bite of the cake. Harry followed Mrs Barrington’s lead. He picked up the small silver fork by the side of his plate, using it to remove a tiny piece of his cake before placing it back on the plate.
Only Mr Barrington didn’t touch his cake. Suddenly, without warning, he rose from his place and left without another word.
Giles’s mother made no attempt to conceal her surprise at her husband’s behaviour, but she said nothing. Harry never took his eyes off Mr Hugo as he left the room, while Deakins, having finished his cake, turned his attention back to the smoked salmon sandwiches, clearly oblivious to what was going on around him.
Once the door was closed, Mrs Barrington continued to chat as if nothing unusual had happened. ‘I’m sure you’ll win a scholarship to Bristol Grammar, Harry, especially considering everything Giles has told me about you. You’re obviously a very clever boy, as well as a gifted singer.’
‘Giles does have a tendency to exaggerate, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry. ‘I can assure you only Deakins is certain of winning a scholarship.’
‘But doesn’t BGS offer grants for music scholars?’ she asked.
‘Not for trebles,’ said Harry. ‘They won’t take the risk.’
‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘Nothing can take away the years of choral training you’ve been put through.’
‘True, but sadly no one can predict what will happen when your voice breaks. Some trebles end up as basses or baritones, and the really lucky ones become tenors, but there’s no way of telling in advance.’
‘Why not?’ asked Deakins, taking an interest for the first time.
‘There are plenty of treble soloists who can’t even get a place in their local choir once their voice has broken. Ask Master Ernest Lough. Every household in England has heard him sing Oh, for the wings of a dove, but after his voice broke no one ever heard from him again.’
‘You’re just going to have to work harder,’ said Deakins between mouthfuls. ‘Don’t forget the grammar school awards twelve scholarships every year, and I can only win one of them,’ he added matter-of-factly.
‘But that’s the problem,’ said Harry. ‘If I’m going to work any harder, I’ll have to give up the choir, and without my bursary, I’d have to leave St Bede’s, so . . .’
‘You’re between a rock and a hard place,’ said Deakins.
Harry had never heard the expression before and decided to ask Deakins later what it meant.
‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘Giles isn’t likely to win a scholarship to any school.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Harry. ‘But Bristol Grammar isn’t likely to turn down a left-handed batsman of his calibre.’
‘Then we’ll have to hope that Eton feels the same way,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘because that’s where his father wants him to go.’
‘I don’t want to go to Eton,’ said Giles, putting down his fork. ‘I want to go to BGS and be with my friends.’
‘I’m sure you’ll make a lot of new friends at Eton,’ said his mother. ‘And it would be a great disappointment to your father if you didn’t follow in his footsteps.’
The under-butler coughed. Mrs Barrington looked out of the window to see a car drawing up at the bottom of the steps. ‘I think the time has come for you all to return to school,’ she said. ‘I certainly don’t want to be responsible for anyone being late for prep.’
Harry looked longingly at the large plate of sandwiches and the half-finished birthday cake but reluctantly rose from his place and began to walk towards the door. He glanced back once and could have sworn he saw Deakins put a sandwich in his pocket. He took one last look out of the window and was surprised to notice, for the first time, a gangly young girl with long pigtails who was curled up in the corner reading a book.
‘That’s my frightful sister, Emma,’ said Giles. ‘She never stops reading. Just ignore her.’ Harry smiled at Emma, but she didn’t look up. Deakins didn’t give her a second look.
Mrs Barrington accompanied the three boys to the front door, where she shook hands with Harry and Deakins. ‘I do hope you’ll both come again soon,’ she said. ‘You’re such a good influence on Giles.’
‘Thank you very much for having us to tea, Mrs Barrington,’ Harry said. Deakins just nodded. Both boys looked away when she hugged her son and gave him a kiss.
As the chauffeur drove down the long driveway towards the gates, Harry looked out of the back window at the house. He didn’t notice Emma staring out of the window at the disappearing car.