Best Kept Secret

29





SEBASTIAN STUBBED OUT his cigarette, leapt up, grabbed his suitcase from the rack above him and left the carriage without a word. He was painfully aware that although the headmaster said nothing, his eyes never left him.

He humped his suitcase through several carriages to the far end of the train, where he squeezed himself into an overcrowded third-class carriage. As he stared out of the window, he tried to think if there was any way out of his present predicament.

Perhaps he should return to first class and explain to the headmaster that he was going to spend a few days in London with his uncle, Sir Giles Barrington, MP? But why would he do that, when he’d been instructed to return to Bristol and hand Dr Banks-Williams’s letter to his father? The truth was that his parents were in Los Angeles attending a ceremony at which his mother was to be awarded her business degree, summa cum laude, and they wouldn’t be arriving back in England before the end of the week.

Then why didn’t you tell me that in the first place, he could hear the headmaster saying, and then your housemaster could have issued you with the correct ticket? Because he had intended to return to Bristol on the last day of term, so when they turned up on Saturday, they would be none the wiser. He might even have got away with it, if he hadn’t been in a first-class carriage, smoking. After all, he’d been warned what the consequences would be if he broke another school rule before the end of term. End of term. He’d broken three school rules within an hour of leaving the premises. But then, he never thought he’d see the headmaster again in his life.

He wanted to say, I’m an Old Boy now and I can do as I please, but he knew that wouldn’t work. And if he did decide to return to first class, there was a risk that the headmaster would discover he only had a third-class ticket; a wheeze he always tried on whenever he travelled to and from school at the beginning and end of term.

He would occupy the corner seat of a first-class carriage, making sure he had a clear view of the corridor. The moment the ticket collector entered the far end of the carriage, Sebastian would nip out and disappear into the nearest lavatory, not locking the door but leaving the vacant sign in place. Once the ticket collector had moved on to the next carriage, he would slip back into the first-class compartment for the rest of the journey. And as it was a non-stop service, the wheeze never failed. Well, it had nearly failed once, when a vigilant conductor had doubled back and caught him in the wrong carriage. He’d immediately burst into tears and apologized, explaining that his mother and father always travelled first class, and he didn’t even realize there was a third class. He had got away with it, but then he’d only been eleven at the time. Now he was seventeen, and it wouldn’t only be the ticket collector who didn’t believe him.

He dismissed any chance of a reprieve and, accepting that he wouldn’t be going up to Cambridge in September, Sebastian began to consider what he should do once the train pulled into Paddington.



The headmaster didn’t even glance at his speech as the train sped through the countryside towards the capital.

Should he go and look for the boy and demand an explanation? He knew Clifton’s housemaster had supplied him with a third-class single to Bristol, so what was he doing in a first-class carriage bound for London? Had he somehow got on the wrong train? No, that boy always knew in which direction he was going. He just hadn’t expected to be caught. In any case, he’d been smoking, despite having been explicitly told that school rules would apply until the last day of term. The boy hadn’t even waited an hour to defy him. There were no mitigating circumstances. Clifton had left him with no choice.

He would announce at assembly tomorrow morning that Clifton had been expelled. He would then phone the admissions tutor at Peterhouse, and then the boy’s father, to explain why his son would no longer be going up to Cambridge that Michaelmas. After all, Dr Banks-Williams had to consider the good name of the school, which he had nurtured assiduously for the past fifteen years.

He turned several pages of his speech before he came across the relevant passage. He read the words he’d written about Clifton’s achievement, hesitated for a moment, and then drew a line through them.



Sebastian was considering whether he should be the first or the last off the train when it pulled into Paddington. It didn’t matter much, as long as he avoided bumping into the headmaster.

He decided to be first, and perched on the edge of his seat for the last twenty minutes of the journey. He checked his pockets to find he had one pound twelve shillings and sixpence, far more than usual, but then his housemaster had reimbursed all his unspent pocket money.

He had originally planned to spend a few days in London before returning to Bristol on the last day of term, when he had absolutely no intention of handing the headmaster’s letter to his father. He removed the envelope from his pocket. It was addressed to H.A. Clifton Esq.: Private. Sebastian glanced around the carriage to check that no one was looking at him before he ripped it open. He read the headmaster’s words slowly, and then reread them. The letter was measured, fair and, to his surprise, made no mention of Ruby. If only he’d taken the train to Bristol, gone home and handed the letter to his father after he returned from America, things might have been so different. Damn it. What was the headmaster doing on the train in the first place?

Sebastian returned the letter to his pocket and tried to concentrate on what he would do in London, because he certainly wouldn’t be returning to Bristol until this had all blown over, and that might not be for some time. But how long could he hope to survive on one pound twelve shillings and sixpence? He was about to find out.

He was standing by the carriage door long before the train pulled into Paddington, and had opened it even before it had come to a halt. He leapt out, ran towards the barrier as fast as his heavy suitcase would allow and handed his ticket to the collector before disappearing into the crowd.

Sebastian had only visited London once before, and on that occasion he’d been with his parents, and there had been a car waiting to pick them up and whisk them off to his uncle’s town house in Smith Square. Uncle Giles had taken him to the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels, and then on to Madame Tussaud’s to admire the waxworks of Edmund Hillary, Betty Grable and Don Bradman before having tea and a sticky bun at the Regent Palace Hotel. The following day he’d given them a tour of the House of Commons, and they’d seen Winston Churchill glowering from the front bench. Sebastian had been surprised to find how small he was.

When it was time for him to go home, Sebastian had told his uncle that he couldn’t wait to come back to London. Now he had, there was no car to pick him up, and the last person he could risk visiting was his uncle. He had no idea where he would spend the night.

As he made his way through the crowd, someone bumped into him, nearly knocking him over. He turned to see a young man hurrying away – he hadn’t even bothered to apologize.

Sebastian walked out of the station and into a street crammed with Victorian terraced houses, several of which displayed bed-and-breakfast signs in their windows. He selected the one with the brightest polished door knocker and the neatest window boxes. A comely woman wearing a floral nylon housecoat answered his knock, and gave her potential guest a welcoming smile. If she was surprised to find a young man in school uniform standing on her doorstep, she didn’t show it.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Are you looking for accommodation, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian, surprised to be called ‘sir’. ‘I need a room for the night, and wondered how much you charge?’

‘Four shillings a night, including breakfast, or a pound for a week.’

‘I only need a room for one night,’ said Sebastian, having realized he would have to search for cheaper accommodation in the morning if he intended to stay in London for any length of time.

‘Of course,’ she said as she picked up his suitcase and headed down the corridor.

Sebastian had never seen a woman carrying a suitcase before, but she was halfway up the stairs before he could do anything about it.

‘My name’s Mrs Tibbet,’ she said, ‘but my regulars call me Tibby.’ When she reached the first-floor landing, she added, ‘I’ll be putting you in number seven. It’s at the back of the house, so you’re less likely to be woken by the morning traffic.’

Sebastian had no idea what she was talking about, as he’d never been woken by traffic in his life.

Mrs Tibbet unlocked the door to room seven and stood aside to allow her guest to enter. The room was smaller than his study at Beechcroft, but, like its owner, it was neat and tidy. There was a single bed, with clean sheets, and a washbasin in the corner.

‘You’ll find the bathroom at the end of the corridor,’ Mrs Tibbet said before he could ask.

‘I’ve changed my mind, Mrs Tibbet,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it for a week.’

She took a key out of her housecoat but before she handed it over she said, ‘Then that will be one pound, in advance.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Sebastian. He reached into his trouser pocket, only to find it was empty. He tried another pocket, and then another, but there was no sign of his money. He finally fell to his knees, opened his suitcase, and began frantically searching among his clothes.

Mrs Tibbet placed her hands on her hips, her smile no longer on display. Sebastian rummaged in vain among his clothes until he finally gave up, collapsed on to the bed and prayed that Tibby would be more sympathetic than the headmaster.



The headmaster checked into his room at the Reform Club and had a quick bath before changing into his dinner jacket. He checked his bow tie in the mirror above the washbasin, then returned downstairs to join his host.

Nick Judd, the chairman of the Old Boys, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and led his guest of honour into the reception room, where they joined other members of the committee at the bar.

‘What will you have to drink, headmaster?’ asked the chairman.

‘Just a dry sherry, please.’

Judd’s next words disconcerted him. ‘Allow me to be the first to congratulate you,’ he said after he’d ordered the drinks, ‘on the school being awarded the top scholarship to Peterhouse. A worthy accolade to crown your final year.’

The headmaster said nothing, but realized that the three lines he had crossed out of his speech would have to be reinstated. The news of Clifton’s expulsion needn’t come out until later. After all, the boy had won the scholarship, and that wouldn’t change until he had spoken to the admissions tutor at Cambridge in the morning.

Unfortunately, the chairman wasn’t the only person to refer to Clifton’s achievement, and by the time the headmaster rose to deliver his annual report, he saw no reason to let the assembled gathering know what he had planned to do the following day. He was surprised that the announcement of the top scholarship received such prolonged applause.

The speech was well received, and when Dr Banks-Williams sat down, so many Old Boys came up to the top table to wish him a happy retirement that he nearly missed the last train back to Beechcroft. No sooner had he settled down in his first-class compartment than his thoughts returned to Sebastian Clifton. He began to write down a few words for his address to morning assembly: ‘standards’, ‘decency’, ‘honour’, ‘discipline’ and ‘respect’ came to mind, and by the time the train pulled into Beechcroft, he had completed the first draft.

When he handed in his ticket, he was relieved to see his wife sitting in the car waiting for him, despite the late hour.

‘How did you get on?’ she asked, even before he’d pulled the car door closed.

‘I think I can say my speech was well received, given the circumstances.’

‘The circumstances?’

By the time they had reached the headmaster’s house, he had told his wife all about the unfortunate encounter with Clifton that had taken place on the train to London.

‘And what do you intend to do about it?’ she asked as he unlocked the front door.

‘He’s left me with no choice. I shall announce at morning assembly that Clifton has been expelled, and therefore sadly will not be taking up his place at Cambridge in September.’

‘Isn’t that a little draconian?’ suggested Mrs Banks-Williams. ‘After all, he may well have had a good reason for being on the London train.’

‘Then why did he leave the carriage the moment he saw me?’

‘He probably didn’t want to spend the whole journey with you, my dear. After all, you can be quite intimidating.’

‘But don’t forget, I also caught him smoking,’ he said, ignoring her comment.

‘Why shouldn’t he? He was off the premises, and no longer in statu pupillari.’

‘I made it quite clear that school rules would apply to him until the end of term, otherwise he would have to face the consequences.’

‘Would you care for a nightcap, my dear?’

‘No, thank you. I must try and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow isn’t going to be easy.’

‘For you, or for Clifton?’ she enquired before turning the light out.



Sebastian sat on the end of the bed and told Mrs Tibbet everything that had taken place that day. He left nothing out, even showing her the letter the headmaster had written.

‘Don’t you think it might be wise to go home? After all, your parents will be worried to death if you’re not there when they get back. And in any case, you can’t be certain the headmaster is going to expel you.’

‘Believe me, Mrs Tibbet, Hilly-Billy will have made up his mind, and he’ll announce his decision at assembly tomorrow.’

‘You should still go home.’

‘I can’t, after letting them down. The one thing they’ve always wanted was for me to go to Cambridge. They’ll never forgive me.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Mrs Tibbet. ‘My father always used to say, if you’ve got a problem, sleep on it before you make a decision you might later regret. Things always look rosier in the morning.’

‘But I haven’t even got anywhere to sleep.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mrs Tibbet said, placing an arm around his shoulder. ‘You can spend the night here. But not on an empty stomach, so once you’ve unpacked, come down and join me in the kitchen.’