Only Time Will Tell

1

I was told my father was killed in the war.

Whenever I questioned my mother about his death, she didn’t say any more than that he’d served with the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment and had been killed fighting on the Western Front only days before the Armistice was signed. Grandma said my dad had been a brave man, and once when we were alone in the house she showed me his medals. My grandpa rarely offered an opinion on anything, but then he was deaf as a post so he might not have heard the question in the first place.

The only other man I can remember was my uncle Stan, who used to sit at the top of the table at breakfast time. When he left of a morning I would often follow him to the city docks, where he worked. Every day I spent at the dockyard was an adventure. Cargo ships coming from distant lands and unloading their wares: rice, sugar, bananas, jute and many other things I’d never heard of. Once the holds had been emptied, the dockers would load them with salt, apples, tin, even coal (my least favourite, because it was an obvious clue to what I’d been doing all day and annoyed my mother), before they set off again to I knew not where. I always wanted to help my uncle Stan unload whatever ship had docked that morning, but he just laughed, saying, ‘All in good time, my lad.’ It couldn’t be soon enough for me, but, without any warning, school got in the way.

I was sent to Merrywood Elementary when I was six and I thought it was a complete waste of time. What was the point of school when I could learn all I needed to at the docks? I wouldn’t have bothered to go back the following day if my mother hadn’t dragged me to the front gates, deposited me and returned at four o’clock that afternoon to take me home.

I didn’t realize Mum had other plans for my future, which didn’t include joining Uncle Stan in the shipyard.

Once Mum had dropped me off each morning, I would hang around in the yard until she was out of sight, then slope off to the docks. I made sure I was always back at the school gates when she returned to pick me up in the afternoon. On the way home, I would tell her everything I’d done at school that day. I was good at making up stories, but it wasn’t long before she discovered that was all they were: stories.

One or two other boys from my school also used to hang around the docks, but I kept my distance from them. They were older and bigger, and used to thump me if I got in their way. I also had to keep an eye out for Mr Haskins, the chief ganger, because if he ever found me loitering, to use his favourite word, he would send me off with a kick up the backside and the threat: ‘If I see you loiterin’ round here again, my lad, I’ll report you to the headmaster.’

Occasionally Haskins decided he’d seen me once too often and I’d be reported to the headmaster, who would leather me before sending me back to my classroom. My form master, Mr Holcombe, never let on if I didn’t show up for his class, but then he was a bit soft. Whenever my mum found out I’d been playing truant, she couldn’t hide her anger and would stop my halfpenny-a-week pocket money. But despite the occasional punch from an older boy, regular leatherings from the headmaster and the loss of my pocket money, I still couldn’t resist the draw of the docks.

I made only one real friend while I ‘loitered’ around the dockyard. His name was Old Jack Tar. Mr Tar lived in an abandoned railway carriage at the end of the sheds. Uncle Stan told me to keep away from Old Jack because he was a stupid, dirty old tramp. He didn’t look that dirty to me, certainly not as dirty as Stan, and it wasn’t long before I discovered he wasn’t stupid either.

After lunch with my uncle Stan, one bite of his Marmite sandwich, his discarded apple core and a swig of beer, I would be back at school in time for a game of football; the only activity I considered it worth turning up for. After all, when I left school I was going to captain Bristol City, or build a ship that would sail around the world. If Mr Holcombe kept his mouth shut and the ganger didn’t report me to the headmaster, I could go for days without being found out, and as long as I avoided the coal barges and was standing by the school gate at four o’clock every afternoon, my mother would never be any the wiser.

Every other Saturday, Uncle Stan would take me to watch Bristol City at Ashton Gate. On Sunday mornings, Mum used to cart me off to Holy Nativity Church, something I couldn’t find a way of getting out of. Once the Reverend Watts had given the final blessing, I would run all the way to the recreation ground and join my mates for a game of football before returning home in time for dinner.

By the time I was seven it was clear to anyone who knew anything about the game of football that I was never going to get into the school team, let alone captain Bristol City. But that was when I discovered that God had given me one small gift, and it wasn’t in my feet.

To begin with, I didn’t notice that anyone who sat near me in church on a Sunday morning stopped singing whenever I opened my mouth. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if Mum hadn’t suggested I join the choir. I laughed scornfully; after all, everyone knew the choir was only for girls and cissies. I would have dismissed the idea out of hand if the Reverend Watts hadn’t told me that choirboys were paid a penny for funerals and tuppence for weddings; my first experience of bribery. But even after I’d reluctantly agreed to take a vocal test, the devil decided to place an obstacle in my path, in the form of Miss Eleanor E. Monday.

I would never have come across Miss Monday if she hadn’t been the choir mistress at Holy Nativity. Although she was only five feet three, and looked as though a gust of wind might blow her away, no one tried to take the mickey. I have a feeling that even the devil would have been frightened of Miss Monday, because the Reverend Watts certainly was.

I agreed to take a vocal test, but not before my mum had handed over a month’s pocket money in advance. The following Sunday I stood in line with a group of other lads and waited to be called.

‘You will always be on time for choir practice,’ Miss Monday announced, fixing a gimlet eye on me. I stared back defiantly. ‘You will never speak, unless spoken to.’ I somehow managed to remain silent. ‘And during the service, you will concentrate at all times.’ I reluctantly nodded. And then, God bless her, she gave me a way out. ‘But most importantly,’ she declared, placing her hands on her hips, ‘within twelve weeks, you will be expected to pass a reading and writing test, so that I can be sure you are able to tackle a new anthem or an unfamiliar psalm.’

I was pleased to have fallen at the first hurdle. But as I was to discover, Miss Eleanor E. Monday didn’t give up easily.

‘What piece have you chosen to sing, child?’ she asked me when I reached the front of the line.

‘I haven’t chosen anything,’ I told her.

She opened a hymn book, handed it to me and sat down at the piano. I smiled at the thought that I might still be able to make the second half of our Sunday morning football game. She began to play a familiar tune, and when I saw my mother glaring at me from the front row of pews, I decided I’d better go through with it, just to keep her happy.

‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small. All things wise and wonderful…’ A smile had appeared on Miss Monday’s face long before I reached ‘the Lord God made them all’.

‘What’s your name, child?’ she asked.

‘Harry Clifton, miss.’

‘Harry Clifton, you will report for choir practice on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at six o’clock sharp.’ Turning to the boy standing behind me, she said, ‘Next!’

I promised my mum I’d be on time for the first choir practice, even though I knew it would be my last, as Miss Monday would soon realize I couldn’t read or write. And it would have been my last, if it hadn’t been obvious to anyone listening that my singing voice was in a different class to that of any other boy in the choir. In fact, the moment I opened my mouth, everyone fell silent, and the looks of admiration, even awe, that I had desperately sought on the football field, were happening in church. Miss Monday pretended not to notice.

After she dismissed us, I didn’t go home, but ran all the way to the docks so I could ask Mr Tar what I should do about the fact that I couldn’t read or write. I listened carefully to the old man’s advice, and the next day I went back to school and took my place in Mr Holcombe’s class. The schoolmaster couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw me sitting in the front row, and was even more surprised when I paid close attention to the morning lesson for the first time.

Mr Holcombe began by teaching me the alphabet, and within days I could write out all twenty-six letters, if not always in the correct order. My mum would have helped me when I got home in the afternoon but, like the rest of my family, she also couldn’t read or write.

Uncle Stan could just about scrawl his signature, and although he could tell the difference between a packet of Wills’s Star and Wild Woodbines, I was fairly sure he couldn’t actually read the labels. Despite his unhelpful mutterings, I set about writing the alphabet on any piece of scrap paper I could find. Uncle Stan didn’t seem to notice that the torn-up newspaper in the privy was always covered in letters.

Once I’d mastered the alphabet, Mr Holcombe introduced me to a few simple words: ‘dog’, ‘cat’, ‘mum’ and ‘dad’. That was when I first asked him about my dad, hoping that he might be able to tell me something about him. After all, he seemed to know everything. But he seemed puzzled that I knew so little about my own dad. A week later he wrote my first four-letter word on the blackboard, ‘book’, and then five, ‘house’, and six, ‘school’. By the end of the month, I could write my first sentence, ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’, which, Mr Holcombe pointed out, contained every letter in the alphabet. I checked, and he turned out to be right.

By the end of term I could spell ‘anthem’, ‘psalm’ and even ‘hymn’, although Mr Holcombe kept reminding me I still dropped my aitches whenever I spoke. But then we broke up for the holidays and I began to worry I would never pass Miss Monday’s demanding test without Mr Holcombe’s help. And that might have been the case, if Old Jack hadn’t taken his place.

I was half an hour early for choir practice on the Friday evening when I knew I would have to pass my second test if I hoped to continue as a member of the choir. I sat silently in the stalls, hoping Miss Monday would pick on someone else before she called on me.

I had already passed the first test with what Miss Monday had described as flying colours. We had all been asked to recite The Lord’s Prayer. This was not a problem for me, because for as long as I could remember my mum knelt by my bed each night and repeated the familiar words before tucking me up. However, Miss Monday’s next test was to prove far more demanding.

By this time, the end of our second month, we were expected to read a psalm out loud, in front of the rest of the choir. I chose Psalm 121, which I also knew off by heart, having sung it so often in the past. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. I could only hope that my help cometh from the Lord. Although I was able to turn to the correct page in the psalm book, as I could now count from one to a hundred, I feared Miss Monday would realize that I was unable to follow every verse line by line. If she did, she didn’t let on, because I remained in the choir stalls for another month while two other miscreants – her word, not that I knew what it meant until I asked Mr Holcombe the next day – were dispatched back to the congregation.

When the time came for me to take the third and final test, I was ready for it. Miss Monday asked those of us who remained to write out the Ten Commandments in the correct order without referring to the Book of Exodus.

The choir mistress turned a blind eye to the fact that I placed theft ahead of murder, couldn’t spell ‘adultery’, and certainly didn’t know what it meant. Only after two other miscreants were summarily dismissed for lesser offences did I realize just how exceptional my voice must be.

On the first Sunday of Advent, Miss Monday announced that she had selected three new trebles – or ‘little angels’, as the Reverend Watts was wont to describe us – to join her choir, the remainder having been rejected for committing such unforgivable sins as chattering during the sermon, sucking a gobstopper and, in the case of two boys, being caught playing conkers during the Nunc Dimittis.

The following Sunday, I dressed up in a long blue cassock with a ruffled white collar. I alone was allowed to wear a bronze medallion of the Virgin Mother around my neck, to show that I had been selected as the treble soloist. I would have proudly worn the medallion all the way back home, even to school the next morning, to show off to the rest of the lads, if only Miss Monday hadn’t retrieved it at the end of each service.

On Sundays I was transported into another world, but I feared this state of delirium could not last for ever.

2

WHEN UNCLE STAN rose in the morning, he somehow managed to wake the entire household. No one complained, as he was the breadwinner in the family, and in any case he was cheaper and more reliable than an alarm clock.

The first noise Harry would hear was the bedroom door slamming. This would be followed by his uncle tramping along the creaky wooden landing, down the stairs and out of the house. Then another door would slam as he disappeared into the privy. If anyone was still asleep, the rush of water as Uncle Stan pulled the chain, followed by two more slammed doors before he returned to the bedroom, served to remind them that Stan expected his breakfast to be on the table by the time he walked into the kitchen. He only had a wash and a shave on Saturday evenings before going off to the Palais or the Odeon. He took a bath four times a year on quarter-day. No one was going to accuse Stan of wasting his hard-earned cash on soap.

Maisie, Harry’s mum, would be next up, leaping out of bed moments after the first slammed door. There would be a bowl of porridge on the stove by the time Stan came out of the privy. Grandma followed shortly afterwards, and would join her daughter in the kitchen before Stan had taken his place at the head of the table. Harry had to be down within five minutes of the first slammed door if he hoped to get any breakfast. The last to arrive in the kitchen would be Grandpa, who was so deaf he often managed to sleep through Stan’s early morning ritual. This daily routine in the Clifton household never varied. When you’ve only got one outside privy, one sink and one towel, order becomes a necessity.

By the time Harry was splashing his face with a trickle of cold water, his mother would be serving breakfast in the kitchen: two thickly sliced pieces of bread covered in lard for Stan, and four thin slices for the rest of the family, which she would toast if there was any coal left in the sack dumped outside the front door every Monday. Once Stan had finished his porridge, Harry would be allowed to lick the bowl.

A large brown pot of tea was always brewing on the hearth, which Grandma would pour into a variety of mugs through a silver-plated Victorian tea strainer she had inherited from her mother. While the other members of the family enjoyed a mug of unsweetened tea – sugar was only for high days and holidays – Stan would open his first bottle of beer, which he usually gulped down in one draught. He would then rise from the table and burp loudly before picking up his lunch box, which Grandma had prepared while he was having his breakfast: two Marmite sandwiches, a sausage, an apple, two more bottles of beer and a packet of five coffin nails. Once Stan had left for the docks, everyone began to talk at once.

Grandma always wanted to know who had visited the tea shop where her daughter worked as a waitress: what they ate, what they were wearing, where they sat; details of meals that were cooked on a stove in a room lit by electric light bulbs that didn’t leave any candle wax, not to mention customers who sometimes left a thruppenny-bit tip, which Maisie had to split with the cook.

Maisie was more concerned to find out what Harry had done at school the previous day. She demanded a daily report, which didn’t seem to interest Grandma, perhaps because she’d never been to school. Come to think of it, she’d never been to a tea shop either.

Grandpa rarely commented, because after four years of loading and unloading an artillery field gun, morning, noon and night, he was so deaf he had to satisfy himself with watching their lips move and nodding from time to time. This could give outsiders the impression he was stupid, which the rest of the family knew to their cost he wasn’t.

The family’s morning routine only varied at weekends. On Saturdays, Harry would follow his uncle out of the kitchen, always remaining a pace behind him as he walked to the docks. On Sunday, Harry’s mum would accompany the boy to Holy Nativity Church, where, from the third row of the pews, she would bask in the glory of the choir’s treble soloist.

But today was Saturday. During the twenty-minute walk to the docks, Harry never opened his mouth unless his uncle spoke. Whenever he did, it invariably turned out to be the same conversation they’d had the previous Saturday.

‘When are you goin’ to leave school and do a day’s work, young’un?’ was always Uncle Stan’s opening salvo.

‘Not allowed to leave until I’m fourteen,’ Harry reminded him. ‘It’s the law.’

‘A bloody stupid law, if you ask me. I’d packed up school and was workin’ on the docks by the time I were twelve,’ Stan would announce as if Harry had never heard this profound observation before. Harry didn’t bother to respond, as he already knew what his uncle’s next sentence would be. ‘And what’s more I’d signed up to join Kitchener’s army before my seventeenth birthday.’

‘Tell me about the war, Uncle Stan,’ said Harry, aware that this would keep him occupied for several hundred yards.

‘Me and your dad joined the Royal Gloucestershire Regiment on the same day,’ Stan said, touching his cloth cap as if saluting a distant memory. ‘After twelve weeks’ basic training at Taunton Barracks, we was shipped off to Wipers to fight the Boche. Once we got there, we spent most of our time cooped up in rat-infested trenches waiting to be told by some toffee-nosed officer that when the bugle sounded, we was going over the top, bayonets fixed, rifles firing as we advanced towards the enemy lines.’ This would be followed by a long pause, after which Stan would add, ‘I was one of the lucky ones. Got back to Blighty all ship-shape and Bristol fashion.’ Harry could have predicted his next sentence word for word, but remained silent. ‘You just don’t know how lucky you are, my lad. I lost two brothers, your uncle Ray and your uncle Bert, and your father not only lost a brother, but his father, your other grandad, what you never met. A proper man, who could down a pint of beer faster than any docker I’ve ever come across.’

If Stan had looked down, he would have seen the boy mouthing his words, but today, to Harry’s surprise, Uncle Stan added a sentence he’d never uttered before. ‘And your dad would still be alive today, if only management had listened to me.’

Harry was suddenly alert. His dad’s death had always been the subject of whispered conversations and hushed tones. But Uncle Stan clammed up, as if he realized he’d gone too far. Maybe next week, thought Harry, catching his uncle up and keeping in step with him as if they were two soldiers on a parade ground.

‘So who are City playin’ this afternoon?’ asked Stan, back on script.

‘Charlton Athletic,’ Harry replied.

‘They’re a load of old cobblers.’

‘They trounced us last season,’ Harry reminded his uncle.

‘Bloody lucky, if you ask me,’ said Stan, and didn’t open his mouth again. When they reached the entrance to the dockyard, Stan clocked in before heading off to the pen where he was working with a gang of other dockers, none of whom could afford to be a minute late. Unemployment was at an all-time high and too many young men were standing outside the gates waiting to take their place.

Harry didn’t follow his uncle, because he knew that if Mr Haskins caught him hanging around the sheds he would get a clip round the ear, followed by a boot up the backside from his uncle for annoying the ganger. Instead, he set off in the opposite direction.

Harry’s first port of call every Saturday morning was Old Jack Tar, who lived in the railway carriage at the other end of the dockyard. He had never told Stan about his regular visits because his uncle had warned him to avoid the old man at all costs.

‘Probably hasn’t had a bath in years,’ said a man who washed once a quarter, and then only after Harry’s mother complained about the smell.

But curiosity had long ago got the better of Harry, and one morning he’d crept up to the railway carriage on his hands and knees, lifted himself up and peeped through a window. The old man was sitting in first class, reading a book.

Old Jack turned to face him and said, ‘Come on in, lad.’ Harry jumped down, and didn’t stop running until he reached his front door.

The following Saturday, Harry once again crawled up to the carriage and peered inside. Old Jack seemed to be fast asleep, but then Harry heard him say, ‘Why don’t you come in, my boy? I’m not going to bite you.’

Harry turned the heavy brass handle and tentatively pulled open the carriage door, but he didn’t step inside. He just stared at the man seated in the centre of the carriage. It was hard to tell how old he was because his face was covered in a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard, which made him look like the sailor on the Players Please packet. But he looked at Harry with a warmth in his eyes that Uncle Stan had never managed.

‘Are you Old Jack Tar?’ Harry ventured.

‘That’s what they call me,’ the old man replied.

‘And is this where you live?’ Harry asked, glancing around the carriage, his eyes settling on a stack of old newspapers piled high on the opposite seat.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It’s been my home for these past twenty years. Why don’t you close the door and take a seat, young man?’

Harry gave the offer some thought before he jumped back out of the carriage and once again ran away.

The following Saturday, Harry did close the door, but he kept hold of the handle, ready to bolt if the old man as much as twitched a muscle. They stared at each other for some time before Old Jack asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Harry.’

‘And where do you go to school?’

‘I don’t go to school.’

‘Then what are you hoping to do with your life, young man?’

‘Join my uncle on the docks, of course,’ Harry replied.

‘Why would you want to do that?’ said the old man.

‘Why not?’ Harry bristled. ‘Don’t you think I’m good enough?’

‘You’re far too good,’ replied Old Jack. ‘When I was your age,’ he continued, ‘I wanted to join the army, and nothing my old man could say or do would dissuade me.’ For the next hour Harry stood, mesmerized, while Old Jack Tar reminisced about the docks, the city of Bristol, and lands beyond the sea that he couldn’t have been taught about in geography lessons.

The following Saturday, and for more Saturdays than he would remember, Harry continued to visit Old Jack Tar. But he never once told his uncle or his mother, for fear they would stop him going to see his first real friend.

When Harry knocked on the door of the railway carriage that Saturday morning, Old Jack had clearly been waiting for him, because his usual Cox’s Orange Pippin had been placed on the seat opposite. Harry picked it up, took a bite and sat down.

‘Thank you, Mr Tar,’ Harry said as he wiped some juice from his chin. He never asked where the apples came from; it just added to the mystery of the great man.

How different he was from Uncle Stan, who repeated the little he knew again and again, whereas Old Jack introduced Harry to new words, new experiences, even new worlds every week. He often wondered why Mr Tar wasn’t a schoolmaster – he seemed to know even more than Miss Monday, and almost as much as Mr Holcombe. Harry was convinced that Mr Holcombe knew everything, because he never failed to answer any question Harry put to him. Old Jack smiled across at him, but didn’t speak until Harry had finished his apple and thrown the core out of the window.

‘What have you learnt at school this week,’ the old man asked, ‘that you didn’t know a week ago?’

‘Mr Holcombe told me there are other countries beyond the sea that are part of the British Empire, and they are all reigned over by the King.’

‘He’s quite right,’ said Old Jack. ‘Can you name any of those countries?’

‘Australia. Canada. India.’ He hesitated. ‘And America.’

‘No, not America,’ said Old Jack. ‘That used to be the case, but it isn’t any more, thanks to a weak Prime Minister and a sick King.’

‘Who was the King, and who was the Prime Minister?’ demanded Harry angrily.

‘King George III was on the throne in 1776,’ said Old Jack, ‘but to be fair, he was a sick man, while Lord North, his Prime Minister, simply ignored what was taking place in the colonies, and, sadly, in the end our own kith and kin took up arms against us.’

‘But we must have beaten them?’ said Harry.

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Old Jack. ‘Not only did they have right on their side – not that that’s a prerequisite for victory-’

‘What does prerequisite mean?’

‘Required as a pre-condition,’ said Old Jack, who then continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘But they were also led by a brilliant general.’

‘What was his name?’

‘George Washington.’

‘You told me last week that Washington was the capital of America. Was he named after the city?’

‘No, the city was named after him. It was built on an area of marshland known as Columbia, through which the Potomac River flows.’

‘Is Bristol named after a man too?’

‘No,’ chuckled Old Jack, amused by how quickly Harry’s inquisitive mind could switch from subject to subject. ‘Bristol was originally called Brigstowe, which means the site of a bridge.’

‘So when did it become Bristol?’

‘Historians differ in their opinions,’ said Old Jack, ‘although Bristol Castle was built by Robert of Gloucester in 1109, when he saw the opportunity to trade wool with the Irish. After that, the city developed into a trading port. Since then it’s been a centre of shipbuilding for hundreds of years, and grew even more quickly when the navy needed to expand in 1914.’

‘My dad fought in the Great War,’ said Harry with pride. ‘Did you?’

For the first time, Old Jack hesitated before answering one of Harry’s questions. He just sat there, not saying a word. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tar,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, no,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been asked that question for some years.’ Without another word, he opened his hand to reveal a sixpence.

Harry took the little silver coin and bit it, something he’d seen his uncle do. ‘Thank you,’ he said before pocketing it.

‘Go and buy yourself some fish and chips from the dockside café, but don’t tell your uncle, because he’ll only ask where you got the money.’

In truth, Harry had never told his uncle anything about Old Jack. He’d once heard Stan tell his mum, ‘The loony ought to be locked up.’ He’d asked Miss Monday what a loony was, because he couldn’t find the word in the dictionary, and when she told him, he realized for the first time just how stupid his Uncle Stan must be.

‘Not necessarily stupid,’ Miss Monday counselled, ‘simply ill-informed and therefore prejudiced. I have no doubt, Harry,’ she added, ‘that you’ll meet many more such men during your lifetime, some of them in far more exalted positions than your uncle.’

3

MAISIE WAITED UNTIL she heard the front door slam and was confident that Stan was on his way to work before she announced, ‘I’ve been offered a job as a waitress at the Royal Hotel.’

No one seated round the table responded, as conversations at breakfast were supposed to follow a regular pattern and not take anyone by surprise. Harry had a dozen questions he wanted to ask but waited for his grandma to speak first. She simply busied herself with pouring another cup of tea, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter in the first place.

‘Will someone please say something?’ said Maisie.

‘I didn’t even realize you were looking for another job,’ ventured Harry.

‘I wasn’t,’ said Maisie. ‘But last week a Mr Frampton, the manager of the Royal, dropped into Tilly’s for coffee. He came back several times, and then he offered me a job!’

‘I thought you were happy at the tea shop,’ said Grandma, finally joining in. ‘After all, Miss Tilly pays well, and the hours suit.’

‘I am happy,’ said Harry’s mum, ‘but Mr Frampton’s offering me five pounds a week, and half of all the tips. I could be bringing home as much as six pounds on a Friday.’ Grandma sat there with her mouth wide open.

‘Will you have to work nights?’ asked Harry, once he’d finished licking Stan’s porridge bowl.

‘No, I won’t,’ Maisie said, ruffling her son’s hair, ‘and what’s more I’ll get one day off a fortnight.’

‘Are your clothes posh enough for a grand hotel like the Royal?’ asked Grandma.

‘I’ll be supplied with a uniform, and a fresh white apron every morning. The hotel even has its own laundry.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Grandma, ‘but I can think of one problem we’re all going to have to learn to live with.’

‘And what’s that, Mum?’ asked Maisie.

‘You could end up earnin’ more than Stan, and he’s not going to like that, not one little bit.’

‘Then he’ll just have to learn to live with it, won’t he?’ said Grandpa, offering an opinion for the first time in weeks.

The extra money was going to come in useful, especially after what had happened at the Holy Nativity. Maisie had been about to leave the church after the service when Miss Monday walked purposefully down the aisle towards her.

‘Can I have a private word with you, Mrs Clifton?’ she asked, before turning and walking back down the aisle towards the vestry. Maisie chased after her like a child in the Pied Piper’s wake. She feared the worst. What had Harry been up to this time?

Maisie followed the choir mistress into the vestry and felt her legs give way when she saw the Reverend Watts, Mr Holcombe and another gentleman standing there. As Miss Monday closed the door quietly behind her, Maisie began to shake uncontrollably.

The Reverend Watts placed an arm around her shoulder. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, my dear,’ he assured her. ‘On the contrary, I hope you will feel we are the bearers of glad tidings,’ he added, offering her a seat. Maisie sat down, but still couldn’t stop shaking.

Once everyone was seated, Miss Monday took over. ‘We wanted to talk to you about Harry, Mrs Clifton,’ she began. Maisie pursed her lips; what could the boy possibly have done to bring three such important people together?

‘I’ll not beat about the bush,’ the choir mistress continued. ‘The music master at St Bede’s has approached me and asked if Harry would consider entering his name for one of their choral scholarships.’

‘But he’s very happy at Holy Nativity,’ said Maisie. ‘In any case, where is St Bede’s Church? I’ve never even heard of it.’

‘St Bede’s is not a church,’ said Miss Monday. ‘It’s a choir school that supplies choristers for St Mary Redcliffe, which was famously described by Queen Elizabeth as the fairest and godliest church in all the land.’

‘So would he have to leave his school, as well as the church?’ asked Maisie in disbelief.

‘Try to look upon it as an opportunity that might change his whole life, Mrs Clifton,’ said Mr Holcombe, speaking for the first time.

‘But wouldn’t he have to mix with posh, clever boys?’

‘I doubt if there will be many children at St Bede’s cleverer than Harry,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘He’s the brightest lad I’ve ever taught. Although we get the occasional boy into the grammar school, none of our pupils has ever been offered the chance of a place at St Bede’s before.’

‘There’s something else you need to know before you make up your mind,’ said the Reverend Watts. Maisie looked even more anxious. ‘Harry would have to leave home during term time, because St Bede’s is a boarding school.’

‘Then it’s out of the question,’ said Maisie. ‘I couldn’t afford it.’

‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ said Miss Monday. ‘If Harry is offered a scholarship, the school would not only waive any fees, but also award him a bursary of ten pounds a term.’

‘But is this one of those schools where the fathers wear suits and ties, and the mothers don’t work?’ asked Maisie.

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Miss Monday, trying to make light of it. ‘The masters wear long black gowns and mortarboards on their heads.’

‘Still,’ said the Reverend Watts joining in, ‘at least there would be no more leatherings for Harry. They’re far more refined at St Bede’s. They just cane the boys.’

Only Maisie didn’t laugh. ‘But why would he want to leave home?’ she asked. ‘He’s settled at Merrywood Elementary, and he won’t want to give up being senior chorister at Holy Nativity.’

‘I must confess that my loss would be even greater than his,’ said Miss Monday. ‘But then, I’m sure our Lord would not want me to stand in the way of such a gifted child, simply because of my own selfish desires,’ she added quietly.

‘Even if I agree,’ said Maisie, playing her last card, ‘that doesn’t mean Harry will.’

‘I had a word with the boy last week,’ admitted Mr Holcombe. ‘Of course he was apprehensive about such a challenge, but if I recall, his exact words were “I’d like to have a go, sir, but only if you think I’m good enough.” But,’ he added before Maisie could respond, ‘he also made it clear that he wouldn’t even consider the idea unless his mother agreed.’

Harry was both terrified and excited by the thought of taking the entrance exam, but just as anxious about failing and letting so many people down as he was about succeeding and having to leave home.

During the following term, he never once missed a lesson at Merrywood, and when he returned home each evening, he went straight up to the bedroom he shared with Uncle Stan, where, with the aid of a candle, he studied for hours that until then he hadn’t realized existed. There were even occasions when his mother found Harry sound asleep on the floor, open books scattered around him.

Every Saturday morning he continued to visit Old Jack, who seemed to know a great deal about St Bede’s, and continued to teach Harry about so many other things, almost as if he knew where Mr Holcombe had left off.

On Saturday afternoons, much to the disgust of Uncle Stan, Harry no longer accompanied him to Ashton Gate to watch Bristol City, but returned to Merrywood, where Mr Holcombe gave him extra lessons. It would be years before Harry worked out that Mr Holcombe was also forgoing his regular visits to support the Robins, in order to teach him.

As the day of the examination drew nearer, Harry became even more frightened of failure than of the possibility of success.

On the appointed day, Mr Holcombe accompanied his star pupil to the Colston Hall, where the two-hour examination would take place. He left Harry at the entrance to the building, with the words, ‘Don’t forget to read each question twice before you even pick up your pen,’ a piece of advice he’d repeated several times during the past week. Harry smiled nervously, and shook hands with Mr Holcombe as if they were old friends.

He entered the examination hall to find about sixty other boys standing around in small groups, chattering. It was clear to Harry that many of them already knew each other, while he didn’t know anyone. Despite this, one or two of them stopped talking and glanced at him as he made his way to the front of the hall trying to look confident.

‘Abbott, Barrington, Cabot, Clifton, Deakins, Fry…’

Harry took his place at a desk in the front row, and just moments before the clock struck ten, several masters in long black gowns and mortarboards swept in and placed examination papers on the desks in front of each candidate.

‘Gentlemen,’ said a master standing at the front of the hall, who had not taken part in the distribution of the papers, ‘my name is Mr Frobisher, and I am your invigilator. You have two hours in which to answer one hundred questions. Good luck.’

A clock he couldn’t see struck ten. All around him, pens dipped into inkwells and began to scratch furiously across paper, but Harry simply folded his arms, leant on the desk and read each question slowly. He was among the last to pick up his pen.

Harry couldn’t know that Mr Holcombe was pacing up and down on the pavement outside, feeling far more nervous than his pupil. Or that his mother was glancing up at the clock in the foyer of the Royal Hotel every few minutes as she served morning coffee. Or that Miss Monday was kneeling in silent prayer before the altar at Holy Nativity.

Moments after the clock had struck twelve, the examination papers were gathered up and the boys were allowed to leave the hall, some laughing, some frowning, others thoughtful.

When Mr Holcombe first saw Harry, his heart sank. ‘Was it that bad?’ he asked.

Harry didn’t reply until he was certain no other boy could overhear his words. ‘Not at all what I expected,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Holcombe anxiously.

‘The questions were far too easy,’ replied Harry.

Mr Holcombe felt that he had never been paid a greater compliment in his life.

‘Two suits, madam, grey. One blazer, navy. Five shirts, white. Five stiff collars, white. Six pairs of calf-length socks, grey. Six sets of undergarments, white. And one St Bede’s tie.’ The shop assistant checked the list carefully. ‘I think that covers everything. Oh, no, the boy will also need a school cap.’ He reached under the counter, opened a drawer and removed a red and black cap which he placed on Harry’s head. ‘A perfect fit,’ he pronounced. Maisie smiled at her son with considerable pride. Harry looked every inch a St Bede’s boy. ‘That will be three pounds, ten shillings and six pence, madam.’

Maisie tried not to look too dismayed. ‘Is it possible to purchase any of these items second-hand?’ she whispered.

‘No, madam, this is not a second-hand shop,’ said the assistant, who had already decided that this customer would not be allowed to open an account.

Maisie opened her purse, handed over four pound notes and waited for the change. She was relieved that St Bede’s had paid the first term’s bursary in advance, especially as she still needed to buy two pairs of leather shoes, black with laces, two pairs of gym shoes, white with laces, and one pair of slippers, bedroom.

The assistant coughed. ‘The boy will also need two pairs of pyjamas and a dressing gown.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Maisie, hoping she had enough money left in her purse to cover the cost.

‘And am I to understand that the boy is a choral scholar?’ asked the assistant, looking more closely at his list.

‘Yes, he is,’ Maisie replied proudly.

‘Then he’ll also require one cassock, red, two surplices, white, and a St Bede’s medallion.’ Maisie wanted to run out of the shop. ‘Those items will be supplied by the school when he attends his first choir practice,’ the assistant added before handing over her change. ‘Will you be requiring anything else, madam?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Harry, who picked up the two bags, grabbed his mother by the arm and led her quickly out of T.C. Marsh, Tailors of Distinction.

Harry spent the Saturday morning before he was due to report to St Bede’s with Old Jack.

‘Are you nervous about going to a new school?’ asked Old Jack.

‘No, I’m not,’ said Harry defiantly. Old Jack smiled. ‘I’m terrified,’ he admitted.

‘So is every new bug, as you’ll be called. Try to treat the whole thing as if you’re starting out on an adventure to a new world, where everyone begins as equals.’

‘But the moment they hear me speak, they’ll realize I’m not their equal.’

‘Possibly, but the moment they hear you sing, they’ll realize they’re not your equal.’

‘Most of them will have come from rich families, with servants.’

‘That will only be a consolation for the more stupid ones,’ said Old Jack.

And some of them will have brothers at the school, and even fathers and grandfathers who were there before them.’

Your father was a fine man,’ said Old Jack, ‘and none of them will have a better mother, of that I can assure you.’

‘You knew my father?’ said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.

‘Knew would be an exaggeration,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I observed him from afar, as I have many others who have worked at the docks. He was a decent, courageous, God-fearing man.’

‘But do you know how he died?’ asked Harry, looking Old Jack in the eye, hoping he would at last get an honest reply to the question that had troubled him for so long.

‘What have you been told?’ asked Old Jack cautiously.

‘That he was killed in the Great War. But as I was born in 1920, even I can work out that that can’t be possible.’

Old Jack didn’t speak for some time. Harry remained on the edge of his seat.

‘He was certainly badly wounded in the war, but you’re right, that was not the cause of his death.’

‘Then how did he die?’ asked Harry.

‘If I knew, I’d tell you,’ replied Old Jack. ‘But there were so many rumours flying around at the time that I wasn’t sure who to believe. However, there are several men, and three in particular, who undoubtedly know the truth about what happened that night.’

‘My uncle Stan must be one of them,’ said Harry, ‘but who are the other two?’

Old Jack hesitated, before he replied, ‘Phil Haskins and Mr Hugo.’

‘Mr Haskins? The ganger?’ said Harry. ‘He wouldn’t give me the time of day. And who’s Mr Hugo?’

‘Hugo Barrington, the son of Sir Walter Barrington.’

‘The family who own the shipping line?’

‘The same,’ replied Old Jack, fearing he’d gone too far.

‘And are they also decent, courageous, God-fearing men?’

‘Sir Walter is among the finest men I’ve ever known.’

‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’

‘Not cut from the same cloth, I fear,’ said Old Jack, without further explanation.

4

THE SMARTLY DRESSED BOY sat next to his mother on the back seat of the tram.

‘This is our stop,’ she said when the tram came to a halt. They got off, and began to walk slowly up the hill towards the school, going a little slower with each step.

Harry held on to his mother with one hand, while he clutched a battered suitcase with the other. Neither of them spoke as they watched several hansom cabs, as well as the occasional chauffeur-driven car, pull up outside the front gates of the school.

Fathers were shaking hands with their sons, while fur-draped mothers embraced their offspring before giving them a peck on the cheek, like a bird finally having to acknowledge her fledglings were about to fly the nest.

Harry didn’t want his mother to kiss him in front of the other boys, so he let go of her hand when they were still fifty yards from the gate. Maisie, sensing his discomfort, bent down and kissed him quickly on the forehead. ‘Good luck, Harry. Make us all proud of you.’

‘Goodbye, Mum,’ he said, fighting back the tears.

Maisie turned and began to walk back down the hill, tears flooding down her own cheeks.

Harry walked on, recalling his uncle’s description of going over the top at Ypres before charging towards the enemy lines. Never look back, or you’re a dead man. Harry wanted to look back, but he knew if he did, he would not stop running until he was safely on the tram. He gritted his teeth and kept on walking.

‘Did you have a good hols, old chap?’ one of the boys was asking a friend.

‘Topping,’ the other replied. ‘The pater took me to Lord’s for the Varsity match.’

Was Lord’s a church, Harry wondered, and if so, what sort of match could possibly take place in a church? He marched resolutely on through the school gates, coming to a halt when he recognized a man standing by the front door of the school holding a clipboard.

‘And who are you, young man?’ he asked, giving Harry a welcoming smile.

‘Harry Clifton, sir,’ he replied, removing his cap just as Mr Holcombe had instructed him to do whenever a master or a lady spoke to him.

‘Clifton,’ he said, running a finger down a long list of names. ‘Ah, yes.’ He placed a tick by Harry’s name. ‘First generation, choral scholar. Many congratulations, and welcome to St Bede’s. I’m Mr Frobisher, your housemaster, and this is Frobisher House. If you leave your suitcase in the hall, a prefect will accompany you to the refectory where I’ll be addressing all the new boys before supper.’

Harry had never had supper before. ‘Tea’ was always the last meal in the Clifton household, before being sent to bed the moment it was dark. Electricity hadn’t yet reached Still House Lane, and there was rarely enough money over to spend on candles.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry, before making his way through the front door and into a large, highly polished wood-panelled hall. He put his case down and stared up at a painting of an old man with grey hair and bushy white sideburns, dressed in a long black gown with a red hood draped around his shoulders.

‘What’s your name?’ barked a voice from behind him.

‘Clifton, sir,’ said Harry, turning to see a tall boy wearing long trousers.

‘You don’t call me sir, Clifton. You call me Fisher. I’m a prefect, not a master.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harry.

‘Leave your case over there and follow me.’

Harry placed his second-hand, battered suitcase next to a row of leather trunks. His was the only one that didn’t have a set of initials stamped on it. He followed the prefect down a long corridor that was lined with photographs of old school teams and display cabinets filled with silver cups, to remind the next generation of past glories. When they reached the refectory, Fisher said, ‘You can sit anywhere you like, Clifton. Just be sure to stop talking the moment Mr Frobisher enters the refectory.’

Harry hesitated for some time before deciding which of the four long tables he would sit at. A number of boys were already milling around in clusters, talking quietly. Harry walked slowly to the far corner of the room and took a place at the end of the table. He looked up to see several boys pouring into the hall, looking just as perplexed as he felt. One of them came and sat next to Harry, while another sat opposite him. They continued chatting to each other as if he wasn’t there.

Without warning, a bell rang and everyone stopped talking as Mr Frobisher entered the refectory. He took his place behind a lectern Harry hadn’t noticed and tugged at the lapels of his gown.

‘Welcome,’ he began, doffing his mortarboard to the assembled gathering, ‘on this, the first day of your first term at St Bede’s. In a few moments’ time you will experience your first school meal, and I can promise you that it doesn’t get any better.’ One or two of the boys laughed nervously. ‘Once you have finished supper, you will be taken up to your dormitories, where you will unpack. At eight o’clock, you will hear another bell. Actually it’s the same bell, just being rung at a different time.’ Harry smiled, although most of the boys hadn’t caught Mr Frobisher’s little joke.

‘Thirty minutes later, the same bell will ring again, and you will then go to bed, but not before you’ve washed and brushed your teeth. You will then have thirty minutes to read before lights out, after which you will go to sleep. Any child caught talking after lights out will be punished by the duty prefect. You will not hear another bell,’ continued Mr Frobisher, ‘until six thirty tomorrow morning, when you will rise, wash and dress in time to report back to the refectory before seven. Any child who is late will forgo his breakfast.

‘Morning assembly will be held at eight o’clock in the great hall, where the headmaster will address us. This will be followed by your first lesson at eight thirty. There will be three sixty-minute lessons during the morning, with ten-minute breaks between them, giving you time to change classrooms. This will be followed by lunch at twelve.

‘In the afternoon there will only be two more lessons before games, when you will play football.’ Harry smiled for a second time. ‘This is compulsory for everyone who is not a member of the choir.’ Harry frowned. No one had told him that choristers didn’t get to play football. ‘After games or choir practice, you will return to Frobisher House for supper, which will be followed by an hour of prep before you retire to bed, when once again you can read until lights out – but only if the book has been approved by Matron,’ added Mr Frobisher. ‘This must all sound very bemusing to you’ – Harry made a mental note to look up the word in the dictionary Mr Holcombe had presented him with. Mr Frobisher once again tugged at the lapels of his gown before continuing. ‘But don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to our traditions at St Bede’s. That’s all I’m going to say for the moment. I’ll now leave you to enjoy your supper. Goodnight, boys.’

‘Goodnight, sir,’ some boys had the courage to reply as Mr Frobisher left the room.

Harry didn’t move a muscle as several women in pinafores marched up and down the tables placing bowls of soup in front of each boy. He watched attentively as the boy opposite him picked up a strangely shaped spoon, dipped it into his soup and pushed it away from him before putting it to his mouth. Harry attempted to imitate the motion, but only ended up spilling several drops of soup on the table, and when he did manage to transfer what was left into his mouth, most of it dribbled down his chin. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. This didn’t attract much attention, but when he slurped loudly with each mouthful, several of the boys stopped eating and stared at him. Embarrassed, Harry placed the spoon back on the table and left his soup to go cold.

The second course was a fishcake, and Harry didn’t move until he’d seen which fork the boy opposite him picked up. He was surprised to notice that the boy placed his knife and fork on the plate between each mouthful, while Harry clung on to his as firmly as if they were pitchforks.

A conversation struck up between the boy opposite him and the boy next to him, on the subject of riding to hounds. Harry didn’t join in, partly because the nearest he’d been to sitting on a horse was a halfpenny ride on a donkey one afternoon on an outing to Weston-super-Mare.

Once the plates had been whisked away, they were replaced with puddings, or what his mum called treats, because he didn’t get them often. Yet another spoon, yet another taste, yet another mistake. Harry didn’t realize that a banana wasn’t like an apple, so to the astonishment of all those around him, he tried to eat the skin. For the rest of the boys, their first lesson might well be tomorrow at 8.30 a.m., but Harry’s was already taking place.

After supper had been cleared away, Fisher returned and, as duty prefect, led his charges up a wide wooden staircase to the dormitories on the first floor. Harry entered a room with thirty beds neatly lined up in three rows of ten. Each had a pillow, two sheets and two blankets. Harry had never had two of anything.

‘This is the new bugs’ dorm,’ said Fisher with disdain. ‘It’s where you’ll remain until you’re civilized. You’ll find your names in alphabetical order, at the foot of each bed.’

Harry was surprised to find his suitcase on the bed and wondered who’d put it there. The boy next to him was already unpacking.

‘I’m Deakins,’ he said, pushing his spectacles further up his nose so he could take a closer look at Harry.

‘I’m Harry. I sat next to you during exams last summer. I couldn’t believe you answered all the questions in just over an hour.’

Deakins blushed.

‘That’s why he’s a scholar,’ said the boy on the other side of Harry.

Harry swung around. ‘Are you a scholar, too?’ he asked.

‘Good heavens, no,’ said the boy as he continued to unpack. ‘The only reason they let me into St Bede’s was because my father and grandfather were here before me. I’m the third generation to go to the school. Was your father here by any chance?’

‘No,’ said Harry and Deakins in unison.

‘Stop chattering!’ shouted Fisher, ‘and get on with unpacking your cases.’

Harry opened his suitcase and began taking his clothes out and placing them neatly in the two drawers next to his bed. His mother had put a bar of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate in between his shirts. He hid it under the pillow.

A bell sounded. ‘Time to get undressed!’ declared Fisher. Harry had never undressed in front of another boy, let alone a room full of them. He faced the wall, took off his clothes slowly and quickly pulled on his pyjamas. Once he’d tied the cord of his dressing gown, he followed the other boys into the washroom. Once again, he watched carefully as they washed their faces with flannels before brushing their teeth. He didn’t have a flannel or a toothbrush. The boy from the next bed rummaged around in his wash bag and handed him a brand new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Harry didn’t want to take them until the boy said, ‘My mother always packs two of everything.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry. Although he cleaned his teeth quickly, he was still among the last to return to the dormitory. He climbed into bed, two clean sheets, two blankets and a soft pillow. He had just looked across to see that Deakins was reading Kennedy’s Latin Primer when the other boy said, This pillow is brick hard.’

‘Would you like to swap with me?’ Harry asked.

‘I think you’ll find they’re all the same,’ the boy said with a grin, ‘but thanks.’

Harry took his bar of chocolate from under the pillow and broke it into three pieces. He handed one piece to Deakins, and another to the boy who’d given him the toothbrush and toothpaste.

‘I see your mater’s far more sensible than mine,’ he said after taking a bite. Another bell. ‘By the way, my name’s Giles Barrington. What’s yours?’

‘Clifton. Harry Clifton.’

Harry didn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, and it wasn’t just because his bed was so comfortable. Could it be possible that Giles was related to one of the three men who knew the truth about how his father had died? And if so, was he cut from the same cloth as his father, or his grandfather?

Suddenly Harry felt very lonely. He unscrewed the top of the toothpaste Barrington had given him and began to suck it until he fell asleep.

When the now-familiar bell rang at 6.30 next morning, Harry climbed slowly out of bed, feeling sick. He followed Deakins into the washroom, to find Giles was testing the water. ‘Do you think this place has ever heard of hot water?’ he asked.

Harry was just about to reply when the prefect hollered, ‘No talking in the washroom!’

‘He’s worse than a Prussian general,’ said Barrington, clicking his heels. Harry burst out laughing.

‘Who was that?’ asked Fisher, glaring at the two boys.

‘Me,’ said Harry immediately.

‘Name?’

‘Clifton.’

‘Open your mouth again, Clifton, and I’ll slipper you.’

Harry had no idea what being slippered meant, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be pleasant. Once he’d brushed his teeth, he walked quickly back into the dorm and dressed without another word. Once he’d done up his tie – something else he hadn’t quite mastered – he caught up with Barrington and Deakins as they made their way down the stairs to the refectory.

Nobody said a word, as they weren’t sure if they were allowed to talk while they were on the staircase. When they sat down for breakfast in the refectory, Harry slipped in between his two new friends, and watched as bowls of porridge were placed in front of each boy. He was relieved to find there was only one spoon in front of him, so he couldn’t make a mistake this time.

Harry gulped down his porridge so quickly it was as if he was afraid Uncle Stan would appear and snatch it away from him. He was the first to finish, and without a moment’s thought he put his spoon down on the table, picked up his bowl and began to lick it. Several other boys stared at him in disbelief, some pointed, while others sniggered. He turned a bright shade of crimson and put the bowl back down. He would have burst into tears, if Barrington hadn’t picked up his own bowl and begun licking it.

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.

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 Deak-ins.’ 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 Barring-ton 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 Barring-ton, 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.

7

THE SCHOOL TUCK SHOP was open between four and six every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon.

Harry rarely visited the ‘Emporium’, as it was known by the boys, since he only had two shillings’ pocket money a term, and he knew his mother wouldn’t appreciate any little extras appearing on his end-of-term account. However, on Deakins’s birthday, Harry made an exception to this rule, as he intended to purchase a one-penny bar of fudge for his friend.

Despite Harry’s rare visits to the tuck shop, a bar of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate could be found on his desk every Tuesday and Thursday evening. Although there was a school rule that no boy could spend more than sixpence a week in the tuck shop, Giles would also leave a packet of Liquorice Allsorts for Deakins, making it clear to his friends that he expected nothing in return.

When Harry arrived at the tuck shop that Tuesday, he joined a long queue of boys waiting to be served. His mouth watered as he stared at the neatly stacked rows of chocolate, fudge, jelly babies, liquorice and, the latest craze, Smiths potato crisps. He’d considered buying a packet for himself, but after a recent introduction to Mr Wilkins Micawber, he had been left in no doubt about the value of sixpence.

As Harry ogled the Emporium’s treasures, he heard Giles’s voice and noticed that he was a few places ahead of him in the queue. He was just about to hail his friend when he saw Giles remove a bar of chocolate from a shelf and slip it into his trouser pocket. A few moments later, a packet of chewing gum followed. When Giles reached the front of the queue, he placed on the counter a box of Liquorice Allsorts, 2d, and a bag of crisps, 1d, which Mr Swivals, the master in charge of the shop, entered neatly in his ledger against the name of Barrington. The two other items remained in Giles’s pocket, unaccounted for.

Harry was horrified, and before Giles could turn round, he slipped out of the shop, not wanting his friend to spot him. Harry walked slowly around the school block, trying to work out why Giles would want to steal anything, when he could so obviously afford to pay. He assumed there had to be some simple explanation, although he couldn’t imagine what it might be.

Harry went up to his study just before prep, to find the pilfered bar of chocolate on his desk, and Deakins tucking into a box of Liquorice Allsorts. He found it difficult to concentrate on the causes of the Industrial Revolution while he tried to decide what, if anything, he should do about his discovery.

By the end of prep, he’d made his decision. He placed the unopened bar of chocolate in the top drawer of his desk, having decided he would return it to the tuck shop on Thursday, without telling Giles.

Harry didn’t sleep that night, and after breakfast he took Deakins to one side and explained why he hadn’t been able to give him a birthday present. Deakins couldn’t hide his disbelief.

‘My dad’s been having the same problem in his shop,’ said Deakins. ‘It’s called shoplifting. The Daily Mail is blaming it on the Depression.’

‘I don’t think Giles’s family will have been affected much by the Depression,’ said Harry with some feeling.

Deakins nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should tell the Frob?’

‘Sneak on my best friend?’ said Harry. ‘Never.’

‘But if Giles is caught he could be expelled,’ said Deakins. ‘The least you can do is warn him you’ve found out what he’s up to.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Harry. ‘But in the meantime I’m going to return anything Giles gives me to the tuck shop without letting him know.’

Deakins leant over. ‘Could you take my stuff back as well?’ he whispered. ‘I never go to the tuck shop, so I wouldn’t know what to do.’

Harry agreed to take on the responsibility, and after that he went to the tuck shop twice a week and placed Giles’s unwanted gifts back on the shelves. He had concluded that Deakins was right and that he would have to confront his friend before he was caught, but decided to put it off until the end of term.

‘Good shot, Barrington,’ said Mr Frobisher as the ball crossed the boundary. A ripple of applause broke out around the ground. ‘Mark my words, headmaster, Barrington will play for Eton against Harrow at Lord’s.’

‘Not if Giles has anything to do with it,’ Harry whispered to Deakins.

‘What are you doing for the summer hols, Harry?’ asked Deakins, seemingly oblivious to all that was going on around him.

‘I don’t have any plans to visit Tuscany this year, if that’s what you’re asking,’ Harry replied with a grin.

‘I don’t think Giles really wants to go either,’ said Deakins. ‘After all, the Italians have never understood cricket.’

‘Well, I’d be happy to change places with him,’ said Harry. ‘It doesn’t bother me that Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Caravaggio were never introduced to the finer subtleties of leg break bowling, not to mention all that pasta he’ll be expected to wade through.’

‘So where are you going?’ asked Deakins.

A week on the Riviera of the West,’ said Harry with bravado. ‘The grand pier at Weston-super-Mare is usually the high spot, followed by fish and chips at Coffins cafe. Care to join me?’

‘Can’t spare the time,’ said Deakins, who clearly thought Harry was being serious.

‘And why’s that?’ asked Harry, playing along.

‘Too much work to do.’

‘You intend to go on working during the holidays?’ asked Harry in disbelief.

‘Work is a holiday for me,’ said Deakins. ‘I enjoy it every bit as much as Giles does his cricket, and you do your singing.’

‘But where do you work?’

‘In the municipal library, clot. They have everything I need.’

‘Can I join you?’ asked Harry, sounding just as serious. ‘I need all the help I can get if I’m to have any chance of winning a scholarship to BGS.’

‘Only if you agree to remain silent at all times,’ said Deakins. Harry would have laughed, but he knew his friend didn’t consider work a laughing matter.

‘But I desperately need some help with my Latin grammar,’ said Harry. ‘I still don’t understand the consecutive clause, let alone subjunctives, and if I don’t manage a pass mark in the Latin paper, it’s curtains, even if I do well in every other subject.’

‘I’d be willing to help you with your Latin,’ said Deakins, ‘if you do me a favour in return.’

‘Name it,’ said Harry, ‘though I can’t believe you’re hoping to perform a solo at this year’s carol service.’

‘Good shot, Barrington,’ said Mr Frobisher again. Harry joined in the applause. ‘That’s his third half-century this season, headmaster,’ added Mr Frobisher.

‘Don’t be frivolous, Harry,’ said Deakins. ‘The truth is, my dad needs someone to take over the morning paper round during the summer holidays, and I’ve suggested you. The pay is a shilling a week, and as long as you can report to the shop by six o’clock every morning, the position’s yours.’

‘Six o’clock?’ said Harry scornfully. ‘When you’ve got an uncle who wakes up the whole house at five, that’s the least of your problems.’

‘Then you’d be willing to take on the job?’

‘Yes of course,’ said Harry. ‘But why don’t you want it? A bob a week is not to be sniffed at.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ said Deakins, ‘but I can’t ride a bicycle.’

‘Oh hell,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t even have a bicycle.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t have a bicycle,’ sighed Deakins, ‘I said I couldn’t ride one.’

‘Clifton,’ said Mr Frobisher as the cricketers walked off the ground for tea, ‘I’d like to see you in my study after prep.’

Harry had always liked Mr Frobisher, who was one of the few masters who treated him as an equal. He also didn’t appear to have any favourites, while some of the other beaks left him in no doubt that a docker’s son should never have been allowed to enter the hallowed portals of St Bede’s however good his voice was.

When the bell rang at the end of prep, Harry put down his pen and walked across the corridor to Mr Frobisher’s study. He had no idea why his housemaster wanted to see him, and hadn’t given the matter a great deal of thought.

Harry knocked on the study door.

‘Come,’ said the voice of a man who never wasted words. Harry opened the door and was surprised not to be greeted with the usual Frob smile.

Mr Frobisher stared up at Harry as he came to a halt in front of his desk. ‘It has been brought to my attention, Clifton, that you have been stealing from the tuck shop.’ Harry’s mind went blank as he tried to think of a response that wouldn’t condemn Giles. ‘You were seen by a prefect, removing goods from the shelves,’ continued Frobisher in the same uncompromising tone, ‘and then slipping out of the shop before you reached the front of the queue.’

Harry wanted to say, ‘Not removing, sir, returning,’ but all he managed was, ‘I have never taken anything from the tuck shop, sir.’ Despite the fact that he was telling the truth, he could still feel his cheeks reddening.

‘Then how do you explain your twice weekly visits to the Emporium, when there isn’t a single entry against your name in Mr Swivals’s ledger?’

Mr Frobisher waited patiently, but Harry knew if he told the truth, Giles would surely be expelled.

‘And this bar of chocolate and packet of Liquorice Allsorts were found in the top drawer of your desk, not long after the tuck shop had closed.’

Harry looked down at the sweets, but still said nothing.

‘I’m waiting for an explanation, Clifton,’ said Mr Frobisher. After another long pause, he added, ‘I am of course aware that you have far less pocket money than any other boy in your class, but that is no excuse for stealing.’

‘I have never stolen anything in my life,’ said Harry.

It was Mr Frobisher’s turn to look dismayed. He rose from behind his desk. ‘If that is the case, Clifton – and I want to believe you – you will report back to me after choir practice with a full explanation of how you came to be in possession of tuck you clearly didn’t pay for. Should you fail to satisfy me, we will both be paying a visit to the headmaster, and I have no doubt what his recommendation will be.’

Harry left the room. The moment he closed the door behind him, he felt sick. He made his way back to his study, hoping Giles wouldn’t be there. When he opened the door, the first thing he saw was another bar of chocolate on his desk.

Giles looked up. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked when he saw Harry’s flushed face. Harry didn’t reply. He placed the bar of chocolate in a drawer and left for choir practice without saying a word to either of his friends. Giles’s eyes never left him, and once the door was closed, he turned to Deakins and asked casually, ‘What’s his problem?’ Deakins went on writing as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘Didn’t you hear me, cloth ears?’ said Giles. ‘Why’s Harry in a sulk?’

‘All I know is that he had an appointment to see the Frob.’

‘Why?’ asked Giles, sounding more interested.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Deakins, who didn’t stop writing.

Giles stood up and strolled across the room to Deakins’s side. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ he demanded, grabbing him by the ear.

Deakins dropped his pen, nervously touched the bridge of his glasses and pushed them further up his nose, before he eventually squeaked, ‘He’s in some sort of trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’ asked Giles, twisting the ear.

‘I think he might even be expelled,’ whimpered Deakins.

Giles let go of his ear and burst out laughing. ‘Harry, expelled?’ he scoffed. ‘The Pope’s more likely to be defrocked.’ He would have returned to his desk if he hadn’t noticed beads of sweat appearing on Deakins’s forehead. ‘What for?’ he asked more quietly.

‘The Frob thinks he’s been stealing from the tuck shop,’ said Deakins.

If Deakins had looked up, he would have seen that Giles had turned ashen white. A moment later, he heard the door close. He picked up his pen and tried to concentrate, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t finish his prep.

When Harry came out of choir practice an hour later, he spotted Fisher leaning on the wall, unable to mask a smile. That was when he realized who must have reported him. He ignored Fisher and strolled back to his house as if he didn’t have a care in the world, whereas in fact he felt like a man mounting the gallows, knowing that unless he ditched his closest friend, a stay of execution would not be possible. He hesitated before knocking on his housemaster’s door.

The ‘Come’ was far gentler than it had been earlier that afternoon, but when Harry entered the room he was greeted with the same uncompromising stare. He bowed his head.

‘I owe you a sincere apology, Clifton,’ said Frobisher, rising from behind his desk. ‘I now realize that you were not the culprit.’

Harry’s heart was still beating fast, but his anxiety was now for Giles. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, his head still bowed. He had so many questions he would have liked to ask the Frob, but he knew none of them would be answered.

Mr Frobisher stepped out from behind his desk and shook hands with Harry, something he’d never done before. ‘You’d better hurry, Clifton, if you hope to get any supper.’

When Harry came out of the Frob’s study, he walked slowly towards the dining room. Fisher was standing by the door, a surprised look on his face. Harry walked straight past him and took his place on the end of the bench next to Deakins. The seat opposite him was empty.

8

GILES DIDN’T SHOW UP for supper, and his bed wasn’t slept in that night. If St Bede’s hadn’t lost their annual fixture against Avonhurst by thirty-one runs, Harry suspected that not many boys or even masters would have noticed he was missing.

But, unfortunately for Giles, it was a home match, so everyone had an opinion on why the school’s opening batsman had not taken his guard at the crease, not least Fisher, who was telling anyone who cared to listen that the wrong man had been rusticated.

Harry hadn’t been looking forward to the holidays; not just because he wondered if he’d ever see Giles again, but also because it meant returning to No. 27 Still House Lane and once again having to share a room with his uncle Stan, who more often than not returned home drunk.

After spending the evening going over old exam papers, Harry would climb into bed around ten. He quickly fell asleep, only to be woken sometime after midnight by his uncle, who was often so drunk he couldn’t find his own bed. The sound of Stan trying to pee into a chamberpot, and not always hitting the target, was something that would remain etched in Harry’s mind for the rest of his life.

Once Stan had collapsed on to his bed – he rarely bothered to get undressed – Harry would try to fall asleep a second time, often to be woken a few minutes later by loud drunken snores. He longed to be back at St Bede’s, sharing a dormitory with twenty-nine other boys.

Harry still hoped that in an unguarded moment Stan might let slip some more details about his father’s death, but most of the time he was too incoherent to answer even the simplest question. On one of the rare occasions when he was sober enough to speak, he told Harry to bugger off and warned him that if he raised the subject again, he’d thrash him.

The only good thing about sharing a room with Stan was that there was never any chance of his being late for his paper round.

Harry’s days at Still House Lane fell into a well-ordered routine: up at five, one slice of toast for breakfast – he no longer licked his uncle’s bowl – report to Mr Deakins at the newsagent’s by six, stack the papers in the correct order, then deliver them. The whole exercise took about two hours, allowing him to be back home in time for a cup of tea with Mum before she went off to work. At around eight thirty Harry would set off for the library, where he would meet up with Deakins, who was always sitting on the top step waiting for someone to open the doors.

In the afternoon, Harry would report for choir practice at St Mary Redcliffe, as part of his obligation to St Bede’s. He never considered it an obligation because he enjoyed singing so much. In fact, he’d more than once whispered, ‘Please God, when my voice breaks, let me be a tenor, and I’ll never ask for anything else.’

After he returned home for tea in the evening, Harry would work at the kitchen table for a couple of hours before going to bed, dreading his uncle’s return every bit as much as he had Fisher’s in his first week at St Bede’s. At least Fisher had departed for Colston’s Grammar School, so Harry assumed their paths would never cross again.

Harry was looking forward to his final year at St Bede’s, although he wasn’t in any doubt just how much his life would change if he and his two friends ended up going their separate ways: Giles to he knew not where, Deakins to Bristol Grammar, while if he failed to win a scholarship to BGS, he might well have to return to Merrywood Elementary, and then, at the age of fourteen, leave school and look for a job. He tried not to think about the consequences of failure, despite Stan never missing an opportunity to remind him he could always find work at the docks.

‘The boy should never have been allowed to go to that stuck-up school in the first place,’ he regularly told Maisie once she’d placed his bowl of porridge in front of him. ‘It’s given him ideas above his station,’ he added, as if Harry wasn’t there. A view that Harry felt Fisher would have happily agreed with, but then he’d long ago come to the conclusion that Uncle Stan and Fisher had a lot in common.

‘But surely Harry should be given the chance to better himself?’ countered Maisie.

‘Why?’ said Stan. ‘If the docks was good enough for me and his old man, why aren’t they good enough for him?’ he demanded with a finality that brooked no argument.

‘Perhaps the boy’s cleverer than both of us,’ suggested Maisie.

This silenced Stan for a moment, but after another spoonful of porridge, he declared, ‘Depends on what you mean by clever. After all, there’s clever and then there’s clever.’ He took another spoonful, but added nothing more to this profound observation.

Harry would cut his slice of toast into four pieces as he listened to his uncle play the same record again and again every morning. He never spoke up for himself, as clearly Stan had already made up his mind on the subject of Harry’s future and nothing was going to budge him. What Stan didn’t realize was that his constant jibes only inspired Harry to work even harder.

‘Can’t hang around here all day,’ would be Stan’s final comment, especially if he felt he was losing the argument. ‘Some of us have a job to do,’ he added as he rose from the table. No one bothered to argue. ‘And another thing,’ he said as he opened the kitchen door. ‘None of you’ve noticed the boy’s gone soft. He doesn’t even lick my porridge bowl no longer. God knows what they’ve been teachin’ him at that school.’ The door slammed behind him.

‘Take no notice of your uncle,’ said Harry’s mother. ‘He’s just jealous. He doesn’t like the fact that we’re all so proud of you. And even he’ll have to change his tune when you win that scholarship, just like your friend Deakins.’

‘But that’s the problem, Mum,’ said Harry. ‘I’m not like Deakins, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s all worth it.’

The rest of the family stared at Harry in silent disbelief, until Grandpa piped up for the first time in days. ‘I wish I’d been given the chance to go to Bristol Grammar School.’

‘Why’s that, Grandpa?’ shouted Harry.

‘Because if I had, we wouldn’t have had to live with your uncle Stan all these years.’

Harry enjoyed his morning paper round, and not just because it got him out of the house. As the weeks went by, he came to know several of Mr Deakins’s regulars, some of whom had heard him sing at St Mary’s and would wave when he delivered their paper, while others offered him a cup of tea, even an apple. Mr Deakins had warned him that there were two dogs he should avoid on the round; within a fortnight, both of them were wagging their tails when he got off his bicycle.

Harry was delighted to discover that Mr Holcombe was one of Mr Deakins’s regular customers, and they often had a word when he dropped off his copy of The Times each morning. His first teacher left Harry in no doubt that he didn’t want to see him back at Merrywood, and added that if he needed any extra tuition, he was free most evenings.

When Harry returned to the newsagent’s after his round, Mr Deakins would always slip a penny bar of Fry’s chocolate into his satchel before sending him on his way. It reminded him of Giles. He often wondered what had become of his friend. Neither he nor Deakins had heard from Giles since the day Mr Frobisher had asked to see Harry after prep. Then, before he left the shop to go home, he always paused in front of the display cabinet to admire a watch he knew he’d never be able to afford. He didn’t even bother to ask Mr Deakins how much it cost.

There were only two regular breaks in Harry’s weekly routine. He would always try to spend Saturday morning with Old Jack, taking with him copies of all the previous week’s Times, and on Sunday evenings, once he’d fulfilled his duties at St Mary’s, he would rush across the city so he could be at Holy Nativity in time for Evensong.

A frail Miss Monday would beam with pride during the treble solo. She only hoped she would live long enough to see Harry go up to Cambridge. She had plans to tell him about the choir at King’s College, but not until he’d won a place at Bristol Grammar.

‘Is Mr Frobisher going to make you a prefect?’ asked Old Jack, even before Harry had sunk into his usual seat on the opposite side of the carriage.

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Harry. ‘Mind you, the Frob always says,’ he added, tugging his lapels, ‘Clifton, in life you get what you deserve, no more and certainly no less.’

Old Jack chuckled, and just stopped himself saying, ‘Not a bad imitation of the Frob.’ He satisfied himself with, ‘Then my bet is you’re about to become a prefect.’

‘I’d rather win a scholarship to BGS,’ said Harry, suddenly sounding older than his years.

‘And what about your friends, Barrington and Deakins?’ Old Jack asked, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Are they also destined for higher things?’

‘They’ll never make Deakins a prefect,’ said Harry. ‘He can’t even take care of himself, let alone anyone else. In any case, he’s hoping to be the library monitor, and as no one else wants the job, Mr Frobisher shouldn’t lose too much sleep over that appointment.’

‘And Barrington?’

‘I’m not sure he’ll be coming back next term,’ said Harry wistfully. ‘Even if he does, I’m fairly certain they won’t make him a prefect.’

‘Don’t underestimate his father,’ said Old Jack. ‘That man will undoubtedly have found a way to ensure that his son returns on the first day of term. And I wouldn’t put money on his not being a prefect.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Harry.

‘And if I am, I presume he will then follow his father to Eton?’

‘Not if he has any say in it. Giles would prefer to go to BGS with Deakins and me.’

‘If he doesn’t get into Eton, they’re unlikely to offer him a place at the grammar school. Their entrance exam is one of the hardest in the country.’

‘He told me he’s got a plan.’

‘It had better be a good one, if he hopes to fool his father as well as the examiners.’

Harry didn’t comment.

‘How’s your mother?’ asked Old Jack, changing the subject, as it was clear that the boy didn’t want to go any further down that path.

‘She’s just been promoted. She’s now in charge of all the waitresses in the Palm Court room, and reports directly to Mr Frampton, the hotel manager.’

‘You must be very proud of her,’ said Old Jack.

‘Yes, I am, sir, and what’s more, I’m going to prove it.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

Harry let him in to his secret. The old man listened attentively, and nodded his approval from time to time. He could see one small problem, but it wasn’t insurmountable.

When Harry returned to the shop having completed his last paper round before going back to school, Mr Deakins gave him a shilling bonus. ‘You’re the best paper boy I’ve ever had,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry, pocketing the money. ‘Mr Deakins, can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes, of course, Harry.’

Harry walked over to the cabinet, where two watches were displayed side by side on the top shelf. ‘How much is that one?’ he asked, pointing to the Ingersoll.

Mr Deakins smiled. He’d been waiting for Harry to ask that question for some weeks, and had his answer well prepared. ‘Six shillings,’ he said.

Harry couldn’t believe it. He’d been sure that such a magnificent object would cost more than double that. But despite his having put aside half his earnings each week, even with Mr Deakins’s bonus, he was still a shilling short.

‘You do realize, Harry, that it’s a lady’s watch?’ said Mr Deakins.

‘Yes, I do, sir,’ said Harry. ‘I was hoping to give it to my mother.’

‘Then you can have it for five shillings.’

Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said as he handed over four shillings, one sixpence, one thruppence and three pennies, leaving him with empty pockets.

Mr Deakins took the watch out of the display cabinet, discreetly removed the sixteen-shilling price tag and then placed it in a smart box.

Harry left the shop whistling. Mr Deakins smiled and placed the ten-shilling note in the till, delighted that he’d fulfilled his part of the bargain.

9

THE BELL WENT.

‘Time to get undressed,’ said the duty prefect in the new boys’ dorm on the first evening of term. They all looked so small and helpless, Harry thought. One or two of them were clearly fighting back tears, while others were looking around, uncertain what they should do next. One boy was facing the wall, shaking. Harry walked quickly across to him.

‘What’s your name?’ Harry asked gently.

‘Stevenson.’

‘Well, I’m Clifton. Welcome to St Bede’s.’

‘And I’m Tewkesbury,’ said a boy standing on the other side of Stevenson’s bed.

‘Welcome to St Bede’s, Tewkesbury.’

‘Thank you, Clifton. Actually, my father and grandfather were here, before they went on to Eton.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Harry. ‘And I’ll bet they captained Eton against Harrow at Lord’s,’ he added, immediately regretting his words.

‘No, my father was a wet bob,’ said Tewkesbury unperturbed, ‘not a dry bob.’

‘A wet bob?’ said Harry.

‘He captained Oxford against Cambridge in the boat race.’

Stevenson burst into tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Harry, sitting down on the bed beside him.

‘My dad’s a tram driver.’

Everyone else stopped unpacking and stared at Stevenson.

‘Is that right?’ said Harry. ‘Then I’d better let you into a secret,’ he added, loud enough to be sure that every boy in the dormitory could hear his words. ‘I’m the son of a dock worker. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that you’re the new choral scholar.’

‘No,’ said Stevenson, ‘I’m an open scholar.’

‘Many congratulations,’ said Harry, shaking him by the hand. ‘You follow in a long and noble tradition.’

‘Thank you. But I have a problem,’ the boy whispered.

‘And what’s that, Stevenson?’

‘I don’t have any toothpaste.’

‘Don’t worry about that, old chap,’ said Tewkesbury, ‘my mother always packs a spare one.’

Harry smiled as the bell rang again. ‘Everyone into bed,’ he said firmly as he walked across the dormitory towards the door.

He heard a voice whisper, ‘Thank you for the toothpaste.’

‘Think nothing of it, old chap.’

‘Now,’ said Harry as he flicked off the light, ‘I don’t want to hear another word from any of you until the bell goes at six thirty tomorrow morning.’ He waited for a few moments before he heard someone whispering. ‘I meant it – not another word.’ He smiled as he walked down the staircase to join Deakins and Barrington in the senior prefects’ study.

Harry had been surprised by two things when he arrived back at St Bede’s on the first day of term. No sooner had he walked through the front door than Mr Frobisher took him to one side.

‘Congratulations, Clifton,’ he said softly. ‘It won’t be announced until assembly tomorrow morning, but you’re to be the new school captain.’

‘It should have been Giles,’ said Harry without thinking.

‘Barrington will be captain of games, and-’

Harry had leapt in the air the moment he heard the news that his friend would be returning to St Bede’s. Old Jack had been right when he said Mr Hugo would find a way to make sure his son was back for the first day of term.

When Giles walked into the front hall a few moments later, the two boys shook hands, and Harry never once referred to the subject that must have been on both their minds.

‘What are the new bugs like?’ Giles asked as Harry entered the study.

‘One of them reminds me of you,’ said Harry.

‘Tewkesbury, no doubt.’

‘You know him?’

‘No, but Papa was at Eton at the same time as his father.’

‘I told him I was the son of a docker,’ said Harry as he slumped into the only comfortable chair in the room.

‘Did you now?’ said Giles. ‘And did he tell you he’s the son of a cabinet minister?’

Harry said nothing.

‘Are there any others I should keep an eye out for?’ asked Giles.

‘Stevenson,’ said Harry. ‘He’s a cross between Deakins and me.’

‘Then we’d better lock the fire-escape door before he makes a dash for it.’

Harry often thought about where he might be now if Old Jack hadn’t talked him into returning to St Bede’s that night.

‘What’s our first lesson tomorrow?’ asked Harry, checking his timetable.

‘Latin,’ said Deakins. ‘Which is why I’m guiding Giles through the first Punic war.’

‘264 to 241 BC,’ said Giles.

‘I bet you’re enjoying that,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Giles, ‘and I just can’t wait for the sequel, the second Punic war.’

‘218 to 201 BC,’ said Harry.

‘It always amazes me how the Greeks and Romans seemed to know exactly when Christ would be born,’ said Giles.

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Harry.

Deakins didn’t laugh, but said, ‘And finally, we will have to consider the third Punic War, 149 to 146 BC.’

‘Do we really need to know about all three of them?’ said Giles.

St Mary Redcliffe was packed with town and gown who’d come to celebrate an Advent service of eight readings and eight carols. The choir made their entrance through the nave, and advanced slowly down the aisle singing O Come All Ye Faithful, then took their places in the choir stalls.

The headmaster read the first lesson. This was followed by O Little Town of Bethlehem. The service sheet indicated that the soloist for the third verse would be Master Harry Clifton.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given, while God… Harry’s mother sat proudly in the third row, while the old lady sitting next to her wanted to tell everyone in the congregation that they were listening to her grandson. The man seated on the other side of Maisie couldn’t hear a word, but you would never have known that from the contented smile on his face. Uncle Stan was nowhere to be seen.

The captain of games read the second lesson, and when Giles returned to his place, Harry noticed that he was seated next to a distinguished-looking man with a head of silver hair, who he assumed must be Sir Walter Barrington. Giles had once told him that his grandfather lived in an even larger house than his, but Harry didn’t think that could be possible. On the other side of Giles sat his mother and father. Mrs Barrington smiled across at him, but Mr Barrington didn’t once look in his direction.

When the organ struck up the prelude for We Three Kings, the congregation rose and sang lustily. The next lesson was read by Mr Frobisher, after which came what Miss Monday anticipated would be the highlight of the service. The thousand-strong congregation didn’t stir while Harry sang Silent Night with a clarity and confidence that caused even the headmaster to smile.

The library monitor read the next lesson. Harry had already coached him through St Mark’s words several times. Deakins had tried to get out of the chore, as he described it to Giles, but Mr Frobisher had insisted; the fourth lesson was always read by the librarian. Deakins wasn’t Giles, but he wasn’t bad. Harry winked at him as he shuffled back to his seat next to his parents.

The choir then rose to sing In Dulci Jubilo while the congregation remained seated. Harry considered the carol to be among the most demanding in their repertoire, because of its unconventional harmonies.

Mr Holcombe closed his eyes so that he could hear the senior choral scholar more clearly. Harry was singing Now let all hearts be singing when he thought he heard a slight, almost imperceptible, crack in the voice. He assumed Harry must have a cold. Miss Monday knew better. She’d heard those early signs so many times before. She prayed that she was mistaken, but knew her prayer would not be answered. Harry would get through the rest of the service with only a handful of people realizing what had happened, and he would even be able to carry on for a few more weeks, possibly months, but by Easter another child would be singing Rejoice that the Lord has arisen.

An old man who’d turned up only moments after the service had begun was among those who weren’t in any doubt what had happened. Old Jack left just before the bishop gave his final blessing. He knew Harry wouldn’t be able to visit him until the following Saturday, which would give him enough time to work out how to answer the inevitable question.

‘Might I have a private word with you, Clifton?’ said Mr Frobisher as the bell sounded for the end of prep. ‘Perhaps you’d join me in my study.’ Harry would never forget the last time he’d heard those words.

When Harry closed the study door, his housemaster beckoned him towards a seat by the fire, something he had never done before. ‘I just wanted to assure you, Harry’ – another first – ‘that the fact you are no longer able to sing in the choir will not affect your bursary. We at St Bede’s are well aware that the contribution you have made to school life stretches far beyond the chapel.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry.

‘However, we must now consider your future. The music master tells me that it will be some time before your voice fully recovers, which I’m afraid means that we must be realistic about your chances of being offered a choral scholarship to Bristol Grammar School.’

‘There is no chance,’ said Harry calmly.

‘I have to agree with you,’ said Frobisher. ‘I’m relieved to find you understand the situation. But,’ he continued, ‘I would be happy to enter your name for an open scholarship to BGS. However,’ he added before Harry had time to respond, ‘in the circumstances, you might consider that you’d have a better chance of being offered a bursary at, say, Colston’s School, or King’s College Gloucester, both of which have far less demanding entrance examinations.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Harry. ‘My first choice remains Bristol Grammar.’ He’d said the same thing to Old Jack just as firmly the previous Saturday, when his mentor had mumbled something about not burning your boats.

‘So be it,’ said Mr Frobisher, who had not expected any other response, but had still felt it was nothing less than his duty to come up with an alternative. ‘Now, let’s turn this setback to our advantage.’

‘How do you suggest I do that, sir?’

‘Well, now that you’ve been released from daily choir practice, you will have more time to prepare for your entrance exam.’

‘Yes, sir, but I still have my responsibilities as-’

‘And I will do everything in my power to ensure that your duties as school captain are less onerous in future.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘By the way, Harry,’ said Frobisher as he rose from his chair, ‘I’ve just read your essay on Jane Austen, and I was fascinated by your suggestion that if Miss Austen had been able to go to university, she might never have written a novel, and even if she had, her work probably wouldn’t have been so insightful.’

‘Sometimes it’s an advantage to be disadvantaged,’ said Harry.

‘That doesn’t sound like Jane Austen,’ said Mr Frobisher.

‘It isn’t,’ replied Harry. ‘But it was said by someone else who didn’t go to university,’ he added without explanation.

Maisie glanced at her new watch and smiled. ‘I’ll have to leave now, Harry, if I’m not going to be late for work.’

‘Of course, Mum,’ said Harry, leaping up from the table. ‘I’ll walk with you to the tram stop.’

‘Harry, have you thought about what you’ll do if you don’t win that scholarship?’ said his mother, finally asking a question she’d been avoiding for weeks.

‘Constantly,’ said Harry as he opened the door for her. ‘But I won’t be given much choice in the matter. I’ll just have to go back to Merrywood, and when I turn fourteen I’ll leave and look for a job.’

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.

There followed what Mr Holcombe had often described as the worst part of any exam, those days of endless waiting before the results were formally posted on the school notice board; a time when boys end up doing something they will later regret, almost as if they want to be rusticated rather than learn their fate. One boy was caught drinking cider behind the bicycle shed, another smoking a Woodbine in the lavatory, while a third was seen leaving the local cinema after lights out.

Giles was out for a duck the following Saturday, his first of the season. While Deakins returned to the library, Harry went on long walks, going over every answer in his head again and again. It didn’t improve matters.

On Sunday afternoon, Giles had a long net; on Monday, Deakins reluctantly handed over his responsibilities to the new library monitor, and on Tuesday Harry read Far from the Madding Crowd and cursed out loud. On Wednesday night, Giles and Harry talked into the small hours, while Deakins slept soundly.

Long before the clock on the tower struck ten that Thursday morning, forty boys were already roaming around the quad, hands in pockets, heads bowed as they waited for the headmaster to make his appearance. Although every one of them knew that Dr Oakshott wouldn’t be a minute early or a minute late, by five to ten most eyes were staring across the quad waiting for the door of the headmaster’s house to open. The rest were looking up at the clock on the great hall, willing the minute hand to move a little faster.

As the first chime sounded, the Reverend Samuel Oakshott opened his front door and stepped out on to the path. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand and four tin-tacks in the other. Not a man who left anything to chance. When he reached the end of the path, he opened the little wicket gate and walked across the quad at his usual pace, oblivious to all around him. The boys quickly stood aside, creating a corridor so the headmaster’s progress would not be impeded. He came to a halt in front of the notice board as the tenth chime rang out. He posted the exam results on the board, and departed without a word.

Forty boys rushed forward, forming a scrum around the notice board. No one was surprised that Deakins headed the list, with 92 per cent, and had been awarded the Peloquin Scholarship to Bristol Grammar School. Giles leapt in the air, making no attempt to disguise his relief when he saw 64 per cent by his name.

They both turned to look for their friend. Harry was standing alone, far from the madding crowd.