Sons of Fortune

1

Susan plonked the ice cream firmly on Michael Cartwright’s head. It was the first occasion the two of them had met, or that was what Michael’s best man claimed when Susan and Michael were married twenty-one years later.

Both of them were three years old at the time, and when Michael burst into tears, Susan’s mother rushed over to find out what the problem was. All Susan was willing to say on the subject, and she repeated it several times, was, ‘Well, he asked for it, didn’t he?’ Susan ended up with a spanking. Not the ideal start for any romance.

The next recorded meeting, according to the best man, was when they both arrived at their elementary school. Susan declared with a knowing air that Michael was a cry-baby, and what’s more, a sneak. Michael told the other boys that he would share his Graham Crackers with anyone who was willing to pull Susan Illingworth’s pigtails. Few boys tried a second time.

At the end of their first year, Susan and Michael were jointly awarded the class prize. Their teacher considered it the best course of action if she hoped to prevent another ice-cream incident. Susan told her friends that Michael’s mother did his homework for him, to which Michael responded that at least it was in his own handwriting.

The rivalry continued unabated through junior and senior high until they departed for different universities, Michael to Connecticut State and Susan to Georgetown. For the next four years, they both worked hard at avoiding each other. In fact the next occasion their paths crossed was, ironically, at Susan’s home, when her parents threw a surprise graduation party for their daughter. The biggest surprise was not that Michael accepted the invitation, but that he turned up.

Susan didn’t recognize her old rival immediately, partly because he had grown four inches and was, for the first time, taller than her. It wasn’t until she offered him a glass of wine and Michael remarked, ‘At least this time you didn’t pour it all over me,’ that she realized who the tall handsome man was.

‘God, I behaved dreadfully, didn’t I,’ said Susan, wanting him to deny it.

‘Yes, you did,’ he said, ‘but then I expect I deserved it.’

‘You did,’ she said, biting her tongue.

They chatted like old friends, and Susan was surprised at how disappointed she felt when a classmate from Georgetown joined them and started flirting with Michael. They didn’t speak to each other again that evening.

Michael phoned the following day and invited her to see Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in Adam’s Rib. Susan had already seen the movie, but still heard herself accepting, and couldn’t believe how long she spent trying on different dresses before he arrived for that first date.

Susan enjoyed the film, even though it was her second time, and wondered if Michael would put an arm around her shoulder when Spencer Tracy kissed Katharine Hepburn. He didn’t. But when they left the movie house, he took her hand as they crossed the road, and didn’t let it go until they reached the coffee shop. That was when they had their first row, well, disagreement. Michael admitted that he was going to vote for Thomas Dewey in November, while Susan made it clear that she wanted Harry Truman to remain in the White House. The waiter placed an ice cream in front of Susan. She stared down at it.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Michael said.

Susan wasn’t surprised when he called the following day, although she had been sitting by the phone for over an hour pretending to be reading.

Michael had admitted to his mother over breakfast that morning it had been love at first sight.

‘But you’ve known Susan for years,’ remarked his mother.

‘No I haven’t, Mom,’ he replied, ‘I met her for the first time yesterday.’

Both sets of parents were delighted, but not surprised, when they became engaged a year later, after all, they’d hardly spent a day apart since Susan’s graduation party. Both had landed jobs within days of leaving college, Michael as a trainee with the Hartford Life Insurance Company and Susan as a history teacher at Jefferson High, so they decided to get married during the summer vacation.

What they hadn’t planned was that Susan would become pregnant while they were on their honeymoon. Michael couldn’t hide his delight at the thought of being a father, and when Dr Greenwood told them in the sixth month that it was going to be twins he was doubly delighted.

‘Well at least that will solve one problem,’ was his first reaction.

‘Namely?’ asked Susan.

‘One can be a Republican, and the other a Democrat.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Susan, rubbing her stomach.

Susan continued teaching until her eighth month, which happily coincided with the Easter vacation. She arrived at the hospital on the twenty-eighth day of the ninth month carrying a small suitcase. Michael left work early and joined her a few minutes later, with the news that he had been promoted to account executive.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Susan.

‘It’s a fancy title for an insurance salesman,’ Michael told her. ‘But it does include a small pay raise, which can only help now we’re going to have two more mouths to feed.’

Once Susan was settled in her room, Dr Greenwood suggested to Michael that he wait outside during the delivery, as with twins there just might be complications.

Michael paced up and down the long corridor. Whenever he reached the portrait of Josiah Preston hanging on the far wall, he turned and retraced his steps. On the first few of these route marches, Michael didn’t stop to read the long biography printed below the portrait of the hospital’s founder. By the time the doctor emerged through the double doors, Michael knew the man’s entire life history by heart.

The green-clad figure walked slowly towards him before removing his mask. Michael tried to fathom the expression on his face. In his profession it was an advantage to be able to decipher expressions and second-guess thoughts, because when it came to selling life insurance you needed to anticipate any anxieties a potential client might have. However, when it came to this life insurance policy, the doctor gave nothing away. When they came face to face, he smiled and said, ‘Congratulations, Mr Cartwright, you have two healthy sons.’

Susan had delivered two boys, Nathaniel at 4.37 and Peter at 4.43 that afternoon. For the next hour, the parents took turns cuddling them, until Dr Greenwood suggested that perhaps mother and babies should be allowed to rest. ‘Having to feed two children will prove exhausting enough. I shall put them both in the special care nursery overnight,’ he added. ‘Nothing to worry about, because it’s something we always do with twins.’

Michael accompanied his two sons to the nursery, where once again he was asked to wait in the corridor. The proud father pressed his nose up against the pane of glass that divided the corridor from the row of cribs, gazing at the boys as they lay sleeping, wanting to tell everyone who passed, ‘they’re both mine’. He smiled at the nurse who was standing by their side, keeping a watchful eye over the latest arrivals. She was placing name tags around their tiny wrists.

Michael couldn’t remember how long he remained there before eventually returning to his wife’s bedside. When he opened the door, he was pleased to find that Susan was fast asleep. He kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘I’ll see you in the morning my darling, just before I go to work,’ he said, ignoring the fact that she couldn’t hear a word. Michael left her, walked down the corridor and stepped into the elevator to find Dr Greenwood had exchanged his green scrubs for a sports jacket and grey flannels.

‘I wish they were all that easy,’ he told the proud father as the elevator stopped on the ground floor. ‘Still, I’ll drop by this evening, Mr Cartwright, to check on your wife and see how the twins are doing. Not that I anticipate any problems.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you.’

Dr Greenwood smiled, and would have left the hospital and driven home had he not spotted an elegant lady coming through the swing doors. He walked quickly across to join Ruth Davenport.

Michael Cartwright glanced back to see the doctor holding open the elevator doors for two women, one heavily pregnant. An anxious look had replaced Dr Greenwood’s warm smile. Michael only hoped that the doctor’s latest charge would have as uncomplicated a birth as Susan had managed. He strolled across to his car, trying to think about what needed to be done next, still unable to remove the broad grin from his face.

The first thing he must do was phone his parents... grandparents.

2

Ruth Davenport had already accepted that this would be her last chance. Dr Greenwood, for professional reasons, would not have put it quite so bluntly, although after two miscarriages in as many years, he could not advise his patient to risk becoming pregnant again.

Robert Davenport, on the other hand, was not bound by the same professional etiquette and when he learned that his wife was expecting for a third time, he had been characteristically blunt. He simply issued an ultimatum: ‘this time you will take it easy’, a euphemism for don’t do anything that might harm the birth of our son. Robert Davenport assumed his first born would be a boy. He also knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for his wife to ‘take it easy’. She was, after all, the daughter of Josiah Preston, and it was often said that if Ruth had been a boy, she, and not her husband, would have ended up as president of Preston Pharmaceuticals. But Ruth had to settle for the consolation prize when she succeeded her father as chairman of St Patrick’s Hospital Trust, a cause with which the Preston family had been associated for four generations.

Although some of the older fraternity at St Patrick’s needed to be convinced that Ruth Davenport was of the same mettle as her father, it was only weeks before they acknowledged that not only had she inherited the old man’s energy and drive, but he had also passed on to her his considerable knowledge and wisdom, so often lavished on an only child.

Ruth hadn’t married until the age of thirty-three. It certainly wasn’t for lack of suitors, many of whom went out of their way to claim undying devotion to the heir of the Preston millions. Josiah Preston hadn’t needed to explain the meaning of fortune hunters to his daughter, because the truth was that she simply hadn’t fallen in love with any of them. In fact, Ruth was beginning to doubt if she would ever fall in love. Until she met Robert.

Robert Davenport had joined Preston Pharmaceuticals from Roche via Johns Hopkins and Harvard Business School, on what Ruth’s father described as the ‘fast track’. In Ruth’s recollection, it was the nearest the old man had come to using a modern expression. Robert had been made a vice-president by the age of twenty-seven, and at thirty-three was appointed the youngest deputy chairman in the company’s history, breaking a record that had been set by Josiah himself. This time Ruth did fall in love, with a man who was neither overwhelmed nor overawed by the Preston name or the Preston millions. In fact when Ruth suggested that perhaps she should become Mrs Preston-Davenport, Robert had simply enquired, ‘When do I get to meet this Preston-Davenport fellow who hopes to prevent me from becoming your husband?’

Ruth announced she was pregnant only weeks after their wedding, and the miscarriage was almost the only blemish in an otherwise charmed existence. However, even this quickly began to look like a passing cloud in an otherwise clear blue sky, when she became pregnant again eleven months later.

Ruth had been chairing a board meeting of the Hospital Trust when the contractions began, so she only needed to take the elevator up two floors to allow Dr Greenwood to carry out the necessary check-up. However, not even his expertise, his staff’s dedication or the latest medical equipment could save the premature child. Kenneth Greenwood couldn’t help recalling how, as a young doctor, he had faced a similar problem when he had delivered Ruth, and for a week the hospital staff didn’t believe the baby girl would survive. And now the family were going through the same trauma thirty-five years later.

Dr Greenwood decided to have a private word with Mr Davenport, suggesting that perhaps the time had come for them to consider adoption. Robert reluctantly agreed, and said he would raise the subject with his wife just as soon as he felt she was strong enough.

Another year passed before Ruth agreed to visit an adoption society and with one of those coincidences that fate decides, and novelists are not allowed to consider, she became pregnant on the day she was due to visit a local children’s home. This time Robert was determined to ensure that human error would not be the reason for their child failing to enter this world.

Ruth took her husband’s advice, and resigned as chairman of the Hospital Trust. She even agreed that a full-time nurse should be employed — in Robert’s words — to keep a watchful eye on her. Mr Davenport interviewed several applicants for the post and short-listed those whom he considered held the necessary qualifications. But his final choice would be based solely on whether he was convinced the applicant was strong-willed enough to make sure that Ruth kept to her agreement to ‘take it easy’, and to insist she didn’t lapse into any old habits of wanting to organize everything she came across.

After a third round of interviews, Robert settled on a Miss Heather Nichol, who was a senior nurse on the maternity wing of St Patrick’s. He liked her no-nonsense approach and the fact that she was neither married nor graced with the kind of looks that would ensure that situation was likely to change in the foreseeable future. However, what finally tipped the balance was that Miss Nichol had already delivered over a thousand children into the world.

Robert was delighted by how quickly Miss Nichol settled into the household, and as each month slipped by, even he started to feel confident that they wouldn’t be facing the same problem a third time. When Ruth passed first five, six, and then seven months without incident, Robert even raised the subject of possible Christian names: Fletcher Andrew if it was a boy, Victoria Grace if it was a girl. Ruth expressed only one preference: that were it a boy he should be known as Andrew, but all she hoped for was to be delivered of a healthy child.

Robert was in New York attending a medical conference, when Miss Nichol called him out of a seminar to report that his wife’s contractions had begun. He assured her he would return by train immediately and then take a cab straight to St Patrick’s.

Dr Greenwood was leaving the building, having successfully delivered the Cartwright twins, when he spotted Ruth Davenport coming through the swing doors accompanied by Miss Nichol. He turned round and caught up with the two ladies before the elevator doors closed.

Once he had settled his patient into a private room, Dr Greenwood quickly assembled the finest obstetrics team the hospital could muster. Had Mrs Davenport been a normal patient, he and Miss Nichol could have delivered the child without having to call on any extra assistance. However, following an examination, he realized that Ruth would require a Caesarean section if the child was to be delivered safely. He looked towards the ceiling and sent up a silent prayer, acutely aware that this was going to be her last chance.

The delivery took just over forty minutes. At the first glimpse of the baby’s head, Miss Nichol let out a sigh of relief, but it wasn’t until the doctor cut the umbilical cord that she added ‘Alleluia’. Ruth, who was still under a general anaesthetic, was unable to see the relieved smile on Dr Greenwood’s face. He quickly left the theatre to tell the expectant father, ‘It’s a boy.’

While Ruth slept peacefully it was left to Miss Nichol to take Fletcher Andrew off to the special care unit, where he would share his first few hours with several other progeny. Once she had tucked up the child in his little crib, she left the nurse to watch over him before returning to Ruth’s room. Miss Nichol settled herself into a comfortable chair in the corner and tried to stay awake.

Just as night was contemplating day, Miss Nichol woke with a start. She heard the words, ‘Can I see my son?’

‘Of course you can, Mrs Davenport,’ replied Miss Nichol rising quickly from her chair. ‘I’ll just go and fetch little Andrew.’ As she closed the door behind her, she added, ‘I’ll be back in a few moments.’

Ruth pulled herself up, plumped up her pillow, switched on the bedside lamp and waited in eager anticipation.

As Miss Nichol walked along the corridor, she checked her watch. It was 4.31 a.m. She took the stairs down to the fifth floor and made her way to the nursery. Miss Nichol opened the door quietly so as not to wake any of the sleeping offspring. As she entered a room illuminated by a small fluorescent light glowing overhead, her eyes settled on the night nurse dozing in the corner. She didn’t disturb the young woman as it was probably the only few moments of slumber that she would manage during her eight-hour shift.

Miss Nichol tiptoed between the two rows of cots, stopping only for a moment to glance at the twins in the double crib that had been placed next to Fletcher Andrew Davenport.

She stared down at a child who would want for nothing for the rest of his life. As she bent over to lift the little boy from his crib, she froze. After a thousand births, you are well qualified to recognize death. The pallor of the skin and the stillness of the eyes made it unnecessary for her to check the pulse.

It is often spur-of-the-moment decisions, sometimes made by others, that can change our whole lives.

3

When Dr Greenwood was woken in the middle of the night to be told that one of his new charges had died, he knew exactly which child it was. He also realized that he would have to return to the hospital immediately.

Kenneth Greenwood had always wanted to be a doctor. After only a few weeks at medical school, he had known in which field he would specialize. He thanked God every day for allowing him to carry out his vocation. But then from time to time, as if somehow the Almighty felt it was necessary to balance the scales, he had to tell a mother that she had lost her child. It was never easy, but having to tell Ruth Davenport for a third time...

There were so few cars on the road at five o’clock in the morning that Dr Greenwood was parked in his reserved spot at the hospital twenty minutes later. He pushed through the swing doors, strode past the reception desk and had stepped into the elevator before any of the staff could speak to him.

‘Who’s going to tell her?’ asked the nurse who was waiting for him as the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor.

‘I will,’ said Dr Greenwood. ‘I’ve been a friend of the family for years,’ he added.

The nurse looked surprised. ‘I suppose we must be thankful that the other baby survived,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts.

Dr Greenwood stopped in his tracks. ‘The other baby?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, Nathaniel’s just fine, it was Peter who died.’

Dr Greenwood remained silent for a moment as he tried to take in this piece of information. ‘And the Davenport boy?’ he ventured.

‘Doing well, as far as I know,’ replied the nurse. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I delivered him just before I went home,’ he said, hoping the nurse hadn’t spotted the hesitation in his voice.

Dr Greenwood walked slowly between the rows of cribs, passing offspring who were sleeping soundly and others who were yelling, as if to prove they had lungs. He stopped when he came to the double crib where he had left the twins only a few hours before. Nathaniel lay peacefully asleep while his brother was motionless. He glanced across to check the name on the headboard of the next crib, Davenport, Fletcher Andrew. That little boy was also sleeping soundly, his breathing quite regular.

‘Of course I couldn’t move the child until the doctor who had delivered...’

‘You don’t have to remind me of hospital procedure,’ snapped Dr Greenwood uncharacteristically. ‘What time did you come on duty?’ he asked.

‘Just after midnight,’ she replied.

‘And have you been in attendance since then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did anyone else enter the nursery during that time?’

‘No, doctor,’ the nurse replied. She decided not to mention that about an hour ago she thought she’d heard a door close, or at least not while he was in such a foul mood. Dr Greenwood stared down at the two cribs marked Cartwright, Nathaniel and Peter. He knew where his duty lay.

‘Take the child to the morgue,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll write up a report immediately, but I won’t inform the mother until the morning. No purpose will be served by waking her at this hour.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the nurse meekly.

Dr Greenwood left the nursery, walked slowly down the corridor and stopped outside Mrs Cartwright’s door. He opened it noiselessly, relieved to discover that his patient was fast asleep. After climbing the staircase up to the sixth floor, he carried out the same exercise when he reached Mrs Davenport’s private room. Ruth was also sleeping. He glanced across the room to see Miss Nichol seated awkwardly in her chair. He could have sworn that she opened her eyes, but he decided not to disturb her. He pulled the door closed, walked to the far end of the corridor and slipped out on to the fire escape stairs that led to the parking lot. He didn’t want to be seen leaving by those on duty at the front desk. He needed some time to think.

Dr Greenwood was back in his bed twenty minutes later, but he didn’t sleep.

When his alarm went off at seven he was still awake. He knew exactly what his first course of action must be, although he feared the repercussions could reverberate for many years.

Dr Greenwood took considerably longer to drive back to St Patrick’s for a second time that morning, and it wasn’t just because of the increased traffic. He dreaded having to tell Ruth Davenport that her child had died during the night, and only hoped it could be done without any accompanying scandal. He knew he would have to go straight to Ruth’s room and explain what had happened, otherwise he would never be able to go through with it.

‘Good morning, Dr Greenwood,’ said the nurse on reception, but he didn’t respond.

When he stepped out onto the sixth floor and began walking towards Mrs Davenport’s room, he found his pace became slower and slower. He came to a halt in front of her door, hoping she would still be asleep. He eased it open, to be greeted with the sight of Robert Davenport sitting beside his wife. Ruth was holding a baby in her arms. Miss Nichol was nowhere to be seen.

Robert jumped up from his side of the bed.

‘Kenneth,’ he said, shaking him by the hand, ‘we will be eternally in your debt.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ the doctor replied quietly.

‘Of course we do,’ said Robert, turning back to face his wife. ‘Shall we let him know what we’ve decided, Ruth?’

‘Why not, then we’ll both have something to celebrate,’ she said, kissing the boy’s forehead.

‘But I must first tell you...’ began the doctor.

‘No buts,’ said Robert, ‘because I want you to be the first to know that I’ve decided to ask the board of Preston’s to finance the new maternity wing that you have always hoped would be completed before you retire.’

‘But...’ repeated Dr Greenwood.

‘I thought we agreed on no buts. After all, the plans have been drawn up for years,’ he said, looking down at his son, ‘so I can’t think of any reason why we shouldn’t start on the building programme right away.’ He turned to face the hospital’s senior obstetrician. ‘Unless of course you...?’

Dr Greenwood remained silent.

When Miss Nichol saw Dr Greenwood coming out of Mrs Davenport’s private room, her heart sank. He was carrying the little boy in his arms and walking back towards the elevator that would take him to the special care nursery. As they passed each other in the corridor their eyes met, and although he didn’t speak, she was in no doubt that he was aware of what she must have done.

Miss Nichol accepted that if she was going to make a run for it, it had to be now. Once she had taken the child back to the nursery, she’d lain awake in the corner of Mrs Davenport’s room for the rest of the night, wondering if she would be found out. She had tried not to stir when Dr Greenwood had looked in. She had no idea what time it was because she didn’t dare glance down at her watch. She had quite expected him to call her out of the room and tell her he knew the truth, but he had left just as silently as he had come, so she was none the wiser.

Heather Nichol went on walking towards the private room, while her eyes remained firmly fixed on the fire escape exit at the far end of the corridor. Once she had passed Mrs Davenport’s door she tried not to quicken her pace. She had only a couple of yards to go when she heard a voice she immediately recognized say, ‘Miss Nichol?’ She froze on the spot, still staring towards the fire escape, as she considered her options. She swung round to face Mr Davenport. ‘I think we need to have a private word,’ he said.

Mr Davenport stepped into an alcove on the other side of the corridor, assuming she would follow. Miss Nichol thought her legs would give way long before she collapsed into the chair opposite him. She couldn’t tell from the expression on his face if he also realized she was the guilty party. But then with Mr Davenport you never could. It wasn’t in his nature to give anything away, and that was something he found difficult to change, even when it came to his private life. Miss Nichol couldn’t look him in the eye, so she stared over his left shoulder and watched Dr Greenwood as the elevator doors closed.

‘I suspect you know what I’m about to ask you,’ he said.

‘Yes, I do,’ Miss Nichol admitted, wondering if anyone would ever employ her again, and even if she might end up in prison.

When Dr Greenwood reappeared ten minutes later, Miss Nichol knew exactly what was going to happen to her and where she would end up.

‘When you’ve thought about it Miss Nichol, perhaps you could give me a call at my office, and if your answer is yes, then I’ll need to have a word with my lawyers.’

‘I’ve already thought about it,’ said Miss Nichol. This time she did look Mr Davenport directly in the eye. ‘The answer is yes,’ she told him, ‘I’d be delighted to continue working for the family as nanny.’

4

Susan held Nat in her arms unable to hide her distress. She was tired of friends and relations telling her to thank God that one of them had survived. Didn’t they understand that Peter was dead, and she had lost a son? Michael hoped that his wife would begin to recover from the loss once she’d left hospital and returned home. But it wasn’t to be. Susan still talked endlessly of her other son, and kept a photograph of the two boys by her bedside.

Miss Nichol studied the photograph when it was published in the Hartford Courant. She was relieved to find that although both boys had inherited their father’s square jaw, Andrew had curly fair hair, while Nat’s was straight and already turning dark. But it was Josiah Preston who saved the day, by frequently remarking that his grandson had inherited his nose and pronounced forehead in the great tradition of the Prestons. Miss Nichol constantly repeated these observations to fawning relatives and sycophantic employees, prefaced with the words, ‘Mr Preston often remarks...’

Within two weeks of returning home, Ruth had been reappointed as Chairman of the Hospital Trust, and immediately set about honouring her husband’s pledge to build a new maternity wing for St Patrick’s.

Miss Nichol meanwhile took on any job, however menial, that allowed Ruth to resume her outside activities while she took charge of Andrew. She became the boy’s nanny, mentor, guardian and governess. But not a day went by without her dreading that the truth might eventually come out.

Miss Nichol’s first real anxiety arose when Mrs Cartwright phoned to say that she was holding a birthday party for her son, and as Andrew had been born on the same day, would she like him to be included.

‘How kind of you to ask,’ Miss Nichol replied, without missing a beat, ‘but Andrew is having his own birthday party, and I’m only sorry that Nat won’t be able to join us.’

‘Well, please pass on my best wishes to Mrs Davenport, and tell her how much we appreciate being invited to the opening of the new maternity wing next month.’ An invitation Miss Nichol could not cancel. When Susan put the phone down, her only thought was how did Miss Nichol know her son’s name.

Within moments of Mrs Davenport arriving home that evening, Miss Nichol suggested that she should organize a party for Andrew’s first birthday. Ruth thought it was a splendid idea, and was only too happy to leave all the arrangements, including the guest list, in nanny’s hands. Organizing a birthday party where you can control who should or should not be invited is one thing, but trying to make sure that her employer and Mrs Cartwright did not meet up at the opening of the Preston Maternity Wing was quite another.

In fact, it was Dr Greenwood who introduced the two women while giving his guided tour of the new facility. He couldn’t believe that no one would notice that the two little boys looked so alike. Miss Nichol turned away when he glanced in her direction. She quickly placed a bonnet over Andrew’s head which made him look more like a girl, and before Ruth could comment, said, ‘It’s turning quite cold and I wouldn’t want Andrew to catch a chill.’

‘Will you be staying in Hartford once you’ve retired, Dr Greenwood?’ Mrs Cartwright asked.

‘No, my wife and I plan to retire to our family home in Ohio,’ the doctor replied, ‘but I’m sure we’ll return to Hartford from time to time.’

Miss Nichol would have let out a sigh of relief had the doctor not stared pointedly at her. However, with Dr Greenwood out of the way, Miss Nichol felt a little more confident that her secret would not be discovered.

Whenever Andrew was invited to join in any activity, become a member of any group, participate in any sport or just sign up for the summer pageant, Miss Nichol’s first priority was to ensure that her charge didn’t come into contact with any member of the Cartwright family. This she managed to achieve with considerable success throughout the child’s formative years, without arousing the suspicions of either Mr or Mrs Davenport.

It was two letters that arrived in the morning mail that persuaded Miss Nichol that she need no longer be apprehensive. The first was addressed to Andrew’s father and confirmed that the boy had been admitted to Hotchkiss, Connecticut’s oldest private school. The second, postmarked Ohio, was opened by Ruth.

‘How sad,’ she remarked as she turned the handwritten page. ‘He was such a fine man.’

‘Who?’ asked Robert, looking up from his copy of the New England Journal of Medicine.

‘Dr Greenwood. His wife has written to say that he passed away last Friday, aged seventy-four.’

‘He was a fine man,’ Robert repeated, ‘perhaps you should attend the funeral.’

‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Ruth, ‘and Heather might like to accompany me,’ she added. ‘After all, she used to work for him.’

‘Of course,’ said Miss Nichol, hoping that she looked suitably distressed.

Susan read the letter a second time, saddened by the news. She would always recall how personally Dr Greenwood had taken Peter’s death, almost as if he felt somehow responsible. Perhaps she should go to the doctor’s funeral. She was about to share the news of his death with Michael, when her husband suddenly leapt in the air and shouted, ‘Well done, Nat.’

‘What is it?’ asked Susan, surprised by such uncharacteristic exuberance.

‘Nat’s won a scholarship to Taft,’ said her husband, waving his letter in the air.

Susan didn’t share the same enthusiasm as her husband for Nat being sent away at such an early age to board with children whose parents came from a different world. How could a child of fourteen begin to understand that they couldn’t afford so many of the things that his school friends would take for granted. She had long felt that Nathaniel should follow in Michael’s footsteps and go to Jefferson High. If it was good enough for her to teach at, why wasn’t it good enough for their child to be taught at?

Nat had been sitting on his bed rereading his favourite book, when he heard his father’s outburst. He’d reached the chapter where the whale was about to escape yet again. He reluctantly jumped off the bed and put his head round the door to find out what was causing the commotion. His parents were furiously debating — they never rowed, despite the much-reported incident with the ice cream — about which school he should attend. He caught his father in mid-sentence... ‘chance of a lifetime,’ he was saying. ‘Nat will be able to mix with children who will end up as leaders in every field, and therefore influence the rest of his life.’

‘Rather than go to Jefferson High and mix with children who he might end up leading and influence for the rest of their lives?’

‘But he’s won a scholarship, so we wouldn’t have to pay a penny.’

‘And we wouldn’t have to pay a penny if he went to Jefferson.’

‘But we must think of Nat’s future. If he goes to Taft, he might well end up at Harvard or Yale...’

‘But Jefferson has produced several pupils who have attended both Harvard and Yale.’

‘If I had to take out an insurance policy on which of the two schools would be more likely...’

‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ said Michael, ‘and I spend every day of my life trying to eliminate risks like that.’ Nat listened intently as his mother and father continued their debate, never once raising their voices or losing their temper.

‘I’d rather my son graduate as an egalitarian than a patrician,’ Susan retorted with passion.

‘Why should they be incompatible?’ asked Michael.

Nat disappeared back into his room without waiting to hear his mother’s reply. She had taught him to immediately look up any word that he’d never heard before; after all, it was a Connecticut man who had compiled the greatest lexicography in the world. Having checked all three words in his Webster’s dictionary, Nat decided that his mother was more egalitarian than his father, but that neither of them was a patrician. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a patrician.

When Nat had finished the chapter, he emerged from his room for a second time. The atmosphere seemed to be more settled, so he decided to go downstairs and join his parents.

‘Perhaps we should let Nat decide,’ said his mother.

‘I already have,’ said Nat, as he took a seat between them. ‘After all, you’ve always taught me to listen to both sides of any argument before coming to a conclusion.’

Both parents were speechless as Nat nonchalantly unfolded the evening paper, suddenly aware that he must have overheard their conversation.

‘And what decision have you come to?’ his mother asked quietly.

‘I would like to go to Taft rather than Jefferson High,’ Nat replied without hesitation.

‘And may we know what helped you come to that conclusion?’ asked his father.

Nat, aware that he had a spellbound audience, didn’t hurry his reply. ‘Moby Dick,’ he finally announced, before turning to the sports page.

He waited to see which of his parents would be the first to repeat his words.

‘Moby Dick?’ they pronounced together.

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘after all, the good folks of Connecticut considered the great whale to be the patrician of the sea.’

5

‘Every inch a Hotchkiss man,’ Miss Nichol said as she checked Andrew’s appearance in the hall mirror. White shirt, blue blazer with tan corduroy trousers. Miss Nichol straightened the boy’s blue and white striped tie, removing a speck of dust from his shirt. ‘Every inch,’ she repeated. I’m only five foot three, Andrew wanted to say as his father joined them in the hall. Andrew checked his watch, a present from his maternal grandfather — a man who still sacked people for being late.

‘I’ve put your suitcases in the car,’ his father said, touching his son on the shoulder. Andrew turned cold when he heard his father’s words. The casual remark only reminded him that he really was leaving home. ‘It’s less than three months until Thanksgiving,’ his father added. Three months is a quarter of a year — a not insignificant percentage of your life when you’re only fourteen years old, Andrew wanted to remind him.

Andrew strode out of the front door and on to the gravel courtyard, determined not to look back at the house he loved, and would not see again for a quarter of a year. When he reached the car, he held the back door open for his mother. He then shook hands with Miss Nichol as if she were an old friend, and said that he looked forward to seeing her at Thanksgiving. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she had been crying. He looked away and waved to the housekeeper and cook, before he jumped into the car.

As they drove through the streets of Farmington, Andrew stared at the familiar buildings he had considered until that moment to be the centre of the whole world.

‘Now make sure you write home every week,’ his mother was saying. He ignored the redundant comment, not least because Miss Nichol had issued the same instruction at least twice a day for the past month.

‘And if you need any extra cash, don’t hesitate to give me a call,’ his father added.

Someone else who hadn’t read the rule-book. Andrew didn’t remind his father that boys in their first year at Hotchkiss were only allowed ten dollars a term. It was spelled out on page seven, and had been underlined in red by Miss Nichol.

No one spoke again during the short journey to the station, each anxious in his own particular fashion. His father brought the car to a halt next to the station and stepped out. Andrew remained seated, reluctant to leave the safety of the car, until his mother opened the door on his side. Andrew quickly joined her, determined not to let anyone know how nervous he was. She tried to take his hand, but he quickly ran to the back of the car to help his father with the cases.

A blue cap arrived by their side, pushing a trolley. Once the cases were loaded, he led them on to the station platform and came to a halt at carriage eight. As the porter lifted the cases on to the train, Andrew turned to say goodbye to his father. He had insisted that only one parent accompany him on the train journey to Lakeville, and as his father was a Taft man, his mother seemed the obvious choice. He was already regretting his decision.

‘Have a good journey,’ his father said, shaking his son’s outstretched hand. What silly things parents say at stations, Andrew thought; surely it was more important that he worked hard when he got there. ‘And don’t forget to write.’

Andrew boarded the train with his mother and as the engine pulled out of the station he didn’t once look back at his father, hoping it would make him appear more grown up.

‘Would you like some breakfast?’ his mother asked as the porter placed his cases on the overhead rack.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Andrew, cheering up for the first time that morning.

Another uniformed man showed them to a table in the dining car. Andrew studied the menu and wondered if his mother would allow him to have the full breakfast.

‘Have anything you like,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.

Andrew smiled when the waiter reappeared. ‘Double hash browns, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon and toast.’ He only left out the mushrooms because he didn’t want the waiter to think that his mother never fed him.

‘And you, ma’am?’ enquired the waiter, turning his attention to the other side of the table.

‘Just coffee and toast, thank you.’

‘The boy’s first day?’ asked the waiter.

Mrs Davenport smiled and nodded.

How does he know? wondered Andrew.

Andrew munched nervously through his breakfast, not sure if he would be fed again that day. There had been no mention of meals in the handbook, and Grandpa had told him that when he was at Hotchkiss, they were only fed once a day. His mother kept telling him to put his knife and fork down while he was eating. ‘Knives and forks are not airplanes and shouldn’t remain in mid-air longer than is necessary,’ she reminded him. He had no way of knowing that she was almost as nervous as he was.

Whenever another boy, dressed in the same smart uniform, passed by their table, Andrew looked out of the window, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, because none of their uniforms were as new as his. His mother was on her third cup of coffee when the train pulled into the station.

‘We’ve arrived,’ she announced, unnecessarily.

Andrew sat staring at the sign for Lakeville as several boys leapt off the train, greeting each other with ‘Hi there, how was your holiday?’ and ‘Good to see you again’, followed by much shaking of hands. He finally glanced across at his mother, and wished she would disappear in a cloud of smoke. Mothers were just another announcement that it was his first day.

Two tall boys dressed in double-breasted blue blazers and grey slacks began shepherding the new boys on to a waiting bus. Andrew prayed that parents were banned from the bus, otherwise everyone would realize he was a new boy.

‘Name?’ said one of the young men in a blue blazer as Andrew stepped off the train.

‘Davenport, sir,’ said Andrew, staring up at him. Would he ever be that tall?

The young man smiled, almost a grin. ‘You don’t call me sir, I’m not a master, just a senior proctor.’ Andrew’s head dropped. The first words he’d uttered, and he’d made a fool of himself. ‘Has your luggage been placed on the bus, Fletcher?’

Fletcher? thought Andrew. Of course, Fletcher Andrew Davenport; he didn’t correct the tall young man for fear of making another mistake.

‘Yes,’ Andrew replied.

The god turned his attention to Andrew’s mother. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davenport,’ he said, checking his list, ‘I hope you have a pleasant journey back to Farmington. Fletcher will be just fine,’ he added kindly.

Andrew thrust out his hand, determined to stop his mother cuddling him. If only mothers could read thoughts. He shuddered as she threw her arms around him. But then he couldn’t begin to understand what she was going through. When his mother finally released him, Andrew quickly joined the flow of boys who were jumping on to the waiting bus. He spotted a boy, even smaller than himself, who was sitting on his own looking out of the window. He quickly sat down beside him.

‘I’m Fletcher,’ he said, reverting to the name bestowed on him by the god. ‘What’s yours?’

‘James,’ he replied, ‘but my friends call me Jimmy.’

‘Are you a new boy?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy quietly, still not looking round.

‘Me too,’ replied Fletcher.

Jimmy took out a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose, before he finally turned to face his new companion.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Farmington.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Not far from West Hartford.’

‘My dad works in Hartford,’ said Jimmy, ‘he’s in the government. What does your dad do?’

‘He sells drugs,’ said Fletcher.

‘Do you like football?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Yes,’ said Fletcher, but only because he knew Hotchkiss had an unbeaten record for the past four years, something else Miss Nichol had underlined in the handbook.

The rest of the conversation consisted of a series of unrelated questions to which the other rarely knew the answer. It was a strange beginning for what was to become a life-long friendship.

6

‘Spotless,’ said his father as he checked the boy’s uniform in the hall mirror. Michael Cartwright straightened his son’s blue tie, and removed a hair from his jacket. ‘Spotless,’ he repeated.

Five dollars for a pair of corduroys was all Nathaniel could think about, even if his father had said they were worth every cent.

‘Hurry up, Susan, or we’ll be late,’ his father called, glancing up towards the landing. But Michael still found time to pack the case in the trunk and move the car out of the driveway before Susan finally appeared to wish her son luck on his first day. She gave Nathaniel a big hug, and he was only grateful that there wasn’t another Taft man in sight to witness the event. He hoped that his mother had got over her disappointment that he hadn’t chosen Jefferson High, because he was already having second thoughts. After all, if he’d gone to Jefferson High he could come home every night.

Nathaniel took the seat next to his father in the front of the car, and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly seven o’clock. ‘Let’s get going, Dad,’ he said, desperate not to be late on his first day and to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Once they reached the highway, his father moved across to the outside lane and put the speedometer up to sixty-five, five miles an hour over the limit, calculating that the odds of being pulled over at that time in the morning were in his favour. Although Nathaniel had visited Taft to be interviewed, it was still a terrifying moment when his father drove their old Studebaker through the vast iron gates and slowly up the mile-long drive. He was relieved to see two or three other cars filing in behind them, though he doubted if they were new boys. His father followed a line of Cadillacs and Buicks into a car park, not altogether sure where he should park; after all, he was a new father. Nathaniel jumped out of the car, even before his father had pulled on the hand brake. But then he hesitated. Did he follow the stream of boys heading towards Taft Hall, or were new boys expected to go somewhere else?

His father didn’t hesitate in joining the throng, and only came to a halt when a tall, self-assured young man carrying a clipboard looked down at Nathaniel and asked, ‘Are you a new boy?’

Nathaniel didn’t speak, so his father said, ‘Yes.’

The young man’s gaze was not averted. ‘Name?’ he said.

‘Cartwright, sir,’ Nathaniel replied.

‘Ah yes, a lower mid; you’ve been assigned to Mr Haskins, so you must be clever. All the bright ones start off with Mr Haskins.’ Nathaniel lowered his head while his father smiled. ‘When you go into Taft Hall,’ said the young man, ‘you can sit anywhere in the front three rows on the left hand side. The moment you hear nine chimes on the clock, you will stop talking and not speak again until the principal and the rest of the staff have left the hall.’

‘What do I do then?’ asked Nathaniel, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking.

‘You will be briefed by your form master,’ said the young man who turned his attention to the new father. ‘Nat will be just fine, Mr Cartwright. I hope you have a good journey home, sir.’

That was the moment Nathaniel decided in the future he would always be known as Nat, even though he realized it wouldn’t please his mother.

As he entered Taft Hall, Nat lowered his head and walked quickly down the long aisle, hoping no one would notice him. He spotted a place on the end of the second row, and slipped into it. He glanced at the boy seated on his left, whose head was cupped in his hands. Was he praying, or could he possibly be even more terrified than Nat. ‘My name’s Nat,’ he ventured.

‘Mine’s Tom,’ said the boy, not raising his head.

‘What happens next?’

‘I don’t know, but I wish it would,’ said Tom as the clock struck nine, and everyone fell silent.

A crocodile of masters proceeded down the aisle — no mistresses, Nat observed. His mother wouldn’t approve. They walked up on to the stage, and took their places, leaving only two seats unoccupied. The faculty began to talk quietly amongst themselves, while those in the body of the hall remained silent.

‘What are we waiting for?’ whispered Nat, and a moment later his question was answered as everyone rose, including those seated on the stage. Nat didn’t dare look round when he heard the footsteps of two men proceeding down the aisle. Moments later, the school chaplain, followed by the principal, passed him on their way up to the two vacant seats. Everyone remained standing as the chaplain stepped forward to conduct a short service, which included the Lord’s Prayer, and ended with the assembly singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

The chaplain then returned to his seat, allowing the principal to take his place. Alexander Inglefield paused for a moment, before gazing down at the assembled gathering. He then raised his hands, palms down, and everyone resumed their seat. Three hundred and eighty pairs of eyes stared up at a man of six foot two with thick bushy eyebrows and a square jaw, who presented such a frightening figure that Nat hoped they would never meet.

The principal gripped the edges of his long black gown before addressing the gathering for fifteen minutes. He began by taking his charges through the long history of the school, extolling Taft’s past academic and sporting achievements. He stared down at the new boys and reminded them of the school’s motto, ‘Non ut sibi ministretur sed ut ministret’.

‘What does that mean?’ whispered Nat.

‘Not to be served, but to serve,’ muttered Tom.

The principal concluded by announcing that there were two things a Bearcat could never afford to miss — an exam, or a match against Hotchkiss — and, as if making clear his priorities, he promised a half-day’s holiday if Taft beat Hotchkiss in the annual football game. This was immediately greeted by a rousing cheer from the whole assembly, although every boy beyond the third row knew that this had not been achieved for the past four years.

When the cheering had died down, the principal left the stage, followed by the chaplain and the rest of the staff. Once they had departed, the chattering began again as the upper-class men started to file out of the hall, while only those boys in the front three rows remained seated, because they didn’t know where to go.

Ninety-five boys sat waiting to see what would happen next. They did not have long to wait, because an elderly master — well actually he was only fifty-one, but Nat thought he looked much older than his dad — came to a halt in front of them. He was a short, thick-set man, with a semicircle of grey hair around an otherwise bald pate. As he spoke, he clung on to the lapels of his tweed jacket, imitating the principal’s pose.

‘My name is Haskins,’ he told them. ‘I am master of the lower middlers,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘We’ll begin the day with orientation, which you will have completed by first break at ten thirty. At eleven you will attend your assigned classes. Your first lesson will be American history.’ Nat frowned, as history had never been his favourite subject. ‘Which will be followed by lunch. Don’t look forward to that,’ Mr Haskins said with the same wry smile. A few of the boys laughed. ‘But then that’s just another Taft tradition,’ Mr Haskins assured them, ‘which any of you who are following in your fathers’ footsteps will have already been warned about.’ One or two of the boys, including Tom, smiled.

Once they had begun what Mr Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s father a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.

By the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.

As the clock chimed eleven, Mr Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in his wake. He had a self-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as he slipped into the one remaining desk.

‘Name?’

‘Ralph Elliot.’

‘That will be the last time you will be late for my class while you’re at Taft,’ said Haskins. He paused. ‘Do I make myself clear, Elliot?’

‘You most certainly do.’ The boy paused, before adding, ‘Sir.’

Mr Haskins turned his gaze to the rest of the class. ‘Our first lesson, as I warned you, will be on American history, which is appropriate, remembering that this school was founded by the brother of a former president.’ With a portrait of William H. Taft in the main hall and a statue of his brother in the quadrangle, it would have been hard for even the least inquisitive pupil not to have worked that out.

‘Who was the first president of the United States?’ Mr Haskins asked. Every hand shot up. Mr Haskins nodded to a boy in the front row.

‘George Washington, sir.’

‘And the second?’ asked Haskins. Fewer hands rose, and this time Tom was selected.

‘John Adams, sir.’

‘Correct, and the third?’

Only two hands remained up, Nat’s and the boy who had arrived late. Haskins pointed to Nat.

‘Thomas Jefferson, 1801 to 1809.’

Mr Haskins nodded, acknowledging that the boy also knew the correct dates, ‘And the fourth?’

‘James Madison, 1809 to 1817,’ said Elliot.

‘And the fifth, Cartwright?’

‘James Monroe, 1817 to 1825.’

‘And the sixth, Elliot?’

‘John Quincy Adams, 1825 to 1829.’

‘And the seventh, Cartwright?’

Nat racked his brains. ‘I don’t remember, sir.’

‘You don’t remember, Cartwright, or do you simply not know?’ Haskins paused. ‘There is a considerable difference,’ he added. He turned his attention back to Elliot.

‘William Henry Harrison, I think, sir.’

‘No, he was the ninth president, Elliot, 1841, but as he died of pneumonia only a month after his inauguration, we won’t be spending a lot of time on him,’ added Haskins. ‘Make sure everyone can tell me the name of the seventh president by tomorrow morning. Now let’s go back to the founding fathers. You may all take notes as I require you to produce a three-page essay on the subject by the time we next meet.’

Nat had filled three long sheets even before the lesson had ended, while Tom barely managed a page. As they left the classroom at the end of the lesson, Elliot brushed quickly past them.

‘He already looks like a worthy adversary,’ remarked Tom.

Nat didn’t comment.

What he couldn’t know was that he and Ralph Elliot would be adversaries for the rest of their lives.

7

The annual football game between Hotchkiss and Taft was the sporting highlight of the semester. As both teams were undefeated that season, little else was discussed once the mid-terms were over, and for the jocks, long before mid-terms began.

Fletcher found himself caught up in the excitement, and in his weekly letter to his mother named every member of the team, although he realized that she wouldn’t have a clue who any of them were.

The game was due to be played on the last Saturday in October and once the final whistle had been blown, all boarders would have the rest of the weekend off, plus an extra day should they win.

On the Monday before the game, Fletcher’s class sat their first mid-terms, but not before the principal had declared at morning assembly that, ‘Life consists of a series of tests and examinations, which is why we take them every term at Hotchkiss.’

On Tuesday evening Fletcher phoned his mother to tell her he thought he’d done well.

On Wednesday he told Jimmy he wasn’t so sure.

By Thursday, he’d looked up everything he hadn’t included, and wondered if he had even achieved a pass grade.

On Friday morning, class rankings were posted on the school notice board and the preps were headed by the name of Fletcher Davenport. He immediately ran to the nearest phone and rang his mother. Ruth couldn’t hide her delight when she learned her son’s news, but didn’t tell him that she wasn’t surprised. ‘You must celebrate,’ she said. Fletcher would have done so, but felt he couldn’t when he saw who had come bottom of the class.

At the full school assembly on Saturday morning, prayers were offered by the chaplain ‘for our undefeated football team, who played only for the glory of our Lord’. Our Lord was then vouchsafed the name of every player and asked if his Holy Spirit might be bestowed on each and every one of them. The principal was obviously in no doubt which team God would be supporting on Saturday afternoon.

At Hotchkiss, everything was decided on seniority, even a boy’s place in the bleachers. During their first term preps were relegated to the far end of the field, so both boys sat in the right-hand corner of the stand every other Saturday, and watched their heroes extend the season’s unbeaten run, a record they realized Taft also enjoyed.

As the Taft game fell on a homecoming weekend, Jimmy’s parents invited Fletcher to join them for a tailgate picnic before the kick-off. Fletcher didn’t tell any of the other boys in preps, because he felt it would only make them jealous. It was bad enough being top of the class, without being invited to watch the Taft game with an old boy who had seats on the centre line.

‘What’s your dad like?’ asked Jimmy, after lights-out the night before the game.

‘He’s great,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I should warn you that he’s a Taft man, and a Republican. And how about your dad? I’ve never met a senator before.’

‘He’s a politician to his fingertips, or at least that’s how the press describe him,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not that I’m sure what it means.’

On the morning of the game no one was able to concentrate during chemistry, despite Mr Bailey’s enthusiasm for testing the effects of acid on zinc, not least because Jimmy had turned the gas off at the mains, so Mr Bailey couldn’t even get the Bunsen burners lit.

At twelve o’clock a bell rang, releasing 380 screaming boys out into the courtyard. They resembled nothing less than a warring tribe, with their cries of, ‘Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss will win, death to all Bearcats.’

Fletcher ran all the way to the assembly point to meet his parents, as cars and taxis came streaming in past the lake. Fletcher scanned every vehicle, searching for his father and mother.

‘How are you, Andrew my darling?’ were his mother’s first words as she stepped out of the car.

‘Fletcher, I’m Fletcher at Hotchkiss,’ he whispered, hoping that none of the other boys had heard the word ‘darling’. He shook hands with his father, before adding, ‘We must leave for the field immediately, because we’ve been invited to join Senator and Mrs Gates for a tailgate lunch.’

Fletcher’s father raised an eyebrow. ‘If I remember correctly, Senator Gates is a Democrat,’ he said with mock disdain.

‘And a former Hotchkiss football captain,’ said Fletcher. ‘His son Jimmy and I are in the same class, and he’s my best friend, so Mom had better sit next to the senator, and if you don’t feel up to it, Dad, you can sit on the other side of the field with the Taft supporters.’

‘No, I think I’ll put up with the senator. It will be so rewarding to be seated next to him when Taft scores the winning touchdown.’

It was a clear autumnal day and the three of them strolled through a golden carpet of leaves all the way to the field. Ruth tried to take her son’s hand, but Fletcher stood just far enough away to make it impossible. Long before they reached the field, they could hear the cheers erupting from the pre-game rally.

Fletcher spotted Jimmy standing behind an Oldsmobile wagon, its open tailgate covered in far more sumptuous food than anything he’d seen for the past two months. A tall elegant man stepped forward. ‘Hello, I’m Harry Gates.’ The senator thrust out his politician’s hand to welcome Fletcher’s parents.

Fletcher’s father grasped the outstretched hand. ‘Good afternoon, Senator, I’m Robert Davenport and this is my wife Ruth.’

‘Call me Harry. This is Martha, my first wife.’ Mrs Gates stepped forward to welcome them both. ‘I call her my first wife — well, it keeps her on her toes.’

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Martha, not laughing at a joke she had heard so many times before.

‘It had better be quick,’ said the senator, checking his watch, ‘that is if we still hope to eat before the kick-off. Let me serve you, Ruth, and we’ll let your husband fend for himself. I can smell a Republican at a hundred paces.’

‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that,’ said Ruth.

‘Don’t tell me he’s an old Bearcat because I’m thinking of making that a capital offence in this state.’ Ruth nodded. ‘Then Fletcher, you’d better come and talk to me because I intend to ignore your father.’

Fletcher was flattered by the invitation, and soon began grilling the senator on the workings of the Connecticut legislature.

‘Andrew,’ said Ruth.

‘Fletcher, Mother.’

‘Fletcher, don’t you think the senator might like to talk about something other than politics?’

‘No, that’s fine by me, Ruth,’ Harry assured her. ‘The voters rarely ask such insightful questions, and I’m rather hoping it might rub off on Jimmy.’

After lunch had been cleared away the group walked quickly across to the bleachers, sitting down only moments before the game was due to begin. The seats were better than any prep could have dreamed of, but then Senator Gates hadn’t missed the Taft match since his own graduation. Fletcher couldn’t contain his excitement as the clock on the score board edged towards two. He stared across at the far stand, to be greeted with the enemy’s cries of, ‘Give me a T, give me an A, give me a...’ and fell in love.

Nat’s eyes remained on the face above the letter A.

‘Nat’s the brightest boy in our class,’ Tom told Nat’s father. Michael smiled.

‘Only just,’ said Nat, a little defensively, ‘don’t forget I only beat Ralph Elliot by one grade.’

‘I wonder if he’s Max Elliot’s son?’ said Nat’s father, almost to himself.

‘Who’s Max Elliot?’

‘In my business he’s what’s known as an unacceptable risk.’

‘Why?’ asked Nat, but his father didn’t expand on the bland statement, and was relieved when his son was distracted by the cheerleaders, who had blue and white pom-poms attached to their wrists and were performing their ritual war dance. Nat’s eyes settled on the second girl on the left, who seemed to be smiling up at him, although he realized to her he could only be a speck at the back of the stand.

‘You’ve grown, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Nat’s father, noting that his son’s trousers were already an inch short of his shoes. He only wondered how often he would have to buy him new clothes.

‘Well, it can’t be the school food that’s responsible,’ suggested Tom, who was still the smallest boy in the class. Nat didn’t reply. His eyes remained fixed on the group of cheerleaders.

‘Which one of them have you fallen for?’ enquired Tom, punching his friend on the arm.

‘What?’

‘You heard me the first time.’

Nat turned away so that his father couldn’t overhear his reply. ‘Second one from the left, with the letter A on her sweater.’

‘Diane Coulter,’ said Tom, pleased to discover that he knew something his friend didn’t.

‘How do you know her name?’

‘Because she’s Dan Coulter’s sister.’

‘But he’s the ugliest player on the team,’ said Nat. ‘He’s got cauliflower ears and a broken nose.’

‘And so would Diane if she’d played on the team every week for the past five years,’ said Tom with a laugh.

‘What else do you know about her?’ Nat asked his friend conspiratorially.

‘Oh, it’s that serious is it?’ said Tom. It was Nat’s turn to punch his friend. ‘Having to revert to physical violence, are we? Hardly part of the Taft code,’ added Tom. ‘Beat a man with the strength of your argument, not the strength of your arm; Oliver Wendell Holmes, if I remember correctly.’

‘Oh, do stop droning on,’ said Nat, ‘and just answer the question.’

‘Don’t know a lot more about her, to be honest. All I remember is that she goes to Westover and plays right wing on their hockey team.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ asked Nat’s father.

‘Dan Coulter,’ said Tom, without missing a beat, ‘one of our running backs — I was just telling Nat that he eats eight eggs for breakfast every morning.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Nat’s mother.

‘Because one of them is always mine,’ said Tom ruefully.

As his parents burst out laughing, Nat continued to gaze down at the A in TAFT. The first time he’d really noticed a girl. His concentration was distracted by a sudden roar, as everyone on his side of the stadium rose to greet the Taft team as they ran out onto the field. Moments later the Hotchkiss players appeared from the other side of the ground and just as enthusiastically their supporters leapt to their feet.

Fletcher was also standing, but his eyes remained fixed on the cheerleader with an A on her sweater. He felt guilty that the first girl he’d ever fallen for was a Taft supporter.

‘You don’t seem to be concentrating on our team,’ said the senator, leaning over and whispering in Fletcher’s ear.

‘Oh, yes I am, sir,’ said Fletcher, immediately turning his attention back to the Hotchkiss players as they began to warm up.

The two team captains jogged across to join the umpire, who was waiting for them on the fifty-yard line. The Zebra nicked a silver coin into the air which flashed in the afternoon sun before landing in the mud. The Bearcats clapped each other on the back when they saw the profile of Washington.

‘He should have called heads,’ said Fletcher.

Nat continued to stare as Diane climbed back into the bleachers. He wondered how he could possibly meet her. It wouldn’t be easy. Dan Coulter was a god. How could a new boy possibly hope to scale Olympus?

‘Good run,’ hollered Tom.

‘Who?’ said Nat.

‘Coulter, of course. He’s just picked up first down.’

‘Coulter?’

‘Don’t tell me you were still staring at his sister when the Kissies fumbled?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Then you’ll be able to tell me how many yards we gained,’ Tom said, looking at his friend. ‘I thought so, you weren’t even watching.’ He let out an exaggerated sigh, ‘I do believe that the time has come to put you out of your misery.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I shall have to arrange a meeting.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Sure, her father’s a local auto dealer, and we always buy our cars from him, so you’ll just have to come and stay with me during the holidays.’

Tom didn’t hear if his friend accepted the invitation, because his reply was drowned by another roar from the Taft supporters as the Bearcats intercepted.

When the whistle blew at the end of the first quarter, Nat let out the biggest cheer, having forgotten that his team was trailing. He remained standing in the hope that the girl with the head of curly fair hair and the most captivating smile, might just notice him. But how could she, as she leapt energetically up and down, encouraging the Taft supporters to cheer even louder.

The whistle for the start of the second quarter came all too quickly, and when A disappeared back in the bleachers to be replaced by thirty muscle-bound heavies, Nat reluctantly resumed his place and pretended to concentrate on the game.

‘Can I borrow your binoculars, sir?’ Fletcher asked Jimmy’s father at half time.

‘Of course, my boy,’ said the senator, passing them across. ‘Let me have them back when the game restarts.’ Fletcher missed the innuendo in his host’s voice as he focused on the girl with an A on her sweater and wished she would turn round and face the opposition more often.

‘Which one are you interested in?’ whispered the senator.

‘I was just checking on the Tafties, sir.’

‘I don’t think they’ve come back on to the field yet,’ said the senator. Fletcher turned scarlet. ‘T, A, F or T?’ enquired Jimmy’s father.

‘A, sir,’ admitted Fletcher.

The senator retrieved his binoculars, focused on the second girl from the left, and waited for her to turn round. ‘I approve of your choice, young man, but what do you intend to do about it?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Fletcher helplessly. ‘To be honest, I don’t even know her name.’

‘Diane Coulter,’ said the senator.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Fletcher, wondering if senators knew everything.

‘Research, my boy. Haven’t they taught you that at Hotchkiss yet?’ Fletcher looked bewildered. ‘All you need to know is on page eleven of the programme,’ added the senator, as he passed the open booklet across. Page eleven had been devoted to the cheerleaders supporting each school. ‘Diane Coulter,’ repeated Fletcher, staring at the photo. She was a year younger than Fletcher — women are still willing to admit their age at thirteen — and she also played the violin in her school orchestra. How he wished he’d taken his mother’s advice and learned to play the piano.

After gaining painful yard upon painful yard, Taft finally crossed the line and took the lead. Dutifully Diane reappeared on the touchline to perform her energetic routine.

‘You’ve got it bad,’ said Tom, ‘I guess I’m going to have to introduce you.’

‘You really know her?’ said Nat in disbelief.

‘Sure do,’ said Tom. ‘We’ve been going to the same parties since the age of two.’

‘I wonder if she has a boyfriend,’ said Nat.

‘How should I know? Why don’t you come and spend a week with us during vacation, and then you can leave the rest to me.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Make sure you finish the holiday assignments before you turn up — then I won’t have to bother double-checking all the facts.’

‘It’s a deal,’ said Nat.

The whistle blew for the third quarter, and after a series of brilliant passes, it was Hotchkiss’s turn to make it over the end zone, putting them back into the lead, which they clung on to until the end of the quarter.

‘Hello, Taft, hello, Taft, you’re back where you belong,’ sang the senator out of tune, while the teams took a timeout.

‘There’s still the final quarter to come,’ Fletcher reminded the senator as his host passed the glasses across to him.

‘Have you decided which side you’re supporting, young man, or have you been ensnared by the Tafties’ Mata Hari?’ Fletcher looked puzzled. He would have to check on who Mata Hari was just as soon as he got back to his room. ‘She probably lives locally,’ continued the senator, ‘in which case it will take a member of my staff about two minutes to find out everything you need to know about her.’

‘Even her address and telephone number?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Even whether she has a boyfriend,’ replied the senator.

‘Wouldn’t you be abusing your position?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Damn right I would,’ replied Senator Gates, ‘but then any politician would do as much if he felt it might ensure two more votes at some future election.’

‘But that doesn’t solve the problem of meeting her while I’m stuck in Farmington.’

‘That can also be solved if you’d come and spend a few days with us after Christmas, and then I’ll make sure that she and her parents are invited to some function at the Capitol.’

‘You’ll do that for me?’

‘Sure will, but at some time you’ll have to learn about trade-offs if you’re going to deal with a politician.’

‘What’s the trade-off?’ asked Fletcher. ‘I’ll do anything.’

‘Never admit to that, my boy, because it immediately puts you in the weaker bargaining position. However, all I want in return on this occasion is for you to make sure Jimmy somehow scrapes off the bottom of the class. That will be your part of the bargain.’

‘It’s a deal, senator,’ said Fletcher, shaking hands.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said the senator, ‘because Jimmy seems only too willing to follow your lead.’

It was the first time anyone had suggested that Fletcher might be a leader. Until that moment it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He thought about the senator’s words, and failed to notice Taft’s winning touchdown until Diane rushed up out of the bleachers and began a ritual that unfortunately resembled a victory ceremony. There would be no extra day off this year.

On the other side of the stadium, Nat and Tom stood outside the locker rooms, along with a multitude of Taft supporters who, with one exception, were waiting to greet their heroes. Nat nudged his friend in the ribs as she came out. Tom stepped quickly forward. ‘Hi, Diane,’ he said and, not waiting for a reply, added, ‘I want you to meet my friend Nat. Actually, the truth is he wanted to meet you.’ Nat blushed, and not just because he thought Diane was even prettier than her photo. ‘Nat lives in Cromwell,’ added Tom helpfully, ‘but he’s coming to spend a few days with us after Christmas, so you can get to know him better then.’

Nat only felt confident of one thing: Tom’s chosen career wasn’t destined to be in the diplomatic corps.

8

Nat sat at his desk, trying to concentrate on the Great Depression. He managed about half a page, but he found his mind kept wandering. He went over the short meeting he’d had with Diane, again and again. This didn’t take long because she’d hardly said a word before his father had joined them and suggested they ought to be leaving.

Nat had cut out her picture from the football programme, and carried it around with him wherever he went. He was beginning to wish he’d picked up at least three programmes, because the little photo was becoming so worn. He’d rung Tom at home the morning after the game on the pretence of discussing the Wall Street crash, and then casually threw in, ‘Did Diane say anything about me after I’d left?’

‘She thought you were very nice.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘What else could she say? You only had about two minutes together before your father dragged you off.’

‘Did she like me?’

‘She thought you were very nice, and if I remember correctly, she said something about James Dean.’

‘No, she didn’t — did she?’

‘No, you’re right — she didn’t.’

‘You’re a rat.’

‘True, but a rat with a telephone number.’

‘You have her telephone number?’ said Nat in disbelief.

‘You catch on quickly.’

‘What is it?’

‘Have you completed that essay on the Great Depression?’

‘Not quite, but I’ll have it finished by the weekend, so hold on while I get a pencil.’ Nat wrote the number down on the back of Diane’s photograph. ‘Do you think she’ll be surprised if I give her a call?’

‘I think she’ll be surprised if you don’t.’

‘Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright. I don’t suppose you remember me.’

‘No, I don’t. Who are you?’

‘I’m the one you met after the Hotchkiss game and thought looked like James Dean.’

Nat glanced in the mirror. He’d never thought about his looks before. Did he really look like James Dean?

It took another couple of days, and several more rehearsals before Nat had the courage to dial her number. Once he’d completed his essay on the Great Depression, he’d prepared a list of questions which varied according to who picked up the phone. If it was her father, he would say, ‘Good morning, sir, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter,’ if it was her mother he would say, ‘Good morning, Mrs Coulter, my name is Nat Cartwright. May I please speak to your daughter.’ If Diane answered the phone, he had prepared ten questions, in a logical order. He placed three sheets of paper on the table in front of him, took a deep breath, and carefully dialled the digits. He was greeted by a busy signal. Perhaps she was talking to another boy. Had she already held his hand, even kissed him? Was he her regular date? Fifteen minutes later he phoned again. Still busy. Had another suitor called in between? This time he only waited ten minutes before he tried again. The moment he heard the ringing tone he felt his heart thumping in his chest, and wanted to put the phone straight back down. He stared at his list of questions. The ringing stopped. Someone picked up the phone.

‘Hello,’ said a deep voice. He didn’t need to be told it was Dan Coulter.

Nat dropped the phone on the floor. Surely gods don’t answer phones, and in any case, he hadn’t prepared any questions for Diane’s brother. Hastily he picked the receiver up off the floor and placed it back on the phone.

Nat read through his essay before he dialled a fourth time. At last a girl’s voice answered.

‘Diane?’

‘No, it’s her sister Tricia,’ said a voice that sounded older, ‘Diane’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting her back in about an hour. Who shall I say called?’

‘Nat,’ he replied, ‘would you tell her I’ll phone again in about an hour?’

‘Sure,’ said the older voice.

‘Thank you,’ said Nat and put the receiver down. He hadn’t any questions or answers prepared for an older sister.

Nat must have looked at his watch sixty times during the next hour, but he still added another fifteen minutes before he redialled the number. He’d read in Teen magazine — if you like a girl, don’t appear too keen, it puts them off. The phone was eventually picked up.

‘Hello,’ said a younger voice.

Nat glanced down at his script. ‘Hello, can I speak to Diane?’

‘Hi, Nat, it’s Diane. Tricia told me you’d called, how are you?’

How are you wasn’t in the script. ‘I’m fine,’ he eventually managed, ‘how are you?’

‘I’m fine too,’ she replied, which was followed by another long silence while Nat searched for an appropriate question.

‘I’m coming over to Simsbury next week to spend a few days with Tom,’ he read out in a monotone.

‘That’s great,’ replied Diane, ‘then let’s hope we bump into each other.’ There certainly wasn’t anything in the script about bumping into each other. He tried to read all ten questions at once. ‘Are you still there, Nat?’ asked Diane.

‘Yes. Any hope of seeing you while I’m in Simsbury?’ Question number nine.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Diane, ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Nat looking at answer number ten.

During the rest of the evening, Nat tried to recall the conversation in detail, and even wrote it down line by line. He underlined three times her words — yes, of course, I’d like that very much. As there were still four days before he was due to visit Tom, he wondered if he should call Diane again — just to confirm. He returned to Teen magazine to seek their advice, as they seemed to have anticipated all his previous problems. Teen gave no help on calling a second time, but did suggest for a first date he should dress casually, be relaxed, and whenever he got the chance talk about other girls he’d been out with. He’d never been out with another girl, and worse, he didn’t have any casual clothes, other than a plaid shirt that he had hidden in a bottom drawer half an hour after he’d bought it. Nat checked to see how much money he’d saved from his paper round — seven dollars and twenty cents — and wondered if that was enough to purchase a new shirt and a casual pair of slacks. If only he had an older brother.

He put the finishing touches to his essay only hours before his father drove him across to Simsbury.

As they travelled north, Nat kept asking himself why he hadn’t rung Diane back and fixed a time and place to meet her. She might have gone away — decided to stay with a friend — a boy-friend. Would Tom’s parents mind if he asked to use their phone the moment he arrived?

‘Oh, my God,’ said Nat as his father swung his car into a long drive and drove past a paddock full of horses. Nat’s father would have chastised him for blaspheming, but was somewhat taken aback himself. The driveway must have stretched for over a mile before they turned into a gravelled courtyard to be greeted by the most magnificent white pillared colonial home surrounded by evergreens.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Nat a second time. This time his father did remonstrate with him.

‘Sorry, Dad, but Tom never mentioned he lived in a palace.’

‘Why should he?’ replied his father. ‘When it’s all he’s ever known. By the way, he’s not your closest friend because of the size of his house, and if he had felt it was necessary to impress you, he would have mentioned it some time ago. Do you know what his father does, because one thing’s for sure, he doesn’t sell life insurance.’

‘I think he’s a banker.’

‘Tom Russell, of course. Russell’s Bank,’ said his father as they pulled up in front of the house.

Tom was waiting on the top step to greet them. ‘Good afternoon, sir, how are you?’ he asked, as he opened the door on the driver’s side.

‘I’m well, thank you, Tom,’ replied Michael Cartwright as his son climbed out of the car, clinging on to a small battered suitcase with the initials M. C. printed next to the lock.

‘Would you care to join us for a drink, sir?’

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Nat’s father, ‘but my wife will be expecting me back in time for supper, so I ought to be on my way.’

Nat waved as his father circled the courtyard and began his return journey to Cromwell.

Nat looked up at the house to see a butler standing on the top step. He offered to take the suitcase, but Nat clung on to it as he was escorted up a magnificent wide circular staircase to the second floor, where he was shown into a guest bedroom. In Nat’s home they only had one spare bedroom, which would have passed as a broom closet in this house. Once the butler had left him, Tom said, ‘When you’ve unpacked, come down and meet my mother. We’ll be in the kitchen.’

Nat sat at the end of one of the twin beds, painfully aware that he would never be able to invite Tom to stay with him.

It took Nat about three minutes to unpack as all he had were two shirts, one spare pair of trousers and a tie. He spent some considerable time checking out the bathroom before finally bouncing up and down on the bed. It was so springy. He waited for a couple more minutes before he left the room to stroll back down the wide staircase, wondering if he would ever be able to find the kitchen. The butler was waiting on the bottom step and escorted him along the corridor. Nat stole a quick glance into each room he passed.

‘Hi,’ said Tom, ‘your room OK?’

‘Yes, it’s great,’ said Nat, aware that his friend was not being sarcastic.

‘Mom, this is Nat. He’s the cleverest boy in the class, damn him.’

‘Please don’t swear, Tom,’ said Mrs Russell. ‘Hello, Nat, how nice to meet you.’

‘Good evening Mrs Russell, it’s nice to meet you too. What a lovely home you have.’

‘Thank you, Nat, and we were delighted that you were able to join us for a few days. Can I get you a Coke?’

‘Yes, please.’

A uniformed maid went straight to the fridge, took out a Coke and added some ice.

‘Thank you,’ he repeated, as he watched the maid return to the sink and continue chopping potatoes. He thought of his mother back in Cromwell. She would also be chopping up potatoes, but only after a full day’s teaching.

‘Want me to show you around?’ asked Tom.

‘Sounds great,’ said Nat, ‘but can I first make a phone call?’

‘You don’t need to, Diane’s already called.’

‘She’s already called?’

‘Yeah, she phoned this morning, to ask what time you’d be arriving. She begged me not to tell you, so I think we can assume she’s interested.’

‘Then I’d better call her back immediately.’

‘No, that’s the last thing you should do,’ said Tom.

‘But I said I would.’

‘Yes, I know you did, but I think we’ll walk around the grounds first.’

When Fletchers mother dropped him off at Senator and Mrs Gates’s home in East Hartford, it was Jimmy who answered the door.

‘Now don’t forget to always address Mr Gates as Senator or sir.’

‘Yes, Mom.’

‘And don’t bother him with too many questions.’

‘No, Mom.’

‘Remember that a conversation conducted by two people should be fifty per cent talking and fifty per cent listening.’

‘Yes, Mom.’

‘Hello, Mrs Davenport, how are you?’ asked Jimmy as he opened the door to greet them.

‘I’m well, thank you, Jimmy, and you?’

‘Just great. I’m afraid Mom and Dad are out at some function, but I could make you a cup of tea?’

‘No thank you, I have to be back in time to chair a meeting of the Hospital Trust, but please remember to pass on my best wishes to your parents.’

Jimmy carried one of Fletcher’s suitcases up to the spare room. ‘I’ve put you next to me,’ he said, ‘which means we have to share the same bathroom.’

Fletcher put his other suitcase on the bed, before studying the pictures on the walls — prints of the Civil War, just in case a southerner should come to stay and might have forgotten who won. They reminded Jimmy to ask Fletcher if he’d finished his essay on Lincoln.

‘Yes, but have you found out Diane’s phone number?’

‘I’ve gone one better. I’ve discovered which coffee shop she goes to most afternoons. So I thought we might just drop in casually, say around five, and should that fail, my father has invited her parents to a reception at the Capitol tomorrow evening.’

‘But they might not come.’

‘I’ve checked the guest list, and they’ve accepted.’

Fletcher suddenly remembered the trade-off he’d agreed with the senator. ‘How far have you got with your homework?’

‘Haven’t even started,’ admitted Jimmy.

‘Jimmy, if you don’t get a pass grade next term, you’ll be put on probation and then I won’t be able to help.’

‘I know, but I’m also aware of the deal you struck with my father.’

‘Then if I’m to keep it, we’ll have to start work first thing tomorrow. We’ll begin by doing two hours every morning.’

‘Yes sir,’ said Jimmy, snapping to attention. ‘But before we worry about tomorrow, perhaps you should get changed,’ he added.

Fletcher had packed half a dozen shirts and a couple of pairs of slacks, but still hadn’t a clue what to wear on his first date. He was about to seek his friend’s advice, when Jimmy said, ‘Once you’ve unpacked why don’t you come down and join us in the living room? The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.’

Fletcher changed quickly into the shirt and slacks he’d bought the previous day at a local tailor his father had recommended. He checked himself in the long mirror. He had no idea how he looked, because he’d never taken any interest in clothes before. Act casual, look sharp, he’d heard a disc jockey telling his radio audience, but what did that mean? He’d worry about it later. As Fletcher walked downstairs, he could hear voices coming from the front room, one of which he didn’t recognize.

‘Mom, you remember Fletcher,’ Jimmy said as his friend strolled into the room.

‘Yes, of course I do. My husband never stops telling everyone about the fascinating conversation the two of you had at the Taft game.’

‘That’s kind of him to remember,’ said Fletcher, not looking at her.

‘And I know he’s looking forward to seeing you again.’

‘That’s kind of him,’ said Fletcher a second time.

‘And this is my kid sister, Annie,’ said Jimmy.

Annie blushed, and not only because she hated being described by Jimmy as his kid sister: his friend hadn’t taken his eyes off her from the moment he’d walked into the room.

9

‘Good evening, Mrs Coulter, how nice to meet you and your husband, and this must be your daughter Diane, if I remember correctly.’ Mr and Mrs Coulter were impressed because they had never met the senator before, and not only had their son scored the winning touchdown against Hotchkiss, but they were also registered Republicans. ‘Now, Diane,’ continued the senator, ‘I have someone I want you to meet.’ Harry Gates’s eyes swept the room, searching for Fletcher, who had been standing by his side only a moment before. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘but you mustn’t leave without meeting him. Otherwise I won’t have kept my end of the bargain,’ he added without explanation.

‘Where’s Fletcher disappeared off to?’ Harry Gates asked his son once the Coulters had joined the other guests.

‘If you can spot Annie, you won’t find Fletcher far behind; he hasn’t left her side since he arrived in Hartford. In fact I’m thinking of buying him a dog leash and calling him Fletch.’

‘Is that right?’ said the senator. ‘I hope he doesn’t think that releases him from our deal.’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Jimmy. ‘In fact we studied Romeo and Juliet for two hours this morning, and guess who he sees himself as.’

The senator smiled. ‘And which part do you imagine fits your character?’ he asked.

‘I think I’m Mercutio.’

‘No,’ said Harry Gates, ‘you can only be Mercutio if he starts to chase Diane.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Ask Fletcher. He’ll explain it to you.’

Tricia answered the door. She was dressed for a game of tennis.

‘Is Diane home?’ Nat asked.

‘No, she’s gone to some party at the Capitol with my parents. She should be back in about an hour. I’m Tricia, by the way. I spoke to you on the phone. I was just going to have a Coke. Want to join me?’

‘Is your brother at home?’

‘No, he’s training down at the gym.’

‘Yes, please.’

Tricia led Nat through to the kitchen and pointed towards a stool on the other side of the table. Nat sat down and didn’t speak as Tricia pulled open the fridge door. As she bent over to remove two Cokes, her short skirt rose. Nat couldn’t stop staring at her white tennis panties.

‘What time are you expecting them back?’ he asked as she added some ice cubes to his drink.

‘No idea, so for the time being, you’re stuck with me.’

Nat sipped his drink, not sure what to say, because he thought he and Diana had agreed to see To Kill a Mockingbird.

‘I don’t know what you see in her,’ said Jimmy.

‘She’s got everything you haven’t,’ said Fletcher smiling. ‘She’s bright, pretty, fun to be with and...’

‘Are you sure we’re talking about my sister?’

‘Yes, which is why you’re the one who has to wear glasses.’

‘By the way, Diane Coulter has just turned up with her parents. Dad wants to know if you’re still hoping to meet her.’

‘Not particularly, she’s gone from A to Z, so she’s now a natural for you.’

‘No thanks,’ said Jimmy, ‘I don’t need your cast offs. By the way, I told Dad about Romeo and Juliet, and said I saw myself as Mercutio.’

‘Only if I start to date Dan Coulter’s sister, but I’m no longer interested in the daughter of that house.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘I’ll explain tomorrow morning,’ said Fletcher, as Jimmy’s sister reappeared carrying two Dr Peppers. Annie scowled at her brother, and he quickly disappeared.

For some time, neither of them spoke, until Annie said, ‘Would you like me to show you the Senate Chamber?’

‘Sure, that would be great,’ said Fletcher. She turned and began walking towards the door, with Fletcher following a pace behind.

‘Do you see what I see?’ said Harry Gates, turning to his wife as Fletcher and his daughter disappeared out of the room.

‘I certainly do,’ replied Martha Gates, ‘but I shouldn’t get too worried about it, as I doubt if either of them is capable of seducing the other.’

‘It didn’t stop me trying at that age, as I feel sure you remember.’

‘Typical politician. That’s another story you’ve embellished over the years. Because if I remember correctly, it was me who seduced you.’

Nat was sipping his Coke when he felt a hand on his thigh. He blushed, but made no attempt to remove it. Tricia smiled across the table at him. ‘You can put your hand on my leg if you want to.’ Nat thought she might consider him rude if he didn’t comply, so he reached under the table and placed a hand on her thigh. ‘Good,’ she said as she sipped her Coke, ‘that’s a little more friendly.’ Nat didn’t comment as her hand moved further up his newly pressed slacks. ‘Just follow my lead,’ she said. He moved his hand further up her thigh, but came to a halt when he reached the hem of her skirt. She didn’t stop until she had reached his crotch.

‘You’ve still got some way to go to catch up with me,’ Tricia said, as she began to undo the top button of his slacks. ‘Under the skirt, not over,’ she added, without any trace of mockery. He slipped his hand under her skirt as she continued to unbutton his slacks. He hesitated again when his fingers reached her panties. He couldn’t remember anything in Teen magazine about what he was expected to do next.

‘This is the Senate Chamber,’ said Annie as they looked down from the gallery on to a semicircle of blue leather chairs.

‘It’s very impressive,’ said Fletcher.

‘Daddy says you’ll end up here one day, or perhaps go even further.’ Fletcher didn’t reply, because he had no idea what exams you had to pass to become a politician. ‘I heard him tell my mother he’d never met a more brilliant boy.’

‘Well, you know what they say about politicians,’ said Fletcher.

‘Yes I do, but I can always tell when Daddy doesn’t mean it because he smiles at the same time, and this time he didn’t smile.’

‘Where does your father sit?’ asked Fletcher, trying to change the subject.

‘As majority leader he sits third along from the left in the front row,’ she said, pointing down, ‘but I’d better not tell you too much because I know he’s looking forward to showing you around the Capitol himself.’ He felt her hand touch his.

‘Sorry,’ he said, quickly removing his hand, thinking it had been a mistake.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. She took his hand again, this time holding on to it.

‘Don’t you think we ought to go back and join the party?’ asked Fletcher. ‘Otherwise they might start to wonder where we are.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Annie, but she didn’t move. ‘Fletcher, have you ever kissed a girl?’ she asked quietly.

‘No I haven’t,’ he admitted, turning scarlet.

‘Would you like to?’

‘Yes, I would,’ he said.

‘Would you like to kiss me?’

He nodded and then turned and watched as Annie closed her eyes and pursed her lips. He checked to make sure that all the doors were closed, before he leant forward and kissed her gently on the mouth. Once he’d stopped, she opened her eyes.

‘Do you know what a French kiss is?’ she asked.

‘No I don’t,’ said Fletcher.

‘No, neither do I,’ admitted Annie. ‘If you find out, will you tell me?’

‘Yes, I will,’ said Fletcher.