Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (10 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why’s that, Grandpa?’ shouted Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And Barrington?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He told me he’s got a plan.’

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

Harry didn’t comment.

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

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

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

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

‘What do you have in mind?’

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

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