Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (5 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then how did he die?’ asked Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

‘The family who own the shipping line?’

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

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

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

‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’

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

4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harry.

‘Leave your case over there and follow me.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deakins blushed.

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

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

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

‘No,’ said Harry and Deakins in unison.

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

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