Only Time Will Tell (2011) Page 3

  ‘And what’s that, Mum?’ asked Maisie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The questions w
ere far too easy,’ replied Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Maisie replied proudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then how did he die?’ asked Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘The family who own the shipping line?’

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

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

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

  ‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’

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

  4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harry.

  ‘Leave your case over there and follow me.’

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

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

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

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