Only Time Will Tell Page 7

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

  ‘Why?’ asked Giles, sounding more interested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Why’s that, Grandpa?’ shouted Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘And Barrington?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘He told me he’s got a plan.’

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

  Harry didn’t comment.

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

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

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

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

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, of course, Harry.’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then you can have it for five shillings.’

  Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

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

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

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

  9

  THE BELL WENT.

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

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

  ‘Stevenson.’

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

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

  ‘Welcome to St Bede’s, Tewkesbury.’

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

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

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

  ‘A wet bob?’ said Harry.

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

  Stevenson burst into tears.

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

  ‘My dad’s a tram driver.’

  Everyone else stopped unpacking and stared at Stevenson.

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

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

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

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

  ‘And what’s that, Stevenson?’

  ‘I don’t have any toothpaste.’

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

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

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

  ‘Think nothing of it, old chap.’

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

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

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