Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (11 page)

‘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

T
HE 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.’

‘It should have been Giles,’ said Harry without thinking.

‘Barrington will be captain of games, and—’

Harry had leapt in the air the moment he heard the news that his friend would be returning to St Bede’s. Old Jack had been right when he said Mr Hugo would find a way to make sure his son was back for the first day of term.

When Giles walked into the front hall a few moments later, the two boys shook hands, and Harry never once referred to the subject that must have been on both their minds.

‘What are the new bugs like?’ Giles asked as Harry entered the study.

‘One of them reminds me of you,’ said Harry.

‘Tewkesbury, no doubt.’

‘You know him?’

‘No, but Papa was at Eton at the same time as his father.’

‘I told him I was the son of a docker,’ said Harry as he slumped into the only comfortable chair in the room.

‘Did you now?’ said Giles. ‘And did he tell you he’s the son of a cabinet minister?’

Harry said nothing.

‘Are there any others I should keep an eye out for?’ asked Giles.

‘Stevenson,’ said Harry. ‘He’s a cross between Deakins and me.’

‘Then we’d better lock the fire-escape door before he makes a dash for it.’

Harry often thought about where he might be now if Old Jack hadn’t talked him into returning to St Bede’s that night.

‘What’s our first lesson tomorrow?’ asked Harry, checking his timetable.

‘Latin,’ said Deakins. ‘Which is why I’m guiding Giles through the first Punic war.’

‘264 to 241
BC
,’ said Giles.

‘I bet you’re enjoying that,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Giles, ‘and I just can’t wait for the sequel, the second Punic war.’

‘218 to 201
BC
,’ said Harry.

‘It always amazes me how the Greeks and Romans seemed to know exactly when Christ would be born,’ said Giles.

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Harry.

Deakins didn’t laugh, but said, ‘And finally, we will have to consider the third Punic War, 149 to 146
BC
.’

‘Do we really need to know about all three of them?’ said Giles.

St Mary Redcliffe was packed with town and gown who’d come to celebrate an Advent service of eight readings and eight carols. The choir made their entrance through the nave, and advanced slowly down the aisle singing
O Come All Ye Faithful,
then took their places in the choir stalls.

The headmaster read the first lesson. This was followed by
O Little Town of Bethlehem.
The service sheet indicated that the soloist for the third verse would be Master Harry Clifton.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given, while God . . .
Harry’s mother sat proudly in the third row, while the old lady sitting next to her wanted to tell everyone in the congregation that they were listening to her grandson. The man seated on the other side of Maisie couldn’t hear a word, but you would never have known that from the contented smile on his face. Uncle Stan was nowhere to be seen.

The captain of games read the second lesson, and when Giles returned to his place, Harry noticed that he was seated next to a distinguished-looking man with a head of silver hair, who he assumed must be Sir Walter Barrington. Giles had once told him that his grandfather lived in an even larger house than his, but Harry didn’t think that could be possible. On the other side of Giles sat his mother and father. Mrs Barrington smiled across at him, but Mr Barrington didn’t once look in his direction.

When the organ struck up the prelude for
We Three Kings,
the congregation rose and sang lustily. The next lesson was read by Mr Frobisher, after which came what Miss Monday anticipated would be the highlight of the service. The thousand-strong congregation didn’t stir while Harry sang
Silent Night
with a clarity and confidence that caused even the headmaster to smile.

The library monitor read the next lesson. Harry had already coached him through St Mark’s words several times. Deakins had tried to get out of the chore, as he described it to Giles, but Mr Frobisher had insisted; the fourth lesson was always read by the librarian. Deakins wasn’t Giles, but he wasn’t bad. Harry winked at him as he shuffled back to his seat next to his parents.

The choir then rose to sing
In Dulci Jubilo
while the congregation remained seated. Harry considered the carol to be among the most demanding in their repertoire, because of its unconventional harmonies.

Mr Holcombe closed his eyes so that he could hear the senior choral scholar more clearly. Harry was singing
Now let all hearts be singing
when he thought he heard a slight, almost imperceptible, crack in the voice. He assumed Harry must have a cold. Miss Monday knew better. She’d heard those early signs so many times before. She prayed that she was mistaken, but knew her prayer would not be answered. Harry would get through the rest of the service with only a handful of people realizing what had happened, and he would even be able to carry on for a few more weeks, possibly months, but by Easter another child would be singing
Rejoice that the Lord has arisen.

An old man who’d turned up only moments after the service had begun was among those who weren’t in any doubt what had happened. Old Jack left just before the bishop gave his final blessing. He knew Harry wouldn’t be able to visit him until the following Saturday, which would give him enough time to work out how to answer the inevitable question.

‘Might I have a private word with you, Clifton?’ said Mr Frobisher as the bell sounded for the end of prep. ‘Perhaps you’d join me in my study.’ Harry would never forget the last time he’d heard those words.

When Harry closed the study door, his housemaster beckoned him towards a seat by the fire, something he had never done before. ‘I just wanted to assure you, Harry’ – another first – ‘that the fact you are no longer able to sing in the choir will not affect your bursary. We at St Bede’s are well aware that the contribution you have made to school life stretches far beyond the chapel.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry.

‘However, we must now consider your future. The music master tells me that it will be some time before your voice fully recovers, which I’m afraid means that we must be realistic about your chances of being offered a choral scholarship to Bristol Grammar School.’

‘There is no chance,’ said Harry calmly.

‘I have to agree with you,’ said Frobisher. ‘I’m relieved to find you understand the situation. But,’ he continued, ‘I would be happy to enter your name for an open scholarship to BGS. However,’ he added before Harry had time to respond, ‘in the circumstances, you might consider that you’d have a better chance of being offered a bursary at, say, Colston’s School, or King’s College Gloucester, both of which have far less demanding entrance examinations.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Harry. ‘My first choice remains Bristol Grammar.’ He’d said the same thing to Old Jack just as firmly the previous Saturday, when his mentor had mumbled something about not burning your boats.

‘So be it,’ said Mr Frobisher, who had not expected any other response, but had still felt it was nothing less than his duty to come up with an alternative. ‘Now, let’s turn this setback to our advantage.’

‘How do you suggest I do that, sir?’

‘Well, now that you’ve been released from daily choir practice, you will have more time to prepare for your entrance exam.’

‘Yes, sir, but I still have my responsibilities as—’

‘And I will do everything in my power to ensure that your duties as school captain are less onerous in future.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘By the way, Harry,’ said Frobisher as he rose from his chair, ‘I’ve just read your essay on Jane Austen, and I was fascinated by your suggestion that if Miss Austen had been able to go to university, she might never have written a novel, and even if she had, her work probably wouldn’t have been so insightful.’