Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell (6 page)

A bell sounded. ‘Time to get undressed!’ declared Fisher. Harry had never undressed in front of another boy, let alone a room full of them. He faced the wall, took off his clothes slowly and quickly pulled on his pyjamas. Once he’d tied the cord of his dressing gown, he followed the other boys into the washroom. Once again, he watched carefully as they washed their faces with flannels before brushing their teeth. He didn’t have a flannel or a toothbrush. The boy from the next bed rummaged around in his wash bag and handed him a brand new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Harry didn’t want to take them until the boy said, ‘My mother always packs two of everything.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry. Although he cleaned his teeth quickly, he was still among the last to return to the dormitory. He climbed into bed, two clean sheets, two blankets and a soft pillow. He had just looked across to see that Deakins was reading
Kennedy’s Latin Primer
when the other boy said, This pillow is brick hard.’

‘Would you like to swap with me?’ Harry asked.

‘I think you’ll find they’re all the same,’ the boy said with a grin, ‘but thanks.’

Harry took his bar of chocolate from under the pillow and broke it into three pieces. He handed one piece to Deakins, and another to the boy who’d given him the toothbrush and toothpaste.

‘I see your mater’s far more sensible than mine,’ he said after taking a bite. Another bell. ‘By the way, my name’s Giles Barrington. What’s yours?’

‘Clifton. Harry Clifton.’

Harry didn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, and it wasn’t just because his bed was so comfortable. Could it be possible that Giles was related to one of the three men who knew the truth about how his father had died? And if so, was he cut from the same cloth as his father, or his grandfather?

Suddenly Harry felt very lonely. He unscrewed the top of the toothpaste Barrington had given him and began to suck it until he fell asleep.

When the now-familiar bell rang at 6.30 next morning, Harry climbed slowly out of bed, feeling sick. He followed Deakins into the washroom, to find Giles was testing the water. ‘Do you think this place has ever heard of hot water?’ he asked.

Harry was just about to reply when the prefect hollered, ‘No talking in the washroom!’

‘He’s worse than a Prussian general,’ said Barrington, clicking his heels. Harry burst out laughing.

‘Who was that?’ asked Fisher, glaring at the two boys.

‘Me,’ said Harry immediately.

‘Name?’

‘Clifton.’

‘Open your mouth again, Clifton, and I’ll slipper you.’

Harry had no idea what being slippered meant, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be pleasant. Once he’d brushed his teeth, he walked quickly back into the dorm and dressed without another word. Once he’d done up his tie – something else he hadn’t quite mastered – he caught up with Barrington and Deakins as they made their way down the stairs to the refectory.

Nobody said a word, as they weren’t sure if they were allowed to talk while they were on the staircase. When they sat down for breakfast in the refectory, Harry slipped in between his two new friends, and watched as bowls of porridge were placed in front of each boy. He was relieved to find there was only one spoon in front of him, so he couldn’t make a mistake this time.

Harry gulped down his porridge so quickly it was as if he was afraid Uncle Stan would appear and snatch it away from him. He was the first to finish, and without a moment’s thought he put his spoon down on the table, picked up his bowl and began to lick it. Several other boys stared at him in disbelief, some pointed, while others sniggered. He turned a bright shade of crimson and put the bowl back down. He would have burst into tears, if Barrington hadn’t picked up his own bowl and begun licking it.

5

T
HE
R
EVEREND
S
AMUEL
O
AKSHOTT
MA (Oxon) stood, feet apart, at the centre of the stage. He peered benignly down on his flock, for that was certainly how the headmaster of St Bede’s viewed the pupils.

Harry, seated in the front row, stared up at the frightening figure who towered above him. Dr Oakshott was well over six feet tall, and had a head of thick, greying hair and long bushy sideburns that made him look even more forbidding. His deep blue eyes pierced right through you and he never seemed to blink, while the criss-cross of lines on his forehead hinted at great wisdom. He cleared his throat before addressing the boys.

‘Fellow Bedeans,’ he began. ‘We are once again gathered together at the beginning of a new school year, no doubt prepared to face whatever challenges should confront us. For the senior boys,’ he turned his attention to the back of the hall, ‘you don’t have a moment to lose if you hope to be offered a place at the school of your first choice. Never settle for second best.

‘For the middle school,’ his eyes moved to the centre of the hall, ‘this will be a time when we discover which of you is destined for greater things. When you return next year, will you be a prefect, a monitor, a house captain or a captain of sport? Or will you simply be among the also-rans?’ Several boys bowed their heads.

‘Our next duty is to welcome the new boys, and do everything in our power to make them feel at home. They are being handed the baton for the first time as they begin life’s long race. Should the pace prove to be too demanding, one or two of you may fall by the wayside,’ he warned, staring down at the front three rows. ‘St Bede’s is not a school for the faint-hearted. So be sure never to forget the words of the great Cecil Rhodes:
If you are lucky enough to have been born an Englishman, you have drawn first prize in the lottery of life.
’

The assembled gathering burst into spontaneous applause as the headmaster left the stage, followed by a crocodile of masters whom he led down the centre aisle, out of the great hall and into the morning sunshine.

Harry, his spirits raised, was determined not to let the headmaster down. He followed the senior boys out of the hall, but the moment he stepped out into the quad, his exuberance was dampened. A posse of older boys were hanging around in one corner, hands in pockets to indicate they were prefects.

‘There he is,’ said one of them, pointing at Harry.

‘So that’s what a street urchin looks like,’ said another.

A third, whom Harry recognized as Fisher, the prefect who had been on duty the previous night, added, ‘He’s an animal, and it’s nothing less than our duty to see that he’s returned to his natural habitat as quickly as possible.’

Giles Barrington ran after Harry. ‘If you ignore them,’ he said, ‘they’ll soon get bored and start picking on someone else.’ Harry wasn’t convinced, and ran ahead to the classroom where he waited for Barrington and Deakins to join him.

A moment later, Mr Frobisher entered the room. Harry’s first thought was, does he also think I’m a street urchin, unworthy of a place at St Bede’s?

‘Good morning, boys,’ said Mr Frobisher.

‘Good morning, sir,’ replied the boys as their form master took his place in front of the blackboard. ‘Your first lesson this morning,’ he said, ‘will be history. As I am keen to get to know you, we will start with a simple test to discover how much you have already learnt, or perhaps how little. How many wives did Henry the Eighth have?’

Several hands shot up. ‘Abbott,’ he said, looking at a chart on his desk and pointing to a boy in the front row.

‘Six, sir,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘Good, but can anyone name them?’ Not quite as many hands were raised. ‘Clifton?’

‘Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, then another Anne I think,’ he said before coming to a halt.

‘Anne of Cleves. Can anyone name the missing two?’ Only one hand remained in the air. ‘Deakins,’ said Frobisher after checking his chart.

‘Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr. Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr both outlived Henry.’

‘Very good, Deakins. Now, let’s turn the clock forward a couple of centuries. Who commanded our fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar?’ Every hand in the room shot up. ‘Matthews,’ he said, nodding at a particularly insistent hand.

‘Nelson, sir.’

‘Correct. And who was Prime Minister at the time?’

‘The Duke of Wellington, sir,’ said Matthews, not sounding quite as confident.

‘No,’ said Mr Frobisher, ‘it wasn’t Wellington, although he was a contemporary of Nelson’s.’ He looked around the class, but only Clifton’s and Deakins’s hands were still raised. ‘Deakins.’

‘Pitt the Younger, 1783 to 1801, and 1804 to 1806.’

‘Correct, Deakins. And when was the Iron Duke Prime Minister?’

‘1828 to 1830, and again in 1834,’ said Deakins.

‘And can anyone tell me what his most famous victory was?’

Barrington’s hand shot up for the first time. ‘Waterloo, sir!’ he shouted before Mr Frobisher had time to select anyone else.

‘Yes, Barrington. And whom did Wellington defeat at Waterloo?’

Barrington remained silent.

‘Napoleon,’ whispered Harry.

‘Napoleon, sir,’ said Barrington confidently.

‘Correct, Clifton,’ said Frobisher, smiling. ‘And was Napoleon also a Duke?’

‘No, sir,’ said Deakins, after no one else had attempted to answer the question. ‘He founded the first French Empire, and appointed himself Emperor.’

Mr Frobisher was not surprised by Deakins’s response, as he was an open scholar, but he was impressed by Clifton’s knowledge. After all, he was a choral scholar, and over the years he had learnt that gifted choristers, like talented sportsmen, rarely excel outside their own field. Clifton was already proving an exception to that rule. Mr Frobisher would have liked to know who had taught the boy.

When the bell rang for the end of class, Mr Frobisher announced, ‘Your next lesson will be geography with Mr Henderson, and he is not a master who likes to be kept waiting. I recommend that during the break you find out where his classroom is, and are seated in your places long before he enters the room.’

Harry stuck close to Giles, who seemed to know where everything was. As they strolled across the quad together, Harry became aware that some of the boys lowered their voices when they passed, and one or two even turned to stare at him.

Thanks to countless Saturday mornings spent with Old Jack, Harry held his own in the geography lesson, but in maths, the final class of the morning, no one came close to Deakins, and even the master had to keep his wits about him.

When the three of them sat down for lunch, Harry could feel a hundred eyes watching his every move. He pretended not to notice, and simply copied everything Giles did. ‘It’s nice to know there’s something I can teach you,’ Giles said as he peeled an apple with his knife.

Harry enjoyed his first chemistry lesson later that afternoon, especially when the master allowed him to light a Bunsen burner. But he didn’t excel at nature studies, the final lesson of the day, because Harry was the only boy whose home didn’t have a garden.

When the final bell sounded, the rest of the class went off for games, while Harry reported to the chapel for his first choir practice. Once again, he noticed everyone was staring at him, but this time it was for all the right reasons.

But no sooner had he walked out of the chapel than he was subjected to the same sotto voce jibes from boys who were making their way back from the playing fields.

‘Isn’t that our little street urchin?’ said one.

‘Pity he doesn’t have a toothbrush,’ said another.

‘Sleeps down at the docks at night, I’m told,’ said a third.

Deakins and Barrington were nowhere to be seen as Harry hurried back to his house, avoiding any gatherings of boys on the way.

During supper, the gawping eyes were less obvious, but only because Giles had made it clear to everyone within earshot that Harry was his friend. But Giles was unable to help when they all went up to the dormitory after prep and found Fisher standing by the door, clearly waiting for Harry.

As the boys began to undress, Fisher announced in a loud voice, ‘I’m sorry about the smell, gentlemen, but one of your form comes from a house without a bath.’ One or two of the boys sniggered, hoping to ingratiate themselves with Fisher. Harry ignored him. ‘Not only does this guttersnipe not have a bath, he doesn’t even have a father.’

‘My father was a good man who fought for his country in the war,’ said Harry proudly.

‘What makes you think I was talking about you, Clifton?’ said Fisher. ‘Unless of course you’re also the boy whose mother works –’ he paused – ‘as a hotel waitress.’

‘An hotel,’ said Harry, correcting him.

Fisher grabbed a slipper. ‘Don’t you ever answer me back, Clifton,’ he said angrily. ‘Bend down and touch the end of your bed.’ Harry obeyed, and Fisher administered six strokes with such ferocity that Giles had to turn away. Harry crept into bed, fighting to hold back the tears.

Before Fisher switched off the light, he added, ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow night, when I will continue with my bedtime tale of the Cliftons of Still House Lane. Wait until you hear about Uncle Stan.’