Opposite Sides (5 page)

They were a fortunate
family, as Mr Brymer had been lucky to find employment after the
war while many of those who had returned with high hopes from the
battle fields had found it very difficult to find any job at that
time and many families had been forced into the work-houses. Even
though the Brymers were lucky they had little spare cash to waste
on anything other than essentials but they did eat well on two days
in the week, Fridays being one of them. All but Agnes, their
youngest, had left the nest and she managed to join the family for
the Friday meal electing to work for her employers every Sunday as
on Saturday morning the family always went to their church. She now
waited patiently for her father to bless the food and begin cutting
the meat. That was always the last item to be brought to the
table.

The family always spoke
in English. The girls thought of themselves as English girls but Mr
Brymer still had a distinct German accent. Hans learnt that their
eldest daughter was married and living near Oxford so she and her
family rarely managed to visit. The Brymers had changed their name
from the German ‘Breiner’ a few years before the war to a more
acceptable English version: ‘Brymer’, even though to say the name
was just about the same. Mrs Brymer was English and that may have
helped with keeping her husband out of one of the interment camps
that were set up during the war or prevented him from being
deported as an ‘enemy alien’ like so many of those who had been
born overseas. However, as the family had previously spent a few
years overseas when they first were married, suspicion always
surrounded them and that became especially noticeable when
anti-German feelings ran high during the war. But the Brymers did
not let that bother them.

“
How did the
English school go today?”

“
Not good.”
His young face clouded over as he searched for the words to express
himself. “Frau Brymer - it was - so, so un, un-hy-gie-nic.
Jawohl
. To clean the
fountain! Ungust, not . . . not . . .
Ach
,
widerlich
!”

“
Try to use
the English word, Hans. You must if you want to improve.
Disgusting’s the word.”

“
Dis-gust-ing. It was.”

He repeated the new word
and tried to say it in his mind several times in the hope that it
would stick. Once said, words were so easily forgotten.

Mr Brymer’s mealtime
rules were that a good meal should be savoured and enjoyed in
peace. Dinner was eaten in silence. That’s how it was always done.
There was a proper time to talk again and that was when the meal
was finished, the table cleared and the family had retired into the
confines of the cosy living room.

“
A drink,
dear?” Mrs Brymer was quite used to addressing an upright
newspaper. Somewhere behind was her husband and always she received
no reply but as soon as the wine glass came anywhere near the
paper, a hand would automatically move across to take it from her.
“Would you like a little taste?” she asked Hans.

“
Danke
schön
!”

Mrs Brymer
ignored this use of his mother-tongue and continued pouring the red
wine into the glasses. Ever since the family had spent a few years
living in France, Mrs Brymer had thought it most ‘civilized’ to
partake a sip or two of wine to compliment her dinners.
Good food needs good wine
, she used to say.
They make for
good company
. And so, after dinner, she
and her husband always had a sip of wine together, remembering
their time in France together and even her daughters had been
encouraged to try a very little, to complete the feeling of
Continental living.

“
No! Speak no
German here in England.” The voice originated from behind the open
newspaper. “Here we speak English. You
must
learn it.”

“
Good.” Mrs
Brymer began pouring out the wine. “Now you’ve got that nose of
yours out of the paper, Erich, maybe you can help Erwin with his
English.”

Mr Brymer folded his
paper in half and laid it over the broad arm of his chair. He
rocked the wine gently around its glass and then took a
sip.

“
Tell me. How
do you like your English college now, Erwin?”

“
I am here
Hans,” he reminded his host.

Mr Brymer put his glass
down on the small table beside his chair. He pulled out his pocket
watch and checked the time. Then, he stood up and began to adjust
the minute hand on the clock on the mantelpiece. He never liked to
see his clocks running a few minutes fast or slow, so every Friday
afternoon, just after dinner, he adjusted them, very precisely and
with the utmost care.

“
But is your
name not Erwin? That’s what we were told.” Mr Brymer’s attention
was still on the clock.

“
My father
called me that. I like it not. I call myself Hans!”

“
Mm-mm. Then,
I must try to remember. And when I forget, you must remind me.” He
slowly closed the glass face, re-checked the minute hand against
his watch and then sat down with satisfaction of a job well
done.

“
Pass me my
embroidery please, Erich. It’s just there.” Mrs Brymer pointed
alongside the chair and then held out her hand as her husband
handed over the cloth bag containing her sewing things.

Mrs Brymer immersed
herself in her embroidery, humming to herself, which only she knew
the tune. Agnes had gone to the kitchen and Mr Brymer had decided
it was now time to check the wall clock in the upstairs hallway.
Hans was left alone to brood over his own thoughts: the assembly,
meeting the students, the fountain incident and his general
introduction to the rules and day-to-day life of Prince Albert
College. After all, the boy was still young and had a lot to learn
in the relatively short time he would be in England. Mr Brymer did
understand the difficulties of trying to settle in a new country,
for he could still remember some of the problems he had to
overcome. He made a promise help the boy make his adjustments from
one culture to the other.

CHAPTER
2

Minus times
plus gives minus in luck

“
What no
homework, Mister Resmel? Whenever will you learn to do as you’re
told? And what will your guardians think when a letter to that
effect is sent home? Do you think they will be very pleased to read
that you have wasted their money? Well, lad?”

The first
couple of months had not passed without problems. Mr Moore, his
main classroom master, always seemed be picking on him. Hans did
not like this master. In fact, the majority of boys did not like Mr
Moore and often referred to him by the nick-name ‘Moose-head’ as,
with his large nose and greying hair that stuck out sideways, he
did look something like a moose. Warm or freezing cold, the
‘Moose-head’ always wore exactly the same clothes: tie, white
stiffly starched shirt and pin-striped trousers partly covered by a
black gown. He always insisted the side windows be open even when
the ground was covered with frost.
Minds
must be kept alert at all times for learning
, he would shout above the moans of those too cold to dip
their pens into the inkwells. The boys really believed that this
master originated in the Arctic regions and really must have been a
moose in some former life. ‘Moose-head’ also had those secret eyes
that teachers seem to cultivate, for he could always spot a yawn,
even when his back was turned. ‘What! Going to sleep in my class?
Open that window there, Mister Gilling. Now for something to make
all those lazy brain cells work . . .’

Hans gave many yawns as
the concentration with a foreign language tired him and
consequently did not enjoy Mr Moore or his lessons of History or
Classics.

The day Hans appeared
especially sullen and unresponsive, the master lost all patience.
The chalk missile hit Hans just above his ear and made his aching
head hurt even more. ‘Moose-head’ strode between the desks and
stood, both arms on his hips with his gown spread wide like some
huge vulture waiting to devour its prey. Hans bit his lip and dared
not to look up.

“
Did you not
feel the chalk, Mister Resmel?” boomed the voice.

“
Yes.”

“
Yes, what
Mister Resmel?”

“
Yes, sir, Mr
Moore.”

“
Then look at
me when I’m talking to you!”

Slowly Hans raised his
eyes from the desk top to the master.

“
You know
what the chalk means?”

The master waited for the
answer. He waited, stood and waited for the boy’s answer but Hans
could not find the words to explain himself. At that moment Mr
Moore’s patience ran out; he grabbed Hans by the back of his collar
and pulled him towards the door.

“
Matron can
deal with you! I don’t have the time to waste on those who do not
listen! Out of my sight!”

He opened the door and
pointed out into the corridor.

Why should just one
master’s opinion of him override all the other reports, which had
been quite satisfactory? Why do some grown-ups pick on you for the
slightest thing and never try to see things from his point of view?
And as walked down the corridor to the Matron’s, he mulled these
problems over and over in his mind. He could feel frustration and
anger welling up inside him like an untapped spring.

Miss Turner peered over
the top of her glasses and he watched them slide slowly down her
long, slender nose until they reached the position where she
automatically pushed them back up again.

“
Well, what
will your uncle think when he reads of such a bad report, Mister
Resmel? You’ve
not
been sent you here for a holiday! What do you think their
answer to my letter will be?”

What did this old woman
know of his background, or of his feelings but before he could stop
himself, he blurted:

“
It is not
the money of my uncle,
Fräulein
Turner.”

The impertinence of the
boy! Miss Turner was not going to stand for talk like
that.

“
Don’t you
Froy-line me! It’s Miss,
Miss
Turner or Matron to you! Well?” She glared at him
from behind her metal-rimmed spectacles.

“
My uncle
does not pay.”

“
I am
perfectly aware of your circumstances, young man. That has little
bearing on your behaviour here. Have you thought about
that?”

She leaned on her elbows
tapping the tips of her fingers as she waited for his
response.

Hans was thinking fast.
He had already noticed that the very junior boys were dealt with by
a prefect while those in the middle classes, like his, were
directed to one of the senior masters when they needed to be
disciplined. Why should he be the one sent to Miss Turner? It was
common knowledge that the matron dealt with the girls . . . and he
was no girl!

“
This girl,
your . . . ” He had forgotten the English word. It was terrible how
the words slipped from his memory the minute he wanted to say
something when he was angry or upset. “That girl. I am now a man
and . . . ”

“
Then treat
the girls and the young women with the respect of a gentleman.
Honour, Mr Resmel. You need to be honourable.”

“
Yes, Miss
Turner.”

“
Well? Was
there something else?”

She had noticed the
hesitation and uncertainty in his voice. Her penetrating look made
him feel uncomfortable yet his feelings over the matter beat so
fiercely in his body, he had to let them out.

“
Orders come
not from girls. They should be, be cosy. Not bossy. Men give
orders! Men only are rulers.”

Miss Turner did not
explode as he had expected. Instead, she remained silent,
interested and taking several deep breaths to calm herself. He
watched, almost fascinated, by the way her breasts heaved upwards
and outwards at each breath. He wondered whether her niece would
have breasts like those when she was older. Then, quietly, in
almost a whisper, Miss Turner intruded his thoughts.

“
I don’t know
where you got that silly idea from but I do not want to hear
anything more like that. Many youngsters of your age have already
been working for two years. You are very lucky. Yes, two times when
England has been a great country there was a woman on the throne
and men were only too pleased to take orders. You have heard of
Queen Victoria, have you?”

“
Yes, Miss
Turner.”

“
And you know
the motto of this college?”

“
Veneratio
est nostrum rector
, Miss.”

“
Queen
Victoria was a person held in great esteem. She knew what her duty
was to the nation and was willing to be guided by the highest
principles. A most honourable monarch. Maybe, you can learn
something from her.” She drew in an audible breath in between her
thin red lips, then straightened herself even more so that her body
grew taller. “You will write me a three page essay on
The importance of honour for Queen Victoria and
her rule for the British Empire
.
Maybe, through this exercise, you will get to
think about your own situation with respect to honour and how it
should guide your behaviour. Bring it to my office by tomorrow
morning, before assembly. Now go!”