Authors: Kel Richards
‘Good, good,’ he muttered. ‘Mustn’t let those Greyfriars chaps get above themselves. I’ll remind Quelch of our rugby superiority next time I see him.’
With those words he entered the House Master’s flat and the door swung closed behind him.
I turned to make my way across the quad to the Head Master’s house for afternoon tea. I moved slowly, not wanting to be the first to arrive and thus be cornered into awkward small talk with the Head Master, Dr Adrian Rogers.
Although he had hired me a month earlier to fill in for two terms as Acting English Master (while the permanent occupant of that post was visiting relatives in America), he barely knew me, and often seemed surprised when he encountered me in a school corridor. There were moments when I think he had trouble remembering who I was. Under those circumstances, filling in time with small talk was not an attractive option.
At that point in my slow amble over the quad the north door of the cathedral opened and Ryan Carleton emerged. He was carrying his academic gown over one arm. When he saw me he stopped to put on the black, broadcloth gown that Dr Rogers insisted all the staff wear and waited for me to catch up.
‘Afternoon, Morris,’ he said cheerfully, ‘time for tea and scones.’
Carleton was one of the younger, and friendlier, members of the academic staff. He combined two roles at Nesfield: the cathedral’s Choir Master and the school’s Music Master.
‘Was that McKell I saw you talking to?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he’s just back from this quick visit of his to some European confab of rock climbers.’
‘Lucky blighter,’ said Carleton with a grin, ‘getting a few days off in the middle of term. Dr Rogers wouldn’t do that for anyone except McKell, I suspect.’
‘He’s a favourite?’ I asked.
‘Not so much that,’ Carleton explained, ‘just that he’s been here such a long time that Rogers has come rather to rely on him. Come along, step lively or we’ll be late for tea.’
As we approached the Head Master’s house on the far side of the quad, a distant movement caught my eye. I turned my head and saw it was young Stanhope again, acting furtively and scuttling towards the far archway that led into the school building.
This was the boy I believed to have gone to his study in obedience to my instructions. What was he doing about the quad now? His furtive movements reminded me of a garden spider creeping tentatively back out onto its web once the gardener has departed, taking his garden spray with him.
Clearly he could be up to no good, and I was determined to investigate.
‘Carleton, would you do me a favour?’ I asked, speaking in a low voice.
‘Anything within reason, old chap,’ chortled the cheerful Music Master.
‘Would you make my excuses to the Head and say I’ll be a few minutes late?’
‘Certainly. Is there a problem?’
‘There’s a boy I’m concerned about,’ I explained, ‘and I’ve just spotted him on the far side of the quad—when he should be in his room studying hard. I’d like a quick word with him.’
‘Cheerio then,’ said Carleton. ‘I’ll make your excuses for you.’
With those words he hurried on towards the front door of the Head Master’s house. I turned around to see young Stanhope disappearing into the shadows of the archway leading to the main school building. Moving as quietly as I could over the cobblestones of the quad, I stepped briskly in the same direction.
I was puzzled. Stanhope had given every impression of acknowledging that he should be spending this time with his books preparing for next week’s exam. And yet, here he was, mere minutes later, on the prowl again.
As I approached the archway I heard the sound of voices and slowed down. Stepping closer to the wall of the school building, I approached the opening to the archway cautiously, keeping myself out of sight, and came to a halt just around the corner from the source of those voices. I would find out more, I thought, if I stopped and listened in silence for a few minutes.
Feeling like a character in a John Buchan spy novel, I stood very still, listening carefully.
Drifting around the ancient sandstone blocks of the Old School came several young voices. One of them I recognised as Stanhope’s—the other two I couldn’t immediately place.
‘I say, you two chaps—you wouldn’t do a chap a favour, would you?’ The voice asking this question was that of Stanhope.
‘Well, young Toffee Nose—what is it you want?’ came the reply in a sneering tone.
‘Are you really asking a favour of us?’ said the third voice. ‘I thought you spent all your time looking down your nose at the school “roughs”—and now you want a favour from us? Well, let me tell you—you can whistle for it. What do you think of that, Toffee Nose?’
‘Don’t you take that tone with me,’ responded Stanhope in his haughtiest voice.
‘Just listen to him!’ said the sneering voice.
‘Clear off, youngster, or you’ll get a thumping,’ added the third voice, now growling threateningly. ‘Your rich father isn’t here to look after you, and you can’t ring for the butler to protect you now, snotty nose. So clear off or you’ll get a belt around the ears.’
I wondered if it was time for me to step in and prevent an act of violence. But I decided to wait a moment more. It was clear to me that Stanhope was talking to two of the older boys, although what he could possibly want from them I couldn’t imagine.
‘Now don’t be like that,’ Stanhope whined. ‘I have a jolly good proposition to offer you.’
‘Why should we be interested in your propositions . . . ?’ The threat in the voice was now obvious.
‘. . . you crawling little snob,’ added the other voice, the two of them speaking almost as one.
I thought Stanhope might back down in the face of this opposition, but he stood his ground.
‘Because there’s money in it for you, that’s why,’ he said.
This must have caused the other two to stop and think, as there was a noticeable pause before one of the voices said, ‘How much money?’
‘There’s ten shillings in it for each of you,’ said Stanhope, sounding, I imagine, rather like his father giving orders to the butler. There was a longish pause. Clearly young Stanhope had given these two older boys, obviously two of the school ‘roughs’, something to think about.
‘What do we have to do for this ten shillings?’
‘There’s an exam next week,’ Stanhope explained, ‘and it would be rather easier for me to pass that exam if I had a copy of the paper in advance. If you two steal that paper for me, I’ll give each of you ten shillings.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. This lad had been caught less than half an hour ago trying to cheat on next week’s exam—but because I’d let him off with a warning and some good advice, now he was trying it on again! The sheer cheek of the boy was simply amazing.
‘Ten shillings, you reckon,’ challenged one of the unseen older boys. ‘How do we know you’re good for it?’
‘My pocket money has just arrived from my Pater—a rather generous postal order. You can rest assured I have the money,’ replied Stanhope in his best lord-of-the-manor voice.
‘Payment in advance,’ said one of the older voices, but he was interrupted by the other voice, which said, ‘Why don’t you do it yourself? Why ask us?’
Stanhope cleared his throat, and, speaking in a lower, more confidential voice, said, ‘This is a delicate task that requires certain skills. You two are well known as the School Bounders, and you have skills in burglary that I lack. Therefore I propose to employ your services rather than attempt the theft of the exam paper myself.’
‘Why, you insulting little squirt! You nasty, puffed up, pompous little pimple!’
‘Do you want the ten shillings or don’t you?’ Stanhope demanded.
‘Do you really think we’re your hired staff?’ was the sneering reply. ‘Do you think we’re just here to do your bidding whenever you wave a ten shilling note in our faces?’
‘Don’t adopt that tone of voice with me,’ snapped Stanhope. ‘Remember who you’re talking to!’
‘Get him!’ growled one of the older boys, now starting to sound angry. ‘He’s a bit too big for his britches, don’t you think?’
‘Far too big for his britches! Someone needs to teach him a lesson. Cut him down to size!’
‘Now listen, you two,’ hooted Stanhope, rather in the manner of his father addressing the House of Lords, ‘you should have some respect for the nobility of this land.’
That was when I realised that Stanhope had gone too far and was now really in trouble.
‘We’ll show you what we think of your stuck-up ways,’ growled one of the voices threateningly. A heavy silence descended, signalling, I thought, an approaching storm.
Then there was the sound of feet scuffling on the stone pavement of the archway and suddenly Stanhope shot around the corner and collided with me. He looked up at me, puffing and trying to catch his breath. When he saw my face, and realised who he had collided with, he was not best pleased.
Stanhope was closely followed by two squat, solidly built boys. They were both older and larger than the lad trembling before me. Their faces were red with anger and their fists were raised. But they came to an abrupt halt when they saw me. They had not expected to find a master waiting for them around the corner of the archway.
Stanhope stepped, in a scuttling sideways movement, behind me, to a place of safety, while the two boys who’d been pursuing him came to a skidding halt, dropped their raised fists, shuffled their feet and looked embarrassed.
‘What are your names?’ I demanded.
They were slow in answering, so the reply came in Stanhope’s voice from behind my back.
‘Conway and Wynyard, sir,’ he said.
I made them identify themselves. Once I was satisfied as to which one was Conway and which was Wynyard, I said, ‘I take it that the plans you had for Stanhope here were plans he would have found painful in the extreme.’
They didn’t reply, but they looked awkward, so I chose to take their silence as an admission.
‘Stanhope is both younger and smaller than you, and you outnumber him two to one. Quite frankly, you should be ashamed of your attack upon him.’
One of the plug-uglies in front of me then stammered a reply. ‘But, but, but . . . we didn’t actually attack him, sir.’
‘Only because you didn’t get a chance,’ I pointed out. ‘But since you did not, in actual fact, succeed in laying your fists on this boy, I will not impose a punishment on you—this time.’
Those last two words were uttered in the most menacing tone I could manage. Then I sent them on their way, and turned around to face Stanhope.
‘I warned you about this less than half an hour ago,’ I said in exasperation. ‘What is the point of being at school if, instead of learning, you steal exam papers? Or, in this case, offer to pay other boys to steal an exam paper for you. What’s the point?’
Stanhope’s jaw gaped open.
‘How did you know, sir?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I heard everything, Stanhope,’ I explained. ‘Just a short time ago, right here in this quad, I had to reprimand you for exactly this same activity. I thought you had accepted my reprimand and agreed to knuckle down to some serious study. Instead of which I find you once again resorting to this astonishing behaviour.’
I shook my head in frank disbelief at the boy’s cheek.
‘Why on earth,’ I asked, ‘do you imagine that it’s appropriate for you to pay someone else to do your schoolwork for you? Or, in this case, to obtain an advance copy of next week’s exam for you?’
‘But at the Hall, sir, we have servants to do everything for a chap!’ Stanhope complained. ‘So why shouldn’t I employ servants to assist me here at school?’
‘You know why, Stanhope,’ I replied. ‘I’ve already told you why. It doesn’t matter who your father is, what his title is, how much money he has, how important his role is in the House of Lords, or how many servants he has. There are some things in life each of us must do for ourselves. And one of them is learning how to stuff our heads with knowledge.’
I glanced upwards and breathed a great sigh. None of what I was saying seemed to be making an impression on young Stanhope.
‘Let me ask you a question, young man,’ I said, still struggling to get through to the boy. ‘When you’re at home, do you ride to hounds?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Stanhope replied, clearly puzzled by my question. ‘I was blooded last year, sir. Now I have my own horse.’
‘Would you pay one of the servants at the Hall to mount your horse and ride to hounds for you? While you rested back in your room? Would you?’
‘Of course not, sir. That’s the sort of thing that one does for oneself. Besides which, none of the servants knows how to ride in a hunt.’
‘And so it is in studying for exams. If learning to ride and jump is a skill that can only be learned by the doing of it, then filling your head with knowledge of the civilisation to which you are an heir is the same. It is something you must do for yourself. Do you understand me, Stanhope?’
He stood in front of me trying, and failing, to look properly meek under my ticking off.
‘First there was your encounter with Fox,’ I reminded him, ‘and now this incident with Conway and Wynyard. What have you learned from these events this afternoon, young Stanhope?’
‘I have learned, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that there are some people in this world who have no wespect for nobility—no wespect for noble blood!’
I must have looked stunned at this remark, for he hurried to add, ‘Oh, I don’t mean you, sir. I mean those two wotters, Conway and Wynyard. They are complete wotters, sir. They are beasts who have no wespect at all!’
At those words I shook my head and then stared up at the grey clouds rolling across the sky above Nesfield Cathedral School. I was desperately trying to find the right words that would penetrate the skull of this dim-witted, pompous and foolish lad. But before I could find them he spoke again.
‘People have to know their station in life, sir. And those two bounders, those beasts, those absolute wotters, Conway and Wynyard, don’t seem to understand that their place in life is to serve their betters. And, of course, to be pwoperly paid for their services, sir.’