Only Time Will Tell (2011)

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘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.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s an advantage to be disadvantag
ed,’ said Harry.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Jane Austen,’ said Mr Frobisher.

  ‘It isn’t,’ replied Harry. ‘But it was said by someone else who didn’t go to university,’ he added without explanation.

  Maisie glanced at her new watch and smiled. ‘I’ll have to leave now, Harry, if I’m not going to be late for work.’

  ‘Of course, Mum,’ said Harry, leaping up from the table. ‘I’ll walk with you to the tram stop.’

  ‘Harry, have you thought about what you’ll do if you don’t win that scholarship?’ said his mother, finally asking a question she’d been avoiding for weeks.

  ‘Constantly,’ said Harry as he opened the door for her. ‘But I won’t be given much choice in the matter. I’ll just have to go back to Merrywood, and when I turn fourteen I’ll leave and look for a job.’

  10

  ‘DO YOU FEEL READY to face the examiners, my boy?’ asked Old Jack.

  ‘As ready as I’m ever likely to be,’ replied Harry. ‘By the way, I took your advice, and checked over the examination papers for the past ten years. You were right, there’s a definite pattern, with some of the same questions coming up at regular intervals.’

  ‘Good. And how’s your Latin coming on? We can’t afford to fail that, however well we do in your other papers.’

  Harry smiled when Old Jack said ‘we’. ‘Thanks to Deakins I managed 69 per cent in mocks last week, even if I did have Hannibal crossing the Andes.’

  ‘Only about six thousand miles out,’ chuckled Old Jack. ‘So what do you think will be your biggest problem?’

  ‘The forty boys from St Bede’s who are also taking the exam, not to mention the two hundred and fifty from other schools.’

  ‘Forget them,’ said Old Jack. ‘If you do what you’re capable of, they won’t be a problem.’

  Harry remained silent.

  ‘So, how’s your voice coming along?’ asked Old Jack, who always changed the subject whenever Harry fell silent.

  ‘Nothing new to report,’ said Harry. ‘It could be weeks before I know if I’m a tenor, a baritone or a bass, and even then, there’s no guarantee I’ll be any good. One thing’s for certain, BGS aren’t going to offer me a choral scholarship while I’m like a horse with a broken leg.’

  ‘Snap out of it,’ said Old Jack. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘It’s worse,’ said Harry. ‘If I was a horse, they’d shoot me and put me out of my misery.’

  Old Jack laughed. ‘So when are the exams?’ he asked, even though he knew the answer.

  ‘Thursday week. We start with general knowledge at nine o’clock, and there are five other papers during the day, ending with English at four.’

  ‘It’s good that you finish with your favourite subject,’ said Jack.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Harry. ‘But pray there’s a question on Dickens, because there hasn’t been one for the past three years, which is why I’ve been reading his books after lights out.’

  ‘Wellington wrote in his memoirs,’ said Old Jack, ‘that the worst moment of any campaign is waiting for the sun to rise on the morning of battle.’

  ‘I agree with the Iron Duke, which means I won’t be getting much sleep for the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘All the more reason not to come and see me next Saturday, Harry. You ought to be making better use of your time. In any case, if I remember correctly, it’s your birthday.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I confess that I didn’t read it on the court page of The Times. But as it fell on the same day last year, I took a gamble and bought a small gift for you.’ He picked up a parcel wrapped in a page from one of last week’s newspapers, and handed it to Harry.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry as he untied the string. He removed the newspaper, opened the small dark blue box and stared in disbelief at the man’s Ingersoll watch he’d last seen in the display cabinet at Mr Deakins’s shop.

  ‘Thank you,’ Harry repeated as he strapped the watch on his wrist. He couldn’t take his eyes off it for some time, and could only wonder how Old Jack could possibly afford six shillings.

  Harry was wide awake long before the sun rose on the morning of the exams. He skipped breakfast in favour of going over some old general knowledge papers, checking capitals against countries from Germany to Brazil, dates of prime ministers from Walpole to Lloyd George, and of monarchs from King Alfred to George V. An hour later he felt ready to face the examiner.

  Once again, he was seated in the front row, between Barrington and Deakins. Was this the last time, he wondered. When the clock on the tower struck ten, several masters marched down the rows of desks handing out the general knowledge paper to forty nervous boys. Well, thirty-nine nervous boys, and Deakins.

  Harry read through the questions slowly. When he reached number 100, he allowed a smile to cross his face. He picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and began to write. Forty minutes later he was back at question 100. He glanced at his watch; he still had another ten minutes in which to double-check his answers. He stopped for a moment at question 34 and reconsidered his original answer. Was it Oliver Cromwell or Thomas Cromwell who was sent to the Tower of London for treason? He recalled the fate of Cardinal Wolsey, and selected the man who’d taken his place as Lord Chancellor.

  When the clock began to strike again, Harry had reached question 92. He quickly looked over his last eight answers before his paper was snatched away, the ink still drying on his final answer, Charles Lindbergh.

  During the twenty-minute break, Harry, Giles and Deakins walked slowly around the cricket field where Giles had scored a century only a week before.

  ‘Amo, amas, amat,’ said Deakins as he painstakingly took them through their conjugations without once referring to Kennedy’s Latin Primer.

  ‘Amamus, amatis, amant,’ repeated Harry as they made their way back towards the examination hall.

  When Harry handed in his Latin paper an hour later, he felt confident he’d scored more than the required 60 per cent, and even Giles looked pleased with himself. As the three of them strolled across to the refectory, Harry put an arm around Deakins’s shoulder and said, Thanks, old chum.’

  After Harry had read through the geography paper later that morning, he silently thanked his secret weapon. Old Jack had passed on so much knowledge over the years without ever making him feel that he’d been in a classroom.

  Harry didn’t pick up a knife or fork during lunch. Giles managed half a pork pie, while Deakins didn’t stop eating.

  History was the first paper that afternoon, and didn’t cause him any anxiety. Henry VIII, Elizabeth, Raleigh, Drake, Napoleon, Nelson and Wellington all marched on to the battlefield, and Harry marched them back off again.

  The mathematics paper was far easier than he had expected, and Giles even thought he might have scored another century.

  During the final break, Harry returned to his study and glanced over an essay he’d written on David Copperfield, confident that he would excel in his favourite subject. He walked slowly back to the examination hall, repeating Mr Holcombe’s favourite word again and again. Concentrate.

  He stared down at the final paper of the day, to find that this year belonged to Thomas Hardy and Lewis Carroll. He’d read The Mayor of Casterbridge and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but the Mad Hatter, Michael Henchard and the Cheshire Cat were not as familiar to him as Peggotty, Dr Chillip and Barkis. His pen scratched slowly across the page, and when the clock chimed on the hour, he wasn’t sure if he’d done enough. He walked out of the hall and into the afternoon sunshine, feeling a little depressed, although it was clear from the looks on the faces of his rivals that no one thought it had been an easy paper. That made him wonder if he was still in with a chance.

  There followed what Mr Holcombe had often described as the worst part of any exam, those days of endless waiting before the results were formally posted on the school notice board; a time when boys end up doing something the
y will later regret, almost as if they want to be rusticated rather than learn their fate. One boy was caught drinking cider behind the bicycle shed, another smoking a Woodbine in the lavatory, while a third was seen leaving the local cinema after lights out.

  Giles was out for a duck the following Saturday, his first of the season. While Deakins returned to the library, Harry went on long walks, going over every answer in his head again and again. It didn’t improve matters.

  On Sunday afternoon, Giles had a long net; on Monday, Deakins reluctantly handed over his responsibilities to the new library monitor, and on Tuesday Harry read Far from the Madding Crowd and cursed out loud. On Wednesday night, Giles and Harry talked into the small hours, while Deakins slept soundly.

  Long before the clock on the tower struck ten that Thursday morning, forty boys were already roaming around the quad, hands in pockets, heads bowed as they waited for the headmaster to make his appearance. Although every one of them knew that Dr Oakshott wouldn’t be a minute early or a minute late, by five to ten most eyes were staring across the quad waiting for the door of the headmaster’s house to open. The rest were looking up at the clock on the great hall, willing the minute hand to move a little faster.

  As the first chime sounded, the Reverend Samuel Oakshott opened his front door and stepped out on to the path. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand and four tin-tacks in the other. Not a man who left anything to chance. When he reached the end of the path, he opened the little wicket gate and walked across the quad at his usual pace, oblivious to all around him. The boys quickly stood aside, creating a corridor so the headmaster’s progress would not be impeded. He came to a halt in front of the notice board as the tenth chime rang out. He posted the exam results on the board, and departed without a word.

  Forty boys rushed forward, forming a scrum around the notice board. No one was surprised that Deakins headed the list, with 92 per cent, and had been awarded the Peloquin Scholarship to Bristol Grammar School. Giles leapt in the air, making no attempt to disguise his relief when he saw 64 per cent by his name.