Once they had begun what Mr. Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s father a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.
By the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.
As the clock chimed eleven, Mr. Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in his wake. He had a self-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as he slipped into the one remaining desk.
“Name?”
“Ralph Elliot.”
“That will be the last time you will be late for my class while you’re at Taft,” said Haskins. He paused. “Do I make myself clear, Elliot?”
“You most certainly do.” The boy paused, before adding, “Sir.”
Mr. Haskins turned his gaze to the rest of the class. “Our first lesson, as I warned you, will be on American history, which is appropriate remembering that this school was founded by the brother of a former president.” With a portrait of William H. Taft in the main hall and a statue of his brother in the quadrangle, it would have been hard for even the least inquisitive pupil not to have worked that out.
“Who was the first president of the United States?” Mr. Haskins asked. Every hand shot up. Mr. Haskins nodded to a boy in the front row.
“George Washington, sir.”
“And the second?” asked Haskins. Fewer hands rose, and this time Tom was selected.
“John Adams, sir.”
“Correct, and the third?”
Only two hands remained up, Nat’s and the boy who had arrived late. Haskins pointed to Nat.
“Thomas Jefferson, 1800 to 1808.”
Mr. Haskins nodded, acknowledging that the boy also knew the correct dates, “And the fourth?”
“James Madison, 1809 to 1817,” said Elliot.
“And the fifth, Cartwright?”
“James Monroe, 1817 to 1825.”
“And the sixth, Elliot?”
“John Quincy Adams, 1825 to 1829.”
“And the seventh, Cartwright?”
Nat racked his brains. “I don’t remember, sir.”
“You don’t remember, Cartwright, or do you simply not know?” Haskins paused. “There is a considerable difference,” he added. He turned his attention back to Elliot.
“William Henry Harrison, I think, sir.”
“No, he was the ninth president, Elliot, 1841, but as he died of pneumonia only a month after his inauguration, we won’t be spending a lot of time on him,” added Haskins. “Make sure everyone can tell me the name of the ninth president by tomorrow morning. Now let’s go back to the founding fathers. You may all take notes as I require you to produce a three-page essay on the subject by the time we next meet.”
Nat had filled three long sheets even before the lesson had ended, while Tom barely managed a page. As they left the classroom at the end of the lesson, Elliot brushed quickly past them.
“He already looks like a real rival,” remarked Tom.
Nat didn’t comment.
What he couldn’t know was that he and Ralph Elliot would be rivals for the rest of their lives.
7
THE ANNUAL FOOTBALL game between Hotchkiss and Taft was the sporting highlight of the semester. As both teams were undefeated that season, little else was discussed once the midterms were over, and for the jocks, long before midterms began.
Fletcher found himself caught up in the excitement, and in his weekly letter to his mother named every member of the team, although he realized that she wouldn’t have a clue who any of them were.
The game was due to be played on the last Saturday in October and once the final whistle had been blown, all boarders would have the rest of the weekend off, plus an extra day should they win.
On the Monday before the match, Fletcher’s class sat their first midterms, but not before the principal had declared at morning assembly that, “Life consists of a series of tests and examinations, which is why we take them every term at Hotchkiss.”
On Tuesday evening Fletcher phoned his mother to tell her he thought he’d done well.
On Wednesday he told Jimmy he wasn’t so sure.
By Thursday, he’d looked up everything he hadn’t included, and wondered if he had even achieved a pass grade.
On Friday morning, class rankings were posted on the school notice board and the preps were headed by the name of Fletcher Davenport. He immediately ran to the nearest phone and rang his mother. Ruth couldn’t hide her delight when she learned her son’s news, but didn’t tell him that she wasn’t surprised. “You must celebrate,” she said. Fletcher would have done so, but felt he couldn’t when he saw who had come bottom of the class.
At the full school assembly on Saturday morning, prayers were offered by the chaplain “for our undefeated football team, who played only for the glory of our Lord.” Our Lord was then vouchsafed the name of every player and asked if his Holy Spirit might be bestowed on each and every one of them. The principal was obviously in no doubt which team God would be supporting on Saturday afternoon.
At Hotchkiss, everything was decided on seniority, even a boy’s place in the bleachers. During their first term, preps were relegated to the far end of the field so both boys sat in the right-hand corner of the stand every other Saturday, and watched their heroes extend the season’s unbeaten run, a record they realized Taft also enjoyed.
As the Taft game fell on a homecoming weekend, Jimmy’s parents invited Fletcher to join them for a tailgate picnic before the kickoff. Fletcher didn’t tell any of the other boys in preps, because he felt it would only make them jealous. It was bad enough being top of the class, without being invited to watch the Taft game with an old boy who had seats on the center line.
“What’s your dad like?” asked Jimmy, after lights-out the night before the game.
“He’s great,” said Fletcher, “but I should warn you that he’s a Taft man, and a Republican. And how about your dad? I’ve never met a senator before.”
“He’s a politician to his fingertips, or at least that’s how the press describe him,” said Jimmy. “Not that I’m sure what it means.”
On the morning of the game no one was able to concentrate during chemistry, despite Mr. Bailey’s enthusiasm for testing the effects of acid on zinc, not least because Jimmy had turned the gas off at the main, so Mr. Bailey couldn’t even get the Bunsen burners lit.
At twelve o’clock a bell rang, releasing 380 screaming boys to charge out into the courtyard. They resembled nothing less than a warring tribe, with their cries of, “Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss will win, death to all Bearcats.”
Fletcher ran all the way to the assembly point to meet his parents, as cars and taxis came streaming in past the lake. Fletcher scanned every vehicle, searching for his father and mother.
“How are you, Andrew my darling?” were his mother’s first words as she stepped out of the car.
“Fletcher, I’m Fletcher at Hotchkiss,” he whispered, hoping that none of the other boys had heard the word “darling.” He shook hands with his father, before adding, “We must leave for the field immediately, because we’ve been invited to join Senator and Mrs. Gates for a tailgate lunch.”
Fletcher’s father raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, Senator Gates is a Democrat,” he said with mock disdain.
“And a former Hotchkiss football captain,” said Fletcher. “His son Jimmy and I are in the same class, and he’s my best friend, so Mom had better sit next to the senator, and if you don’t feel up to it, Dad, you can sit on the other side of the field with the Taft supporters.”
“No, I think I’ll put up with the senator. It will be so rewarding to be seated next to him when Taft scores th
e winning touchdown.”
It was a clear autumnal day and the three of them strolled through a golden carpet of leaves all the way to the field. Ruth tried to take her son’s hand, but Fletcher stood just far enough away to make it impossible. Long before they reached the field, they could hear the cheers erupting from the pre-game rally.
Fletcher spotted Jimmy standing behind an Oldsmobile wagon, its open tailgate covered in far more sumptuous food than anything he’d seen for the past two months. A tall elegant man stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Harry Gates.” The senator thrust out his politician’s hand to welcome Fletcher’s parents.
Fletcher’s father grasped the outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Senator, I’m Robert Davenport and this is my wife, Ruth.”
“Call me Harry. This is Martha, my first wife.” Mrs. Gates stepped forward to welcome them both. “I call her my first wife—well, it keeps her on her toes.”
“Would you like a drink?” asked Martha, not laughing at a joke she had heard so many times before.
“It had better be quick,” said the senator, checking his watch, “that is if we still hope to eat before the kick-off. Let me serve you, Ruth, and we’ll let your husband fend for himself. I can smell a Republican at a hundred paces.”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” said Ruth.
“Don’t tell me he’s an old Bearcat, because I’m thinking of making that a capital offense in this state.” Ruth nodded. “Then Fletcher, you’d better come and talk to me because I intend to ignore your father.”
Fletcher was flattered by the invitation, and soon began grilling the senator on the workings of the Connecticut legislature.
“Andrew,” said Ruth.
“Fletcher, mother.”
“Fletcher, don’t you think the senator might like to talk about something other than politics?”
“No, that’s fine by me, Ruth,” Harry assured her. “The voters rarely ask such insightful questions, and I’m rather hoping it might rub off on Jimmy.”
After lunch had been cleared away they walked quickly across to the bleachers, sitting down only moments before the game was due to begin. The seats were better than any prep could have dreamed of, but then Senator Gates hadn’t missed the Taft match since his own graduation. Fletcher couldn’t contain his excitement as the clock on the score board edged toward two. He stared across at the far stand, to be greeted with the enemy’s cries of, “Give me a T, give me an A, give me a …” and fell in love.
Nat’s eyes remained on the face above the letter A.
“Nat’s the brightest boy in our class,” Tom told Nat’s father. Michael smiled.
“Only just,” said Nat a little defensively; “don’t forget I only beat Ralph Elliot by one grade.”
“I wonder if he’s Max Elliot’s son?” said Nat’s father, almost to himself.
“Who’s Max Elliot?”
“In my business he’s what’s known as an unacceptable risk.”
“Why?” asked Nat, but his father didn’t expand on the bland statement, and was relieved when his son was distracted by the cheerleaders, who had blue and white pom-poms attached to their wrists and were performing their ritual war dance. Nat’s eyes settled on the second girl on the left, who seemed to be smiling up at him, although he realized to her he could only be a speck at the back of the stand.
“You’ve grown, if I’m not mistaken,” said Nat’s father, noting that his son’s trousers were already an inch short of his shoes. He only wondered how often he would have to buy him new clothes.
“Well, it can’t be the school food that’s responsible,” suggested Tom, who was still the smallest boy in the class. Nat didn’t reply. His eyes remained fixed on the group of cheerleaders.
“Which one of them have you fallen for?” inquired Tom, punching his friend on the arm.
“What?”
“You heard me the first time.”
Nat turned away so that his father couldn’t overhear his reply. “Second one from the left, with the letter A on her sweater.”
“Diane Coulter,” said Tom, pleased to discover that he knew something his friend didn’t.
“How do you know her name?”
“Because she’s Dan Coulter’s sister.”
“But he’s the ugliest player on the team,” said Nat. “He’s got cauliflower ears and a broken nose.”
“And so would Diane if she’d played on the team every week for the past five years,” said Tom with a laugh.
“What else do you know about her?” Nat asked his friend conspiratorially.
“Oh, it’s that serious is it?” said Tom. It was Nat’s turn to punch his friend. “Having to revert to physical violence, are we? Hardly part of the Taft code,” added Tom. “Beat a man with the strength of your argument, not the strength of your arm; Oliver Wendell Holmes, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, stop droning on,” said Nat, “and just answer the question.”
“Don’t know a lot more about her, to be honest. All I remember is that she goes to Westover and plays right wing on their hockey team.”
“What are you two whispering about?” asked Nat’s father.
“Dan Coulter,” said Tom without missing a beat, “one of our running backs—I was just telling Nat that he eats eight eggs for breakfast every morning.”
“How do you know that?” asked Nat’s mother.
“Because one of them is always mine,” said Tom ruefully.
As his parents burst out laughing, Nat continued to gaze down at the A in TAFT. The first time he’d really noticed a girl. His concentration was distracted by a sudden roar, as everyone on his side of the stadium rose to greet the Taft team as they ran out onto the field. Moments later the Hotchkiss players appeared from the other side of the field and just as enthusiastically their supporters leaped to their feet.
Fletcher was also standing, but his eyes remained fixed on the cheerleader with an A on her sweater. He felt guilty that the first girl he’d ever fallen for was a Taft supporter.
“You don’t seem to be concentrating on our team,” said the senator, leaning over and whispering in Fletcher’s ear.
“Oh, yes I am, sir,” said Fletcher, immediately turning his attention back to the Hotchkiss players as they began to warm up.
The two team captains jogged across to join the umpire, who was waiting for them on the center line. The Zebra flicked a silver coin into the air that flashed in the afternoon sun before landing in the mud. The Bearcats clapped each other on the back when they saw the profile of Washington.
“He should have called heads,” said Fletcher.
At half time, Fletcher asked Jimmy’s father, “Can I borrow your binoculars, sir?”
“Of course, my boy,” said the senator, passing them across. “Let me have them back when the game re-starts.” Fletcher missed the irony in his host’s voice as he focused on the girl with an A on her sweater and wished she would turn around and face the opposition more often.
“Which one are you interested in?” whispered the senator.
“I was just checking on the Tafties, sir.”
“I don’t think they’ve come back onto the field yet,” said the senator. Fletcher turned scarlet. “T, A, F or T?” inquired Jimmy’s father.
“A, sir,” admitted Fletcher.
The senator retrieved his binoculars, focused on the second girl from the left, and waited for her to turn around. “I approve of your choice, young man, but what do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Fletcher helplessly. “To be honest, I don’t even know her name.”
“Diane Coulter,” said the senator.
“How do you know that?” asked Fletcher, wondering if senators knew everything.
“Research, my boy. Haven’t they taught you that at Hotchkiss yet?” Fletcher looked bewildered. “All you need to know is on page eleven of the program,” added the senator as he passed the open booklet across. Page eleven had been devoted to
the cheerleaders supporting each school. “Diane Coulter,” repeated Fletcher, staring at the photo. She was a year younger than Fletcher—women are still willing to admit their age at thirteen—and she also played the violin in her school orchestra. How he wished he’d taken his mother’s advice and learned to play the piano.
The whistle blew for the third quarter, and after a series of brilliant passes, it was Hotchkiss’s turn to make it over the end zone, putting them back into the lead, which they clung onto until the end of the third quarter.
“Hello Taft, Hello Taft, you’re back where you belong,” sang the senator out of tune, while the teams took a timeout.
“There’s still the final quarter to come,” Fletcher reminded the senator as his host passed the glasses across to him.
“Have you decided which side you’re supporting, young man, or have you been ensnared by the Tafties’ Mata Hari?” Fletcher looked puzzled. He would have to check on who Mata Hari was just as soon as he got back to his room. “She probably lives locally,” continued the senator, “in which case it will take a member of my staff about two minutes to find out everything you need to know about her.”
“Even her address and telephone number?” asked Fletcher.
“Even whether she has a boyfriend,” replied the senator.
“Wouldn’t that be abusing your position?” asked Fletcher.
“Damn right I would,” replied Senator Gates, “but then any politician would do as much if he felt it might ensure two extra votes at some future election.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 59
