Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(13)

‘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.’

The following night, Harry learnt for the first time that his uncle had spent eighteen months in prison for burglary. This revelation was worse than being slippered. He crept into bed wondering if his father could still be alive but in jail, and that was the real reason no one at home ever talked about him.

Harry hardly slept for a third night running, and no amount of success in the classroom, or admiration in the chapel, could stop him continually thinking about the next inevitable encounter with Fisher. The slightest excuse, a drop of water spilt on the washroom floor, a pillow that wasn’t straight, a sock that had fallen around his ankle, would ensure that Harry could expect six of the best from the duty prefect; a punishment that would be administered in front of the rest of the dorm, but not before Fisher had added another episode from the Clifton Chronicles. By the fifth night, Harry had had enough, and even Giles and Deakins could no longer console him.