Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(67)

‘Why’s that so important for a church choir?’

‘It’s compulsory at Holy Nativity, and Miss Monday, the choir mistress, refuses to make any exceptions to the rule.’

‘Then I’ll just have to make sure the boy attends your lessons, won’t I?’ said Old Jack.

‘You could do more than that. On the days he doesn’t come to school, you could teach him yourself.’

‘But I’m not qualified to teach anyone.’

‘Harry Clifton is not impressed by qualifications, and we both know that he listens to you. Perhaps we could work as a team.’

‘But if Harry were to find out what we were up to, neither of us would ever see him again.’

‘How well you know him,’ said the schoolmaster with a sigh. ‘We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out.’

‘That may prove something of a challenge,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I’m willing to give it a try.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Holcombe. The schoolmaster paused before adding, ‘I wonder if I might be allowed to shake hands with you.’ Old Jack looked surprised as the schoolmaster thrust out his hand. Old Jack shook it warmly. ‘And may I say it has been an honour to meet you, Captain Tarrant.’

Old Jack looked horrified. ‘How could you possibly . . .’

‘My father has a picture of you that still hangs on the wall in our front room.’

‘But why?’ asked Old Jack.

‘You saved his life, sir.’





Harry’s visits to Old Jack became less frequent during the next few weeks, until the only time they met was on a Saturday morning. Old Jack knew that Mr Holcombe must have succeeded in his plan when Harry asked him if he would come to Holy Nativity the following Sunday to hear him sing.

On Sunday morning, Old Jack rose early, used Sir Walter’s private cloakroom on the fifth floor of Barrington House to have a shower, a recent invention, and even trimmed his beard, before putting on the other suit Sir Walter had given him.

Arriving at Holy Nativity just before the service began, he slipped into the back row and took a seat at the end of the pew. He spotted Mrs Clifton in the third row, sitting between what could only have been her mother and father. As for Miss Monday, he could have picked her out in a congregation of a thousand.

Mr Holcombe had not been exaggerating about the quality of Harry’s voice. It was as good as anything he could remember from his days at Wells Cathedral. As soon as the boy opened his mouth to sing Lead Me, Lord, Old Jack was left in no doubt that his protégé had an exceptional gift.

Once the Reverend Watts had given his final blessing, Old Jack slipped back out of the church and quickly made his way to the docks. He would have to wait until the following Saturday before he could tell the boy how much he’d enjoyed his singing.

As he walked back, Old Jack recalled Sir Walter’s reproach. ‘You could do so much more for Harry if you would only give up this self-denial.’ He thought carefully about Sir Walter’s words but he wasn’t yet ready to remove the shackles of guilt. He did, however, know a man who could change Harry’s life, a man who had been with him on that dreadful day, a man he hadn’t spoken to for more than twenty-five years. A man who taught at a school that supplied St Mary Redcliffe with choristers. Unfortunately Merrywood Elementary was not a natural recruiting ground for its annual choral scholarship, so the man would have to be guided in the right direction.

Old Jack’s only fear was that Lieutenant Frobisher might not remember him.





29


OLD JACK WAITED until Hugo had left Barrington House, but it was another half an hour before the lights finally went out in Miss Potts’s room.

Jack stepped out of the railway carriage and began to walk slowly towards Barrington House, aware that he had only half an hour before the cleaning ladies came on duty. He slipped into the unlit building and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor; after twenty-five years of Sir Walter turning a blind eye, like a cat he could find his way to the door marked ‘Managing Director’ in the dark.

He sat down at Hugo’s desk. He switched on the light; if anyone noticed it was on, they would simply assume Miss Potts was working late. He thumbed through the telephone directory until he came to the ‘St’s: Andrew’s, Bartholomew’s, Beatrice’s, Bede’s.

He picked up a telephone for the first time in his life, not quite sure what to do next. A voice came on the line. ‘Number please?’

‘TEM 8612,’ said Jack, his forefinger resting just below the number.

‘Thank you, sir.’ As he waited, Old Jack became more nervous by the minute. What would he say if someone else came on the line? He’d just put the phone down. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the desk in front of him. Next, he heard a ringing tone, followed by a click, then a man’s voice. ‘Frobisher House.’

‘Is that Noel Frobisher?’ he asked, recalling the tradition that each house at St Bede’s was named after the housemaster of the day. He looked down at his script; each line had been carefully prepared and endlessly rehearsed.

‘Speaking,’ said Frobisher, clearly surprised to hear a voice he didn’t recognize addressing him by his Christian name. A long silence followed. ‘Is there anyone there?’ Frobisher asked, sounding a little irritated.