Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(68)

‘Yes, it’s Captain Jack Tarrant.’

There was an even longer silence, before Frobisher eventually said, ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Forgive me for calling at this late hour, old fellow, but I need to seek your advice.’

‘Not at all, sir. It’s a great privilege to speak to you after all these years.’

‘Kind of you to say so,’ said Old Jack. ‘I’ll try not to waste too much of your time, but I need to know if St Bede’s still supplies St Mary Redcliffe with trebles for its choir?’

‘We do indeed, sir. Despite so many changes in this modern world, that’s one tradition that remains constant.’

‘And in my day,’ said Old Jack, ‘the school awarded a choral scholarship each year to a treble who showed exceptional talent.’

‘We still do, sir. In fact, we will be considering applications for the position in the next few weeks.’

‘From any school in the county?’

‘Yes, from any school that can produce a treble of outstanding quality. But they must also have a solid academic grounding.’

‘Well, if that’s the case,’ said Old Jack, ‘I would like to submit a candidate for your consideration.’

‘Of course, sir. Which school is the boy attending at the moment?’

‘Merrywood Elementary.’

Another long silence followed. ‘I have to admit that it would be the first time we’ve had an applicant from that particular school. Do you by any chance know the name of its music master?’

‘It doesn’t have a music master,’ said Old Jack, ‘but you should get in touch with the boy’s teacher, Mr Holcombe, who will introduce you to his choir mistress.’

‘May I ask the boy’s name?’ said Frobisher.

‘Harry Clifton. If you want to hear him sing, I recommend you attend Matins at Holy Nativity Church this Sunday.’

‘Will you be there, sir?’

‘No,’ said Old Jack.

‘How do I get in touch with you once I’ve heard the boy sing?’ asked Frobisher.

‘You don’t,’ said Old Jack firmly, and put the phone down. As he folded up his script and placed it back in his pocket, he could have sworn he heard footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. He quickly switched off the light, slipped out of Mr Hugo’s office and into the corridor.

He heard a door open, and voices on the stairs. The last thing he needed was to be found on the fifth floor, which was strictly out of bounds to anyone other than the company’s executives and Miss Potts. He wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Walter.

He began to walk quickly down the stairs. He’d reached the third floor when he saw Mrs Nettles heading towards him, a mop in one hand, a bucket in the other, a woman he didn’t recognize by her side.

‘Good evening, Mrs Nettles,’ said Old Jack. ‘And what a fine evening it is to be doing my rounds.’

‘Evenin’, Old Jack,’ she replied as she ambled past him. Once he had turned the corner, he stopped and listened attentively. ‘That’s Old Jack,’ he heard Mrs Nettles say. ‘The so-called night watchman. He’s completely crackers, but quite harmless. So if you come across him, just ignore him . . .’ Old Jack chuckled as her voice faded with each step she took.

As he strolled back towards the railway carriage, he wondered how long it would be before Harry came to seek his advice on whether he should enter his name for a choral scholarship to St Bede’s.





30


HARRY KNOCKED ON the carriage door, strolled in and took the seat opposite Old Jack in first class.

During term time at St Bede’s, Harry had only been able to see Old Jack regularly on Saturday mornings. Jack had returned the compliment by attending Matins at St Mary Redcliffe, where from the back pew he enjoyed watching Mr Frobisher and Mr Holcombe beam with pride at his protégé.

In the school holidays, Old Jack could never be sure exactly when Harry was going to turn up because he treated the railway carriage like a second home. Whenever he returned to St Bede’s at the beginning of a new term, Old Jack missed the boy’s company. He was touched when Mrs Clifton described him as the father Harry never had. In truth, Harry was the son he’d always wanted.

‘Finished your paper round early?’ said Old Jack, rubbing his eyes and blinking, when Harry strolled into the carriage that Saturday morning.

‘No, you just dozed off, old man,’ said Harry, passing him a copy of the previous day’s Times.

‘And you’re getting cheekier by the day, young man,’ Old Jack said with a grin. ‘So, how’s the paper round working out?’

‘Good. I think I’m going to be able to save enough money to buy my mum a watch.’

‘A sensible present, considering your mother’s new job. But can you afford it?’

‘I’ve already saved four shillings,’ said Harry. ‘I reckon I’ll have about six by the end of the holidays.’

‘Have you chosen the watch you want?’

‘Yes. It’s in Mr Deakins’s display cabinet, but it won’t be there for much longer,’ said Harry, grinning.

Deakins. A name Old Jack could never forget. ‘How much is it?’ he asked.