Colleen McCullough - Morgan’s Run

At the gates of Colston’s School he stopped, amazed; they were festooned with black ribbons! Mr. Hobson, a junior master, was waiting just inside them to put a hand on William Henry’s arm.

“Home again, lad,” he said, turning William Henry around.

“Home again, Mr. Hobson?”

“Aye. The Head passed away in his sleep during the night, so there is no school today. Your father will be notified about the funeral, Morgan Tertius. Now off you go.”

“May I see Monkton Minor, sir?”

“Not today. Goodbye,” said Mr. Hobson firmly, giving William Henry a little push between his shoulder blades.

At the Stone Bridge the child paused, frowning. What a bother! Dadda off to Keynsham, Grandpapa and Grandmama busy with the Monday chores-what was he going to do all day without Johnny?

This was the first time that life had presented William Henry with the opportunity to do exactly what he wanted without anybody’s knowing. The Cooper’s Arms thought him at Colston’s, yet Colston’s had sent him home. There to kick his heels to no purpose. Mind made up, William Henry galloped off the Stone Bridge, but not in the direction of home. In the direction of Clifton.

The steep, bluffy cone of Brandon Hill was his first stop; he scrambled all the way up to its top fancying himself a Roundhead soldier in Cromwell’s army besieging Bristol, and there stood to gaze across the lime kiln chimneys and marshlands, then to the ruins of the Royalist fort on St. Michael’s Hill. Game over, he leaped down from ledge to ledge until he reached the footpath and hopped, skipped and jumped to Jacob’s Well, which had once been the only convenient source of water for Clifton. There were houses around it now, none of them attractive to a small boy. So he gamboled on past St. Andrew’s church, turned somersaults on the springy turf of Clifton Green, and decided to walk to Manilla House, last in the row of mansions atop the hill.

“Holloa there, young spindle-shanks!” said a friendly voice outside the stable yard attached to Boyce’s Buildings.

“Holloa yourself, sir.”

“No school today?”

“The Head died,” William Henry explained briefly, and perched himself on the gate-post. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Richard the groom.”

“Richard is my dadda’s name too. I am William Henry.”

Out came a horny hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

For two hours he followed Richard the groom around, patting the few horses, peering into mostly empty stalls, helping draw buckets of water from the well and fetch hay, talking merrily. At the end of it Richard the groom gave him a tankard of small beer, a hunk of bread and some cheese; greatly refreshed, William Henry waved him a cheerful goodbye and continued on up the road.

Manilla House was as deserted as Freemantle House, Duncan House and Mortimer House-where to now?

He was still debating his alternatives when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves behind him, and turned to discover that the rider bore a very familiar and much-loved face. “Mr. Parfrey!” he called.

“Good lord!” said George Parfrey. “What are you doing here, Morgan Tertius?”

William Henry had the grace to blush. “Please, sir, I am on a walk,” he said lamely. “There is no school today, and Dadda has gone to Keynsham.”

“Ought you to be here, Morgan Tertius?”

“Please, sir, my name is William Henry.”

Mr. Parfrey frowned, then shrugged and held out his hand. “I see more than perhaps you know, William Henry. So be it. Hop up and come for a ride, then I will see you home.”

Ecstasy! In all his life he had never been upon a horse! Now here he was, sitting astride the saddle in front of Mr. Parfrey, so high off the ground that looking down made him feel quite dizzy. A whole new world, like being in the top of a tree that ran! How smooth and regular the motion! How wondrous to be on a new adventure with a friend almost as best as Dadda! William Henry succumbed to absolute bliss.

They cantered off up Durdham Down, scattering several flocks of sheep, laughing at anything and everything they chanced upon. And when William Henry let him get a word in edgeways, Mr. Parfrey revealed that he knew about lots of things besides Latin. They rode to the parapet of the Avon Gorge, where Mr. Parfrey pointed out the colors in the rock and told the eager little boy how iron tinted the grey and white of the limestone those richly ruddy pinks and plums; he pointed with his crop at the flowering plants in the summer grass and recited their names, then minutes later jokingly quizzed William Henry as to the identity of this one or that one.

Finally the bridle path atop the gorge led them down to the Hotwells House on its ledge jutting into the Avon.

“We may find some dinner here,” said Mr. Parfrey, letting the boy slide to the ground before dismounting. “Hungry?”

“Yes, sir!”

“If I am to call you William Henry away from the portals of Colston’s, I think you must call me Uncle George.”

There were very few people taking the waters in the pump room-a few consumptive, diabetic or gouty men, a very old lady and two crippled younger women. It had seen better days; the gilding had tarnished, the wallpaper was peeling, the drapes had frayed and accumulated visible layers of dirt, the spindling chairs needed new upholstery. But the sour lessee-who was still in the midst of a battle with Bristol over the rates he charged to drink the waters-provided dinner of a kind. To William Henry, accustomed to much better food at the Cooper’s Arms, it tasted of nectar and ambrosia simply because it was different-and because he shared it with such a magical companion. Who, when they were done, suggested a walk outside before they rode back to the city. The old lady and the crippled women cooed over William Henry as they left; he suffered their exclamations and pats with the same patience he used to give his dead mother, a side of him that fascinated George Parfrey.

For George Parfrey had found a magical companion too. It had been, in fact, a magical day, starting off with the news that the Head had expired during the night. The Reverend Prichard, his long dark face betraying none of the elation he felt inside (he hoped to be the new Head), was too preoccupied to take any notice of the masters once he had acquainted them with the situation. Apart from giving Harry Hobson the duty of turning the day pupils away as they arrived, he issued no orders whatsoever.

Very well, said Mr. Parfrey to himself, I hereby declare that today is a holiday. If I remain here, Prichard or one of the others will think of something for me to do. Whereas if no one sees my face, no one will remember my existence.

His one extravagance was a horse. Not to own-that was far beyond his slender means-but to hire on some Sundays from a stable near the gallows on St. Michael’s Hill. Mondays, he discovered when he arrived at the stable carrying his tray of watercolors and his sketchbook, offered him a wider choice of mount. The handsome black gelding he had hankered for was munching placidly on hay and no doubt expecting a day of rest after hectic Sunday excursions. Not to be. Ten minutes later Mr. Parfrey was in its saddle and trotting off across Kingsdown in the direction of the Aust road. A fine horseman, he gentled the black gelding out of its resentment and settled to enjoying his favorite pastime.

For a moment the old depression threatened to engulf him, but the day was too glorious not to be relished to its fullest, so he tucked his loneliness and apprehensions of a bitter old age into the back of his thoughts and concentrated upon the beauty around him. At which moment, hacking up Clifton Hill to Durdham Down, he saw Morgan Tertius ahead of him. Company! The little devil, he had decided to have a holiday from responsibilities too. Then why not be devils together? A question which carried the reassurance that he would be doing the boy a service by keeping him safe.