Jeffrey Archer - Only Time Will Tell

‘What’s your name?’ Harry asked gently.

‘Stevenson.’

‘Well, I’m Clifton. Welcome to St Bede’s.’

‘And I’m Tewkesbury,’ said a boy standing on the other side of Stevenson’s bed.

‘Welcome to St Bede’s, Tewkesbury.’

‘Thank you, Clifton. Actually, my father and grandfather were here, before they went on to Eton.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Harry. ‘And I’ll bet they captained Eton against Harrow at Lord’s,’ he added, immediately regretting his words.

‘No, my father was a wet bob,’ said Tewkesbury unperturbed, ‘not a dry bob.’

‘A wet bob?’ said Harry.

‘He captained Oxford against Cambridge in the boat race.’

Stevenson burst into tears.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Harry, sitting down on the bed beside him.

‘My dad’s a tram driver.’

Everyone else stopped unpacking and stared at Stevenson.

‘Is that right?’ said Harry. ‘Then I’d better let you into a secret,’ he added, loud enough to be sure that every boy in the dormitory could hear his words. ‘I’m the son of a dock worker. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that you’re the new choral scholar.’

‘No,’ said Stevenson, ‘I’m an open scholar.’

‘Many congratulations,’ said Harry, shaking him by the hand. ‘You follow in a long and noble tradition.’

‘Thank you. But I have a problem,’ the boy whispered.

‘And what’s that, Stevenson?’

‘I don’t have any toothpaste.’

‘Don’t worry about that, old chap,’ said Tewkesbury, ‘my mother always packs a spare one.’

Harry smiled as the bell rang again. ‘Everyone into bed,’ he said firmly as he walked across the dormitory towards the door.

He heard a voice whisper, ‘Thank you for the toothpaste.’

‘Think nothing of it, old chap.’

‘Now,’ said Harry as he flicked off the light, ‘I don’t want to hear another word from any of you until the bell goes at six thirty tomorrow morning.’ He waited for a few moments before he heard someone whispering. ‘I meant it – not another word.’ He smiled as he walked down the staircase to join Deakins and Barrington in the senior prefects’ study.

Harry had been surprised by two things when he arrived back at St Bede’s on the first day of term. No sooner had he walked through the front door than Mr Frobisher took him to one side.

‘Congratulations, Clifton,’ he said softly. ‘It won’t be announced until assembly tomorrow morning, but you’re to be the new school captain.’

‘It should have been Giles,’ said Harry without thinking.

‘Barrington will be captain of games, and-’

Harry had leapt in the air the moment he heard the news that his friend would be returning to St Bede’s. Old Jack had been right when he said Mr Hugo would find a way to make sure his son was back for the first day of term.

When Giles walked into the front hall a few moments later, the two boys shook hands, and Harry never once referred to the subject that must have been on both their minds.

‘What are the new bugs like?’ Giles asked as Harry entered the study.

‘One of them reminds me of you,’ said Harry.

‘Tewkesbury, no doubt.’

‘You know him?’

‘No, but Papa was at Eton at the same time as his father.’

‘I told him I was the son of a docker,’ said Harry as he slumped into the only comfortable chair in the room.

‘Did you now?’ said Giles. ‘And did he tell you he’s the son of a cabinet minister?’

Harry said nothing.

‘Are there any others I should keep an eye out for?’ asked Giles.

‘Stevenson,’ said Harry. ‘He’s a cross between Deakins and me.’

‘Then we’d better lock the fire-escape door before he makes a dash for it.’

Harry often thought about where he might be now if Old Jack hadn’t talked him into returning to St Bede’s that night.

‘What’s our first lesson tomorrow?’ asked Harry, checking his timetable.

‘Latin,’ said Deakins. ‘Which is why I’m guiding Giles through the first Punic war.’

‘264 to 241 BC,’ said Giles.

‘I bet you’re enjoying that,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Giles, ‘and I just can’t wait for the sequel, the second Punic war.’

‘218 to 201 BC,’ said Harry.

‘It always amazes me how the Greeks and Romans seemed to know exactly when Christ would be born,’ said Giles.

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Harry.

Deakins didn’t laugh, but said, ‘And finally, we will have to consider the third Punic War, 149 to 146 BC.’

‘Do we really need to know about all three of them?’ said Giles.

St Mary Redcliffe was packed with town and gown who’d come to celebrate an Advent service of eight readings and eight carols. The choir made their entrance through the nave, and advanced slowly down the aisle singing O Come All Ye Faithful, then took their places in the choir stalls.

The headmaster read the first lesson. This was followed by O Little Town of Bethlehem. The service sheet indicated that the soloist for the third verse would be Master Harry Clifton.

How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given, while God… Harry’s mother sat proudly in the third row, while the old lady sitting next to her wanted to tell everyone in the congregation that they were listening to her grandson. The man seated on the other side of Maisie couldn’t hear a word, but you would never have known that from the contented smile on his face. Uncle Stan was nowhere to be seen.

The captain of games read the second lesson, and when Giles returned to his place, Harry noticed that he was seated next to a distinguished-looking man with a head of silver hair, who he assumed must be Sir Walter Barrington. Giles had once told him that his grandfather lived in an even larger house than his, but Harry didn’t think that could be possible. On the other side of Giles sat his mother and father. Mrs Barrington smiled across at him, but Mr Barrington didn’t once look in his direction.

When the organ struck up the prelude for We Three Kings, the congregation rose and sang lustily. The next lesson was read by Mr Frobisher, after which came what Miss Monday anticipated would be the highlight of the service. The thousand-strong congregation didn’t stir while Harry sang Silent Night with a clarity and confidence that caused even the headmaster to smile.

The library monitor read the next lesson. Harry had already coached him through St Mark’s words several times. Deakins had tried to get out of the chore, as he described it to Giles, but Mr Frobisher had insisted; the fourth lesson was always read by the librarian. Deakins wasn’t Giles, but he wasn’t bad. Harry winked at him as he shuffled back to his seat next to his parents.

The choir then rose to sing In Dulci Jubilo while the congregation remained seated. Harry considered the carol to be among the most demanding in their repertoire, because of its unconventional harmonies.

Mr Holcombe closed his eyes so that he could hear the senior choral scholar more clearly. Harry was singing Now let all hearts be singing when he thought he heard a slight, almost imperceptible, crack in the voice. He assumed Harry must have a cold. Miss Monday knew better. She’d heard those early signs so many times before. She prayed that she was mistaken, but knew her prayer would not be answered. Harry would get through the rest of the service with only a handful of people realizing what had happened, and he would even be able to carry on for a few more weeks, possibly months, but by Easter another child would be singing Rejoice that the Lord has arisen.