Jeffrey Archer - Only Time Will Tell

Elizabeth Barrington rose, walked across to her husband and kissed him gently. Barrington broke down and sobbed. A moment later Giles joined his parents and placed an arm around his father’s shoulders.

Emma didn’t move.

‘HAS YOUR MOTHER always been that good-looking?’ said Giles. ‘Or am I just getting older?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Harry. ‘All I can say is that your mother always looks so elegant.’

‘Much as I love the dear creature, she looks positively prehistoric compared to yours,’ said Giles as Elizabeth Barring-ton, parasol in one hand and handbag in the other, bore down upon them.

Giles, like every other boy, had been dreading what outfit his mother might turn up in. As for the selection of hats, it was worse than Ascot, with every mother and daughter trying to outdo each other.

Harry looked more carefully at his mother, who was chatting to Dr Paget. He had to admit that she was attracting more attention than most of the other mothers, which he found a little embarrassing. But he was pleased that she no longer appeared to be burdened by financial worries, and assumed the man standing on her right had something to do with that.

However grateful he was to Mr Atkins, he didn’t care for the idea of him becoming his stepfather. Mr Barrington may in the past have been over-zealous about his daughter, but Harry could not deny that he felt just as protective when it came to his mother.

She had recently told him that Mr Frampton was so pleased with her work at the hotel that he had promoted her to night supervisor and given her another pay rise. And certainly Harry no longer had to wait for his trousers to be too short before they were replaced. But even he had been surprised when she hadn’t commented about the cost of his travelling to Rome with the Arts Appreciation Society.

‘How nice to see you, Harry, on your day of triumph,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘Two prizes, if I remember correctly. I’m only sorry that Emma can’t be with us to share in your glory, but as Miss Webb pointed out, her gels cannot be expected to take the morning off for someone else’s speech day, even if her brother is the school captain.’

Mr Barrington came across to join them, and Giles watched his father carefully as he shook hands with Harry. There was still a distinct lack of warmth on his father’s part, although no one could deny that he was making every effort to conceal it.

‘So, when are you expecting to hear from Oxford, Harry?’ asked Barrington.

‘Some time next week, sir.’

‘I’m confident they’ll offer you a place, although I suspect it will be a close-run thing for Giles.’

‘Don’t forget he’s also had his moment of glory,’ said Harry.

‘I don’t recall that,’ said Mrs Barrington.

‘I think Harry’s referring to the century I scored at Lord’s, Mama.’

‘Admirable though that might be, for the life of me I can’t see how it will help you get into Oxford,’ said his father.

‘Normally I would agree with you, Papa,’ said Giles, ‘were it not for the fact that the Professor of History was sitting next to the President of the MCC at the time.’

The laughter that followed was drowned out by the sound of bells. The boys began to move rapidly in the direction of the great hall, with their parents following dutifully a few paces behind them.

Giles and Harry took their places among the prefects and prize-winners in the front three rows.

‘Do you recall our first day at St Bede’s?’ said Harry, ‘when we all sat in the front row, quite terrified of Dr Oakshott?’

‘I was never terrified of the Shot,’ said Giles.

‘No, of course you weren’t,’ said Harry.

‘But I do remember when we came down for breakfast on the first morning that you licked your porridge bowl.’

‘And I remember you swore you’d never mention it again,’ whispered Harry.

‘And I promise I never will again,’ replied Giles not whispering. ‘What was the name of that frightful bully who slippered you on our first night?’

‘Fisher,’ said Harry. ‘And it was the second night.’

‘Wonder what he’s up to now?’

‘He’s probably running a Nazi youth camp.’

‘Then that’s a good enough reason to go to war,’ said Giles as everyone in the hall rose to welcome the chairman of the governors and his board.

The crocodile of smartly dressed men made their way slowly down the aisle and up on to the stage. The last person to take his seat was Mr Barton, the headmaster, but not before he’d ushered the guest of honour into the centre chair in the front row.

Once everyone had settled, the headmaster rose to welcome the parents and guests, before delivering the school’s annual report. He began by describing 1938 as a vintage year, and for the next twenty minutes he elaborated on this claim, giving details of the school’s academic and sporting achievements. He ended by inviting the Right Honourable Winston Churchill MP, Chancellor of Bristol University and Member of Parliament for Epping, to address the school and present the prizes.

Mr Churchill rose slowly from his place and stared down at the audience for some time before he began.

‘Some guests of honour begin their speeches by telling their audience that they never won any prizes when they were at school, in fact they were always bottom of the class. I cannot make such a claim: although I certainly never won a prize, at least I was never bottom of the class – I was second to bottom.’ The boys roared and cheered, while the masters smiled. Only Deakins remained unmoved.

The moment the laughter had subsided, Churchill scowled. ‘Our nation today faces another of those great moments in history, when the British people may once again be asked to decide the fate of the free world. Many of you present in this great hall…’ He lowered his voice and concentrated his attention on the rows of boys seated in front of him, not once looking in the direction of their parents.

‘Those of us who lived through the Great War will never forget the tragic loss of life our nation suffered, and the effect it has had on an entire generation. Of the twenty boys in my class at Harrow who went on to serve in the front line, only three of them lived long enough to cast a vote. I only hope that whoever delivers this speech in twenty years’ time will not need to refer to that barbaric and unnecessary waste of life as the First World War. With that single hope, I wish you all long, happy and successful lives.’

Giles was among the first to rise and give the guest of honour a standing ovation as he returned to his seat. He felt that if Britain were left with no choice but to go to war, this was the one man who should take over from Neville Chamberlain and become Prime Minister. When everyone had resumed their places some minutes later, the headmaster invited Mr Churchill to present the prizes.

Giles and Harry cheered when Mr Barton not only announced that Deakins was scholar of the year but added, ‘This morning I received a telegram from the Master of Balliol College, Oxford, to say that Deakins has been awarded the senior classics scholarship. I might add,’ continued Mr Barton, ‘that he is the first boy to achieve this distinction in the school’s four-hundred-year history.’

Giles and Harry were on their feet immediately, as a gangly, six-foot-two-inch boy with pebble glasses, wearing a suit that hung on him as if it had never left its coathanger, made his way slowly up on to the stage. Mr Deakins wanted to leap up and take a photograph of his son being presented with his prize by Mr Churchill, but didn’t do so, for fear it might be frowned upon.

Harry received a warm reception when he was awarded the English prize, as well as the school reading prize. The headmaster added, ‘None of us will ever forget his performance as Romeo. Let us all hope that Harry will be among those who receive a telegram next week offering them a place at Oxford.’