Jeffrey Archer - Only Time Will Tell

When Mr Churchill presented Harry with his prize, he whispered, ‘I never went to university. I only wish I had. Let’s hope you receive that telegram, Clifton. Good luck.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry.

But the biggest cheer of the day was reserved for Giles Barrington when he went up to receive the headmaster’s prize for captain of the school and captain of cricket. To the guest of honour’s surprise, the chairman of the governors leapt up from his place and shook hands with Giles before he reached Mr Churchill.

‘My grandson, sir,’ Sir Walter explained with considerable pride.

Churchill smiled, gripped Giles by the hand and, looking up at him, said, ‘Be sure you serve your country with the same distinction with which you have clearly served your school.’

That was the moment when Giles knew exactly what he would do if Britain went to war.

Once the ceremony was over, the boys, parents and masters rose as one to sing Carmen Bristoliense .

Sit clarior, sit dignior, quotquot labuntur menses:

Sit primus nobis hic decor, Sumus Bristolienses.

Once the last chorus had rung out, the headmaster led the guest of honour and his staff off the stage, out of the great hall and into the afternoon sunshine. Moments later, everyone else poured out on to the lawn to join them for tea. Three boys in particular were surrounded by well-wishers, as well as by a bevy of sisters who thought Giles was ‘just cute’.

‘This is the proudest day of my life,’ said Harry’s mother as she embraced him.

‘I know how you feel, Mrs Clifton,’ said Old Jack, shaking Harry by the hand. ‘I only wish Miss Monday had lived long enough to see you today, because I don’t doubt it would have also been the happiest day of her life.’

Mr Holcombe stood to one side and waited patiently to add his congratulations. Harry introduced him to Captain Tarrant, unaware that they were old friends.

When the band had stopped playing, and the captains and the kings had departed, Giles, Harry and Deakins sat alone on the grass and reminisced about things past, no longer schoolboys.

A TELEGRAM WAS DELIVERED to Harry’s study by a junior boy on Thursday afternoon. Giles and Deakins waited patiently for him to open it, but instead he handed the little brown envelope to Giles.

‘Passing the buck again,’ said Giles as he ripped it open. He couldn’t hide his surprise when he read the contents.

‘You failed,’ said Giles, sounding shocked. Harry collapsed back into his chair. ‘To win a scholarship. However,’ Giles added, reading the telegram aloud, ‘ We are delighted to offer you an exhibition to Brasenose College, Oxford. Many congratulations. Details to follow in the next few days. W.T.S. Stallybrass, Principal. Not bad, but you’re clearly not in Deakins’s class.’

‘And which class are you in?’ said Harry, immediately regretting his words.

‘One scholar, one exhibitionist-’

‘Exhibitioner,’ corrected Deakins.

‘And one commoner,’ said Giles, ignoring his friend. ‘Has a nice ring about it.’

Eleven other telegrams were delivered to successful applicants from Bristol Grammar School that day, but none was addressed to Giles Barrington.

‘You should let your mother know,’ said Giles as they walked into the hall for supper. ‘She probably hasn’t slept all week worrying about it.’

Harry looked at his watch. ‘It’s too late, she’ll already have left for work. I won’t be able to tell her until tomorrow morning.’

‘Why don’t we go and surprise her at the hotel?’ said Giles.

‘I can’t do that. She’d think it unprofessional to interrupt her while she’s at work, and I don’t feel I can make an exception, even for this,’ he said, waving the telegram triumphantly.

‘But don’t you think she has a right to know?’ said Giles. ‘After all, she’s sacrificed everything to make it possible for you. Frankly, if they offered me a place at Oxford, I’d interrupt Mama even if she was addressing the Mothers’ Union. Don’t you agree, Deakins?’

Deakins removed his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief, always a sign that he was deep in thought. ‘I’d ask Paget’s opinion, and if he raises no objection-’

‘Good idea,’ said Giles. ‘Let’s go and see the Page.’

‘Are you coming, Deakins?’ asked Harry, but then noticed that Deakins’s glasses had been returned to the end of his nose, a sign that he had been transported to another world.

‘Many congratulations,’ said Dr Paget once he’d read the telegram. ‘And well deserved, if I may say so.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry. ‘I wondered if it would be possible for me to go to the Royal Hotel so I can tell my mother the news?’

‘I can’t see any reason why not, Clifton.’

‘Can I trot along with him?’ asked Giles innocently.

Paget hesitated. ‘Yes, you can, Barrington. But don’t even think about having a drink or smoking while you’re in the hotel.’

‘Not even one glass of champagne, sir?’

‘No, Barrington, not even a glass of cider,’ said Paget firmly.

As the two young men strolled out of the school gates, they passed a lamp lighter who was standing on his bicycle, stretching up to light a street lamp. They chatted about the summer hols, when Harry would be joining Giles’s family in Tuscany for the first time, and agreed they would have to be back in time to see the Australians when they played against Gloucestershire at the county ground. They discussed the possibility, or, according to Harry, the probability, of war being declared now that everyone had been issued with a gas mask. But neither of them touched on another subject that was on both of their minds: would Giles be joining Harry and Deakins at Oxford in September?

As they approached the hotel, Harry had second thoughts about interrupting his mother while she was at work, but Giles had already barged through the revolving doors and was standing in the foyer waiting for him.

‘It will only take a couple of minutes,’ said Giles when Harry joined him. ‘Just tell her the good news and we can go straight back to school.’ Harry nodded.

Giles asked the doorman where the Palm Court was, and he directed them to a raised area at the far end of the foyer. After climbing the half dozen steps, Giles walked up to the desk and, keeping his voice low, asked the receptionist, ‘Can we have a quick word with Mrs Clifton?’

‘Mrs Clifton?’ asked the girl. ‘Has she made a reservation?’ She ran her finger down a list of bookings.

‘No, she works here,’ said Giles.

‘Oh, I’m new here,’ said the girl, ‘but I’ll just ask one of the waitresses. They’re bound to know.’

‘Thank you.’

Harry remained on the bottom step, his eyes searching the room for his mother.

‘Hattie,’ the receptionist asked a passing waitress, ‘does a Mrs Clifton work here?’

‘Not any longer she doesn’t,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘She left a couple of years ago. Haven’t heard a dickybird from her since.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ said Harry, bounding up the steps to join his friend.

‘Do you have any idea where we might find her?’ asked Giles, keeping his voice low.

‘No,’ said Hattie. ‘But you could have a word with Doug, the night porter. He’s been here for ever.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giles and, turning to Harry, added, ‘There’s bound to be a simple explanation, but if you’d prefer to leave it…’

‘No, let’s find out if Doug knows where she is.’

Giles walked slowly across to the porter’s desk, giving Harry enough time to change his mind, but he didn’t say a word. ‘Are you Doug?’ he asked a man dressed in a faded blue frockcoat with buttons that no longer shone.