Jeffrey Archer: Only Time Will Tell

‘Most of them will have come from rich families, with servants.’

‘That will only be a consolation for the more stupid ones,’ said Old Jack.

And some of them will have brothers at the school, and even fathers and grandfathers who were there before them.’

Your father was a fine man,’ said Old Jack, ‘and none of them will have a better mother, of that I can assure you.’

‘You knew my father?’ said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.

‘Knew would be an exaggeration,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I observed him from afar, as I have many others who have worked at the docks. He was a decent, courageous, God-fearing man.’

‘But do you know how he died?’ asked Harry, looking Old Jack in the eye, hoping he would at last get an honest reply to the question that had troubled him for so long.

‘What have you been told?’ asked Old Jack cautiously.

‘That he was killed in the Great War. But as I was born in 1920, even I can work out that that can’t be possible.’

Old Jack didn’t speak for some time. Harry remained on the edge of his seat.

‘He was certainly badly wounded in the war, but you’re right, that was not the cause of his death.’

‘Then how did he die?’ asked Harry.

‘If I knew, I’d tell you,’ replied Old Jack. ‘But there were so many rumours flying around at the time that I wasn’t sure who to believe. However, there are several men, and three in particular, who undoubtedly know the truth about what happened that night.’

‘My uncle Stan must be one of them,’ said Harry, ‘but who are the other two?’

Old Jack hesitated, before he replied, ‘Phil Haskins and Mr Hugo.’

‘Mr Haskins? The ganger?’ said Harry. ‘He wouldn’t give me the time of day. And who’s Mr Hugo?’

‘Hugo Barrington, the son of Sir Walter Barrington.’

‘The family who own the shipping line?’

‘The same,’ replied Old Jack, fearing he’d gone too far.

‘And are they also decent, courageous, God-fearing men?’

‘Sir Walter is among the finest men I’ve ever known.’

‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’

‘Not cut from the same cloth, I fear,’ said Old Jack, without further explanation.

THE SMARTLY DRESSED BOY sat next to his mother on the back seat of the tram.

‘This is our stop,’ she said when the tram came to a halt. They got off, and began to walk slowly up the hill towards the school, going a little slower with each step.

Harry held on to his mother with one hand, while he clutched a battered suitcase with the other. Neither of them spoke as they watched several hansom cabs, as well as the occasional chauffeur-driven car, pull up outside the front gates of the school.

Fathers were shaking hands with their sons, while fur-draped mothers embraced their offspring before giving them a peck on the cheek, like a bird finally having to acknowledge her fledglings were about to fly the nest.

Harry didn’t want his mother to kiss him in front of the other boys, so he let go of her hand when they were still fifty yards from the gate. Maisie, sensing his discomfort, bent down and kissed him quickly on the forehead. ‘Good luck, Harry. Make us all proud of you.’

‘Goodbye, Mum,’ he said, fighting back the tears.

Maisie turned and began to walk back down the hill, tears flooding down her own cheeks.

Harry walked on, recalling his uncle’s description of going over the top at Ypres before charging towards the enemy lines. Never look back, or you’re a dead man. Harry wanted to look back, but he knew if he did, he would not stop running until he was safely on the tram. He gritted his teeth and kept on walking.

‘Did you have a good hols, old chap?’ one of the boys was asking a friend.

‘Topping,’ the other replied. ‘The pater took me to Lord’s for the Varsity match.’

Was Lord’s a church, Harry wondered, and if so, what sort of match could possibly take place in a church? He marched resolutely on through the school gates, coming to a halt when he recognized a man standing by the front door of the school holding a clipboard.

‘And who are you, young man?’ he asked, giving Harry a welcoming smile.

‘Harry Clifton, sir,’ he replied, removing his cap just as Mr Holcombe had instructed him to do whenever a master or a lady spoke to him.

‘Clifton,’ he said, running a finger down a long list of names. ‘Ah, yes.’ He placed a tick by Harry’s name. ‘First generation, choral scholar. Many congratulations, and welcome to St Bede’s. I’m Mr Frobisher, your housemaster, and this is Frobisher House. If you leave your suitcase in the hall, a prefect will accompany you to the refectory where I’ll be addressing all the new boys before supper.’

Harry had never had supper before. ‘Tea’ was always the last meal in the Clifton household, before being sent to bed the moment it was dark. Electricity hadn’t yet reached Still House Lane, and there was rarely enough money over to spend on candles.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry, before making his way through the front door and into a large, highly polished wood-panelled hall. He put his case down and stared up at a painting of an old man with grey hair and bushy white sideburns, dressed in a long black gown with a red hood draped around his shoulders.

‘What’s your name?’ barked a voice from behind him.

‘Clifton, sir,’ said Harry, turning to see a tall boy wearing long trousers.

‘You don’t call me sir, Clifton. You call me Fisher. I’m a prefect, not a master.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harry.

‘Leave your case over there and follow me.’

Harry placed his second-hand, battered suitcase next to a row of leather trunks. His was the only one that didn’t have a set of initials stamped on it. He followed the prefect down a long corridor that was lined with photographs of old school teams and display cabinets filled with silver cups, to remind the next generation of past glories. When they reached the refectory, Fisher said, ‘You can sit anywhere you like, Clifton. Just be sure to stop talking the moment Mr Frobisher enters the refectory.’

Harry hesitated for some time before deciding which of the four long tables he would sit at. A number of boys were already milling around in clusters, talking quietly. Harry walked slowly to the far corner of the room and took a place at the end of the table. He looked up to see several boys pouring into the hall, looking just as perplexed as he felt. One of them came and sat next to Harry, while another sat opposite him. They continued chatting to each other as if he wasn’t there.

Without warning, a bell rang and everyone stopped talking as Mr Frobisher entered the refectory. He took his place behind a lectern Harry hadn’t noticed and tugged at the lapels of his gown.

‘Welcome,’ he began, doffing his mortarboard to the assembled gathering, ‘on this, the first day of your first term at St Bede’s. In a few moments’ time you will experience your first school meal, and I can promise you that it doesn’t get any better.’ One or two of the boys laughed nervously. ‘Once you have finished supper, you will be taken up to your dormitories, where you will unpack. At eight o’clock, you will hear another bell. Actually it’s the same bell, just being rung at a different time.’ Harry smiled, although most of the boys hadn’t caught Mr Frobisher’s little joke.

‘Thirty minutes later, the same bell will ring again, and you will then go to bed, but not before you’ve washed and brushed your teeth. You will then have thirty minutes to read before lights out, after which you will go to sleep. Any child caught talking after lights out will be punished by the duty prefect. You will not hear another bell,’ continued Mr Frobisher, ‘until six thirty tomorrow morning, when you will rise, wash and dress in time to report back to the refectory before seven. Any child who is late will forgo his breakfast.