Jeffrey Archer: Sons of Fortune

‘Have a good journey,’ his father said, shaking his son’s outstretched hand. What silly things parents say at stations, Andrew thought; surely it was more important that he worked hard when he got there. ‘And don’t forget to write.’

Andrew boarded the train with his mother and as the engine pulled out of the station he didn’t once look back at his father, hoping it would make him appear more grown up.

‘Would you like some breakfast?’ his mother asked as the porter placed his cases on the overhead rack.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Andrew, cheering up for the first time that morning.

Another uniformed man showed them to a table in the dining car. Andrew studied the menu and wondered if his mother would allow him to have the full breakfast.

‘Have anything you like,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.

Andrew smiled when the waiter reappeared. ‘Double hash browns, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon and toast.’ He only left out the mushrooms because he didn’t want the waiter to think that his mother never fed him.

‘And you, ma’am?’ enquired the waiter, turning his attention to the other side of the table.

‘Just coffee and toast, thank you.’

‘The boy’s first day?’ asked the waiter.

Mrs Davenport smiled and nodded.

How does he know? wondered Andrew.

Andrew munched nervously through his breakfast, not sure if he would be fed again that day. There had been no mention of meals in the handbook, and Grandpa had told him that when he was at Hotchkiss, they were only fed once a day. His mother kept telling him to put his knife and fork down while he was eating. ‘Knives and forks are not airplanes and shouldn’t remain in mid-air longer than is necessary,’ she reminded him. He had no way of knowing that she was almost as nervous as he was.

Whenever another boy, dressed in the same smart uniform, passed by their table, Andrew looked out of the window, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, because none of their uniforms were as new as his. His mother was on her third cup of coffee when the train pulled into the station.

‘We’ve arrived,’ she announced, unnecessarily.

Andrew sat staring at the sign for Lakeville as several boys leapt off the train, greeting each other with ‘Hi there, how was your holiday?’ and ‘Good to see you again’, followed by much shaking of hands. He finally glanced across at his mother, and wished she would disappear in a cloud of smoke. Mothers were just another announcement that it was his first day.

Two tall boys dressed in double-breasted blue blazers and grey slacks began shepherding the new boys on to a waiting bus. Andrew prayed that parents were banned from the bus, otherwise everyone would realize he was a new boy.

‘Name?’ said one of the young men in a blue blazer as Andrew stepped off the train.

‘Davenport, sir,’ said Andrew, staring up at him. Would he ever be that tall?

The young man smiled, almost a grin. ‘You don’t call me sir, I’m not a master, just a senior proctor.’ Andrew’s head dropped. The first words he’d uttered, and he’d made a fool of himself. ‘Has your luggage been placed on the bus, Fletcher?’

Fletcher? thought Andrew. Of course, Fletcher Andrew Davenport; he didn’t correct the tall young man for fear of making another mistake.

‘Yes,’ Andrew replied.

The god turned his attention to Andrew’s mother. ‘Thank you, Mrs Davenport,’ he said, checking his list, ‘I hope you have a pleasant journey back to Farmington. Fletcher will be just fine,’ he added kindly.

Andrew thrust out his hand, determined to stop his mother cuddling him. If only mothers could read thoughts. He shuddered as she threw her arms around him. But then he couldn’t begin to understand what she was going through. When his mother finally released him, Andrew quickly joined the flow of boys who were jumping on to the waiting bus. He spotted a boy, even smaller than himself, who was sitting on his own looking out of the window. He quickly sat down beside him.

‘I’m Fletcher,’ he said, reverting to the name bestowed on him by the god. ‘What’s yours?’

‘James,’ he replied, ‘but my friends call me Jimmy.’

‘Are you a new boy?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy quietly, still not looking round.

‘Me too,’ replied Fletcher.

Jimmy took out a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose, before he finally turned to face his new companion.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Farmington.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Not far from West Hartford.’

‘My dad works in Hartford,’ said Jimmy, ‘he’s in the government. What does your dad do?’

‘He sells drugs,’ said Fletcher.

‘Do you like football?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Yes,’ said Fletcher, but only because he knew Hotchkiss had an unbeaten record for the past four years, something else Miss Nichol had underlined in the handbook.

The rest of the conversation consisted of a series of unrelated questions to which the other rarely knew the answer. It was a strange beginning for what was to become a life-long friendship.

‘Spotless,’ said his father as he checked the boy’s uniform in the hall mirror. Michael Cartwright straightened his son’s blue tie, and removed a hair from his jacket. ‘Spotless,’ he repeated.

Five dollars for a pair of corduroys was all Nathaniel could think about, even if his father had said they were worth every cent.

‘Hurry up, Susan, or we’ll be late,’ his father called, glancing up towards the landing. But Michael still found time to pack the case in the trunk and move the car out of the driveway before Susan finally appeared to wish her son luck on his first day. She gave Nathaniel a big hug, and he was only grateful that there wasn’t another Taft man in sight to witness the event. He hoped that his mother had got over her disappointment that he hadn’t chosen Jefferson High, because he was already having second thoughts. After all, if he’d gone to Jefferson High he could come home every night.

Nathaniel took the seat next to his father in the front of the car, and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly seven o’clock. ‘Let’s get going, Dad,’ he said, desperate not to be late on his first day and to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

Once they reached the highway, his father moved across to the outside lane and put the speedometer up to sixty-five, five miles an hour over the limit, calculating that the odds of being pulled over at that time in the morning were in his favour. Although Nathaniel had visited Taft to be interviewed, it was still a terrifying moment when his father drove their old Studebaker through the vast iron gates and slowly up the mile-long drive. He was relieved to see two or three other cars filing in behind them, though he doubted if they were new boys. His father followed a line of Cadillacs and Buicks into a car park, not altogether sure where he should park; after all, he was a new father. Nathaniel jumped out of the car, even before his father had pulled on the hand brake. But then he hesitated. Did he follow the stream of boys heading towards Taft Hall, or were new boys expected to go somewhere else?

His father didn’t hesitate in joining the throng, and only came to a halt when a tall, self-assured young man carrying a clipboard looked down at Nathaniel and asked, ‘Are you a new boy?’

Nathaniel didn’t speak, so his father said, ‘Yes.’

The young man’s gaze was not averted. ‘Name?’ he said.

‘Cartwright, sir,’ Nathaniel replied.

‘Ah yes, a lower mid; you’ve been assigned to Mr Haskins, so you must be clever. All the bright ones start off with Mr Haskins.’ Nathaniel lowered his head while his father smiled. ‘When you go into Taft Hall,’ said the young man, ‘you can sit anywhere in the front three rows on the left hand side. The moment you hear nine chimes on the clock, you will stop talking and not speak again until the principal and the rest of the staff have left the hall.’