'He is... was a very generous man.'
A pause followed along with a stern look, that made me understand, I should not have interrupted.
'As I was saying. In his reference Mr Sears advises me to put you with students of the second year, even though you have not been to any notable educational establishment before, and even though you are at least one year younger than most of the second-years. I have postponed making my decision until today, to see for myself, whether or not you are worthy of such a privilege,' he took off his glasses and scrutinised me and I felt my body shrink under his gaze.
'I see no indication of the potential mentioned in Mr Sears' letter,' he pronounced agonisingly slowly. 'However, I will allow you to prove me wrong. Before Christmas, you will be evaluated based on your achievements.'
'Thank you, sir.'
Again, he made it clear I was not to speak.
'Kenwood is unique in its ways. We forge scholars as well as leaders. It is not a place to send sons to when their behaviour does not suit customs at home. If you do not live up to our high standards you are expelled. If you fail your exams you are expelled. I do not care if a mere five students remain at the end of a year but those will be undoubtedly the elite. Disciplined, knowledgeable, and with supreme leadership skills. We want our boys to come out as men ready to shape the Empire. To this end our curriculum entails three years of hard, fervent studies. Anyone who needs more than three years is a failure – you will have even less time to prove that you are not, and your situation is not a favourable one.'
By this, he meant I was much poorer than the other students. Fortunately, the man with the scarce grey hair over a balding head, and thick vest over a prominent belly – natural indications of wisdom and wealth, that he carried with pride – did not seem to realise that poverty was not my greatest concern. Preoccupied by his own performance he overlooked who was really before him.
'You are dismissed, Mr Ryde.'
A tall and thin man whose body posture resembled a question mark melted from the darkest corner of the room. It was with a start that I learnt of his presence. He looked at me with dark and empty eyes. The corners of his mouth arched down to his chin and left his thin face in wrinkles.
This lifeless-looking shell of a person was presented to me as the caretaker, and he was to take me down bellow to the basement to provide me with a school uniform, bedding, and directions to the room I would live in. On our way out, we passed two swords that decorated the wall, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of one of the blades – I had never seen a more frightened, forlorn expression on my face.
Pursuing the caretaker's agonisingly slow step down the darkening staircase brought images of gruesome crimes to my mind in all of which I was the victim. I half expected the dim oil lamp in his spider-like hands to reveal a dungeon with chains hanging from the ceiling. But it was not the case. Just like the rest of the premises I had thus far seen, the basement was luxuriously clean and well-kept. We passed a tremendously huge scullery and kitchen on our way to the storage room. There, I received a bundle and was once more dismissed.
After my solitary odyssey through the main building, I exited through a backdoor and looked at the vast college green which was surrounded by three more buildings. It was the one on the far end I was headed to. The halls of residence were situated in a four-storey villa with a flat front and long sash windows. It was built of rough brown bricks and misshaped cobbles providing the house with a hard and cold appearance. A four-panelled, black door reluctantly gave way as I pushed it open with my elbow. Inside it was dark. What little light the late evening provided, met with a wooden staircase, wooden panelling, and a wooden balustrade. A thin crimson carpet reached from underneath my feet up to the upper storeys. I followed it to the second floor, and stopped by the seventh door on the right.
The uniforms and bedding in my arms towered so high that they compromised my view. I manoeuvred backwards into the room, and almost instantly stumbled against the hard wooden frame of what could only be a bed. My exhausted body fell onto it and I was determined not to move until morning.
'What a tiny fellow,' the voice startled me so very much that I almost jumped through the ceiling.
I lifted myself up to look into the eyes of a boy, and, worse yet, I found there was another bed
'My name is Rajesh Greenfield, how do you do,' he walked towards me and reached out his hand.
Being as frightened and shocked as anyone who had travelled a good 90 miles in one day could be, I wanted to put some distance between us, but he approached so fast, that I fell from my bed and hit the floor. The boy laughed.
'I did not mean to startle you,' he helped me up. 'Are you a first-year?'
'Second-year, sir, by recommendation,' I mumbled in what I hoped was a low and manly voice.
'A genius, then?'
'I would not call myself that, sir.'
'What is your age?'
I turned eighteen, recently, but my first encounter with the old man had taught me not to admit it.
'Sixt... Fifteen, sir.'
'Stop calling me 'sir' then, we are but one year apart,' the boy smiled and his friendly face became even more pleasant and amiable.
'You will find this a dull and grey place, I am afraid,' said the boy. He sat down by the desk in front of the window, and pulled closer to himself the large book he had been reading.
Even though he was but a boy – who, as boys did, had grown tall too quickly for his posture to adjust to the change – I stared at him unable to look away. Short strands of brown hair hung over his neck and he was wearing a loose white shirt, the buttons of which were not properly fastened. I was alone with a boy in the same room. Pure horror.
If Elizabeth found out she would kill me, and then burn down the school – all four buildings.
'You do not know me well enough to make such an assumption for I see it a great privilege to be here, s-,' I trailed off.
'What is your name?' he turned.
'Jo, Jo... Jonathan, sir,' I stammered, mentally slapping myself.
'Well, Jojojonathan, it seems, we will be room mates from now on. Welcome to Oliver Kenwood Boarding School,' he smiled again. He then informed me, politely, that the bed I sat on, the one closest to the door, was already occupied by another boy, who was currently absent. The second bed, by the window, was his own, leaving me with the smallest one in the corner, which could not deservedly be called a bed – more like a bed-like construction. Unlike the other two, it lacked a solid wooden frame, columns, and generally everything else. A box with a mattress on top. That's what it was – and the mattress was longer than the box. Rajesh Greenfield had the decency to look discomforted as he pointed me to it.
Even though the only luxury I had been expecting, was that of an education, the sleeping arrangements made me understand my place better than I would have wished.
Chapter 5
IMPRESSIONS AND IMPERTINENCES
The night progressed into the small hours of morning. The wind hammered against the big window over my head with the same ferocity as my thoughts against my mind. I had been staring at the ceiling for hours. Only several feet away, I could hear the steady breaths of a stranger - a man. Unlike my sisters, I had never given much thought to marriage, but I had never opposed the idea, either. Now, it was all too evident, that, regarding the situation I had thrown myself in, no decent man would have me for a wife if I were ever found out. Moreover, my sisters' reputation could be discredited, as well. Was this what it was really like to be a man? To make decisions, potentially bad ones, and have loved ones suffer from the consequences? The tears welled up again. Wretched things. I was being ungrateful and undeserving. The letter the old man had left me was dated weeks prior to his death. He must have know it was close and his first and foremost concern was to make sure I was provided for. All I did to thank him was whine about it. No, I had to cherish his memory by doing my utmost best. The responsibility made my stomach turn and churn. I c
ould not sleep.
'Jonathan!'
My mind was in a foggy daze.
'Wake up!'
Suddenly, someone yanked at my shoulder. I shot up in an upright position. Everything around me was much too bright. I could not focus my vision and blinked confusedly. Where was I?
'You will be late, Jojojonathan. Make haste.'
The image of a boy formed in front of me. I was a fraction of a second short of screaming my lungs out, when my mind raced to conclude, that it was my room mate. Rajesh Greenfield busily rushed about the room in an effort to collect his school things. He wore deep blue trousers, a grey waistcoat and long jacket which was adorned by military-style silver buttons on each side. An emblem depicting a crossed sword and quill, an O left of it, a K right, was sewn with a silver thread over his heart.
'What is the time?' I said rubbing my eyes.
'Almost six. Fencing begins in less than 5 minutes.'
'Why have you not woken me sooner?' I jumped to my feet and began disentangling the bundle of a uniform that lay next to my pillow.
'I did not realise you were still in bed. You are easy to overlook, all covered up in that blanket from top to bottom.'
This reminded me to pull the blanket around my figure. Already I had allowed myself to be reckless.
'You had better go on ahead without me,' I said trying to find a manly pitch to my voice mid-sentence. I was barely awake and had to think about so many things already. It would be the end of me if he waited and watched me change. 'There is no need for both of us to be late.'
It did not take much effort to convince him, for he was eager to be on his way. Greenfield told me briskly where the lesson took place, which I was not sure to fully comprehend. Yet, before I could ask anything, he was out of the door, yelling: 'the fencing tutor hates unpunctuality,' just before it fell shut.
Hastily, I dressed. The uniform was much too big. I rolled up the sleeves and the trousers. It looked silly, but I had to run.
I pushed the door open, galloped down the stairs and out into a cold morning. With clouds even thicker than the day before, it was hard to tell whether the sun had risen yet. The broad, brown two-storey building on the right, rose above the mist-covered green. My room mate had told me to head towards those bleak bricks and grey windows. I ran across the grass with as much speed as I could master, and arrived before the building with muddy boots. My shirt did not look decent on me and I had fastened the buttons of my waistcoat asymmetrically. The jacket was under my arm. If Elizabeth had seen me she would have fainted.
I tore the grey metal door open and skidded across the tiles on my wet soles. Unable to stop, I slammed my face into somebody's back staggered into another person from the impact, who then shoved me in return, so that I hit the first person for a second time. Its owner turned around and grabbed me before any more damage was caused.
'This is a fencing hall not the curling grounds,' the boy said smiling haughtily down on me. Some chuckles sounded in the background. Then the corners of his mouth twitched and the green eyes became poisonous slits. Before I could even think of apologising, he brought up one finger and pointed it directly in my face.
'You are late,' he pronounced carefully, emphasising the severity of the crime. He pulled out a pocket watch by a gold chain, that was attached to a pair of black trousers, let it fly through the air and land in his palm. That was when I realised he was not wearing a school uniform.
'Eight minutes.'
I stared at him wide-eyed and even stopped breathing for a moment. The boy was not a boy at all, although he hardly looked a great deal older than the rest of us, well, the rest of them.
With the hand, that had been pointing at me, he brushed away a strand of blond hair from his venomous eyes. His gaze intensified as he scrutinised me. My face was as unfamiliar to him as his was to me. He hunched forward and I straightened my back and stiffened my arms at my sides feeling like a mouse at the mercy of a snake.
'Jonathan Ryde, is it?' he said in a voice so wary that it turned husky. The name was heavy with responsibility and I had to try hard not to let its weight show on my face. Despite the effort, my mouth opened and shut twice before I mustered a yes.
Suddenly, he raised his hand and I ducked reflexively expecting a punch or the like, but his only motive was to shake my hand. I was making a great fool of myself.
'My name is Charles Hanson. I am your fencing instructor. Pleased to make your acquaintance,' he said smiling genuinely, which changed his whole demeanour.
'And I yours, sir,' I stuttered with belated politeness.
'I understand the headmaster has explained to you that we take discipline very seriously?' he was still shaking my hand and I could not withdraw – not for lack of trying, though.
'Yes, sir, I-'
'The other students all know, but to you, I will explain the punishment for unpunctuality after the lesson,' his eyes became slits while his mouth was still smiling. With a gulp, I swallowed the urge to explain myself, for from what I had read in novels about the Royal Navy manly men had to accept demotions without whining. Remembering the extensive volumes about the Battle of Trafalgar I almost touched my knuckles to my forehead but stopped my mouth before it could pronounce 'Aye, aye, sir.'
Mr Hanson released me and told a boy to fetch me, what he called, a fencing kit. Hesitantly, I entered the dressing room. Because I was late, there were only three boys left in it. They eyed me curiously and smiled to themselves. I did not rise my gaze over the white bundle in my arms until I heard the last boy leave. I would have to think of something more profound than tardiness in order to change in private. It all had seemed so much simpler to me during my contemplations on the train to London.
Carefully, I laid out the white clothes on the slim bench. I had never seen a fencing uniform other than on pictures, the memories of which were hazy. How was I supposed to know how to wear it? After some trying out, I decided on the following order: first the stockings and breaches, then half a jacket with only one sleeve, a whole jacket, and a vest of solid fabric on top. I earnestly hoped this was correct, for I did not want Mr Hanson to have yet another reason to reprimand me.
In the training hall was an army of about forty white silhouettes standing in line and synchronously performing the instructor's commands.
'Quart, disengage, lunge,' he shouted and then noticed me, 'Mr Ryde has decided to join us and it did not even take him half the day.'
A storm of laughter followed. Feeling my cheeks blush I tried to hide my head between my shoulders like a turtle.
At least, I was wearing my uniform just like the other boys, except that mine was too big for me - a circumstance I was growing accustomed to.
Trying to put on the face of a fencing expert, I took my position beside my fellow students.
'Quart, disengage, lunge,' Hanson chanted.
I studied the movements.
Hanson passed behind the other boys, watching closely, nodding approvingly. When he was beside me, I held my head high and sophisticatedly copied what the other boys had been doing. I moved my hand as if I was casting a spell with a magic wand and then jumped forward like a deer. I felt like the perfect cross between a magician and a hoofed mammal, but Hanson only raised an eye brow.
Directly after, he clapped his hands twice. White figures spread out all around me. I wanted to follow them, but Hanson blocked my way. I would not have forgiven myself if I had bumped into him again.
'Mr Ryde.'
'Mr Hanson.'
'How long have you been fencing?'
'All my life, sir.'
'Is that so?' he squinted his eyes.
My common sense screamed at me to admit I was joking but since common sense was not my strongest trait, I merely nodded.
'Get your mask and foil,' he motioned towards the other boys who stood around a chest that three of them had carried in. 'I am eager to see your accomplishments.'
He smiled at me ambiguously. I understood, I had better had a na
tural talent in fencing.
When I reached the chest, all my fellow students were already wearing their masks and one glove on the hand that held the sword. They all looked the same with the exception of size and built. I was by far the smallest among them.
A tall boy appeared next to me to advise me on the gear. It took me a moment to recognise Rajesh Greenfield.
'He is a very good and fair teacher,' he told me putting the grip of the foil into my hand, explaining that my thumb had to be on top and that the blade had to arch upwards when I hit. 'Do not loose his good opinion.'
Through the net of his mask I saw the boy's eyes looking back at me with a soft smile. Surrounded by ghastly white, masked strangers I was glad to find at least one among them who had a friendly inclination towards me. My room mate even suggested to be my fencing partner.
We positioned ourselves opposite of each other in the two rows, that had already formed. Hanson proudly marched up and down like a commanding officer ready to defeat the enemy troops at Waterloo, and shouted combinations of words that held no meaning to me. To each of them the boys reacted immediately. As much as I tried, I did not succeed to do the same. Greenfield desperately hissed explanations at me. Sadly, I understood those no better than what Hanson said, and felt incredibly sorry for being the source of that very nice boy's frustration. At some point, Hanson, finally, took pity on me – or on Greenfield more like – and told me to stand aside 'to watch and learn.'
Another boy paired up with Greenfield and then I saw what fencing was meant to look like. The two students held themselves gracefully and their blades danced. They attacked with speed and parried with ease, without ever loosing their balance or making an unnecessary step. Their swords seemed to weight nothing while my hand was tired from just holding the long, straight metal.
Rajesh Greenfield pierced his opponent with the tip of his foil, and even though the blade arched up easing the impact, it still looked painful.
The Girl who was a Gentleman (Victorian Romance, History) Page 4