My early morning lesson was Economics, which, along with Divinity and English, was one of the three A-levels that I was due to sit the next summer. However you slice it, Economics is never going to be a subject that makes your spirits soar.
But, that week, and that term, all my A-level subjects began to strike the most unexpected chords with my personal life.
That particular morning, for instance, we were being told about the celebrated law of supply and demand. And, as it happened, we had a prime example on our doorstep: when the supply of girls is minimal and the number of boy buyers is vast, then demand will go into orbit.
There would also be a strange synchronicity with my Divinity coursework, but most eerie by far would turn out to be the uncanny connection with my English classes. For the play we were studying that term, and the play that fate had decided to mock me with, was none other than Shakespeare’s Othello.
Now, I find the spectacular irony of it almost laughable.
Twenty-five years back, it was a very different story.
THE ECONOMICS DIVISION ended at 8.20 a.m. and it was back to the Timbralls for breakfast. Whenever I entered the house, I would automatically scan the pigeon-holes to see if there was any post for me and, for the first time that term, there were some letters.
One was a plain white card from my father with a second-class stamp. Tiny black writing, clipped and precise, it was a match for the terse army orders that he used to issue. It read: ‘I have found that you snapped the stylus of my record player. Your allowance has been docked accordingly. In future, I’d be grateful if you could inform me of any breakages. D.’
Charming. I had indeed neglected to tell him that I’d smashed his rotten little stylus. But there are ways and other ways of reacting to your son and heir smashing a piece of your property.
It was all of a piece for my father, who was forever incapable of making the stretch from treating me like a junior subaltern to treating me like a son. I was inured to it all. But I still hoped that one day he might be able to unbend enough to sign one of his curt postcards with the word ‘Love’.
There was also a second letter, which was expensive blue and altogether more interesting. As I studied it, my heart gave a twitch. A round girlish hand, written in brown ink, and when I put it to my nose I could scent a trace of lavender. On the back, there was the outline of pink lips and the letters ‘SWALK’.
I didn’t know the writing. But I knew who’d sent it.
Thrilling. In an instant, all trace of my father had gone from my mind.
I raced upstairs and only when I was in the privacy of my room did I open the envelope—not with my finger, but slitting the edge with a pocket-knife.
My hands were shaking. At first I scanned it, eager to find out if I was still in favour or whether I had been supplanted by some other schoolboy love.
But after a few seconds I could relax. The first words, ‘My dearest darling Kim’, and the close, ‘With ooooodles of love’, gave me the lie of the land.
Taking my time now, I started to read the letter again, soaking up each word, each nuance. I read it once, reached the end and went straight back to the beginning to read it a third, then a fourth time.
She’d written, just as she’d said she would. She was more than up for continuing our fledgling relationship via the Royal Mail. And, when next we met, it seemed there would be more kisses and more hugs. There were even dark hints as to the possibility of . . . other stuff.
Estelle.
It is true that at the age of seventeen, I could fancy any teenage girl that came within ten yards of me. Just being in close proximity to a girl could make me shiver with delight.
Not that I knew what to say to them, or how to behave with them, for that was one area where my Eton education had sadly let me down. But, although their presence turned me into a clueless geek, I loved girls. Any girls.
This said, Estelle was not just any girl. She was seventeen-years-old and gorgeous, long brown hair in a ponytail, flawless creamy skin, and a trim, perfectly endowed body that had left my eyes on stalks the first time I saw her in a swimming costume on the beach in Cornwall.
The previous month, our families had been staying at the same Cornish hotel. I had spent two days gawking at her from afar, before one morning she’d taken pity on me and started to chat. I blossomed. On the last night, at the hotel disco, we had kissed in the corner. It was my formal introduction to girls and the many delights they had to offer.
Estelle had promised to write, but it was by no means a done deal.
So when I read that letter and realised she’d come good, I was euphoric.
Then and there I replied, returning all her hugs and kisses tenfold, and sowing the seeds for our future together. But I didn’t declare my undying love. I didn’t want to slay my golden goose.
It was the first time I’d ever sealed a letter with a loving kiss and I posted it after I’d snatched a couple of slices of toast for breakfast.
Estelle! I was a fizzing bottle of champagne, ready to explode with joy.
I know that my attitude may seem fickle; that one moment I should be putting India on a pedestal and blowing her night-time kisses and the next I am fawning after my holiday romance. But that’s boys for you, and not all of them grow out of it.
Like almost every other straight seventeen-year-old boy in the country, I was obsessed with the idea of women in general and girls in particular. I could effortlessly transfer my allegiance from one to the other and back again without a moment’s hesitation. My brain was like a fat bumblebee, buzzing from one flower to the next in a perpetual quest for more honey.
Besides, India—stunning, elegant India—could never be anything other than an idle fantasy. Estelle, for her part, almost qualified as a girlfriend. We had kissed. She appeared to be eager for more.
That was the realistic view but there were also certain practicalities to be taken into account, the main one being that Estelle was stuck miles away at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Although her letters might offer me some crumbs of comfort, she was out-of-sight, and therefore usually out-of-mind. Conversely, it was India who was on my doorstep; it was India who, day in, day out, would be stalking through my dreams, plucking at my heart-strings, and firing my soul.
THAT MORNING I had a Divinity class, and, like the earlier Economics lesson, it resonated. It made sense. Or more accurately, I made it make sense for the peculiar world that I lived in.
Not that I appreciated it then, but the schoolroom where I was taught Divinity has a quite staggering history. It sounds unbelievable to think of it now, but it really is the world’s oldest schoolroom. It is called Lower School and it is in the very heart of the college, just adjoining the schoolyard. Thick wooden beams, long black desks and benches, and two rows of oak pillars, all of it more than five centuries old. Outside, through the small diamond windows, you can just make out the statue of Eton’s founder, Henry VI, and, behind him, the enormous buttresses of the upper chapel where the game of Fives was invented.
Lower School came in the colours of black, brown and grey, and the desks were thick with carved graffiti and the names of generation after generation of other bored Etonians. I remember the dust, how it spangled in the stagnant air.
Nowadays, the sheer weight of the room’s history seems magnificent. I would love to be back there, back in that dusty, dark room with the ghosts of Wellington, Shelley, George Orwell and Aldous Huxley.
But back then—as with so much of Eton’s incrediblehistory— the fact that I was being taught Divinity in the world’s oldest classroom barely even registered. At the time, I was far too pre-occupied with India and Estelle.
There were about five boys in the class and our teacher that day was one of Eton’s resident priests, Giles Swann. Our subject: St Paul’s letter to the Romans.
Now, as it happens, the entire Reformation and the breakaway from the Catholic Church stemmed from St. Paul’s epistles. In particular, there was one sixteen-word te
xt in Romans that turned more than a thousand years of Christian theology on its head.
The words themselves seem bland in the extreme. But when Martin Luther first re-interpreted them, they sparked off an explosion that was felt—and continues to be felt— throughout the Christian world.
This is what St. Paul wrote: ‘That through faith alone you shall be justified in the eyes of our Lord Jesus Christ’. Nowadays it is known as ‘justification by faith’ and for millions of Christians it meant they could abandon the Catholics’ predilection for sin and confession. Luther had discovered a much simpler route to Heaven—that since we are all unworthy, faith alone was enough to merit God’s love.
The moment of Martin Luther’s revelation is known as his ‘Tower Experience’. He suffered from chronic constipation and while he was on the lavatory would pore through his Bible. It was here, in the tower, where he had his revelation with Romans 5. (Catholics, naturally, say that Luther mistook the moment of physical release for a numinous experience.)
My Tower Experience came in Lower School. My Epiphany was equally blinding.
When I made the connection, it was like a thousand flashbulbs exploding in my head at the same time—Justification through practice.
I, too, was unworthy. But, through practice alone, I could earn India’s favour.
Through practice, I could win her esteem.
It sounds crazy. But in that moment it chimed.
The way forward had been revealed to me, and it was to be down the serene path of The Well-Tempered Clavier.
Then and there I made a commitment.
I was going to practise till my knuckles ached and my fingertips were red-raw.
And, for a short while, I did.
ONE OF THE great joys of Eton in the summer is the huge expanse of afternoons the boys have to themselves. For four days a week, they have a clear five hours to swim, to play games, to do whatever whim took them. The hijinks only ended when they had to be back in their houses at 7 p.m. in time for roll-call, or Absence.
The junior boys had a number of formal sports sessions laid on, cricket for the dry bobs and rowing for the wet bobs. But I had never taken to team sports. I preferred tennis, or a quick round on Eton’s nine-hole golf course. Or, ideally, I preferred frittering my afternoons away in a haze of wanton idleness.
That afternoon I chose to spend in the Music Schools. Partly, I suppose, because there was an ever-so-slight chance that I might catch a glimpse of India. But there also happened to be a couple of practice rooms that had Steinway grand pianos, the genuine article, tuned to perfection. Arrive soon after lunch and even a rank amateur like myself could get to play on a Steinway.
SINCE THERE ARE no more lessons, I’ve changed into jeans and T-shirt. It’s spitting with rain. In my hands, clutched tight to my chest, is my file of music and my Holy Grail, the First Prelude. I treat the building with all the reverence of a temple, for it is here that I have come to worship my Goddess. There is not a soul about, not a sound to be heard, and I have my pick of the practice rooms.
It’s been a long time since I’ve played a grand piano. The room is double the size of the other practice rooms, but still comes in the Music School’s ubiquitous lime-green. Despite the rain, I open all the windows.
I lift the polished black lid and caress the keys, which once were white but are now yellowing with age. It’s a beauty. When I start my scales, the sound fills the room with an explosion of music, so loud that you’d hear it across the street.
From memory, I play that same wretched Mozart sonata that I messed up the previous day. It’s note perfect—of course it is, because there is nobody listening to me. I try the sonata again, faster, and my fingers rattle out the trills and the tearing scales.
I’m warmed up, fingers loose and arms relaxed. I place the First Prelude on the stand. My fingers flex and hover over the keys, middle-finger of my left hand ready to strike the first note, middle C. I start slowly, sticking religiously to India’s fingering. The ending goes awry, so I try it five more times before I have it perfected. Then I’m away, playing the First Prelude for the first time in its entirety. I dab at the damper pedal; it sounds better if you let the notes run into each other.
It is more beautiful, by far, than anything I could have hoped for.
And then from nowhere, a sudden distinct prickling at the back of my neck. I am not alone.
A light knock at the door, the handle turns, and my heart lurches into my throat. It’s her, India, looking lovelier than ever. The reaction is every bit as severe as it was yesterday when first I met her. I’m paralysed.
India is not just smiling, she is openly laughing. As she walks into the room, she is clapping. All I can do is stare like a drooling village idiot—but how else could I react when I am being lauded like this?
She stands at the end of the piano, fingertips light on the lid, and looks at me with this dancing smile on her lips. Her hair is glistening from the rain. I’m melting inside, my heart and brains turning to mush.
“You play much better without me,” she says, and again starts laughing.
It’s yesterday all over again. India has rendered me into an inarticulate, grunting oaf. “Well . . . thanks.”
“You must have been practising for hours.”
There are so many things I could say, but all I can do is stare at my knees. “Er . . . yeah.”
She walks round the piano and looks at the music on the stand. She’s standing not three feet from me. I can smell her lily-of-the-valley. Lift my arm and I could touch her.
She looks at the First Prelude. “Strange to see this in front of you,” she says. “No one’s ever played this sheet music but me.”
“I love it,” I say. A bit crass, a little clunky.
Out of the side of my eye, I can see she’s wearing brown trousers, a cream shirt and a lightweight creamy mac, speckled with rain and cinched at the waist.
She’s gliding back to the door now. “Better get that order in for the complete Well-Tempered Clavier,” she says, hand on the door-handle. “Wouldn’t want you twiddling your thumbs next Monday.”
Now that she’s almost gone, I can feel myself relaxing. It’s as if she needs a four-yard exclusion zone around her—any closer and I start to burn up inside. “Thank you,” I say, and a question occurs to me. “How did you know I was here?”
She laughs again. How I came to love that laugh. It lit up her eyes and made her hair dance.
“I could hear you out on the street,” she says. “It was lovely.”
And with a wave she is gone and I sit there in stupefied silence, my mind reeling from the onslaught of the previous five minutes. I chew my thumbnail, still not comprehending what exactly has happened. My Goddess not only heard me on the street, but found me out, praised me, laughed with me.
And there had been one other thing that she’d done when she was in the room.
Just a small thing, hardly anything at all, but even at the age of seventeen I was aware that her action was maybe, just maybe, charged with a bat squeak of sexual chemistry.
As she’d stood at the piano, she had frouffed up her hair, sweeping it from one side to the other. It wasn’t a come-on. It definitely wasn’t flirting. But it would have been described by an anthropologist as a ‘preening gesture’. These are not necessarily sexual, but, like my favourite key in C Major, they are a green light for ‘Go’. It is usually a woman saying without a word that she would not mind seeing more of you.
PRELUDE 2,
C Minor
WHEN I WROTE that there were 1,238 boys in the school and not a girl in sight, I was not being strictly accurate.
There were two girls at Eton: both masters’ daughters, both in my year and both, by yet another outstanding piece of good fortune, in my English class.
Angela was my personal favourite, with her short tartan dresses and boyish Eton crop. She had a long fringe of brown hair that she used as camouflage so she could surreptitiously inspect the twenty o
r so boys in the room. I knew this because the class was sat in a horse-shoe shape around Anthony McArdle’s desk and for two terms I had been sitting directly opposite her. We rarely spoke, as there were many other boys in the class who were more overtly desperate for her attention. But occasionally we would catch each other’s eye, at which I would always be the first to avert my besotted gaze.
As for Marie, she was a blonde, an enthusiastic darling with wavy hair. She, too, had realised there was much to be gained from wearing mini-skirts and sheer stockings. Although Marie and I talked much more than ever I spoke with Angela, she always sat two seats to the side of me, which meant I never had the opportunity to survey her body in the same minute way that I could with Angela.
Before Estelle, and long before India, Angela had been my real-life fantasy girl of choice.
As the beak droned on about Gerard Manley Hopkins (‘No worse there is none, pitched past pitch of grief . . .’), Shelley (‘Hail to thee blithe spirit, bird thou never wert . . .’), and Byron, (‘The Assyrians came down like a wolf on the fold, their helmets all gleaming . . .’), I would while away my time by caressing Angela’s hand and peppering her cheeks with kisses—at least in my imagination. If Marie had sat opposite me, I’m sure I would have been doing the same for her too. But, as it was, it was Angela who was in my line of sight and it was Angela to whom, a thousand times over, I had mentally plighted my troth.
McArdle’s English classes were actually much more lighthearted and convivial than most. There was a bit of banter and a lot of clowning, largely for the benefit of Angela and Marie. But banter had never really been my forte at Eton.
Now I can clown and joke with the best of them, repartee my speciality. At Eton, however, it is difficult to shine. Boys quickly become content with their own mediocrity and then, after they’ve left, come to the delightful realisation that life is so much easier when they’re not having to compete against more than a thousand cocksure charmers.
Prelude Page 4