Only Time Will Tell

by Jeffrey Archer

  Before Fisher switched off the light, he added, ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow night, when I will continue with my bedtime tale of the Cliftons of Still House Lane. Wait until you hear about Uncle Stan.’

  The following night, Harry learnt for the first time that his uncle had spent eighteen months in prison for burglary. This revelation was worse than being slippered. He crept into bed wondering if his father could still be alive but in jail, and that was the real reason no one at home ever talked about him.

  Harry hardly slept for a third night running, and no amount of success in the classroom, or admiration in the chapel, could stop him continually thinking about the next inevitable encounter with Fisher. The slightest excuse, a drop of water spilt on the washroom floor, a pillow that wasn’t straight, a sock that had fallen around his ankle, would ensure that Harry could expect six of the best from the duty prefect; a punishment that would be administered in front of the rest of the dorm, but not before Fisher had added another episode from the Clifton Chronicles. By the fifth night, Harry had had enough, and even Giles and Deakins could no longer console him.

  During prep on Friday evening, while the other boys were turning the pages of their Kennedy’s Latin Primer, Harry ignored Caesar and the Gauls and went over a plan that would ensure Fisher never bothered him again. By the time he climbed into bed that night, after Fisher had discovered a Fry’s wrapper by his bed and slippered him once again, Harry’s plan was in place. He lay awake long after lights out, and didn’t stir until he was certain every boy was asleep.

  Harry had no idea what time it was when he slipped out of bed. He dressed without making a sound, then crept between the beds until he reached the far side of the room. He pushed the window open, and the rush of cold air caused the boy in the nearest bed to turn over. Harry climbed out on to the fire escape and slowly closed the window before making his way down to the ground. He walked around the edge of the lawn, taking advantage of any shadows to avoid a full moon that seemed to beam down on him like a searchlight.

  Harry was horrified to discover that the school gates were locked. He crept along the wall, searching for the slightest crack or indentation that would allow him to climb over the top and escape to freedom. At last he spotted a missing brick and was able to lever himself up until he was straddling the wall. He lowered himself down the other side, clinging on by the tips of his fingers, said a silent prayer, then let go. He landed on the ground in a heap, but didn’t seem to have broken anything.

  Once he’d recovered, he began to run down the road, slowly at first, but then he speeded up and didn’t stop running until he reached the docks. The night shift was just coming off duty and Harry was relieved to find his uncle was not among them.

  After the last docker had disappeared out of sight, he walked slowly along the quayside, past a line of moored ships that stretched as far as the eye could see. He noticed that one of the funnels proudly displayed the letter B, and thought about his friend who would be fast asleep. Would he ever … his thoughts were interrupted when he came to a halt outside Old Jack’s railway carriage.

  He wondered if the old man was also fast asleep. His question was answered when a voice said, ‘Don’t just stand there, Harry, come inside before you freeze to death.’ Harry opened the carriage door to find Old Jack striking a match and trying to light a candle. Harry slumped into the seat opposite him. ‘Have you run away?’ asked Old Jack.

  Harry was so taken aback by his direct question that he didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes, I have,’ he finally spluttered.

  ‘And no doubt you’ve come to tell me why you’ve made this momentous decision.’

  ‘I didn’t make the decision,’ said Harry. ‘It was made for me.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘His name is Fisher.’

  ‘A master or a boy?’

  ‘My dormitory prefect,’ said Harry, wincing. He then told Old Jack everything that had happened during his first week at St Bede’s.

  Once again, the old man took him by surprise. When Harry came to the end of his story, Jack said, ‘I blame myself.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Harry. ‘You couldn’t have done more to help me.’

  ‘Yes I could,’ said Old Jack. ‘I should have prepared you for a brand of snobbery that no other nation on earth can emulate. I should have spent more time on the significance of the old school tie, and less on geography and history. I had rather hoped things just might have changed after the war to end all wars, but they clearly haven’t at St Bede’s.’ He fell into a thoughtful silence before finally asking, ‘So what are you going to do next, my boy?’

  ‘Run away to sea. I’ll take any boat that will have me,’ said Harry, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Old Jack. ‘Why not play straight into Fisher’s hands?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that nothing will please Fisher more than to be able to tell his friends that the street urchin had no guts, but then, what do you expect from the son of a docker whose mother is a waitress?’

  ‘But Fisher’s right. I’m not in his class.’

  ‘No, Harry, the problem is that Fisher already realizes he’s not in your class, and never will be.’

  ‘Are you saying I should go back to that horrible place?’ said Harry.

  ‘In the end, only you can make that decision,’ said Old Jack, ‘but if you run away every time you come up against the Fishers of this world, you’ll end up like me, one of life’s also-rans, to quote the headmaster.’

  ‘But you’re a great man,’ said Harry.

  ‘I might have been,’ said Old Jack, ‘if I hadn’t run away the moment I came across my Fisher. But I settled for the easy way out, and only thought about myself.’

  ‘But who else is there to think about?’

  ‘Your mother for a start,’ said Old Jack. ‘Don’t forget all the sacrifices she made to give you a better start in life than she ever dreamed was possible. And then there’s Mr Holcombe, who when he discovers you’ve run away will only blame himself.

  And don’t forget Miss Monday, who called in favours, twisted arms and spent countless hours to make sure you were good enough to win that choral scholarship. And when you come to weigh up the pros and cons, Harry, I suggest you place Fisher on one side of the scales and Barrington and Deakins on the other, because I suspect that Fisher will quickly fade into insignificance, while Barrington and Deakins will surely turn out to be close friends for the rest of your life. If you run away, they will be forced to listen to Fisher continually reminding them that you weren’t the person they thought you were.’

  Harry remained silent for some time. Finally, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Without another word he opened the carriage door and let himself out.

  He walked slowly down the quayside, once again staring up at the vast cargo ships, all of which would soon be departing for distant ports. He kept on walking until he reached the dockyard gates, where he broke into a run and headed back towards the city. By the time he reached the school gates they were already open, and the clock on the great hall was about to chime eight times.

  Despite the telephone call, Mr Frobisher would have to walk across to the headmaster’s house and report that one of his boys was missing. As he looked out of his study window, he caught a glimpse of Harry nipping in and out between the trees as he made his way cautiously towards the house. Harry tentatively opened the front door as the final chime rang out, and came face to face with his housemaster.

  ‘Better hurry, Clifton,’ Mr Frobisher said, ‘or you’ll miss breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry, and ran down the corridor. He reached the dining room just before the doors were closed and slipped into place between Barrington and Deakins.

  ‘For a moment I thought I’d be the only one licking my bowl this morning,’ said Barrington. Harry burst out laughing.

  He didn’t come across Fisher that day, an
d was surprised to find that another prefect had replaced him on dorm duty that night. Harry slept for the first time that week.

  6

  THE ROLLS-ROYCE drove through the gates of the Manor House and up a long driveway lined with tall oaks, standing like sentinels. Harry had counted six gardeners even before he set eyes on the house.

  During their time at St Bede’s, Harry had picked up a little about how Giles lived when he returned home for the holidays, but nothing had prepared him for this. When he saw the house for the first time, his mouth opened, and stayed open.

  ‘Early eighteenth century would be my guess,’ said Deakins.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Giles, ‘1722, built by Vanbrugh. But I’ll bet you can’t tell me who designed the garden. I’ll give you a clue: it’s later than the house.’

  ‘I’ve only ever heard of one landscape gardener,’ said Harry, still staring at the house. ‘Capability Brown.’

  ‘That’s exactly why we chose him,’ said Giles, ‘simply so that my friends would have heard of the fellow two hundred years later.’

  Harry and Deakins laughed as the car came to a halt in front of a three-storey mansion built from golden Cotswold stone. Giles jumped out before the chauffeur had a chance to open the back door. He ran up the steps with his two friends following less certainly in his wake.

  The front door was opened long before Giles reached the top step, and a tall man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat, pinstripe trousers and a black tie, gave a slight bow as the young master shot past him. ‘Happy birthday, Mr Giles,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Jenkins. Come on, chaps!’ shouted Giles as he disappeared into the house. The butler held open the door to allow Harry and Deakins to follow.

  As soon as Harry stepped into the hall, he found himself transfixed by the portrait of an old man who appeared to be staring directly down at him. Giles had inherited the man’s beak-like nose, fierce blue eyes and square jaw. Harry looked around at the other portraits that adorned the walls. The only oil paintings he’d seen before were in books: the Mona Lisa, the Laughing Cavalier and Night Watch. He was looking at a landscape by an artist called Constable when a woman swept into the hall wearing what Harry could only have described as a ball gown.

  ‘Happy birthday, my darling,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Mater,’ said Giles, as she bent down to kiss him. It was the first time Harry had ever seen his friend look embarrassed. ‘These are my two best friends, Harry and Deak-ins.’ As Harry shook hands with a woman who wasn’t much taller than he was, she gave him such a warm smile that he immediately felt at ease.

  ‘Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room,’ she suggested, ‘and have some tea?’ She led the boys across the hall and into a large room that overlooked the front lawn.

  When Harry entered, he didn’t want to sit down but to look at the paintings that hung on every wall. However, Mrs Barring-ton was already ushering him towards the sofa. He sank down into the plush cushions and couldn’t stop himself staring out of the bay window on to a finely cut lawn that was large enough to play a game of cricket on. Beyond the lawn, Harry could see a lake where contented mallards swam aimlessly around, clearly not worried about where their next meal would be coming from. Deakins sat himself down on the sofa next to Harry.

  Neither of them spoke as another man, this one dressed in a short black jacket, entered the room, followed by a young woman in a smart blue uniform, not unlike the one his mother wore at the hotel. The maid carried a large silver tray which she placed on an oval table in front of Mrs Barrington.

  ‘Indian or China?’ Mrs Barrington asked, looking at Harry.

  Harry wasn’t sure what she meant.

  ‘We’ll all have Indian, thank you, Mother,’ said Giles.

  Harry thought Giles must have taught him everything there was to know about etiquette as practised in polite society, but Mrs Barrington had suddenly raised the bar to a new level.

  Once the under-butler had poured three cups of tea, the maid placed them in front of the boys, along with a side plate. Harry stared at a mountain of sandwiches, not daring to touch. Giles took one and put it on his plate. His mother frowned. ‘How many times have I told you, Giles, always to wait until your guests decide what they would like before you help yourself ?’

  Harry wanted to tell Mrs Barrington that Giles always took the lead, just so that he would know what to do and, more important, what not to do. Deakins selected a sandwich and put it on his plate. Harry did the same. Giles waited patiently until Deakins had picked up his sandwich and taken a bite.

  ‘I do hope you like smoked salmon,’ said Mrs Barrington.

  ‘Spiffing,’ said Giles, before his friends had a chance to admit that they had never tasted smoked salmon before. ‘We only get fish paste sandwiches at school,’ he added.

  ‘So, tell me how you’re all getting on at school,’ said Mrs Barrington.

  ‘Room for improvement, is how I think the Frob describes my efforts,’ said Giles, as he took another sandwich. ‘But Deakins is top of everything.’

  ‘Except for English,’ said Deakins, speaking for the first time, ‘Harry pipped me in that subject by a couple of per cent.’

  ‘And did you pip anyone in anything, Giles?’ asked his mother.

  ‘He came second in maths, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry, coming to Giles’s rescue. ‘He has a natural gift for figures.’

  ‘Just like his grandfather,’ said Mrs Barrington.

  ‘That’s a nice picture of you above the fireplace, Mrs Barrington,’ said Deakins.

  She smiled. ‘It’s not me, Deakins, it’s my dear mother.’ Deakins bowed his head before Mrs Barrington quickly added, ‘But what a charming compliment. She was considered a great beauty in her day.’

  ‘Who painted it?’ asked Harry, coming to Deakins’s rescue.

  ‘Laszlo,’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I was wondering if the portrait of the gentleman in the hall might be by the same artist.’

  ‘How very observant of you, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘The painting you saw in the hall is of my father, and was indeed also painted by Laszlo.’

  ‘What does your father do?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Harry never stops asking questions,’ said Giles. ‘One just has to get used to it.’

  Mrs Barrington smiled. ‘He imports wines to this country, in particular, sherries from Spain.’

  ‘Just like Harvey’s,’ said Deakins, his mouth full of cucumber sandwich.

  ‘Just like Harvey’s,’ repeated Mrs Barrington. Giles grinned. ‘Do have another sandwich, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington, noticing that his eyes were fixed on the plate.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harry, unable to choose between smoked salmon, cucumber, or egg and tomato. He settled for salmon, wondering what it would taste like.

  ‘And how about you, Deakins?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Barrington,’ he said, and took another cucumber sandwich.

  ‘I can’t go on calling you Deakins,’ said Giles’s mother. ‘It makes you sound like one of the servants. Do tell me your Christian name.’

  Deakins bowed his head again. ‘I prefer to be called Deakins,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Al,’ said Giles.

  ‘Such a nice name,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘although I expect your mother calls you Alan.’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ said Deakins, his head still bowed. The other two boys looked surprised by this revelation, but said nothing. ‘My name’s Algernon,’ he finally spluttered.

  Giles burst out laughing.

  Mrs Barrington paid no attention to her son’s outburst. ‘Your mother must be an admirer of Oscar Wilde,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Deakins. ‘But I wish she’d called me Jack, or even Ernest.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let it worry you,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘After all, Giles suffers from a similar indignity.’

  ‘Mother, you promised you wouldn’t—’

/>   ‘You must get him to tell you his middle name,’ she said, ignoring the protest. When Giles didn’t respond, Harry and Deakins looked at Mrs Barrington hopefully. ‘Marmaduke,’ she declared with a sigh. ‘Like his father and grandfather before him.’

  ‘If either of you tell anyone about this when we get back to school,’ Giles said, looking at his two friends, ‘I swear I’ll kill you, and I mean, kill you.’ Both boys laughed.

  ‘Do you have a middle name, Harry?’ asked Mrs Barrington.

  Harry was about to reply when the drawing-room door flew open and a man who couldn’t have been mistaken for a servant strode into the room carrying a large parcel. Harry looked up at a man who could only have been Mr Hugo. Giles leapt up and ran towards his father, who handed him the parcel and said, ‘Happy birthday, my boy.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ said Giles, and immediately began to untie the ribbon.

  ‘Before you open your present, Giles,’ said his mother, ‘perhaps you should first introduce your guests to Papa.’

  ‘Sorry, Papa. These are my two best friends, Deakins and Harry,’ said Giles, placing the gift on the table. Harry noticed that Giles’s father had the same athletic build and restless energy he’d assumed was uniquely his son’s.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Deakins,’ said Mr Barrington, shaking him by the hand. He then turned to Harry. ‘Good afternoon, Clifton,’ he added, before sitting down in the empty chair next to his wife. Harry was puzzled that Mr Barrington didn’t shake hands with him. And how did he know his name was Clifton?

  Once the under-butler had served Mr Barrington with a cup of tea, Giles removed the wrapping from his present and let out a yelp of delight when he saw the Roberts radio. He pushed the plug into a wall socket and began to tune the radio to different stations. The boys applauded and laughed with each new sound that was emitted from the large wooden box.