The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  *****

  During the week the boys attended chapel within the confines of the school, but on Sundays they went to morning services at St Peter’s church by the market square. The sonorous tones of Reverend Beamish filled the great empty space above the stone arches on either side of the nave. He was preaching a sermon, reminding the congregation of the love of Christ for mankind, and emphasising that it was the duty of all men to do unto others as they would have others do unto them. William had quickly realised that God and duty were themes that often cropped up at Oundle.

  The masters sat apart from the boys, and as the Reverend’s sermon continued, William’s thoughts wandered. He found himself watching Mister Watson, who was the youngest master at the school. He taught English language and literature and came from Edinburgh, though you wouldn’t have guessed it from looking at him. Though he was British by birth it was rumoured that his father was Indian, from Calcutta. His skin was quite dark.

  Mister Watson was unlike his fellow masters in ways other than his appearance. He was quietly spoken and seemed to enjoy teaching. During his classes he encouraged the boys to ask questions and was happy to wander from the text of whatever they were studying if a discussion arose, something Mister Norris would never have done. He told them that he wanted them to learn the skills required for intelligent debate, an idea which he had once joked was quite probably considered anathema to some people. William had looked up the word anathema in the dictionary later to see what it meant, and when he found it he wondered if Mister Watson might have been talking about Mister Norris.

  William had noticed that Mister Watson was hardly ever seen with the other masters outside of the necessities of his school duties. He had the feeling that the other masters regarded Mister Watson with vague suspicion, as if he was a slightly exotic but unpredictable curiosity.

  The sermon ended and the reverend announced that they would sing hymn number forty seven. The first dusty notes of Come All Ye Faithful wheezed from the organ, but as the congregation rose to their feet the boy next to William shoved him with his elbow so that William staggered and almost fell. As William steadied himself, Mister Norris glared at him, an angry flush rising in his cheeks.

  After the service, the boys trooped outside into the cold. The masters stood with their wives, chatting pleasantly in small groups, though Mister Watson lingered on their periphery. As the boys filed past, Norris fixed his eye on William, limping along the path towards the gate. Norris waited until William had almost reached it before he called out to him.

  ‘Reynolds!’ he barked. ‘Come here, boy!’

  Slowly, William limped the twenty yards back along the path, past the smirking grins of the other boys.

  ‘Why were you were playing the fool during the service,’ Norris demanded.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I weren’t playing the fool, sir,’ William replied.

  ‘Wasn’t, Reynolds! The subject is singular. Your grammatical butchering aside, however, you certainly were playing the fool. I saw you with my own eyes, or do you think I’m blind, you impudent oaf?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No sir, what?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re blind, sir.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Norris said scathingly. ‘Then you think I’m a fool?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you must think I’m a fool if you believe you can deceive me when I clearly saw you larking about with my own eyes.’

  William felt trapped, certain that whatever he said would be twisted and used against him.

  ‘Answer me, boy! Do you think me a fool?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then you are calling me a liar!’ Norris declared with glittering malice. ‘But I suppose we should expect no better from you. It seems to me that we cannot make a gentleman out of a turnip. Nevertheless, we must do our best. You will translate the first one hundred lines from book one of Virgil’s Aeneid by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ William replied with his eyes downcast.

  As Norris returned to join his fellow masters, William followed the other boys back to the school. He knew he was incapable of carrying out the task he’d been set, though he would spend the only free day of the week trying, and in the morning his failure would earn him six strokes of the cane. He had almost reached the school gates when somebody called his name.

  ‘Reynolds!’

  He turned around to see that Mister Watson was behind him. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I wondered where you’re off to.’

  ‘The library, sir.’

  Watson smiled as he fell into step beside him. ‘I see. To translate from Virgil for Mister Norris I expect?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I think I’ve something that might help you with that in my rooms. There’s a fire lit so it should be warm, and I daresay I could manage a cup of tea if you’d like?’

  William wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m offering to help you, Reynolds,’ Watson said kindly. ‘But of course the decision is entirely yours. I shan’t be offended if you prefer to decline. What do you say?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ William managed to say. ‘I mean, I’d like it if you could help me.’

  ‘Good. Come along then.’

  Like most of the masters, Mister Watson lived on the school grounds. When they reached his rooms, he invited William to have a seat beside the fire. ‘Mrs Hedges usually looks after me, but I have to fend for myself on Sundays I’m afraid. Still, I think I can manage a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.’

  He left William, alone promising to return in a few minutes. While he was gone, William looked at the paintings that hung on the walls. There were several Scottish landscapes done in watercolour, the empty hills purple with heather. There were also numerous paintings of different types of birds. He got up and looked closer at one of a kingfisher. Every feather on its back seemed to have been individually painted, the colours delicately bleeding from slate grey to turquoise, the eyes bright and sharp with life. He wandered about the room looking at Mister Watson’s things. There were shelves full of books, many of them ornithological, but there were also novels and poetry in English, and others in Greek and Latin.

  ‘Do you enjoy reading, William?’ Watson said as he returned with a tray which he put down on a small table.

  ‘I used to, sir.’

  ‘You mean you don’t anymore. Why not?’

  ‘There’s no time to read, sir.’

  ‘Surely you have time to yourself after you’ve done your prep?’

  ‘It takes me longer than the other boys,’ William said. ‘There’s lots they didn’t teach us at my other school.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I see. Like Latin you mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sit down and have your tea.’ Watson offered a plate of biscuits, and told William to help himself. He took down a leather bound book from a shelf. ‘This is The Aeneid,’ he said. ‘You’ll find it contains both the original Latin version of Virgil’s epic, and also John Dryden’s English translation. ‘The first one hundred lines, I believe Mister Norris said.’ He put the book down on the table and winked. ‘I think you’ll find this useful.’

  William looked through the pages, both pleased and astonished.

  ‘I think,’ Mister Watson added, ‘that it might be wise to make one or two deliberate errors. Just so that you don’t arouse Mister Norris’s suspicion. You can stay here and copy it out this afternoon if you like. It will be quite peaceful as I usually go for a walk on Sunday afternoons. Have you ever been to Fotheringhay?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s a village about four miles from here. There used to be a castle there, though now there’s only a mound left where it stood. A pair of hobbies were nesting in a hollow tree by the river during the summer.’ Watson fetched a watercolour he’d done of a pair of the little falcons. ‘I’m something of a birdwatcher in my spare time as you can see. There’s a path that follows
the river, you know. It’s quite a pleasant walk if you ever feel like doing it.’

  ‘I can’t walk very far because of my leg, sir.’ Oi carnt wark very far because of moi leg.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry, I forgot.’ Mister Watson regarded William thoughtfully. ‘This painting reminds me of my summer holidays,’ he said. ‘I spent several weeks watching another pair of hobbies near my parents’ house in Scotland. I used to take long walks every day, whether it was fine or wet. I always took my sketch pad and binoculars with me.’

  William didn’t know what to say to this, though Mister Watson didn’t seem to mind his silence.

  ‘Do you know, William, my father is a Hindu,’ he went on. ‘You don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name do you? And you must call me Mister Watson rather than ‘sir’ all the time. Do you know what Hindu is, by the way? It’s a type of religion practised in India where my father comes from.’ Watson paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘I was quite a lonely child at school. The other boys made fun of me because of the colour of my skin. They called me a half-breed. That’s why I became interested in bird-watching. It was a way of escaping, if you like.’

  William understood that Mister Watson was telling him that they had something in common. It made him feel better to know that he wasn’t quite as alone as he had thought.

  ‘I would like to propose something to you, William,’ Watson said. ‘I suggest that you come here every day for extra tuition. I will teach you the things that the other boys have already learnt. That is to say, I will give you lessons in English grammar and also Latin and Greek. I think you’ll find that you will catch up with the other boys quite quickly. Between you and I, there are no geniuses among them.’ He smiled. ‘The other thing I will teach you is how to speak like them. It will take time, but I’m sure that if we are both prepared to put in the effort we will succeed. What do you think?’

  A clock on the table ticked.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ William answered. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Good,’ Watson said. ‘Now, why don’t you have another biscuit.’

  *****

  William’s life at Oundle changed. Every day after lessons ended he went to Mister Watson’s rooms for extra tuition, where for half an hour he practiced his elocution, and then for another hour either English grammar or Latin and Greek. Mister Watson was a patient teacher and William looked forward to his lessons. The young master’s rooms became a kind of sanctuary where William could escape the taunts and bullying of Yardley and the other boys. The process of learning itself was an escape from his misery. He became interested in the wider scope of the subjects he was learning. He not only wanted to be able to translate the Latin poets and Greek philosophers, but wanted to understand them too, and in Mister Watson’s rooms, William’s love of reading English novels was rekindled.

  The speed with which William improved surprised both himself and his teacher. Encouraged by his success, William practiced alone whenever he could, and for once his disability worked to his advantage since it precluded him from fagging, and gave him more time than he might otherwise have had. He spent it in the library, where he absorbed everything he read.

  As the weeks passed and William gradually lost his country burr, he noticed that he was less often the victim of derision and bullying because of the way he spoke. He began to think that with determination and work there was nothing he couldn’t overcome, and one afternoon Mister Watson discovered him trying to walk without his crutch. William was unaware that he was being watched until he fell to the floor as he tried to take a few steps across the master’s living room. He got up and reached for his crutch, burning with humiliation and anger at his own weakness.

  Mister Watson put down the tea tray he was carrying and left the room, returning a few moments later with a cane.

  ‘Would you like to try with this?’ he offered.

  He cleared a space between two chairs, and when William tried again, this time he didn’t fall down.

  ‘You can keep it if you like,’ Mister Watson said. He took William’s crutch and leaned it against the wall. ‘Why don’t we leave this here, and then you’ll know where it is anytime you want it. Now, shall we have some tea before we get back to Virgil?’

  From that day, William began to take daily walks around the school grounds using his new cane. Though progress was initially slow, he endured the muscle cramps and blisters that formed on his feet, and ignored the cruel mockery of the other boys. At first it didn’t seem to make any difference. In fact the pain and swelling he suffered made walking more difficult than ever, but he persisted. Sometimes at night he cried silently in his bed, something that Yardley and Thompson and the others had never been able to make him do. The pain became so terrible that Mister Watson was afraid that he would do permanent damage to himself. He tried to persuade William that he should relent, at least for a little while, but stubbornly William refused. Eventually, by small degrees, he began to notice an improvement, though rather than welcome the easing of his discomfort, William’s response was to ask Mister Watson if he would give him permission to leave the school grounds so that he could lengthen his daily walks.

  ‘I want to see if I can get as far as Fotheringhay by the end of term,’ William explained.

  ‘But it will take you hours to walk that far,’ Mister Watson said. ‘Where will you find the time?’

  ‘I can go early in the morning,’ said William, having already thought it through.

  Mister Watson was dubious, concerned that William was pushing himself too hard on all fronts, but he agreed to speak to his house master. In the end, since physical ability was admired at least as much, if not more than academic prowess at the school, permission was given. For the rest of the term William got out of his warm bed at half past four every morning and went out into the freezing dark. He walked down through the town to the path along the river that led eventually to Fotheringhay, increasing the distance a little bit every day. He steeled himself against the frequent cold and the wind and rain. Since he was used to being alone the solitude didn’t concern him at all, and by degree he was rewarded as his leg became stronger with every passing week.

  Towards the middle of December, William received a Christmas card from his grandfather. Inside was a short note expressing the hope that William was working hard at his studies and reminding him that his mother would have wanted him to do his very best, and that he should endeavour to do justice to her memory. Before term ended and the boys went home for the Christmas holidays, Mister Watson gave William a copy of Homer’s Odyssey translated into English.

  ‘It’s the story of Odysseus. After the Trojan wars he struggled for many years against great hardships to return to his kingdom of Ithaca. I think you might enjoy it, William. It seems to me that you share Odysseus’s spirit.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister Watson.’

  Inside was written; For William, happy Christmas from your friend E. Watson. He turned the book over in his hands. It was bound in dark blue leather with gold lettering, the pages inside crisp and white. It had a distinct smell of libraries; of learning and history, and immediately the book became William’s most treasured possession. He vowed that he would keep it always, and that one day he would fill an entire room of the large house he would live in with other books just like it, though this one would always hold a special place. He felt that the packet of tobacco that he had bought for Mister Watson was a poor gift in comparison, though his teacher seemed very pleased and surprised.

  ‘Enjoy your holiday, William. I’ll see you when you come back,’ he said as they shook hands.

  The following day, William caught the train to Brixworth and was met at the station by his father, who hugged him tightly and said that he was glad that he was home. The familiar smells of his father’s clothes evoked a sudden, unexpected welling of homesickness. There in his father’s strong embrace was the forge with its smoky heat, the ring of hammer on red hot iron and the stamp of a horse�
��s hoof, the snap of meadow grass underfoot and the dew frozen white by a hoar frost. There were the scents of the cottage too, of the stove in the kitchen where a rabbit or pigeon cooked in the oven, the sweet tang of hops from a glass of beer his father drank after his work and the smell of the pipe tobacco he smoked by the fire.

  When they parted, William tried to hide his tears, but his father’s eyes were as wet as his own and they sniffed and laughed at one another with awkward love.

  ‘You’ve grown, Will,’ Reynolds said when he could look properly at his son and then his brow creased in puzzlement. ‘Where’s your crutch?’

  ‘I can manage with a cane now,’ William told him proudly. ‘At least for a little way. My leg feels much stronger.’

  He explained his regime of walking, and talked about the encouragement Mister Watson had given him. As he spoke, William’s father looked increasingly bemused until in the end William had to ask what was wrong with him.

  ‘It’s how you talk, Will. You sound like a proper gentleman already. Your mam’d be proud as can be if she heard you.’ He smiled, though there was a shade of sadness in his eyes too.

  On the way back to the village in the cart, William answered his father’s questions about the school, elaborating on what he had already told him in his letters. He said that he was doing well in his classes, though Latin and Greek were difficult. He had a lot to catch up on, as the other boys already knew quite a lot, though he was getting better now that Mister Watkins was helping him.

  ‘Who are your friends, Will? You never write about them,’ his father wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, there are lots of them. All the boys in my dorm. There’s Thompson of course, you met him when you took me to Oundle on my first day, and then there’s Carmichael and Yardley, they’re in my dorm too.’

  His father seemed reassured, and if he noticed that William never mentioned any of their names again during the holidays he didn’t say anything. After he’d painted a rosy picture of his life at the school, William asked all about the village and his friends, and how things were at the forge, and for the rest of the journey they didn’t speak about Oundle again.