Keith was unable to ascertain the headmaster’s view as expressed at the weekly staff meeting, because Penny no longer spoke to him. Duncan Alexander and others openly referred to him as a traitor to his class. To everyone’s annoyance, Keith gave no sign of caring what they thought.
As the term wore on, he began to wonder if he was more likely to be called up by the army board than to be offered a place at Oxford. Despite these misgivings, he stopped working for the Courier in the afternoons so as to give himself more time to study, redoubling his efforts when his father offered to buy him a sports car if he passed the exams. The thought of both proving the headmaster wrong and owning his own car was irresistible. Miss Steadman, who continued to tutor him through the long dark evenings, seemed to thrive on being expected to double her workload.
By the time Keith returned to St. Andrew’s for his final term, he felt ready to face both the examiners and the headmaster: the appeal for the new pavilion was now only a few hundred pounds short of its target, and Keith decided he would use the final edition of the St. Andy to announce its success. He hoped that this would make it hard for the headmaster to do anything about an article he intended to run in the next edition, calling for the abolition of the Monarchy.
“Australia doesn’t need a middle-class German family who live over ten thousand miles away to rule over us. Why should we approach the second half of the twentieth century propping up such an elitist system? Let’s be rid of the lot of them,” trumpeted the editorial, “plus the National Anthem, the British flag and the pound. Once the war is over, the time will surely have come for Australia to declare itself a republic.”
Mr. Jessop remained tight-lipped, while the Melbourne Age offered Keith £50 for the article, which he took a considerable time to turn down. Duncan Alexander let it be known that someone close to the headmaster had told him they would be surprised if Townsend managed to survive until the end of term.
During the first few weeks of his final term, Keith continued to spend most of his time preparing for the exams, taking only an occasional break to see Betsy, and the odd Wednesday afternoon off to visit the racecourse while others participated in more energetic pastimes.
Keith wouldn’t have bothered to go racing that particular Wednesday if he hadn’t been given a “sure thing” by one of the lads from a local stable. He checked his finances carefully. He still had a little saved from his holiday job, plus the term’s pocket money. He decided that he would place a bet on the first race only and, having won, would return to school and continue with his revision. On the Wednesday afternoon, he picked up his bicycle from behind the post office and pedaled off to the racecourse, promising Betsy he would drop in to see her before going back to school.
The “sure thing” was called Rum Punch, and was down to run in the two o’clock. His informant had been so confident about her pedigree that Keith placed five pounds on the filly to win at seven to one. Before the barrier had opened, he was already thinking about how he would spend his winnings.
Rum Punch led all the way down the home straight, and although another horse began to make headway on the rails, Keith threw his arms in the air as they flew past the winning post. He headed back toward the bookie to collect his winnings.
“The result of the first race of the afternoon,” came an announcement over the loudspeaker, “will be delayed for a few minutes, as there is a photo-finish between Rum Punch and Colonus.” Keith was in no doubt that from where he was standing Rum Punch had won, and couldn’t understand why they had called for a photograph in the first place. Probably, he assumed, to make the officials look as if they were carrying out their duties. He checked his watch and began to think about Betsy.
“Here is the result of the first race,” boomed out a voice over the P.A. “The winner is number eleven, Colonus, at five to four, by a short head from Rum Punch, at seven to one.”
Keith cursed out loud. If only he had backed Rum Punch both ways, he would still have doubled his money. He tore up his ticket and strode off toward the exit. As he headed for the bicycle shed he glanced at the form card for the next race. Drumstick was among the runners, and well positioned at the start. Keith’s pace slowed. He had won twice in the past backing Drumstick, and felt certain it would be three in a row. His only problem was that he had placed his entire savings on Rum Punch.
As he continued in the direction of the bicycle shed, he remembered that he had the authority to withdraw money from an account with the Bank of Australia that was showing a balance of over £4,000.
He checked the form of the other horses, and couldn’t see how Drumstick could possibly lose. This time he would place £5 each way on the filly, so that at three to one he was still sure to get his money back, even if Drumstick came in third. Keith pushed his way through the turnstile, picked up his bike and pedaled furiously for about a mile until he spotted the nearest bank. He ran inside and wrote out a check for £10.
There were still fifteen minutes to go before the start of the second race, so he was confident that he had easily enough time to cash the check and be back in time to place his bet. The clerk behind the grille looked at the customer, studied the check and then telephoned Keith’s branch in Melbourne. They immediately confirmed that Mr. Townsend had signing power for that particular account, and that it was in credit. At two fifty-three the clerk pushed £10 over to the impatient young man.
Keith cycled back to the course at a speed that would have impressed the captain of athletics, abandoned his bicycle and ran to the nearest bookie. He placed £5 each way on Drumstick with Honest Syd. As the barrier sprang open, Keith walked briskly over to the rails and was just in time to watch the mêlée of horses pass him on the first circuit. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Drumstick must have been left at the start, because she was trailing the rest of the field badly as they began the second lap and, despite a gallant effort coming down the home straight, could only manage fourth place.
Keith checked the runners and riders for the third race and quickly cycled back to the bank, his backside never once touching the saddle. He asked to cash a check for £20. Another phone call was made, and on this occasion the assistant manager in Melbourne asked to speak to Keith personally. Having established Keith’s identity, he authorized that the check should be honored.
Keith fared no better in the third race, and by the time an announcement came over the P.A. to confirm the winner of the sixth, he had withdrawn £100 from the cricket pavilion account. He rode slowly back to the post office, considering the consequences of the afternoon. He knew that at the end of the month the account would be checked by the school bursar, and if he had any queries about deposits or withdrawals he would inform the headmaster, who would in turn seek clarification from the bank. The assistant manager would then inform him that Mr. Townsend had telephoned from a branch near the racecourse five times during the Wednesday afternoon in question, insisting each time that his check should be honored. Keith would certainly be expelled—a boy had been removed the previous year for stealing a bottle of ink. But worse, far worse, the news would make the front page of every paper in Australia that wasn’t owned by his father.
Betsy was surprised that Keith didn’t even drop in to speak to her after he had dumped his bike behind the post office. He walked back to school, aware that he only had three weeks in which to get his hands on £100. He went straight to his study and tried to concentrate on old exam papers, but his mind kept returning to the irregular withdrawals. He came up with a dozen stories that in different circumstances might have sounded credible. But how would he ever explain why the checks had been cashed at thirty-minute intervals, at a branch so near a racecourse?
By the following morning, he was considering signing up for the army and getting himself shipped off to Burma before anyone discovered what he had done. Perhaps if he died winning the VC they wouldn’t mention the missing £100 in his obituary. The one thing he didn’t consider was placing a bet the following week, even after he had
been given another “sure thing” by the same stable lad. It didn’t help when he read in Thursday morning’s Sporting Globe that this particular “sure thing” had romped home at ten to one.
It was during prep the following Monday, as Keith was struggling through an essay on the gold standard, that the handwritten note was delivered to his room. It simply stated, “The headmaster would like to see you in his study immediately.”
Keith felt sick. He left the half-finished essay on his desk and began to make his way slowly over to the headmaster’s house. How could they have found out so quickly? Had the bank decided to cover itself and tell the bursar about several irregular withdrawals? How could they be so certain that the money hadn’t been used on legitimate expenses? “So, Townsend, what were those ‘legitimate expenses,’ withdrawn from a bank at thirty-minute intervals, just a mile from a racecourse on a Wednesday afternoon?” he could already hear the headmaster asking sarcastically.
Keith climbed the steps to the headmaster’s house, feeling cold and sick. The door was opened for him by the maid even before he had a chance to knock. She led him through to Mr. Jessop’s study without saying a word. When he entered the room, he thought he had never seen such a severe expression on the headmaster’s face. He glanced across the room and saw that his housemaster was seated on the sofa in the corner. Keith remained standing, aware that on this occasion he wouldn’t be invited to have a seat or take a glass of sherry.
“Townsend,” the headmaster began, “I am investigating a most serious allegation, in which I am sorry to report that you appear to be personally involved.” Keith dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from trembling. “As you can see, Mr. Clarke has joined us. This is simply to ensure that a witness is present should it become necessary for this matter to be put in the hands of the police.” Keith felt his legs weaken, and feared he might collapse if he wasn’t offered a chair.
“I will come straight to the point, Townsend.” The head paused as if searching for the right words. Keith couldn’t stop shaking. “My daughter, Penny, it seems is … is … pregnant,” said Mr. Jessop, “and she informs me that she was raped. It appears that you”—Keith was about to protest—“were the only witness to the episode. And as the accused is not only in your house, but is also the head boy, I consider it to be of the greatest importance that you feel able to cooperate fully with this inquiry.”
Keith let out an audible sigh of relief. “I shall do my best, sir,” he said, as the headmaster’s eyes returned to what he suspected was a prepared script.
“Did you on Saturday 6 October, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, have cause to enter the cricket pavilion?”
“Yes, sir,” said Keith without hesitation. “I often have to visit the pavilion in connection with my responsibility for the appeal.”
“Yes, of course,” said the headmaster. “Quite right and proper that you should do so.” Mr. Clarke looked grave, and nodded his agreement.
“And can you tell me in your own words what you encountered when you entered the pavilion on that particular Saturday?”
Keith wanted to smirk when he heard the word “encountered,” but somehow managed to keep a serious look on his face.
“Take your time,” said Mr. Jessop. “And whatever your feelings are, you mustn’t regard this as sneaking.”
Don’t worry, thought Keith, I won’t. He pondered whether this was the occasion to settle two old scores at the same time. But perhaps he would gain more by …
“You might also care to consider that several reputations rest on your interpretation of what took place on that unfortunate afternoon.” It was the word “reputations” that helped Keith to make up his mind. He frowned as if contemplating deeply the implications of what he was about to say, and wondered just how much longer he could stretch out the agony.
“When I entered the pavilion, Headmaster,” he began, trying to sound unusually responsible, “I found the room in complete darkness, which puzzled me until I discovered that all the blinds had been pulled down. I was even more surprised to hear noises coming from the visitors’ changing rooms, as I knew the First Eleven were playing away that day. I fumbled around for the light switch, and when I flicked it on, I was shocked to see…” Keith hesitated, trying to make it sound as if he felt too embarrassed to continue.
“There is no need for you to worry that you are letting down a friend, Townsend,” prompted the headmaster. “You can rely on our discretion.”
Which is more than you can on mine, thought Keith.
“… to see your daughter and Duncan Alexander lying naked in the slips cradle.” Keith paused again, and this time the headmaster didn’t press him to continue. So he took even longer. “Whatever had been taking place must have stopped the moment I switched the light on.” He hesitated once more.
“This is not easy for me either, Townsend, as you may well appreciate,” said the headmaster.
“I do appreciate it, sir,” said Keith, pleased by the way he was managing to string the whole episode out.
“In your opinion were they having, or had they had, sexual intercourse?”
“I feel fairly confident, Headmaster, that sexual intercourse had already taken place,” said Keith, hoping his reply sounded inconclusive.
“But can you be certain?” asked the headmaster.
“Yes, I think so, sir,” said Keith, after a long pause, “because…”
“Don’t feel embarrassed, Townsend. You must understand that my only interest is in getting at the truth.”
But that may not be my only interest, thought Keith, who was not in the slightest embarrassed, although it was obvious that the other two men in the room were.
“You must tell us exactly what you saw, Townsend.”
“It wasn’t so much what I saw, sir, as what I heard,” said Keith.
The headmaster lowered his head, and took some time to recover. “The next question is most distasteful for me, Townsend. Because not only will it be necessary for me to rely on your memory, but also on your judgment.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
It was the headmaster’s turn to hesitate, and Keith almost had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying, “Take your time, sir.”
“In your judgment, Townsend, and remember we’re speaking in confidence, did it appear to you, in so far as you could tell, that my daughter was, so to speak…” he hesitated again, “… complying?” Keith doubted if the headmaster had put a more clumsy sentence together in his entire life.
Keith allowed him to sweat for a few more seconds before he replied firmly, “I am in no doubt, sir, on that particular question.” Both men looked directly at him. “It was not a case of rape.”
Mr. Jessop showed no reaction, but simply asked, “How can you be so sure?”
“Because, sir, neither of the voices I heard before I turned the light on was raised in anger or fear. They were those of two people who were obviously—how shall I put it, sir?—enjoying themselves.”
“Can you be certain of that beyond reasonable doubt, Townsend?” asked the headmaster.
“Yes, sir. I think I can.”
“And why is that?” asked Mr. Jessop.
“Because … because I had experienced exactly the same pleasure with your daughter only a fortnight before, sir.”
“In the pavilion?” spluttered the headmaster in disbelief.
“No, to be honest with you, sir, in my case it was in the gymnasium. I have a feeling that your daughter preferred the gymnasium to the pavilion. She always said it was much easier to relax on rubber mats than on cricket pads in the slips cradle.” The housemaster was speechless.
“Thank you, Townsend, for your frankness,” the headmaster somehow managed.
“Not at all, sir. Will you be needing me for anything else?”
“No, not for the moment, Townsend.” Keith turned to leave. “However, I would be obliged for your complete discretion in this matter.”
“Of co
urse, sir,” said Keith, turning back to face him. He reddened slightly. “I am sorry, Headmaster, if I have embarrassed you, but as you reminded us all in your sermon last Sunday, whatever situation one is faced with in life, one should always remember the words of George Washington: ‘I cannot tell a lie.’”
* * *
Penny was nowhere to be seen during the next few weeks. When asked, the headmaster simply said that she and her mother were visiting an aunt in New Zealand.
Keith quickly put the headmaster’s problems to one side and continued to concentrate on his own woes. He still hadn’t come up with a solution as to how he could return the missing £100 to the pavilion account.
One morning, after prayers, Duncan Alexander knocked on Keith’s study door.
“Just dropped by to thank you,” said Alexander. “Jolly decent of you, old chap,” he added, sounding more British than the British.
“Any time, mate,” responded Keith in a broad Australian accent. “After all, I only told the old man the truth.”
“Quite so,” said the head boy. “Nevertheless, I still owe you a great deal, old chap. We Alexanders have long memories.”
“So do we Townsends,” said Keith, not looking up at him.
“Well, if I can be of any help to you in the future, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“I won’t,” promised Keith.
Duncan opened the door and looked back before adding, “I must say, Townsend, you’re not quite the shit everyone says you are.”
As the door closed behind him, Keith mouthed the words of Asquith he’d quoted in an essay he’d been working on: “You’d better wait and see.”
* * *
“There’s a call for you in Mr. Clarke’s study on the house phone,” said the junior on corridor duty.
As the month drew to a close, Keith dreaded even opening his mail, or worse, receiving an unexpected call. He always assumed someone had found out. As each day passed he waited for the assistant manager of the bank to get in touch, informing him that the time had come for the latest accounts to be presented to the bursar.
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