Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (16 page)

“Bye, Nanny. I won’t forget to write.” I kissed her, too, and, holding back the tears, went back down to where my mother and James awaited.

*   *   *

Victoria Station lost its charm with the school train lurking on platform thirteen. We walked down the side of the station accompanied by a porter who wheeled our suitcases on his trolley. I noticed with mounting trepidation the ever-increasing number of boys dressed in grey, all headed in the same direction, surrounded by assorted family members and their dogs.

My godfather Colonel G, whose son, John, was a St Aubyns pupil, came up, put a firm hand on my shoulder, and asked, “Now then, godson, are you looking forward to boarding school?” An unfortunate question to which there was only one answer. “Very much,” I replied, my eyes wandering over the mêlée of parents and boys (most of whom appeared unbearably cheerful) conducting their farewell ceremonies. I spotted a man dressed in an immaculate Prince of Wales check suit heading our way. He immediately reminded me of Colonel Townend, the headmaster of Hill House, natural authority in every step and gesture.

“How are you, Susan?” he said with a broad smile and a handshake. “I’m absolutely delighted to welcome Anthony to St Aubyns.” He turned to me and offered his hand, which I shook a little hesitantly.

“I am very fond of both your brothers,” he informed me, his voice gruff but kind, “and David was a most exceptional head boy. I know you will do very well. My name is Gervis, and I am the headmaster. You may call me Mr. Gervis, or sir, but avoid both at the same time because we’re not in the military!”

Addressing my mother again, he said, “Susan, may I take Anthony to his seat and introduce him to some other new boys? He can step out again for a last good-bye.”

Lugging my case I followed him onto the train, noticing his ramrod-straight bearing and the spring in his step. He then gave me an exceedingly friendly minute of his undivided attention. I liked him well enough, although I suspected that might not always be the case. He told me Soames and Steel would be sitting with me on the journey, but since they were currently nowhere to be seen, introductions had to wait. James came aboard and parked himself by me as he had promised to do, and with only a few moments left before departure, we returned to the platform to kiss our mother good-bye.

“Good-bye, darling, and don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. James will take care of you, and I’ll be down in three or four weeks to see you both.” The whistle blew, we returned to our seats, sliding open the top window and jockeying for position with other boys, eager for one last look, one last wave. There was a small jolt, and the train moved forward.

“Bye!” A high-pitched, powerful chorus resonated up and down the carriages.

“Bye!” Frantic waves, kisses from the platform blown.

“Bye!” Into a long bend, and they were gone.

*   *   *

Miss Pentland, the head matron, an Amazonian woman with a hooked nose and intimidating presence, had turned out the lights at seven o’clock on the dot. It seemed like ages ago but the luminous hands on my Bulova watch told me it had been only half an hour. Before closing the door she’d issued a stern warning against talking, which struck me as a strange rule for all us new boys spending our first night away from home.

I lay on my back, staring up at the high, barn-like ceiling with its pointed roof and white beams, concentrating, rather oddly, not on how miserable and lonely I was but on the remarkable comfort of my bed. Despite looking like some relic from a medieval torture chamber with its iron bed-head and surround, vicious springs, and five-inch-wide, rock-hard mattress, it turned out to be infinitely more comfortable than anything I had ever slept on in my life. Thinking back over the afternoon, I realized that ever since the train had pulled out of the station, even with James sitting beside me most of the way and two-thirds of the school being in close proximity, I had felt alone. More alone than ever before.

Strangely, it had not bothered me unduly. I often retreated into my shell when awkward situations presented themselves. I found it a pleasant-enough place to be, and circumstances always controlled the length of stay. It could be just a few moments, sometimes longer. I knew it was going to be difficult with so many strangers and so many rules. Shyness didn’t help; people often mistook it for lack of interest or even arrogance.

I heard sniffles coming from one or two beds, but still no one spoke. I reminded myself how smart and determined I could be, or thought I was; there would probably be a lot of chances to put this theory to the test in the months to come. Having James close by was a major plus. I wanted to be like him: strong, handsome, self-confident. It had been a good idea asking my parents if I could leave Hill House early, so that my brother’s last term at St Aubyns would be my first. And it was the summer term, which meant we played cricket: another plus.

I thought of our older brother, David, who was now a small fry again. I wondered what that was like. After being the biggest cheese here he was back to being a squirt, or whatever the junior boys were called at Stowe. I suspected he would be fine; he was clever, easygoing, and could be very funny. He was probably quite popular already.

I yawned and looked at my watch again—almost eight thirty. Nanny would have turned my light out about fifteen minutes ago and would be running her bath. She liked to have a nice hot bath after I was tucked up for the night, put on her night clothes and dressing gown, and then listen to her radio while doing a spot of knitting or maybe reading a little bit. I hoped she’d be all right without me to keep her company. It felt horrible, the idea of not seeing her for … how long?… six weeks until half term?

“Hey, Russell,” a whispered voice broke the silence, seemingly from the bed directly across from mine. It took me a few moments to readjust back to my current surroundings.

“Yes,” I whispered back.

“You’re still awake.”

“Yes. I was thinking.” I hoped no one was listening. “I can’t go to sleep.”

It was Steel. We’d been sitting opposite each other on the train and together on the bus. “I can’t either.”

“No talking!” a voice snapped from down the dormitory, startling me and putting an end to all talk. Authority, it appeared, had spoken. Silence returned.

Was I imagining things or was somebody always trying to tell me what to do? Nanny told me what to do, of course, but it was always in such a nice way that it never seemed as if she was bossing me around. My mother too. But the rest … It was different talking in the dark. From the safety and comfort of your bed you could say what you meant. You could say things that in the cold light of day were so much harder to say. Not that Steel and I had spoken much. But we’d spoken and nobody else had. I was glad.

*   *   *

In the coming days I worked out what I believed to be the essential rules of the game: First, pay close attention to the television programmes
Robin Hood, Davy Crockett,
and
William Tell,
trying to the best of your ability to adopt the courage, chivalry, and manners exemplified by these small-screen heroes. These men are always unfailingly polite, even to their adversaries who wish to do them great harm.

Second, never rat on any older boy who has clearly failed to study such heroes, and decides you need to be taught a lesson you had not, up to that point, been aware you needed to learn. The bloody nose and lost pride quickly heal, and, if you inform the headmaster it was a speeding cricket ball that did the damage, you are likely to gain a small but ever-increasing amount of grudging respect.

Before the completion of my first fortnight I was obliged to put these rules into practice. I was standing in the doorway to my first-form classroom five minutes into morning break, contemplating just how bad I was at algebra, when I felt a powerful arm go around my neck and somebody drag me into the empty room. I dropped the books I’d been holding and was immediately engaged in a fierce struggle. My assailant was slightly bigger and stronger than me, but I did my best not to give an inch.

From the outset, it was a most peculiar fight. There were no punches thrown, no kicks, no elbowing. It was mainly an arm-wrestling contest, with neck holds and aggressive tie pulling thrown in for good measure. After perhaps two minutes Mr. Gervis materialized suddenly in the doorway, and the hostilities came abruptly to a halt.

“What the devil’s going on here? Who started this?” he demanded, this time not sounding quite so kind. I was now able to recognize my attacker as we stood facing each other, huffing and puffing from our exertions like four-minute milers: His name was King. A red-cheeked, brutish-looking fellow, he was one term ahead of me, and we’d hardly spoken before this engagement, so I was utterly in the dark as to what provoked the attack. We both said nothing but continued to glare at each other in a combative fashion, waiting to get our breath back. It seemed obvious that Mr. Gervis would have to punish both of us, or neither. He swiftly chose the latter.

“Don’t let me catch you two at this again,” he said, his stern expression full of menace and a clear indication that “next time” would mean deep trouble—deep trouble being the cane, or, as Mr. Gervis liked to say, “the stick.” Alone with King again, the wretched fellow congratulated me for not telling tales, and we parted almost amicably.

*   *   *

Sports Day, the precursor to the half-term break, came not a moment too soon. I won the new-boys’ eighty-yard sprint, and James picked up a whole collection of cups. My father declined to participate in the fathers’ race (“But my dear sir,” he later explained, “a snail runs faster than I do. If I’d been competing we’d all still be waiting for the race to end!”), which disappointed me though I enjoyed his reason. I took part in my first March-Past, a military-style ceremony, like Trooping the Colour, in which the school, and school band, paid tribute to the St Aubyns boys who had lost their lives in World Wars I and II. The dignified and moving sounding of the “Last Post” in front of the small memorial by the cricket pavilion, with the colours (the Union Jack and the flag of Saint George) lowered and the massed ranks of parents and visitors gathered closely around, brought a lump to my throat. I wondered if I might not one day become silver bugler, and be the one to perform the “Last Post.”

We left after church on Sunday morning for two nights at the castle. Upon our arrival, there was Nanny waiting by the front door. Bless her! I had tears in my eyes as I leapt from the car.

“You’ve grown,” she told me as I gave her a kiss on the cheek. I felt like giving her a bit of a bear hug, but something told me it might not be the appropriate thing to do. “Only you, Nanny, could possibly notice an additional quarter inch, or whatever it is I’ve grown.”

“Oh, but I do!”

*   *   *

I was riddled with self-doubt in my first two years at St Aubyns. “I wish he would be a little more forthcoming,” Mr. Gervis wrote in his headmaster’s report at the end of my third term. “I hardly know the sound of his voice, and am only greeted with a series of grunts when I ask him any question.” Fortunately there was no time to dwell on it. The days were organized in such a way that every boy knew exactly what he should be doing from the moment he woke up in the morning to the moment he went to bed at night.

Of course, if you were not doing what you were meant to be doing, there was a strong chance you would be doing something you should not. My lack of self-confidence failed to stop me, when I was more senior, from joining in such intellectual activities as baiting the local “oiks” (boys from the non-private, distinctly less posh local school) who appeared from time to time at the entrance to our playing fields to see how much taunting they, or we, could get away with. Throwing bangers (not sausages but tiny exploding fireworks) at each other the evening of Guy Fawkes Day and not getting caught proved to be remarkably therapeutic. And should one dare attempt—as I did on two occasions—a strictly forbidden foray past the shooting range, out through the school’s side gate, followed by a quick sprint down the main road to the sweet shop, returning with illicit cargo without being discovered, the thrill was even more pronounced. To have been caught in either of these wicked misdemeanours would undoubtedly have led to a painful encounter with the stick.

Compared with home life the atmosphere was a little harsh at first, but familiarity with the system and rising seniority brushed aside those initial anxieties after two years. St Aubyns had a happy atmosphere, a distinctive and charismatic group of schoolmasters (especially my geography and Latin teacher and cricket supremo, Walter Thursby-Pelham) and, over five years, helped me to discover the academic, leadership, and sporting strengths I wasn’t aware I had.

By the time my third summer term rolled around, I’d managed to become the opening bowler and middle-order batsman for the Colts cricket XI, silver bugler in the school band, and was keeping up in the classroom. Ambition had joined forces with the castle way and exerted a levelling effect on the latter. This was possible only in the competitive and hierarchical environment of boarding school, where the senior boys became responsible for the juniors and the top sports players garnered all the accolades.

Normally no one chooses to pick on the opening bowler. Nonetheless a big fat oaf called Ker challenged me to a boxing match and I couldn’t say no, even though he was huge, because I would have looked like a coward. What lay behind his challenge was the fact that I had knocked around a boy smaller than me, Bailey, in a brief fight instigated by the boxing coach himself. It had not been my intention to hurt Bailey—and I didn’t—but I was not of a mind to lose the encounter either. Ker and I arranged to fight in the small space behind the history teacher’s classroom, which meant I wouldn’t be able to make use of my speed and we’d be obliged to stand there and biff each other like prizefighters. We decided to have “seconds” as they used to do in duels in the old days, to check our gloves and call for help if necessary!

It turned out to be a strange contest, with both of us keeping up a constant stream of threatening repartee modelled on Muhammad Ali’s but not as funny. It kept us busy, though, and actually slowed down the fighting dramatically, which was perhaps its intention. We finally laid down our gloves after about fifteen minutes of periodic hard-hitting fisticuffs, and though I’d been hurt, it seemed my opponent was not left entirely unscathed. With honour apparently satisfied, we continued about our business, and it was only a comment from Mr. Strawson, my English teacher and tennis coach, which later informed me that my not declining the contest had gained approval in the masters’ common room.