Crowfield

By Doyne Byrd

The story of Jonny Kincaid begins with his arrival for his first day at prep school, driven by his father, Lt/Col James Kincaid, in his Brirish racing green Rover 16, in the autumn of 1952. Of the other boys in the school three feature significantly in Jonny's story. O'Brien, his cohort on the rugger field. Zsigray, whose father, Jonny later discovers, came to England before the outbreak of the Second Wordl war as part of a delegation to try and get his country on to the Allied side. With the failure of that mission Zsigray's father returned to Hungary to fight in that war and was killed on the Russian Front. And finally, and most importantly, Crowfield. A large, powerfully built boy of soft fetaures, for whom everything goes effortlessly right. Crowfield is everything Jonny is not, and vice versa. Crowfield is made Head Boy of the prep shool, Jonny doesn't reach prefect status.
James Kincaid, born into the English Officer Class, has married the Anglo Irish Kathleen O'Duinne, whose brother Brendan has bought a run-down fishing lodge in the west of County Mayo, where Jonny, with his parents and his sister, Dids (Deirdre) spend three weeks every year in the summer holidays. Brendan O'Duinne, educated in England and an Oxford law graduate, has abandoned his English connections, including a wife and two children, and embraced the Irish cause. These visits, and what he overhears of his uncle's reasons for his Irish loyalties, in discussions with James, make a considerable impression on the adolescent Jonny.
As the result of a close and affectionate relationship with his mother and sister Jony's relations with the opposite sex, whom he encounters in the highly active social life at the Royal Military Academy, Sandurst, go much more smoothly than they would for a boy with a less balanced background. Three young women enter his life. Lucy, whom he looks likely to marry, but is based in Paris, and in whose social circle Jonny re-encounters Crowfield, who is now a fast rising figure in the financial world. Csinszka, an Hungarian refugee training to be an opera singer, and Sally Patterson, his first fascination, whom he meets a Scottish dancing classes in Ireland.

With this background of relationships he leaves Sandhurst and is commisioned into his father's Line regiment, which is almost immediately posted to Aden, where British forces are engaged in the Aden Emergency. From the outset his qualities are appreciated by his senior officers, as a result of which he is detailed, with his platoon, to act as back-up to an intelligence operation in the Aden hinterland. During this operation his unit is witness to three consecutive rape attacks, at the third of which they discover the perpetrators. Jonny rifle butts the rapist and accidentally kills him, which act sparks an international intelligence backlash of an extremity that moves Jonny's adjutant to send him back to England, both for his own safety and that of his platoon.

Back in England he is confronted with the truth of his situation when an attempt is made to make him the victim of a hit-and-run driving accident. He then decides to escape to Ireland, convincing Sally Patterson to go with him, where his plan is to get his Uncle Brendan to introduce him into the IRA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doyne Byrd
• Release date: Mar 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370841288

Doyne Byrd

Born a Cancerian in 1943 in Winchester (England), after a brief period as an officer in the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry I went to drama school in Bristol (England) where I met my wife, who had escaped the Soviet crushing of the Hungarian Freedom Fight in 1956. After thirty-five years as a working actor (all media) we upped and settled in Hungary where we live outside a village in western Hungary. I tend the large garden and the vines in it. We have been here now for twelve years. Main literary influences from a lifetime of obsessive reading. Albert Camus, Roger Martin du Gard, Robert Graves, John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester, and, unavoidably, Shakespeare, who is no influence, but simply the purest joy of the spoken Word.

Book preview

Crowfield

By

Doyne Byrd

Copyright © 2018 Doyne Byrd

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

They were in the Rover, James and Jonny Kincaid. Father and son. James driving his boy, Jonny, to his first day at his prep school. Preparatory school. Preparation for what? Jonny would later ask. Much later, that is, for now the objective distancing that allows such pertinent impertinence is drowned in fear, fear of the unknown. That father James went through the same process twenty-seven years ago can do nothing to assure, for you never know, and that is the point, you must never know. Nothing is certain. Ever.

The long, dark green bonnet of the car swung off the main road into the entrance drive. The wooden gate, with one of those inward arching extensions of the closing end of its moss stained frame, lay, not exactly plumb, pressed back against the fence that ran along the left-hand edge of the drive.

There you are, said James, the old place hasn’t changed much.

Jonny wasn’t really listening. He studied the drive. It’s light grey surface, hard and unreceiving. The flash-flick of the fence posts, falling in behind and closing ranks to make an impenetrable wall. A wall to keep him, Jonny, in. Keep your nose clean. A bewildering expression when first heard, it meant, he later realised, keep out of trouble. Well you would. Who wants trouble? Jonny was far too apprehensive to dream of getting the slightest smut anywhere his nose. Well, that was the point. Keeping your nose clean was the recipe for staying out of trouble. Jonny was far from certain that things would be that easy.

The bonnet of the car, dully glinting in the September sun, was now gently swinging right, towards the main building, the school, that was his destination, that was the purpose of this journey, and, irredeemably, the purpose of his life. A red brick Victorian manor with single story modern outbuildings attached. This was where he would be left, where his father would leave him. To his fate, a fate for which he had been made to believe he was responsible. His mother, trained not to interfere, didn’t, but she did say, when she knew her husband wasn’t listening, Once you’ve had your first night’s sleep you’ll be astonished how quick the time goes. You’ll be back home in no time, and she hugged and kissed him on the forehead. Mummy always smelled good, particularly good. It wasn’t just the scent she wore, she wouldn’t have called it perfume. A sort of sweetness that might have had something to do with warm milk and honey. As he thought of this, and the school building loomed larger in the windscreen, he swallowed against tears.

This is it, Old Boy, said James, as he pulled up the car alongside others, unloading small boys, trunks and tuck boxes. Fathers, all fathers, moving about business-like, getting on with the job, nothing to be made of the separation, all perfectly routine, everyone knows what they’re doing, even if they don’t. And Jonny certainly didn’t, but he wasn’t letting on either. They stood, side-by-side, father and son, briefly waiting for the arrival of the school porter who, with a Good afternoon, Sir to James, loaded Jonny’s trunk on to his trolley, bumped the tuck box on top of it and trundled them away towards open double doors in the nearest outbuilding.

Off you go. See you at half-term. Against his son’s inevitable hesitation as to where next, James waved him towards the open double doors to where, plainly, earlier arrivals where already moving. Jonny added himself to that incipient momentum, undecided as to whether or not he should turn round and wave to his departing father. Perhaps not. He’d be busy driving out his pride and joy, the British racing-green Rover he had bought in Bombay, from a salesman who assured him, An officer and gentleman like yourself, Sir, has no need of a marse(sic) produced tin box, in reference to the new cars of the age, which looked the same at both ends. He followed one now, James, out back down the drive, and wondered, not really what the boy felt, but how he would manage. He seemed a competent enough little fellow. The only worry was that if pressured he sometimes froze, wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t find a solution, as if in rejection of the predicament he found himself in. Oh well, school ’ll drill that out of him. He stopped, before turning out of the town on to the Chesham Road, to buy cigarettes. Players Navy Cut. Standard issue. Though when in Ireland, visiting Kathleen’s brother Brendan out in Mayo, he would stoop to a little Sweet Afton, for a week or two.

Jonny, in grey cap, grey jacket and grey short trousers, with long grey socks beneath, joined his identically dressed fellows, fellow New Boys, and the little group, attentive of each other but not yet communicating, filed in through the double doors into a world unknown to every one of them.

A passage. Smooth concrete floor and red brick walls. Windows at intervals let in the afternoon light. Right turn from the double doors and on up a short length of passage, which opened on to a larger space, lined with wooden slats, which had clothes hooks fixed to them. Others boys were lining up in the order they arrived. They made three lines. Jonny looked behind him. He was about the last. In front of their little squad an older boy stood patiently waiting. He held a millboard in his left hand, a pencil in the other. He waited for the New Boys to settle, be still.

Right, you will all now answer your names when I call them out. When you here your name you will reply ‘Here,’ clearly but not loudly. We don’t like idiots who shout. Andrews.

Here

Albright

Here.

Atherton. A pause, no reply.

Atherton. Still no reply. Anyone seen Atherton? The tone in the prefect’s voice didn’t presuppose an answer.

A small voice from the smallest boy in the back rank said, I’m Atherton.

The answer is ‘Here’. You are either here or you’re not here. Atherton.

Yet another pause, and then, just in time, Here. Sir.

The prefect’s millboard and pencil dropped to the length of either arm.

You don’t call me ‘Sir’, you call the Masters ‘Sir’. I am Pensworth. You call me by name. What’s my name?

Pensworth, came the small voice, and his fellow sufferers heard the gentle beginnings of a possible ‘Sir.’

Well done Atherton. I was going to offer you some advice. The advice would have been to wake up, but it looks as though you already have done. Keep it up. Bridges.

Here.

Crampton.

Here.

Crowfield. Complete silence. Pensworth looked the assembly over. Not a flicker of recognition in any small face. „Du…" One of the double doors banged shut and all turned to see a boy, larger than all the other New Boys, loping up the passage towards them. The light was such that his features couldn’t be clearly seen, only his outline.

Get a move on. Crowfield didn’t increase his pace and, instead of going to the end of the back rank, as his order of arrival determined, he went to push himself between two boys near the centre of the front rank.

The end of the line, Crowfield.

A subdued voice said, Go on.

I don’t need any help, thank you. Settle down. Crowfield.

Sum.

You answer, Crowfield, with ‘here’, whatever you may have learned somewhere else. Having said which Pensworth looked briefly up from his Presence list, unable to suppress curiosity about this over-large, over-confident New Boy. Jonny, in the back rank as he was, too felt a surge of curiosity moving through the small squad, as if this Crowfield fellow was taking on all the new authority that threatened them, on their behalf. None of them could see Crowfield’s face. So it was only Pensworth who briefly registered what he thought looked very like a smirk. He couldn’t be sure, and only made a mental note that this was a boy to watch. After all, there were always boys to watch. That’s why he’d been made a prefect.

Dudgeon.

Here.

The names went on, and Jonny was trying to make sense of all this when he suddenly was aware of a pause in the rhythm of the roll call. To himself, Me?!

Ki…

Here. He desperately tried not blurt out his answer too loud, startled as he had been, and his reply was choked, with a bit of a squeak in it. Suppressed laughs from a couple of the others.

It’s not funny. Caught a cold Kincaid? I am pronouncing right, am I?

No, I mean, Yes. Pause, as Pensworth cocked his head quizzically, in expectation of completed procedure.

Pensworth, completed Jonny.

Thank you. We may go on.

The last name was Zsigray, and as Zsigray confirmed his presence, most turned to try and see the owner of this strange name, who was placed at the opposite end of the back rank from Jonny.

Face the front! Right, I shall now go through the list again, and as I do so you will line up in alphabetical order, which means you will fall in behind the boy whose name was called out before yours and make one single line. Understood? Albright, and so on, down to Zsigray. Follow me, and Pensworth lead them off down the passage in the direction they had come, past the double doors and on. The passage soon developed a downward incline, which offered the temptation to slide on the leather soles of their shoes. No sliding! commanded Pensworth. Pensworth was leading them to the Book Room, where they were all issued with the necessary text books. Latin, French, Geography, Arithmetic, English grammar, History. Loaded with which bundles, tied up with pink ribbon, they were directed to their individual class rooms, where they were to meet their form teachers; Masters, in school terminology.

Jonny knew what form he was in. It was something you were told. He had sat an exam at his pre-preparatory school. He’d passed, but his arithmetic was poor. He dreaded it, could make no sense of it. He liked reading. The Jungle Book, a favourite. Letters, words, spoke to him. Numbers, not at all. Except to tell you what order things were in. Poor Arithmetic put him in Remove D, the bottom class of the First Year, the New Boys. You might move up from D to C if you improved over the year, but that didn’t happen often.

D Remove, this way. Another voice. Jonny was unable to locate it. He suddenly felt lost, really lost. For the first time. He had expected to feel lost all along, right from the start, from the minute they turned into the drive, but the constant pressure of the unexpectable had prevented him from sinking back into himself, from feeling lost, truly lost. It must have showed, for he heard a voice close to him say,

I’m Simpson.

Jonny turned to his right. Close behind his right shoulder was a face with eyes he could see, and he realised, so far he hadn’t seen anybody’s eyes. He replied to Simpson,

I’m Kincaid.

That’s an unusual name..

Jonny pulled out his father’s time-worn quip They’re aren’t many of us left.

How’s that?

We’re a soldiering family.

Will..?

Then the D Remove voice interrupted them. One D Remove missing. Who is it?

Jonny startled, looked at Simpson, That’s me. Then not very loudly, Me, Sir.

Get a move on.

Yes, Sir, and Jonny scuttled after the rest of class, throwing a look back at Simpson as he went.

Pay attention. You will all find your desks named. If you find a name that isn’t yours call it out, so that that boy may go to it. A man, a Master had spoken. The form Master. Not old. A burly man with a strong jaw. The eyebrows, thick. Again Jonny couldn’t see the eyes, but the face, the mouth really, looked friendly.

I’m Mr. Burroughs, your form Master. I shall be guiding you through your studies for this year. I will now ask you to each stand up and tell us all your name, starting from desk one, that’s the left end of the front row, and Mr Burroughs pointed. The boy occupying it stood up.

Bridges, Sir.

Thank you Bridges, You may sit.

The only names that Jonny had registered at the roll call, Atherton and Crowfield, didn’t appear in Remove D, so, he thought, they must be higher up, and therefore, brighter. Simpson wasn’t there either. They were set reading for between supper and bedtime, Dickens’ Great Expectations, and were then all sent off to transfer the contents of their trunks, pyjamas, clean socks, shirts, vests, and so on, to their lockers in the Laundry Room, where they were supervised by the Head Matron and her assistant, who was arrestingly pretty. Jonny had already been in love, at least that’s what he thought, with Elizabeth Fry, who was older than him, and so, his mother thought, unsuitable. Which only made matters worse. He would climb the tallest birch tree in the garden and dream of Elizabeth. Climbing the tree was not so much to be as much as possible on his own, but so that his sister, Deirdre, of whom he was very fond, wouldn’t be able to see his dreamy face. He didn’t want her to know, and so be jealous. Miss Grove looked set to be a substitute for Elizabeth. She was blond, Miss Grove. Thick, golden blond hair down to her shoulders, which were covered by her nurse’s white coat. It was her hands he noticed most. To him they seemed to float in the air, like water weed. She took his three clean shirts and gently placed them in a neat pile upon the shelf of his locker. He stared at her handiwork, motionless.

That’s it, off you go. He didn’t move. Kincaid.

Yes, Matron, and he darted off towards the Laundry Room door.

I’m Matron, young Sir, called a stern voice after him. My assistant is Miss Grove, to you..

Jonny stopped at the door and turned,

Yes, Matron, but it was Miss Grove he was looking at.

That was the Laundry Room. It was big, with tables to work on, and ironing boards. Jonny thought he saw something like an alcove towards the back of the room. No windows in the four walls, but a pitched glass roof, which let in a deal of light, making Miss Grove very easy to see. The Remove D classroom had seemed to him too to be windowless, dark. In fact it had a run of large windows looking out on to the playing fields, ornamented with H shaped rugby posts at either end of each pitch. That he had first seen the classroom as windowless, when it wasn’t, bothered him for weeks.

The passage he had first entered led, finally, to the Dining Room. High ceiling, dark brown wooden panelling, tall windows. More opportunity to stare at the motionless outside world. But first, the lavatories. The Bogs. A porcelain trough and impact wall for standing, and cubicles for sitting. No doors. He stared at the no doors. Why? All lavatories had doors. Couldn’t the school afford them?

It’s so you can’t lock yourself in, explained Simpson. They had chosen to sit next to each other, at the bottom long table designated for juniors, that was situated along the Dining Hall’s back wall, and through the windows of which could be seen, in the evening light, the ground’s imposing Redwood pines. If, that is, you were sitting on the right side of the table, and Jonny and Simpson weren’t. They faced the intimidating rows of backs and faces of the rest of the school. Seniors to them. People you must do your best not to annoy. Respect is everything. Know you’re place and don’t be nervy. The last, school slang for cheeky. Jonny and Simpson almost whispered for fear of causing a disturbance.

Why should one want to?

What?

Lock oneself in?

It could happen.

I see. A pause. Jonny, not sure whether or not he was hungry, nevertheless took another piece of Ryvita and carved himself a lump of cheddar.

I was going to ask, said Simpson, will you be a soldier?

Probably. What else could I do. Daddy’s a soldier, so I expect I will be. You?

Simpson looked suddenly surprised. Me? No! I couldn’t be. My father is a trainer.

Jonny hadn’t a clue what that might be, and looked blank.

Horses. Race horses, the Derby and all that.

What…? Real…? How many?

I think about forty at the moment.

Phew! He must be terribly rich!

Not his, you dope. He trains them for their owners. That’s where the money is. With the owners.

Does he mind?

How do you mean?

Well he trains them, but they’re not his.

My father says race horses aren’t anybody’s. The stable boys’ perhaps. They’re the ones with them more time than anyone else, and they’re all as poor as church mice.

Poor as church mice, thought Jonny. He’d heard that before.

You can come and see. In the holidays. If you like.

Thanks. Thanks a lot. Jonny didn’t want to seem too keen, and kept his gaze on the swelling ranks of older boys, whence danger might, at any moment, come. Quietly though, inside, where before he had felt quite lost, was the sudden sense that the future really might have something for him.

In the cold dormitory, after ‘lights out’, unable to sleep, under the tucked-in sheet and blanket, he detected the sound of repressed sniffling from one of the other beds. There were ten beds, five down either side of the oblong room. The sniffling wasn’t near, so he wasn’t implicated.

Should somebody do something? he asked himself. No. Leave him to get on with it. Get on with it, his father would have said. Never give yourself away and you’ll stay clear. The sniffling made him feel older, wiser.

Silly little brat, he said to himself, and went back to remembering that day his parents had taken him to Ascot. The Ascot races, Ascot week. The colour, the excitement, the acrid smell of sweating horses. Their shit, that was quickly shovelled up, so many women in beautiful dresses, and the jockeys in their multicoloured shirts. Even Her Majesty the Queen was there, but he wasn’t quite sure which one she was.

The bell rang, startling everyone out of bed. It was already light. What’s the time? Suddenly he realised, since he’d arrived he’d had no idea what the time was. They did what they were doing until a bell rang, or someone gave an order. Towel and wash bag, with toothpaste, tooth brush and flannel. Soap was communal. Jonny and Simpson looked at each other in passing, but said nothing. This was not the time for talking. You had to be fully awake for the next instruction. Which proved, surprisingly for Jonny, to be breakfast.

Porridge, sloppy porridge, barely distinguishable from soup. Just like the old cow in the field, said the most junior member of the kitchen staff, as he ladled-poured the liquid mush into the waiting pudding plates. He started low and swept the ladle up in the air to drip out the last drops. One would have thought the stuff would go everywhere, but it didn’t. Not a drop spilled. He looked, as Jonny’s father was wont to say, as old as God’s dog, and beneath his infinitely furrowed face, over which hung greasy strands of thick, lank, dull-grey hair, drooped his only, partially buttoned-up, cook’s, no-longer-white, jacket, which had long ago given up demanding change, for any change would have ruined his character, and Smollett, Smelly Smollett, as Jonny later discovered he was called, was one of the school’s great characters, and a school must have characters, for what, otherwise, would the boys remember? So Smelly Smollett stayed, just as he was, and all were grateful, if a little ashamed. Not that anybody would have dreamt of admitting as much.

The porridge held the attention of the consumer’s palate largely with the excess addition of both sugar and salt, and it left Jonny starving. He practically ran up to the hatch for his serving of fried egg and fried bread.

There you go, my little runner, smirked Smelly Smollett, That’ll see you to the end of term. I don’t think, and he gave a little mouth fart. Jonny was more baffled by the ‘I don’t think’ than the mouth fart, which he thought rather puerile. Puerile was a word his father often used, for he was keen on Jonny growing up. "I don’t think’, after saying something would happen didn’t make sense. Was it a mistake? Though more likely, he felt he was being teased, having the ‘mickey’ taken. He was sure there was another phrase to describe that sort of thing, but he couldn’t think of it. Then he felt a tug at his right ear and his head was being pulled round. He couldn’t resist. A big face was pushing itself into his.

You don’t. I repeat, don’t, run in the Dining Hall.

I wa…

Did I ask you to speak?

Er, no.

Then ’er’ don’t. His ear was still being pinched and it was beginning to hurt.

You’re a New Bug and New Bugs don’t speak until they are told to. Which they never are. Is that clear?

Jonny didn’t answer, as his attention was suddenly taken up by the presence of Crowfield, whom he hadn’t seen since yesterday’s roll-call, and who was now leaving the serving hatch with two fried eggs and two pieces of fried bread on his plate. Jonny was dumbstruck. Crowfield seemed to smirk at him, and continued on, holding his plate at face level, to where he had been sitting at the head of the Junior’s table

I’m talking to you, you little tick. What’s your name? Jonny’s ear received a vicious yank.

Ow!

Haven’t heard that one before. How do you spell it? Tears were coming to Jonny’s eyes. Gritting his teeth he spelled out,

K-i-n-c-a-i-d.

Say it. Tick.

Pack it in Graves. Leave the boy alone and don’t let me catch you at that again. Jonny’s ear was released and he looked up to see his saviour in the form of the Breakfast Duty Master, whose name he didn’t yet know.

Your name? the Duty Master asked curtly.

Kincaid, Sir.

Sit back down, Kincaid, and I don’t want to see you causing trouble again. Only now did Jonny realise his fried egg and bread had slid off the plate during the struggle. There they were, on the floor. He stooped to pick them up.

You can give me that, my little Kink, said a voice he couldn’t trace the source of. He looked around and then heard a barely audible ‘psst’ from the serving hatch. Smollett was looking at him out of the corner of his eye, as if he wasn’t looking at him at all. Smollett eyed the floored egg and fried bread and then gave a little beckoning flick with the fingers of his serving spatula free hand. Jonny complied, picked up the egg and bread, placed them on his plate, sidled over to the serving plate and placed his plate and its contents on it, as if he were leaving them there. With almost invisible dexterity Smollett swept off the defiled egg and bread and the plate was back in front of Jonny with a fresh piece of fried bread and one and a half fried eggs glinting upon it.

Nobody saw that. Jonny hadn’t seen Smollett’s mouth move, but he knew it was he who’d said it. Off you go.

Back at the Junior table Jonny looked for Simpson. They hadn’t been sitting next to each other during porridge, but now there was a bit of a space between Simpson and his left-hand neighbour. Shift up, said Jonny to the neighbour, and was surprised by the command in his own voice. The neighbour shifted up. There was no point in not.

That was Graves, said Simpson. I saw. He’s got a bit of a reputation. Jonny shrugged in reply, and they eat on in silence.

Life at Prep School was under way. There was no getting out of it now, no going back. Get on with it. Simpson and Jonny set off for their respective classrooms. At breakfast Jonny had heard somebody comment Remove D. D for dunce. He repeated it aloud as they entered the relative privacy of the passage. Private because everyone was on the move. Older boys pushed past, taking only enough notice to make remarks like „Bugs to the wall." Jonny and Simpson stuck together.

"Remove Dunce. That’s me then, is it?

You don’t look thick.

What does thick look like?

Not knowing what’s going on, gawpy.

And I don’t?

No more…dreamy

Funny. Mu…my mother calls me her little dreamer sometimes. It’s true, I like to think about things, imagine things.

Which means you won’t be paying attention.

To what,

What people are saying, like teachers. Sorry, Masters.

I suppose so.

Simpson turned off into his classroom, Remove B. Good luck.

Thanks.

The first subject was arithmetic, taught by a dry-faced Master with a small, mid-brown moustache and tortoiseshell rimmed glasses, which hid his eyes. He wore a mossy green tweed suit with waistcoat, and the backs of his hands and fingers were covered in black hair. Spiderlike or monkeylike? Jonny couldn’t determine. He also had little wodges of black hair on his cheekbones. He seemed patient.

That’s it Kincaid, take it slowly. No trains to catch. There are those who can rush at maths and those who can’t. No shame if you can’t, and you can be sure those who can won’t be able to do something you can. Tell me when you’ve finished and we’ll go through it together. That goes for all of you.

Expecting to be punished, harassed and humiliated for his number phobia, this little man’s manner put him much at his ease. By the time the hour was up he was beginning to doubt he was as poor at arithmetic as people had told him he was.

Latin followed Arithmetic and then they were out in the open air at last, Jonny not succeeding in remembering either the Maths or the Latin Masters’ names. Break. The New Boys, having complied with the instruction to leave their jackets on their designated hooks in the Changing Room, were assembled by the Sports Master, Mister Cuthbertson, in front of the school, where the cars had parked the day before. The Yard, it was called, though it was hardly a yard. In essence, a tarmacked square, edged on its two free sides with a low, carved-stone balustrade. At the open end of this, where the drive entered it, Cuthbertson lined the up the entire complement of New Boys in four ranks. Four times twelve. How many is that? Jonny was expecting to be asked. No such question was put.

Right, instructed Cuthbertson. I want you all, in turn, to run round The Yard, keeping to the edge, four times, and then stop at the far end facing the others, and await my instructions. You in the far corner will start, and he pointed to the boy at the squad’s corner nearest the stone balustrade. What’s your name?

Smythson, Sir.

With an i or a y?

A y, Sir.

Smythson! Are you ready?! Go! and Smythson was off, at a gentle lope. He had long legs for his height, and moved easily, loose, light brown hair flopping with each stride, arms low, but reaching. After the second circuit Cuthbertson called out, Speed it up, Smythson. Smythson opened his stride and was all but sprinting. The block of stationary boys were silently impressed, for they were going to have to follow that, and few of them would be as natural a runner as Smythson. Smythson pulled at the opposite end of The Yard.

Thank you, Smythson. Very good. Puffed?

Not really, Sir

No, you don’t look it. Fall in on the right at the back of the squad. Cuthbertson then took a small notebook from his jacket side pocket, and wrote in it in pencil, ‘Smythson, 3/4. Fly half?’ and then pointed to the boy who had edged forward into Smythson’s vacated space. Name?

O’Brien, Sir

O’Brien, are you ready? Go! A squat, thick-set boy, he rather waddled than ran, and he started faster than he need to have done, as if to prove something against the previous performance. He wasn’t instructed to speed up. He too stopped and, evidently puffing, faced the squad.

Thank you O’Brien. Puffed?

A bit, Sir.

Not to worry. We can work on that. Wait on the left at the back of the squad, and into his notebook went ‘O’Brien. Fwd. Useful. Hooker.’

Then Jonny saw Zsigray was lined up to start. Cuthbertson didn’t ask his name but simply said, You’re Jigray, I take it?

A short beat of a pause before Zsigray confirmed. Yes, Sir. Jonny half expected him to have an accent, but there was none. Indeed he sounded to Jonny what his father would have called ‘patrician’.

Are you ready? Go! Quick short steps on light feet, very much on his toes. Clenched fists, as Jonny had observed at the roll-call. His expression was dark, determined, intent. When Cuthbertson ordered Speed up! Zsigray darted forward two paces, then seemed to hover in the air before darting forward again. Cuthbertson was at his notebook before Zsigray had pulled up, and didn’t even look at the boy, but simply said, On the left. No more detail was really needed, as they all knew what that meant by now. Jonny, keen for things to go well for Zsigray, did notice that, contrary to the apparent lack of interest from Cuthbertson, there was the trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and whatever he’d noted he’d done it with obvious enthusiasm. ‘Jig. Scrum 1/2!!’

Jonny knew he could run, wasn’t even slightly puffed, and was directed to stand with the other Three-quarter types. Simpson wasn’t fast, but rather, graceful. He too got put with the Three-quarters. They were both very curious as to how Crowfield would perform, big and rather cumbersome as he was, he would obviously be put down as a forward. He moved better than either of them expected. Very upright and swinging his shoulders. Speed it up produced nothing, but it was clear to all watching that if it was rugger they were thinking, this man would be a hell of a thing to have to stop. He puffed, but didn’t look puffed. He went down in the notebook as ‘Crowfield, Fwd. 2nd. Row,’ and as he went to join the new generation of Forwards