Septimus

By Stephen Scott

The year is 1941 and England is preparing for a German invasion. Septimus, an exasperating seventh child, is greatly disturbed by the news that one of his older brothers has just been killed in the war. He liberates a friends bike at school and runs away, pedalling aimlessly south toward the English Channel, blythely unaware that he is heading straight into a heavily fortified war zone.

After a series of curious encounters, he is run down by a strange man driving a Buggati, a man who has long been believed dead. The man takes him home to mend his banged-up leg. But home turns out to be a secret headquarters. When Septimus has recovered, The man takes him on as a message runner. The rebel in Septimus is gradually tamed by his growing awe of the man, which leads to adventures both dangerous and ultimately deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458214416

Stephen Scott

Stephen Scott was born in Frankston, Victoria, and educated at Peninsula Grammar and the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) College.His passion for teaching leadership developed while serving in the RAAF for more than two decades. After accepting an offer to be promoted and commissioned as an officer midway through his service career, Stephen graduated from initial officer training and later returned to the RAAF College as an instructor to teach leadership. He completed his service in 2003, exiting as a senior executive at No. 1 Squadron in Queensland.Since leaving the RAAF, Stephen has established himself as a prominent author, speaker and facilitator of leadership. As the founding director of his company Laurus Enterprises, Stephen has consulted to multiple sectors including aviation, environmental science, renewable energies, public health, manufacturing, finance, farming, mining and resources, water management, architecture, recruitment, utilities and information technology. Stephen has earned a reputation as a game-changer in leadership through his speaking, writing and programs based on The 15 Disciplines. He leads both the New Principals and Aspiring Principals leadership programs for Independent Schools Queensland and chairs three roundtable groups for experienced independent school principals and senior leaders. He is a Director of the FSAC Limited board that oversees two independent schools and is also the Chair of St John's Anglican College Council in Queensland.Stephen is the recipient of numerous leadership awards and commend-ations, including the RAAF College Officer Qualities Award and the Australian Air Commander's Commendation.Stephen is married to Cassandra and they have one adult daughter, Erin.

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SEPTIMUS

STEPHEN SCOTT

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Copyright © 2012, 2014 Stephen Scott.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1441-6 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 08/12/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Special thanks to the late

Air Vice-Marshal Johnny Downey for technical advice

Chapter 1

England, 1940

I had to be on my own for a bit, I just had to. Trouble was, tomorrow was the last day of term and I’d already made plans to go up to London with my best friend, Huntley. We’d decided to cut loose from the pack, catch the milk train and have breakfast at the Cumberland. But the way things were now, I didn’t feel much like celebrating anything. Huntley wasn’t going to like it.

Next day I trailed down to the station with some boring types and caught a later train. I made a point of speaking to each boy in turn to establish my presence among them. We all piled into the same compartment, but instead of grabbing a seat, I hung around in the corridor out of sight, waiting for the guard’s whistle to signal the off. The moment it blew I jumped down onto the platform. All the guard could do was shake his flag angrily at me as he swept past in his guard’s van. I watched the train disappearing round the bend. In the normal way I’d have congratulated myself, but not today.

Passed a master coming in the opposite direction as I walked back to the school—Stratton, biology. He looked a bit surprised to see me, and I felt obliged to offer an explanation.

Left my train ticket in my room, sir.

You’ll lose your head next, Satterfield.

Oh, very original! I could have come back with something pretty sharp, but not today. You’re meant to ‘tick’ members of staff as you pass them by raising your first finger, but I always tick them with my middle finger, palm held inwards.

Back at the school I ran through the quads and up two flights of stairs to my dorm, where I stood on the threshold and listened. Not a sound from behind any of the doors down the whole length of the corridor—the place was like a morgue. Going into my own room, half way down, I stood looking out of my window into the front quad. ‘Not a soul in the whole world knows I’m here!’ I said to myself with some satisfaction. Perhaps I’d just hang around the empty school for a day or two— savour the place with no one about but the ghosts. My three older brothers had all been here before me—I’d made out their initials carved into the balcony my very first day. But then I remembered that my mother would be waiting at home for me, worried sick when I didn’t show up. She was already having a rough enough time as it was. I’d better let her know what I was doing, but how could I explain when I didn’t really understand what I was doing myself?

Do you notice anything odd at all, Arnold?

My father would look up from his paper.

No, I can’t say I notice anything particularly odd—why?

You haven’t noticed your youngest is missing, for instance?

Septimus again is it? Jesus wept! Where’s he got to this time?

Never mind Jesus. What are you proposing to do about it?

I propose to do nothing whatever. At least let’s give him till lunch time. He always turns up in the end, alas!

And with that my father would return to his newspaper. That was how it usually went. Only in this case the scene would be likely to continue:

We’ve given him till lunch time, Arnold—in fact we’ve given him till tea time, and there’s still no sign of him. I suppose it wouldn’t occur to you that he might have been in an accident, or the station could have been bombed—a thousand things. You’d better phone Mr Knowles.

Drat the boy! I mean, how can you get lost when you’re convinced that wherever you are is the centre of the universe? If he landed up at the North Pole, some nice kind Eskimo would invite him into his nice warm igloo!

Or a polar bear, Arnold— don’t forget the polar bears. You’d better phone Mr Knowles right away.

Since my own room was the first place anybody would look, I let myself into the head of house’s room at the far end of the corridor. Funny to think that each of my brothers had had this room—slept in this very bed! They’d all been head of house in their time. I suppose I was expected to follow suit, but I wasn’t the type. In any case it was Steerman-Smith’s room now.

Food was my next problem. Why hadn’t I thought of laying some in? I went from room to room hoping to find something edible, but all I could come up with was a large tin of bartletts pears. That wasn’t going to last me long. I took it back to Steerman-Smith’s room anyway and lay down on the bed.

Must have dozed off—I woke up hearing voices. Somebody was going from room to room, two people by the sound of it.

What a bloody waste of time, eh, with all the million and one things we have to do.

This was Mr Knowles on the prowl, my housemaster. He must have got word from my father. If there was one thing my father was good at, it was putting the wind up people, specially his own patients.

Just the same, let’s hope nothing’s happened to him.

Mr Beaton this was, our new under-housemaster. He was quite old—he’d taken the place of Mr Sykes, who’d been called up.

Satterfield? Not a hope, the little bleeder. I suppose there’s just a chance he’s still around, so we’d better keep on looking. Why anyone would want to hang around this place when it’s all closed up is beyond me.

They were getting closer and I was beginning to sweat. I say, Knowles, that news he had about his brother the other day, you don’t think it could have any bearing?

He seemed to take it pretty well.

On the surface at least. Was his brother here too?

Oh yes, all his brothers were. Percy was the best of the lot though. He was head of school.

I put my fingers in my ears; I couldn’t bear to hear them talking about him. And I only took them out just in time—they were a couple of rooms away now. Damn! I’d never have guessed they’d search the whole place. I inched my door open a crack just as Beaton’s back disappeared into the room opposite, then snuck out into the corridor. From here I slipped into Watson’s room and sat on his bed. They’d already searched Watson’s room.

What’s this, what’s this? A tin of pears. Who in blazes left this here?

I cursed myself. Mr Knowles had finally gone into Steerman-Smith’s room and found the pears. I’d practically given myself away! It was a great relief when I heard their footsteps going back up the corridor, the double doors at the far end slamm shut. I could breathe again.

I went back to Steerman-Smith’s room, and hell!—the thieving sods had made off with my tin of pears! Looked as if I’d be going to bed hungry tonight.

I lay back on the bed and tried to decide what I was going to do next. Now more than ever I needed time on my own to think.

It was then I remembered once having borrowed Steerman-Smith’s bike for a landwork job. (Since the war had begun, everyone except members of the first eleven had to work two and a half hours per week in the kitchen gardens to keep the school supplied with vegetables.) He kept the key to the padlock in his chest of drawers. Steerman-Smith lived in Knightsbridge and didn’t bother taking his bike home for the holidays—always went everywhere by taxi, so he said. Would the key still be in his chest of drawers? I went through them, and to my great relief it was.

Trunks went home three days before the end of term, so my own drawers were practically empty. I still managed to scrape together socks, hankeys, underwear and toilet gear. I’d put them in Steerman-Smith’s bike basket.

Should I spend the night in my own room? No, far too risky. Instead I settled on Ellison’s room. Nobody ever went into Ellison’s room unless they had to.

Chapter 2

The sun was coming up between the great conifers as I set off down the front drive. Once out of the school grounds it was flat, rather boring pine tree country. I rode as fast as I could, hoping to have the local villages well behind me in case the police had been given my description.

The cafes were still closed when I pedalled through Brinton, but by the time I came to Lawly I found one open. It wasn’t exactly the Cumberland, but at least the bacon wasn’t too greasy. I looked around and realized I was the only person in the café wearing a tie. So I loosened mine and unbuttoned my collar. One quick jerk and the tie was off. I may not have known where I was going, but being a schoolboy was definitely not going to be part of it. At least I wasn’t wearing the school blazer with its idiotic crest. With wartime clothes rationing, we’d been given permission to dress any old way, provided it was slacks and a tweed coat. (Trust Huntley to turn up in bottle green cords, of course!)

Around mid-day I came upon groups of soldiers resting in the grass along both sides of the road. It looked like a whole company. Seemed I’d caught up with the tail end of a route march.

Where are you blokes going? I asked, getting off my bike.

Think we’d bleedin’ well know?

"Think they’d tell us?"

I bet you’re going down to reinforce our coastal defences.

What bleedin’ coastal defences? All we do is march march there, and next day we bleedin’ well march march back again.

That’ll be to confuse the enemy, I said knowledgeably.

They’d broken out some kind of cold rations and I suddenly felt incredibly hungry.

Look, I’ll carry your pack for you, I said to a plump little fellow who looked thoroughly fed up with army life.

How I wish you could, mucker.

The sergeant won’t see me. I’ll keep well back out of sight, honest. I’ll take your rifle too if you like.

He just shook his head at the impossibility of it.

Here son, help yourself to what’s left. It’s not fit to eat, any road. He passed over his pan with its folding handle. There wasn’t much in it.

He looked about thirty, thirty-five. None of them were young men. It hardly looked like what you’d call a crack unit.

He got out a packet of fags.

What did you do before you were called up? I asked for something to say.

Me, I was a hair dresser. Had me own shop an’ all. So why aren’t you in school?

Because we’ve just broken up for the hols.

Oh I say, he raised his voice and put on a posh air, chappy here says he’s ‘just broken up for the hols’.

I pretended to find it funny when the others snickered.

"So what would you say?"

I dunno, he shrugged. How come you’re not at home then?

Well, you see … I’ve got no home to go to. A bomb hit our house. My mum and dad both bought it.

Bloody war! he grumbled, but it did the trick. The other men began to ply me with bits of their rations.

Where you headed now then?

Oh, I said airily, off to stay with an aunt in the country. How much further you blokes going?

One more stint should do it—that’s if they’ve got the bleedin’ tents set up. Last time it was a shambles.

A whistle blew and they all started buckling on their drill packs. I fell back when they marched on. We were climbing up into the Downs now, the road was very steep as it wound up though an endless tunnel of trees. At the top I caught