A Dish Best Enjoyed Cold

By Michael Fitzalan

One boy, one bully, one accident and one act of revenge. Stephen Inglis thought running away would help but that was not the solution. The bullies at his school teased him for sleeping with a teddy bear. Stephen was not at all sporty, at a prep school where sport was a key popularity; he had joined a term late and he had found it hard to make friends, he missed his family. He was nine and his father had said he would be fine. That was not what Stephen felt, he felt like an outsider, a stranger without a friend. Stephen had an opportunity to get revenge on one of his tormentors. He had to decide what to do. Should he try to save his enemy, or, should he let him perish? With his demise, he could at least expect a silent, grudging respect from the others and to be left alone. Did Hollister deserve to be buried alive? One hundred and fifty boys, one hundred and forty-nine happy, one miserable. Did Stephen's wish for happiness justify the taking of another life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291795899

Book preview

A Dish Best Enjoyed Cold

A Dish Best Eaten Cold

A D B E C

A Tale of Revenge

By

Michael Fitzalan

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION

Copyright © 2010 by Michael Fitzalan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews.

Synopsis

Stephen Inglis thought running away would help but that was not the best solution, the bullies at his school teased him for sleeping with a teddy bear. It was, in fact, a stuffed elephant and it was the only memory he had of home in the Middle East. The other members of his dormitory had missed that fact.

Stephen Inglis was not at all sporty, at a prep school where sport was a key popularity; he joined a whole term late and he found it hard to make friends, he missed his family so much. He was nine and his father had said he would be fine. That was not what Stephen felt, he felt a true outsider, a stranger without a friend

Stephen Inglis has an opportunity to get revenge on one of his tormentors. He has to decide what to do. Should he try to save his enemy, or, should he let him perish? With his death, he could at least expect a silent, grudging respect from the others and to be left alone, had what Hollister done been so unremittingly cruel that he deserved to perish, buried alive.

One hundred and fifty boys, one hundred and forty-nine happy, one miserable, did his happiness justify the taking of another life? Would he be a slave or would he be free?

This is a work of fiction

I have changed events and kept the names from old.

Normally, events are adapted; I can safely say that none of my friends at prep school behaved in a bad way to each other, ever.

Their names are here as a salute to their kindness and friendship to me.

Not one of the events took place as described; they are an amalgam of stories and events, from different schools, cobbled together from the experience of borders in the sixties, seventies and eighties.

So, what happened, to Stephen, Hollister, and the gang?

In my fiction world: Hollister became a banker, working in the city. Stephen started a Financial Public Relations agency, which built up companies like those that the one Hollister worked to promote.

In reality: One person became a writer; as for the others: one became a successful hotelier; one a superb salesman; and the other a brilliant barrister; one became a lawyer; one worked for a brewery; one ran a brewery; one worked in property; another developed properties; the other became a Wealth Manager; another worked for the Economist, and one became a Magistrate. One became a teacher; they all made their way in life.

Simon Halliday and Jeremy Campbell-Lamerton played rugby for their countries. Barnaby Burton-Shaw starred in a television series ‘Black Beauty’ and then went on to better things including running a bar, appearing in films and playing characters in radio plays.

If I have not included everyone as a character or if I have left out their future career, forgive me, it was over forty years ago.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my two wonderful boys Alexander and Barnaby.

It is also an homage to the wonderful boys who shared their lives with me from the age of eight to thirteen-years-old. They were the best comrades any brave soldier could have had.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

Henry V – William Shakespeare

Chapter One – The Escape

Boom, the thunder rent the silence, a stunning onomatopoeia of such violence that Stephen’s chest-cavity shook. Clouds scudded across the sky, grey stratus sheets, layer upon layer of oppressive pressure; it was a truly horrible depression. The frozen rain fell not as a summer cloudburst but as an autumnal downpour, unusual for spring. It was not the best day to escape from school, in a foreign land. He wore a navy, nylon windcheater, zipped to his chin, the hood over his head. Drops of rain collected on the rim of the hood, above his forehead, and trickled down to his neck and inside his jumper, cold water dripped onto his face.

Stephen screwed up his eyes to stop the stinging of the sleet.

Shivering with cold and walking down the asphalt driveway, his feet picked up a rhythm as the road dipped and curved around to the left. He was making progress, making good his escape. The ostinato of rubber soles thumping on tarmac reassured Stephen; each step just like the sound of his mother’s heartbeat when she hugged him close.

On his right side were the woods, which he had planned to cross before the rain came. To his left was the vast field that formed the perimeter of the front drive of the school. The slippery, round, iron rods of the three bar fencing were surmountable but behind that there was an electric fence to cross over as well, a long wire that carried a painful belt of electricity if touched, and then there were the masses of cow pats to avoid.

It was a strange feeling, he wore a vest, a school shirt, his jumper and the jacket, his body was hot from walking so quickly and yet his extremities felt cold. Anything exposed to the wind and rain and not covered by the windcheater felt like ice. His face and hands were red raw. If he had been sensible, he would have worn a scarf to protect his face and a pair of gloves to keep his hands warm and dry. The chilled sleet stung and that fact surprised him.

Stephen could not remember experiencing such foul weather, ever. Even his school shoes were soaked, and they normally kept his feet dry. His socks were squelching in the sodden leather and he hoped that his feet would warm up once he walked further along the road. The hard tarmac road was the easiest course to take and he ignored the rain lashing against his bare knees and drenching his school shorts and the grey long socks that covered his shanks. As long as he could keep moving, he realised, then, he would remain relatively warm. Once he stopped to rest, there was every chance that he would freeze. If he had planned things better, he would have chosen some long trousers, corduroy or thick wool to keep him warm.

In his pocket, he carried a sandwich that he had hurriedly made in the morning at breakfast; two pieces of cold toast, smeared with Seville marmalade, thick cut, his favourite, a treat for the escape. The rest of the jar was in his tuck box, how he wished he could have brought more with him. In the other pocket of his shorts, he had a penknife and a five-pound note, taken that morning, during break, from his tuck box. The money was meant for the tuck shop account, he should have deposited it with the bursar at the beginning of term, but he had instead buried it between a jar of ‘Lemon Curd’ and a bottle of ‘Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water’.

Up ahead he saw the fork in the road, the right fork led to the gate house at the bottom of the hill and to the left, the straight path led to the high walls of the back drive. There was no gate there; he could cross the road that ran past, skirt the pond and be into the forest within minutes, disappearing into the coniferous maze where he would be safe. The forestry Commission land covered hundreds of acres and he would be impossible to find.

It was then that he heard barking and his heart stopped. All feelings of cold, all confidence in making his getaway were crushed in that one sound. He stopped, stock-still, looking anxiously around and listening intently for the next bark. The sound was coming from up ahead, near to the fork, he could see now, and he felt the familiar feeling of frustration well up in his heart. An enormous off-white, almost beige, figure was making its way towards him; a big black dog ran ahead, heading straight for him. The black Labrador seemed to view him with undisguised hunger.

Stephen wondered when the dog had last eaten. The figure stood out from the laurel bushes due to a conspicuous colour; it was beige, almost white against the verdant background. He glanced at the wood, there was no path and there was a bog beyond the trees, there was no way out that way, looking left, he saw no escape either, the fence was wet and slippery and the electric wire behind offered another hazard. The white figure walking over the black tarmac, the dog threading along the laurel bushes in case a rabbit should appear, padding over the grass verge, struck Stephen with terror. His escape would be curtailed for sure if he could not avoid meeting this monochrome duo, black dog, he shuddered, remembering Treasure Island, his father had read to him and white clad owner. As they approached, he was literally petrified, turned to stone, stuck to the spot, the black spot of tarmac.

Desperately, he searched for a way to avoid being caught but there was no time to find a good hiding place. Stephen thought of walking back and starting again later but it was too late, he realised, he had been spotted. The dog had spotted him first, but the striding figure was equally suspicious of the child in the wrong place and at the wrong time. There was no cover, it was too late, he felt exposed; he searched desperately for an excuse for being on the front drive instead of the sports field during games time.

Ursula Watts walked up to the boy; she was a statuesque woman of

Nordic descent and she towered above the nine year old Stephen. She was the Headmaster’s wife; there was no higher authority in the school apart from the Head. She wore a raincoat made by ‘Aquascutum’, beige, turned tan by the rain, pristine, not a trace of dirt on it. She had buttoned it up so that the raised collar protected her neck from the elements and it was buckled at the waist. On her feet, were a pair of stout black ‘Dunlop’ wellingtons, which looked like they were brand new, there was not a speck of mud on them; they were shop quality, clean and scuff-free.

Her brown curly hair was protected by a transparent, plastic scarf, which she had knotted precisely about the chin, to form a perfect bow, both ends being of equal length. She looked a fearsome sight as she stopped in front of the boy; looming over him so that Stephen had to lift his head directly into the frozen rain to see her properly; and the rain drove into his face, the sleet stung his eyes.

Sit! Mrs. Watts commanded brusquely.

Stephen wondered whether she was addressing him and almost sat down on the driveway but he was too terrified to move. He looked at the damp grass as a softer option, he did not want to sit on the tarmac drive, but stopped himself from pointing at his own chest and asking if she meant him.

The black Labrador immediately sat down at her mistress’s side, her tongue drooping from her mouth as she panted.

Her coat was matted with rain and the shine was gone but her eyes were eager, shiny and alert while she sniffed the air with her jet-black nose. There was the faint trace of fresh rabbit on the wind but she ignored it in deference to her owner’s need. She understood that a good dog stayed by its master’s or mistress’s side in certain situations.

Her ears twitching, she awaited her next command. Dinah wagged her tail softly, the obedient and patient gundog. She was, in fact, as gentle as a lamb, unless you were a rabbit, a duck or one of the Canadian Geese from the school lake, then, she was the good gundog gently bringing the quarry back to her master.

Stephen disliked dogs ever since he had very nearly been bitten, in Bahrain, by a wild, street dog that he had approached in order to stroke its head. All dogs were unpredictable and all of them had sharp teeth; that was all he knew. The term, ‘all dogs’, included the one sitting only a few steps from him even if she was an affectionate, ‘sloppy, black Lab’.

What are you doing here? barked Mrs. Watts. Her voice was deep but, like her dog, her bark was far worse than her bite. Her face looked stern but Stephen understood immediately why, he was not where he should be when he should be, the school was a centre of conformity.

I’m, I’m going for a walk, replied Stephen feebly. Even he felt the response was pathetic. He had never been good at lying and he had always been told to tell the truth.

Shouldn’t you be reading; have you no games this afternoon? she asked gruffly, playing with Dinah’s lead, threading the metal chain links through her hands.

The whole school spent an hour, after lunch, reading, in their classroom, or the library, or the Headmaster’s study, and then changed for games. Rugby or football practice took place five days a week even if it was snowing. Only hailstones the size of peas had ever stopped games. A sleet storm hardly qualified as bad weather. The children had an incredible amount of freedom for the majority of the afternoons, before prep, but at certain times there was a time table to be followed and adherence to that was mandatory.

Her interrogation was too much for him.

I’m running away! he blurted out truthfully before he could stop himself.

It was just not possible for him to think of a decent lie to tell. He knew lying was wrong and even if he had been prepared to lie, he could not think of a good enough fib to tell. Any lie had to have credence; he knew that much. He cursed his carelessness. He should have had an excuse waiting for any adult who challenged him. The raindrops stung his eyes as he looked defiantly up at the Headmaster’s wife. She in turn returned his gaze, seemingly oblivious to the sleet striking her cheeks.

She looked deep into his blue eyes, seeing the hurt and anger behind them. He looked into her eyes and saw the gentleness that lay beneath.

Are you? Ursula sounded deeply surprised, shocked even.

Yes I am, Stephen announced defiantly.

Not in your school shoes, you’re not; not in this weather, go back and change into a proper pair of wellingtons and get yourself a woollen hat while you’re at it, she ordered, not moving from the spot, willing him to obey, forcing him to comply by her intransigence.

Yes Mrs. Watts.

Do you have a school scarf and a pair of regulation gloves? she demanded impatiently. Her eyes bored into him like lasers from a Thunderbird episode.

Yes, Mrs. Watts.

Well, why aren’t you wearing them?

I forgot.

Forgot? In this weather, that’s very remiss of you, isn’t it?

Yes, it was, Mrs. Watts, I’m sorry. 

Well, don’t forget in future, do you want to catch pneumonia?

No, Mrs. Watts.

Well, jump to it, go and change.

Yes, Mrs. Watts.

Back to school you go, then!

Stunned by her practical advice, and her order to return to the school,

Stephen slowly turned around and traipsed back along the road, up the incline that curved round to the main building. The rain still smarted in his eyes, the road was still hard and his extremities were still frozen. He briefly glanced backwards; Mrs. Watts and her dog were still standing there, on the same spot, refusing to move like statues; and both sets of eyes were watching his progress.

Stephen could feel their eyes boring into the back of his neck. It was as if they were willing him to walk up the hill. He knew resistance was useful. He was unsure about the dog; he hoped it would stay. Dinah’s tongue still flopped out of the side of her mouth like a beating heart, pulsating. Her eyes were locked on Stephen, just in case her mistress might give the command to ‘go fetch’. It unnerved him even though he could see the tail sweeping the wet driveway as it wagged back and forth. He looked up into the face of Ursula Watts; her eyes still bored into him in a concentrated stare as if she were trying to penetrate his deepest thoughts. Then, he noticed something even more disturbing, a small, insignificant, barely noticeable smile played at the edge of her mouth.

Was she smiling at him he wondered? Perhaps she was laughing at him like everyone else. Stephen decided that she was definitely smiling at him, she was always kind to the boys and he knew she liked him by the kind way that she normally spoke to him. She had been cross but, then, she was entitled to be angry, the school would have got into trouble and her husband, a co-founder and co-owner, would have been held responsible. Her gruff manner was understandable under the circumstances, Stephen reasoned, sensible chap that he was.

As he trudged back to school, cold, sodden and defeated, Stephen had to admit to himself that his attempt to escape had not been properly planned. He decided that his next attempt would have to be far better executed. Time would have to be spent in ensuring he got the details right next time. There were two books popular amongst the older boys; ‘Escape from Colditz’ and ‘The White Rabbit’, both were excellent books on planning evasion from capture in enemy territory. They would make a perfect template for any escape plan.

The rain fell still. The enemy’s Prisoner of War Camp, codenamed, The School, lay a few yards up ahead. It was like a Prisoner of War camp in the fact that it was miles from nowhere and those escaping would be recognised immediately. There was simply no easy way to escape even though there were no high fences or guards in Watch towers.

In fact, the boarders enjoyed far more freedom than children their own age elsewhere let alone prisoners of war.  The small independent school was a progressive preparatory school for eight to thirteen-year-old boys. Two teachers, Mr. Hugh Watts and Mr. Derek Henderson, had established it in the 1963 and their wives Ursula Watts and Anne Henderson assisted them.

As well as a rigorous curriculum, to prepare the children for Common Entrance into the top schools in the country, there were an amazing amount of activities on offer such as: art clubs, air-rifle clubs, an assault course, archery, basketball, bicycles, calligraphy cricket, chess, carpentry, an orienteering club, a photography club, a pottery room, complete with kiln, a pitch and putt, a model club, a full scale train set with four engines and an array of other distractions. The school was not even ten-years-old but it was thriving.

Already, it had suffered from the deteriorating relationship between the Conservative government and the miners, which had resulted in power-cuts and blackouts at the school. Stephen had missed these, arriving after the Michaelmas term. He had missed the misery of the blackouts but he had also missed the opportunity such hardship provided in forming friendships. It was difficult to arrive at a school a term late for any child, even worse for an only child, especially at just eight-years-old. All he knew was that ‘Labour Party’ had lost the election in 1970; the ‘Tories’, under Edward Heath, were going to take England into Europe, by joining the Common Market and, during February, the implementation of decimalisation was going to occur throughout the United Kingdom, getting rid of pounds, shillings and pence and replacing them with pounds and New Pence.

The building itself was a Queen Anne Mansion; situated in the Shropshire hills, near the town of Ludlow, in what was called the Welsh Marches. Belonging to an old family, the Salweys; it was an eighty-room house; surrounded by 85 acres of parkland; and built in 1720. New wings and building were added later. It was possibly the most beautiful building Stephen had ever seen. He marvelled at the redbrick house that rose high into the sky, he was amazed by the amount of windows and roof tiles. His imagination was stirred by the bell tower; the tales of ‘priest holes’; the bats that swooped down at night from the belfry in the bell tower; the panelled halls with their hiding holes; and the strange outbuildings and discoveries that could be made in the grounds, his favourite was Clock House, which was the old stable-yard. The front of the house faced east and it was to the front door that Stephen headed towards the great pile of bricks, soaked to the skin, dejected and defeated.

All that he had needed to do was to cross over the B4361 into the Forestry Commission land and he would have been free, free from persecution, free from being an outsider, free from all the horrible boys in the school. The storm raged on.

It was a miserable feeling being both wet and cold, he felt like a robot, putting one foot in front of the other, a cold and frustrated automaton, shivering humanly, walking mechanically. Just before he reached the low-slung perimeter wall of the car park, he veered off down a path to the back yard.

The tarmac was wet and black and, as he passed the new squash court, he could hear the thwack of a rubber ball on a small racket, followed by the thud as the small rubber ball hit the wall. The sleet still stung his legs and hands. Two classrooms were located at the end of the yard and he walked in through the white painted wooden door that lay between them; checking through the glass panes to see if anyone was on the other side before pushing open the door. It was difficult to see through it, the rain drops on the outside and the condensation on the inside of the windows had misted the glass. In his frame of mind, he decided that he could not care who he hit with the door, even if it was, Mr. Watts or Mr. Henderson, the joint Headmasters.

At that stage, he was so despondent and fed-up that he could not care less about anyone, or anything and he was not worried about his punishment. Even if he were given ‘six of the best’ for running away, he would not mind. Nothing mattered but escape. He was not afraid of being beaten, not physically at least, not by the Head, that was all over in a few painful minutes. A quick beating was infinitely preferable to the tormenting that lasted days and weeks and continued even when you thought it had to end.

That was the thing that he despised. What made his heart heavy, was the constant ruthless taunting, the relentless, spiteful teasing. It was not only that. The feeling that he had not a single friend in the world upset him. Cold, shivering badly, now, he walked into the corridor and up the steps, it was good to be out of the rain and to be facing the prospect of getting dry and warm again. Stephen re-orientated himself; to his right was the corridor that led to the stairs, up to the dormitory, or down to the changing rooms, and to his left a corridor that led to even more classrooms and the games room, where the boys played table-tennis, a bathroom and the pitch and putt beyond that.

It was the area that the children congregated in during their free time, after prep and before it was time to go to bed. He hesitated, thinking about what he should do. He unzipped his jacket, shrugged it off, took off his shoes, and carrying both, he slithered over the cold tiled floor