School Ties

By Jonathan Hall

England, 1945: while still a boy, Paul Elliott loses his parents in a car accident. Whisked away to West Yorkshire from his home in High Wycombe, Paul finds a new home with his father’s brother, Don, the headmaster of Oxton House, a small preparatory school. Despite some setbacks, Paul quickly encounters academic success, setting him on a trajectory that will see him become, by his mid-twenties, Don’s presumed successor at the school.
In the ensuing years, as he begins to build Oxton House into a thriving, modern school, Paul will experience highs and lows in both his professional and private life. His troubled marriage to the captivating and capricious Catriona start rumours that will threaten to overturn Paul’s reputation and destroy his career.
School Ties’ authentic and engaging insight into the prep. school world of a different era owes much to the author’s own experience as a headmaster. The book’s narrator, Paul, is an intriguing combination of humility and ambition, keen to do his best but sometimes his own worst enemy. The novel abounds in well-drawn, often quirky characters, from pushy parents to eccentric colleagues. In particular, Paul’s uncle Don is wonderfully portrayed as a kindly pedagogue, who relies more and more on the loyalty of his nephew as the story unfolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398433366

Jonathan Hall

Born in 1937, Jonathan Hall grew up in an academic environment which was to shape his whole life. His parents owned and ran Arnold Lodge, a preparatory school in Leamington Spa. Despite his own largely unrewarding school days, a spell of teaching at Arnold Lodge made him realise that its future lay with him. Taking the reins at the age of only 25, he ran the school for almost thirty years, retiring early in 1991 when he was diagnosed with a brain turmour. Under his leadership, pupil numbers increased from 50 to 400, and on a visit to the school, the then Education Secretary Margaret Thatcher said: “I know that our inspectorate hold this school in very high regard and it is of a very high reputation.” In 2000 he published his autobiography No End in Sight, which topped the bestseller list at Waterstone’s in his home town.

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About the Author

Born in 1937, Jonathan Hall grew up in an academic environment which was to shape his whole life. His parents owned and ran Arnold Lodge, a preparatory school in Leamington Spa. Despite his own largely unrewarding school days, a spell of teaching at Arnold Lodge made him realise that its future lay with him. Taking the reins at the age of only 25, he ran the school for almost thirty years, retiring early in 1991 when he was diagnosed with a brain turmour. Under his leadership, pupil numbers increased from 50 to 400, and on a visit to the school, the then Education Secretary Margaret Thatcher said: I know that our inspectorate hold this school in very high regard and it is of a very high reputation.

In 2000 he published his autobiography No End in Sight, which topped the bestseller list at Waterstone’s in his home town.

Jonathan Hall

School Ties

Copyright © Jonathan Hall (2021)

The right of Jonathan Hall to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398433359 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398433366 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Prologue

The most vivid memory of my earliest childhood is that we as a family led an isolated life. This was, I think, due to lack of money and wartime deprivations. Not having experienced the frills of luxury, I was in no position to miss what I never knew existed.

Awarded the Military Cross for gallantry as a young officer in the First World War, my father was incredibly determined. Having been wounded twice, it had taken him years to regain his fitness. He said regular exercise was the key to his success and he chose to walk everywhere rather than travel on a bus. A tax inspector by profession, wearing a suit and bowler hat, he was seen daily trudging the two-mile journey to his place of work, irrespective of the weather.

Mother worked part-time as assistant manager at the Red Lion Hotel in the centre of High Wycombe. Her hours of work were arranged to fit in with my father’s own commitments, which enabled them to arrange my care without having to rely on outside help.

To make up for my being an only child, Father spent as much time with me as possible. He didn’t spoil me with material possessions; instead, he fed my brain with knowledge and encouraged me to think. In precious moments together, we walked, played games, swam, had picnics, and explored woods, lakes, villages and towns. We watched old men bowling and younger ones playing tennis in the park. How I delighted in my father’s grown-up tutoring!

Mother was always there to take control during the hours my father was at work. Her influence was strong and she had firm views on manners and politeness. Church attendance was a weekly ritual. Togged up in our Sunday best, we would sit in a pew at the front because father was a churchwarden and mother helped Mrs Trumpington, the vicar’s wife, with a bible class after the morning service.

Father seldom spoke of his Christian beliefs, whereas Mother was more proactive. No matter how busy she was, she managed to visit the sick and support several worthy causes. She was the one who taught me how to read. Storytelling began in babyhood, followed by the regular handling of books. Our home must have contained enough literature to stock a library. Through Mother’s patient guidance, I was quick to learn and was able to read quite fluently before I’d started school.

Secure in the knowledge my parents loved me very much, I revelled in my good fortune.

One

It was a hot July day, two months after the Germans had surrendered to the Allies, marking an end of the war in Europe.

Not only was I to sing in the choir at the end of term concert, Miss Young had selected me to recite a poem. My parents arranged to take a day off work in order to support the occasion. In the morning they had planned to visit friends in Princes Risborough, after which they were going to attend the afternoon performance.

Visitors packed the school hall with smiling, happy faces. The front row was occupied by important-looking gentlemen in suits. The town’s Mayor, wearing his impressive chain of office, was accompanied by an overweight lady whose entire face was hidden by her hat. The hubbub of high-spirited chatter had reached crescendo level. The anticipation was immense. After a call for order, there was silence throughout the room.

I looked for my parents among the audience. They were nowhere to be seen. I sang two items with the choir. My poem went well without prompting. Still there was no sign of them. The night before, father had helped me to rehearse my lines.

You’ve no idea how proud of you we are, he said. We can’t wait until tomorrow!

What could have happened to prevent them from being at the concert?

Mr Potts, the headmaster, thanked the staff for working hard, the pupils for their efforts. Hip, hip, hooray, was shouted with traditional end-of-term gusto, signalling six fun-filled weeks away from the school routine.

I was alone in the changing room, scared and het up by then. My name was called. Paul Elliott. Are you there, Paul Elliott?

Miss Young clutched me firmly by the hand and led me to her classroom. No mention was made of my performance at the concert. Had I done something wrong? Why did she look so serious?

By the door stood Mr Potts and a uniformed policeman. Had I committed a crime? What possibly could have happened to bring a policeman to the school?

All three adults stared blankly into space, avoiding eye contact with me as if on purpose. The policeman cleared his throat, stuttering and stumbling as he issued his ice-cold statement.

There’s been a terrible accident, he said.

Two

News of the death of my parents was broken to me with as much delicacy as Uncle Don and Aunt Olive could manage. Experienced as they were in dealing with large numbers of boys in a variety of situations, they were unused to consoling the victim of a tragedy. I could see my uncle was profoundly affected by what had happened. Despite his well-meaning intentions, he was unable to offer me any comfort.

For you to be deprived of your father and mother must be the most dreadful shock imaginable, he said with down-to-earth directness. From now on Aunt Olive and I are going to be your parent substitutes. We want you to look upon our home and Oxton House School as your permanent address.

Doing the best he could, Uncle Don’s clumsy attempts to heal my fractured heart made not a scrap of difference to my jumbled thinking. Given the gruesome reasons for the move to Harrogate, it would have taken exceptional counselling skills to get me to look forward to the future. I needed time to come to terms with the dramatic changes in my life; time to weep; time to reflect without tiresome well-wishers intruding on my grief.

Adjustment to my new circumstances was made easier because the boys of Oxton House were on holiday. I had several weeks to prepare for the shock of attending a new school in an academic environment that was going to be much tougher than at my elementary school.

Cousin Giles was encouraged to be friendly. Take Paul under your wing, advised his father. In view of what he’s suffered, make him a welcome member of the family.

Giles made begrudging efforts to be considerate for the first few days. Once the novelty wore off, his seeming loss of only-son status drove him to make spiteful remarks on the occasions we were alone together. Had I been in a more receptive frame of mind, I might have hated him. I was still too numb inside to feel anything at all.

I slept in what was referred to as the reserve dormitory, where there was plenty of space to house my personal belongings. It’s important for you to have your own room, said Uncle Don kindly, but if we recruit more boarders, you may have to share with Giles.

I was aghast at the prospect of seeing more than was necessary of my antagonistic cousin. Sensing how much he had resented my arrival, it was essential for us to be separated whenever possible. For the two of us to be forced to share a bedroom was a thought too upsetting to imagine.

Occupying a two-acre site on the outskirts of Harrogate, Oxton House stood at the end of a badly potholed drive. The first impression was of a magnificent Victorian villa; on closer inspection, it was obvious the building was in a dilapidated state and money needed to be spent on the decaying fabric.

Two lawns at the front were bordered by flower beds filled with dozens of sweet-smelling roses. These were the creation of Aunt Olive, who tended the gardens lovingly during the rare moments she was not involved in directing domestic activities. Full of nervous energy, she was continually on the move, which was an explanation for her slimness. At the rear of the school, closed in by high walls and netting, was a large tarmac-covered playground. This is where the boys play at breaktimes, explained Uncle Don. Three times a week they go to the park for games. Cricket in the summer and football in winter.

Next to the playground were a number of outbuildings, one of which had been converted into a makeshift gymnasium. A high hedge separated the grounds from a paddock and market garden, areas of land that would in the years ahead prove vital in the programme of expansion.

Apart from the occasional day out with my uncle and aunt, I was left to my own devices. There was so much time in which to brood that I spent countless lonely hours agonizing over my bereavement. The joyfulness of childhood seemed a world away. No matter how much I prayed or tried to blot out the truth, the reality of my lot kept striking back with unrelenting harshness.

Deserted during the holidays, the school was a depressing place to be.

The empty rooms, long corridors and piled-up furniture gave the appearance more of purposeless neglect than of an educational establishment about to open up for business. The school will come alive as soon as the boys are back, said Jennings, the caretaker, detecting my unease. You’ll be happy as a sandboy once you’ve made some friends.

Not knowing what a sandboy was, I found it hard to imagine what he meant. Happy was not a word that would ever describe my state of mind again.

I want to assess your scholastic potential, declared Uncle Don mysteriously one morning. The results will enable me to see which form to place you in. After being asked to write a short story, I read aloud a passage from a book that seemed familiar. After expressing mild approval, he went on to check my knowledge of tables, following which I was given a test to diagnose my mathematical attainment.

At supper that evening Uncle Don was in optimistic mood. Your results were better than I expected, he said. Not operating a streaming system here, promotion at Oxton House is based on ability rather than chronological criteria. You did so well I am going to place you in the third form. As an aside he added: This means you will be making a start with French and Latin. Not understanding his cryptic jargon, I didn’t know whether to be pleased or anxious. Giles, who was witness to all that had been said, looked resentful and ill-tempered.

Possessing a raucous voice, Uncle Don used it as a weapon to restrain the most unruly of his pupils. In consequence, remarks he made in private often became publicly known within the school community. One such conversation with Aunt Olive I could not help but overhear. Paul’s highly intelligent, he said. He must have inherited my brother’s genes. It makes a change from our dim-witted farmers’ sons.

They’re not all like that, protested Aunt Olive. Remember Perkins, who won a scholarship to Rossall two years ago? He was an asset from every point of view.

That’s as may be, but the fact is most of our boys have family businesses to inherit. They lack ambition because there’s no need for them to bother.

At least their parents pay the fees, Aunt Olive reasoned patiently. Most of the farmers’ sons are good at games and some make excellent prefects.

Unable to understand the pertinence of Uncle Don’s remarks, it was not until later that I would begin to appreciate why he needed to attract more discerning parents to his school. Frustrated that most of the local intelligentsia chose to send their sons to a rival establishment in preference to his own, he was becoming worried and resentful. If we catered more for sons of professional, educated people, our honours’ board would soon be full, he complained repeatedly. What we have here is a rump, consisting of dunces and problem rejects. The best schoolmaster on earth cannot make silk purses out of sows’ ears. It simply can’t be done.

Too young to understand the complexities of managing a school, I sensed nevertheless the tensions and stresses my uncle and aunt were having to contend with. The worry showed on their faces and they were frequently fatigued and overwrought. It would take years before I would grasp the nature of their burdens.

Three

As the start of term at Oxton House approached, activity began in earnest. Desks were moved, blackboards painted, windows cleaned, floors scrubbed and the heating boiler checked. The smell of polish and disinfectant everywhere reflected Aunt Olive’s dedication to the welfare of the pupils. Obsessed with achieving the highest standards, she thought nothing of rolling up her sleeves to tackle a variety of domestic chores, no matter how menial they were. On condition the boys are happy and well fed, a clean school is what the mothers of our boarders value most, she would say imperiously.

Uncle Don, who had been closeted for days in the confines of his study, finally emerged clutching timetables, lists and a number of typed announcements. These he posted on various noticeboards in and around the dowdy buildings. Bustling about with greater energy than hitherto exerted, Jennings cut the lawns, swept the playground, weeded the paths and mopped the changing room and lavatories. His ultimate task was to see to it that all the equipment, stationery and books were in the appropriate place in readiness for the boys’ arrival.

Miss O’Sullivan, the resident matron, returned to the school three days before term was due to commence. Using hot water bottles for the airing of the beds, she took pains to pay attention to the minutest detail. Nothing annoyed her more than to witness slipshod efforts. An astringent manner enabled her to wipe the floor with anyone, including the headmaster, on the few occasions her authority was in doubt. Ruling her department with strict discipline, she was responsible for our clothes, upstairs behaviour and our health, which included a daily interest in the workings of our bowels. Aided by prunes at breakfast, most of us managed to pass her stringent test. On the occasions we were constipated, she forced down our throats a large spoonful of syrup of figs. How different this was from the easy life with my parents before the accident!

The boarders turned up on the evening before the start of term. Those who had travelled on the train from Leeds were collected by Jennings at Harrogate station. The majority arrived by car with their parents. After trunks and tuck boxes had been delivered to the boarders’ day room, it was customary for the parents to call in at Uncle Don’s study with the fees. Rumour had it that his favourites were rewarded for their loyalty with a glass or two of Scotch.

What had been a place of unnatural silence was suddenly enlivened by the jovial banter of the boys. Most were glad to be reunited with their chums, excited by the spirited companionship the environment provided. It fell upon matron to console the new boarders who, despite stiff upper lips, gave way to intermittent bouts of tearfulness.

Early next morning the day boys appeared in time for registration. Regarded as second-class citizens, it was not just in our imagination that they were physically less hardy than their boarder counterparts. I was unsure which category I came under, sleeping as I did in a room on my own. I would have done anything for my parents to be alive and be able to go home each day, even if it meant being branded a stay-at-home wet in common with the day-boy sissies.

In addition to Uncle Don, there were six assistant teachers. Apart from the married Major Gibson and Mrs Lloyd, an elderly widow, all resided in term time in spartan bed-sitting rooms on the attic floor above the dormitories. A miscellaneous bunch, the staff were either youngsters looking no older than the prefects or had been enticed from their retirements on account of wartime shortages.

Mr Palin was the oldest member of the staff. In mathematics lessons he tormented us with a rasping voice which croaked away menacingly as he fired instructions at us. To witness a man of such decrepitude refereeing a junior football game was an extraordinary sight. His distinguishing feature was the dewdrop that dangled perpetually from his nose. Viewing the ugly spectacle with fascination, we became more interested in when and where the drop would fall than in the content of his lessons. He called us guttersnipes and hated us as if we were his enemy. A year later he retired at the ripe old age of 82. All we ever missed about him was the unappealing dewdrop.

Invalided out of the army two years previously with shattered nerves, Major Gibson was a shadow of his former self. Regardless of his previous experience as a schoolmaster, he no longer had the knack of being able to control his classes. Merciless in our judgement of him, we led him a merry dance. There was pandemonium in every Latin lesson he presided over, at the end of which the soggy paper pellets on the floor offered proof of the acute disorder that carried on unchecked.

Mr Johnson was a sadist and a bully. Said to be a university reject, he was the youngest of the teachers. Capable of extreme brutality, in today’s world he would have been locked up for his actions. Lacking qualifications, experience and teaching skills, he was the master whose job it was to introduce third formers to the subtleties of French. During the first lesson he wrote on the blackboard the present tense of the verb être, together with the meanings.

Elliott minor, he boomed, "conjugate the present tense of être."

Not having heard mention of the word ’conjugate’ before, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I’m very sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you mean, I said, trying to conceal my state of agitation.

I told you yesterday that I have effective ways of dealing with those who fail to cooperate, he roared. The verb was written on the board for you to copy down and learn. I could not have made it easier than that. Conjugate it, boy!

Tongue-tied and shaking with fear, I awaited the inevitable outcome in this no-win situation.

I shall give you a choice, said Mr Johnson, rubbing his hands with unmistakable delight. Either you write out the verb 250 times with meanings by tomorrow morning or I shall give you six with a slipper. Which would you prefer?

I knew the trouble with writing the verb out again and again was that I would be no better able to pronounce the words than I had been that morning. A short, sharp punishment would be preferable to writing out hundreds of words to no useful purpose.

In common with the other boys, I suffered agonising tummy pains before every French lesson we attended. To escape attention was the key to survival, which meant avoiding eye contact with our tutor. My own strategy was to look keen and interested, answer when spoken to, but otherwise disappear into a background of obscurity. Sometimes this policy worked. Often it did not. During the first few weeks of term, I must have been on the receiving end of at least half a dozen slaps on the head or beatings with a shoe. We all took our share of random punishments, except, that is, for Giles. As the headmaster’s son, he had the good fortune to experience far less violent treatment than the rest.

I was only seven years old, yet I was being treated as an adult. Transfer from a happy home to this unfeeling new world was more than I could cope with. The one light in my mind was Miss Young, my favourite High Wycombe teacher. She was the only person who would have known how to assist me in my bleakest moments.

At half-term Aunt Olive arranged a birthday party for me. I was allowed to invite a number of school friends as my special guests. After tucking into jellies, trifles and blancmanges, Uncle Don organised some games in which the adults also took part. I remember laughing for the first time since my parents’ death. I was reminded of the evening earlier in the year when they had taken me into High Wycombe after Victory of Europe had been declared. There had been singing and dancing in the streets, musicians playing, bonfires blazing, church bells ringing, and everyone was laughing. Thinking of that day made me miss them more than ever.

Uncle Don told me of the need to appropriate my bedroom. Four new boarders will be joining us next week, he said. Now you’re settling in, it will be nice for you to have the company of Giles, He says he’s happy for you to share with him in future. And by the way, the staff are delighted with the progress you are making with your work. Keep it up and we’ll make a scholar of you yet!

Giles had made it clear from the outset he objected to my presence. His resentment had grown much stronger since it became apparent I was outshining him in class. Once in a while he landed me a punch; more frequently he confined his hostility to making remarks that inflicted mental hurt. The thought of sharing a room with him had begun to fill me with the utmost dread. The move took place with the minimum of fuss. To begin with, Giles seemed friendly enough. It didn’t take me long to discover he had been putting on an act.

I awoke one night to find a sock stuffed in my mouth. It must have been a very dirty sock because the smell was overpowering. In my drowsy state I was unable to grasp what was causing the atrocious stench. Then out of the darkness came the sound of Giles’ muffled voice. I was hoping I’d have you to myself, he said, his tone malicious. I don’t want you here; nobody wants you here. Mum says we’re not a charity. Your parents are dead. That’s why we have to put up with you, you spineless brat. Pulling back the blankets, he hit me repeatedly on my arms and legs, Don’t you dare go telling tales, he threatened. If you do, they won’t believe you and I promise I’ll biff you even harder.

I had disliked Giles from the start, but had not appreciated how horrible he could be. By carrying out his strong-arm tactics, he knew the only way he would be found out was by my splitting on him. A code of ethics existed among children in those times that regarded snitching as the lowest form of villainy. It was a matter of honour for me to endure the bashings without complaint.

A physically powerful boy, Giles became an expert at destroying what little was left of my morale. Night after night he walloped me with his fists, punches that hurt so much that I would lie awake for hours thinking that to live on the streets would be a better fate than this. My reserves of energy and hope used up, I was near to breaking point.

Aunt Olive had a thing about worms, the kind picked up by those of us who failed to wash our hands after opening our bowels. The boarders had a long walk from lavatory to wash basin, a fact which could explain the slackness in our habits. Linking threadworm infestation to the catering department for which my aunt was responsible, matron made it clear she would accept none of the blame. Matron one day detected a number of worms in my poo. Aunt Olive was summoned, following which Dr Taylor rushed to the scene of the emergency.

If the pills don’t work, he warned, the only answer is an enema. Addressing me personally, he went on to say: The little blighters come out at night, so if you scratch your bottom then bite your nails, you will eat the eggs and the worms will hatch and multiply. High standards of hygiene are essential. It’s hardly surprising you have lost some weight. Made to feel I had behaved disgustingly, I was terrified I would end up looking as puny as a raw-boned skeleton. Revolting purple pills were taken with my food and I repeatedly washed my hands. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get rid of the worms.

A date was fixed for the enema procedure. I was taken to Giles’ bedroom by matron and Aunt Olive. Dr Taylor was in attendance. After removing my trousers and pants, the three of them pushed me face down onto the bed. Without explaining what was about to happen, the two ladies grabbed my arms and legs. The doctor injected hot fluid into my bottom with agonising roughness. The more I wriggled, the more it hurt; the more it hurt, the more I screamed; and the more I screamed, the more brutal were my torturers. I was shaking like a leaf by the time the assault concluded.

The enema had been the final invasion on my sanity. All that was needed was for one person to understand the loneliness I felt, someone with the insight and influence to wave a magic wand and repair the scandals that had brought about my state of wretchedness. There was nobody, nobody at all, to whom I could relate.

The next time Giles thumped me in the middle of the night, I came to a decision. I didn’t want to stick it out any longer. I planned to run away and seek refuge with Miss Young in far-away High Wycombe.

Four

I chose to run away on a Tuesday morning, the one day in the week we had to suffer a double period with the hated Mr Johnson. Grabbing my navy-blue raincoat, after eating a larger-than-usual breakfast to prepare me for the journey, I slipped through the domestic staff entrance next to the school kitchen. This led out onto a path with access to a tree-lined avenue and liberty.

My attempt to escape from the only security I knew was carried out on impulse. Too sick inside to consider the obstacles that lay ahead, I assumed all I had to do was to thumb a lift to High Wycombe and I would be transported in record time to the safety of Miss Young’s doorstep. With the sum of five shillings and sixpence in my pocket, I thought I had more than enough money to be able to subsist until I reached my destination. Though sharp enough in the academic sense, it would have been hard to find a less streetwise eight-year-old than me.

I was quite familiar with the centre of Harrogate, having walked there with Aunt Olive on a number of occasions. I expected to see a signpost to London, showing the route I was to take. Looking about me in alarm, I was unable to find a single direction marking anywhere. Little did I know that signs throughout England had been removed during the war to hamper potential enemy invaders. It would take years for the signs to be reinstated. Panic-stricken, I decided to seek the help of a passer-by. I approached a white-haired lady with a stick who greeted me with a smile.

Excuse me, can you please tell me the way to High Wycombe?

Surely you’re not travelling all that way by yourself, she replied, a look of concern drawing my attention to her wrinkled face,

I have to find Miss Young, I said simply.

But where’s your mummy and daddy?

They are dead. They were killed in an accident. Miss Young is going to look after me.

High Wycombe is a very long way. Why are you on your own, my dear?

"I won’t be alone ever again when I’m back with Miss Young. Please tell me the way to High Wycombe."

I don’t like this at all, she said. You need to make enquiries at the station. You may have to catch a train from York to London. I don’t know whether it would stop at High Wycombe. Are you sure you have enough money, child?

Fearing I had divulged too much, I told her I had lots of money and left her with a hurried thank you and goodbye.

At the railway ticket office I plucked up courage to ask how much it would cost to travel to High Wycombe. The attendant shocked me with his answer. I cannot recall the amount he quoted, but it was vastly more than I was able to afford. Like the old lady, he bore an expression of disbelief, making me anxious lest he might decide to hand me over to someone in authority. Determined to rid myself of his unwelcome scrutiny, I departed from the station as quickly as I could. York was the obvious place to make for. Once there, with any luck I would find a south-bound driver to assist me. Using a more devious tack, I stopped another passer-by, this time a uniformed soldier, whose perpetual grin gave the impression of laid-back affability.

My father’s car is parked round the corner, I lied. Which road is the one for York?

Without questioning the genuineness of my request, he informed me all we had to do was turn left at the first set of traffic lights and the journey would take less than an hour.

Spurred on by the faint warmth of the late October sun, I stood by the roadside, attempting to hitch a lift. Optimistic auguries made me confident that before the day was over, my dream of being with Miss Young would be fulfilled. I didn’t have to wait long before a lorry drew up alongside. Beckoning me to join him, the burly driver helped me into his cabin and I was