More About Boy(32)

‘He had fiery carrot-coloured hair and a little clipped carrotty moustache and a fiery temper … Captain Lancaster was a violent man, and we were all terrified of him. He used to sit at his desk stroking his carrotty moustache and watching us with pale watery-blue eyes, searching for trouble. And as he sat there, he would make queer snuffling grunts through his nose, like some dog sniffing round a rabbit hole.’



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Rumour had it that the constant twitching and jerking and snorting was caused by something called shell-shock, but we were not quite sure what that was. We took it to mean that an explosive object had gone off very close to him with such an enormous bang that it had made him jump high in the air and he hadn’t stopped jumping since.





For a reason that I could never properly understand, Captain Hardcastle had it in for me from my very first day at St Peter’s. Perhaps it was because he taught Latin and I was no good at it. Perhaps it was because already, at the age of nine, I was very nearly as tall as he was. Or even more likely, it was because I took an instant dislike to his giant orange moustache and he often caught me staring at it with what was probably a little sneer under the nose. I had only to pass within ten feet of him in the corridor and he would glare at me and shout, ‘Hold yourself straight, boy! Pull your shoulders back!’ or ‘Take those hands out of your pockets!’ or ‘What’s so funny, may I ask? What are you smirking at?’ or most insulting of all, ‘You, what’s-your-name, get on with your work!’ I knew, therefore, that it was only a matter of time before the gallant Captain nailed me good and proper.

The crunch came during my second term when I was exactly nine and a half, and it happened during evening Prep. Every weekday evening, the whole school would sit for one hour in the Main Hall, between six and seven o’clock, to do Prep. The master on duty for the week would be in charge of Prep, which meant that he sat high up on a dais at the top end of the Hall and kept order. Some masters read a book while taking Prep and some corrected exercises, but not Captain Hardcastle. He would sit up there on the dais twitching and grunting and never once would he look down at his desk. His small milky-blue eyes would rove the Hall for the full sixty minutes, searching for trouble, and heaven help the boy who caused it.

The rules of Prep were simple but strict. You were forbidden to look up from your work, and you were forbidden to talk. That was all there was to it, but it left you precious little leeway. In extreme circumstances, and I never knew what these were, you could put your hand up and wait until you were asked to speak but you had better be awfully sure that the circumstances were extreme. Only twice during my four years at St Peter’s did I see a boy putting up his hand during Prep. The first one went like this:



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If homework is done at home, then what is the name for homework that is done at school … ? The answer is prep!



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MASTER. What is it?

BOY. Please sir, may I be excused to go to the lavatory?

MASTER. Certainly not. You should have gone before.

BOY. But sir … please sir …I didn’t want to before … I didn’t know …

MASTER. Whose fault was that? Get on with your work!

BOY. But sir …Oh sir … Please sir, let me go!

MASTER. One more word out of you and you’ll be in trouble.

Naturally, the wretched boy dirtied his pants, which caused a storm later on upstairs with the Matron.

On the second occasion, I remember clearly that it was a summer term and the boy who put his hand up was called Braithwaite. I also seem to recollect that the master taking Prep was our friend Captain Hardcastle, but I wouldn’t swear to it. The dialogue went something like this:

MASTER. Yes, what is it?

BRAITHWAITE. Please sir, a wasp came in through the window and it’s stung me on my lip and it’s swelling up.

MASTER. A what?

BRAITHWAITE. A wasp, sir.

MASTER. Speak up, boy, I can’t hear you! A what came in through the window?

BRAITHWAITE. It’s hard to speak up, sir, with my lip all swelling up.

MASTER. With your what all swelling up? Are you trying to be funny?

BRAITHWAITE. No sir, I promise I’m not, sir.

MASTER. Talk properly, boy! What’s the matter with you?

BRAITHWAITE. I’ve told you, sir. I’ve been stung, sir. My lip is swelling. It’s hurting terribly.

MASTER. Hurting terribly? What’s hurting terribly?

BRAITHWAITE. My lip, sir. It’s getting bigger and bigger.

MASTER. What Prep are you doing tonight?

BRAITHWAITE. French verbs, sir. We have to write them out.

MASTER. Do you write with your lip?

BRAITHWAITE. No sir, I don’t sir, but you see …