“The following story contains scenes of physical abuse that some readers may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised. Please take into consideration your own sensitivity or comfort levels before proceeding.”
The past is another country. They do things differently there.
– L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between
C. F. King, B. A. (Oxon.) put down his teacup in the Headmaster’s study and asked of the masters departing for afternoon classes, ‘Would there be any objection to my taking Marshall major out of prep this afternoon? His grammar is in dire need of a brush-up, so I thought I’d give him a few pointers, knock some urgency into him with exams coming up and all. Roger? Any from you?’ Colonel Roger Ogilvy, late of the King’s African Rifles, knocked his pipe out on the fender and growled, ‘Good God, no! Boy’s a dunce at algebra anyway. Same goes for his geometry and arithmetic. He’d only waste his time in prep daydreaming or writing stories, or some such damn nonsense. Take him and make something of him if you can.’
Paul Hardy, at the door, felt compelled to defend Colin Marshall. ‘He’s very good at history and English, you know…’
‘Yes, yes, ’course he is.’ This from the colonel. ‘But he’s a dope at maths. Doesn’t even try.’
‘Headmaster?’
‘Yes, of course, King,’ The Head, preoccupied with some matter on his desk, waved him away.
When the gong sounded the end of the last class, and the beginning of the tea break before prep, a horde of boys clumped boisterously down the echoing staircase in search of sustenance. Mr. King drew Colin Marshall aside, knowing full well that when presented with the choice between going to study hall to work on algebra, or keeping him company at a Latin tutorial, the boy would choose the lesser of the two evils, and this proved to be the case.
‘Oh, sir! Yes, please. I know my Latin needs work,’ he admitted, crestfallen.
‘On your bike, then. Literally. You’ll need permission from Mr. Turner to miss prep.’
‘But you said you’d cleared it with Col. Ogilvy, sir…’
‘Yes, yes, boy, to miss algebra, but you know what a stickler Mr. Turner is for attendance in study hall, and he’s the supervisor today. He’s just back from taking the First Eleven to Radley Court, so he’s probably putting the van in the shed. If you hurry, you’ll catch him there.’
Colin did not see why he had to cycle over to the boarding school half a mile away when Mr. Turner was due to arrive at the day school to supervise prep at any moment now, but recalling his mother’s line from Tennyson, ‘Ours not to reason why,’ he set off down Sacketts Lane, his open school blazer flapping in the wind of his passage.
