Abruptly Colin entered the sitting-room through the open door without knocking, his face shining with exertion. A most attractive face the lad had when flushed, thought King. A guileless, open face. A healthy athletic physique, too: he had the makings of a fine rugby player.
‘I brought my books with me, sir,’ he said.
‘Good lad. Sit down in the comfy chair and open your primer to page 43. Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you, sir. I’m not thirsty. Really.’ This last was in response to a raised eyebrow.
‘After all that running about, I’m surprised. But I’ll take some more myself, and I think we’ll shut out all that commotion in the corridor.’ He closed the door and took his seat beside Colin, cup in hand.
The first few lines presented no difficulty. Perhaps, thought Colin, he doesn’t remember we did part of this last week in class. Colin had a good memory, and rattled off what he remembered. But once on unfamiliar ground, his uncertain grasp of the subject became evident, and he floundered helplessly, his initial enthusiasm for the project rapidly evaporating. Eventually he stopped, his cheery face a picture of gloom.
‘ “ Sed Aeneas, septimo anno itineris longi, ad litora Africae pervenit. Ibi erat novum oppidum, Carthago nomine, cuius regina erat Dido,’” read Mr. King, persisting.
‘But Aeneas…who was seven years long…’ began Colin miserably.
‘How can someone be seven years long? What does ‘itineris’ mean?’
‘Itinerary?’
‘That English word is derived from it, yes, but the nominative is ‘iter,’ a journey.’
‘Oh, the journey… to Africa… was seven years long. Oh, took seven years.’
‘Yes, that’s it! Mr. King tousled Colin’s hair and smiled at his anxious perspiring face.
‘Now, “ad litora Africae”? “Pervenit?”
‘To Africa. What’s ‘litora’?
‘Shores. Aeneas arrived– pervenit– on the Afric shore, to put it more poetically.’ Mr. King, impatient to move more quickly, helped him with the next sentence. ‘In that place, there was a new city called Carthage, whose queen was Dido.’
Colin looked up at him gratefully. ‘I wouldn’t have got that by myself, sir,’ he said, blushing, a most becoming blush, thought King, as it set off his fair hair.
‘If you’d worked at it, Colin, you would have. That’s all you need. Do you know what Troiani are? In the next sentence?’
‘Trojans?’ Colin suspected a trick question. This was too easy. Aeneas was a Trojan.
‘And do you know what Trojans are?’
Colin’s face clouded. ‘What they are?’ he repeated, uncomprehending. Trojans were people, weren’t they?
‘Trojans are a brand of condom. What you put on your willy when it gets hard.’
Colin’s face turned scarlet. Smutty talk was the province of boys his age. It was not what adults said, and certainly not something Mr. King should have said. He looked uncertainly at him for a clue to his meaning. His teacher was not joking.
‘Does your willy get hard?’ Mr. King’s cheek had begun a curious twitching. There could be no doubt. Colin was out of his depth. He was in murky water.
