Giles looked up. 'Are you feeling all right?' he asked when he saw Harry's flushed face. Harry didn't reply. He placed the bar of chocolate in a drawer and left for choir practice without saying a word to either of his friends. Giles's eyes never left him, and once the door was closed, he turned to Deakins and asked casually, 'What's his problem?' Deakins went on writing as if he hadn't heard the question. 'Didn't you hear me, cloth ears?' said Giles. 'Why's Harry in a sulk?'
'All I know is that he had an appointment to see the Frob.'
'Why?' asked Giles, sounding more interested.
'I've no idea,' said Deakins, who didn't stop writing.
Giles stood up and strolled across the room to Deakins's side. 'What aren't you telling me?' he demanded, grabbing him by the ear.
Deakins dropped his pen, nervously touched the bridge of his glasses and pushed them further up his nose, before he eventually squeaked, 'He's in some sort of trouble.'
'What sort of trouble?' asked Giles, twisting the ear.
'I think he might even be expelled,' whimpered Deakins.
Giles let go of his ear and burst out laughing. 'Harry, expelled?' he scoffed. 'The Pope's more likely to be defrocked.' He would have returned to his desk if he hadn't noticed beads of sweat appearing on Deakins's forehead. 'What for?' he asked more quietly.
'The Frob thinks he's been stealing from the tuck shop,' said Deakins.
If Deakins had looked up, he would have seen that Giles had turned ashen white. A moment later, he heard the door close. He picked up his pen and tried to concentrate, but for the first time in his life, he didn't finish his prep.
When Harry came out of choir practice an hour later, he spotted Fisher leaning on the wall, unable to mask a smile. That was when he realized who must have reported him. He ignored Fisher and strolled back to his house as if he didn't have a care in the world, whereas in fact he felt like a man mounting the gallows, knowing that unless he ditched his closest friend, a stay of execution would not be possible. He hesitated before knocking on his housemaster's door.
The 'Come' was far gentler than it had been earlier that afternoon, but when Harry entered the room he was greeted with the same uncompromising stare. He bowed his head.
'I owe you a sincere apology, Clifton,' said Frobisher, rising from behind his desk. 'I now realize that you were not the culprit.'
Harry's heart was still beating fast, but his anxiety was now for Giles. 'Thank you, sir,' he said, his head still bowed. He had so many questions he would have liked to ask the Frob, but he knew none of them would be answered.
Mr Frobisher stepped out from behind his desk and shook hands with Harry, something he'd never done before. 'You'd better hurry, Clifton, if you hope to get any supper.'
When Harry came out of the Frob's study, he walked slowly towards the dining room. Fisher was standing by the door, a surprised look on his face. Harry walked straight past him and took his place on the end of the bench next to Deakins. The seat opposite him was empty.
8
GILES DIDN'T SHOW UP for supper, and his bed wasn't slept in that night. If St Bede's hadn't lost their annual fixture against Avonhurst by thirty-one runs, Harry suspected that not many boys or even masters would have noticed he was missing.
But, unfortunately for Giles, it was a home match, so everyone had an opinion on why the school's opening batsman had not taken his guard at the crease, not least Fisher, who was telling anyone who cared to listen that the wrong man had been rusticated.
Harry hadn't been looking forward to the holidays; not just because he wondered if he'd ever see Giles again, but also because it meant returning to No. 27 Still House Lane and once again having to share a room with his uncle Stan, who more often than not returned home drunk.
After spending the evening going over old exam papers, Harry would climb into bed around ten. He quickly fell asleep, only to be woken sometime after midnight by his uncle, who was often so drunk he couldn't find his own bed. The sound of Stan trying to pee into a chamberpot, and not always hitting the target, was something that would remain etched in Harry's mind for the rest of his life.
Once Stan had collapsed on to his bed - he rarely bothered to get undressed - Harry would try to fall asleep a second time, often to be woken a few minutes later by loud drunken snores. He longed to be back at St Bede's, sharing a dormitory with twenty-nine other boys.
Harry still hoped that in an unguarded moment Stan might let slip some more details about his father's death, but most of the time he was too incoherent to answer even the simplest question. On one of the rare occasions when he was sober enough to speak, he told Harry to bugger off and warned him that if he raised the subject again, he'd thrash him.
The only good thing about sharing a room with Stan was that there was never any chance of his being late for his paper round.
Harry's days at Still House Lane fell into a well-ordered routine: up at five, one slice of toast for breakfast - he no longer licked his uncle's bowl - report to Mr Deakins at the newsagent's by six, stack the papers in the correct order, then deliver them. The whole exercise took about two hours, allowing him to be back home in time for a cup of tea with Mum before she went off to work. At around eight thirty Harry would set off for the library, where he would meet up with Deakins, who was always sitting on the top step waiting for someone to open the doors.
In the afternoon, Harry would report for choir practice at St Mary Redcliffe, as part of his obligation to St Bede's. He never considered it an obligation because he enjoyed singing so much. In fact, he'd more than once whispered, 'Please God, when my voice breaks, let me be a tenor, and I'll never ask for anything else.'
After he returned home for tea in the evening, Harry would work at the kitchen table for a couple of hours before going to bed, dreading his uncle's return every bit as much as he had Fisher's in his first week at St Bede's. At least Fisher had departed for Colston's Grammar School, so Harry assumed their paths would never cross again.
Harry was looking forward to his final year at St Bede's, although he wasn't in any doubt just how much his life would change if he and his two friends ended up going their separate ways: Giles to he knew not where, Deakins to Bristol Grammar, while if he failed to win a scholarship to BGS, he might well have to return to Merrywood Elementary, and then, at the age of fourteen, leave school and look for a job. He tried not to think about the consequences of failure, despite Stan never missing an opportunity to remind him he could always find work at the docks.
'The boy should never have been allowed to go to that stuck-up school in the first place,' he regularly told Maisie once she'd placed his bowl of porridge in front of him. 'It's given him ideas above his station,' he added, as if Harry wasn't there. A view that Harry felt Fisher would have happily agreed with, but then he'd long ago come to the conclusion that Uncle Stan and Fisher had a lot in common.
'But surely Harry should be given the chance to better himself?' countered Maisie.
'Why?' said Stan. 'If the docks was good enough for me and his old man, why aren't they good enough for him?' he demanded with a finality that brooked no argument.
'Perhaps the boy's cleverer than both of us,' suggested Maisie.