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Jackie, hardly aware of what he was doing, rushed forwards. Indignation screwed his voice to a high-pitched squeal. “Leave him alone!” he shouted. “Pagal!” The Hindi word of abuse came easily to him. “Leave him alone!”

Mr. Rapson turned towards him in astonishment, and Jackie found his face within a few inches of Mr. Rapson’s waistcoat, girt with his watch chain. Rocking back on his heel and using all his small strength, he plunged his fist into Mr. Rapson’s midriff. He was crying with rage.

For a moment, time stood still. This was blasphemy of the most extreme kind. Such an outburst was totally without precedent. Masters hit you, you didn’t hit them. Rapson was big and powerful, Jackie was small and insignificant. God only knew what would now ensue. The boys unconsciously began to back away, leaving Rapson and Jackie at the centre of a blighted space.

Rapson eyed Jackie, grim with menace. He inflated his tweedy ginger chest like an aggressive robin, and the boys shrank back farther. Smythe 3 hid his face behind a damp coat and whimpered. Finally, with chilling control, Rapson spoke: “I’ll see you in my study after tea, Drummond. Six o’clock sharp! The rest of you—how many more times? Dismiss!”

The bell rang for tea. An audience gathered round Jackie. “You hit him! You actually hit him in the bread-basket! Gosh, you’ll catch it, Drummond!”

“Did you see Rappo’s face!”

“Six of the best,” said Spielman, unimpressed by Jackie’s intervention on his behalf, “at least. That’s what you’ll get. Six strokes on the stroke of six!” He began to titter.

Mr. Langhorne, one of the senior staff, was passing by on his way to supervise tea. He’d heard enough to guess what was going on. He gave Jackie a smile, saying jovially, “Take my advice. Fold a copy of the Daily Sketch in two and stick it down the back of your pants. I always used to. It helps.”

The boys standing by laughed sycophantically, and Jackie went in to tea in total dismay.

He’d thought the day couldn’t get worse but—wouldn’t it just be his luck?—they’d been given luncheon meat, potatoes and beetroot, and he’d been put to sit next to Matron. Jackie was a well-brought up boy, and his father had taught him that good manners demanded that you make conversation with your neighbour. He did his best: “Do you know, Matron? Until I came to school, I thought that only servants had beetroot.” He was aware that the remark had not gone down well, though he could not exactly see why. But then so many things had puzzled him since returning to England from his Indian childhood. The inevitable followed.

“Beetroot may be seen as only fit for servants from your elevated colonial viewpoint, Drummond, but some of us actually enjoy it. Be thankful for what you are given. You will stay here until you’ve finished what’s before you!”

Jackie looked down at the mess on his plate. Beetroot juice seeping into the potato, turning it pink, luncheon meat slices curling at the edge, and a stale glass of water poured out a long time before. Matron went to whisper to Mr. Langhorne, and Mr. Langhorne said, “All dismiss except Drummond.” And Jackie was left alone in the empty room, his plate still full before him.

But relief was at hand. Betty Bellefoy, who was in the estimation of the school the prettiest of the three parlour maids, took advantage of Matron’s inattention and swept down upon him to whisk his plate away, replacing it with a dish of stewed plums and custard.

“Thanks, Betty,” Jackie said, grateful.

“Ah, go on with you,” said Betty comfortably.

Jackie spent a long time over his stewed plums. The longer he took, the longer he could postpone his encounter with Rapson. Anything might happen. The school might catch fire. Perhaps his parents would appear in the doorway, or perhaps Uncle Dougal or perhaps the Brighton aunts. (Not impossible. They had once made an unscheduled visit.) But relief did not come. There was no way out. He was Sydney Carton on the scaffold; he was Henry V at Harfleur; he was Brigadier Gerard. What had he said?—“Courage, mon vieux! Piré took Leipzig with fifty hussars!” He passionately wished that fifty sabre-waving hussars would come clattering into the dining room and raze the school to the ground.

One by one the last remaining staff left. Matron went out closely followed by Mr. Langhorne, which was often the case. And Jackie was left alone in the darkening room with Betty. Three plums eaten and the stones carefully arranged on the rim of his dish. Tinker, tailor, soldier.… He counted them again. That was a good place to stop. He’d settle for soldier today. Jackie had been rather taken with the one in the verse Mr. Langhorne had made them learn last week. The swashbuckling chap who was “full of strange oaths … bearded like the pard … sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.” He wanted desperately to be old enough to swear and have a beard. He’d shown already that he was quick in quarrel. The whole school would be talking about his punch to the Rapson midriff. But, now, in the outfall, he felt much more like the frightened child his father had once hugged and called his “chocolate cream soldier.”

He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to fight back tears. In his imagination his father’s big hand tightened around his, rough and reassuring.

Two plums remaining … sailor … rich man.… Settle for “rich man”? Money was a good way of getting out of trouble. He would make a lot of it, buy up the whole school and close it down. That wouldn’t be bad. Perhaps he should force down the last two plums? Betty looked anxiously at the big school clock and back at Jackie, her eyes wide with appeal. She sighed.

Good manners overcame even the paralysis of terror, and Jackie roused himself. Never keep a lady waiting. He handed his plate up for the maid, and she dashed off into the kitchens in a gust of relief, muttering a word of thanks.

Time to move on and take his medicine.

He got up and put his chair away. What had Lloyd 2 said? “Don’t worry too much. It’s only a tickle. It’ll be over in five minutes. Brace up, Drummond! You’re a toff! Everyone’s saying so!”

A toff. At least “the bubble reputation” seemed to be coming his way. All he could do was shape up and try to deserve it.

On wobbly legs Jackie crossed the darkened hall, turned into the deserted corridor and began to climb the stairs to Rappo’s room. Into the cannon’s mouth.

CHAPTER 2

CHELSEA, LONDON. 1933.

Joe Sandilands stood looking down on the restless, steel-grey surface of the river reflected in the lights of a tugboat and listened while the bell of Chelsea Old Church struck the hour. His sister Lydia joined him, handing him a glass of whisky.

“The snow’s really coming down now,” she said. “Glad I rang Marcus to say I’d better stay over. Let’s hope it’s no more than a flurry and I can get a train in the morning. I don’t want to be snowed up in Chelsea staring at the Thames for a week.”

“No fun being marooned in London when you’ve already emptied Selfridges of its goodies,” Joe agreed. “I can see that. It’s the only time you’ll deign to visit me—when you need to go shopping.”

“There are compensations.” Lydia grinned. “It’s quiet here. No girls shrieking about the place. No husband asking how much I’ve spent. Grown-up conversation. And I thought, since we seem to be staying in tonight, we could listen to that play on the wireless. We’ll make a start on the box of chocolates we didn’t open at the theatre.”

Joe swished the curtains together, turned on another lamp, and emptied half a scuttle of coal onto the fire. “I loathe February. Nothing much happening.”

“The calm between the New Year madness and the spring urges,” Lydia said, nodding. She looked at the clock. “Come and settle down. Curtain up in two minutes. I say—you won’t be interrupted, will you?”