Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell Read Online Free PDF Page B

line?’
    ‘The same,’ replied Old Jack, fearing he’d gone too far.
    ‘And are they also decent, courageous, God-fearing men?’
    ‘Sir Walter is among the finest men I’ve ever known.’
    ‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’
    ‘Not cut from the same cloth, I fear,’ said Old Jack, without further explanation.

4
     
    T HE SMARTLY DRESSED BOY sat next to his mother on the back seat of the tram.
    ‘This is our stop,’ she said when the tram came to a halt. They got off, and began to walk slowly up the hill towards the school, going a little slower with each step.
    Harry held on to his mother with one hand, while he clutched a battered suitcase with the other. Neither of them spoke as they watched several hansom cabs, as well as the occasional chauffeur-driven car, pull up outside the front gates of the school.
    Fathers were shaking hands with their sons, while fur-draped mothers embraced their offspring before giving them a peck on the cheek, like a bird finally having to acknowledge her fledglings were about to fly the nest.
    Harry didn’t want his mother to kiss him in front of the other boys, so he let go of her hand when they were still fifty yards from the gate. Maisie, sensing his discomfort, bent down and kissed him quickly on the forehead. ‘Good luck, Harry. Make us all proud of you.’
    ‘Goodbye, Mum,’ he said, fighting back the tears.
    Maisie turned and began to walk back down the hill, tears flooding down her own cheeks.
    Harry walked on, recalling his uncle’s description of going over the top at Ypres before charging towards the enemy lines. Never look back, or you’re a dead man. Harry wanted to look back, but he knew if he did, he would not stop running until he was safely on the tram. He gritted his teeth and kept on walking.
    ‘Did you have a good hols, old chap?’ one of the boys was asking a friend.
    ‘Topping,’ the other replied. ‘The pater took me to Lord’s for the Varsity match.’
    Was Lord’s a church, Harry wondered, and if so, what sort of match could possibly take place in a church? He marched resolutely on through the school gates, coming to a halt when he recognized a man standing by the front door of the school holding a clipboard.
    ‘And who are you, young man?’ he asked, giving Harry a welcoming smile.
    ‘Harry Clifton, sir,’ he replied, removing his cap just as Mr Holcombe had instructed him to do whenever a master or a lady spoke to him.
    ‘Clifton,’ he said, running a finger down a long list of names. ‘Ah, yes.’ He placed a tick by Harry’s name. ‘First generation, choral scholar. Many congratulations, and welcome to St Bede’s. I’m Mr Frobisher, your housemaster, and this is Frobisher House. If you leave your suitcase in the hall, a prefect will accompany you to the refectory where I’ll be addressing all the new boys before supper.’
    Harry had never had supper before. ‘Tea’ was always the last meal in the Clifton household, before being sent to bed the moment it was dark. Electricity hadn’t yet reached Still House Lane, and there was rarely enough money over to spend on candles.
    ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Harry, before making his way through the front door and into a large, highly polished wood-panelled hall. He put his case down and stared up at a painting of an old man with grey hair and bushy white sideburns, dressed in a long black gown with a red hood draped around his shoulders.
    ‘What’s your name?’ barked a voice from behind him.
    ‘Clifton, sir,’ said Harry, turning to see a tall boy wearing long trousers.
    ‘You don’t call me sir, Clifton. You call me Fisher. I’m a prefect, not a master.’
    ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Harry.
    ‘Leave your case over there and follow me.’
    Harry placed his second-hand, battered suitcase next to a row of leather trunks. His was the only one that didn’t have a set of initials stamped on it. He followed the prefect down a long corridor that was lined with photographs of old