Mr Campion's Fault Read Online Free PDF

headmaster has chosen wisely,’ he said, ‘and I would be honoured to stand by your side and pass you the Lower Fifth’s trophy for raffia work, or the Snodgrass Shield for Greek translation or whatever gongs you’ll be handing out, and I promise not to pocket the Footling Cup for smoking behind the Fives’ Court. I always felt short-changed that I never got one of those when I was a whining schoolboy with a satchel and a shining face.’
    ‘That’s Shakespeare,’ said Perdita confidently, ‘not Dickens.’
    ‘Almost,’ said Amanda. ‘He’s just showing off again.’
    ‘Seriously, my darlings, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Campion. ‘The two of you will perform your respective duties admirably and Rupert – well, it will be an experience for Rupert; probably a good one. When do we go north?’
    ‘Rupert and I are needed immediately, according to godfather Brigham, but Speech Day isn’t until the end of term in December. We were thinking of driving up there tomorrow.’
    Mr Campion reached fondly for his wife’s hand. ‘Why don’t we make a long weekend of it around Speech Day, darling? We could go tramping on the moors, pop over to Haworth and worship at the Brontë shrine or take a run up to the ruined abbeys at Fountains, Jervaulx and Rievaulx. They’re all pretty impressive, even in deep midwinter in darkest Yorkshire.’
    ‘Winter in Yorkshire …’ Amanda murmured to herself, then turned to Perdita as if she had had a revelation. ‘Never mind reminding Rupert to pack his thermal long johns, my dear – let’s go and buy you some right now!’

THREE
Great North Road
    I f a bright red second-hand five-year-old Austin Mini Cooper had seams, then Perdita’s was bulging at them as its stubby snout nosed its way up the A1, its windscreen wipers squeaking in protest at the morning drizzle and the spray of lorries thundering past.
    Rupert had been amazed at both the amount of luggage Perdita had insisted on bringing and the fact that it had all fitted into the Mini, but had said nothing. When they had married, Rupert and Perdita had agreed unreligious but eminently sensible additional vows that they would not quarrel or dispute any matters pertaining to money or to driving. And just as Rupert refrained from commenting on the plethora of bags and cases accompanying his wife, so Perdita bit her tongue and said nothing when Rupert chose to follow the A1 north rather than the recently extended M1 motorway.
    It was only when they were free of London and almost through Hertfordshire that she questioned her driver’s grasp of geography, albeit tangentially.
    ‘There’s another sign for Biggleswade,’ Perdita said conversationally. ‘It must be the fifth one we’ve passed. Why is Biggleswade so popular?
Where
is Biggleswade, anyway?’
    ‘It’s in Bedfordshire, darling, and I think its main claim to fame is that it has more signs than any other place bypassed by the A1. Nobody goes there but everyone knows they’ve passed a turning to it.’
    ‘One of the joys of travelling the Great North Road,’ sighed Perdita, digging into a shopping bag at her feet for the emergency packet of travel sweets she always carried on long journeys. ‘How long will it take us, do you think?’
    ‘Another three hours,’ said Rupert. ‘We can stop for lunch if you want to.’
    ‘I’ve brought sandwiches and a flask of tea so let’s push on. Though I’m happy to do some of the driving if you want a break.’
    ‘If Dick Turpin can make it to York in a day on a horse, then I think I can manage Huddersfield or thereabouts in a car.’ Rupert grinned.
    ‘You won’t mention Dick Turpin when you’re in Yorkshire, will you, darling?’ Perdita said, pointedly looking out of her side window.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Turpin was an eighteenth-century Essex thug. His famous “ride” from London to York – two hundred miles in a single day – was a story made up later and based on a
seventeenth
-century