Winter in Madrid Read Online Free PDF Page B

said.
    Harry looked up. ‘Father’s?’
    ‘Yes. Your
pater
, as they say at Rookwood.’
    ‘Do you know what
pater
means, Harry?’ Mr Taylor asked.
    ‘It’s Latin for father, sir.’
    ‘Very good.’ Mr Taylor smiled. ‘The boy might just do, Brett.’
    He asked more questions. He was friendly enough but had an air of authority, of expecting obedience, which made Harry cautious. After a while he was sent from the room while Mr Taylor talked with his uncle. When Uncle James called him back Mr Taylor had gone. His uncle asked him to sit down and looked at him seriously, stroking his greying moustache.
    ‘Your aunt and I think it’s time you went away to school, Harry. Better than staying here with a couple of old fogeys like us. And you should be mixing with boys from your own class, not the village lads.’
    Harry had no idea what a Public School was like. Into his head came a picture of a big building full of light, bright like the light in his parents’ photograph, welcoming him.
    ‘What do you think, Harry, would you like to go?’
    ‘Yes, Uncle. Yes, I would.’
    W ILL LIVED IN a quiet street of mock-Tudor villas. A new air-raid shelter, a long low concrete building, stood incongruously by the grass verge.
    His cousin was home already and answered the doorbell. He had changed into a brightly patterned jumper and beamed at Harry through his glasses.
    ‘Hello, Harry! Made it all right, then?’
    ‘Fine, thanks.’ Harry clasped his hand. ‘How are you, Will?’
    ‘Oh, bearing up, like everyone. How are the old ears?’
    ‘Just about back to normal. A bit deaf on one side.’
    Will led Harry into the hall. A tall, thin woman with mousy hairand a long disapproving face came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.
    ‘Muriel.’ Harry made himself smile warmly. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Oh, struggling on. I won’t shake hands, I’ve been cooking. I thought we might skip high tea, go straight on to dinner.’
    ‘We’ve got a nice steak for dinner, though. Got an arrangement with the butcher. Now, come on up, you’ll want a wash.’
    Harry had stayed in the back bedroom before. There was a big double bed and little ornaments on doilies on the dressing table. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Will said. ‘Have a wash, then come down.’
    Harry washed his face at the little sink, studying it in the mirror as he dried himself. He was putting on weight, his stocky frame starting to become fat through recent lack of exercise, the square jaw rounding out. People told him it was an attractive face, though he always thought the regular features under his curly brown hair a little too broad to be handsome. There were new lines around the eyes these days. He tried to make his face as expressionless as he could. Would Sandy be able to read his thoughts behind such a mask? It had been the done thing at school to hide your feelings – you showed them only through a set mouth, a raised eyebrow. People looked for little signs. Now he must learn to show nothing, or untrue things. He lay on the bed, remembering school and Sandy Forsyth.
    H ARRY HAD LOVED the school from the start. Set in an eighteenth-century mansion deep in the Sussex countryside, Rookwood had originally been founded by a group of London businessmen trading overseas to educate the sons of their ships’ officers. The House names reflected its naval past: Raleigh and Drake and Hawkins. Now the sons of civil servants and minor aristocrats went there, with a leavening of scholarship boys funded by bequests.
    The school and its orderly routines had given Harry a sense of belonging and purpose. The discipline could be harsh but he had no desire to break the rules and seldom got lines, let alone the cane. He did well in most classes, especially French and Latin – languages came easily to him. He enjoyed games too, rugger and especially cricket with its measured pace; in his last year he had been captain of the junior team.
    Sometimes he would walk on