Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles 1)

Harry, seated in the front row, stared up at the frightening figure who towered above him. Dr Oakshott was well over six feet tall, and had a head of thick, greying hair and long bushy sideburns that made him look even more forbidding. His deep blue eyes pierced right through you and he never seemed to blink, while the criss-cross of lines on his forehead hinted at great wisdom. He cleared his throat before addressing the boys.

'Fellow Bedeans,' he began. 'We are once again gathered together at the beginning of a new school year, no doubt prepared to face whatever challenges should confront us. For the senior boys,' he turned his attention to the back of the hall, 'you don't have a moment to lose if you hope to be offered a place at the school of your first choice. Never settle for second best.

'For the middle school,' his eyes moved to the centre of the hall, 'this will be a time when we discover which of you is destined for greater things. When you return next year, will you be a prefect, a monitor, a house captain or a captain of sport? Or will you simply be among the also-rans?' Several boys bowed their heads.

'Our next duty is to welcome the new boys, and do everything in our power to make them feel at home. They are being handed the baton for the first time as they begin life's long race. Should the pace prove to be too demanding, one or two of you may fall by the wayside,' he warned, staring down at the front three rows. 'St Bede's is not a school for the faint-hearted. So be sure never to forget the words of the great Cecil Rhodes: If you are lucky enough to have been born an Englishman, you have drawn first prize in the lottery of life.'

The assembled gathering burst into spontaneous applause as the headmaster left the stage, followed by a crocodile of masters whom he led down the centre aisle, out of the great hall and into the morning sunshine.

Harry, his spirits raised, was determined not to let the headmaster down. He followed the senior boys out of the hall, but the moment he stepped out into the quad, his exuberance was dampened. A posse of older boys were hanging around in one corner, hands in pockets to indicate they were prefects.

'There he is,' said one of them, pointing at Harry.

'So that's what a street urchin looks like,' said another.

A third, whom Harry recognized as Fisher, the prefect who had been on duty the previous night, added, 'He's an animal, and it's nothing less than our duty to see that he's returned to his natural habitat as quickly as possible.'

Giles Barrington ran after Harry. 'If you ignore them,' he said, 'they'll soon get bored and start picking on someone else.' Harry wasn't convinced, and ran ahead to the classroom where he waited for Barrington and Deakins to join him.

A moment later, Mr Frobisher entered the room. Harry's first thought was, does he also think I'm a street urchin, unworthy of a place at St Bede's?

'Good morning, boys,' said Mr Frobisher.

'Good morning, sir,' replied the boys as their form master took his place in front of the blackboard. 'Your first lesson this morning,' he said, 'will be history. As I am keen to get to know you, we will start with a simple test to discover how much you have already learnt, or perhaps how little. How many wives did Henry the Eighth have?'

Several hands shot up. 'Abbott,' he said, looking at a chart on his desk and pointing to a boy in the front row.

'Six, sir,' came back the immediate reply.

'Good, but can anyone name them?' Not quite as many hands were raised. 'Clifton?'

'Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, then another Anne I think,' he said before coming to a halt.

'Anne of Cleves. Can anyone name the missing two?' Only one hand remained in the air. 'Deakins,' said Frobisher after checking his chart.

'Catherine Howard and Catherine Parr. Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr both outlived Henry.'

'Very good, Deakins. Now, let's turn the clock forward a couple of centuries. Who commanded our fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar?' Every hand in the room shot up. 'Matthews,' he said, nodding at a particularly insistent hand.

'Nelson, sir.'

'Correct. And who was Prime Minister at the time?'

'The Duke of Wellington, sir,' said Matthews, not sounding quite as confident.

'No,' said Mr Frobisher, 'it wasn't Wellington, although he was a contemporary of Nelson's.' He looked around the class, but only Clifton's and Deakins's hands were still raised. 'Deakins.'

'Pitt the Younger, 1783 to 1801, and 1804 to 1806.'

'Correct, Deakins. And when was the Iron Duke Prime Minister?'

'1828 to 1830, and again in 1834,' said Deakins.

'And can anyone tell me what his most famous victory was?'

Barrington's hand shot up for the first time. 'Waterloo, sir!' he shouted before Mr Frobisher had time to select anyone else.

'Yes, Barrington. And whom did Wellington defeat at Waterloo?'

Barrington remained silent.

'Napoleon,' whispered Harry.

'Napoleon, sir,' said Barrington confidently.

'Correct, Clifton,' said Frobisher, smiling. 'And was Napoleon also a Duke?'

'No, sir,' said Deakins, after no one else had attempted to answer the question. 'He founded the first French Empire, and appointed himself Emperor.'

Mr Frobisher was not surprised by Deakins's response, as he was an open scholar, but he was impressed by Clifton's knowledge. After all, he was a choral scholar, and over the years he had learnt that gifted choristers, like talented sportsmen, rarely excel outside their own field. Clifton was already proving an exception to that rule. Mr Frobisher would have liked to know who had taught the boy.

When the bell rang for the end of class, Mr Frobisher announced, 'Your next lesson will be geography with Mr Henderson, and he is not a master who likes to be kept waiting. I recommend that during the break you find out where his classroom is, and are seated in your places long before he enters the room.'

Harry stuck close to Giles, who seemed to know where everything was. As they strolled across the quad together, Harry became aware that some of the boys lowered their voices when they passed, and one or two even turned to stare at him.

Thanks to countless Saturday mornings spent with Old Jack, Harry held his own in the geography lesson, but in maths, the final class of the morning, no one came close to Deakins, and even the master had to keep his wits about him.

When the three of them sat down for lunch, Harry could feel a hundred eyes watching his every move. He pretended not to notice, and simply copied everything Giles did. 'It's nice to know there's something I can teach you,' Giles said as he peeled an apple with his knife.

Harry enjoyed his first chemistry lesson later that afternoon, especially when the master allowed him to light a Bunsen burner. But he didn't excel at nature studies, the final lesson of the day, because Harry was the only boy whose home didn't have a garden.

When the final bell sounded, the rest of the class went off for games, while Harry reported to the chapel for his first choir practice. Once again, he noticed everyone was staring at him, but this time it was for all the right reasons.

But no sooner had he walked out of the chapel than he was subjected to the same sotto voce jibes from boys who were making their way back from the playing fields.