Heads You Win

“Come,” said an unmistakable voice.

Sasha entered Mr. Quilter’s study to find him sitting behind his desk, grim-faced. Another man was seated opposite him, who didn’t turn around.

“Karpenko, this is Mr. Tremlett,” said the headmaster. A large man with thinning red hair, whose sizable paunch meant he couldn’t do up the buttons on his double-breasted suit, turned and gave Sasha a smug look that would have told any poker player he had a full house. “Mr. Tremlett tells me you punched his son during a game of football yesterday, and broke his nose. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Tremlett has assured me that his son had done nothing to provoke you, other than to score a goal. Is that the case?”

The meaning of the word “sneak” had been explained to Sasha in his first week at Latymer Upper, along with the consequences.

“It’s called collaboration in the Soviet Union,” Sasha had told his friend Ben Cohen. “But the consequences there are likely to be a little more serious than being sent to Coventry.”

The headmaster waited for an explanation, the expression on his face rather suggesting that he hoped there would be one, but Sasha made no attempt to defend himself.

“In the circumstances,” Mr. Quilter said eventually, “you leave me with no choice but to administer an appropriate punishment.”

Sasha was prepared for detention, extra prep, even six of the best, but he was shocked by the punishment the headmaster prescribed, especially as it meant the school would suffer every bit as much as he would. But he suspected that wouldn’t worry Tremlett. Father or son.

“And should such an incident ever be repeated, Karpenko, I will have no choice but to withdraw your scholarship.” Sasha knew that would mean his having to leave Latymer Upper, because his mother certainly couldn’t afford the school fees. “Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter,” were his final words.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” said Ben Cohen when Sasha explained why he’d been demoted to the Second Eleven for the rest of the season.

“Tremlett’s father is a school governor, as well as a local councilor, so who do you think Quilter is more likely to believe?”

“This isn’t the Soviet Union,” said Ben. “And Mr. Quilter is a fair man. I should know.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father is a Jewish immigrant, and several other schools turned me down before Latymer offered me a place.”

“I always think of you as English,” said Sasha.

“I’m sure you do,” said Ben. “But the Tremletts of the world don’t, and never will.”

* * *

Sasha didn’t tell his mother the reason he was no longer playing in goal for the First Eleven. However, the rest of the school became painfully aware who was responsible for the team no longer having a clean sheet, while the Second Eleven were enjoying a vintage season.

When the headmaster asked to see Sasha at the end of term he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong this time, but felt sure he was about to find out. He knocked tentatively on Mr. Quilter’s door and waited for the familiar “Come.” When he entered the study, he was greeted with a smile.

“Take a seat.” Sasha was relieved. If you remained standing, you were in trouble; if you were invited to sit, all was well. “I wanted to have a private word with you, Sasha—” the first time the headmaster had called him by his Christian name. “I’ve been going over your mock A-level papers, and I think you should consider entering for the Isaac Barrow Prize for Mathematics at Cambridge.”

Sasha remained silent. He had no idea what the headmas

ter was talking about.

“The Isaac Barrow is one of Cambridge’s most prestigious awards, and the winner is offered a scholarship to Trinity,” Mr. Quilter continued. The fog was slowly lifting, but it still wasn’t clear. “As Trinity is my alma mater, it would give me particular pleasure if you were to win the prize. However, I must warn you, you’d be up against pupils from every school in the country, so the competition would be stiff. You’d have to sacrifice almost everything else if you were to have a chance.”

“Even playing for the First Eleven next season?”

“I had a feeling you might ask me that,” said Quilter, “so I discussed the problem with Mr. Sutton, and we felt you could be allowed just one indulgence, especially as cricket has failed lamentably to capture your imagination, and captaining the school chess team hasn’t proved too demanding.”

“I’m sure you know, headmaster,” said Sasha, “that I’ve already been offered a place at the London School of Economics, subject to my A-level results.”

“An offer that you could still take up should you fail to win the Isaac Barrow Scholarship. Why don’t you discuss the idea with your mother, and let me know how she feels?”