He was different from the English boys. He looked healthier – as if he’d been pumped up with vitamins and goodness, with orange juice and milk and fat steaks. He had wide shoulders and clear, sun-tanned skin. His big, strong jaw was packed with gleaming white teeth and his eyes were so blue they looked unreal. There was something almost too perfect about him, like an illustration of a dashing pilot in a boys’ adventure book, but behind it all James sensed a craziness that unnerved him.
He broke his gaze and looked down at his shoes.
‘You’re not at home now,’ said the American in a baby voice, and sniggered at James. ‘You can’t go running to mummy…’
A hot, wild anger welled up in James. He felt his throat tighten and tears of rage come into his eyes.
‘Hey, I hope you’re not a crybaby, Bond,’ the boy laughed.
But James wasn’t going to let anyone make him cry. He fought back the anger and took control of himself.
‘I’d better go,’ he said flatly, brushing past the American and walking away. He fully expected the older boy to try and stop him, but all he did was call out.
‘Crybaby bunting, daddy’s gone a-hunting…’
James clenched his teeth; if this was the trouble he got into on his first day, what was the rest of his time at this strange school going to be like?
2
Lord Hellebore
‘A dry bob is a boy who plays cricket, and a wet bob is one who chooses rowing.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘And what do you call a boy who doesn’t do either?’
‘A slack bob.’
James shook his head and laughed. He was eating tea in his room with the two boys who made up his ‘mess’, Pritpal and Tommy Chong. Tommy was a small, tough boy from Hong Kong who loved to argue and play cards and had the largest vocabulary of swear words that James had ever heard. The three of them were huddled round the fireplace with their plates on their knees, making the most of the warmth from the small fire. They were only allowed coal every other day, and tonight it was a ‘hot’ day for James. On cold days the little rooms were absolutely freezing and James didn’t think he’d ever get used to being chilled to the bone half the time. It was no better in the classrooms: none of them were heated, and many of the boys did their lessons wearing gloves.
Pritpal and Tommy were attempting to explain to him some of the more unusual terms used at Eton in time for his Colours Test, an examination that all new boys had to take to make sure that they were properly learning their way around the school.
‘Mesopotamia?’ said Pritpal.
‘I know that one,’ said James. ‘Isn’t that the field where they play cricket?’
‘Cricket in the summer, football in the winter,’ said Pritpal.
Since that first day, James had got to know Pritpal quite well. He was the son of a maharajah, a genius at maths and science and completely uninterested in anything else – except his food.
Pritpal was sitting comfortably in a wicker armchair, attacking his tea with fierce concentration. The chair was a recent addition. In the few weeks that James had been at the school he had managed to make his room feel more like home. He had put up some pictures: a rather lurid depiction of a naval battle, a portrait of King George, and a painting of a hot and sunny South Sea island. He had also bought a few bits of furniture, most useful of which was the ottoman on which he was sitting. It was a long box with a padded seat and contained a hideous jumble of bits and pieces, odd items of clothing and sports equipment as well as sweets and biscuits and other treats, which at Eton were known as ‘sock’.
‘What about “Pop”?’ said Tommy Chong.
‘That’s the prefects, isn’t it?’ said Bond.
‘Yes,’ said Pritpal. ‘Properly called the Eton Society.’
James had quickly learnt that it was the boys themselves who were mainly responsible for discipline in the school. Older boys in ‘Pop’, easily distinguishable in their brightly coloured waistcoats, strutted about the place in a rather swanky manner, keeping the younger boys in order. The senior boys in charge of each house were known as the Library, and their powers were quite extensive. They could even beat younger boys if they felt their behaviour deserved it. Though, luckily, James had so far avoided this.
‘Do you know your tickets?’ said Tommy Chong.
‘I think so…’ James concentrated, thinking about the hateful slips of paper that dominated his life at Eton. ‘There’s “house tickets”, which you need to get signed if you go out of the house after lock-up, “leave tickets” for written permission to be away from school, “white tickets” if you’ve done something wrong and “yellow tickets” if you’ve done something very, very, very wrong.’
They were eating fried eggs and sausages that they had cooked on the little electric stove out in the passage under the watchful eye of the boys’ maid. Everyone bought extra food at the School Stores or at Jack’s or Rowland’s in the town; this was absolutely necessary to stop the boys from starving to death, as the meals that Codrose served up were almost completely inedible. The quality of food in the different houses was up to each house tutor, and Codrose had a reputation for being the worst. Today’s lunch had consisted of a tough old piece of meat with some watery boiled potatoes and a terrible, slimy pile of greyish beans.
‘Calx?’ said Pritpal.
‘Erm… Oh, yes, those are the goals in the Wall Game.’
‘We don’t call them goals, we call them shies. There’s good calx and bad calx.’
‘I’m not sure I really understand the rules of the Wall Game,’ said James. ‘Will that count against me?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tommy Chong. ‘Nobody understands the rules.’
James had settled in well; while he was never going to win any prizes for his school work, he was a bright boy and very observant. Once he’d got the hang of lessons and how things were done at the school, he coped well. In fact, although he’d started one half later in the year than most other boys, he found that he was keeping up fairly easily. Like most boys, he’d never been that keen on learning, but he realised that his aunt must have taught him well. In fact, apart from Latin, which he hated, he found some lessons a little too easy – French lessons were a bit of bore, as he already spoke the language as well as he spoke English. This came from having a Swiss mother and spending half his childhood in Switzerland. He was also fluent in German, but there were no German classes at the school, so he kept his hand in by chatting with a German-Jewish boy called Freddie Meyer who formed part of his loose circle of friends.
Despite all this, James still felt as if he didn’t really fit in here. He had learnt the jargon, he wore the uniform, but he didn’t belong. He was used to being his own man and was constantly aware of the mass of boys he was always surrounded by at Eton.
And the rules.
Endless rules and traditions.
James hated rules.
A great deal of his day was spent studying alone in his room, which suited him, but you couldn’t take a step anywhere at Eton without being reminded that thousands of boys before you had taken that step and you had to do it exactly as they had done.
‘Well, I think you are doing all right, James,’ said Pritpal. ‘I think you will pass your Colours Test without too much trouble.’
‘It’s hard work, keeping up,’ said James, buttering a piece of bread. ‘I don’t come from an Eton family. My father went to school at a place called Fettes, in Scotland.’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Pritpal. ‘Very tough.’
‘You don’t talk about your family very much, do you?’ said Tommy.
‘No,’ said James flatly.
‘Is there some secret we should know?’ said Pritpal, smiling mysteriously.
‘I’ll bet they’re criminals, aren’t they?’ said Tommy. ‘Your parents are in prison somewhere and you’re too ashamed to talk about them.’
‘No, I know,’ said Pritpal. ‘
They’re secret government agents, working undercover.’
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ve got it – they’re mad scientists and they’ve built a space rocket and gone to the moon.’
‘There’s no secret,’ said James with a friendly smile. ‘I’m an ordinary boy like you two.’
‘You are not,’ said Pritpal. ‘With all this ghastly running you do. It is not seemly for people to be dashing about the place.’
It was true, despite the huge choice of games on offer at Eton, from rugger and soccer to squash and even beagling, the sport that James preferred was running. James wasn’t keen on team sports, and running suited his solitary nature, even though it set him further apart from the other boys.
‘Running is no use,’ said Pritpal. ‘You are an excellent sportsman, James. You must join in more…’
James was about to reply to this when they heard the sound that all lower boys dreaded, a long shout of ‘B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-y!’ from upstairs. This was ‘boy call’. The three of them dropped everything and raced out of the room, along the corridor, down one flight of stairs and up another. James was easily the fastest, and he passed three other boys on the way. But Pritpal was the slowest, and, as the last to arrive, it fell to him to do whatever needed doing.
‘Come on, you inky little fourth-form scugs,’ said Longstaff, the senior boy who had made the call. ‘Oh, Nandra,’ he said, as Pritpal puffed up the last few steps. ‘You again. I want you to take a message for me. It’s for David Clasnet, he’s a scholar.’
Pritpal took the folded note and began to trudge back down the stairs.
‘You see,’ said James, catching him up. ‘There is some benefit to being able to run.’
‘It’s not fair,’ said Pritpal. ‘My food will get cold and I am wasting away with hunger.’
‘Here,’ said James, ‘I’ll take it for you.’
‘No, James…’
‘It’s no trouble. If we didn’t have to get in so early for lock-up I’d go for a run every night. I’ve just about finished my tea. Come along. I’ll enjoy it.’
James snatched the note from Pritpal and jumped down the stairs four at a time. He found Codrose and got him to sign a house ticket, then dashed out into the cool night air.
Judy’s Passage was deserted and it felt good to run off the effects of the stodgy food and the hot fire.
He crossed over the road by the Burning Bush and went through the arch into School Yard. As a scholar, David Clasnet would live in College, the original school building built by Henry VI in 1443. The scholars were the academic elite of Eton, with their own separate rules and traditions.
James had never been into College before and he was unsure which entrance to use. He was standing uncertainly in School Yard, peering at the note to see if it held any clues, when he heard voices and turned to see a good-looking, grey-haired man with the white collar of a priest. James had sat through enough of his dramatic sermons in chapel to know that this was the Head Master, the Reverend Dr Alington, known by some of the boys as Creeping Jesus. He was striding across the cobblestones, deep in excited conversation with two other people, and as they got nearer James groaned.
One of them was a boy – the American boy with whom James had had his run-in on his first day, and the other person could only be the boy’s father. The similarity between the two of them was extraordinary. The father was simply a larger, more perfect version of the son. He radiated health and energy. With his golden tan and thick yellow hair, he almost seemed to be glowing. The only major difference was that the father sported a big moustache.
As James watched, he threw back his head and laughed loudly at something the Head Master had said, and the sound echoed off the walls of the buildings. The Head Master, surely the most important man in the school, was looking at him in awe, like a boy meeting his childhood hero. Everything about the big man said that here was somebody rich and strong; here was somebody who felt he could rule the world. A true Roman emperor. Even his clothes were designed to make him look powerful. His tweed suit was cut wide at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, so that he resembled a wedge, and the brogues on his feet were so polished they shone like mirrors. James felt sure that his clothes couldn’t possibly hold him, however, and that at any moment he might burst out of his suit and charge, half-naked, through the school like Tarzan, beating his chest and roaring.
James tried to hide in the shadows but the Head Master spotted him and called him over.
‘Are you meant to be here?’ asked Dr Alington, and James showed him the note and explained that he was running an errand.
‘And what is your name, young man?’
‘Bond, sir. James Bond.’
‘James Bond?’ boomed the American giant. ‘I used to know an Andrew Bond. Any relation?’
‘Yes, sir, my father, sir.’
‘Well, there you go. They say it’s a small world. Andrew and I are in the same line of business.’
‘Selling armaments?’ said James.
‘That’s right. Without weapons our armies can’t fight. We were busy men after the war. A lot of countries needed new weapons, as all the old ones had been blown to smithereens.’ He laughed loudly, and Dr Alington nodded his head, a weak smile on his lips.
‘Is your father still with Vickers?’ asked the huge man, wiping his moustache.
‘No, sir, he is not,’ said James.
‘He’s a good fellow. Sure, we were rivals, but I always liked him. He’s a man’s man. Pleased to meet you, by the way. I am Lord Randolph Hellebore.’ He shook James’s hand. ‘Maybe you know my son, George.’
James glanced nervously at the boy and nodded. ‘We have met,’ he said, and George narrowed his eyes.
‘I wonder, are you like him?’ said Hellebore, leaning down close to James. ‘Can you run? Can you swim? Can you wrestle alligators?’
Lord Hellebore laughed into James’s face and his hot breath, which smelt sour and sulphurous, blasted him, almost making him choke. James was reminded of one time when he had been to London Zoo and, standing too close to a lion’s cage, the great beast had roared right at him. The lion’s breath had stunk of meat and of something else, something inhuman and frightening. Without the bars between them, that stink would have been the smell of death. But it wasn’t only Lord Hellebore’s breath that smelt. He was damp with sweat and there was an unpleasant, animal odour seeping from his body like a poisonous gas. James wanted to hold his nose and run, but Hellebore pierced him with his gaze. His pupils were very wide and very black, like two deep, black holes surrounded by thin pale-blue rings. He moved closer and James felt a great heat coming off him, as if he were burning inside, like a volcano ready to erupt.
There was a long, nervous moment as Lord Hellebore stared into James’s eyes. James didn’t know what to do or what to say, and he was painfully aware of the Head Master shuffling nervously.
‘Do you box, Mister Bond?’ Hellebore asked at last, offering a smile that showed two rows of immaculate, gleaming, white teeth.
‘A little,’ said James.
‘Come on, then, show me what you’re worth.’ Hellebore put up his fists in a defensive stance, and James felt even less sure just what exactly was expected of him.
‘Go on, take a swing at me.’ Hellebore sounded like a cowboy or a gangster from an American film.
James took one half-hearted swing, which Hellebore easily blocked with the palm of one huge hand.
‘Is that the best you got?’ he bellowed, and then he turned to Dr Alington. ‘They say your school is full of limp-wristed fops and sissies. They say you don’t really take your sport seriously enough. Well, I aim to change all that. Come on, Bond, do your worst.’
James took another swing, this time putting all his weight behind it, and as he swung George Hellebore said, ‘Dad!’ in a slightly embarrassed way, as if trying to get his father to stop. Hellebore glanced over at his son, and at that moment James’s fist connected with his jaw.
It couldn’t have hu
rt him at all, although to James it was like punching a brick wall and sent a jolt of pain all the way up his arm. For an instant, though, Hellebore glared at James with a wild fury in his eyes, and James backed away. The moment quickly passed and Hellebore disguised it with a smile, but not before James had had a frightening glimpse behind the big man’s gleaming exterior.
‘Hey, you caught me off guard there.’ Hellebore rubbed his jaw. ‘Not a bad punch. I need to look out for you, Mister Bond. You could be trouble.’
‘Come along, Randolph,’ said Dr Alington nervously. ‘We don’t want to be late for supper, and this boy needs to get back to his house.’
‘Sure,’ said Lord Hellebore, and he straightened up and turned away, instantly dismissing James. Dr Alington led him off and George tagged along behind, but not before giving James one last look full of hate.
Now what had he done? James realised that his heart was beating fast and he took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down before going inside.
The scholar, David Clasnet, smiled when James gave him the note.
‘I was watching you out of the window,’ he said. ‘Good punch. I must say I enjoyed that.’
‘I’m not sure I did,’ said James. ‘This is going to mean big trouble for me.’
3
Croaker
‘Are you ready to be put through your paces, Bond?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Good lad. I’m going to work you hard today.’
‘That’s nothing new, sir,’ said James. ‘You always work us hard.’
‘You know, Bond, you really shouldn’t answer back to the beaks. If I was a stricter master, I’d have you running laps for cheek.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘In fact, I think I will have you running laps. Four times round Dutchman’s. Off you go!’
Bond sighed and set off. Not that he really minded. He was never happier than when he was running, feeling his muscles working, his heart pounding and his lungs straining. It cleared his mind and woke him up and helped to digest the heavy lump of Codrose’s food that sat at the pit of his stomach.