Jack shook him warmly by the hand. ‘I remember you well, sir. You taught me a love of Trollope and an appreciation of the finer points of spin bowling.’
‘It’s kind of you to remember,’ Trent chuckled. ‘I wonder if I might accompany you on your way back to the station?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘As you know,’ said Trent as they began walking towards the town, ‘your father was resident canon of this cathedral for the past nine years. You’ll also know that he cared nothing for worldly goods, and shared even the little he had with those less fortunate than himself. If he were to be canonized, he would surely be the patron saint of vagabonds.’
Old Jack smiled. He recalled going to school one morning without breakfast because three tramps were sleeping in the hallway and, to quote his mother, they had eaten them out of house and home.
‘So when his will comes to be read,’ continued Trent, ‘it will show that just as he entered this world with nothing, he has also left it with nothing - other than a thousand friends, that is, which he would have considered a veritable fortune. Before he died, he entrusted me with one small task should you attend his funeral, namely that of handing you the last letter he ever wrote.’ He extracted an envelope from an inside pocket of his overcoat and handed it to Old Jack, raised his hat once more and said, ‘I have carried out his request, and am proud to have met his son once again.’
‘I am obliged, sir. I only wish that I hadn’t made it necessary for him to have to write in the first place.’ Jack raised his hat and the two men parted.
Old Jack decided that he would not read his father’s letter until he was on the train, and had begun the journey back to Bristol. As the engine shunted out of the station, billowing clouds of grey smoke, Jack settled back in a third-class compartment. As a child, he remembered asking his father why he always travelled third class, to which he had replied, ‘Because there isn’t a fourth class.’ It was ironic that, for the past thirty years, Jack had been living in first class.
He took his time unsealing the envelope, and even after he had extracted the letter, he left it folded while he continued to think about his father. No son could have asked for a better mentor or friend. When he looked back on his life, all his actions, judgements and decisions were nothing more than pale imitations of his father’s.
When he finally unfolded the letter, another flood of memories came rushing back the moment he saw the familiar bold, copperplate hand in jet-black ink. He began to read.
The Close
Wells Cathedral
Wells, Somerset
26th August, 1936
My beloved son,
If you were kind enough to attend my funeral, you must now be reading this letter. Allow me to begin by thanking you for being among the congregation.
Old Jack raised his head and looked out at the passing countryside. He felt guilty once again for treating his father in such an inconsiderate and thoughtless manner, and now it was too late to ask for his forgiveness. His eyes returned to the letter.
When you were awarded the Victoria Cross, I was the proudest father in England, and your citation still hangs above my desk to this very day. But then, as the years passed, my happiness turned to sorrow, and I asked our Lord what I had done that I should be so punished by losing not only your dear mother, but also you, my only child.
I accept that you must have had some noble purpose for turning your head and your heart against this world, but I wish you had shared your reason for so doing with me. But, should you read this letter, perhaps you might grant me one last wish.
Old Jack removed the handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his eyes before he was able to continue reading.
God gave you the remarkable gift of leadership and the ability to inspire your fellow men, so I beg you not to go to your grave knowing that when the time comes for you to face your maker, you will, as in the parable Matthew 25, v14-30, have to confess that you buried the one talent He gave you.
Rather, use that gift for the benefit of your fellow men, so that when your time comes, as it surely must, and those same men attend your funeral, the Victoria Cross will not be the only thing they remember when they hear the name Jack Tarrant.
Your loving father
‘Are you all right, my luv?’ asked a lady who had moved from the other side of the carriage to sit next to Old Jack.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, the tears streaming down his face. ‘It’s just that I was released from prison today.’
GILES BARRINGTON
1936-1938
35
I was thrilled when I saw Harry walk through the school gates on the first day of term. I’d spent the summer hols at our villa in Tuscany, so I wasn’t in Bristol when Tilly’s was burnt to the ground and didn’t find out about it until I returned to England the weekend before term began. I had wanted Harry to join us in Italy, but my father wouldn’t hear of it.
I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like Harry, with the exception of my father, who won’t even allow his name to be mentioned in the house. I once asked Mama if she could explain why he felt so strongly, but she didn’t seem to know any more than I did.
I didn’t press the point with my old man, as I’ve never exactly covered myself in glory in his eyes. I nearly got myself expelled from my prep school for stealing - heaven knows how he managed to fix that - and after that I let him down by failing to get into Eton. I told Papa when I came out of the exam that I couldn’t have tried harder, which was the truth. Well, half the truth. I would have got away with it if my co-conspirator had only kept his mouth shut. At least it taught me a simple lesson: if you make a deal with a fool, don’t be surprised when they act foolishly.
My co-conspirator was the Earl of Bridport’s son, Percy. He was facing an even greater dilemma than I was, because seven generations of Bridports had been educated at Eton, and it was looking as if young Percy was going to ruin that rather fine batting average.
Eton has been known to bend the rules when it comes to members of the aristocracy and will occasionally allow a stupid boy to darken its doors, which is why I selected Percy for my little subterfuge in the first place. It was after I overheard the Frob saying to another beak, ‘If Bridport was any brighter, he’d be a half-wit,’ that I knew I didn’t need to look any further for my accomplice.
Percy was as desperate to be offered a place at Eton as I was to be rejected, so I saw this as no more than an opportunity for both of us to achieve our purpose.
I didn’t discuss my plan with Harry or Deakins. Harry would undoubtedly have disapproved, he’s such a morally upright fellow, and Deakins wouldn’t have been able to understand why anyone would want to fail an exam.
On the day before the examination was due to take place my father drove me to Eton in his swish new Bugatti, which could do a hundred miles an hour, and once we hit the A4 he proved it. We spent the night at the Swann Arms, the same hotel in which he had stayed over twenty years before when he took the entrance exam. Over dinner, Papa didn’t leave me in any doubt how keen he was that I should go to Eton and I nearly had a change of heart at the last moment, but I had given my word to Percy Bridport, and felt I couldn’t let him down.
Percy and I had shaken hands on the deal back at St Bede’s, agreeing that when we entered the examination hall, we would give the recorder the other’s name. I rather enjoyed being addressed as ‘my lord’ by all and sundry, even if it was only for a few hours.
The examination papers were not as demanding as the ones I’d sat a fortnight earlier for Bristol Grammar, and I felt I’d done more than enough to ensure that Percy would be returning to Eton in September. However, they were difficult enough for me to feel confident that his lordship would not let me down.
Once we’d handed in our papers and reverted to our true personas, I went off to tea with my pa, in Windsor. When he asked me how it had gone, I told him I’d done the best I possibly could. He seemed satisfied by this, and even began to re
lax, which only made me feel more guilty. I didn’t enjoy the journey back to Bristol, and felt even worse when I got home and my mother asked me the same question.
Ten days later, I received an I’m sorry to have to inform you letter from Eton. I had only managed 32 per cent. Percy scored 56 per cent and was offered a place for the Michaelmas term, which delighted his father and was met with incredulity by the Frob.
Everything would have worked out just fine, if Percy hadn’t told a friend how he’d managed to get into Eton. The friend told another friend, who told another friend, who told Percy’s father. The Earl of Bridport MC, being an honourable man, immediately informed the headmaster of Eton. This resulted in Percy being expelled before he’d even set foot in the place. If it hadn’t been for a personal intervention by the Frob, I might have suffered the same fate at Bristol Grammar.
My father tried to convince the headmaster of Eton that it was simply a clerical error, and that, as I’d actually scored 56 per cent in the exam, I should be reinstated in Bridport’s place. This piece of logic was rejected by return of post, as Eton wasn’t in need of a new cricket pavilion. I duly reported to Bristol Grammar School on the first day of term.
During my first year, I restored my reputation somewhat by scoring three centuries for the Colts and ended the season being awarded my colours. Harry played Ursula in Much Ado About Nothing, and Deakins was Deakins, so no one was surprised when he won the First Form prize.
During my second year, I became more aware of the financial constraints Harry’s mother must be experiencing when I noticed that he was wearing his shoes with the laces undone, and he admitted they were pinching because they were so tight.
So when Tilly’s was burnt to the ground only weeks before we were expected to enter the sixth form, I was not altogether surprised to learn that Harry thought he might not be able to stay on at the school. I thought about asking my father if he might be able to help, but Mama told me I would be wasting my time. That’s why I was so delighted when I saw him walking through the school gates on the first day of term.
He told me that his mother had begun a new job at the Royal Hotel, working nights, and it was proving to be far more lucrative than she had originally thought possible.
During the next summer hols I would, once again, have liked to invite Harry to join the family in Tuscany, but I knew my father would not consider the idea. But as the Arts Appreciation Society, of which Harry was now secretary, was planning a trip to Rome, we agreed to meet up there, even if it did mean I would have to visit the Villa Borghese.
Although we were living in a little bubble of our own down in the West Country, it would have been impossible not to be aware of what was taking place on the continent.
The rise of the Nazis in Germany, and the Fascists in Italy, didn’t seem to be affecting the average Englishman, who was still enjoying a pint of cider and a cheese sandwich at his local on a Saturday, before watching, or in my case playing, cricket on the village green in the afternoon. For years this blissful state of affairs had been able to continue because another war with Germany didn’t bear thinking about. Our fathers had fought in the war to end all wars, but now the unmentionable seemed to be on everyone’s lips.
Harry told me in no uncertain terms that if war was declared, he wouldn’t be going to university but would join up immediately, just as his father and uncle had done some twenty years before. My father had ‘missed out’, as he put it, because unfortunately he was colour-blind, and those in authority thought he’d serve the war effort better by remaining at his post, playing an important role in the docks. Though I’ve never been quite sure exactly what that important role was.
In our final year at BGS, both Harry and I decided to enter our names for Oxford; Deakins had already been offered an open scholarship to Balliol College. I wanted to go to the House, but was informed most politely by the entrance tutor that Christ Church rarely took grammar school boys, so I settled for Brasenose, which had once been described by Bertie Wooster as a college ‘where brains are neither here nor there’.
As Brasenose was also the college with the most cricket blues, and I had scored three centuries in my final year as captain of BGS, one of them at Lord’s for a Public Schools XI, I felt I must be in with a chance. In fact, my form master, Dr Paget, told me that when I went for my interview they would probably throw a cricket ball at me as I entered the room. If I caught it, I would be offered a place. If I caught it one-handed, a scholarship. This turned out to be apocryphal. However, I’m bound to admit that during drinks with the college principal, he asked me more questions about Hutton than Horace.
There were other highs and lows during my last two years at school: Jesse Owens winning four gold medals at the Olympic Games in Berlin, right under Hitler’s nose, was a definite high, while the abdication of Edward VIII because he wished to marry an American divorcee was an undoubted low.
The nation seemed to be divided on whether the King should have abdicated, as were Harry and I. I failed to understand how a man born to be King could be willing to sacrifice the throne to marry a divorced woman. Harry was far more sympathetic to the King’s plight, saying that we couldn’t begin to understand what the poor man was going through until we fell in love ourselves. I dismissed this as codswallop, until that trip to Rome that was to change both our lives.
36
IF GILES IMAGINED he’d worked hard during his final days at St Bede’s, in those last two years at Bristol Grammar School both he and Harry became acquainted with hours only Deakins was familiar with.
Dr Paget, their sixth-form master, told them in no uncertain terms that if they hoped to be offered a place at Oxford or Cambridge, they would have to forget any other activities, as they would need to spend every waking moment preparing for the entrance exams.
Giles was hoping to captain the school’s First XI in his final year, while Harry was keen to land the lead in the school play. Dr Paget raised an eyebrow when he heard this, even though Romeo and Juliet was the set text for Oxford that year. ‘Just be sure you don’t sign up for anything else,’ he said firmly.
Harry reluctantly resigned from the choir, which gave him two more free evenings a week to study. However, there was one activity no pupil could exempt himself from: every Tuesday and Thursday, at four o’clock, all the boys had to be standing to attention on the parade ground, fully kitted out and ready for inspection as members of the Combined Cadet Force.
‘Can’t allow the Hitler Youth to imagine that if Germany is foolish enough to declare war on us a second time, we won’t be ready for them,’ bellowed the RSM.
Every time ex-Regimental Sergeant Major Roberts delivered these words, it sent a shiver through the ranks of schoolboys, who realized as each day passed that it was becoming more and more likely they would be serving on the front line as junior officers in some foreign field, rather than going up to university as undergraduates.
Harry took the RSM’s words to heart and was quickly promoted to cadet officer. Giles took them less seriously, knowing that if he was called up, he could, like his father, take the easy way out and remind them of his colour-blindness to avoid coming face to face with the enemy.
Deakins showed little interest in the whole process, declaring with a certainty that brooked no argument, ‘You don’t need to know how to strip a bren gun when you’re in the intelligence corps.’
By the time the long summer nights began to draw to a close, they were all ready for a holiday before they would return for their final year, at the end of which they would have to face the examiners once again. Within a week of term ending, all three of them had left for their summer break: Giles to join his family at their villa in Tuscany, Harry to Rome with the school’s Arts Appreciation Society, while Deakins entombed himself in Bristol Central library, avoiding contact with any other human beings, despite the fact that he’d already been offered a place at Oxford.
Over the years, Giles had come to accept that if he wanted to see Harr
y during the holidays, he had to make sure his father didn’t find out what he was up to, otherwise the best-laid schemes of mice and … But in order to achieve this, he often had to get his sister Emma to join in the subterfuge, and she never failed to extract her pound of flesh before agreeing to become his accomplice.
‘If you take the lead over dinner tonight, I’ll follow up,’ said Giles once he’d outlined his latest scheme to her.
‘Sounds like the natural order of things,’ said Emma scornfully.
After the first course had been served, Emma innocently asked her mother if she could possibly take her to the Villa Borghese the following day, as it had been recommended as a must by her art mistress. She was well aware that Mama had already made other plans.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said, ‘but your father and I are going to lunch with the Hendersons in Arezzo tomorrow. You’re most welcome to join us.’
‘There’s nothing to stop Giles taking you into Rome,’ interjected his father from the other end of the table.
‘Do I have to?’ said Giles, who had just been about to make the same suggestion.
‘Yes, you do,’ replied his father firmly.
‘But what’s the point, Pa? By the time we get there, we’ll have to turn round and come back. It’s hardly worth it.’
‘Not if you were to spend the night at the Plaza Hotel. I’ll call them first thing in the morning, and book a couple of rooms.’
‘Are you sure they’re grown up enough for that?’ asked Mrs Barrington, sounding a little anxious.
‘Giles will be eighteen in a few weeks. It’s time he grew up and took some responsibility.’ Giles bowed his head as if he had given in meekly.