“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Michael, “and I spend every day of my life trying to eliminate risks like that.” Nat listened intently as his mother and father continued their debate, never once raising their voices or losing their tempers.
“I’d rather my son graduate as an egalitarian than a patrician,” Susan retorted with passion.
“Why should they be incompatible?” asked Michael.
Nat disappeared back into his room without waiting to hear his mother’s reply. She had taught him to immediately look up any word that he’d never heard before; after all, it was a Connecticut man who had compiled the greatest lexicography in the world. Having checked all three words in his Webster’s dictionary, Nat decided that his mother was more egalitarian than his father, but that neither of them was a patrician. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be a patrician.
When Nat had finished the chapter, he emerged from his room for a second time. The atmosphere seemed to be more settled, so he decided to go downstairs and join his parents.
“Perhaps we should let Nat decide,” said his mother.
“I already have,” said Nat, as he took a seat between them. “After all, you’ve always taught me to listen to both sides of any argument before coming to a conclusion.”
Both parents were speechless as Nat nonchalantly unfolded the evening paper, suddenly aware that he must have overheard their conversation.
“And what decision have you come to?” his mother asked quietly.
“I would like to go to Taft rather than Jefferson High,” Nat replied without hesitation.
“And may we know what helped you come to that conclusion?” asked his father.
Nat, aware that he had a spellbound audience, didn’t hurry his reply. “Moby-Dick,” he finally announced, before turning to the sports page.
He waited to see which of his parents would be the first to repeat his words.
“Moby-Dick?” they pronounced together.
“Yes,” he replied, “after all, the good folks of Connecticut considered the great whale to be the patrician of the sea.”
5
“Every inch a Hotchkiss man,” Miss Nichol said as she checked Andrew’s appearance in the hall mirror. White shirt, blue blazer with tan corduroy trousers. Miss Nichol straightened the boy’s blue and white striped tie, removing a speck of dust from his shirt. “Every inch,” she repeated. I’m only five foot three, Andrew wanted to say as his father joined them in the hall. Andrew checked his watch, a present from his maternal grandfather—a man who still sacked people for being late.
“I’ve put your suitcases in the car,” his father said, touching his son on the shoulder. Andrew turned cold when he heard his father’s words. The casual remark only reminded him that he really was leaving home. “It’s less than three months until Thanksgiving,” his father added. Three months is a quarter of a year—a not insignificant percentage of your life when you’re only fourteen years old, Andrew wanted to remind him.
Andrew strode out of the front door and onto the gravel courtyard, determined not to look back at the house he loved, and would not see again for a quarter of a year. When he reached the car, he held the back door open for his mother. He then shook hands with Miss Nichol as if she were an old friend, and said that he looked forward to seeing her at Thanksgiving. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she had been crying. He looked away and waved to the housekeeper and cook, before he jumped into the car.
As they drove through the streets of Farmington, Andrew stared at the familiar buildings he had considered until that moment to be the center of the whole world.
“Now make sure you write home every week,” his mother was saying. He ignored the redundant comment, not least because Miss Nichol had issued the same instruction at least twice a day for the past month.
“And if you need any extra cash, don’t hesitate to give me a call,” his father added.
Someone else who hadn’t read the rule-book. Andrew didn’t remind his father that boys in their first year at Hotchkiss were only allowed ten dollars a term. It was spelled out on page seven, and had been underlined in red by Miss Nichol.
No one spoke again during the short journey to the station, each anxious in his own particular fashion. His father brought the car to a halt next to the station and jumped out. Andrew remained seated, reluctant to leave the safety of the car, until his mother opened the door on his side. Andrew quickly joined her, determined not to let anyone know how nervous he was. She tried to take his hand, but he quickly ran to the back of the car to help his father with the cases.
A blue cap arrived by their side pushing a trolley. Once the cases were loaded, he led them onto the station platform and came to a halt at car eight. As the porter lifted the cases onto the train, Andrew turned to say goodbye to his father. He had insisted that only one parent accompany him on the train journey to Lakeville, and as his father was a Taft man, his mother seemed the obvious choice. He was already regretting his decision.
“Have a good journey,” his father said, shaking his son’s outstretched hand. What silly things parents say at stations, Andrew thought; surely it was more important that he worked hard when he got there. “And don’t forget to write.”
Andrew boarded the train with his mother and as the engine pulled out of the station he didn’t once look back at his father, hoping it would make him appear more grown up.
“Would you like some breakfast?” his mother asked as the porter placed his cases on the overhead rack.
“Yes, please,” replied Andrew, cheering up for the first time that morning.
Another uniformed man showed them to a table in the dining car. Andrew studied the menu and wondered if his mother would allow him to have the full breakfast.
“Have anything you like,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
Andrew smiled when the waiter reappeared. “Double hash browns, two eggs, sunny side up, bacon and tomatoes.” He only left out the mushrooms because he didn’t want the waiter to think that his mother never fed him.
“And you, ma’am?” inquired the waiter, turning his attention to the other side of the table.
“Just coffee and toast, thank you.”
“The boy’s first day?” asked the waiter.
Mrs. Davenport smiled and nodded.
How does he know? wondered Andrew.
Andrew munched nervously through his breakfast, not sure if he would be fed again that day. There had been no mention of meals in the handbook, and Grandpa had told him that when he was at Hotchkiss, they were only fed once a day. His mother kept telling him to put his knife and fork down while he was eating. “Knives and forks are not airplanes and shouldn’t remain in midair longer than is necessary,” she reminded him. He had no way of knowing that she was almost as nervous as he was.
Whenever another boy, dressed in the same smart uniform, passed by their table, Andrew looked out of the window, hoping they wouldn’t notice him, because none of their uniforms were as new as his. His mother was on her third cup of coffee when the train pulled into the station.
“We’ve arrived,” she announced, unnecessarily.
Andrew sat staring at the sign for Lakeville as several boys leaped off the train, greeting each other with “Hi there, how was your vacation? And good to see you again,” followed by much shaking of hands. He finally glanced across at his mother, and wished she would disappear in a cloud of smoke. Mothers were just another announcement that it was his first day.
Two tall boys dressed in double-breasted blue blazers and gray slacks began shepherding the new boys onto a waiting bus. Andrew prayed that parents were banned from the bus, otherwise everyone would realize he was a new boy.
“Name?” said one of the young men in a blue blazer as Andrew stepped off the train.
“Davenport, sir,” said Andrew, staring up at him. Would he ever be that tall?
The young man smiled, almost a grin. “You don’
t call me sir, I’m not a master, just a senior proctor.” Andrew’s head dropped. The first words he’d uttered, and he’d made a fool of himself. “Has your luggage been placed on the bus, Fletcher?”
Fletcher? thought Andrew. Of course, Fletcher Andrew Davenport; he didn’t correct the tall young man for fear of making another mistake.
“Yes,” Andrew replied.
The god turned his attention to Andrew’s mother. “Thank you, Mrs. Davenport,” he said, checking his list, “I hope you have a pleasant journey back to Farmington. Fletcher will be just fine,” he added kindly.
Andrew thrust out his hand, determined to stop his mother cuddling him. If only mothers could read thoughts. He shuddered as she threw her arms around him. But then he couldn’t begin to understand what she was going through. When his mother finally released him, Andrew quickly joined the flow of boys who were jumping onto the waiting bus. He spotted a boy, even smaller than himself, who was sitting on his own looking out the window. He quickly sat down beside him.
“I’m Fletcher,” he said, reverting to the name bestowed on him by the god. “What’s yours?”
“James,” he replied, “but my friends call me Jimmy.”
“Are you a new boy?” asked Fletcher.
“Yes,” said Jimmy quietly, still not looking around.
“Me too,” replied Fletcher.
Jimmy took out a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose, before he finally turned to face his new companion.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Farmington.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far from West Hartford.”
“My dad works in Hartford,” said Jimmy, “he’s in the government. What does your dad do?”
“He sells drugs,” said Fletcher.
“Do you like football?” asked Jimmy.
“Yes,” said Fletcher, but only because he knew Hotchkiss had an unbeaten record for the past four years, something else Miss Nichol had underlined in the handbook.
The rest of the conversation consisted of a series of unrelated questions to which the other rarely knew the answer. It was a strange beginning for what was to become a lifelong friendship.
6
“Spotless,” said his father as he checked the boy’s uniform in the hall mirror. Michael Cartwright straightened his son’s blue tie, and removed a hair from his jacket. “Spotless,” he repeated.
Five dollars for a pair of corduroys was all Nathaniel could think about, even if his father had said they were worth every cent.
“Hurry up, Susan, or we’ll be late,” his father called, glancing up toward the landing. But Michael still found time to pack the case in the trunk and move the car out of the driveway before Susan finally appeared to wish her son luck on his first day. She gave Nathaniel a big hug, and he was only grateful that there wasn’t another Taft man in sight to witness the event. He hoped that his mother had got over her disappointment that he hadn’t chosen Jefferson High, because he was already having second thoughts. After all, if he’d gone to Jefferson High he could have gone home every night.
He took the seat next to his father in the front of the car, and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly seven o’clock. “Let’s get going, Dad,” he said, desperate not to be late on his first day and to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.
Once they reached the highway, his father moved across to the outside lane and put the speedometer up to sixty-five, five miles an hour over the limit, calculating that the odds of being pulled over at that time in the morning were in his favor. Although Nathaniel had visited Taft to be interviewed, it was still a terrifying moment when his father drove their old Studebaker through the vast iron gates and slowly up the mile-long drive. He was relieved to see two or three other cars filing in behind them, though he doubted if they were new boys. His father followed a line of Cadillacs and Buicks into a parking lot, not altogether sure where he should park; after all, he was a new father. Nathaniel jumped out of the car, even before his father had pulled on the hand brake. But then he hesitated. Did he follow the stream of boys heading toward Taft Hall, or were new boys expected to go somewhere else?
His father didn’t hesitate in joining the throng, and only came to a halt when a tall, self-assured young man carrying a clipboard looked down at Nathaniel and asked, “Are you a new boy?”
Nathaniel didn’t speak, so his father said, “Yes.”
The young man’s gaze was not averted. “Name?” he said.
“Cartwright, sir,” Nathaniel replied.
“Ah yes, a lower mid; you’ve been assigned to Mr. Haskins, so you must be clever. All the bright ones start off with Mr. Haskins.” Nathaniel lowered his head while his father smiled. “When you go into Taft Hall,” continued the young man, “you can sit anywhere in the front three rows on the left-hand side. The moment you hear nine chimes on the clock, you will stop talking and not speak again until the principal and the rest of the staff have left the hall.”
“What do I do then?” asked Nathaniel, trying to hide the fact that he was shaking.
“You will be briefed by your form master,” said the young man who turned his attention to the new father. “Nat will be just fine, Mr. Cartwright. I hope you have a good journey home, sir.”
That was the moment Nathaniel decided in the future he would always be known as Nat, even though he realized it wouldn’t please his mother.
As he entered Taft Hall Nat lowered his head and walked quickly down the long aisle, hoping no one would notice him. He spotted a place on the end of the second row, and slipped into it. He glanced at the boy seated on his left, whose head was cupped in his hands. Was he praying, or could he possibly be even more terrified than Nat? “My name’s Nat,” he ventured.
“Mine’s Tom,” said the boy, not raising his head.
“What happens next?”
“I don’t know, but I wish it would,” said Tom as the clock struck nine, and everyone fell silent.
A crocodile of masters proceeded down the aisle—no mistresses, Nat observed. His mother wouldn’t approve. They walked up onto the stage, and took their places, leaving only two seats unoccupied. The faculty began to talk quietly among themselves, while those in the body of the hall remained silent.
“What are we waiting for?” whispered Nat, and a moment later his question was answered as everyone rose, including those seated on the stage. Nat didn’t dare look around when he heard the footsteps of two men proceeding down the aisle. Moments later, the school chaplain followed by the principal passed him on their way up to the two vacant seats. Everyone remained standing as the chaplain stepped forward to conduct a short service, which included the Lord’s Prayer, and ended with the assembly singing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The chaplain then returned to his seat, allowing the principal to take his place. Alexander Inglefield paused for a moment, before gazing down at the assembled gathering. He then raised his hands, palms down, and everyone resumed their seat. Three hundred and eighty pairs of eyes stared up at a man of six foot two with thick bushy eyebrows and a square jaw, who presented such a frightening figure that Nat hoped they would never meet.
The principal gripped the edge of his long black gown before addressing the gathering for fifteen minutes. He began by taking his charges through the long history of the school, extolling Taft’s past academic and sporting achievements. He stared down at the new boys and reminded them of the school’s motto, Non ut sibi ministretur sed ut ministret.
“What does that mean?” whispered Tom.
“Not to be served, but to serve,” muttered Nat.
The principal concluded by announcing that there were two things a Bearcat could never afford to miss—an exam, or a match against Hotchkiss—and, as if making clear his priorities, he promised a half-day’s holiday if Taft beat Hotchkiss in the annual football game. This was immediately greeted by a rousing cheer from the whole assembly, although every boy beyond the
third row knew that this had not been achieved for the past four years.
When the cheering had died down, the principal left the stage, followed by the chaplain and the rest of the staff. Once they had departed, the chattering began again as the upper classmen started to file out of the hall, while only those boys in the front three rows remained seated, because they didn’t know where to go.
Ninety-five boys sat waiting to see what would happen next. They did not have long to wait, because an elderly master—well actually he was only fifty-one, but Nat thought he looked much older than his dad—came to a halt in front of them. He was a short, thick-set man, with a semicircle of gray hair around an otherwise bald pate. As he spoke, he clung onto the lapels of his tweed jacket, imitating the principal’s pose.
“My name is Haskins,” he told them. “I am master of the lower middlers,” he added with a wry smile. “We’ll begin the day with orientation, which you will have completed by first break at ten thirty. At eleven you will attend your assigned classes. Your first lesson will be American history.” Nat frowned, as history had never been his favorite subject. “Which will be followed by lunch. Don’t look forward to that,” Mr. Haskins said with the same wry smile. A few of the boys laughed. “But then that’s just another Taft tradition,” Mr. Haskins assured them, “which any of you who are following in your father’s footsteps will have already been warned about.” One or two of the boys, including Tom, smiled.
Once they had begun what Mr. Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s father a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.
By the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.
As the clock chimed eleven, Mr. Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in his wake. He had a self-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as he slipped into the one remaining desk.