art.'
Six hundred hymn-books were shelved and six hundred bodies rustled down onto their seats. At the east end, Headman's heels rang out on the stone floor as he stepped forward for Notices, hitching up the shoulder of his gown.
'Boys have been seen using a short cut from the Upper to Alperton Road. You are cordially reminded that this path goes through Brandiston Field, which is private property and out of bounds. The sermon on Sunday will be given by Rex Anderson, Suffragan Bishop of Kampala. The Bateman Medal for Greek Prose has been won by W.E.St. J. Hooper, Rosengard's House. That is all.'
He turned as if to go, then checked himself and turned back.
'Oh, there is one more thing. It has come to my notice that a more than usually juvenile magazine of some description has been circulating about the school. Until the authors of this nonsense have come forward there will be no exeats, no club activities and all boys will be confined to their Houses in free time. Nothing else.'
'It's a fucking outrage,' said Adrian as they streamed out of the Chapel into the sunshine. 'And so pathetic, so completely pathetic. 'A juvenile magazine of some description!' As if he hasn't read it a hundred times and trembled with fury as he read it!'
'He just wants to make it sound as if it isn't such a big deal,' said Tom.
'Does he really think we're going to fall for that? He's scared, he's bloody scared.'
Hey don-Bay ley came up.
'Gated for the rest of term! The bastard!'
'It's just a feeble attempt to try and get the school to turn against the magazine and do his detective work for him,' said Bullock. 'It won't work. Whoever's responsible is too clever.'
Adrian was once more at a loose end that afternoon. It was a Corps day so there was no cricket and he didn't dare climb up to Gladys Winkworth in case he bumped into Trotter again. Officially he should be visiting his old lady and doing odd jobs for her, but she had died of hypothermia the previous term and he hadn't been supplied with a replacement yet. He had just decided to go down to the School Gramophone Library and practise conducting to records, a favourite legal pastime, when he remembered he had a standing invitation to tea from Biffen the French master.
Biffen lived in rather a grand house in its own grounds on the edge of town.
'Hello, sir,' said Adrian. 'It's a Friday, so I thought . . .'
'Healey! How splendid. Come in, come in.'
'I've brought some lemon curd, sir.'
There were about six boys already in the sitting room, talking to Biffen's wife, Lady Helen. Biffen had married her at Cambridge and then taken her back to his old school when he joined as a junior master. They had been here ever since, objects of great pity to the school: an Earl's daughter tied to a no-hope, slow-lane pedagogue.
'I know you!' boomed Lady Helen from the sofa. 'You are Healey from Tickford's House. You were Mosca in the School Play.'
'Healey is in my Lower Sixth French set,' said Biffen.
'And he mobs you appallingly, Humphrey dear. I know.'
'Er, I've brought some lemon curd,' said Adrian.
'How kind. Now, who do you know here?'
Adrian looked round the room.
'Um . . .'
'You'll certainly know Hugo. He's in your House. Go and sit next to him, and get him to stop spoiling my dog.'
Adrian hadn't noticed Cartwright sitting at a window seat, apart from the main group, tossing bits of cake at a spaniel.
'Hi,' he said, sitting down next to him.
'Hi,' said Cartwright.
'Did you pass your exam then?'
'Sorry?'
'Your Grade Three piano. You remember. Last term.'
'Oh, that. Yes thanks.'
'Great.'
More immortal dialogue from the Noel Coward of the seventies.
'So,' said Adrian, 'do you come here ... er ... is this something you've been to many times?'
'Most Fridays,' said Cartwright. 'I've never seen you here before.'
'No, well. . . I've not been invited before.'
'Right.'
'So . . . er . . . what happens exactly?'
'Well, you know, it's just a tea-party, really.'
