The Liar

her down to the pub.

'Your girlfriend has gone, sir,' said Newton. 'Whatever are you going to do?'

'I shall devote the rest of my life to beating you into a puree,' said Adrian. 'It will help me forget.'

III The morning of the match, Hunt had put a message under Adrian's toast as usual. This time it was a large heart-shaped piece of paper covered in kisses. This was going too far.

In theory, the boy on clearing duty should be the one to make masters' toast, but Hunt had long since decided that no one but he was going to make Adrian's. He fought everyone for the right. Whenever Adrian came down there would be two pieces on his side plate, and under them would be a message, usually nothing more dreadful than 'Your toast, sir . . .'or 'Each slice hand-grilled the traditional way by heritage craftsmen'. But love-hearts were too much, Adrian looked round the hall to where Hunt was sitting. The boy pinkened and gave a small wave.

'What's Hunt the Thimble given you today, sir?' asked Rudder, the prefect next to Adrian. Hunt was known as the Thimble for the obvious reason and because he was said to be rather under-endowed.

'Oh nothing, nothing . . . the usual drivel.'

'I bet it isn't, sir. We told him that it was Valentine's Day today.'

'But Valentine's Day, Rudder dearest, falls on February the fourteenth and lies there until the fifteenth of that month. Unless I have become so bored by your anserine conversation and fallen asleep for seven months, this is currently the month of June we are enjoying. What else, after all, could explain your cricket whites?'

'I know, sir. But we told him Valentine's Day was today. That's the joke.'

'Ah! Well, if the Queen can have two birthdays, why cannot Hunt the Thimble be granted the right to celebrate two Valentine's Days?'

'He told me,' said Rudder, 'that if he didn't get one back from you, he was going to hang himself.'

'He said what? said Adrian, going white.

'Sir?'

Adrian grabbed Rudder's arm.

'What did he say?'

'Sir, you're hurting! It was just a joke.'

'You find the idea of suicide amusing, do you?'

'Well no, sir, but it was just . . .'

There was a silence. The boys at his table looked down at their cereal bowls. It wasn't like Adrian to be angry or violent.

'I'm sorry my angels,' he said, with an attempt at a laugh. 'No sleep last night. Working on the play. Either that or I'm turning mad. It was a full moon you know, and there's a history of lycanthropy in my family. Uncle Everard turns into a wolf every time he hears the Crossroads theme tune.'

Rudder giggled. The uncomfortable moment passed.

'Well, looks like a fine day today. I vote we load a crate of Coke onto the minibus before we go. You know what Narbor-ough match teas are like.'

A mighty cheer now. The other tables looked across enviously. Healey's lot was always having fun.

*

The atmosphere in the minubus was tense. Adrian sat with them and tried to appear sunny and confident. It was no good his telling them to remember that it was only a game when he was as nervous as a kitten himself.

'We'll take a look at the pitch,' he told Hooper, the captain, 'and we'll decide then. But unless it's decidedly moist, put them in the field if you win the toss. 'Knock 'em up, bowl 'em out' . . . it never fails.'

He was pleased with what he had done to the cricket eleven. He had never been much of a player himself but he knew and loved the game well enough to be able to make a difference to a schoolboy team. Everyone had agreed, watching his first eleven play a warm-up match against a scratch Rest of the School side, that he had done a tremendous job in two weeks.

But now they faced their first real opposition and he was worried that against another school they would fall to pieces. Last year, Hooper told him, Chartham Park was the laughingstock of the whole area.

The bus whined up the Narborough driveway.

'Who's been here before?' ^ 'I have, sir, for a rugger match,' said Rudder.

'Why are other schools always so forbidding? They seem infinitely bigger and more serious and their boys all look at least forty years old.'

'It's not a bad place, sir. Quite friendly.'

'Friendly? The maws of the heffalump are open wide, but don't believe that it betokens friendliness. Trust no one, speak to no one. As soon as you've heard this communication, eat it.'

There was a boy in a Narborough blazer waiting to show the team where to go. Adrian watched them stream off to the back of the house.

'See you there, my honeys. Don't accept any hand-rolled cigarettes from them.'

An old master bustled out to welcome Adrian.

'You're Chartham Park, yes?'