‘I thought that was old hat.’
‘Not while I do it.’
‘Oh, well, be seeing you again, then, I suppose.’
‘If you’re lucky.’ They took the sandwiches and tea to a table and wondered what to do with the rest of the day.
‘Fancy Old Piebald being a real artist!’ said Maycock.
‘Well, of course he is. He’s hot stuff, too. Once I sloshed a whole lot of different blues on my painting just for a rag and he came along and licked a brush and picked out a crescent moon and a lot of moonlight and it turned out to be a jolly good picture.’
‘Fancy him having pictures on show, though.’
‘It’s only a shop, not a proper exhibition.’
‘A beastly important shop, though.’ They finished their meal and meandered out of the station. ‘Tell you what,’ Maycock continued. ‘Tomorrow let’s go to the shop and take a dekko at his pictures.’
‘They wouldn’t let us in. Besides, as soon as I’ve got my money from the post office we ought to be getting aboard that boat to the Isle of Wight.’
The rest of Sunday hung heavily. They found their way down to the docks and looked at the ships which were in and then had a meal at the refreshment room at the terminus station. By this time they both had run out of ready money. They returned to the central station waiting room in the evening and chanced their luck in spending the night in the waiting room again. There were plenty of people in and out of it and nobody questioned their presence there. They left, dishevelled and hungry, early in the morning and went down to the pier to find out at what time the ferry left. They discovered they had plenty of time so, having found a post office, Travis took out some money and they went into a cafe and had bacon and egg, a roll and butter and a pot of tea before they went down again to the pier.
The crossing down the Solent to Cowes took an hour. It was cold on deck, but they enjoyed themselves. When they landed they explored the old part of the town, bought cakes and soft drinks and then went on to the esplanade and walked as far as Gurnard Bay. Here they had a fright. A man stopped them and said in an official voice,
‘Why aren’t you two in school?’
Travis, as usual, was equal to the occasion. ‘Our Dad’s got his holiday,’ he said, ‘so we’ve got a fortnight off school.’
As this was admissible it was received without further query, but the lads had had a scare.
‘So the Isle of Wight doesn’t have different laws,’ said Maycock. ‘I still want to go home and my heel is sorer than ever. The murderers can’t still be looking for us after all this time, can they? Anyway, I reckon we’d be a lot safer at home than we are here. There’s your dad and mum and your aunt and Mr Ronsonby at school. They’d look after us. What are we going to do when your money’s gone?
On the Tuesday morning they took a ferry back to Southampton and, in the evening, began the long trek home. This time there was no friendly, fatherly lorry driver and no coach. They slipped into a church after the first few miles and slept in a pew. In the morning they were on their way again.
They were so tired and unhappy and Maycock, who had remained fairly stoical so far, was limping so badly that they did not exchange a single word as they slogged their way homeward. They made frequent stops when they reached the New Forest and, there being no other shelter, they slept under the trees, too worn out and disillusioned to worry too much about the chilly April night.
At dawn they staggered on again and covered another few miles, stopping often to rest. At about teatime they were stopped by a vicar driving a small car. He pulled up and got out.
‘My word!’ he said. ‘You look as though you’ve had about enough of it. What’s the trouble? Get in. You can tell me as we go. Did you get yourselves lost? Tumble in, tumble in.’
Thankfully they obeyed him. He took them to his vicarage. Here he gave them a meal, tended Maycock’s heel and put them to bed. Then he investigated the contents of their rucksacks and next morning he telephoned the police.
16
The Official Opening
« ^ »
I am not so sure,’ said Mr Ronsonby, ‘that the water-lily pond would have been quite such a good idea, after all.’
‘The pond would have been overlooked from three corridors and the library,’ said Mr Burke. ‘It could have been made a repository for rubbish thrown out of windows, I suppose. We have encouraged the school to embrace democracy. The boys could have thought it strange and unfair that access to the pond should have been denied them.’
‘Oxford and Cambridge have rules about quadrangles, do they not?’
‘I know. But tradition must be honoured and our own traditions have yet to be established. To deny the boys access to a pond containing goldfish might seem to savour of Us and Them.’
‘There must be a line drawn somewhere, though. The boys themselves expect it. There is no feeling of security where there is no exercise of authority. I have always been opposed to this modern trend of boys calling their teachers by Christian names and of young masters dressing sloppily so as to be “with it”, as the modern idiom puts the thing. It sets a very bad example, as I have had occasion to point out to Scaife. Anyway, the lily pond has been scrapped and we now have a handsome sum to spend on prizes. Regrettable, but the governors are adamant. I cannot argue with them over the nature of their gifts to the school.’
‘It will have to be books, I suppose.’
