interest in his affairs. Then we might see some kind of improvement.'
'And if we don't?'
Richard looked down at his hands, and for the first time Anne saw him as the man he had become, laden with responsibilities that had forever closed the door of childhood behind him. The clean lines of his face were already marked with creases. Richard glanced up with a sad expression. 'If we don't see any improvement this year, then I'm afraid we will have to take him out of Eton.We'll need every penny to make sure that we can see Gerald through school. He's doing well – very well – and the money would be better spent on him.'
'If you do withdraw Arthur, what will become of him?'
'There's little choice in the matter. If he can't achieve anything at school then it'll have to be the Church, or the army. Believe me, I want something better for him, but we have to be realistic. We can try to save him from himself, but I can't help feeling that it's already too late. The damage is done.'
'I see. So it's all down to his progress this year?'
Richard nodded. 'His last chance.'
It was a week before the end of the Lent Half – a hot day for the time of year and already most of the boys had discarded their coats as they played on the bank of the Thames. The sun shone down on them from a clear turquoise sky as Arthur watched the other schoolboys from the shade of an oak tree. He was leaning against the trunk and had been reading from a poetry collection he had borrowed from the school library. But the plain words on the pages had soon lost their attraction compared to the far greater aesthetic magic worked by the arrival of spring on such a fine day, and his attention slipped from the book and stretched out across the lawn to the easy glide of the river beyond.
For the first time in months Arthur felt a surge of pleasure and contentment flow through his body. In a few days he would be going home to his mother, and would not be exiled to the gloomy hills of Wales for the Easter holidays. Already, he had planned a series of excursions to see the sights of London and attend the best public recitals that the capital had to offer. Arthur was looking forward to being part of the family again, and not just an embarrassment to them.
A splash of white and silver drew his eye to the river and Arthur saw a group of boys had dived in and were racing across to the far bank.Their clothes lay in untidy heaps on this near side of the Thames. For an instant Arthur was sorely tempted to join them.
'Why not?' he said aloud. 'Why shouldn't I?'
Snapping the poetry book shut, he quickly rose to his feet and before he could change his mind he set off for the river bank, in long, purposeful strides. Ahead of him, the boys in the river had reached the far side, and as he approached Arthur recognised them: Bobus Smith and his friends. Before he could change direction and head for a different spot along the river Smith caught sight of him and, cupping his hands to his mouth, he called across the river to Arthur.
'Wesley! Hey, Wesley! Are you coming for a swim?'
Arthur's heart sank. All he wanted was a pleasant swim on his own. Now Bobus Smith had seen him and no doubt would not let him enjoy the moment in peace.Very well, he would just have to find another place to swim, out of sight of the other boys.
'Are you coming in?' Smith called out again.
Arthur shook his head. Then to make sure that he was understood he shouted back, 'No. I've got a book to read.' He raised the volume of poetry as proof of his intention.
'Bookworm!' someone cried out, and at once the others joined in, instinctively co-ordinating into a chant that carried clearly across the river and turned the heads of those on the bank around Arthur. His face burned with embarrassment and anger as he turned away from the river and began to walk along the path, away from his tormentors. He did not get very far when he heard a splashing commotion behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Bobus Smith and his friends were swimming along the river, trying to keep up with him, some of them still calling out as they churned through the current.
'Bookworm! Bookworm!'
Arthur gritted his teeth, and abruptly stopped. It was not that he minded being thought bookish, especially given his poor academic record. Quite the contrary, since it provided an excuse for his refusal to take part in physical games. What angered him now was the knowledge that Smith would not leave him in peace. He would follow him up the river, and if Arthur turned and went in the other direction he knew they would shadow him like jackals. If he turned away from the river and went back to the school it would mark yet another petty victory in their campaign of intimidation.
'Damn you, Smith,' he growled. 'Damn you and all those fools to hell.'
'What did you say, Wesley?' Bobus called out from the river, swimming closer to the bank.'Spit it out! If you are man enough, that is.'
Without thinking, Arthur bent over, snatched up a handful of gravel from the path and hurled it towards his tormentor. A scattershot of small pebbles and pieces of grit thrashed the water around Smith and several stung his face. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and with a howl of rage swam straight for Arthur.
Arthur's guts turned to ice as he stared towards the river. He had no wish to fight Smith on a day like this, and the prospect of having his good spirits dashed made his heart fill with a simmering anger and resentment.
'All right, then,' he muttered to himself. He dropped his book on to the grass and clenched his fists as Smith's feet scrambled for purchase on the river bottom and then he waded ashore like a rock bursting from the sea. There was no preamble, no studied taking of position, just a mad scramble as Smith, naked and dripping, hurled himself forwards. Arthur crouched to lower his centre of balance, and raised his fists. At the last moment, he ducked to one side and stuck out his foot, hoping to trip his enemy. But the movement was mistimed. Instead of tripping Smith, the shoe stamped down on his toes with a loud crack and Smith pitched forward on to the ground with a howl of agony. For an instant Arthur was too shocked by his mistake to act. His fists relaxed and he was about to apologise when he saw the merciless look of hatred in Smith's expression.Any hesitation now would be fatal. Arthur tightened his fists again and closed in on Smith. He swung his foot back and kicked the boy in the knee, causing a fresh cry of pain, then in the knee again, before stamping on his other foot.When Smith, screaming now, reached for his toes Arthur moved round and slammed several blows against the side of Smith's head, and finally, and with all the strength he could muster, threw his fist straight at Smith's pug nose. When his knuckles connected Arthur felt the blow jar his arm all the way up to the shoulder. Smith's head jerked backwards and he fell flat on the grass and lay still.
Arthur stared at him. 'Oh Christ! What have I done?'
Around him there was a moment's stillness before the other boys on the river bank began to move hesitantly in his direction. From the river came the sound of splashing as Smith's friends swam to the bank and emerged. A circle formed around Arthur and the still form of Smith, sprawled in the grass.They glanced at Smith and then Arthur, and he saw the nervousness in their expressions. One of them looked him straight in the eye and gave an approving nod. A small boy, a first year, squeezed through the crowd and stared open-mouthed.
'Th-that's Bobus Smith!' he said in a voice shrill with excitement. He looked at Arthur in awe and said. 'Is he… is he dead?'
Arthur knocked on the door.
'Come in, Wesley!' The housemaster's voice boomed from inside his study. Arthur, who had been summoned directly from the classroom, turned the knob and pushed the heavy oak panelled door open. Inside, the room was large and comfortably furnished. Seated behind his desk was Mr Chalkcraft. On the other side, in two smaller chairs, sat Lady Mornington and Richard. Arthur had no idea they were coming to Eton and instantly suspected the worst. He gave them the barest nods of greeting before he lowered his gaze to the floor.
'Over here by the desk, boy. And stand straight.'
Arthur did as he was told, terribly uncomfortable under the eyes of his mother and brother.
'You know why you're here,' said Chalkcraft. It was impossible to tell whether it was a question or a statement.
'Is it to do with Smith, sir?'
'Of course. What else? Smith's still in the sanitorium. Three broken toes. A broken nose and suffering from that blow to the head. Not a pretty sight.'
