Only Time Will Tell

During their time at St Bede’s, Harry had picked up a little about how Giles lived when he returned home for the holidays, but nothing had prepared him for this. When he saw the house for the first time, his mouth opened, and stayed open.

‘Early eighteenth century would be my guess,’ said Deakins.

‘Not bad,’ said Giles, ‘1722, built by Vanbrugh. But I’ll bet you can’t tell me who designed the garden. I’ll give you a clue: it’s later than the house.’

‘I’ve only ever heard of one landscape gardener,’ said Harry, still staring at the house. ‘Capability Brown.’

‘That’s exactly why we chose him,’ said Giles, ‘simply so that my friends would have heard of the fellow two hundred years later.’

Harry and Deakins laughed as the car came to a halt in front of a three-storey mansion built from golden Cotswold stone. Giles jumped out before the chauffeur had a chance to open the back door. He ran up the steps with his two friends following less certainly in his wake.

The front door was opened long before Giles reached the top step, and a tall man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat, pinstripe trousers and a black tie, gave a slight bow as the young master shot past him. ‘Happy birthday, Mr Giles,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Jenkins. Come on, chaps!’ shouted Giles as he disappeared into the house. The butler held open the door to allow Harry and Deakins to follow.

As soon as Harry stepped into the hall, he found himself transfixed by the portrait of an old man who appeared to be staring directly down at him. Giles had inherited the man’s beak-like nose, fierce blue eyes and square jaw. Harry looked around at the other portraits that adorned the walls. The only oil paintings he’d seen before were in books: the Mona Lisa, the Laughing Cavalier and Night Watch. He was looking at a landscape by an artist called Constable when a woman swept into the hall wearing what Harry could only have described as a ball gown.

‘Happy birthday, my darling,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Mater,’ said Giles, as she bent down to kiss him. It was the first time Harry had ever seen his friend look embarrassed. ‘These are my two best friends, Harry and Deak-ins.’ As Harry shook hands with a woman who wasn’t much taller than he was, she gave him such a warm smile that he immediately felt at ease.

‘Why don’t we all go through to the drawing room,’ she suggested, ‘and have some tea?’ She led the boys across the hall and into a large room that overlooked the front lawn.

When Harry entered, he didn’t want to sit down but to look at the paintings that hung on every wall. However, Mrs Barring-ton was already ushering him towards the sofa. He sank down into the plush cushions and couldn’t stop himself staring out of the bay window on to a finely cut lawn that was large enough to play a game of cricket on. Beyond the lawn, Harry could see a lake where contented mallards swam aimlessly around, clearly not worried about where their next meal would be coming from. Deakins sat himself down on the sofa next to Harry.

Neither of them spoke as another man, this one dressed in a short black jacket, entered the room, followed by a young woman in a smart blue uniform, not unlike the one his mother wore at the hotel. The maid carried a large silver tray which she placed on an oval table in front of Mrs Barrington.

‘Indian or China?’ Mrs Barrington asked, looking at Harry.

Harry wasn’t sure what she meant.

‘We’ll all have Indian, thank you, Mother,’ said Giles.

Harry thought Giles must have taught him everything there was to know about etiquette as practised in polite society, but Mrs Barrington had suddenly raised the bar to a new level.

Once the under-butler had poured three cups of tea, the maid placed them in front of the boys, along with a side plate. Harry stared at a mountain of sandwiches, not daring to touch. Giles took one and put it on his plate. His mother frowned. ‘How many times have I told you, Giles, always to wait until your guests decide what they would like before you help yourself?’

Harry wanted to tell Mrs Barrington that Giles always took the lead, just so that he would know what to do and, more important, what not to do. Deakins selected a sandwich and put it on his plate. Harry did the same. Giles waited patiently until Deakins had picked up his sandwich and taken a bite.

‘I do hope you like smoked salmon,’ said Mrs Barrington.

‘Spiffing,’ said Giles, before his friends had a chance to admit that they had never tasted smoked salmon before. ‘We only get fish paste sandwiches at school,’ he added.

‘So, tell me how you’re all getting on at school,’ said Mrs Barrington.

‘Room for improvement, is how I think the Frob describes my efforts,’ said Giles, as he took another sandwich. ‘But Deakins is top of everything.’

‘Except for English,’ said Deakins, speaking for the first time, ‘Harry pipped me in that subject by a couple of per cent.’

‘And did you pip anyone in anything, Giles?’ asked his mother.

‘He came second in maths, Mrs Barrington,’ said Harry, coming to Giles’s rescue. ‘He has a natural gift for figures.’

‘Just like his grandfather,’ said Mrs Barrington.

‘That’s a nice picture of you above the fireplace, Mrs Barrington,’ said Deakins.

She smiled. ‘It’s not me, Deakins, it’s my dear mother.’ Deakins bowed his head before Mrs Barrington quickly added, ‘But what a charming compliment. She was considered a great beauty in her day.’

‘Who painted it?’ asked Harry, coming to Deakins’s rescue.

‘Laszlo,’ replied Mrs Barrington. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I was wondering if the portrait of the gentleman in the hall might be by the same artist.’

‘How very observant of you, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘The painting you saw in the hall is of my father, and was indeed also painted by Laszlo.’

‘What does your father do?’ asked Harry.

‘Harry never stops asking questions,’ said Giles. ‘One just has to get used to it.’

Mrs Barrington smiled. ‘He imports wines to this country, in particular, sherries from Spain.’

‘Just like Harvey’s,’ said Deakins, his mouth full of cucumber sandwich.

‘Just like Harvey’s,’ repeated Mrs Barrington. Giles grinned. ‘Do have another sandwich, Harry,’ said Mrs Barrington, noticing that his eyes were fixed on the plate.

‘Thank you,’ said Harry, unable to choose between smoked salmon, cucumber, or egg and tomato. He settled for salmon, wondering what it would taste like.

‘And how about you, Deakins?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Barrington,’ he said, and took another cucumber sandwich.

‘I can’t go on calling you Deakins,’ said Giles’s mother. ‘It makes you sound like one of the servants. Do tell me your Christian name.’

Deakins bowed his head again. ‘I prefer to be called Deakins,’ he said.

‘It’s Al,’ said Giles.

‘Such a nice name,’ said Mrs Barrington, ‘although I expect your mother calls you Alan.’

‘No she doesn’t,’ said Deakins, his head still bowed. The other two boys looked surprised by this revelation, but said nothing. ‘My name’s Algernon,’ he finally spluttered.

Giles burst out laughing.

Mrs Barrington paid no attention to her son’s outburst. ‘Your mother must be an admirer of Oscar Wilde,’ she said.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Deakins. ‘But I wish she’d called me Jack, or even Ernest.’

‘I wouldn’t let it worry you,’ said Mrs Barrington. ‘After all, Giles suffers from a similar indignity.’

‘Mother, you promised you wouldn’t-’

‘You must get him to tell you his middle name,’ she said, ignoring the protest. When Giles didn’t respond, Harry and Deakins looked at Mrs Barrington hopefully. ‘Marmaduke,’ she declared with a sigh. ‘Like his father and grandfather before him.’

‘If either of you tell anyone about this when we get back to school,’ Giles said, looking at his two friends, ‘I swear I’ll kill you, and I mean, kill you.’ Both boys laughed.

‘Do you have a middle name, Harry?’ asked Mrs Barrington.

Harry was about to reply when the drawing-room door flew open and a man who couldn’t have been mistaken