I did not have long to enjoy it. In my mother’s next letter she wrote that they had been obliged to change their plans. They would not be able to come home this year after all.
‘It’s nothing to worry about, darling,’ she wrote, ‘but I’ve been a little under the weather lately, and the doctor says it would be better to leave it until next year. Daddy and I are so disappointed, though we know you will have a wonderful time at Christmas with Auntie Mary. And next year, we shall try to come home for longer.’
I know the reason now. My mother had just discovered she was pregnant. Of course neither she nor my father ever talked about it to me but it was easy enough to work out when my sister was born the following May.
Sixteen years is a long gap to leave between children. Perhaps my parents found it hard to conceive another child. Perhaps my sister was an accident. Not that it matters now. But it is strange to think that, if my sister had never existed, none of this would have happened and I would have been quite a different person now. And as for Faraday—
‘Try not to mind too much, darling,’ my mother’s letter ended. ‘With fondest love.’
Nevertheless, I looked forward to Christmas. If nothing else it meant getting away from school and going to a warm house where there were four meals a day and I was never left hungry for long. My aunt knew little about boys but she knew a great deal about creature comforts. The vicar’s son would be home from school, which meant that for at least part of the time I would have someone to go about with. And there would be presents — and perhaps more generous ones this year because my parents would feel I deserved consolation.
Two days before the end of term, Mr Treadwell, my housemaster, sent a boy to fetch me. He was a small, harassed man, a bachelor, who didn’t care for boys or anything else except geology, which was his passion.
‘There’s been a difficulty,’ he said, staring at the fire; he never looked at you if he could help it. ‘I’m sorry to say that your aunt is unwell.’
He paused. I did not dare interrupt him with a question. My housemaster believed boys should hold their tongues unless asked to speak. He had a vicious temper, too — we never knew how far he would go when roused.
‘She’s in hospital, in fact. Pneumonia, I’m afraid.’ He was still staring at the fire, but I saw the tip of his tongue emerge, lizard-like, from between his lips. ‘We must remember her in our prayers. Must we not?’
I recognized my cue. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We must hope for a full recovery,’ he went on. ‘Not a good time of year to be ill. But still.’
‘What about Christmas, sir?’ I blurted out.
My housemaster turned his head and glared at me. But he must have remembered the circumstances for when he spoke his voice was almost gentle.
‘You will have to stay at school,’ he said. ‘I have arranged with you to lodge with Mr Ratcliffe. It will be best for all concerned.’
2
Christmas that year fell on a Wednesday. ‘Wednesday’s Child is full of woe,’ shrieked one small boy over and over again as he ran round the playground, until one of the bullies of the Fifth Form pushed him over and made him cry instead.
The school broke up two days earlier, on Monday. It was strange to watch the familiar routines unfolding and not be part of them: the station fly taking boys to the station by relays; the steady stream of parents, always a matter of enormous sociological interest; the boys queuing to shake hands with Mr Treadwell.
At that stage I was not the only one to stay — two other boys at Treadwell’s did not leave with the rest on Monday. For an hour or two, we revelled in undisputed possession of a few amenities the house afforded — the billiards table with torn baize, for example, and the two armchairs that leaked horsehair by the common room fire. There was a sense of holiday so we talked loudly and laughed a great deal to show what fun we were having.
On Christmas Eve, however, these boys left as well, collected one by one by their parents. Mr Treadwell’s suitcases stood in the hall. He shook hands with Matron, who was going to her married sister in Huntington, and tipped the maids.
Finally, only Mr Treadwell and I were left. He looked at his watch. ‘The taxi will be here soon. I’ll take you over to Mr Ratcliffe’s now.’
My trunk, packed and corded, was staying at Treadwell’s with my tuckbox. But I had been given a small suitcase, in which Matron had put those things she thought I would need, and I had a satchel containing a few personal possessions. I followed Treadwell into the College, which was the name given to the Cathedral close.
The College was, and for all I know still is, a world apart with its own laws and customs. Every evening at 7 p.m., the great gates were closed, and the place turned in on itself for the night. Its boundaries were those of the mediaeval monastery, as were many of its buildings where the Cathedral dignitaries lived and where the houses and classrooms of the school were.
Mr Ratcliffe lived at one end of what had been the Sacrist’s Lodging. He was a bachelor who had taught at the school for many years and who now lived in semi-retirement in a grace-and-favour house granted to him by the Dean and Chapter. He was still active, though he must have been in his early seventies, and regularly attended school functions and sometimes took classes when masters were away or ill. Unlike many of his former colleagues on the staff he was not a clergyman.
‘It is most kind of Mr Ratcliffe to invite you to stay,’ Mr Treadwell told me on my way over. ‘You must try not to disturb him too much.’
‘How long will I be there, sir?’
‘It depends on your aunt’s health. I’ve asked her doctor to write to Mr Ratcliffe and he will pass on the news to you. If she’s well enough, she may want you home after Christmas.’ He must have seen my face for he hurried on, ‘But I advise you not to raise your hopes too high. Pneumonia is a very serious illness. Very serious indeed.’
‘Will she…will she die?’
‘God willing, no. But pneumonia can be fatal. You must pray for her.’
The Sacrist’s Lodging had been built against the northern boundary wall of the monastery. Most of the doors and windows faced inwards. If you looked out you saw the Cathedral blocking out the earth and sky.
Mr Ratcliffe answered Mr Treadwell’s knock. He was a tall man, quite bald apart from two tufts of white hair above his ears. He generally wore knickerbockers and a tweed jacket, stiff with age, with leather elbow patches.
He was very brisk and businesslike on that first meeting — I felt that my plight deserved a little more sympathy than he gave it. He showed me over the house, with Mr Treadwell hovering behind us and making the occasional clucking sound designed to express approval and gratitude.
The tour didn’t take long. Downstairs, at the front, there was a sitting room dominated by a grand piano which occupied almost half the floor space. The air was stuffy with pipe smoke, which filled the air with a fine, blue-grey fog. There were books everywhere. They were shelved in the orthodox manner along the walls. They stood in piles under the piano and on the piano. They lined the mantelpiece and colonized the shadowy corners.
A tortoiseshell cat was asleep on one of the chairs. It opened one eye, looked at us, and shut it again.
‘That’s Mordred,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, looking directly at me for the first time. ‘I’d be careful with him if I were you.’
‘Mordred?’ Mr Treadwell said. ‘An unusual name for a cat.’
‘In Le Morte d’Arthur,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, ‘Mordred betrays his uncle the King. Not a nice man. I regret to say that Mordred is not nice either, hence the name.’