The boy Doveston, having shuffled across the quadrangle, now shuffled under the veranda and into the school building. Our classroom was 4a and within it we were enjoying a history lesson. Mr Vaux stood before the blackboard, a piece of chalk in one hand and a Capstan’s Full Strength in the other, and spoke to us of Damiens’ Bed of Steel.
Robert-François Damiens had in 1757 made an attempt upon the life of Louis XV. As a punishment for this and to discourage any other potential regicides, he had been brutally tortured to death. They had placed him upon an iron bedstead affair that was warmed to red hot. His right hand was roasted on a slow fire. Molten lead and wax were poured into wounds that were infficted upon him by special pincers and he was eventually torn into pieces by four wild horses.
It was all very interesting and Mr Vaux evidently knew his subject well, judging by the graphic descriptions he gave of each particular torment. And it certainly served as an object lesson to any of us who harboured the ambition to become an assassin when we grew up: that we should plan our getaways with the utmost care!
The lesson was almost over by the time the boy Doveston entered the classroom, which was a shame because he had missed all the best bits. I know he would have enjoyed the part when Mr Vaux held his finger over a candle flame to demonstrate just how much pain a man can take before he screams really loud. I know I did. And while most of the soppy girls were quietly weeping and that softy Paul Mason had fainted, the boy Doveston would certainly have been the first to put up his hand when Mr Vaux asked who amongst us would like to sniff the burned flesh of his finger.
But as it was he missed it and as it was he entered without knocking first.
Mr Vaux swung around from the blackboard and pointed his charred digit at the boy. ‘Out!’ cried he, in outrage and in such a raised voice that Paul, awaking from his faint, was caused to faint once more.
The boy went out again and knocked. ‘Come,’ called Mr Vaux. The boy came in.
Our teacher laid his chalk aside and sought instead his slipper. He looked the boy both up and down and shook his head in sadness. And then he glanced up at the classroom clock and made tut-tutting sounds.
‘Two-twenty-three,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘You have excelled yourself this time, Doveston.’
The boy scuffed his unpolished shoes on the floor. ‘I’m truly sorry, sir,’ he said.
‘A laudable sentiment,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘And one which makes the violence I am about to visit upon your backside with my slipper purely symbolic. Kindly bend over the desk.’
‘Ah,’ said the boy. ‘I think not.’
‘Think not?’ Mr Vaux’s moustachios bristled as only moustachios can. ‘Over the desk at once, my lad, and learn the errors of dissent.’
‘The headmistress says that you are not to beat me for being late, sir.
‘Oh,’ said our teacher, making a dramatic flourish with his slipper.
‘You have received a dispensation from on high. Possibly you are to atone for your sins in some other fashion. Or is it a case of venia necessitati datur?’[1]
It was always a pleasure to hear Mr Vaux spout Latin. But as the subject was not taught in our school, we never had the foggiest idea what he was on about.
‘It is the case, sir, that I had to go to the police station.’
‘O joyous day,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘And so at last you are to be taken off to Approved School and I shall be spared the onerous and thankless task of teaching you. Hasten then to clear your desk and take your leave at the hurry-up.’
‘No, sir. I had to go to the police station because I witnessed a crime and helped to bring the criminal to justice.’
‘Doveston,’ said Mr Vaux, ‘do you know the penalty for lying in this school?’
Doveston munched thoughtfully upon his chewing gum. ‘I do, sir, yes,’ he said at length. ‘I do, sir, yes indeed.’
‘That is good,’ said Mr Vaux. ‘For although the punishment falls somewhat short of that inflicted upon Damiens, it has always in the past proved itself to be a powerful deterrent in the fight against mendacity and falsehood.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Doveston once more.
‘So, with that firmly understood, perhaps you would care to share with us the details of your day?’
‘I would, sir. Yes please.’
‘Then do so.’ Mr Vaux settled himself down at his desk, stubbed out his cigarette and put his hands behind his Brylcreemed head. ‘The floor is yours,’ he said, ‘so say your piece.
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ The boy Doveston thrust his hands once more into the pockets of his shorts and sniffed away a runner from his nose. ‘You see, sir,’ he began, ‘I left my house early, because I had to do an errand for my mum and I didn’t want to be late for school. My mum had asked me to go to old Mr Hartnell’s corner shop and buy her a packet of Duchess. Those are the new perfumed cigarettes from Carberry’s of Holborn. The tobacco is a light mellow Virginia, flavoured with bergamot and sandalwood. And although I do not condemn the use of essential oils in the preparation of snuff, it is a different matter with cigarettes, tending to adulterate the taste of the tobacco rather than enhance it. I feel that with Duchess, as with Lady Grey’s and Her Favourites, the application has been over-liberal. In my opinion, the perfuming of cigarettes is little more than an exotic blandishment, designed to lure gullible female smokers away from their regular brands.’
‘An argument most eloquently put,’ said Mr Vaux, his eyebrows raised. ‘I had no idea that you were aufait with the subtleties of the tobacco—blender’s craft.’
‘Oh yes, sir. When I grow up I intend to go into the trade. I have certain ideas that I think will revolutionize it.’
‘Do you now? Well, I’m sure that they’re all very interesting. But please confine yourself to the matter in hand.’
‘Yes, sir. So I went into old Mr Hartnell’s to purchase the cigarettes. Which, I might add, cost one and fourpence for ten, an outrageous sum. And there was a chap waiting to be served before me. He was dressed in the garb of a road-sweeper, but I chanced to notice that his shoes were highly polished. My suspicions were further aroused when he asked to buy a packet of cigarettes.’
‘Why?’ asked Mr Vaux.
‘Because he asked for a packet of Carroll’s Golden Glories, a tipped cigarette smoked almost exclusively by the gentry. No road-sweeper would ever smoke a tipped cigarette, let alone a Carroll’s. And then, sir, if this wasn’t enough, he paid with a five-pound note.’
‘Incredible,’ said Mr Vaux.
‘Incredible,’ we all agreed.
And it was incredible. And as we listened and the boy Doveston spoke, the tale that unfolded was more than incredible.
It was exciting too.
He had followed the man from old Mr Hartnell’s corner shop, down Moby Dick Terrace, along Abaddon Street to an empty house on the edge of the bomb site at the Half Acre. We knew all the empty houses in Brentford, but we’d never been able to get into this one because it was so well boarded up.
The man had entered the house through a hidden doorway at the back and the boy had followed him in.
Once inside, the boy had found himself in what looked to be a laboratory, with strange specimens suspended in tall preserving jars and much complicated apparatus of the electrical persuasion. He crouched down behind a work bench and watched as the man made a call on a tiny wireless set, speaking in a language that seemed to consist of squeaks and grunts. His call completed, he swung around, pistol in hand and demanded that Doveston show himself.
Grudgingly the boy complied.
‘So,’ said the man, ‘you are an enterprising youth.’
‘I’m lost, sir,’ said the Doveston. ‘Could you tell me the way to the -railway station?’