Half the page was given over to Keith’s radical views; the other half was taken up by an article from the paper’s chief educational correspondent, cogently arguing the case for private education. Readers were invited to respond with their opinions, and the following Saturday the Age had a field day at Sir Graham’s expense.
Keith was relieved that his father never raised the subject, although he did overhear him telling his mother, ‘The boy will have learned a great deal from the experience. And in any case, I agreed with a lot of what he had to say.’
His mother wasn’t quite so supportive.
During the holidays Keith spent every morning being tutored by Miss Steadman in preparation for his final exams.
‘Learning is just another form of tyranny,’ he declared at the end of one demanding session.
‘It’s nothing compared with the tyranny of being ignorant for the rest of your life,’ she assured him.
After Miss Steadman had set him some more topics to revise, Keith went off to spend the rest of the day at the Courier. Like his father, he found he was more at ease among journalists than with the rich and powerful old boys of St. Andrew’s from whom he continued to try to coax money for the pavilion appeal.
For his first official assignment at the Courier, Keith was attached to the paper’s crime reporter, Barry Evans, who sent him off every afternoon to cover court proceedings — petty theft, burglary, shoplifting and even the occasional bigamy. ‘Search for names that just might be recognized,’ Evans told him. ‘Or better still, for those who might be related to people who are well known. Best of all, those who are well known.’ Keith worked diligently, but without a great deal to show for his efforts. Whenever he did manage to get a piece into the paper, he often found it had been savagely cut.
‘I don’t want to know your opinions,’ the old crime reporter would repeat. ‘I just want the facts.’ Evans had done his training on the Manchester Guardian, and never tired of repeating the words of C.P. Scott: ‘Comment is free, but facts are sacred.’ Keith decided that if he ever owned a newspaper, he would never employ anyone who had worked for the Manchester Guardian.
He returned to St. Andrew’s for the second term, and used the leader in the first edition of the school magazine to suggest that the time had come for Australia to sever its ties with Britain. The article declared that Churchill had abandoned Australia to its fate, while concentrating on the war in Europe.
Once again the Melbourne Age offered Keith the chance to disseminate his views to a far wider audience, but this time he refused — despite the tempting offer of £20, four times the sum he had earned in his fortnight as a cub reporter on the Courier. He decided to offer the article to the Adelaide Gazette, one of his father’s papers, but the editor spiked it even before he had reached the second paragraph.
By the second week of term, Keith realized that his biggest problem had become how to rid himself of Penny, who no longer believed his excuses for not seeing her, even when he was telling the truth. He had already asked Betsy to go to the cinema with him the following Saturday afternoon. However, there remained the unsolved problem of how you dated the next girl before you had disposed of her predecessor.
At their most recent meeting in the gym, when he suggested that perhaps the time had come for them to... Penny had hinted that she would tell her father how they had been spending Saturday afternoons. Keith didn’t give a damn who she told, but he did care about embarrassing his mother. During the week he stayed in his study, working unusually hard and avoiding going anywhere he might bump into Penny.
On Saturday afternoon he took a circuitous route into town, and met up with Betsy outside the Roxy cinema. Nothing like breaking three school rules in one day, he thought. He purchased two tickets for Chips Rafferty in The Rats of Tobruk, and guided Betsy into a double seat in the back row. By the time ‘The End’ flashed up on the screen, he hadn’t seen much of the film and his tongue ached. He couldn’t wait for next Saturday, when the First Eleven were playing away and he could introduce Betsy to the pleasures of the cricket pavilion.
He was relieved to find that Penny didn’t try to contact him during the following week. So on Thursday, when he went to post another letter to his mother, he fixed a date to see Betsy on Saturday afternoon. He promised to take her somewhere she had never been before.
Once the first team’s bus was out of sight, Keith hung around behind the trees on the north side of the sports ground, waiting for Betsy to appear. After half an hour he began to wonder if she was going to turn up, but a few moments later he spotted her strolling across the fields, and immediately forgot his impatience. Her long fair hair was done up in a ponytail, secured by an elastic band. She wore a yellow sweater which clung so tightly to her body that it reminded him of Lana Turner, and a black skirt so restricting that when she walked she had no choice but to take extremely short steps.
Keith waited for her to join him behind the trees, then took her by the arm and guided her quickly in the direction of the pavilion. He stopped every few yards to kiss her, and had located the zip on her skirt with at least twenty-two yards still to cover.
When they reached the back door, Keith removed a large key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the lock. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open, fumbling around for the light switch. He flicked it on, and then heard the groans. Keith stared down in disbelief at the sight that greeted him. Four eyes blinked back up at him. One of the two was shielding herself from the naked light-bulb, but Keith could recognize those legs, even if he couldn’t see her face. He turned his attention to the other body lying on top of her.
Duncan Alexander would certainly never forget the day he lost his virginity.
7
The Times
21 November 1940
Hungary Drawn into Axis Net: Ribbentrop’s Boast that ‘Others Will Follow’
Lubji lay on the ground, doubled up, clutching his jaw. The soldier kept the bayonet pointing between his eyes, and with a flick of the head indicated that he should join the others in the waiting lorry.
Lubji tried to continue his protest in Hungarian, but he knew it was too late. ‘Save your breath, Jew,’ hissed the soldier, ‘or I’ll kick it out of you.’ The bayonet ripped into his trousers and tore open the skin of his right leg. Lubji hobbled off as quickly as he could to the waiting lorry, and joined a group of stunned, helpless people who had only one thing in common: they were all thought to be Jews. Mr. and Mrs. Cerani were thrown on board before the lorry began its slow journey out of the city. An hour later they reached the compound of the local prison, and Lubji and his fellow-passengers were unloaded as if they were nothing more than cattle.
The men were lined up and led across the courtyard into a large stone hall. A few minutes later an SS sergeant marched in, followed by a dozen German soldiers. He barked out an order in his native tongue. ‘He’s saying we must strip,’ whispered Lubji, translating the words into Hungarian.
They all took off their clothes, and the soldiers began herding the naked bodies into lines — most of them shivering, some of them crying. Lubji’s eyes darted around the room trying to see if there was any way he might escape. There was only one door — guarded by soldiers — and three small windows high up in the walls.