their
duties at one service or another. Their choir duties took precedence over
everything else, even examinations. They had privileges and responsibilities
that set them apart from the rest of us. They rarely talked of these except
among themselves, and then in terms that were largely incomprehensible to the
rest of us, which added to the air of mystery that attached to them.
Faraday was a
choirboy. He was thirteen years old. Before all this happened, I knew very
little more about him, though we had attended the same school for years. I knew
that he was supposed to be good at rugger. I knew he was the head of the Choir
School, which meant that at services he wore a medallion engraved with the
Cathedral’s badge over his surplice, hanging from a ribbon around his neck. But
I was more than a year older. He was two forms beneath mine and he lived in a
different house. Our lives did not overlap.
The other thing
that everyone knew about Faraday was that he had an exceptionally beautiful
voice. Ours was the sort of school where you had to be good at sport, or work
or music if you were to have a tolerable life. Faraday was good at everything,
but especially good at singing.
I suppose I
should also mention that I did not much like Faraday.
*
My parents were in India, where my
father’s regiment had been posted. They went to India the week before my
seventh birthday, leaving me in England. The climate was healthier for children
they said, and besides the schools were so much better. It was what many
parents did in their situation: it was considered quite normal and in the best
interests of the child. Perhaps it was. But I wished they had taken me with
them. I still wish it.
During school
holidays, I stayed with my aunt, the widowed sister of my father. My aunt was a
kind woman. But she didn’t know what to do with me and I didn’t know what to do
with her. She and my parents decided to send me to the King’s School because it
was only thirty miles from her house and it had the reputation of being a sound
Christian establishment.
The school was
a spartan place whose routine revolved around the Cathedral, even for those who
were not in the choir. There was a good deal of bullying. Education of a sort
was hammered into us. I made the best of it. What else was there to do?
I received
regular letters from Quetta or Srinagar or New Delhi, written in my mother’s
careful, upright hand. Every year or so, my parents would come home on leave.
I looked forward to these visits with anxiety and delight, as I dare say they
did. Seeing my parents was always painful because they were not as they had
been, and nor was I: we had become strangers to one another. We tried to make
the most of it but then they would be away again and whatever fragile intimacy
we had achieved would trickle away, leaving behind more misleading memories.
Still, I longed to see them again. Hope always triumphed over experience.
The last time
they came home, I was twelve. My father tried without success to teach me to
fish; he wanted me to share his passion. My mother took me shopping with her
and showed me off to her friends, who remained unimpressed. We went up to
London for matinées at the theatre.
On one of these
outings we had tea at the Charing Cross Hotel. I don’t remember much about it
except for one thing my mother said.
‘You used to be
such a chatterbox when you were little.’ She smiled at me. ‘Where did all the words
go?’
My parents were
coming home again. They would be here by mid-December in plenty of time for
Christmas. My mother wrote that my father was planning to buy a motor car. If
he did, they would drive over at the end of term and collect me.
The thought of
my parents turning up at school in a motor car added a new element to my
anticipation. At that time cars were uncommon, especially in the Fens. I
imagined my parents turning up in an enormous, gleaming equipage worthy of Mr
Toad in The Wind in the Willows and sweeping me
duties at one service or another. Their choir duties took precedence over
everything else, even examinations. They had privileges and responsibilities
that set them apart from the rest of us. They rarely talked of these except
among themselves, and then in terms that were largely incomprehensible to the
rest of us, which added to the air of mystery that attached to them.
Faraday was a
choirboy. He was thirteen years old. Before all this happened, I knew very
little more about him, though we had attended the same school for years. I knew
that he was supposed to be good at rugger. I knew he was the head of the Choir
School, which meant that at services he wore a medallion engraved with the
Cathedral’s badge over his surplice, hanging from a ribbon around his neck. But
I was more than a year older. He was two forms beneath mine and he lived in a
different house. Our lives did not overlap.
The other thing
that everyone knew about Faraday was that he had an exceptionally beautiful
voice. Ours was the sort of school where you had to be good at sport, or work
or music if you were to have a tolerable life. Faraday was good at everything,
but especially good at singing.
I suppose I
should also mention that I did not much like Faraday.
*
My parents were in India, where my
father’s regiment had been posted. They went to India the week before my
seventh birthday, leaving me in England. The climate was healthier for children
they said, and besides the schools were so much better. It was what many
parents did in their situation: it was considered quite normal and in the best
interests of the child. Perhaps it was. But I wished they had taken me with
them. I still wish it.
During school
holidays, I stayed with my aunt, the widowed sister of my father. My aunt was a
kind woman. But she didn’t know what to do with me and I didn’t know what to do
with her. She and my parents decided to send me to the King’s School because it
was only thirty miles from her house and it had the reputation of being a sound
Christian establishment.
The school was
a spartan place whose routine revolved around the Cathedral, even for those who
were not in the choir. There was a good deal of bullying. Education of a sort
was hammered into us. I made the best of it. What else was there to do?
I received
regular letters from Quetta or Srinagar or New Delhi, written in my mother’s
careful, upright hand. Every year or so, my parents would come home on leave.
I looked forward to these visits with anxiety and delight, as I dare say they
did. Seeing my parents was always painful because they were not as they had
been, and nor was I: we had become strangers to one another. We tried to make
the most of it but then they would be away again and whatever fragile intimacy
we had achieved would trickle away, leaving behind more misleading memories.
Still, I longed to see them again. Hope always triumphed over experience.
The last time
they came home, I was twelve. My father tried without success to teach me to
fish; he wanted me to share his passion. My mother took me shopping with her
and showed me off to her friends, who remained unimpressed. We went up to
London for matinées at the theatre.
On one of these
outings we had tea at the Charing Cross Hotel. I don’t remember much about it
except for one thing my mother said.
‘You used to be
such a chatterbox when you were little.’ She smiled at me. ‘Where did all the words
go?’
My parents were
coming home again. They would be here by mid-December in plenty of time for
Christmas. My mother wrote that my father was planning to buy a motor car. If
he did, they would drive over at the end of term and collect me.
The thought of
my parents turning up at school in a motor car added a new element to my
anticipation. At that time cars were uncommon, especially in the Fens. I
imagined my parents turning up in an enormous, gleaming equipage worthy of Mr
Toad in The Wind in the Willows and sweeping me
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