Glodstone and traced again and again her large flowing
handwriting. When he returned to Groxbourne, even the Comtesse herself would have found
difficulty in saying which of the letters she had written without reading their contents. Mr
Slymne's skills had come into their own.
It was more than could be said for Peregrine Clyde-Browne. The discrepancy between his school
report and his failure to pass any subject at O-level apart from the maths which, because it
allowed of no alternatives to right and wrong, he had managed to scrape through with a grade C,
had finally convinced Mr Clyde-Browne that sending his son to Groxbourne might have had the
advantage of keeping the brute out of the house for most of the year, but that it certainly
hadn't advanced the chances of getting him into the Army. On the other hand, he had paid the fees
for three years, not to mention his contribution to the Chapel Restoration Fund, and it
infuriated him to think that he had wasted the money.
'We're almost certain to be lumbered with the cretin at the end of the summer term,' he
grumbled, 'and at this rate, he'll never get a job.'
'I think you're being very hard on him. Dr Andrews says he's probably a late developer.'
'And how late is late? He'll be fifty before he knows that Oui is French for Yes and not an
instruction to go to the toilet. And I'll be ninety.'
'And in your second childhood,' retorted Mrs Clyde-Browne.
'Quite,' said her husband. 'In which case you'll have double problems. Peregrine won't be out
of his first. Well, if you want to share your old age with a middle-aged adolescent, I
don't.'
'Since I'm spending my own middle-age with a bad-tempered and callous '
'I am not callous. I may be bad-tempered but I am not callous. I am merely trying to do the
best for your...all right, our son while there's still time.'
'But his reports say '
But Mr Clyde-Browne's patience had run out. 'Reports? Reports? I'd as soon believe a single
word of a Government White Paper as give any credence to those damned reports. They're designed
to con parents of morons to go on shelling out good money. What I want are decent exam
results.'
'In that case you should have taken my advice in the first place and had Peregrine privately
tutored,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne, knitting with some ferocity.
Mr Clyde-Browne wilted into a chair. 'You may be right at that,' he conceded, 'though I can't
imagine any educated man staying the course. Peregrine would have him in a mental home within a
month. Still, it's worth trying. There must be some case-hardened crammer who could programme him
with enough information to get his O-levels. I'll look into it.'
As a result of this desperate determination, Peregrine had spent the Easter holidays with Dr
Klaus Hardboldt, late of the Army Education Corps. The doctor's credentials were of the highest.
He had drilled the Duke of Durham's son into Cambridge against hereditary odds and had had the
remarkable record of teaching eighteen Guards officers to speak pidgin Russian without a
lisp.
'I think I can guarantee your son will pass his O-levels,' he told Mr Clyde-Browne. 'Give me
anyone for three weeks of uninterrupted training and they will learn.'
Mr Clyde-Browne had said he hoped so and had paid handsomely. And Dr Hardboldt had lived up to
his promise. Peregrine had spent three weeks at the Doctor's school in Aldershot with astonishing
results. The Doctor's methods were based on his intimate observations of dogs and a close
connection with several chief examiners.
'Don't imagine I expect you to think, because I don't,' he explained the first morning. 'You
are here to obey. I require the use of only one faculty, that of memory. You will learn off by
heart the answers to the questions which will be set you in the exam. Those of you who fail to
remember the answers will be put on bread and water; those who are word perfect will get fillet
steak. Is that
handwriting. When he returned to Groxbourne, even the Comtesse herself would have found
difficulty in saying which of the letters she had written without reading their contents. Mr
Slymne's skills had come into their own.
It was more than could be said for Peregrine Clyde-Browne. The discrepancy between his school
report and his failure to pass any subject at O-level apart from the maths which, because it
allowed of no alternatives to right and wrong, he had managed to scrape through with a grade C,
had finally convinced Mr Clyde-Browne that sending his son to Groxbourne might have had the
advantage of keeping the brute out of the house for most of the year, but that it certainly
hadn't advanced the chances of getting him into the Army. On the other hand, he had paid the fees
for three years, not to mention his contribution to the Chapel Restoration Fund, and it
infuriated him to think that he had wasted the money.
'We're almost certain to be lumbered with the cretin at the end of the summer term,' he
grumbled, 'and at this rate, he'll never get a job.'
'I think you're being very hard on him. Dr Andrews says he's probably a late developer.'
'And how late is late? He'll be fifty before he knows that Oui is French for Yes and not an
instruction to go to the toilet. And I'll be ninety.'
'And in your second childhood,' retorted Mrs Clyde-Browne.
'Quite,' said her husband. 'In which case you'll have double problems. Peregrine won't be out
of his first. Well, if you want to share your old age with a middle-aged adolescent, I
don't.'
'Since I'm spending my own middle-age with a bad-tempered and callous '
'I am not callous. I may be bad-tempered but I am not callous. I am merely trying to do the
best for your...all right, our son while there's still time.'
'But his reports say '
But Mr Clyde-Browne's patience had run out. 'Reports? Reports? I'd as soon believe a single
word of a Government White Paper as give any credence to those damned reports. They're designed
to con parents of morons to go on shelling out good money. What I want are decent exam
results.'
'In that case you should have taken my advice in the first place and had Peregrine privately
tutored,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne, knitting with some ferocity.
Mr Clyde-Browne wilted into a chair. 'You may be right at that,' he conceded, 'though I can't
imagine any educated man staying the course. Peregrine would have him in a mental home within a
month. Still, it's worth trying. There must be some case-hardened crammer who could programme him
with enough information to get his O-levels. I'll look into it.'
As a result of this desperate determination, Peregrine had spent the Easter holidays with Dr
Klaus Hardboldt, late of the Army Education Corps. The doctor's credentials were of the highest.
He had drilled the Duke of Durham's son into Cambridge against hereditary odds and had had the
remarkable record of teaching eighteen Guards officers to speak pidgin Russian without a
lisp.
'I think I can guarantee your son will pass his O-levels,' he told Mr Clyde-Browne. 'Give me
anyone for three weeks of uninterrupted training and they will learn.'
Mr Clyde-Browne had said he hoped so and had paid handsomely. And Dr Hardboldt had lived up to
his promise. Peregrine had spent three weeks at the Doctor's school in Aldershot with astonishing
results. The Doctor's methods were based on his intimate observations of dogs and a close
connection with several chief examiners.
'Don't imagine I expect you to think, because I don't,' he explained the first morning. 'You
are here to obey. I require the use of only one faculty, that of memory. You will learn off by
heart the answers to the questions which will be set you in the exam. Those of you who fail to
remember the answers will be put on bread and water; those who are word perfect will get fillet
steak. Is that
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