Latin verb.
‘New boy!’ a voice called out.
Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. ‘Me, sir?’
The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. ‘It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks.You idiot.’
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.
‘Never mind.You must be Wesley.’
‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘I’m not “sir”. My name’s Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I’ve been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.’
They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.
‘This way,’ Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.
‘This is your bed.’ The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. ‘You’re sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours.Your trunk goes underneath.’
Arthur gazed at the bed. ‘Shared beds?’
‘Of course. This ain’t a palace. It’s a school.’
‘Are all schools like this?’ Arthur asked quietly.
‘How should I know?’ Richard shrugged. ‘I’ve never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I’ll show you the way. Come.’
He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.
‘There,’ Richard said quietly. ‘Just knock. He’s expecting you.’
‘What’s he like?’ Arthur whispered.
‘Old Harcourt?’ Richard stifled a grin. ‘He eats new boys for breakfast. I’ll see you later, if you live.’
Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood.Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.
‘Enter!’
Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall.The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.
‘You’re Wesley?’
Arthur nodded.
‘Speak up, young man!’
‘Yes, sir. I’m Arthur Wesley.’
‘That’s better.’ Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. ‘It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?’
‘Please, sir. I can read music. I’m learning the violin.’
‘Really? Well, that’s nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.’
‘Years?’ Arthur replied bleakly.
Father Harcourt smiled coldly. ‘Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?’
Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.
‘The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?’
Arthur shuddered and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up
‘New boy!’ a voice called out.
Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. ‘Me, sir?’
The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. ‘It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks.You idiot.’
Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.
‘Never mind.You must be Wesley.’
‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘I’m not “sir”. My name’s Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I’ve been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.’
They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.
‘This way,’ Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.
‘This is your bed.’ The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. ‘You’re sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours.Your trunk goes underneath.’
Arthur gazed at the bed. ‘Shared beds?’
‘Of course. This ain’t a palace. It’s a school.’
‘Are all schools like this?’ Arthur asked quietly.
‘How should I know?’ Richard shrugged. ‘I’ve never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I’ll show you the way. Come.’
He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.
‘There,’ Richard said quietly. ‘Just knock. He’s expecting you.’
‘What’s he like?’ Arthur whispered.
‘Old Harcourt?’ Richard stifled a grin. ‘He eats new boys for breakfast. I’ll see you later, if you live.’
Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood.Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.
‘Enter!’
Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall.The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.
‘You’re Wesley?’
Arthur nodded.
‘Speak up, young man!’
‘Yes, sir. I’m Arthur Wesley.’
‘That’s better.’ Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. ‘It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?’
‘Please, sir. I can read music. I’m learning the violin.’
‘Really? Well, that’s nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.’
‘Years?’ Arthur replied bleakly.
Father Harcourt smiled coldly. ‘Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?’
Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.
‘The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?’
Arthur shuddered and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up
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