A Future Arrived by Phillip Rock

pupils themselves through various elected committees. The highest committee is the governing body, or soviet. They wish to talk to you, Ramsay. If you hold any hope of attending Burgate House in the future, I would advise you to answer all of their questions with the utmost candor. Lying, even half truth, is simply not tolerated here. Do you understand?”
    â€œI … I think so, sir.”
    â€œAnd that’s not my ruling. The soviet sets all standards for admission and expulsion.” He reached down and touched the boy on the head, the thick brown hair still damp from the bath. “Come along now, they’re waiting for you.”
    The high drama attending the arrival of Derek Ramsay had effectively destroyed the school routine for the rest of the day. When Charles went into the common room he found most of the teachers sitting about in varied attitudes of leisure.
    â€œI say,” Simpson remarked, lowering his newspaper, “they’re taking rather a long time.”
    â€œI imagine they have a good deal to talk about,” Charles said. “You know how some of these runaways are. Can’t get two words out of them at first and then one can’t shut them up once they get started.”
    â€œPoor little blighter.”
    Charles glanced at his wristwatch. “Been nearly two hours.”
    Simpson glanced at his own. “Almost time for tea. They’ll break in a minute or two. No fools, the soviet.”
    He was correct. There was the sound of footsteps hurrying along the corridor and then an elfin face peered around the doorpost, that of a girl elected to be one of the soviet messengers.
    â€œPlease, Mr. Greville, sir, but the soviet would like to see you in chambers.”
    â€œThank you, Valerie. I’ll be right up.”
    The girl ran off and Charles could hear her footsteps clattering up the stairs to the first-floor landing as he followed slowly, dreading the tale he was certain to hear.
    The seven members comprising the soviet were elected each term by the entire school from pupils in the upper sixth form. It was composed this term of five boys and two girls, ranging in age from sixteen to eighteen and in background from the son of a fish shop owner in Ramsgate to the granddaughter of a viceroy. A small, sunny room that had once been a nursery had been turned into the soviet’s council chamber. It contained a few pieces of furniture, although the council, by tradition, conducted its business seated or sprawled on a threadbare Oriental carpet which was believed—falsely—to have belonged to Lenin during his exile in Switzerland.
    The council began to get to its feet as Charles entered the room, but he waved them down again. Young Ramsay, he noted, was sprawled among them amid a scattering of toffee wrappers. The soviet knew how to make someone feel at home.
    â€œConclusion reached, I take it.”
    â€œYes, sir,” one of the boys said. “We’ve delegated Jameson as spokesman and we’re all in agreement.”
    â€œGood. Tea’s about ready. Why don’t you take Ramsay down while I talk with Kevin in private.”
    Kevin Jameson, a tall, gangly boy of seventeen, closed the door after the others were gone. Charles sat in the least battered of the few chairs.
    â€œAny trouble getting him to talk?”
    â€œA bit, sir. In a blue funk the first half hour. Then he opened up to us. Nasty story, I must say.”
    â€œI can imagine.”
    â€œA classic case of the wrong boy at the wrong school. I have a cousin who went to Archdean. He enjoyed the school immensely, won all sorts of colors and prizes … captained the eleven … led them over Harrow at Lord’s three years ago. That sort of thing. He was the type, you see. A perfect fit. This little fellow simply rubbed Archdean the wrong way from the start. Overweight, sloppy dresser … clumsy, hopeless at games … untidy. A complete twerp. And homesick. He was