Clifton Chronicles 01 - Only Time Will Tell by Jeffrey Archer Page A
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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paper to forty nervous boys. Well, thirty-nine nervous boys, and Deakins.
Harry read through the questions slowly. When he reached number 100, he allowed a smile to cross his face. He picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and began to write. Forty minutes later he was back at question 100. He glanced at his watch; he still had another ten minutes in which to double-check his answers. He stopped for a moment at question 34 and reconsidered his original answer. Was it Oliver Cromwell or Thomas Cromwell who was sent to the Tower of London for treason? He recalled the fate of Cardinal Wolsey, and selected the man who’d taken his place as Lord Chancellor.
When the clock began to strike again, Harry had reached question 92. He quickly looked over his last eight answers before his paper was snatched away, the ink still drying on his final answer, Charles Lindbergh.
During the twenty-minute break, Harry, Giles and Deakins walked slowly around the cricket field where Giles had scored a century only a week before.
‘ Amo , amas , amat ,’ said Deakins as he painstakingly took them through their conjugations without once referring to Kennedy’s Latin Primer .
‘ Amamus , amatis , amant ,’ repeated Harry as they made their way back towards the examination hall.
When Harry handed in his Latin paper an hour later, he felt confident he’d scored more than the required 60 per cent, and even Giles looked pleased with himself. As the three of them strolled across to the refectory, Harry put an arm around Deakins’s shoulder and said, Thanks, old chum.’
After Harry had read through the geography paper later that morning, he silently thanked his secret weapon. Old Jack had passed on so much knowledge over the years without ever making him feel that he’d been in a classroom.
Harry didn’t pick up a knife or fork during lunch. Giles managed half a pork pie, while Deakins didn’t stop eating.
History was the first paper that afternoon, and didn’t cause him any anxiety. Henry VIII, Elizabeth, Raleigh, Drake, Napoleon, Nelson and Wellington all marched on to the battlefield, and Harry marched them back off again.
The mathematics paper was far easier than he had expected, and Giles even thought he might have scored another century.
During the final break, Harry returned to his study and glanced over an essay he’d written on David Copperfield, confident that he would excel in his favourite subject. He walked slowly back to the examination hall, repeating Mr Holcombe’s favourite word again and again. Concentrate.
He stared down at the final paper of the day, to find that this year belonged to Thomas Hardy and Lewis Carroll. He’d read The Mayor of Casterbridge and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but the Mad Hatter, Michael Henchard and the Cheshire Cat were not as familiar to him as Peggotty, Dr Chillip and Barkis. His pen scratched slowly across the page, and when the clock chimed on the hour, he wasn’t sure if he’d done enough. He walked out of the hall and into the afternoon sunshine, feeling a little depressed, although it was clear from the looks on the faces of his rivals that no one thought it had been an easy paper. That made him wonder if he was still in with a chance.
There followed what Mr Holcombe had often described as the worst part of any exam, those days of endless waiting before the results were formally posted on the school notice board; a time when boys end up doing something they will later regret, almost as if they want to be rusticated rather than learn their fate. One boy was caught drinking cider behind the bicycle shed, another smoking a Woodbine in the lavatory, while a third was seen leaving the local cinema after lights out.
Giles was out for a duck the following Saturday, his first of the season. While Deakins returned to the library, Harry went on long walks, going over every answer in his head again and again. It didn’t improve matters.
On Sunday afternoon,
Harry read through the questions slowly. When he reached number 100, he allowed a smile to cross his face. He picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and began to write. Forty minutes later he was back at question 100. He glanced at his watch; he still had another ten minutes in which to double-check his answers. He stopped for a moment at question 34 and reconsidered his original answer. Was it Oliver Cromwell or Thomas Cromwell who was sent to the Tower of London for treason? He recalled the fate of Cardinal Wolsey, and selected the man who’d taken his place as Lord Chancellor.
When the clock began to strike again, Harry had reached question 92. He quickly looked over his last eight answers before his paper was snatched away, the ink still drying on his final answer, Charles Lindbergh.
During the twenty-minute break, Harry, Giles and Deakins walked slowly around the cricket field where Giles had scored a century only a week before.
‘ Amo , amas , amat ,’ said Deakins as he painstakingly took them through their conjugations without once referring to Kennedy’s Latin Primer .
‘ Amamus , amatis , amant ,’ repeated Harry as they made their way back towards the examination hall.
When Harry handed in his Latin paper an hour later, he felt confident he’d scored more than the required 60 per cent, and even Giles looked pleased with himself. As the three of them strolled across to the refectory, Harry put an arm around Deakins’s shoulder and said, Thanks, old chum.’
After Harry had read through the geography paper later that morning, he silently thanked his secret weapon. Old Jack had passed on so much knowledge over the years without ever making him feel that he’d been in a classroom.
Harry didn’t pick up a knife or fork during lunch. Giles managed half a pork pie, while Deakins didn’t stop eating.
History was the first paper that afternoon, and didn’t cause him any anxiety. Henry VIII, Elizabeth, Raleigh, Drake, Napoleon, Nelson and Wellington all marched on to the battlefield, and Harry marched them back off again.
The mathematics paper was far easier than he had expected, and Giles even thought he might have scored another century.
During the final break, Harry returned to his study and glanced over an essay he’d written on David Copperfield, confident that he would excel in his favourite subject. He walked slowly back to the examination hall, repeating Mr Holcombe’s favourite word again and again. Concentrate.
He stared down at the final paper of the day, to find that this year belonged to Thomas Hardy and Lewis Carroll. He’d read The Mayor of Casterbridge and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but the Mad Hatter, Michael Henchard and the Cheshire Cat were not as familiar to him as Peggotty, Dr Chillip and Barkis. His pen scratched slowly across the page, and when the clock chimed on the hour, he wasn’t sure if he’d done enough. He walked out of the hall and into the afternoon sunshine, feeling a little depressed, although it was clear from the looks on the faces of his rivals that no one thought it had been an easy paper. That made him wonder if he was still in with a chance.
There followed what Mr Holcombe had often described as the worst part of any exam, those days of endless waiting before the results were formally posted on the school notice board; a time when boys end up doing something they will later regret, almost as if they want to be rusticated rather than learn their fate. One boy was caught drinking cider behind the bicycle shed, another smoking a Woodbine in the lavatory, while a third was seen leaving the local cinema after lights out.
Giles was out for a duck the following Saturday, his first of the season. While Deakins returned to the library, Harry went on long walks, going over every answer in his head again and again. It didn’t improve matters.
On Sunday afternoon,
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