that desperate,” said Keith, laughing. “But I do have to attend an
Interview Board for Oxford.”
“Why bother?”
said Penny. “if you were to end up there, it would only confirm your worst
fears about the English.”
1 know that, but
my ... “ he began, as he pulled up his
trousers for a second time.
“And in any
case, I heard my father tell Mr. Clarke that he only added your name to the
final list to please your mother.”
Penny regretted
the words the moment she had said them.
Keith’s eyes
narrowed as he stared down at a girl who didn’t normally blush.
Keith used the
second edition of the school magazine to air his opinions on private education.
“As we approach
the second half of the twentieth century, money alone should not be able to
guarantee a good education,” the leader declared.
“Attendance at
the finest schools should be available to any child of proven ability, and not
decided simply by which cot you were born in.”
Keith waited for
the wrath of the headmaster to descend upon him, but only silence emanated from
that quarter. Mr. Jessop did not rise to the challenge. He might have been
influenced by the fact that Keith had already banked C1,470 of the £5,000
needed to build a new cricket pavilion. Most of the money had, admittedly, been
extracted from his father’s contacts, who, Keith suspected, paid up in the hope
that it would keep their names off the front pages in future.
In fact, the
only result of publishing the article was not a complaint, but an offer of C 10
from the Melbourne Age, Sir Graham’s main rival, who wanted to reproduce the
five hundred-word piece in full. Keith happily accepted his first fee as a
journalist, but managed to lose the entire amount the following Wednesday, thus
finally proving that Lucky Joe’s system was not infallible.
Nevertheless,
Keith looked forward to the chance of impressing his father with the little
coup. On Saturday he read through his prose, as reproduced in the Melbourne
Age. They hadn’t changed a single word-but they had edited the piece down
drastically, and given it a very misleading headline: “Sir Graham’s Heir
Demands Scholarships for Aborigines.”
Half the page
was given over to Keith’s radical views the other half was taken up by an
article from the paper’s chief educational correspondent, cogently arguing the
case for private education. Readers were invited to respond with their
opinions, and the following Saturday the Age had a field day at Sir Graham’s
expense.
Keith was
relieved that his father never raised the subject, although he did overhear him
telling his mother, ‘The boy will have learned a great deal from the
experience. And in any case, I agreed with a lot of what he had to say.”
His mother
wasn’t quite so supportive.
During the
holidays Keith spent every morning being tutored by Miss Steadman in
preparation for his final exams.
“Learning is
just another form of tyranny,” he declared at the end of one demanding session.
“It’s nothing
compared with the tyranny of being ignorant for the rest of your life,” she assured
him.
After Miss
Steadman had set him some more topics to revise, Keith went off to spend the
rest of the day at the Courier. Like his father, he found he was more at ease
among journalists than with the rich and powerful old boys of St.
Andrew’s from
whom he continued to try to coax money for the pavilion appeal.
For his first
official assignment at the Courier, Keith was attached to the paper’s crime
reporter, Barry Evans, who sent him off every afternoon to cover court
proceedings petty theft, burglary, shoplifting and even the occasional bigamy.
“Search for names that just might be recognized,” Evans told him. “Or better
still, for those who might be related to people who are well known. Best of
all, those who are well known.” Keith worked diligently, but without a great
deal to show for his efforts. Whenever he did manage to get a piece into
Interview Board for Oxford.”
“Why bother?”
said Penny. “if you were to end up there, it would only confirm your worst
fears about the English.”
1 know that, but
my ... “ he began, as he pulled up his
trousers for a second time.
“And in any
case, I heard my father tell Mr. Clarke that he only added your name to the
final list to please your mother.”
Penny regretted
the words the moment she had said them.
Keith’s eyes
narrowed as he stared down at a girl who didn’t normally blush.
Keith used the
second edition of the school magazine to air his opinions on private education.
“As we approach
the second half of the twentieth century, money alone should not be able to
guarantee a good education,” the leader declared.
“Attendance at
the finest schools should be available to any child of proven ability, and not
decided simply by which cot you were born in.”
Keith waited for
the wrath of the headmaster to descend upon him, but only silence emanated from
that quarter. Mr. Jessop did not rise to the challenge. He might have been
influenced by the fact that Keith had already banked C1,470 of the £5,000
needed to build a new cricket pavilion. Most of the money had, admittedly, been
extracted from his father’s contacts, who, Keith suspected, paid up in the hope
that it would keep their names off the front pages in future.
In fact, the
only result of publishing the article was not a complaint, but an offer of C 10
from the Melbourne Age, Sir Graham’s main rival, who wanted to reproduce the
five hundred-word piece in full. Keith happily accepted his first fee as a
journalist, but managed to lose the entire amount the following Wednesday, thus
finally proving that Lucky Joe’s system was not infallible.
Nevertheless,
Keith looked forward to the chance of impressing his father with the little
coup. On Saturday he read through his prose, as reproduced in the Melbourne
Age. They hadn’t changed a single word-but they had edited the piece down
drastically, and given it a very misleading headline: “Sir Graham’s Heir
Demands Scholarships for Aborigines.”
Half the page
was given over to Keith’s radical views the other half was taken up by an
article from the paper’s chief educational correspondent, cogently arguing the
case for private education. Readers were invited to respond with their
opinions, and the following Saturday the Age had a field day at Sir Graham’s
expense.
Keith was
relieved that his father never raised the subject, although he did overhear him
telling his mother, ‘The boy will have learned a great deal from the
experience. And in any case, I agreed with a lot of what he had to say.”
His mother
wasn’t quite so supportive.
During the
holidays Keith spent every morning being tutored by Miss Steadman in
preparation for his final exams.
“Learning is
just another form of tyranny,” he declared at the end of one demanding session.
“It’s nothing
compared with the tyranny of being ignorant for the rest of your life,” she assured
him.
After Miss
Steadman had set him some more topics to revise, Keith went off to spend the
rest of the day at the Courier. Like his father, he found he was more at ease
among journalists than with the rich and powerful old boys of St.
Andrew’s from
whom he continued to try to coax money for the pavilion appeal.
For his first
official assignment at the Courier, Keith was attached to the paper’s crime
reporter, Barry Evans, who sent him off every afternoon to cover court
proceedings petty theft, burglary, shoplifting and even the occasional bigamy.
“Search for names that just might be recognized,” Evans told him. “Or better
still, for those who might be related to people who are well known. Best of
all, those who are well known.” Keith worked diligently, but without a great
deal to show for his efforts. Whenever he did manage to get a piece into
Similar Books
