'Isn't that our little street urchin?' said one.
'Pity he doesn't have a toothbrush,' said another.
'Sleeps down at the docks at night, I'm told,' said a third.
Deakins and Barrington were nowhere to be seen as Harry hurried back to his house, avoiding any gatherings of boys on the way.
During supper, the gawping eyes were less obvious, but only because Giles had made it clear to everyone within earshot that Harry was his friend. But Giles was unable to help when they all went up to the dormitory after prep and found Fisher standing by the door, clearly waiting for Harry.
As the boys began to undress, Fisher announced in a loud voice, 'I'm sorry about the smell, gentlemen, but one of your form comes from a house without a bath.' One or two of the boys sniggered, hoping to ingratiate themselves with Fisher. Harry ignored him. 'Not only does this guttersnipe not have a bath, he doesn't even have a father.'
'My father was a good man who fought for his country in the war,' said Harry proudly.
'What makes you think I was talking about you, Clifton?' said Fisher. 'Unless of course you're also the boy whose mother works -' he paused - 'as a hotel waitress.'
'An hotel,' said Harry, correcting him.
Fisher grabbed a slipper. 'Don't you ever answer me back, Clifton,' he said angrily. 'Bend down and touch the end of your bed.' Harry obeyed, and Fisher administered six strokes with such ferocity that Giles had to turn away. Harry crept into bed, fighting to hold back the tears.
Before Fisher switched off the light, he added, 'I'll look forward to seeing you all again tomorrow night, when I will continue with my bedtime tale of the Cliftons of Still House Lane. Wait until you hear about Uncle Stan.'
The following night, Harry learnt for the first time that his uncle had spent eighteen months in prison for burglary. This revelation was worse than being slippered. He crept into bed wondering if his father could still be alive but in jail, and that was the real reason no one at home ever talked about him.
Harry hardly slept for a third night running, and no amount of success in the classroom, or admiration in the chapel, could stop him continually thinking about the next inevitable encounter with Fisher. The slightest excuse, a drop of water spilt on the washroom floor, a pillow that wasn't straight, a sock that had fallen around his ankle, would ensure that Harry could expect six of the best from the duty prefect; a punishment that would be administered in front of the rest of the dorm, but not before Fisher had added another episode from the Clifton Chronicles. By the fifth night, Harry had had enough, and even Giles and Deakins could no longer console him.
During prep on Friday evening, while the other boys were turning the pages of their Kennedy's Latin Primer, Harry ignored Caesar and the Gauls and went over a plan that would ensure Fisher never bothered him again. By the time he climbed into bed that night, after Fisher had discovered a Fry's wrapper by his bed and slippered him once again, Harry's plan was in place. He lay awake long after lights out, and didn't stir until he was certain every boy was asleep.
Harry had no idea what time it was when he slipped out of bed. He dressed without making a sound, then crept between the beds until he reached the far side of the room. He pushed the window open, and the rush of cold air caused the boy in the nearest bed to turn over. Harry climbed out on to the fire escape and slowly closed the window before making his way down to the ground. He walked around the edge of the lawn, taking advantage of any shadows to avoid a full moon that seemed to beam down on him like a searchlight.
Harry was horrified to discover that the school gates were locked. He crept along the wall, searching for the slightest crack or indentation that would allow him to climb over the top and escape to freedom. At last he spotted a missing brick and was able to lever himself up until he was straddling the wall. He lowered himself down the other side, clinging on by the tips of his fingers, said a silent prayer, then let go. He landed on the ground in a heap, but didn't seem to have broken anything.
Once he'd recovered, he began to run down the road, slowly at first, but then he speeded up and didn't stop running until he reached the docks. The night shift was just coming off duty and Harry was relieved to find his uncle was not among them.
After the last docker had disappeared out of sight, he walked slowly along the quayside, past a line of moored ships that stretched as far as the eye could see. He noticed that one of the funnels proudly displayed the letter B, and thought about his friend who would be fast asleep. Would he ever ... his thoughts were interrupted when he came to a halt outside Old Jack's railway carriage.
He wondered if the old man was also fast asleep. His question was answered when a voice said, 'Don't just stand there, Harry, come inside before you freeze to death.' Harry opened the carriage door to find Old Jack striking a match and trying to light a candle. Harry slumped into the seat opposite him. 'Have you run away?' asked Old Jack.
Harry was so taken aback by his direct question that he didn't answer immediately. 'Yes, I have,' he finally spluttered.
'And no doubt you've come to tell me why you've made this momentous decision.'
'I didn't make the decision,' said Harry. 'It was made for me.'
'By whom?'
'His name is Fisher.'
'A master or a boy?'
'My dormitory prefect,' said Harry, wincing. He then told Old Jack everything that had happened during his first week at St Bede's.
Once again, the old man took him by surprise. When Harry came to the end of his story, Jack said, 'I blame myself.'
'Why?' asked Harry. 'You couldn't have done more to help me.'
'Yes I could,' said Old Jack. 'I should have prepared you for a brand of snobbery that no other nation on earth can emulate. I should have spent more time on the significance of the old school tie, and less on geography and history. I had rather hoped things just might have changed after the war to end all wars, but they clearly haven't at St Bede's.' He fell into a thoughtful silence before finally asking, 'So what are you going to do next, my boy?'
'Run away to sea. I'll take any boat that will have me,' said Harry, trying to sound enthusiastic.
'What a good idea,' said Old Jack. 'Why not play straight into Fisher's hands?'
'What do you mean?'
'Just that nothing will please Fisher more than to be able to tell his friends that the street urchin had no guts, but then, what do you expect from the son of a docker whose mother is a waitress?'
'But Fisher's right. I'm not in his class.'
'No, Harry, the problem is that Fisher already realizes he's not in your class, and never will be.'
'Are you saying I should go back to that horrible place?' said Harry.
'In the end, only you can make that decision,' said Old Jack, 'but if you run away every time you come up against the Fishers of this world, you'll end up like me, one of life's also-rans, to quote the headmaster.'
'But you're a great man,' said Harry.
'I might have been,' said Old Jack, 'if I hadn't run away the moment I came across my Fisher. But I settled for the easy way out, and only thought about myself.'
'But who else is there to think about?'