CHAPTER 2
Minus times plus gives minus in luck
“What no homework, Mister Resmel? Whenever will you learn to do as you’re told? And what will your guardians think when a letter to that effect is sent home? Do you think they will be very pleased to read that you have wasted their money? Well, lad?”
The first couple of months had not passed without problems. Mr Moore, his main classroom master, always seemed be picking on him. Hans did not like this master. In fact, the majority of boys did not like Mr Moore and often referred to him by the nick-name ‘Moose-head’ as, with his large nose and greying hair that stuck out sideways, he did look something like a moose. Warm or freezing cold, the ‘Moose-head’ always wore exactly the same clothes: tie, white stiffly starched shirt and pin-striped trousers partly covered by a black gown. He always insisted the side windows be open even when the ground was covered with frost. Minds must be kept alert at all times for learning, he would shout above the moans of those too cold to dip their pens into the inkwells. The boys really believed that this master originated in the Arctic regions and really must have been a moose in some former life. ‘Moose-head’ also had those secret eyes that teachers seem to cultivate, for he could always spot a yawn, even when his back was turned. ‘What! Going to sleep in my class? Open that window there, Mister Gilling. Now for something to make all those lazy brain cells work . . .’
Hans gave many yawns as the concentration with a foreign language tired him and consequently did not enjoy Mr Moore or his lessons of History or Classics.
The day Hans appeared especially sullen and unresponsive, the master lost all patience. The chalk missile hit Hans just above his ear and made his aching head hurt even more. ‘Moose-head’ strode between the desks and stood, both arms on his hips with his gown spread wide like some huge vulture waiting to devour its prey. Hans bit his lip and dared not to look up.
“Did you not feel the chalk, Mister Resmel?” boomed the voice.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what Mister Resmel?”
“Yes, sir, Mr Moore.”
“Then look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Slowly Hans raised his eyes from the desk top to the master.
“You know what the chalk means?”
The master waited for the answer. He waited, stood and waited for the boy’s answer but Hans could not find the words to explain himself. At that moment Mr Moore’s patience ran out; he grabbed Hans by the back of his collar and pulled him towards the door.
“Matron can deal with you! I don’t have the time to waste on those who do not listen! Out of my sight!”
He opened the door and pointed out into the corridor.
Why should just one master’s opinion of him override all the other reports, which had been quite satisfactory? Why do some grown-ups pick on you for the slightest thing and never try to see things from his point of view? And as walked down the corridor to the Matron’s, he mulled these problems over and over in his mind. He could feel frustration and anger welling up inside him like an untapped spring.
Miss Turner peered over the top of her glasses and he watched them slide slowly down her long, slender nose until they reached the position where she automatically pushed them back up again.
“Well, what will your uncle think when he reads of such a bad report, Mister Resmel? You’ve not been sent you here for a holiday! What do you think their answer to my letter will be?”
What did this old woman know of his background, or of his feelings but before he could stop himself, he blurted:
“It is not the money of my uncle, Fräulein Turner.”
The impertinence of the boy! Miss Turner was not going to stand for talk like that.
“Don’t you Froy-line me! It’s Miss, Miss Turner or Matron to you! Well?” She glared at him from behind her metal-rimmed spectacles.
“My uncle does not pay.”
“I am perfectly aware of your circumstances, young man. That has little bearing on your behaviour here. Have you thought about that?”
She leaned on her elbows tapping the tips of her fingers as she waited for his response.
Hans was thinking fast. He had already noticed that the very junior boys were dealt with by a prefect while those in the middle classes, like his, were directed to one of the senior masters when they needed to be disciplined. Why should he be the one sent to Miss Turner? It was common knowledge that the matron dealt with the girls . . . and he was no girl!
“This girl, your . . . ” He had forgotten the English word. It was terrible how the words slipped from his memory the minute he wanted to say something when he was angry or upset. “That girl. I am now a man and . . . ”
“Then treat the girls and the young women with the respect of a gentleman. Honour, Mr Resmel. You need to be honourable.”
“Yes, Miss Turner.”
“Well? Was there something else?”
She had noticed the hesitation and uncertainty in his voice. Her penetrating look made him feel uncomfortable yet his feelings over the matter beat so fiercely in his body, he had to let them out.
“Orders come not from girls. They should be, be cosy. Not bossy. Men give orders! Men only are rulers.”
Miss Turner did not explode as he had expected. Instead, she remained silent, interested and taking several deep breaths to calm herself. He watched, almost fascinated, by the way her breasts heaved upwards and outwards at each breath. He wondered whether her niece would have breasts like those when she was older. Then, quietly, in almost a whisper, Miss Turner intruded his thoughts.
“I don’t know where you got that silly idea from but I do not want to hear anything more like that. Many youngsters of your age have already been working for two years. You are very lucky. Yes, two times when England has been a great country there was a woman on the throne and men were only too pleased to take orders. You have heard of Queen Victoria, have you?”
“Yes, Miss Turner.”
“And you know the motto of this college?”
“Veneratio est nostrum rector, Miss.”
“Queen Victoria was a person held in great esteem. She knew what her duty was to the nation and was willing to be guided by the highest principles. A most honourable monarch. Maybe, you can learn something from her.” She drew in an audible breath in between her thin red lips, then straightened herself even more so that her body grew taller. “You will write me a three page essay on The importance of honour for Queen Victoria and her rule for the British Empire. Maybe, through this exercise, you will get to think about your own situation with respect to honour and how it should guide your behaviour. Bring it to my office by tomorrow morning, before assembly. Now go!”
That evening, he rummaged through all the encyclopaedias and history books he could find until he located an article about the British Parliament. He read it, re-read it, scratched his head and re-read it again. What did he know about this English queen, let alone about the British Empire? Then, with the aid of an old dictionary, endeavoured to translate it from English into German so that he knew which parts he could use. To copy the text might cause further problems with Miss Turner and he certainly did not want to be disciplined by Mr Brinkwater.
“What’s up, Erwin . . . er, Hans?” Mr Brymer asked, glancing around the side of his newspaper and at the same time removing his pipe from his mouth. Mr Brymer always liked to have his pipe when reading even though, on most occasions it was not lit. He had been made aware that there was a problem when the sighs and mutterings of the youth became louder and louder.
Hans lay stretched out on the carpet, resting himself on one elbow. Open books and pages of writing paper surrounded him like an open fan.
“Ach, Herr Brymer, this is very hard.”
“What is? What are you trying to do?”
“My English . . . this English . . . I must write over the Queen Victoria.”
“Sorry, Hans,” replied the elderly man. “I did not learn when I was a boy English history, especiall
y with Queen Victoria. I had very little schooling and managed to learn only a little arithmetic and writing. You young people learn different things. If you try yourself, it may be difficult but you will learn. Then, you make progress and become the winner. You can only do your best. Always must be your best.”
Mr Brymer shrugged his shoulders, folded his newspaper, switched off his reading lamp and walked out of the room. Even though he had been in England fourteen years, his own knowledge of the English monarchs was not good. He was content just knowing that King George was the present king and knowing that Ramsay MacDonald was the new Prime Minister. Beyond that, he had no stomach for politics, of any kind. It had been politics, together with an uncertain future, that made him leave his homeland. That was enough for him.
A few minutes later he returned with a large, well-worn, brown-covered book which he handed over to Hans,
“This was my book when I was young. It should help. It is in German and I think there is a little about Queen Victoria when she was first made queen.”
Hans was then left on his own, to read and translate and then rewrite the whole thing again as best he could in a language he was still not very familiar with. It was a struggle but he managed to fill two entire pages, carefully filling his nib with ink and taking care with rolling the blotting paper over his writing so that there was not a single ink splotch on either paper.
Hans handed in his essay attempt the next morning as soon as he arrived. Miss Turner scanned the document in silence. The constant ticking from the clock on the wall was the only sound to be heard. Then, a brief rustle of paper as she turned the page over. Again the awful silence and the ticking returned. When Miss Turner had finished reading, she stretched, drawing her body upright and looked at him full in the face. The morning light caught the edge of her spectacles and made the metal frames glint. Hans found the waiting unbearable and crunched up his toes in his shoes.
“This is rubbish, Mister Resmel!” She waved the paper before him like someone waving a protest flag. “Even some of the facts are wrong!” She slapped the essay down on her desk with a distinguishable thud. “And, you need to pay a lot more attention to your grammar.” She waited, waiting for him to absorb her message. The silence was awful. After a full minute, she asked, “Where did you get all this misguided information?”
Hans had been rubbing the side of his little finger while Miss Turner was reading and now when he looked at it, it was as though he had run a hot iron over the surface. Along the side of his finger was a stroke of inflamed redness. It began to sting as the wounded finger throbbed in empathy to his wounded feelings. He felt completely deflated and hurt by the matron’s cruel remarks and he hoped she would be willing to listen to his explanation.
“I have little English books. Mr Brymer, he give to me a book. It is in German. I am not think in English. It is for me very difficult.”
“Then must pay more attention to your English masters and work harder. Most young men of your age are already out working, and have been doing so for the past two years. You are most fortunate to be able to continue your education so make the best of it.” She picked up the essay again and skimmed through it once more. “Well, at least you did produce something and I do admit it is tidy but, and take note Mister Resmel, that it still would not have received a pass.” She eyed him up and down and then promptly screwed up his essay and let it drop, plop, into the waste bin beside her. “You need to improve your standard of work if you have any hope of gaining your final certificate. Another month and the present school year comes to an end. In the meantime, standards cannot be lowered just for you. We have high standards at this college. We have a very good name for achievement and we wish to keep it long after you have left us. If you wish to remain here for another year or two, you must make an bigger effort: you must be vigilant in class and always do your home study thoroughly. You could have used the books in the library. That is why we have one: for students to use. You’ve been sent here to succeed; not fail. Make your family proud of you. And, if that is not enough for you, think of the sacrifices your grandmother must have made that allowed you to come here. I also know you are capable of higher standards, so the sooner you apply yourself, the quicker. Better still, we will become friends. I am not your enemy, Mister Resmel. No-one here is. Understand that. I have confidence that you will do well in the end and leave this college with honour and dignity.”
After that small pep-talk, Hans decided he had better begin to make a big effort and apply himself. He did realise how privileged he really was to be given such a chance at such an exclusive school. Miss Turner knew that this young man would show promise, if only he could be persuaded to try. She knew more about Erwin Hans Resmel than he realised and she knew that he had hidden and undeveloped qualities that he did not even know himself.
But Hans did not know himself, let alone what Miss Turner knew about him. His teenage years still made him vulnerable and prone to act rashly. Well, he would have to show her. He would show them all, all these English people. They would soon see that a person like Erwin Hans Resmel was a force to be reckoned with. He did want to make a good impression and he did want to succeed. But throughout the traumatic readjustment he had to make, he had discovered that any small criticism woke up a wild animal-like emotion in him that he had not yet learnt how to control and he found that his anger and frustration was being directed towards the younger, more vulnerable students who constantly followed him around the school grounds. At first, he found their constant curiosity somewhat annoying but then he discovered those same boys could easily be coerced into doing things for him. He hoped to gain a group of followers who would support him against the older boys but soon discovered that loyalty could not be enforced. First of all, he needed to prove that he was deserving of any leadership. It all came back to being thought honourable.
As early as the beginning of July, the headmaster suggested to Miss Turner that the boys who would be senior students next year could be given various duties to help the younger boys during the last few weeks of term. In this way the middle class students would have a sense of responsibility and it would give the masters a chance to assess which students would become senior leaders. The college thought it most important for the boys to demonstrate any leadership skills, for these boys were among the ones who would become the leaders in society and industry, managers in businesses or officers in one of the military forces.
The girls’ section of the college was kept quite separate from the boys’. This college may have prided itself on being extremely modern in its educational offerings but fraternisation between the sexes was never permitted except in very special circumstances and under very strict rules. Old habits and ideas concerning girls had not really made much progress since the war and not very many families considered a good education was important for the girls of the family. It was normally expected that girls would become good wives and mothers. In government-run schools, girls were taught only to demonstrate excellent home-craft skills such as cleaning, cooking, and sewing. Prince Albert College, on the other hand, did offer its girls such skills as book-keeping, music and letter writing as well as skills needed to run a household with the minimal number of servants. In other words, to be able to keep a good upper-middle class home in good order. The girls at Prince Albert College were fortunate. The small number of girls who were lucky enough to be admitted had the good fortune to have parents who realised that the education of a daughter was just as important as a son. Anne Sutherland was just such a girl. She had been lucky enough to have had a suffragette for a mother and an astute business-minded man for a father. Also, Anne was admired by many of the boys, Robert Brinkwater and Hans Resmel among them.
Boys were expected to find themselves a good career for they would be the supporter of the family. A man’s family standing depended entirely on his capabilities and his recognition of exactly where he fitted into society. Life for the boys continued as it had done for decades: the older studen
ts making sure the younger ones knew their place; the younger ones seeking out some form of protection from those older boys who enjoyed the power they now had. Each boy had to earn respect and each had to learn what is was to be loyal. It was the way in which agreements, alliances and business were conducted within the adult world.
Robert Brinkwater felt sorry for the way some of the senior boys had been treating Hans, especially Timmins, who chastised Hans for any small uniform irregularity. As for the younger boys, they appeared to be fascinated by the student who spoke the King’s English in a strange way. They followed Hans until they were called upon by their house leaders to show loyalty to their group. The younger boys were still around but this time they stood in small groups and watched, learning to conduct themselves in the ways of the older boys. Sometimes, the taunting had turned cruel, as was often the case with any new boy. During those first months, the harassments drove Hans into such a fury that he had lashed out with fists and boots, blooding the noses and bruising the shins of those who stirred up his anger. Such war wounds were blamed on rough and tumble ‘sports games’ that supposedly took place out on the school field but these battles happened well out of sight of the masters and senior prefects.
Robert was the first to realise that Hans was as little to blame for the fighting as he had been when he first arrived at the school but Robert had been content to submit to a ‘blooding’ as a mark of respect one has when one is blooded on one’s first successful hunt. But that was tradition and one never doubted or questioned a tradition that had lasted for centuries. But Hans did not understand those ways. Robert realised this and consequently he was becoming the one friend Hans could rely on. The two boys were often seen going around the school grounds together, closely followed by a small band of younger boys who wanted to be present should anything exciting take place.
Whenever Robert wanted to be alone with Hans, it had to after classes had finished for the day. He would borrow a second bike and the two were seen riding the lanes together or wandering along one of the narrow pathways that criss-crossed the rolling hills between the newly planted fields.
Thus the month progressed smoothly until, late in July when, Prince Albert College would close its doors for the long summer holidays. However, just before the academic year ended, something happened that sent shock waves right through the school. Some unknown person, after 5pm, had run down the college’s prized roses, snapping a large number of them almost at ground level. Then, far worse, was the destruction of a lovely sycamore tree at the back, often used by the boys to sit under as they waited for their batting turn in the numerous cricket games which were played. A pile of shrivelled leaves and drooping branches announced the fact that the entire tree had been ring barked sometime ago, and that throughout the late spring and early summer, their favourite tree was being slowly strangled and starved of life. And now the roses! Who could have done such a thing?
Prefects and seniors, together with a few younger boys willing for adventure, were told to keep vigil. Everyone vowed to watch out for the vandals and to stop them at ‘all costs.’ Students were happy to patrol the grounds and show their loyalty to their school. Between 5 o’clock and well into the sunny evenings while others in the grounds practised their bowling or batting skills, watching for any sign that those responsible for such an attack would be noticed straight away. Even the girls offered to help keep watch and a roster system was drawn up.
That evening, Hans was in charge of ‘patrol duty’ along the western perimeter of the fence. With Miss Janine Turner, it seemed. No-one had planned it that way; it just seemed to happen.
She is so much like a younger version of her aunt, he thought, even to the glasses. He thought she was a bit of an ugly duckling, straight like a wooden doll and nothing about her appearance recommended her but then many young teenage girls seemed to be that way: to the boys, at least. In reality, Jan Turner was not unattractive. She was just a girl and as Hans had no liking for her aunt, so he did not care for the younger version, either.
One day, when he had been walking from the Brymers to school, he had come face to face with young Miss Turner on the footpath. As usual she had been hidden behind her great stack of books and as Hans had come along side her, the books had tumbled out of her arms and had been strewn all across the pavement. At first Hans had hesitated and he would have picked them up but the girl had made some comment which he had not fully understood but then she had laughed at him. That had roused his anger and he had shouted at her.
“That was deliberate!”
“No, it wasn’t!” Her words snapped at him like a mouse trap. “Aren’t you going to pick them up for me?” she asked, shaking her head so that her plaits swished aound her head like a broom sweeping the scattered books in to a pile. The sneering remark had left him cold. “Or, maybe, you’re no gentleman like our English lads!”
Hans hesitated but then reluctantly knelt down and helped her retrieve the scattered books. He was more annoyed when Janine Turner walked away and did not even bother to thank him.
Since that encounter, he now made a conscious effort to keep out of her way. On one occasion when she came across him talking with a small group of girls, Janine stuck her tongue out at him when he looked at her. Maybe, it was because she was so much younger or perhaps she did it because she was the matron’s niece and that gave her the power to behave that way.
Horrible silly girl, he had thought and his distaste for her grew stronger. And now he felt that she always seemed to be watching him. He felt her eyes follow him especially when they passed each other somewhere, in or around those areas in the school grounds that were common to both boys and girls. He had assumed she couldn’t tolerate him because he was different, but he never really thought very much about it. If possible, he avoided contact with her.
This evening, the sunset seemed to linger longer and the blue sky faded to a warm softness of rainbow-colour as the sun refused to leave the day behind. Hans had the feeling that he had been at the school for an eternity and that everything was at one with such a glorious evening. He and Janine Turner had crossed paths a few times since the fountain incidence. In his eyes she was merely a silly girl, to be kept at arm’s length; nothing like Robert or the other boys that were becoming his friends. The safest thing was to do one’s own thing and ignore the presence of the matron’s niece.
It seemed to be the same on this evening, each taking their tour of duty seriously but doing so, alone, although several times Hans had the feeling that Janine Turner was not too far away. However, each time he turned around, there was no-one to be seen.
It was almost time to go home. The dusk was just beginning to settle and the colours had begun to merge and become that undefined greyness that signals the end of the day. Suddenly, down beside the outer wall where a number of bricks had fallen away and just among some of the larger shrubs, Hans heard a faint noise. It sounded as if someone was had broken a branch in the bushes. He strained his ears. There was a faint cough. Hans stood still, hardly daring to breathe lest his very breathing would betray his position. He leant his head forwards and peered into the semi-darkness.
Something moved. Something rustled the leaves of a shrub that grew hard up against the wall. Someone appeared to be crawling along the inside of the wall. Was this the intruder?
Hans’ breath stuck halfway down his throat and, after the sudden shock, the thought of an exhilarating chase excited his mind. Here was his opportunity to prove himself. He would show his loyalty to the school. He imagined the glory he would feel, the honour he would carry when he would be praised by everyone: all those students who had tormented him, the masters, especially Mr Moore the Moose-head . . . and above all, Miss Turner, the matron who reigned supreme, like Queen Victoria, over everything to do within the school walls. He smiled with satisfaction and began to put his plan into action.
His mind focussed keenly on the task at hand. He would be ready to strike just as the thief was making his way
back out of the grounds, at least that was his plan at the moment.
Hans looked around for something to use as a weapon. Ah, just the thing! His eyes fell on a loose stone which had worked itself partly free from the wall and had remained hinged by one edge, overhanging the vertical drop of the wall. What luck! If he could climb up on to that wall and wriggle the stone free, he could use it to stop the school’s vandal going about his wicked work.
He ran past he point where the intruder seemed to be and found a place where he could use the rough protruding stone surface for hand and foot holds. With some effort he reached the top. He remembered to take his bearings, carefully estimating the distance and direction of the intruder.
Hans crept, cat-like, along the top until he reached the position of the loose stone. Carefully, he began to rock the stone, gradually prizing it loose with his fingertips. Almost free! Now wait until the intruder moved closer. Just an extra push to the right!
The rock crashed to the ground, snapping the twisted branches of several shrubs renting the air around him with cracks and snaps like a machine-gun. No scream, just a muffled murmur. Had he stopped the intruder? Hans bit nervously on his little finger and listened. But now the only sound he could detect was a dull rubbing noise made by the decreasing movement of broken vegetation. What had happened? He couldn’t see anything. It was now too dark.
A tingle shivered downwards, slowly creeping from the back of his neck and finishing in the tip of his toes. He sweated. He froze. He broke into a sweat again, perspiration wetting his brow as if he’d just plunged his head into water. The duration of the silence scared him.
He called out but there was no answer. Now his senses keened and he strained his ears to listen for any sign of the intruder. The smell of night closed around him. Nothing moved. Maybe he had been mistaken and the noise had only been made by some animal or other . . . a slinking fox or a wandering hedgehog perhaps? If it had been an intruder, it would seem that the intruder must have left the area.
Hans dropped down from the wall with the agility of a cat. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. He began to whistle, a little folk tune he had not heard for many years as he walked home.
The following morning at assembly, the boys could sense that something grave and important hung in the air. The morning hymn, ‘Be still, my soul,’ was played a little slower than usual and the boys seemed to be singing a little lower than they usually did. As the last murmurings of that last ‘Amen’ faded away, the headmaster grasped the sides of the eagled lectern and conducted a hushed silence. He glared down at the students, surveying the interior of the school hall from its high wooden ceiling down to its highly polished boarded floor. A lecture entitled ‘Stupidity’ followed. Behind him, sat Miss Turner, ‘the Dragon,’ breathing fuming clouds of invisible fire as the edges of her nostrils twitched with anger and impatience. She did not leave, as usual, with the headmaster. Instead, her voice echoed, shrilly shaking throughout the subdued hall.
“ . . . and all the boys on patrol duty last night will to report IMMEDIATELY to my office! You will begin leaving right now! Caps on and you will wait outside until I call you! Go!”
Hans felt his stomach fold over itself. Did she know about the episode concerning the loose stone? Had her niece spied on him and reported his failed attempt in stopping the vandal, to her aunt? It was the event of last night that she meant, wasn’t it?
The senior boys waited, caps on and jackets correctly buttoned. They stood in silence, huddled close to the dark oak walls as if looking for protection. Every few minutes the office door opened and one by one they filed in, then out. Hans observed each one, frowns of puzzlement on each face. Soon, there was only Hans and another. He watched the doorway swallow up his companion, like a hungry monster. As soon as that victim was spat out, the huge oak-rimmed doorway with the one word ‘Matron’ was ready to swallow him whole.
“Next!”
That piercing voice of hers shook him back into reality. He entered. He removed his cap and rolled it up in his hand. She was not alone. The headmaster was there in his black gown, standing guard like some huge vulture, intently watching every boy until his eyes had bored right into the depths of their inner bodies.
“Stand there and don’t move!” The curt order came from the headmaster.
Hans stood, hands behind his back, screwing his cap into the tightest roll he could. Miss Turner shuffled forward and perched like a vulture on the edge of her chair. Mr Bowes-Heath remained standing beside the back wall.
It was Miss Turner who spoke to him.
“Were you on duty last night?”
He hesitated, frozen with fear as the headmaster’s eyes bored deep into him. It was not what he had expected.
“Were you?” she asked again.
She looked over the top of her glasses, her eyes boring holes through his blazer and pullover until he was sure she could see right into his soul.
“Yes, Miss.” The words were mumbled and barely audible.
“I should like you to know that . . .” The voice lowered, paused, and began again. “Did you remove a large stone from the wall and crash it down on the ground?”
A hundred tiny spines pricked the back of his neck.
“Did you, or didn’t you?”
That piercing stare of hers. It drilled through his skin and burnt the flesh below. His clammy hands wettened his cap making it damp as if he had been caught in a shower of rain. He could feel the muscles of this thighs twitch as he willed himself to be sucked down into the floor. But miracles never happen to those wicked of soul. The honourable and manly thing to do would be to admit.
But it didn’t happen that way. A whisper squeezed out from between his dry lips.
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Well, If you did . . . which I don’t doubt, as boys can take it into their heads to be so stupid at times. Only an idiot would aim at a target he had not identified. What do you think would happen if a shooting party did not keep to rules and identify the pheasants before they fired their shots or a batter swing the bat around before the bowler threw the ball?”
“Someone could be hurt, Miss Turner.”
“And did you not think of the consequences of your action? Most likely, not. If you were the idiot responsible, you will have to be punished.”
“Sorry, Miss Turner.”
“Do you remember what the school motto is, Mr Resmel? Or do we have to remind you?”
The headmaster had moved and now stood just behind Hans ready to catch any mistakes and call him out.
Hans was ready to be batted out. He squeezed his fingers tighter around his cap and began to twist it as if wringing the life out of it. His hands began to shake. He could feel Mr Bowes-Heath’s eyes bore right through him from his back to his front so that he thought he might end up like one of those hole-peppered block of cheeses he had once seen in a market in Holland.
“Honour is our Guide,” he mumbled
“And do you know what that means for you, young man?” said the voice behind him
“No, sir.”
“Well, you have shown us that you do know what it is to do your duty. We are pleased that this time you have done so willingly. We commend your loyalty. That is what we like to see in a boy. But did you act in an honourable way, Mister Resmel? Remember honour and duty must go hand in hand but that it is most important that morality must guide your actions.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember that.”
“We want you more than ‘try.’ You must be prepared to live by the sentiments of our motto.” The headmaster straightened himself and grew with the vigour of a shoot pushing itself through the turf. “You must have a sense of respect in what you do. Respect for yourself and others. Be prepared to take the responsibility. Did you act in an honourable way, young man?”
Hans could not bring himself to answer straight away and fidgeted by sliding his right foot along the wood joint between the floorboards.
“N . . . no, sir.”
“Then, I ask you - were you responsible?”
Mr Bowes-Heath stepped from behind and positioned himself like some huge, black raven between Hans and Miss Turner.
“I think I am, sir.”
“It is an honourable thing to own up to your responsibilities, lad. You must remember that and be prepared to take responsibility for your actions. Miss Turner has something to say to you.”
Miss Turner drew in a long, deep breath which sounded like the tide going out on a beach.
“For your information, last night, Mister Resmel . . . yes, last night when you were on ground patrol . . . my niece’s paperwork was blown under a bush. She was trying to retrieve it when a large rock from the wall on which you claim to have been on landed on her. Janine was the victim of your foolhardy action. That rock broke her leg!”
Hans hung his head and screwed up his eyes to try and erase the picture that had formed in his mind. The sound of Miss Turner’s voice bounced round and round his skull and made his head ache. She leaned further towards him over the desk. The headmaster moved closer and leaned forwards from his toe tips. Hans could feel his hot breath funnelling out over his copious moustache.
“I . . . I . . . ” The rest of the words would not come out.
The headmaster bowed down even closer and looked Hans right in the eye.
“Yes, Mr Resmel? Remember Veneratio est nostrum rector. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I never knew, sir, Miss Turner.” His voice was husky. “I am sorry. I thought it was the thief.”
“Good man,” said the headmaster standing straight again. “I think you are sorry for what you have done and I think you thought you were acting for the benefit of the college. We’ve both been in this job long enough to know of the stupidity of boys. But because you did not check first, you must take the consequences of your misguided actions.”
Mr Bowes-Heath let Miss Turner speak again and she brushed aside a thin strand of her tight hair that had come adrift. Then, she leaned back in her soft, upholstered chair and addressed the visibly remorseful youth
“I should like you to know that my niece will have to be in a wheelchair for some time.” She looked at the headmaster, averting her eyes from Hans. “What are we to do with him, Mr Bowes-Heath?” she asked.
“The cane’s not the answer this time, Miss Turner,” he said wiping the corner of his moustache. “May I suggest that he be responsible for pushing your niece around during the remaining time left in this term.”
“That seems a very sensible thing to do, Mr Bowes-Heath.” Miss Turner turned her attention to Hans once more and as a judge to a criminal, she pronounced his sentence. “Each day, young man, you will push Jan’s wheelchair from my house to the school building. And every afternoon, you will push her home.” She shook her finger at him to make her point. “And, if you slacken in this duty, I have no hesitation in forwarding a letter to your uncle. He will not be pleased. And, young man, think yourself extremely lucky you haven’t been dealt with more severely. Mr Bowles-Heath and I are prepared to give you another chance. We know you’ve had a difficult time settling in. I think you have ability to do well here so make good use of your remaining time. You’re a young man and it’s time you put such silly, childish behaviour behind you.”
She stiffened her back and adjusted her position in the chair.
“Young man, you can report to Miss Turner during interval and she will provide you with your instructions.” The headmaster walked towards the door, placed his hand on its handle and turned slightly back towards them. “I shall have those instructions typed out and sent over to your office, Miss Turner. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Headmaster.”
The door opened. Mr Bowes-Heath and his long, black cloak billowing out like a sail swept round the door-frame and disappeared down the corridor.
Hans had wanted so much to impress everyone but somehow, this was not turning out as expected. He did not know whether to leave or stay, so he remained looking down at an ink stain splotched between two dark circles on one of the wooden floorboards.
It was an awkward moment. No one said a word. Hans shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. The watery lines between the boards began to move, making patterns of waves. Finally, Miss Turners’ voice broke the silence.
“I can’t understand why you should have done this. Do you?”
“I am sorry.”
“Oh dear, what am I to do with you?”
“Weiss n . . . nicht,” he stammered.
“English, Mister Resmel, please.”
“Sorry.”
His voice box was drowning in remorse. He swallowed heavily. His throat kept clogging up with phlegm.
“Nothing more will be said of this unfortunate incident, Hans, if you carry out your duty.” It was the first time she had addressed him by his first name. “But, let this be a lesson to you: think carefully before you try something again but remember that everything you do has a consequence. Take my advice, Hans. Never, never act so stupidly again. Brain first before action!”
“Yes, Miss Turner.”
“Now, go before I have second thoughts.” She indicated by a wave of her arm that he should leave the office. As he reached the door, he hesitated.
“Excuse me, Miss Turner. Is the . . . is your niece . . . with . . . um, pain?”
“She will survive. You have much to be thankful for. I do not entirely blame you for her accident for it appears you thought you were acting in the best interests of the college and Janine should not have gone off on her own like she did. Also, Janine asked me to be lenient on you so let us leave it at that. Off you go or you will be late for your next class.”
Hans left the office. He felt baffled and unsettled. Did Jan Turner really ask her aunt to be lenient with him? He had been totally convinced that her niece could not stomach him. Also, he had wanted to make a name for himself at this school but not in this way. He could not think why Miss Turner should have let him off so easily .Why had she called him Hans? Strange, these English and their ways.