‘Two suits, madam, grey. One blazer, navy. Five shirts, white. Five stiff collars, white. Six pairs of calf-length socks, grey. Six sets of undergarments, white. And one St Bede’s tie.’ The shop assistant checked the list carefully. ‘I think that covers everything. Oh, no, the boy will also need a school cap.’ He reached under the counter, opened a drawer and removed a red and black cap which he placed on Harry’s head. ‘A perfect fit,’ he pronounced. Maisie smiled at her son with considerable pride. Harry looked every inch a St Bede’s boy. ‘That will be three pounds, ten shillings and six pence, madam.’
Maisie tried not to look too dismayed. ‘Is it possible to purchase any of these items second-hand?’ she whispered.
‘No, madam, this is not a second-hand shop,’ said the assistant, who had already decided that this customer would not be allowed to open an account.
Maisie opened her purse, handed over four pound notes and waited for the change. She was relieved that St Bede’s had paid the first term’s bursary in advance, especially as she still needed to buy two pairs of leather shoes, black with laces, two pairs of gym shoes, white with laces, and one pair of slippers, bedroom.
The assistant coughed. ‘The boy will also need two pairs of pyjamas and a dressing gown.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Maisie, hoping she had enough money left in her purse to cover the cost.
‘And am I to understand that the boy is a choral scholar?’ asked the assistant, looking more closely at his list.
‘Yes, he is,’ Maisie replied proudly.
‘Then he’ll also require one cassock, red, two surplices, white, and a St Bede’s medallion.’ Maisie wanted to run out of the shop. ‘Those items will be supplied by the school when he attends his first choir practice,’ the assistant added before handing over her change. ‘Will you be requiring anything else, madam?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Harry, who picked up the two bags, grabbed his mother by the arm and led her quickly out of T.C. Marsh, Tailors of Distinction.
Harry spent the Saturday morning before he was due to report to St Bede’s with Old Jack.
‘Are you nervous about going to a new school?’ asked Old Jack.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Harry defiantly. Old Jack smiled. ‘I’m terrified,’ he admitted.
‘So is every new bug, as you’ll be called. Try to treat the whole thing as if you’re starting out on an adventure to a new world, where everyone begins as equals.’
‘But the moment they hear me speak, they’ll realize I’m not their equal.’
‘Possibly, but the moment they hear you sing, they’ll realize they’re not your equal.’
‘Most of them will have come from rich families, with servants.’
‘That will only be a consolation for the more stupid ones,’ said Old Jack.
And some of them will have brothers at the school, and even fathers and grandfathers who were there before them.’
Your father was a fine man,’ said Old Jack, ‘and none of them will have a better mother, of that I can assure you.’
‘You knew my father?’ said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.
‘Knew would be an exaggeration,’ said Old Jack, ‘but I observed him from afar, as I have many others who have worked at the docks. He was a decent, courageous, God-fearing man.’
‘But do you know how he died?’ asked Harry, looking Old Jack in the eye, hoping he would at last get an honest reply to the question that had troubled him for so long.
‘What have you been told?’ asked Old Jack cautiously.
‘That he was killed in the Great War. But as I was born in 1920, even I can work out that that can’t be possible.’
Old Jack didn’t speak for some time. Harry remained on the edge of his seat.
‘He was certainly badly wounded in the war, but you’re right, that was not the cause of his death.’
‘Then how did he die?’ asked Harry.
‘If I knew, I’d tell you,’ replied Old Jack. ‘But there were so many rumours flying around at the time that I wasn’t sure who to believe. However, there are several men, and three in particular, who undoubtedly know the truth about what happened that night.’
‘My uncle Stan must be one of them,’ said Harry, ‘but who are the other two?’
Old Jack hesitated, before he replied, ‘Phil Haskins and Mr Hugo.’
‘Mr Haskins? The ganger?’ said Harry. ‘He wouldn’t give me the time of day. And who’s Mr Hugo?’
‘Hugo Barrington, the son of Sir Walter Barrington.’
‘The family who own the shipping line?’
‘The same,’ replied Old Jack, fearing he’d gone too far.
‘And are they also decent, courageous, God-fearing men?’
‘Sir Walter is among the finest men I’ve ever known.’
‘But what about his son, Mr Hugo?’
‘Not cut from the same cloth, I fear,’ said Old Jack, without further explanation.