Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men. Andrew Taylor
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trouble. Frant actually knocked into me. I watched the shock spreading over his features.
“What have you got there?” I asked sternly.
“Nothing, sir,” replied Charlie Frant.
“Don’t be a fool. It looks remarkably like a bottle. Give it me.”
He passed it to me. I pulled out the cork and sniffed. The contents smelled of citrus and spirits.
“Rum-shrub, eh?”
The boys stared up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Rum-shrub was something of a favourite among the older boys at the Manor House School, for the combination of rum with sugar and orange or lemon juice offered them a cheap, sweet and rapid route to inebriation. But it was not a customary beverage for ten-year-olds.
“Who told you to purchase this?” I inquired.
“No one, sir,” said Frant, staring at his boots and blushing.
“Well, Allan, is your memory any better?”
“No, sir.”
“In that case, I shall be obliged if you would both wait on me after supper.” I slipped the bottle into my coat pocket. “Good day.”
I walked on, swinging my stick and wondering which of the older boys had sent them out. I would have to beat Allan and Frant, if only for the look of the thing. Allan and Frant followed me round the corner. I glanced back, in time to see a man coming up behind them. He was a tall figure, clad in a blue coat with metal buttons.
“Boy,” the man said, taking Charlie by the arm with a large hand and bending down to peer into his face. “Come here – let me look at you.”
His face was turned away from me, but it was the voice that was somehow familiar – deep, husky and audible though the man spoke little above a whisper. He must have seen me ahead but cannot have realised my connection with the boys.
“Let go,” Charlie said, trying to tug himself away.
“You’ll do as I ask, my boy, because –”
“Let him go, sir,” snapped Allan in his high voice. He took hold of Charlie’s other arm and tried to pull him away.
Charlie saw me. “Sir! Mr Shield!”
The man raised his stick. I was not sure which boy he intended to hit. I did not wait to find out but shouted and broke into a run.
“That is enough, sir. Leave the boys alone.”
He released his grip on Charlie and swung towards me. “And who the devil are you?”
“Their master.”
He screwed up his forehead. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses. I could not tell whether he recognised me or not.
“Damn you,” he said.
“Be off with you. Or I shall call the constable.”
The man’s face changed: it was as though the features were dissolving into a puddle of discoloured flesh. “I meant no harm, sir, I take my oath on it. Won’t you pity an old soldier? All I hoped was that these two young gents might be able to oblige me with the price of a little refreshment.”
I suppressed the temptation to give him the bottle of rum-shrub. Instead I raised my stick. He muttered a few words I could not catch and walked rapidly away, his shoulders rounded.
Charlie Frant looked up at me with his mother’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
“I suggest you return to school before you fall into more mischief,” I said.
They scuttled down the lane. I wondered if I should accost the man but he was already out of sight. So I followed the boys, walking slowly and cudgelling my brains to find an explanation while wondering whether an explanation was in fact required. Here was an old reprobate, I told myself, a drunkard lurking in the environs of an inn in the hope of cadging a drink. No doubt he had seen the two little boys with their bottle of rum-shrub leaving the tap and he had followed them as a hunter follows his prey.
It was the most natural thing in the world, a man would think, nothing strange about it. But to me there was something strange. I could not be sure but I believed I might have seen the fellow before. Was it he who had accosted me the previous week outside Mr Allan’s house in Southampton-row? The coat and hat were different, and so was the accent; but the voice itself was similar, and so were the blue spectacles and the beard like an untidy bird’s nest.
I took the coward’s way out and did not pursue the matter. After supper I flogged the little boys as lightly as I could while preserving the decencies. Both of them thanked me afterwards, as custom dictated. Allan was pale but apart from grunting when the blows fell gave no sign of pain; Frant wept silently, but I turned my eyes away so that he would not know that I had seen his moment of weakness. He was the gentler of the two, who followed where Edgar Allan led.
Mr Bransby usually exchanged a few words with Dansey and myself when we waited upon him before evening prayers. That evening I took the opportunity of this meeting to mention to him that Frant and Allan had been accosted by a drunk in the village during the afternoon. I added that I had been on hand to deal with the man, so no harm had been done.
“He pestered young Frant, you say?” Bransby was in a hurry (he never lingered before or after evening prayers because he dined immediately afterwards). “Well, no harm done. I’m glad you were at hand to deal with him.”
“I believe I may have seen the vagabond in Town the other day, sir. He claimed acquaintance with Allan’s father.”
“These fellows try their luck everywhere. What are the magistrates doing, to let them roam the streets and pester honest folk?”
Mr Bransby said nothing further on that occasion. But there was a sequel the following week. On the twentieth, he desired me to wait upon him after morning school.
“Sit down, Shield, sit down,” he said with unusual affability, taking a pinch of snuff and sneezing. “I have had a letter concerning you from Mrs Frant. It seems that Master Charles sent her a highly coloured account of your dispute with the vagabond the other day. You are quite a hero among the little boys, I find.”
I inclined my head but said nothing.
“There is also the point that tomorrow is the fourteenth anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar, and therefore a half holiday for the school.”
I was well aware of this, as was everyone else in the school. Mr Bransby had a cousin who had distinguished himself in the service, who had seen action at Trafalgar, and who had once shaken Lord Nelson himself by the hand. As a result, Mr Bransby had a great respect for the achievements of the Royal Navy.
“Mrs Frant proposes that the boy spend his half holiday with her in London. She has invited Allan as well. I understand he too performed heroically in the great battle of Stoke Newington.”
Bransby looked expectantly at me. He was neither a subtle humorist nor a habitual one, and I found his efforts so unnerving that all I could manage was a weak smile.
“Furthermore,” he continued, “Mrs Frant suggests that you accompany the lads. I trust you will not find that an inconvenience?”
I bowed again, and said that it would be no trouble in the world.
The following afternoon, the carriage was waiting for us after the boys’ dinner. Both Charlie Frant and Edgar Allan were in an ebullient mood, and eager to be away from school.
“Shall you call on your parents while you are in Town?” I asked the American boy.
“No, sir. They are away from home.”
“And they are not his parents,