Silver Fin Page 4

  When he was running, he really felt alive.

  He’ d always preferred to run somewhere rather than walk but, until he’d come to Eton, he hadn’t realised just how fast a runner he was, and Mr Merriot had spotted his potential right away.

  Mr Merriot was his classics tutor, the man who would supervise James’s education at Eton, and he was also in charge of athletics.

  He was a tall, thin man with grey eyes, untidy hair and a big, hooked nose sticking out of the front of his face like a fin. His black gown was too small for him, barely hanging down to his waist, and he was rarely seen without a pipe in his mouth, as often unlit as lit.

  James liked Merriot. He was friendly and kind and was very fond of saying that he was there for the boys and not the other way round as some beaks seemed to think was the case. He was excited about what he taught and easily distracted into talking about one of his favourite topics rather than what they should have been studying.

  And he was absolutely fanatical about athletics.

  He was forever telling the boys that he had been a runner for the Royal Navy and had even represented Great Britain at the Olympics in 1924, where he had won a bronze medal in the mile. But a riding accident had put an end to his running career and he had taken up teaching. Now his enthusiasm and encouragement were slowly making the sport more popular at the school. But he had a long way to go. There was no proper running track at Eton and, apart from the annual steeplechase, most races were run on the roads, and for training the boys had to make use of a piece of land called Dutchman’s Farm.

  Today the sky was a heavy, dull grey, and a yellow fog hung over the ground, draining it of colour. It was easy to feel gloomy on a day like this, but James found that exercise kept his spirits up and when he was running he could let his mind roam free.

  When he had finished the laps he stood with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

  ‘We need to build up your strength,’ said Mr Merriot, coming over and checking his stopwatch. ‘I have you down as a long-distance runner, Bond.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Sprinting’s for the show-offs of this world, but the real test is distance. Now, you’re a tall lad and that helps, and even though you’re only a new boy, a lowly F-blocker, if we build up your stamina I don’t think there are many boys in the school who could better you over a long course.’

  James didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  ‘Now I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Bond,’ said Merriot, relighting his pipe. ‘And you have to promise to keep it under your hat.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘“Of course, sir!”’ Merriot had a habit of repeating back to you what you had just said. ‘There’s a big event coming up at the end of term,’ he went on, ‘part of which involves running, so you’ll have to train harder than ever.’

  ‘What sort of event, sir?’

  ‘One of our parents is inaugurating a new Eton trophy, strictly for Lower School, so you’ll be in with a good shot.’

  ‘What sort of a trophy, sir?’

  ‘It’s an odd fish, sort of an all-round affair, needing strength, speed, courage, endurance and marksmanship.’

  James couldn’t think of any sporting activity that needed all those skills, but Mr Merriot explained.

  ‘It’s a triple cup. You’d need to compete in three games in the one day – running, swimming and shooting.’

  ‘Swimming, sir? But it’s not summer.’

  ‘I know, Bond. You’d have to be mad to go in for it. Are you mad?’

  James shrugged. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go, he says. Good man. Maybe the Hellebore Cup will be yours.’

  ‘Hellebore?’ James blurted before he could stop himself.

  ‘Yes. Do you know that American lad, George Hellebore?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James, trying to give nothing away. Ever since the incident in School Yard, the American boy had done his best to make his life difficult. And Bond had done his best to keep out of his way, but hadn’t always been successful. On one occasion Hellebore and his pals had chased James across College Field. James didn’t know what they were intending to do with him if they caught him, but he didn’t want to find out.

  ‘It’s all his father’s idea,’ said Merriot. ‘Lord Randolph Hellebore. Fabulously wealthy individual. Been very generous with his money, given a great deal of it to scientific and medical research, you know, trying to find cures for some of the terrible diseases that ravage mankind. But still not sure I utterly approve of the man. Made all his money in the war… selling weapons, you know. I suppose that’s where the shooting thing comes in – guns are in the family, so to speak.’

  James bit his tongue, not wanting Mr Merriot to know that his own father had worked for an armaments company. He remembered his conversation with Lord Hellebore that night in School Yard. He must have been at Eton discussing the cup with Dr Alington. That would explain all the talk about sports and being strong.

  Mr Merriot looked into the distance. ‘Too many boys and masters from this school were killed in the war,’ he said. ‘Eton is changed forever. England is changed forever. Do you think they would have employed a duffer like me to teach you lot if there had been better men to choose from? But those men are lying dead under the mud at the Somme and Ypres. And the boys too – boys of eighteen and nineteen. What a waste. Young men who should have gone on to become great sportsmen, politicians, scientists, writers, artists, musicians… gone forever.’ He lit his pipe and sent up a huge cloud of smoke. ‘But enough of this.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s get you running, boy…’

  The next day Pritpal took James on a tour of the swimming spots. First they went to ‘Athens’, a stretch of the Thames opposite Windsor racecourse where a concrete structure had been built for diving.

  ‘That is called the Acropolis,’ said Pritpal. ‘Rather a grand name for an ugly pile of concrete, don’t you think?’

  James peered into the murky water, which was the colour of cold tea. He had been horrified to learn that there was no pool at Eton and that all swimming was done in the river.

  ‘What did your Mister Merriot say to you?’ laughed Pritpal as he saw the look of disgust on James’s face. ‘That this was a test of strength and courage? I think you will also need the skin of a rhinoceros.’

  They went next to a small backwater called Ward’s Mead that had been widened and provided with diving boards and steps. Just below Ward’s Mead was Cuckoo Weir, where the less experienced swimmers, known as non-nants, could enjoy themselves under the watchful eye of a waterman.

  ‘There is also Romney Weir,’ said Pritpal as they walked back along the riverbank. ‘But that is only for the very best swimmers.’

  ‘Maybe I should pull out,’ said James, with a shiver. ‘I can’t say the river looks too inviting.’

  ‘Oh, in the summertime I’m sure it’s very refreshing,’ said Pritpal. ‘But you wouldn’t catch me dipping so much as a toe in it at any time of year. This cup of Hellebore’s is likely to cause the deaths of many boys.’

  ‘It seems a strange mixture of events,’ James said, kicking a stone into the water. ‘Swimming, running and shooting.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Pritpal. ‘It makes perfect sense.’

  ‘In what way?’ James was puzzled.

  ‘Well, they are the three sports that George Hellebore is best at.’

  James laughed. ‘Really? I knew he was a good swimmer, and Merriot said he’s a fast runner, but shooting?’

  ‘Apparently he shoots all the time on his father’s estate in Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland. But they’re Americans, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are. But they have a home in Scotland as well.’ Nandra raised his hands as if aiming an imaginary shotgun. ‘Bang, bang! No bird is safe when George Hellebore is around. Have you ever shot before?’

  ‘Once,’ said James. ‘On a holiday in Italy.’

&nbs
p; ‘I shot a tiger once,’ said Pritpal.

  ‘Really?’ said James.

  ‘Yes, it was a pitiful, sick old beast, three steps away from death’s door. I’m not sure, but I think they might even have tied one of its feet to the ground. We went into the jungle on elephants, my father said it would make a man of me.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘No. It just made me never want to kill another living creature as long as I live.’

  A little further along they came across the bent figure of an old man who appeared to be fishing. It was Croaker, the oldest and most famous of the men who looked after the boats for the school. At this time of year Croaker and the other men were less busy, which was why he was spending his afternoon here with his fishing line.

  Croaker was ancient, and he had always been ancient. Boys would tell about how he was ancient even when their fathers were at the school. He was short and square-shaped, with a huge moustache, tiny little red eyes, a fat, bulb-shaped nose and an ever-present flat cap on his bald head.

  The two boys wandered over to him.

  ‘What are you fishing for, Croaker?’ asked Pritpal.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll see.’

  In a few moments they did see as he hauled his catch in.

  On the end of his line was what appeared to be a loop of wool, and attached to it, their mouths tangled in the fibres, were several black eels.

  James grimaced but watched the fish with appalled fascination as they twisted and turned and tangled round each other.

  ‘They can’t let go of the wool,’ said Croaker. ‘I wove a ball of worms into it. It’s called naring. Ooh, they’ll be good eaters, these fellers.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me,’ said James, ‘that not only have I got to swim in this freezing, dirty water, but it’s also full of eels?’

  ‘Oh, eels is ’armless,’ said Croaker, pulling the eels off the wool and dropping them into a bucket. ‘There’s two types of people in this world. Those as ’preciates eels, and those as don’t.’

  ‘Are you really going to eat them?’ said Pritpal.

  ‘Oh, yes. Stew them up. Lovely. Very sweet meat he has on him, your eel. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Croaker picked up his bucket and led them to his hut. Once there, he fetched some tools from inside, then picked the fattest eel out of the bucket.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, and without any more ceremony he nailed the eel to the door of his shed through its head. Then he cut it neatly round the neck, took a pair of pliers, grabbed hold of the skin and yanked it downwards in one quick movement that ripped it clean off the body, exposing the silvery-blue flesh beneath.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, running a hand gently down the exposed body. ‘Just lovely.’

  James and Pritpal were too amazed to be shocked, but they declined Croaker’s offer to join him for supper.

  ‘So? Do you still want to go in for the cup?’ said Pritpal.

  James swallowed. Nobody was ever going to accuse him of being a coward.

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll start practising in the river.’

  4

  Ward’s Mead

  James was shivering. His body felt raw, as if he’d had the skin peeled off it, like Croaker’s eel. He rubbed his arms to try to get some feeling back into them, and the raised goosebumps made them feel as rough as sandpaper.

  If it was this cold out of the water, what was it going to be like in it?

  Well, there was only one way to find out.

  It was half an hour before afternoon lessons and he was standing on a low diving board at Ward’s Mead, peering at the water, which looked like some of Codrose’s less appetising soup. Cold soup. Freezing-cold soup.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said out loud. ‘Just do it.’

  He pulled back his arms, took a deep breath and flung himself forward. When he entered the water it was like being hit by a cricket bat. He was stunned by the cold and for a moment he couldn’t move, but then he came alive, clawed his way to the surface and gasped. All his limbs were aching and his throbbing head felt numb. The only way to stay in the water and stop himself from jumping out was to swim. He thrashed across the Mead to the other side and fought the urge to get out and run back to his room. After a moment’s hesitation, he forced himself round and swam back to the other side.

  Weak sunlight was filtering through the low cloud; at least it was warmer than yesterday, but these were hardly ideal swimming conditions. Nevertheless, if he was going to stand any chance in the cup, which was only three weeks away, he knew that he would have to get used to it.

  After three widths he found that his body was adjusting to the temperature and, while it could never have been described as pleasant, at least he knew that he was not going to die after all.

  He swam a few more widths, and when he had had just about all that he could stand he swam over to where he’d left his clothes and prepared to pull himself out of the water. But, just as he was getting his knees up, somebody put a shoe in his face and shoved him back into the Mead.

  He looked up. It was George Hellebore.

  ‘Hey, if it ain’t my old pal, Jimmy Bond,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Hellebore.’ James once more tried to scramble out on to the grassy bank.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?’ said Hellebore, pushing him back in again.

  ‘To get changed.’

  ‘Always in a hurry, aren’t you, Bond? Always got to go somewhere fast.’

  ‘I’m cold and I want to get out.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you do. Well, I’m in charge of the river today.’ Hellebore knelt down and gave James a big, sinister smile. ‘And if you want to get out, first of all you have to pass a little test.’

  James looked up into George’s face. His china-blue eyes were glinting with crazy amusement and there was an ugly smirk on his lips.

  ‘Look, Hellebore,’ said James, holding on to the side. ‘You’re not in charge here.’

  ‘Hey, if I say I’m in charge, I’m in charge.’

  There was no point in arguing, Hellebore was backed up by his usual gang of cronies: Wallace, with his big, square head and gap-toothed grin, Sedgepole, who had an extremely small head and sticking-out ears, and Pruitt, who was rather good-looking and elegant. They leered at James, daring him to try his luck.

  ‘What do you want?’ said James, trying not to let his teeth rattle together with the cold.

  ‘You fancy yourself as a bit of a swimmer, do you, Bond?’ said the American, and Bond shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve not seen anybody in this country of yours that was half as good a swimmer as me. I practically grew up in the water.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bond, kicking his legs to try and keep warm. ‘You’re supposed to be quite good.’

  ‘Quite good?’ Hellebore opened his eyes wide in mock amazement. ‘Quite good? I’m the best, Bond. Care to have a race?’

  ‘Not now, Hellebore.’

  ‘But that’s the test you have to pass, Bond, old boy. You have to win a swimming race.’

  ‘I’m not racing you, Hellebore…’

  ‘Who said anything about racing me? You couldn’t beat me in a thousand years. No, you’re not racing me.’ Hellebore whistled and a boy in swimming trunks shuffled reluctantly over from the bushes where he’d been sheltering. It was Leo Butcher, a robust, cheerful, round boy who played in the school brass band. Bond had seen him puffing away at a recent concert given by the Musical Society in School Hall.

  ‘Hello, Bond,’ he said sheepishly. It was obvious that he had no more desire to be here than James.

  ‘Hello, Butcher,’ said James.

  ‘The deal is…’ said Hellebore. ‘You get to race Butcher.’

  Bond frowned. Butcher didn’t look like much of a swimmer. What was the catch?

  ‘What do you say, Bond?’ Hellebore slapped Butcher hard across the shoulders and Bond saw him wince with the pain. ‘A race against fatty Butcher here. The loser g
ives me…’ Hellebore paused for dramatic effect, ‘let’s say, their hat.’

  Bond glanced at Butcher, who was staring at the ground.

  ‘It should be a fun race,’ said Hellebore. ‘But I’ll warn you, Bond, Butcher’s good. He’s the best.’ The older boys laughed.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ said James, ‘I’d rather not.’

  Hellebore suddenly grabbed James by the hair and forced his head under the surface. Taken by surprise, James swallowed a mouthful of muddy water. He came up, coughing and retching.

  ‘You race Butcher, Bond. Or me and my good friends are going to play football with your head. Understand?’ Hellebore grabbed him and pulled him on to the bank. ‘So, what’s it to be?’

  James stood up; George’s hands had left red marks on his arms.

  ‘All right,’ he said quietly.

  Hellebore clapped his hands. ‘Good fellow,’ he said. ‘May the best man win.’

  James and Butcher arranged themselves at the edge of the Mead. Butcher was shivering madly and his knees were knocking together. James wondered what threats Hellebore had used to get him to cooperate.

  ‘Are you all set?’ Hellebore called out. ‘Two widths, loser pays out the forfeit.’

  Try as he might, James couldn’t understand what Hellebore was up to. He could beat Butcher easily – the blond American must be planning some kind of trick. But what?

  ‘On your marks, get set…’ Hellebore stopped suddenly. Butcher was caught off guard and toppled into the water. Hellebore’s pals laughed.

  ‘Oh, I forgot, Bond,’ said Hellebore as Butcher clambered back out again. ‘One more thing.’

  James looked over at him. Here it came.

  ‘You have to stay under the water.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. It’s an underwater race. As soon as you come up for air, you’re out of the running. If you don’t make it back, then whoever gets the furthest is the winner.’

  James looked over at Butcher, who looked away.

  He’d known.