Kane & Abel (1979) (83 page)
After she dismissed us, I didn’t go home, but ran all the way to the docks so I could ask Mr Tar what I should do about the fact that I couldn’t read or write. I listened carefully to the old man’s advice, and the next day I went back to school and took my place in Mr Holcombe’s class. The schoolmaster couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw me sitting in the front row, and was even more surprised when I paid close attention to the morning lesson for the first time.
Mr Holcombe began by teaching me the alphabet, and within days I could write out all twenty-six letters, if not always in the correct order. My mum would have helped me when I got home in the afternoon but, like the rest of my family, she also couldn’t read or write.
Uncle Stan could just about scrawl his signature, and although he could tell the difference between a packet of Wills’s Star and Wild Woodbines, I was fairly sure he couldn’t actually read the labels. Despite his unhelpful mutterings, I set about writing the alphabet on any piece of scrap paper I could find. Uncle Stan didn’t seem to notice that the torn-up newspaper in the privy was always covered in letters.
Once I’d mastered the alphabet, Mr Holcombe introduced me to a few simple words: ‘dog’, ‘cat’, ‘mum’ and ‘dad’. That was when I first asked him about my dad, hoping that he might be able to tell me something about him. After all, he seemed to know everything. But he seemed puzzled that I knew so little about my own dad. A week later he wrote my first four-letter word on the blackboard, ‘book’, and then five, ‘house’, and six, ‘school’. By the end of the month, I could write my first sentence, ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’, which, Mr Holcombe pointed out, contained every letter in the alphabet. I checked, and he turned out to be right.
By the end of term I could spell ‘anthem’, ‘psalm’ and even ‘hymn’, although Mr Holcombe kept reminding me I still dropped my aitches whenever I spoke. But then we broke up for the holidays and I began to worry I would never pass Miss Monday’s demanding test without Mr Holcombe’s help. And that might have been the case, if Old Jack hadn’t taken his place.
I was half an hour early for choir practice on the Friday evening when I knew I would have to pass my second test if I hoped to continue as a member of the choir. I sat silently in the stalls, hoping Miss Monday would pick on someone else before she called on me.
I had already passed the first test with what Miss Monday had described as flying colours. We had all been asked to recite
The Lord’s Prayer.
This was not a problem for me, because for as long as I could remember my mum knelt by my bed each night and repeated the familiar words before tucking me up. However, Miss Monday’s next test was to prove far more demanding.
By this time, the end of our second month, we were expected to read a psalm out loud, in front of the rest of the choir. I chose Psalm 121, which I also knew off by heart, having sung it so often in the past.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
I could only hope that my help cometh from the Lord. Although I was able to turn to the correct page in the psalm book, as I could now count from one to a hundred, I feared Miss Monday would realize that I was unable to follow every verse line by line. If she did, she didn’t let on, because I remained in the choir stalls for another month while two other miscreants - her word, not that I knew what it meant until I asked Mr Holcombe the next day - were dispatched back to the congregation.
When the time came for me to take the third and final test, I was ready for it. Miss Monday asked those of us who remained to write out the Ten Commandments in the correct order without referring to the Book of Exodus.
The choir mistress turned a blind eye to the fact that I placed theft ahead of murder, couldn’t spell ‘adultery’, and certainly didn’t know what it meant. Only after two other miscreants were summarily dismissed for lesser offences did I realize just how exceptional my voice must be.
On the first Sunday of Advent, Miss Monday announced that she had selected three new trebles - or ‘little angels’, as the Reverend Watts was wont to describe us - to join her choir, the remainder having been rejected for committing such unforgivable sins as chattering during the sermon, sucking a gobstopper and, in the case of two boys, being caught playing conkers during the
Nunc Dimittis
.
The following Sunday, I dressed up in a long blue cassock with a ruffled white collar. I alone was allowed to wear a bronze medallion of the Virgin Mother around my neck, to show that I had been selected as the treble soloist. I would have proudly worn the medallion all the way back home, even to school the next morning, to show off to the rest of the lads, if only Miss Monday hadn’t retrieved it at the end of each service.
On Sundays I was transported into another world, but I feared this state of delirium could not last for ever.
Find out what happens to Harry in
Only Time Will Tell
Available from 12 May 2011
The Clifton Chronicles is Jeffrey Archer’s most ambitious work in four decades as an international bestselling author.
The epic tale of Harry Clifton’s life begins in 1919, in the backstreets of Bristol. His father was a war hero, but it will be twenty-one tumultuous years before Harry discovers the truth about how his father really died and if, in fact, he even was his father.
Only Time Will Tell
takes a cast of memorable characters from the ravages of the Great War to the outbreak of the Second World War, when Harry must decide whether to take his place at Oxford, or join the fight against Hitler’s Germany.
In Jeffrey Archer’s masterful hands, you will be taken on a journey that you won’t want to end, even after you turn the last page of this unforgettable yarn, because you’ll be faced with a dilemma that neither you, nor Harry Clifton could ever have anticipated.
Keep up-to-date with the latest news from Jeffrey Archer by following him on Facebook [
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] now.
J
EFFREY
A
RCHER
, whose novels and short stories include
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less, First Among Equals
and
A Twist in the Tale
, has topped the bestseller list around the world, with sales of over 210 million copies.
Paths of Glory
, his most recent novel, was a global number one bestseller and remained on the
Sunday Times
bestseller list for ten weeks.
The author is married with two children, and lives in London and Cambridge.
ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER
NOVELS
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell the President? The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals A Matter of Honour
As the Crow Flies Honour Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune False Impression
The Gospel According to Judas
(with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)
A Prisoner of Birth Paths of Glory
SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows A Twist in the Tale
Twelve Red Herrings The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short Cat O’ Nine Tails
PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt Exclusive The Accused
PRISON DIARIES
Volume One - Belmarsh: Hell
Volume Two - Wayland: Purgatory
Volume Three - North Sea Camp: Heaven
SCREENPLAYS
Mallory: Walking Off the Map False Impression
First published 1979 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
This revised edition published 2009 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-46194-8 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-46193-1 EPUB
Copyright (c) Jeffrey Archer 1979, 2009
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