The War of Jenkins' Ear. Michael Morpurgo

rice-pudding skin to Christopher’s bowl, and Christopher you will finish the entire contents of your bowl, skin and all. Mr Birley, you will please ensure that Christopher’s bowl is clean. The window table will not leave the dining-hall until Christopher has eaten every bit of his rice-pudding skin. Is that quite clear?’

      Toby sat down and passed his bowl over to Christopher. Christopher’s face wore no expression as he spooned up the rice-pudding skin and laid it on top of his pudding. ‘You may talk now,’ said Rudolph as he sat down, and the dining-hall buzzed with muted astonishment. Spoons clinked on dishes again and the teachers rolled up their napkins and coughed away their embarrassment. On the High Table Rudolph sat brooding darkly, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. Toby finished what was left of his rice-pudding and scraped his bowl clean. Christopher too was eating his way through his pudding, but as everyone could see – and almost everyone was looking – he was eating his way around the skin and under it. By the time the gong sounded for grace the rice-pudding skin was still there, stiff and cold at the bottom of his bowl. When everyone else had left the room the window table stayed behind and sat in silence.

      Mr Birley sneezed and blew his nose noisily. ‘Well, Christopher,’ he said sniffing. ‘I think you’d better eat it otherwise we’re going to be here all night. I have work to do and these boys would like to unpack. Matron – maybe you haven’t met Matron yet – Matron will get very ratty indeed if they’re not upstairs soon, and then I’ll get it in the neck. No one likes it in the neck from Matron.’ The boys laughed. ‘Come along now, there’s a good fellow, eat up.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Christopher, ‘but I don’t eat skin. I never have. I can’t. It makes me sick.’

      Mr Birley sighed and put his hand to his forehead. ‘Now look here, Christopher,’ he said, ‘this has gone quite far enough already. This really isn’t the way to get on here at Redlands, you know. All you have to do is close your eyes and swallow it, and then we can all forget about it.’

      Christopher looked around the table and then down at the skin in his bowl. He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t,’ he said. ‘I just can’t.’

      Toby knew then, they all knew, that Christopher meant what he said, that he was not going to eat the rice-pudding skin. They could be sitting there till the morning – he would not eat it. Even Simpson knew it and Simpson was not very bright – he just talked a lot.

      ‘Why don’t I eat it, sir?’ said Simpson. ‘No one’ll know.’

      ‘I will,’ said Mr Birley. ‘He has to eat it. That’s all there is to it. There are some things in life we don’t like to do that we have to do, like teaching small boys. We shall just have to sit here in silence until Christopher decides to eat his rice-pudding skin. I’m sorry, but Mr Stagg made himself quite clear.’ He blew his nose again and examined the contents of his handkerchief.

      It was some minutes later when Mrs Woolland put her head round the dining-hall door. ‘Can I clear, Mr Birley?’ she said. ‘Some of us have got to get home tonight.’

      Toby hoped Wanda would come in and help Mrs Woolland, but she didn’t. Mrs Woolland did it all on her own, put away the sauces and salts and peppers, wiped the tables and piled up the trolley. On her way out she spoke her mind: ‘There’s nothing wrong with my rice-pudding and the skin’s the best bit.’ And then she went out wheeling away the squeaky trolley, the plates and mugs clattering down the corridor. Toby watched the pair of daddy-longlegs struggling feebly in a cobweb at the bottom of the window and felt sorry for them all over again.

      An hour or more later, and the daddy-longlegs had long since given up the fight. The spider was moving in for the kill when Custer padded into the dining-hall. Custer was Matron’s golden retriever. He browsed in amongst the tables hoovering, nose to the ground, tail flourishing. Wherever Custer was, Matron was never far behind.

      ‘Mr Birley,’ she called. ‘Are you in there, Mr Birley?’ And then she was striding in through the dining-hall door. ‘Well really, Mr Birley,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Mr Birley knew better than to interrupt. ‘I mean, really. It’s all too silly. The whole school’s talking about nothing else except rice-pudding. All this fuss over a bit of skin.’ She turned her gaze on Christopher. ‘So you’re the troublesome new boy, are you? Bit old to be new, aren’t you?’

      ‘I’m thirteen,’ said Christopher.

      ‘And you don’t like rice-pudding skin?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And you won’t eat it?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well that’s clear enough anyway. Mr Birley, these boys have trunks to unpack and I’m not going to do it for them. Somehow, some way, that bit of skin has to be got rid of. Do we agree on that?’ Mr Birley raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You will all of you close your eyes. You too Mr Birley.’ Toby waited until everyone had closed their eyes and then closed his. He heard Matron’s starched uniform rustling behind him. Her hand was on his shoulder and she was leaning over him. ‘Not a peep now, Jenkins,’ she said. ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart won’t grieve over.’ Quite where she went to after that Toby could not tell. He could hear Custer skidding across the polished floor and his tail thumping against a chair leg, somewhere up near the High Table he thought. Then Matron was clapping her hands. ‘All right,’ she said. They opened their eyes. She was standing by the High Table, Custer sitting at her feet licking his lips. Mr Birley was looking at Christopher’s bowl. ‘It’s gone,’ he said.

      ‘Magic,’ said Matron, wiping her hands. ‘You see? It wasn’t as bad as all that was it Christopher? And in future don’t be so childish.’ Christopher smiled.

      Heavy footsteps outside the door heralded Rudolph. ‘Well?’ he said.

      ‘All gone, Headmaster,’ said Matron. Everyone knew they didn’t get on. Nothing was ever said of course, but neither disguised it very effectively. Matron went on. ‘I’d like these boys for unpacking now, if you don’t mind, Headmaster.’

      ‘Of course, Matron,’ said Rudolph stiffly; and he went on, his hand clutching his lapel: ‘and let this be a lesson to you, Christopher. Because you are a new-boy, and because it is the first night of a new term I shall take no further action this time. But mark my words, the next time it’ll be the cane. Very well, you may go now.’ Matron had already gone, Custer at her heels, still hopeful.

      ‘I want those boys upstairs for unpacking in two minutes, Mr Birley,’ she called from outside. ‘Two minutes!’

      Toby didn’t see Christopher again until he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom later that evening. They were standing side by side facing the mirror and alone. By now the rice-pudding incident had eclipsed all other beginning-of-term excitements. Toby looked across at him in the mirror as he rinsed his mouth. Christopher did nothing in a hurry. Even when he spat in the basin his movements were measured, almost elegant. If he was enjoying his fame, he showed no signs of it. He stared back at himself for a moment and then dropped his toothbrush into his mug. His face was pale, paler even than his oversized cream pyjamas. He looks more dead than alive, Toby thought, more like a ghost. The ghost spoke.

      ‘I’m sleeping next to you,’ Christopher said.

      ‘I know,’ said Toby.

      ‘Why do they call you Jinks?’

      Toby shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. They always have. Partly my name I suppose, and maybe I’m not very good luck or something.’

      Neither of them spoke for a moment. ‘Do you like it here?’ Christopher said, turning to him.

      ‘’s all right, I suppose.’

      ‘That’s not what you really think is it? Why don’t you say what you really think?’ Toby didn’t quite know what to say. He wasn’t expecting this directness. ‘Well, I hate it,’ said Christopher, zipping up his sponge bag. ‘Do you snore?’