The War of Jenkins' Ear. Michael Morpurgo

      ‘Who’s that?’ Toby turned. It was Hunter. Hunter was king of the castle at Redlands, Captain of School and Captain of just about everything else too. He played every sport there was and played them better than anyone else. He always went home at the end of each term with armfuls of cups and prizes. He threw a javelin further than anyone else of his age in the country. He was national champion. Tall, lithe, a crown of close-cropped dark hair, he looked like a Greek warrior out of the history books.

      Toby admired him only from a distance and was flattered whenever he spoke to him, which wasn’t often. Hunter was flanked now by Porter and Runcy, both prefects and both sporting heroes, but Toby had never much liked either of them. They could be vindictive. It was best to steer clear.

      ‘That girl,’ said Porter, ‘who was she?’

      Toby was reluctant to tell them anything but he knew he had to. ‘She works in the kitchen,’ said Toby. ‘Mrs Woolland’s daughter.’

      ‘An oik then is she? You got your eye on her have you?’ Porter smiled his sideways smile.

      Toby denied it hotly and began to walk away before they could ask any more questions.

      ‘Jinks.’ Hunter never lifted his voice – he never needed to. Toby stopped and faced them again. ‘What’s her name?’ said Hunter.

      ‘Wanda, I think.’ Toby tried to sound casual. Hunter came over to him and looked down at him from the clouds.

      ‘You’re on my side this afternoon, scrum-half. You any good?’

      ‘Think so,’ said Toby. ‘I was in the Second Fifteen last year.’

      ‘We’ll see,’ said Hunter. Toby watched him as he walked away, hands deep in his pockets. (Only prefects were allowed hands in their pockets.) The idea of having to tackle someone that big was not at all appealing. He was just glad that, this afternoon at least, Hunter would be on his side.

      Toby liked rugby. At school there was little he really liked, just singing in the choir and rugby. That was all he was good at. He’d found out, almost by accident, that if you were small and you wriggled and side-stepped and jinked you could run past, run through or round much bigger boys; and there was no feeling in the world he liked better than to dive over the line to touch the ball down for a try. After he’d scored a try he could face even Mr Cramer for a double-maths period and not worry about it. Every try you scored meant you were instantly popular, temporarily maybe, but temporarily was better than not at all.

      That afternoon, on a hard pitch freshly mowed, freshly marked out, Toby slipped in for two tries from the base of the scrum. He tackled ferociously and threw Hunter long and accurate passes. He grazed his knee in the process and had his knuckles hacked by Runcy, deliberately he thought. But as he trotted back across the gravel drive from the playing-fields in his new boots, Hunter came up alongside him.

      ‘You were all right,’ he said. ‘You go on like that and you could make the First Fifteen.’ Toby glowed inside. He knew that there was little enough hope of that. Hetherington was faster than he was and tougher. He was off-games at the moment. He’d been in the team the year before and he was bound to be first choice again for scrum-half. Still, Toby could hope. He knew how pleased his father would be if he could get in the first team, even get his colours. He wanted so very much to make his father proud of him, but he rarely managed it. Maybe if he could get into the First Fifteen and even get his rugby colours. He could dream.

      He was still dreaming when he heard the sound of a car slowing outside the school gates and turning in on to the gravel. Mr Price – Pricey, the referee and rugby coach, pink-kneed in his long white shorts, shouted to everyone to stand back. A large black car came crunching slowly down the drive, past the rhododendrons. Everyone strained to see who it was. Toby heard before he could see for himself. ‘It’s that new boy,’ said Hunter.

      The car came to a stop outside the front door and Christopher got out pulling his suitcase behind him and shut the door. His mother – Toby imagined she must be his mother – was being greeted by Rudolph and Cruella at the front door. She beckoned Christopher towards her, but Christopher was looking at the crowd of boys now gathered on the edge of the playing-field. ‘Simon!’ Toby could hear the anger in his mother’s voice. Christopher’s eyes lingered on the boys for a moment or two. Toby felt a flicker of recognition and half lifted his hand in welcome, in sympathy. Christopher didn’t seem to notice that. He walked around the front of the car and followed his mother indoors, Cruella leading the way.

      ‘Right,’ said Pricey, slapping the rugby ball. ‘Enough gawping. Bath, and hang your kit up, properly mind.’ He could turn his Welsh accent on like a tap.

      The car stayed parked outside the front door all that afternoon. There was only one way Toby was going to find out what was going on and he was determined to try. His classroom opened into the oak-panelled hall that was the heart of the school. It served variously as an assembly hall every morning, a cinema on Sunday evenings, and a library. The wide steps that led from the hall were known as the Bloody Steps. Carpeted in deep crimson, with polished brass stair rods, they led to Rudolph’s apartment, Rudolph’s study. To be summoned up those dreaded steps meant only one thing – the cane. Everyone knew that if you stood at the bottom of the Bloody Steps, by the bookcases, and pretended to be looking for a book, you could often hear what was going on inside the study. But how was he going to manage to bluff his way into the hall in the first place? Mr Cramer may have looked doddery but he was wily, and you didn’t get out of his maths class that easily. He wasn’t going to be fooled by the usual lame excuses – they might prove effective with the younger, greener teachers, especially with the French mistress, Madame Lafayette who taught art too and who wore sandals and long flowery skirts. Either she believed anything she was told or she didn’t mind half the class being absent at the same time. Mr Cramer wasn’t like that. ‘Can I go down, sir?’ meant you needed a short trip to the lavatory and were expected back soon. ‘Can I go down successful?’ implied a need for a longer absence in the same place. Both had been tried already on Mr Cramer that lesson, and both had failed. Toby wasn’t the only one who wanted to find out what was going on. Greater ingenuity was needed. It took Toby half an hour to think up his scheme. It had risks but it was worth it. He would try it. He put up his hand.

      ‘Please, sir,’ he coughed and sniffed as best he could. ‘Please, sir, it’s my hayfever.’

      ‘I didn’t know you had hayfever, Jenkins.’

      ‘Only sometimes, sir. Matron says that if I feel it coming on I’ve got to take my tablets.’ He hoped he didn’t need to say any more. Matron was the key that opened most doors with most of the teachers. Just the mention of her name was often enough, and so it proved this time.

      ‘Very well, Jenkins. Two minutes.’

      Toby closed the classroom door behind him and found himself alone in the hall. He was quite confident that Mr Cramer wouldn’t check his story with Matron. He could already hear voices from inside the study but could not make out what they were saying. He stole across the polished floor, unable to stop his sandals squeaking as he went. He peered round the corner. Christopher was sitting outside the study on the settle, motionless, his hands on his knees like the statue of an Egyptian pharaoh. The study door opened suddenly and Christopher’s mother was coming out. Toby had just enough time to back out of sight along the bookcase. He felt the piano behind him, crouched down and crawled under, backwards. There was nowhere else to hide. ‘One thing I’m sure of, Headmaster,’ he heard Christopher’s mother say, ‘is that once he has made a promise he keeps it. He has promised me and he has promised you that he will never again try to run away. Isn’t that right dear?’

      ‘Yes, Mother.’ Christopher’s voice was quite calm.

      ‘Don’t you worry, he’ll be all right now, won’t you, Christopher?’ It was Cruella, but Christopher did not reply. Christopher’s mother came down the steps. ‘I’ll see you at half term then,’ she said without even a glance at Christopher.

      Rudolph and Cruella, only feet away from Toby’s hiding-place now, walked across the