Part 5 (1/2)

'Of course. She was fighting foreign tyranny.'

'No she wasn't. Paulinus was the mildest of governors. If she'd have reported the agents to him, he'd have dealt with them himself.'

'But Britain was occupied by the Romans.'

'The people she killed were Britons. Even the legions were mostly local recruits.'

Hutchinson laughed. 'What are you trying to say about Queen Boadicea? That she was some sort of ma.s.s murderer?'

'Yes. Of course.' Smith had advanced up the room, staring manically at Hutchinson. 'But was the murder justified?'

Hutchinson squared his jaw. 'Murder is never justified.'

'What about in the Boer War?'

'That was different. That's war.'

'So was this. The Britons she killed were from other tribes. Tribes who had invited the Romans to Britain.'

'Collaborators. They deserve all they get.'

'Years before. They now lived in peace with everybody.' Smith was level with his desk now, glaring down at him.

'Then, no,' the boy blurted, meeting his stare.

'But it was rape. Her daughters. Royalty. Mauled by rabble. Who's right?' Smith lowered his head until it was level with Hutchinson's.

'How can I possibly - ?' Hutchinson glanced away.

'Who's right?' bellowed Smith.

'I don't know!' shouted Hutchinson.

'No!' Smith slapped the slipper across the edge of his desk with a sound like a whiplash.

The boy jumped up out of his seat and stood there, glaring at Smith and panting.

For a moment, the cla.s.s thought that Hutchinson was going to hit him.

Then Smith turned away, and wandered back towards the blackboard. The slipper had vanished once more.

'No,' he murmured, like he'd lost his place again. 'No, you don't...' He turned and looked at the boys. 'Now, where were we?'

With a mighty effort, Hutchinson sat down. He stabbed the nib of his fountain pen into the paper in front of him, and half wrote, half ripped, a single word: Later Later.

The bell rang at eleven, and the cla.s.s filed out, many of the boys cl.u.s.tering around the notice-board outside as they left. Hutchinson didn't even look at Smith as he marched swiftly by.

Timothy stopped at the desk, and looked nervously up at his form master. Smith was quickly packing his briefcase, ready to get on to his next cla.s.s. 'Excuse me, sir.

Thank you, sir.'

'Oh? What for?'

'You didn't let Hutchinson at me, sir. I wanted you to have this.' There was a quiet intensity, a desperation, to the boy's voice. He pulled a bright red apple from his pocket, and held it out, his hand shaking slightly.

Smith took the apple, buffed it on his sleeve, and grinned at his reflection in it.

'Why an apple?'

'I had a dream. I have strange dreams. I had to give it to you. So you'd remember.'

Smith took a bite and munched thoughtfully. 'An apple a day... saves nine. No, that's not right. What was it that I was supposed to remember?'

'A st.i.tch in time? Keeps the doctor away?' Timothy suggested smiling.

'Probably. Dreams are like that. You never remember the interesting bits.'

Tim took a deep breath. 'I'm... I'm being... It's the rules, I know, and I should just put up with it, but... the Captains, they beat me every day. I only wanted to ask, is it ever going to stop? Does it stop when I'm in the second year?'

Smith put down the apple, and looked around the room, lost for words. Finally, he answered. 'I don't know. Does it? Is there anything I can do? I'll tell them to stop - '

'No! Don't!'

'No, no, then I won't, no...' Smith held up his hands in pacification. 'Does it happen to everybody?'

'No. They do a few things to the others, and they call Anand and Alton names. But it's only me that they give a beating to every day.'

Smith wandered into the middle of the room, biting his lip in concentration. There seemed to be nothing inside him to answer the boy. He'd never been bullied - or had he? If he had, he didn't remember. What would Rocastle I say?

'It's part of growing up.' He gazed into the corner of the room. 'It's everyday. Cat eat dog. Survival of the fittest. A place like this - it's full of rules. Full of customs.

And they have to be obeyed. It's just the way things are. Discipline. The making of a man. One day, you'll be a captain, and then you can beat who you want. You've got that to look forward to.' He turned back to Timothy and managed to meet his pained eyes. 'Does that help?'

Timothy didn't answer for a moment, looking at Smith almost accusingly. 'Yes, sir.

Thank you, sir.' He almost ran out of the room.

Smith stared after him. 'Or you could always burn their houses down,' he whispered to himself.

The door opened and Rocastle entered, beaming. He glanced behind him at the departing Timothy. 'John, I do believe I've misjudged you!'

'Sorry?' Smith went back to his case and finished packing up.

'Well, I was on the way here to give you a bit of a lecture, something mad and racy about Boadicea, I heard. But I stopped to have a glance at the cricket team selection and heard you giving that strange Dean boy a wonderful talking-to. That's just the spirit! Tell me, would you be interested in helping out with the OTC?'

'The OTC?'

'Officer Training Corps; probably don't have them in Scotland. There's a session tomorrow afternoon. We do it every Sat.u.r.day. Can't ask you to come along on your time off, but...'

'I'll pop my head around the parade ground.'