A Dreaming Stone excerpt
August 6th 1898
As he strolled across the quad, the headmaster wondered whether he had a choice. One didn’t normally refuse a request from Sir Isaac Lang. Lang’s range of contacts was legendary, and when he asked for a favour, one should consider one’s position and aspirations before refusing.
Back in his office, Harold Dugdale stood at the French windows, gazing across the playing fields to the ruins of Wolvesey Castle and the Hampshire Downs beyond. Hoping to find some element of choice in Lang’s words, Dugdale took the letter from his top drawer and perused it again, gaining no more comfort from it than the previous time he’d read it. Harold had little exposure to dark-skinned foreigners, and the suggestion that Pilgrim’s Preparatory School should take in a mid-term student whose primary language was French was disturbing enough. Harold ran a happy school and could perceive that an Asian student, unused to the English way of doing things, could lead to unimaginable problems. It seemed to Dugdale that Lang was intent on coming whether he liked it or not and bringing the boy and his mother with him, so, short of an immediate and blunt refusal, there was little to be done about it.
*
‘Good morning, Headmaster,’ Sir Isaac Lang said as they met in the marble-floored foyer. ‘Thank you for seeing us; I do apologise for the short notice. You see, we have an issue we want to put to bed rather urgently. This gentleman is Mr William Melville. Mr Melville is from Scotland Yard.’
Dugdale’s eyebrows shot up. He’d had few dealings with police, and he’d never met anyone from Scotland Yard.
‘This lady is Mrs Song. The lad is known as Charles Song,’ Melville said. Both the lady and the boy were of rather small stature, with dark hair and honey-coloured skin, attractive in their way. Dugdale noted that the boy was ‘known as’ Charles Song, which seemed to indicate that Song wasn’t his real name.
‘Most pleased to meet you, sir,’ Mrs Song said in a melodious voice as he shook her hand. She looked squarely into his eyes as she did so. Her eyelashes were longer than any he’d ever seen, and, slightly unnerved, he realised that she was strikingly beautiful.
‘Likewise, Mrs Song,’ he mumbled.
Charles Song seemed to be a confident lad who said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ in a firm tone that belied his youth.
‘Perhaps it would be best for Mrs Song and Charles to have a guided tour while we discuss … possibilities, Headmaster,’ Sir Isaac suggested. Though his tone was kindly enough, it brooked no argument.
‘I will arrange it immediately,’ Dugdale said, glad to have been afforded some breathing space. He bade them wait and soon returned with a tall, bald master.
‘This gentleman is Mr Higgins, our prep school head teacher. He would possibly be Charles’ teacher should he become a Pilgrim. He will arrange a school tour. We shall speak again once you have had a comprehensive look around our school.’
*
‘We find the best tourist guide is one of our current Pilgrims. We always refer to the students as Pilgrims,’ Mr Higgins explained. ‘Normal Pilgrim’s School practice is to have a “taster day” when one of our older Pilgrims takes care of each prospective student for the whole day. A sort of mentor, I suppose. They help the new student meet the other boys and find his way around the school. That way, we find that the new students get a boy’s perspective.’ Almost on cue, a tall boy, perhaps five years older than Charles Song, knocked on the door.
‘Aha! Perfect timing. This young gentleman is Master George Carmichael. Master Carmichael has recently graduated to our senior school. I’m sure he will be pleased to show you and Charles around the school, Mrs Song.’ He inclined his head towards young Carmichael. ‘Master Song’s native language is French,’ he said and smiled. ‘It may provide an opportunity to practice your French dialogue.’
George Carmichael nodded self-consciously, recalling Higgins’ recent scathing assessment of his stumbling attempt at French grammar
Higgins turned back to Mrs Song. ‘If you have any questions, I would be most pleased to answer them at the conclusion of your tour.’
*
‘Allow me to get down to tin tacks, Headmaster,’ Sir Isaac began. ‘Charles Song and his parents are Cambodian refugees. They are somewhat important refugees about whom I do not propose to say more than necessary. Mrs Song and her husband will be residing in London for the duration. Both the parents and ourselves want the boy to receive the best education possible, and that, Headmaster, is why we have come to Pilgrim’s.’
‘I see. That is very flattering, I must say. Pilgrim’s is not well equipped to handle a student whose primary language is French, particularly as it is already mid-term and he would be starting well behind other boys. Perhaps another school, perhaps in London, close to his parents, would be better able to teach him in his native language.’
It was Melville who responded. ‘Mr Dugdale, perhaps you misunderstand. We, by that I mean “HM government”, wish to educate Charles Song as an Englishman. We also, for reasons best remaining undisclosed, wish to remove the boy from the London area.’
‘I see,’ Dugdale replied, his heart sinking as he realised that his arguments were falling on deaf ears.
‘I notice that the boarding school fees are one hundred and ten pounds per term; is that correct, Headmaster?’
‘Yes, that’s so.’
‘Young Master Song is somewhat important to us,’ Sir Isaac said cajolingly. ‘He is very bright and more than capable of making up ground. We will pay two hundred and twenty pounds per term and will pay annually in advance.’
Despite the over-generous offer, which only exacerbated his disquiet, Dugdale made one last attempt. ‘The money is all very well, Sir Isaac. I’m more concerned with giving the boy the best education possible. We have high aspirations for every student at Pilgrim’s.’
‘Excellent! It’s done, then,’ Sir Isaac exclaimed. ‘What school could be more suitable than Pilgrim’s for a young Khmer pilgrim stuck on the other side of the world? I’m certain your fine school will rise to the challenge!’ Harold Dugdale’s twisted smile indicated that he knew then that further resistance was futile.
*
The great bulk of Winchester Cathedral dominated the landscape beyond the school grounds. In the foreground, pleasant, grassy grounds with trees turning golden made a very peaceful surround, the serenity only broken by the excited cries of boys kicking a football some distance away.
George Carmichael took his obligations as Pilgrim guide quite seriously because it was one of the few universally accepted excuses for missing lectures. But curiosity overcame that, and, as boys do, they began to explore each other’s worlds.
‘Do you play cricket?’ George asked, trying to identify common ground.
‘Not really,’ Charles replied. ‘I went to Westminster, in London, and I tried cricket, but that’s all. Before that, I lived in Cambodia. They don’t play cricket there.’
‘Oh? What do they play there?’ George asked.
‘Bokator is popular.’
‘I’ve ever heard of that,’ George mused. ‘It sounds like food.’
‘It means wielding a wooden stick to fight lions,’ Charles explained. George raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Lions! That sounds dangerous,’ he said after a mere moment of contemplation.
Charles shrugged, then grinned. ‘So is cricket. But Bokator is actually two people fighting with sticks.’
‘Oh,’ was the only reply George could muster.
As the tour progressed, it became clear to George Carmichael that Charles Song already understood basic English. Only some of the local slang left him confused, but they managed very well with a mix of English and French. Mrs Song seemed content to follow along without saying very much.
‘That’s about it, Charles. Over that way are playing fields and Wolvesey Castle. That’s just a ruin. Nude-Nut says it was built in the twelfth century. I’ll take his word for that. I wasn’t around at the time. It’s an interesting place to visit. The forest is that way, too. It’s a nice place to walk if you have time. The rest you’ve seen. I’ll take you back now if you like.
That afternoon, Charles Song was accepted into the junior school and became a Pilgrim.