Old History

February 1558. St Jamess Palace, London.

One for sorrow: Mary Tudor, a magpie queen dress black, face
chill white, pearls hanging in her hair like teardrops stands in the
pose of a woman with child, her right palm flat across her swollen
belly. She knows that what she carries is dead, if ever a baby at all.
This cannot be true.
On the polished table lies a single parchment, a summary by
her private secretary of ten reports from different corners of the
realm. A courtier lurks in the darkness, faceless, a smudge of lace
and velvet. The palace has the atmosphere of a morgue.
I have seen the reports myself, your Majesty.
You think them cause for celebration?
English boys... English girls. We are blessed with a golden gen-
eration.
All born within days of each other you do not think that a
matter for concern?
Some say it is a matter for wonder, your Majesty.
They are the Devils spawn.
Unnatural creatures, she thinks, sent to mock her barren state
and sap her faith, their gifts in science, philosophy, alchemy and
mathematics grotesquely developed for minds so young. Prodigies
such an ugly word. She glances down the unfamiliar names: seven
boys, three girls.
Place them where they can do no harm, she adds.
Your Majesty.

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Find us an unforgiving island and maroon them there. They

may not be taught or cosseted.
Your Majesty.
The courtier withdraws. He knows the queen is dying; he knows
from the ladies of the Privy Chamber that the pregnancy is false.
He must find a sanctuary where these children can learn and
mature beyond the jealous royal gaze. He will talk to Sir Robert
Oxenbridge, a man of the world and Constable of the Tower of
London, where the gifted children are presently held.
He scuttles down the dim corridors like a rat after cheese.

Sir Robert watches the children playing on the grass near their
billet in the Lanthorne Tower, and then surveys the strange mis-
cellany of objects gathered from their rooms abaci, sketches of
fantastical machines, diagrams of celestial movement, books beyond
the understanding of most of his adult prisoners, let alone these
twelve-year-olds, and two wooden discs joined by an axle wound
around with string.
The Yeoman Warder picks up this last object. Designed by one
of the girls. Its a merry conceit, but requires much practice. He
raises his wrist and lowers it in a languid movement and the con-
joined discs miraculously climb and sink, higher each time, until
they touch his fingers.
Sir Robert tries, but under his inexpert guidance the wooden
wheels jiggle at the end of the string and stubbornly decline to
rise. He is nonetheless captivated.
But there is this, adds the Yeoman Warder, holding out a board,
on which are pinned the bodies of two bats, slit open to reveal
their vital organs. Threads and tiny labels crisscross the corpses.
Not pretty, but then, the path of medical advancement rarely
is, replies Sir Robert, without complete conviction.
He is different, Master Malise. Remember, one serpent in the
Garden was enough. The Yeoman Warder points to the lawn below

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and Sir Robert sees the difference the boy stands aloof, not from
shyness but a natural arrogance.
He recalls the queens opinion that they are the Devils spawn,
but the playful inventiveness of the discs-on-a-string decides him,
and the thought that when the old queen passes, the new dispen-
sation will not favour banishing talent on superstitious grounds.
Sir Robert turns his mind to an old friend, Sir Henry Grassal,
a kindly widower. He owns a manor house in one of Englands
more secluded valleys and has the wealth, learning, time and
inclination to provide the needed refuge and, no less important,
the education.
As befits a veteran soldier, he plots a strategy. Even a sick queen
has many eyes and ears.

April 1558. A wooded country lane.

It is early morning on an obscure tributary of the main highway. A
covered wagon drawn by a single horse of no distinction appears,
and stops. A ladder is lowered. Mud-stained urchins emerge, seven
boys, three girls, and huddle on the roadway for warmth as broken
sunlight knifes through the canopy. Each child clasps a silver penny
bearing the faces of the queen and her foreign king and a lordly
motto: PZMDG Rosa sine spina Philip and Mary by the grace of God a
rose without a thorn.
A second wagon appears, very different to the first. The slats
on the side are polished to a shine, the wheels fortified with iron
rims, the harnesses of finest leather tether four horses, not one. The
wagon halts on the opposite side of the clearing and once again steps
are lowered to deliver ten children but these are mirror-opposites
with clean complexions and clothes cut to fit. Like two teams from
different worlds, haphazardly drawn together in the same game,
they eye each other across the glade. Sir Robert points at one cart
and then at the other, urging each group to cross. The children

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understand the instruction and its immediate purpose, although

none can fathom the deeper reason for the switch.
This is not a mission for strangers. The carter fought with Sir
Robert Oxenbridge in France and trusts his former captain in all
things, but he has never heard children speak this way, exchanging
complex chains of numbers and shapes with foreign names, even
discussing the arrangement of the heavens. He crosses himself,
uncertain whether his new charges are cursed or blessed.
Sir Robert, riding alongside, notes the gesture and its ambiguity.
He still judges the children virtuous, save for the boy with the
surgical interests, Master Malise such joyless eyes.
They descend from the valley rim and Oxenbridge points far
below. A single plume hangs in the air.
Rich mans smoke, he says, knowing the difference from a
campfire, from the tallest chimney at Rotherweird Manor our
destination.
He smiles at the carter. Had there ever been a gentler act of
treason?

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 JANUARY

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 1
First Interview The Woman

The usual terms?

Her irregular employer rarely deigned to answer questions
directly. His slender fingers drummed the tabletop. Longer and
more remote than usual.
Time is no problem, replied the actress. They dont write for
women my age any more.
He still repelled her that unnatural white bloom to the skin,
the merciless eyes but there were compensations, and not only
the money. She had stayed on a yacht, better described as a floating
mansion, in the South China Sea, a chalet in the Dolomites and
a palazzo in Florence, all his properties, and she had heard talk of
others. She picked up his second qualification.
You said remote?
Very but in England. She would have registered disappoint-
ment, but for the intensity of his reply and the surprising notion
that England could boast anywhere truly remote. Youre discreet.
You impress the locals. That is all.
The actress smiled. Impressing came naturally to her. The same
role, same costumes?
Of course.
Here the interview would normally end, but she could not resist
the burning question. Where in England?
Rotherweird.

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She failed to suppress a look of surprise. But they let nobody

in. Theyre apart, theyre different.
I appear to be an exception.
Your money is the exception.
True period glaziers, wood restorers and plasterers come
expensive. Prepare to be lady of an Elizabethan manor house. He
stood up before continuing; no more questions, the gesture said. One
detail can you play maternal?
Play maternal he had such an unsettling way of putting things.
She nodded, knowing her beauty did not touch him. The dynamic
between them had always been wholly transactional.
His cold left hand clasped hers the wrist birdlike, the grip like
iron. Done then, he said, handing over a cheque by way of advance
a colossal sum for playing in public a wife he had never had.

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 2
Second Interview The Boy

The boy stood outside Vauxhall Station facing the bridge across an
array of traffic lanes, pedestrian lights and bus stops. It was bitterly
cold and still dark at 6.20 in the morning. He would be on time.
He fingered the switchblade in his pocket. If the meet turned out
to be some kind of pervert, he would pay.
Ignoring the underpass, he vaulted the railings instead. A young
suit stumbled towards the station, looking the worse for wear.
Noting the bulge in his jacket pocket, he toyed with taking him,
but decided against. He was off his patch, and alone.
The hand-drawn map directed him to the riverside flats west
of the bridge with the instruction Press P at the point of arrival.
He peered up posh, real posh. The boy feared that P meant
parking, having no intention of getting into a strangers car, but
this P sat on top of the row of silver buttons. Anxiety turned to
excitement. He smelled opportunity. Someone rich was looking
his way. The world might label him a victim of his background,
but he was not a victim of anyone or anything; he was himself, a
force, going places. But the tag did have its uses: here was another
fool, determined to cure him.
He pressed the button and a smooth voice spoke from the grille:
Go to the lift. Press P again.
The door clicked open. Where the boy came from, lifts were
rare and never worked when you found them. They were places
for meets and dealing and graffiti. This lift had a carpet that

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swallowed your shoes, and cut-glass mirrors. The ascent was silent,
its movement undetectable as the numbers beside the door flared
and faded.
The boy walked into a lobby and gawped at the stunning view,
sallow light staining the river as the city began to stir. There were
more cars now, and the occasional bicycle. Above the table in front
of him hung a picture of the same river in evening light with a
small brass plate Monet 1901. Beneath it a bronze frog stared
straight ahead.
The boy was right to be apprehensive. He had been watched.
The tall man bent over the telescope had fair, almost albino skin,
close-cropped silver hair and a high forehead. The lines in his
face were fine, as if age had been kept at bay by some rarefied
treatment. His hands were long, almost skeletal, the fingernails
manicured. His Indian-style jacket, dark trousers and open-necked
silk shirt mirrored the easy elegance of his penthouse flat. The boy
did not know it, but he had chosen the art and furniture himself;
he frowned on wealthy men who used advisors for taste.
He polished the telescope lens, replaced the cap and turned to
the internal cameras. The boy was crude, but build and face held
promise. He pressed the internal intercom: Bring him in and
remove the knife.
The boy was disarmed by a young man with a minimum of fuss;
he knew when not to mix it up. He was ushered into an office with
computers standing in ranks on a glass table on one side of the
room. In company with the modern were artefacts and pictures
that meant nothing to him, except that they screamed money. His
host sprang from an armchair and the boy revised his expectations:
this was no do-gooder. The lips had a heartless curl to them.
Unsettled, he sought to assert himself. What am I ere for?
He was used to staring people out barristers, magistrates, child
psychiatrists, social workers, policemen, rivals on his patch but
he evaded these remorseless eyes. Worse, the man did not speak.

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The boy was used to dealing with people who came to the point
twenty quid, two kilos, guilty or not guilty, who to cut; business talk.
When it did emerge, the voice was as firm as the handshake.
A drink, perhaps?
Im not ere for a drink.
Coffee for me, said the old man, medium sweet. And macaroons
for our friend with nothing to drink. The assistant left the room.
I appreciate your coming, continued the man.
My coming for what?
Do sit down.
The boy did so, noticing that each chair arm ended in a preda-
tory animals head.
The man searched his face before offering a hint of a smile,
apparently satisfied. What are you here for? A fair question. Call
it a role more than a task.
The boy hated smart talk. His nostrils twitched at the mild oily
fragrance to the old mans hair.
You play a part understand?
I dunno what youre on about.
The man held up a list of the boys convictions Court, date,
offence and sentence. Impersonation, forgery, obtaining money by
deception... The list covered several pages an unedifying mix
of dishonesty and violence.
The boy played the victim card. Things have been ard. ad no
chance, did I?
You had plenty of chances. You just got caught.
Now the boy knew he was here to be used, not cured. Whaddya
want, then?
I have lost something rare and valuable. You need only know
it was taken from me long ago.
Then you gotta pay.
I havent got to do anything.
The assistant entered with a tray and the fragrance of fresh

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baked macaroons permeated the room. The boy grabbed one. His
host followed, picking up his with a slow, easy elegance.
If I get no money interrupted the boy, his mouth half full.
The old man sipped his coffee, quite unhurried. You reject my
terms before youve heard them?
The boy bit his lip. ow much then? he asked.
Enough for a son of mine.
Son of mine! An expletive died in the boys throat. Perhaps, after
all...
ow much is that?
Think thousands.
A posh phrase came to him: son and heir. You got other kids?
My wife and I are, regrettably, not blessed.
So he wanted a son but why choose him? What about my
probation officer?
The adoption papers are ready. You have only to sign.
All this to find what?
The old man ignored the question. You will be transformed
new name, new clothes, new voice.
From his host saying nothing of substance, the conversation was
now moving alarmingly fast. What if I refuse?
Make that choice and youll find out.
Wed be staying ere?
For a month or two, while we polish you up, then to a country
town. Youve never been to the country. Experience is a form of
power, Rodney.
Rodney?
Rodney suits him, dont you think? the old man said to the
assistant, adding, With work.
Yes, indeed, Sir Veronal, the assistant agreed.
Sir, Sir Veronal the boy had never met a sir before, nor indeed
a Veronal.
Why are you doing this? asked the boy.

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Im a philanthropist, explained Sir Veronal. I give.

Not without taking, thought the boy.
And when I make generous offers, I like an answer.
The offer was a no-brainer, but the boys desire to win ran deep.
You might be on, if you tell me what Im looking for.
The lines on Sir Veronals face fleetingly looked like scars. Its
something youll always have, even when its gone. Mine was
stolen. Sir Veronal rose to his feet. Naturally, there are conditions.
Violence is usually an admission of failure. As they say on the
medicine bottle: use only as instructed. And remember, I hire you
to listen in school, in the street, wherever.
School?
Children know more than adults think, but they lack discretion.
Sir Veronal smiled; discretion was too rich a word for the boy in
his present state. Meaning, when to keep their mouths shut. You
must become adept at worming your way in.
A beautiful woman glided into the room, tall, middle-aged, with
marble-white skin and dark hair held back by a golden slide. Her
eyes had a striking tint of violet, and she had a way of standing as
if she had practised the pose for maximum elegance.
She spoke quietly, but with a penetrating clarity. Welcome
home, Rodney.
Lady Imogen, explained Sir Veronal.
Rodney held out a tentative hand as Sir Veronal allowed himself
another smile. The unruly colt was broken.
We want an English boy of breeding, style without ostentation.
First we clothe you properly. Then we start on that voice.
The boy nodded obligingly. His benefactors were clearly mad, and
there for the taking. Play along, he said to himself, just play along.

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 3
Third Interview The Teacher

Jonah Oblongs career as history teacher at Moss Lane Comprehen-

sive his first post was dramatic, but short. When asked about
his predecessor, the Head had looked at his shoes and muttered,
Fled to Australia.
Oblong soon understood why. The class boasted seven different
first languages, three intimidating bullies and four pupils with
parents hostile to the idea of their offspring learning anything
they did not know themselves.
Then there was the problem of Oblongs appearance, which lay
not in the face, which was pleasing enough, but in the bandyness
of his legs and their disproportionate length. With the gangly build
came clumsiness, an attribute that, whilst endearing in other con-
texts, did not assist in the pursuit of class discipline.
Oblong began well his re-creation of the Great Fire of 1666
with a cardboard city in the school car park achieved a hitherto
unknown interest in Englands remote past but the mantle soon
slipped. His division of the class into Roundheads and Cavaliers
led to two broken windows, and a King Canute demonstration
caused a flood.
Conventional methods fared no better. After three minutes beside
the blackboard, Conway, head of the Wyvern Shanks gang and no
respecter of authority other than his own, interrupted. Cant we
do the World Cup?
Its not history.

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Why not?
It hasnt happened yet.
What about the last one?
Borring, whined two girls at the front.
Its not on the syllabus.
He dont know, crowed Conway, Ob-bog dont know who won.
Brazil... ? guessed Oblong.
Guffaws all round.
Conways water bomb hit Oblong on the shoulder, and something
snapped in that gentle psyche. Oblong took the plastic water jug
from his desk and poured the contents over Conways head, just as
the School Inspector walked in. Sensing his fate, the class behaved
faultlessly for the rest of the lesson and said sorry (in so many
words) at the end even Conway.
At the Employment Exchange, he was labelled overqualified
or underqualified for every vacancy except teaching, where the
lack of a single reference was proving fatal. The woman behind
the counter handed him a dog-eared copy of the Times Educational
Supplement, adding with a wan smile, You never know.
He invested two pounds from his diminishing reserves in a
small cappuccino and went to the local park. The TES revealed a
demand for scientists and an even greater demand for references.
He persevered to the last page of the classifieds, where a square
edged in black like a funeral notice advertised the following:
ROTHERWEIRD SCHOOL History teacher wanted modern ONLY CV,
photograph, no references.
Like everyone else, Oblong had heard of the Rotherweird Valley
and its town of the same name, which by some quirk of history
were self-governing no MP and no bishop, only a mayor. He
knew too that Rotherweird had a legendary hostility to admitting
the outside world: no guidebook recommended a visit; the County
History was silent about the place. So: a hoax more likely than not,
Oblong concluded.

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Nonetheless, he sent in his application that morning, declaring

a desire to share with my charges all things modern and nothing
fusty and old.
To his astonishment a reply came back by return:

Dear Mr Oblong,
We are impressed by your credentials and priorities. Present yourself for
interview in the New Year, 4.pm., 2nd January (pre-term, quiet). Train to
Hoy; thereafter a test of your initiative.
Yours most sincerely,
Angela Trimble, School Porter

He checked the trains online and found Hoy well served. The
station was unexpectedly quaint, with a lovingly preserved clap-
perboard signal box. Oblong hailed a taxi.
Rotherweird dont do cars, responded the taxi driver with a
toothless smile.
Ive an interview at four.
In Rotherweird? Who are you the Archangel Gabriel?
Im a teacher.
Of what?
History.
The taxi driver looked amused. Take a bus to the Twelve-Mile
post and then the charabanc.
Why cant I take a taxi?
The charabanc meets the bus; it dont meet any taxi. Sorry, mate,
Rotherweird isnt like other places. Bus stop over there.
The bus stop sign had a separate plate beneath the more con-
ventional destinations: Rotherweird bus for charabanc, according to need.
The bus an old Volkswagen camper van arrived minutes later.
You coming or what? the driver shouted rudely out of the
window. Oblong clambered in.
The van hastened through rolling hills and farmland until,

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spluttering after an extended climb, it reached a huge spreading

oak. Oblong looked round. He could see nothing of note. The driver
jabbed a finger in the trees direction.
Thats the Twelve-Mile post, thats the Rotherweird Valley, and
you owe me six quid.
Oblong paid up. The camper van disappeared in a belch of smoke
back the way it had come.
At all points of the compass, hills basked in midwinter sunshine,
yet the valley below lay hidden in fog. He was standing on the rim
of a giant cauldron in which, somewhere, lurked Rotherweird, and
an interview. He found it curious that a place so determined to
resist modern transport should insist on a modern historian. He
heard a whirring noise, followed by a disembodied voice a deep,
cavernous bass and snatches of the song it was singing:

Not all those who wear velvet are good,

My child,
Beware those who like silver, not wood,
My child...

Out of the mist lurched an extraordinary vehicle, part bicycle,

part charabanc, propelled by pedals, pistons and interconnecting
drums. The double bench in the back had a folded canvas hood
for protection. The driver wore goggles, which concealed his face
but not a shock of flame-red hair. On the side of the charabanc,
written in florid green and gold, stretched the words: The Polk Land
& Water Company and underneath in smaller letters: Proprietors:
B Polk (land) and B Polk (water).
Smoothing greasy fingers down the front of a grease-stained
shirt, the driver introduced himself as Boris Polk. Seven minutes
late my apologies damp plugs and visibility nil.
Its only that its gone three and
Time equals distance over speed. Im not to be confused with

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 r o the r we ir d | 18

Thats the Twelve-Mile post, thats the Rotherweird Valley,

and you owe me six quid.

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Bert were identical, but hes first by five minutes. I invent and
he administers; he has children, I do not; I chose land and he chose
water, which is interesting, cos
Ive an interview my only interview
Interview! exclaimed Boris, raising his goggles to examine
his passenger more closely. I havent had one of those since the
summer of... the wet one, now when was that... ?
Its at four. Oblong pointed at his watch for emphasis. Four,
Mr Polk, thats less than an hour away.
Is it now? Time equals distance over speed is another way of
saying there isnt goin to be no distance not with you standing
there like a totem pole because there isnt goin to be no speed.
Chastened, Mr Oblong heaved his case into the back and was
about to follow it when Boris resumed, My dear fellow, youre a
co-driver, not a fare. We dont waste energy at The Polk Land & Water
Company. Pedal like the clappers, and she goes like the clappers.
Right, said Oblong.
My patented vacuum system creates thrust without engine
noise, please note so energising the lateral coils, and
Hadnt we better?
Avanti!
The dominant Oblong gene was a tranquil one, as attested to
by an ancestry of minor diplomats (the sort who write out table
plans in copperplate writing, but make no decisions of moment).
However a rogue chromosome occasionally surfaced, as in One
Lobe Oblong, a pirate hung by the French in the 1760s. And now
a deep-buried wish for adventure stirred in One Lobes descendant,
encouraged by the breakneck speed, the wheeze and whoosh of
the vacuum system and Boris penchant for taking bends on two
wheels rather than four. The fog enhanced the feel of a fairground
ride, briefly thinning to reveal the view before closing again. In
those snapshots, Oblong glimpsed hedgerows and orchards, even
a row of vines and at one spectacular moment, a vision of a

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walled town, a forest of towers in all shapes and sizes, encircled

by a river.
The light was failing fast when the charabanc finally lurched to
a halt. Fog swirled like smoke from the river below.
Old Man Rother, explained Boris.
A bridge reared disconcertingly into the dark, at right angles to
the town, to judge from the yellow smudges of lit windows.
Oblong clambered out. What do I owe you?
Nothing, and good luck, and be yourself.
He added a cheery wave as Oblong set off up the slope of the
bridge, cobbles turning the arches of his feet. Mythical stone birds
and animals stared down from the parapet. At its summit, the
bridge curved sharp left and descended to a forbidding gatehouse,
its portcullis lowered. Rotherweird Town had been built to keep
its enemies out or its inhabitants in.
He shouted and waved his arms until, with much clanking, the
portcullis withdrew into the battlements. Through the open arch
a broad street ran north, signed the Golden Mean.
A statuesque blonde sat on a wooden bench by the gatehouse
wall, improbably reading by a gaslight on an elegant hook above
her head. She stood up. Mid-thirties, Oblong thought, and not to
be trifled with.
I suppose youre Jonah Oblong. The voice was deep, the tone
no-nonsense.
You must be Angela, the School Porter, guessed Oblong.
Miss Trimble to you. She added, Horrible evening! as if he
were responsible.
Oblong heard a violin, faint but distinct, practising a daunting
run of arpeggios with aplomb.
Strong on music, he said, to win her round.
Strong on everything this is Rotherweird, you know.
Oblong glanced at his watch.
The gesture did not impress. Theres modern history for you,

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always in a rush. Until youre staff, you dont go in and youre

not staff until youre hired. She opened the oak door behind her.
Youd do well to remember were most particular about history.
She escorted Oblong into the Gatehouse and down a stone passage
to a second oak door, reinforced with crossbeams and studded with
rusty nails. She lifted the knocker, a grotesque face, and let it fall.
Do come in, said a reassuringly friendly voice.
A large table had been pushed against the near wall. A sentry-duty
rota hung above it. Two ornate oak chairs faced him, probably
imported for the occasion, judging by the dinginess of the rest of
the dcor. Both were occupied, one by a short, rotund man with
small eyes and lank, dark hair; and the other by a tall angular
man with a beaky face, a bald crown and bushy white eyebrows.
The small mans clothes were expensive; the tall mans might have
been so once, but were now beyond any respectable second-hand
stall. Oblong sensed they did not like each other.
Facing the chairs was a stool. Oblong obeyed the small mans
instructions to sit. He felt like a man in the dock.
The tall man extended a hand and introduced the short one.
Mr Sidney Snorkel, our Mayor. He likes to participate in appoint-
ments. I am Rhombus Smith, Headmaster of Rotherweird School.
We take the teaching of the young most seriously in this town,
interjected Snorkel in an oily, sibilant voice. We like our teachers
focused. Chemists do not teach French. Sports masters do not dabble
in geography. And modern historians
keep to modern history, chipped in Oblong, remembering
the advertisement.
In class and in life, said Snorkel, before embarking on a series
of staccato questions: Dependants?
None.
Hobbies?
I write poetry.
Not historical poetry?

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Oblong shook his head.

Published?
Not yet.
Snorkel nodded. Oblongs literary failure to date was apparently
a good thing.
It consumes all your spare time?
Again Oblong nodded.
You realise you teach modern history and no other history
whatsoever?
Keep to the subject, I understand.
Any questions for us? asked Smith politely.
Questions? echoed Snorkel, but impatiently, as though his
mind were made up, despite the absence of any enquiry about
Oblongs gifts as a historian or a teacher (being, of course, two
very different things).
Oblong asked about lodgings rooms to himself, rent-free, with
a cleaner thrown in. He asked about food breakfast and lunch,
also free. He asked about pay generous, albeit in Rotherweird
currency. He asked about dates.
Snorkel answered this question, as he had all the others. Term
starts in ten days arrive four days early to settle in. Youll be Form
Master to Form IV and modern historian to all. Snorkel stood up.
Hell do, he said, adding in Mr Oblongs general direction, Good
evening Ive important guests for dinner.
Miss Trimble entered, helped the Mayor into an immaculate
camelhair overcoat and they both departed.
Rhombus Smith closed the door. You can say no, but Id rather
you didnt. Mr Snorkel is so very hard to please.
Ive not been interviewed by a mayor before.
The price we pay for avoiding those idiots in Westminster.
He interviews everyone?
Oh, no. The modern historian is a political appointment.
Sorry?

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Curiosity about the past is your game, but were forbidden to

study old history by law.
Why?
Ha, ha, thats a good one Id have to study old history to find
out, wouldnt I! So just remember to keep it modern. 1800 and
after is the rule, and never Rotherweird history, which incidentally
you shouldnt know anyway. Now, my boy, is it a yes or do you
need another five minutes to think about it?
Oblong had no hint of a prospect anywhere else, and he firmly
believed in the old adage that a good headmaster never runs a bad
school. He accepted.
Splendido! exclaimed Rhombus Smith, shaking his hand warmly.
My motto is, scientists teach while we in the arts civilise. Isnt
that right?
Oblong nodded weakly as the Headmaster hunted through var-
ious pieces of furniture before retrieving two pewter tankards and a
large bottle labelled Old Ferdys Feisty Peculiar. Ghastly job, manning
the Gatehouse. This keeps them sane.
The beer was indeed memorable: earthy, the taste layered.
Rhombus Smith raised his tankard by way of a toast. To your
happy future at Rotherweird School.
My... happy... future, parroted Oblong without conviction.
The Headmaster opened a window and peered out. Through his
fertile mind, courtesy of an eccentric but photographic memory,
flashed several obscure literary passages descriptive of fog. Whos
your favourite weather author? he asked, closing the window.
Shakespeare.
Myself, I go for Conrad. Men of the sea get the weather. Favourite
weather line?
Oblong floundered.
How about Mark Twain climate is what you expect, weather
is what you get.
So it went on, literary small talk, during which Oblong warmed

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to Rhombus Smiths passion for the nineteenth-century English

novel. Between quotes, the Headmaster provided other details.
Oblong was joining a day school, which took children only from
the town and the surrounding countryside. Probably more talent
than youre used to... youll be kept on your toes, he added.

Oblong found Boris and the charabanc where he had left them.
You got it then.
How did you know?
The hesitant spring in your step.
Going uphill, Boris pedalled less furiously and the pistons moved
more languidly, leading to a less fraught journey, until the near-
accident happened. As the charabanc eased round a hairpin bend
near the Twelve-Mile post, a large black saloon car loomed into
view, headlights on full. Boris swerved and pulled on the brake;
the charabanc slewed sideways, ending up across the middle of
the road. The black car screeched to a halt.
What the hells that? exclaimed Boris.
A Roller, stammered Oblong.
I dont care if its Elijahs flaming chariot, you dont drive down
the Rotherweird Road like that.
Boris marched towards the car, which disgorged a tall elderly
figure who moved towards Boris with surprising grace.
You what do you think your horns for? The man spoke
without emotion. His clothes exuded the same aura of wealth as
the car. Get off the road or Ill drive you off.
Drive me off?
The man returned to his car, which started to roll forward. Boris
barely had time to realise the threat was real, flick a gear and
reverse into a meadow before the Rolls Royce accelerated away.
In place of the more usual flying silver lady Oblong glimpsed a
gilded weasel atop the radiator.
Never known it, never

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I dont care if its Elijahs flaming chariot, you dont drive down
the Rotherweird Road like that.

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Normality returned. The bus to Hoy was waiting, with the same
charmless driver. Mr Oblong waved farewell to Boris Polk. Further
exploration of Rotherweird would have to wait.

Rodney Slickstone slouched on the back seat between his adopted

parents. The countryside had no appeal, still less the thought of
dinner with a mayor, but the car changed everything the touch
and smell of leather, the dappled surfaces, the running board and
the predatory purr of the engine. Driving a ridiculous vehicle off
the road confirmed Sir Veronal as a man worth following.
The actresss thoughts were different. She could not discern
why her employer had such a fanatical interest in Rotherweird.
Everyone knew the place was an anachronism, and the inhabitants
irrationally hostile to the outside world. She disliked the boy and
disapproved of playing Sir Veronals wife to secure his adoption,
the purpose of which was equally obscure. Yet she did like playing
live drama, whose future scenes, like the town below, remained
shrouded from view.

Boris Polk parked the charabanc in one of the sheds of The Polk Land
& Water Company and hurried across the courtyard to his rooms,
a troubled man. Outsiders very rarely came to Rotherweird, and
when they did, they came nervously and with respect. The driver
of the Rolls Royce, by contrast, had exuded an arrogant sense of
entitlement. Only one explanation came to mind: he had just met
the Manors new owner, although he could not fathom this outsid-
ers motivation for such a lavish investment in a place where he
knew nobody. The re-opening of the Manor troubled him.
The townsfolk knew nothing of Rotherweirds past, but in the
valleys rural community, secrets appeared to pass down the gen-
erations. He had particularly in mind the secretive neighbour of
his friend, the brewer Bill Ferdy, who was known only as Ferensen.
In the loft Boris kept his singular (in both senses) carrier pigeon,

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Panjan Snorkels henchmen intercepted all communications

between town and country, the inhabitants of the latter being
regarded with deep suspicion by the Town Hall.
He wrote a short note addressed to Ferdy:

Ferdy, Tell Ferensen I think I've met the Manors new owner a disturbing experience Boris

He rolled the message into a tiny canister, which he attached to

a harness on Panjans chest. The birds scruffy appearance belied
a sharp intelligence. A whisper of Ferdys name sufficed. The note
contained no request for advice and no suggestion of what to do.
Nor did he expect a reply. The countrysiders revered Ferensen, but
he never came to town and few there even knew of his existence.
Nonetheless Boris went to bed, more at ease for having shared his
experience.

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