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Authors: Mark Evans
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way out of here with ease.’
‘By tomorrow morning?’
‘No. Hence my third plan.’
I clenched my fists in preparation for a physical assault on his next batch of uselessness.
‘A large mechanical swan on which we may fly free from the school and soar to safety.’
My fists unclenched – this sounded like a plan that had legs and, more importantly, wings. Harry moved to a sheet covering an object in the corner of the room and, with a flourish, removed it – revealing not a mechanical swan to safety but a bare table.
‘I shall build it on this. All I need is a forge, a small lathe, a plan of a mechanical swan and a large quantity of iron – and then for that iron to be lighter than air. But given those, we shall be free!’
‘Aaaaaarrrrgggh!’ I said.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ replied Harry.
Reader, I punched him.
Only lightly, for he was my best friend and best friends never punch each other with full force lest best friends they be no more or lest they hurt their knuckles. If the truth be known, my punchiness was not entirely caused by Harry’s nonsensical plans, rather by frustration at the dreadful circumstances in which I found myself. Alas, circumstances have no nose, and Harry did.
‘Harry, forgive me . . .’
‘No need for forgiveness, Pip Bin! Indeed, I am grateful. For my nose was a little blocked, and your punch has dislodged the phlegmy obstacle so I can breathe clearly again! Or, at least, I will be able to do so once the swelling has gone down.’
To have a friend so full of forgiveness should be every man’s right, though no woman’s – or what would female friends gripe and grudge about? – and I knew I was lucky indeed, if you discounted the fact that I was still probably doomed to die.
At that moment the dinner-bell tolled and we hurried to the dining hall for another pointless and indeed foodless mimed meal.
But, oh, what nourishment for the soul fated Fortune was to provide at that meal!
Mr Hardthrasher intoned the traditional grace – ‘For what you are not about to receive, may the Lord make you truly painful’ – and we fell on the fictitious food, none more eagerly than Harry, who managed to find delight in even mock eating.
‘Oh, yum, make-believe mash! And could you pass the pretend peas, please, Pip Bin?’
Over the weeks, my physical theatre skills had grown, and I was able to pass the ersatz edibles both swiftly and convincingly. Sadly, other boys were less adept, and barely had we sat down than the headmaster leaped upon poor Spittleham’s latest mime-food lapse.
‘You, boy! What is that you are supposed to be eating?’ His voice lashed like a wordy whip.
‘A meringue, sir . . .’
‘A meringue? It seems more like a Yorkshire pudding. You are to be beaten, boy, as if you were the egg whites a meringue is made of.’
The headmaster might have been brutal, but his culinary knowledge was exemplary. Wielding six curved canes bent and lashed together to form a punishment whisk, he hauled Spittleham away and placed him in a large bowl, then proceeded to beat him, if not into stiff peaks then certainly into a bruised and terrified mess.
And lo! As meringuey yelps of pain came from the bowl, fated Fortune bestowed her gift upon me. I had just slurped down the last of my pseudo-soup starter and was about to move on to my main course of fake steak and sham shallots when one of the school servants shuffled towards me.
‘Mumble, grunge, mumble,’ she mumbled and grunged, actual speech clearly far beyond her serving-class brain.
The servants were the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile and hideousest of the hideous, but this crone was a particularly nasty specimen, less human being, more a human-shaped amalgamation of mud, warts and bizarrely placed hair, specifically a most unfeminine beard. And the smell! Her general odour was rank and unsavoury and her breath was not so much halitosis as Hellitosis, causing my nose to wrinkle so greatly that it
‘By tomorrow morning?’
‘No. Hence my third plan.’
I clenched my fists in preparation for a physical assault on his next batch of uselessness.
‘A large mechanical swan on which we may fly free from the school and soar to safety.’
My fists unclenched – this sounded like a plan that had legs and, more importantly, wings. Harry moved to a sheet covering an object in the corner of the room and, with a flourish, removed it – revealing not a mechanical swan to safety but a bare table.
‘I shall build it on this. All I need is a forge, a small lathe, a plan of a mechanical swan and a large quantity of iron – and then for that iron to be lighter than air. But given those, we shall be free!’
‘Aaaaaarrrrgggh!’ I said.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ replied Harry.
Reader, I punched him.
Only lightly, for he was my best friend and best friends never punch each other with full force lest best friends they be no more or lest they hurt their knuckles. If the truth be known, my punchiness was not entirely caused by Harry’s nonsensical plans, rather by frustration at the dreadful circumstances in which I found myself. Alas, circumstances have no nose, and Harry did.
‘Harry, forgive me . . .’
‘No need for forgiveness, Pip Bin! Indeed, I am grateful. For my nose was a little blocked, and your punch has dislodged the phlegmy obstacle so I can breathe clearly again! Or, at least, I will be able to do so once the swelling has gone down.’
To have a friend so full of forgiveness should be every man’s right, though no woman’s – or what would female friends gripe and grudge about? – and I knew I was lucky indeed, if you discounted the fact that I was still probably doomed to die.
At that moment the dinner-bell tolled and we hurried to the dining hall for another pointless and indeed foodless mimed meal.
But, oh, what nourishment for the soul fated Fortune was to provide at that meal!
Mr Hardthrasher intoned the traditional grace – ‘For what you are not about to receive, may the Lord make you truly painful’ – and we fell on the fictitious food, none more eagerly than Harry, who managed to find delight in even mock eating.
‘Oh, yum, make-believe mash! And could you pass the pretend peas, please, Pip Bin?’
Over the weeks, my physical theatre skills had grown, and I was able to pass the ersatz edibles both swiftly and convincingly. Sadly, other boys were less adept, and barely had we sat down than the headmaster leaped upon poor Spittleham’s latest mime-food lapse.
‘You, boy! What is that you are supposed to be eating?’ His voice lashed like a wordy whip.
‘A meringue, sir . . .’
‘A meringue? It seems more like a Yorkshire pudding. You are to be beaten, boy, as if you were the egg whites a meringue is made of.’
The headmaster might have been brutal, but his culinary knowledge was exemplary. Wielding six curved canes bent and lashed together to form a punishment whisk, he hauled Spittleham away and placed him in a large bowl, then proceeded to beat him, if not into stiff peaks then certainly into a bruised and terrified mess.
And lo! As meringuey yelps of pain came from the bowl, fated Fortune bestowed her gift upon me. I had just slurped down the last of my pseudo-soup starter and was about to move on to my main course of fake steak and sham shallots when one of the school servants shuffled towards me.
‘Mumble, grunge, mumble,’ she mumbled and grunged, actual speech clearly far beyond her serving-class brain.
The servants were the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile and hideousest of the hideous, but this crone was a particularly nasty specimen, less human being, more a human-shaped amalgamation of mud, warts and bizarrely placed hair, specifically a most unfeminine beard. And the smell! Her general odour was rank and unsavoury and her breath was not so much halitosis as Hellitosis, causing my nose to wrinkle so greatly that it
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