Free Engleby by Sebastian Faulks Page A

But the top award, the Romney Open, paid the lot for you. I had had a crash course in Latin, which I’d never done before, working evenings with Mr Briggs from the grammar school, who volunteered his services. I struggled with the prose paper, though the unseen translation from Latin into English was straightforward (a poem by Catullus and a bit of prose where I already knew the story). The other papers were easy. I was called for an interview with the headmaster, which we took to be a good sign.
    It turned out my father had died just in time. They sent a letter to the grammar school and one to us at home saying they were offering me the Romney Open, the full fees, all expenses paid, to start in September, when I would be thirteen and a half. They sincerely hoped I would take up the place as the rest of the candidates had been retards.
    No, they didn’t say that, but behind all the posturing and telling us just how old and honourable and important they were – and how incredibly fortunate I was – I did sense a whiff of desperation.
    Why should that be? I wondered.

Three
    I walked up from the station to the outer gates, which gave on to a tarmac drive about half a mile long, fringed with dripping evergreens. Eventually, I came to the main building and asked a man in the lodge where I was meant to go.
    ‘Which house you in?’
    ‘Collingham.’
    ‘New man, are you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Go to the corner of the quad, through that door. It’s new men’s tea with the housemaster. You’re late.’
    I went where he pointed, and knocked. The door was opened by a grey-haired man in a black gown.
    ‘You must be Engleby. You’d better meet the others.’
    Three boys in tweed jackets and flannel trousers were hunched round a low table with teacups. I knew from a letter that the housemaster was called Talbot. There was a fair boy with glasses called Francis, a dark one called McCain and a third one with a black eye called Batley.
    Mr Talbot explained that I’d lost my father and was on the Romney Open; the others looked at me fearfully. Batley lived on a farm in Yorkshire without electric light or running water; Mr Talbot seemed to like the sound of this, though I couldn’t see what was so great about it. Even in Trafalgar Terrace we had these things. I mean, even the Callaghans have electricity. Batley had scored 44 per cent in the entrance exam, though merely turning up and writing down your name got you thirty. Again, this didn’t seem to be a problem for Mr Talbot – rather the opposite. Batley seemed to have what Chatfield wanted. (The other two boys, McCain and Francis, had no distinguishing features.)
    We went out into the quad and over to a stone staircase with iron bannisters. Talbot led us up two floors to some tall, battered double doors and pushed them open. And there was Collingham, ‘my’ house.
    It was a single wide corridor with cubicles. Metal shaded lights hung at intervals from the ceiling. The paintwork was battered and kicked, but predominantly green. We walked past maybe twenty-five doors on either side till we reached the end. Our names were printed on metal strips above the door. Mine was the last room on the left. Inside was an iron bedstead, a table, hard chair and a small chest of drawers. A window gave on to a flat roof, which led over other pitched roofs to the main bell tower. The partition with the next cubicle was wooden, but my other wall, being the end of the building, was just unpainted brick.
    ‘Your fagmasters will come and see you and make sure you know the drill,’ said Mr Talbot. ‘Tea’s at six in Troughton’s. Any questions?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Do you know where my stuff is? My clothes and things?’
    ‘Didn’t your people bring you? No, of course, you don’t have a car, do you? If it came by train it’ll be sent up from the station to the lodge. You’d better go and fetch it. Don’t be late for tea.’
    ‘Wouldn’t the porter—’
    ‘I’m afraid