Free Sin by Josephine Hart

partitions do their bounds divide.”
    I feel that Stephen will develop the calm he needs so much in a smaller house, which we intend setting up next term for our “scholars.” The house will be run by Mr. & Mrs. Trent. You will be interested to know that Mrs. Trent is, in a minor way, a landscape artist. They are a couple of great kindness and understanding.
    You will see from the attached report that Stephen’s performance is erratic. Exceptional in some subjects, undisciplined in others.
    As it was impossible for you to attend my suggested meeting before the end of term, I was anxious to write to you to voice my opinion.
    Since my own son’s tragedy, I have become slightly more daring in warning parents of potential danger in the extraordinary experience of “bringing up” children.
    Yours sincerely,

    Broughton West. Headmaster
    I found this letter many years after it was written. Elizabeth took nothing, you see, when she left.
    Memories. Voices, indistinct. But then memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since.
    Were they true, to their time, the adolescent voices that now seemed to flood the room? Was the undertone of anger in Stephen’s defiant laughter true? As he stood there and denied allegations of recklessness and irresponsibility during Charles’s investigation of “the incident in the tower”? And William’s passionate defence of his hero—was the intensity of his innocent adoration still clear?
    Perhaps, replaying old scenes we are seduced by ghost musicians. I turned towards them. As though a strand of my hair was caught in the instruments they seemed to play—tugged into old time. And I heard William’s voice.
    â€œUncle Charles … honestly, please try to imagine it. … Stephen, standing there on the parapet, high above us all. Gosh, he was brave, Uncle Charles. And, Hendricks—ghastly, bullying, mean Hendricks trapped in the quad and Stephen crying out:
    â€œâ€˜FRIENDS, BOLDONIANS, SCHOOL PREFECTS, LEND ME YOUR EARS;
    I COME TO SHAME HENDRICKS, NOT TO PRAISE HIM.
    THE PAIN THAT BULLIES CAUSE LIVES AFTER THEM.
    THE COWARDICE IS OFT INTERRED IN THEIR REPORTS;
    SO LET IT NOT BE WITH HENDRICKS.’
    â€œAnd then, Uncle Charles, the head boy, Oldham, shouting: ‘Harding! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
    â€œ ‘I am, Oldham, drawing your attention to injustice and bullying.’
    â€œOh, Uncle Charles, you would have been so proud of Stephen. Please let me tell you the rest. Please.”
    â€œAll right, William. Carry on, carry on.”
    Charles sighed as he nodded ruefully to William, who in a fever of excitement continued his tale, playing the parts as he went along. Stephen, moving from foot to foot, embarrassed, but shyly pleased with this hymn to his daring.
    â€œ ‘You’re a bloody junior, Harding. … You’re not here to draw my attention to anything.’
    â€œ ‘What, Oldham? Are you not an honourable man?’
    â€œ ‘Get down, Harding, get down this minute.’
    â€œ ‘Have prefects lost their reason? Bear with me, Oldham. …‘
    â€œAnd then, Uncle Charles, with all the boys stamping and cheering, Stephen bowed to us all, and got down from the parapet.”
    And the voice of the storyteller faded. And suddenly died. I sat quietly for a minute. Then I picked up Stephen’s summer term report. He was fourteen at the time.
Summer Term
Stephen Harding
Age: 14
Class: 3A
    Stephen is, in a word, a scholar. He has been first in class since he arrived here. I have had no problems with his work—in either accuracy or presentation. I believe from conversations in the common room that this is not a universal experience with Stephen. However, his cleverness is not resented by the other boys. That statement alone summarises much of Stephen and his charm. I look forward to teaching him in the future.
    Carl