If Duncan Dewar found it difficult to make friends at his school in Stirling, he soon found it easy to make enemies once at Sweetheart. His quiet, unassuming manner made him a natural target for bullies and he immediately attracted the unwelcome attentions of Thornberry and Sparrow in his first year as a prep student.
They resented all ‘freebies’ and used the mocking term on Duncan. The youngster was initially wounded but took great comfort from the fact the same label had been given to his grandfather by the bullies back in his day.
“Stick and stones, sticks and stones, Duncan. Okay laddie, it’s not a term of endearment but you should wear it as a badge of honour and let their insults wash over you,” advised his grandfather when he told him about the verbal abuse.
However, over the next three years, life was tough at Sweetheart for the boy. His detractors, led by Thornberry and Sparrow, sneered at his lack of prowess on the rugby or football pitch, his inept inelegance at gymnastics and his abysmal performance on the athletics field while at the same time they resented being upstaged by him in the classroom as his natural academic excellence shone brightly especially in maths, languages and science.
The dislike was mutual and Duncan, after his first run in with the pair, resolved to keep out of their way as much as he could. He was so relieved when, after his prep years, he was sent to live in Plato House while his tormentors joined Pythagoras, nicknamed ‘The Gores’.
The senior school had four different houses named after some of the founders and philosophers of classical education. The very English idea was introduced by a former governor’s wife from London who in the 1950s wished to leave her mark of influence on the school.
Since her wish was followed by a very generous financial gift, no one complained other than Mr Petrie who thought the idea was ‘absurd’. However, more than half a century later, while Duncan Dewar could not recall the name of the governor’s wife, he was grateful to her idea since he was boarding in a different house to Sparrow and Thornberry.
At least this way their paths would hardly cross outside of the classroom. Tonight, however, presented him with a challenge since his roomie Ninian Swithers was celebrating his fourteenth birthday with a midnight feast hosted by the Pythagoras boys. It wasn’t an act of generosity but the winning of a bet in the schoolyard when a triumphant Swithers beat Sparrow in a game of bools.
Often used to settle disputes or old scores, pupils used the brightly coloured marbles to play against one another. One boy throws his first bool from a distance of a few yards away and the next must hit it with one of his own, or land within a hand’s span gap.
The boys resisted introducing electronic games to solve disputes in the combative arena of school duals, although some exuberant inter-house video games were played to let off steam after study and revision periods.
That evening, Duncan was still dwelling on the fate of the Moffat clan and, as he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t help but relive the massacre as told so graphically by Mr Petrie. The terrible fate of Fraser Moffat and his family preyed heavily on his mind as he tossed and turned moving from the dark recesses of the twilight zone into the swirling mists of dreamland.
As the mist began to evaporate there, standing before him was none other than Fraser Moffat, dripping in the blood and guts of his family shouting: “Why didn’t you save us?! You saw them coming and you did nothing!”
Fraser Moffat moved towards Duncan and began shaking the boy’s narrow shoulders. “Save us, save us. We need your help.” The terrified schoolboy was frozen with fear and, unable to move, closed his eyes hoping he would disappear.
He was like a rag doll in Fraser’s massive arms. When he opened his eyes again, Fraser’s face was inches away from his, and he could feel his hot breath on his cheeks. He closed his eyes tightly and when he opened them again, Moffat’s angry, twisted visage morphed slowly into that of Ninian Swithers. “Wake up, wake up. Hurry. Hurry, we’re off to The Gores. It’s my party. What the hell were you dreaming about, Duncs? You seemed terrified.”
Duncan rudely propelled out of the world of nightmares, gave a massive sigh of relief, realising he’d experienced nothing more than a bad dream. As the Plato boys left their wing, they crept down the wood panelled staircase and into the courtyard, over to the Pythagoras House where one of the pupils had left a door in the stone archway off the latch.
Within minutes, they were in the Gores’ common room where a whole feast of goodies was laid out. Sticky buns, chocolate bars, bags of crisps and even a Fortnum and Mason hamper were there.
“Oh yuk! Who would put salt in caramels? That’s just sick!” shouted one of the boys, unimpressed by the contents of the luxury hamper from the Piccadilly department store. Moments later, there was a real buzz of excitement in the room as they were joined by the boys from Boethius House.
“Who’s missing?” asked Ninian as he looked around.
“The Capella Crew, they’re always late,” remarked Plato monitor Robert Robson Roberts, known to one and all as Bobby Bob Bob. The son of a heavy metal rock star, he held a lot of kudos among the boys and excelling at rugby also helped make him one of the most popular in his year. Not even Jacob or Crispin ever felt tempted to sneer or mock him in the way they ridiculed everyone else.
It seemed in the parental pecking order at Sweetheart Abbey School the son of a drug fuelled rock star trumped minor royals, aristocracy and the offspring of a couple of Russian oligarchs and Chinese entrepreneurs.
Meanwhile back at Capella, Dr Gideon McKie had ten boys in pyjamas lined up in the common room. All eyes were staring at the wooden floor. Their heads were down looking grim as the housemaster marched slowly and deliberately in front of them.
“Nobody is leaving this room until I know where you were heading. Silence is not an option and, if you continue your ridiculously misguided all-for-one, one-for-all nonsense, you will be collectively punished, grounded for the weekend,” said Dr McKie in his soft, lilting Lowland accent.
While the boys in Pythagoras House had promised Ninian Swithers a fourteenth birthday, he’d not forget this would indeed prove to be a memorable night for all the wrong reasons. As the party got in full swing, the feared master of Capella, Dr McKie, continued to pace up and down, slowly and deliberately in front of the assembled boys he’d caught attempting to sneak out of the house.
With each step, his military style polished brogues emitted a tortuous squeaking sound. It was a trademark of Dr McKie’s, and while some saddle soap between the shoe tongue and the tied laces could have solved the problem, he seemed to delight in the obvious unease it caused those under his supervision.
He was the most despised of all the masters at Sweetheart; a humourless bachelor in his late 50s who, according to school gossip, had been jilted a week before his wedding. It was said he’d never cracked a smile in the thirty years since and carried the anger, humiliation and pain as though his heart had been broken just yesterday and not three decades previously.
There were plenty of rumours and speculation about why his fiancée had ditched him but most of these were dreamt up by the countless teenagers on detention as a result of incurring his wrath.
Having threatened the Capella boys with being grounded on Saturday and Sunday, James Darling decided to protest in what could be viewed as an act of extreme bravery or utter foolishness, depending on your perspective.
“But sir, it’s rugby this weekend and if we don’t turn up for training on Saturday, Mr Swain will exclude us from the team,” cried James Darling.
“Silence, Darling, or I will personally see to it you are permanently excluded from playing rugby this term.”
It was an empty threat as Darling was one of the best players the school had and if Dr McKie had attempted to ground Darling, Jon Swain would have intervened vigorously. Like all bullies faced with a formidable opponent such as Swain, a former Irish international, Dr McKie would have been forced to back down.
After another bout of silence, Dr McKie ordered all of the boys to hand over their mobile phones and said their parents would be informed. One by one they handed over their prized possessions in silence. Although angry and upset, not one of them dared to challenge the smouldering Dr McKie.
The stern-faced master readjusted his long black cloak and pushed his left, thin, bony hand like a comb through his mass of frizzy, white hair before dismissing the boys with a halfhearted wave of the same hand. They quickly returned to their rooms tired and subdued. Darling went underneath his mattress and pulled out another mobile and began furiously texting from under the covers. His roommate Willie Carmichael whispered: “How come you didn’t hand in your phone. If Och Aye McKie finds out, it will be double detention, James.”
James Darling poked his head above the sheets, grinning cheekily, saying: “My father always warned me to keep one step ahead and so I brought two phones this term in anticipation of this happening. I’ve texted the others just in case someone grasses.”
As he pressed the ‘send’ button, Bobby Bob Bob’s phone emitted a large bleep seconds later. The message read: “Och Aye on warpath. Capella grounded. We’ve been busted.”
“Evacuate, evacuate, evacuate,” hissed Bobby Bob Bob as he relayed the message to the assembled group. “It’s every one for himself and remember, no one likes a grass. Keep schtum if any of you gets caught. Go carefully and in different directions because Och Aye is on the prowl.”
The boys scattered while the hosts unplugged their Gameboys, hid their tuck and any signs of a midnight feast. In his panic, Duncan had run down the wrong corridor and in to a dead end. As he tiptoed back, he seemed to lose his bearings but he heard a familiar sound that sent a chill down his spine.
It was the squeaking leather soles of Dr McKie. In a panic, he scurried down a different corridor but on seeing another dead end looming ahead, he opened the first door he saw and dived in. He soon realised he was in some sort of broom cupboard from the waft of cleaning materials and polish.
He held his breath as McKie’s footsteps approached. He seemed to falter outside the door and then continued past. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Duncan saw a small stone pillar and he quietly manoeuvred himself right to the side of it and continued to hide.
Again, he heard the return of McKie and this time the squeaking noise stopped abruptly right outside. Duncan took a huge breath and to his horror, the door handle twisted to open. A shaft of light entered the cupboard and he realised his hiding place was about to be discovered.
“Is anything wrong, Dr McKie?” The enquiring voice belonged to Professor JD McIntosh. Few knew what the J or the D stood for, and so the master was simply called JD by the boys. McKie nodded in the affirmative and said: "Capella were up to no good this evening and I foiled an attempt by them to sneak out to one of the other houses.
“I believe it was yours, Professor, and so I thought I would check, just in case.”
Professor McIntosh, who taught maths, said in soothing tones: “You should have alerted me first. I’m not aware of any shenanigans and I’ve just checked their rooms. Trust me Dr McKie, all is well and there’s nothing of interest in there unless you intend to do some spring cleaning. It’s the broom cupboard.”
McKie, realising he had overstepped the protocol mark by prying in to the affairs of another house, nodded curtly, closed the door and retreated. “It’s after midnight, Professor. I thought you might be asleep. I do apologise for the intrusion.”
As they walked together back down the corridor, the conversation became distant and muffled. A relieved Duncan let go of his breath and sighed. As he stood silently in the corner of the cupboard, he then overheard another conversation, but this time it was quite clear.
He looked up and realised he was standing below an old air-vent which led directly into Sparrow and Thornberry’s room. He listened as the two talked about an end of term prank they would play on their nemesis, Mr Petrie.
“I’m telling you it’s a classic. My father told me about how when he was here, Pythagoras boys kidnapped a sheep and planned to put the animal into Petrie’s cottage. You know he lives on the estate, don’t you?” said Sparrow.
“Unfortunately papa was caught red-handed and says Petrie gave him six of the best… You know they caned pupils back in the days when these bastards ruled by fear. Imagine that. Papa said he couldn’t sit down for a week and he never forgave Petrie, so there’s a bit of family honour at stake here, Jacob. Are you in?”
Jacob laughed, adding: "Yes, of course. Count me in, but I’m not going to kidnap a sheep. I think we can be more inventive and, at the same time, show our fathers how it’s done.
“Funny, my old man never mentioned the sheep story, although he was in the same house as yours. Sad they only really became friends when they got to Cambridge, isn’t it? I’ll ask him about it when we next speak.”
“He disliked Petrie as well. Reckons he looked ancient when he was here and thought he would have been dead and buried by now. How old do you reckon he is, Jacob?” asked Sparrow.
“No idea, but he must be nearing retirement. If he was ancient in the 70s, then retirement must be just around the corner. Whatever joke we play on him, I hope the old sod has a good ticker. We don’t want to kill him off!”
Duncan didn’t know if it was because he disliked Thornberry and Sparrow so much or because he had become very fond of Mr Petrie but he resolved to spoil their plans. While he was a bit in awe of the history master, there was something kind and reassuring about his presence that made him feel a strange, protective loyalty towards him.
Suddenly a harsh bolt of light came streaming in to the cupboard as the door swung violently open. “You can step out now,” snapped the master’s voice. Duncan had been rumbled but he almost breathed a sigh of relief to see that the one who stood before him was JD and not McKie.
“If you like Pythagoras so much, you are prepared to sleep in the cleaner’s closet. I’m sure I can find you a place here, Dewar,” said Professor McIntosh dryly.
“No, no, sir. Thank you, sir. I’m really sorry, sir. I took a wrong turn, I…I…”
But the professor interjected before he could finish and said: "Stop blethering and rambling, boy. Get out of my sight before I put you on detention and report you to your housemaster.
“Dr Wallace will not be best pleased if he finds out about this. If you’re gone in thirty seconds, I will forget I ever saw you,” snapped the professor who turned around and walked towards his study. He had a smile on his face and had known about the plans for the midnight feast a few days earlier.
Professor McIntosh was looking forward to this term and was excited about the promise Duncan Dewar had shown in his maths class. He was sure he could coach the boy to such a standard; he might enter him for the Scottish Mathematical Challenge, a problem-solving competition for individual pupils.
As Duncan crept into Plato House and back in to his room, Ninian Swithers shone a torch into his face. “Where the hell have you been? I had to roll up a pillow so Dr Wallace would think you were tucked up in bed. Apparently McKie caught three of us but I don’t know who yet. I was beginning to think you might be one of the three.”
Duncan told his roomie about what had happened and as Ninian listened to the story of the broom cupboard, he crammed his knuckles into his mouth to stop the laughter. They both agreed McKie was a nasty piece of work but that JD was a good sport.
Long after Ninian fell asleep, Duncan was still wide-awake because of the bursts of adrenalin that had pumped through his veins at various stages during the evening. As much as he disliked his posh adversaries from Pythagoras, Duncan was uncomfortable about being labelled a school snitch, so he knew if he was to stop Mr Petrie from becoming the victim of a cruel prank, he would have to be clever about how to tip off the old master.