Duncan was shaken out of his deep sleep by Dr Jones. "Gracious boy! I thought you’d passed out or taken the wrong medication. We have to do the dress rehearsal for tonight’s show. It’s nearly 2 pm and you’re on at 6 pm.
The over-exuberant master half dragged the drowsy youngster off his bed and out of Plato House into the square. Once the fresh autumnal air hit his face, he began to wake up properly and remembered the story told to him by Ninian about how Jacob Thornberry and Crispin Sparrow had hatched a plot to set up Mr Petrie.
Duncan pulled against Dr Jones and said: “I’ll come to the chapel but I must use the bathroom first, sir. I’ll see you there are soon as I can.” The choirmaster looked exasperated but he knew the worst thing a singer could be afflicted with was a full bladder, so reluctantly let him go. “I’ll see you in the chapel and don’t be long.”
As soon as he disappeared from sight, Duncan ran in the other direction towards Dolce Cor cottage and once there, he hammered on the door loudly. Mr Petrie appeared: “Gracious Dewar! I was expecting to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse you made such a racket. I’m glad to see you’ve made a full recovery but your grandfather’s not yet arrived.”
Breathless, Dewar said: “I’ve come to see you, to warn you. Can I come in, sir? I think I need to sit down. I feel slightly dizzy.” Mr Petrie stepped aside, ushered in the boy before looking around to see if anyone else was watching and then he closed the door.
After drinking a glass of water, the third former sat and told Mr Petrie the whole story from beginning to end including Ninian’s suspicions about Thornberry and Sparrow and about the plot he’d overheard to humiliate the old master.
Mr Petrie did not seem the least surprised but he added: "You were right not to tell the police without any firm proof. Suspicions are one thing but none of what you said would stand up in a court of law although, in truth, I believe you were targeted by those two aristocratic ne’er-do-wells.
“As for their plot, it’s not the first time I’ve been targeted by a Thornberry or Sparrow. Leave this to me and say nothing to anyone else. Best tell Swithers to keep his own counsel as well. One thing is certain, laddie, tonight is going to be interesting.”
As he left Dulce Cor, Mr Petrie said: “Thank you for this, Duncan. It means a great deal to me that you see me as a confidant and someone who is also prepared to watch my back.” The boy stared back at the history master in slight wonderment as this was the first time ever he had called him ‘Duncan’.
He looked at his watch and it was nearly 2:30 pm. Without a moment to spare, he headed for the chapel where, within fifteen minutes of his arrival, he was standing by the pulpit decked out in a kilt of Border tartan complete with sporran and a Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket, vest and winged shirt. “We’ll do the bow tie later, just sing boy, sing,” said Dr Jones.
Duncan opened his mouth as the music began but was suddenly overcome by a fit of giggles as he saw Dr Jones fanning himself with a music sheet. The unexpected wave of hysteria was probably a combination of being overexcited, tired, weary and the thought of the mystery flatulent visitor performing the very same actions.
Whatever caused the outbreak of mirth, it was infectious as soon the orchestra descended into more laughter to the consternation of Dr Jones. After a few loud claps from his hands and calls for order, everyone seemed to calm down and Duncan sang.
Afterwards, the choirmaster went over to Duncan, lifting his lapels and then patting them down while saying: “Perform like that tonight and I will have no complaints. Now please, please go back to your room and rest. This is a big night and we cannot afford for anything to go wrong.”
Duncan left the chapel just in time to see his grandfather’s car roll up the drive. He went running over to give the old man a hug but resolved to tell him nothing of what may or may not have happened as he crossed the river with Thornberry or Sparrow.
“Well, aren’t you The Caledonian?” marvelled his grandfather as he looked at his kilted grandson. “I’ve never seen you in traditional clothes before but you wear it well, laddie. I’ve brought my own Highland dress too. I’ll be flying the flag for the Buie clan tonight.”
“Great to see you, Gordon. Your grandson cuts a fine figure, doesn’t he? Why Dewar, you are a sight for sore eyes. Shoulders back lad and don’t forget to swagger.” Mr Petrie was beaming as he joined Gordon Buie and his grandson on the gravel drive.
“I’ve a feeling tonight is going to be a night to remember for many years to come,” said the history master as he gave a most uncharacteristic wink in Duncan’s direction.
By 5:30 pm that evening, most of the parents and friends of the school had arrived and were being ushered by first form pupils from the car park to the chapel where outdoor heaters had been strategically placed to combat the chilly night air. There was a fine sprinkling of aristocracy, industrial leaders, politicians and businessmen sitting alongside other parents with less remarkable careers or privilege.
The first formers had decided that the prize for the most flash motor went to the Darlings of Glasgow who arrived in a silver turbo-charged Porsche 911 with gull wing doors. Jimmy Darling was more than six feet tall with a long, thin face dominated by a bony nose which looked as though it had been broken several times. There was a scar just below the left side of his bottom lip and another just above his right eyebrow. He looked like a man who did not take kindly to being challenged.
Mrs Shona Darling, a hairdresser by trade and the mother of third former James, was once described as pint-sized by The Daily Record tabloid newspaper after she won a wet t-shirt competition promoted by her husband’s carwash business. The Darlings were very much ‘new money’ but held no pretensions about their humble origins.
You got the feeling that whatever hand life had dealt them, the Darlings would have met each other and come together. Despite their tempestuous relationship, there was a bond borne out of adversity that the two enjoyed. Their common love and source of pride was their son James who had all the roguish charm of his father and the fashionable flair and style of his mother but like most ambitious parents, they wanted more for their son.
The prize for the most expensive car was more challenging and was a toss-up between the parents of Muhammad bin Al Wahid bin Awad bin Aboud and the Volkov twins – both arrived at the school in chauffeur driven Rolls Royces of similar years and models but the first formers suspected the Russian oligarch’s car took the edge because it appeared to be both bomb and bulletproof.
Saudi Sheikh Al Wahid bin Awad bin Aboud emerged from his car dressed in a conservative dark suit tailored in Jermyn Street with his wife, Amina, who wore a simple Chanel navy two-piece with matching emerald green accessories. In terms of style, elegance and fashion, she was only rivalled by Svetlana Volkova who looked equally stunning in a Ralph Lauren navy dress coat with fuchsia accessories topped off with an extravagant white fur hat and wrap.
The Thornberry family arrived in a Bentley Mulsanne and the school caretaker directed it into a space next to Mr Petrie’s old Austin Cambridge. Lord Thornberry, accompanied by Lady Jemima, a former top photographic model, stepped out with their younger daughter Cecilia, a rather unfortunate-looking child with a plump frame, big round cheeks and braces.
Moments later, they were joined by George Henry Sparrow and his wife, Eugenie, in a Range Rover having driven there from their weekend country retreat overlooking the Mull of Kintyre. “Gosh, it’s becoming more of a fashion parade these days instead of a religious service,” said Eugenie in sneering tones.
Inside the chapel, there was an air of excitement and expectation as news had begun to filter out some days earlier that one of the Russian parents had donated £250,000 to the school choir. “I think it’s a vulgar display of wealth, quite frankly,” hissed Eugenie in her husband’s ear.
Svetlana Volkova looked even more diminutive as she sat next to her husband, Viktor, who was so broad that he must have taken up to three spaces on the front row pew. He leaned in to his wife and asked: “How much did we give the school choir?” She sighed and opened her order of service, replying tersley: “Why is it always about the money, Viktor?”
The Russian looked up at the wooden beams overhead and smiled. He didn’t often smile. He was a very serious character. “My mother used to say that all the time Svetlana when we had nothing, not even a kopek to scratch our…” Svetlana coughed and urged her husband to mind his language in church. Again he smiled.
Meanwhile outside in the car park, another Range Rover pulled up with blacked-out windows and, as the door opened, a billow of smoke followed. “Will you put out that bloody spliff and remember where you are and why you’re here? Tonight is not about you, Kevin. It’s about our Bobby and not making a show, Okay?” It was of course pop star Mickey Grunge and his partner Chrystal Rox.
“How many times have I got to say it? Don’t call me Kevin outside of the house!” demanded the singer.
Laying on a thick Yorkshire accent, his wife replied: “Eee, but our lad, that’s your name, innit? When I met thee, tha name was Kevin Grimshaw, not Mickey Grunge, and you were the local potman down at the pub in Keighley.” The pop star pulled his long hair behind his ears and said: “Okay, okay. I get your drift but if I’m Kevin Grimshaw that makes you, my love, knicker factory machinist Gladys Braithwaite, so think on.”
Chrystal Rox sniggered: “Okay, point taken. Just be on your best behaviour. We can manage that for one night only, surely. And take off those bloody sunglasses. It’s night time!”
The parents of Bobby Bob Bob wore their most understated clothes and sat towards the back of the little chapel. Minutes later, the teachers and pupils filed in to the reserved rows down one side of the building. They were followed by Constable Jane Rooke who had just finished her shift and was still in police uniform.
She slipped in to the cloakroom at the rear to add some lipstick when a suspicious-looking Crispin Sparrow followed behind. Speaking in a furtive manner he said: “You must be Rooky, yes?” Jane turned around slightly disconcerted at this young man’s informal approach and use of her nickname but she nodded in the affirmative.
“You’re a bit early, aren’t you? Here, take this. Let’s call it a modest donation for your police fund in appreciation of duties performed.” The pupil glided a brown envelope stuffed with £20 notes by her handbag and was gone before she could respond.
Sparrow nodded across the aisle on spotting his parents as he returned to his seat next to Jacob Thornberry. He leaned over to his friend, while grinning and looking around, and hissed: “We are going to have some fun after the concert. Power Five, Jacob?” The pair laughed, giving each other a fist bump. This certainly was going to be a night to remember.
Just then the lights lowered and a hush descended in the little chapel as a spotlight fell on the Boethius House nativity scene at the front of the altar. The choir rose to its feet and gave a haunting rendition of Once in Royal David’s City.
As the evening progressed, the headmaster read a festive lesson and announced Svetlana Volkova’s donation and bursary to the school. A ripple of polite applause swept through the chapel but when it hit the Volkov twins, the noise erupted into a thunderous response as the popular brothers encouraged their classmates to show louder appreciation.
Dr Jones followed with the news of the invite to the choir to sing in St Petersburg before making his own special announcement. "We have enjoyed some of the finest choral offerings anyone will hear in this festive season but I am especially excited to introduce our grand finale featuring a young man who has the voice of an angel. Please welcome Duncan Dewar.
Not a noise could be heard as the air filled with nervous anticipation when the lights dimmed into darkness, leaving only a spotlight to search the altar area until it finally landed on Duncan Dewar. He looked nervously around but could see nothing other than the spotlight penetrating his eyes and then he heard the opening bars.
Duncan closed his eyes and began: “Silent night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright…” By the time he reached the final chorus, the choir joined in and as he opened his eyes, the lights came back on. There sat his grandfather by Mr Petrie and both men had tears streaming down their faces.
With the exception of a predictable few, there wasn’t a dry eye in the pews; even Mickey Grunge was struggling hard to keep a straight face but it was a losing battle as some remnants of eyeliner began to run and streak down his face. The ever-attentive Chrystal rectified this with a clean tissue.
Mr Collins returned to the lectern next to the nativity scene and said: "I think we can all congratulate Dr Jones for this truly wonderful concert and I think many of us will treasure the memory of Duncan Dewar’s choral debut.
"While everyone deserves to be credited for tonight’s performance, what many of you don’t know is that yesterday Duncan had an accident during the annual cross-country run which resulted in him being rushed to hospital, unconscious. As you can see from this evening’s performance, he has made a remarkable recovery.
“A large part of that recovery is down to three boys whose brave actions should be rewarded with special certificates of bravery. Please step forward Ninian Swithers, James Darling and Muhammad bin Al Wahid bin Awad bin Aboud. Your life saving skills and tenacity will be rewarded with scrolls of courage, extra points for your houses and £50 book tokens.”
This was a most unexpected interlude. Ninian Swithers looked around for his parents as he stepped forward. Both Thomas and Elizabeth Swithers who served in the diplomatic service, normally kept a low profile but they stood up and applauded their son along with their younger daughter Veronica as he received his scroll – the school’s highest honour.
James Darling was beyond shame and threw his arms in the air like an Olympian as he walked towards Dr Collins to receive his scroll. Jimmy Darling stood up and shouted: “That’s my boy!” And then he looked around and urged other parents to cheer him on, which they did with gusto rather than inflame him.
Muhammad was last to receive his award and his father, sitting in the front row, looked on approvingly but in a more dignified and less exuberant manner than the carwash entrepreneur who was still on his feet, urging parents to cheer.
As the boys sat down, Dr Collins said: “Can I now invite all of our guests to partake in a little sherry and festive fare in the main school building? Our pupils from the first and second years will escort you to the building but please be careful how you go. There’s ice on the ground and while we’ve salted the pathways, conditions are still challenging.”
***