Read The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) for Free Online Page B

expressed no pride or pleasure
whatsoever, and handed the racquet modestly to the next batsman.
    But
something else had caught Freddie’s attention. 
    “Tom,
what’s that?” he asked, pointing to where Barrington and Doctor Saracen had
stopped during their altercation.
    “What?” 
I was straining to see.
    “Look. 
There’s something on the gravel there.”
    I
still couldn’t see anything.
    “Are
you blind?  Come on,” he said.  We started to run over just as the bell rang to
signal Tea.
    “Here,”
he said, reaching down, “One of them has dropped his wallet.”
    As
he opened it to look inside, a piece of paper fell out onto the gravel.
    “Look,”
I said, bending down to pick it up.  “A photo.”  I peered at it closely.  “Who
do you reckon these people in it are?”
    The
photo had obviously been taken a long time ago because it had faded somewhat. 
It was of two people: a blonde woman in a floral dress and a tall man,
athletically built and wearing a light-coloured suit, both shading their eyes
from the sun.  It was impossible to make out anything in the background, but,
wherever they were, it looked hot and bright.
    “Surely
that can’t be Barrington, can it?”  I said in amazement, pointing at the tall,
dashing young man with jet black hair on the left of the photo. 
    “Blimey!”
exclaimed Freddie.  “Definitely.  But he looks so... happy !  And look
there: he has his arm around that woman.  I never knew Barrington was married.”
    “Nor
did I,” I said.  In spite of the fact that the photo had bleached, it was
obvious that this lady was very beautiful indeed.  She gazed proudly up at this
other Barrington, who struck a pioneering pose, perhaps in jest.
    “Anyway,
we’d better get back in,” I said.  One or two stragglers were heading indoors. 
“Let’s hand this in at the Under-Secretary’s office.”
     
    ***
     
    The
Third Form prep-room was also Mrs. Stowaway’s History classroom.  My desk was
at the back.  Directly in front of me was the back of Peregrine’s head.  In
front of him was the back of Freddie’s.
    The
day had become no cooler and it was now an uncomfortably warm evening.  A fly pestered
my ear as I shifted in my seat.
    Anders
Pontevecchio checked his watch.  He was the prefect monitoring Form Three that
evening.  He was sat at Stowaway’s desk.
    Pontevecchio
was head of Swallows, 1 st XI wicketkeeper, 1 st XI centre-forward
and first violin.  He was the sort of sickeningly brilliant all-rounder that
his peers would probably want to despise, if only he wasn’t such a nice guy. 
He was every Junior’s favourite prefect.  Professor Ludendorff referred to him
as the school’s Übermensch or Superman, something
which Pontevecchio always seemed to find very embarrassing.
    “Right,
chaps,” he announced, “prep’s over and Mr. Furlong’s taking a swim if any of
you are keen”.
    This
brought about some stilted cheering, the slamming of desk-lids, and a swift
exodus from the classroom.  Freddie stayed where he was, though, and called me
over to his desk.
    “Not
swimming, you two?” inquired Pontevecchio.
    “Actually,”
said Freddie, “Turnpike was going to give me a bit of help with these
equations.” 
    I
looked at Freddie in puzzlement, trying to work out what he was up to.
    “Ah! 
Good man, Turnpike!” Pontevecchio hooted.  He had a preposterously posh accent
and peppered his conversations with turns of phrase that are really better
suited to elderly naval officers.  Expressions such as “splendid”, “good egg”,
“not half bad”, and “I say!”.
     “Ponters,”
Freddie began, “about Barrington... Well, I was wondering, I don’t suppose you
know if he has ever been married, do you?”
    Pontevecchio
hesitated for a moment.  “What makes you ask, Strange?”
    “Oh
nothing really,” said Freddie, feigning disinterest.  “We just found his wallet
earlier and it had a photograph of him with a