Trubshaw's Secret John Everett

Copyright © 2022 John Everett All rights reserved. The definition of a secret: something everyone else wants to know, while those who do know put a high value on their knowing it.

Preface Everything here is pure invention. There is no intention with any name or title used to give information about a real person. Similarly there is no intention, in describing the school which is the setting of this story, to depict any real school, past or present. This is now the fifth instalment of the books about Trubshaw, and as with all the others each chapter is narrated in the first person by one of the characters, with their name shown as the chapter title. Readers will find it helpful to have read the four previous books in this series. All the other Trubshaw books, and several others of mine, are to be found at the website http://johneverettbooks.co.uk and this site holds my email as well. John Everett November 2022

Wetherill I cannot make up my mind. Is life a tragedy or is it a comedy? Here I am, half way through my fifth year here at Melton Hall Preparatory School for Boys, and you would think I would have got used to it by now. But each time a new term begins, and here we are in January of 1952, I have exactly the same reaction. Pure relief to be back here, and away from my parents, and yet I know that in a matter of just a few days I will be longing for the term to end to be released back to my home, if you can call it a home. I have the bad luck to be the son of parents who keep a hotel on the seafront of Eastbourne. Keeping a hotel may be all right as a business, but it is dreadful as a home. My parents are never off duty, and this means no relief from the stress of impatient cooks, incompetent maids, and the constantly argumentative waiters, to say nothing of the guests. I am used as an unpaid servant to carry suitcases and to

run errands. As we are on the sea front, where there is nothing but hotels like ours, I have no friends. There is no one like me near at hand, and my only escape from the hotel that brings me into contact with people is to sing in the local church choir. This is quite a challenge, as I have no voice worth speaking of, but I need the escape. So I am glad to be away from the hotel and back here at school. But here has its own problems. I am useless at games, which are all rather dangerous and full of opportunities to get hurt. Rugby involves people trying to hurt each other, and cricket is played with a ball so hard it hurts to catch it, or be hit by it. Being bad at games makes you very unpopular in a school like this. Where would I be without my one and only friend, Trubshaw? He is not like the others at all. He was taught at home till he was eleven and came here. I say taught at home, but that is wrong. His father is a professor at Cambridge, and does not believe in teaching. So Trubs was just given books

and allowed to discover everything for himself. He learnt Latin from being given a dictionary and a grammar book, and told to translate the Latin version of the Gospel of St John into English. The result of that is that he knows more Latin than any of us. Much the same with Maths, which he learnt from a chap called Euclid. So he is a total boffin, and you would think that would make him unpopular with his peers. But it does not, because he uses his mind to embarrass our teachers, and that gets us all on his side. He fights our battles against the teachers with his mind. He calls it philosophy. And he helps us with our homework too. When he first arrived the Chaplain gave me the responsibility to show him round and sort of look after him. He never needed looking after. Just the reverse: he looks after me, and this makes the others avoid his displeasure, otherwise my unpopularity would be intolerable. Bullying does not have to be physical, and there was one time when Trubs managed to get one bully tried, like in a court, and this led to his being demoted from being a

prefect. Trubs was a real hero for this achievement, and is now respected more than anyone else in the school. The prefects in this school have two main privileges: they have a private room they can escape to, which even has some old and battered chairs in it, and they alone are permitted to wear long trousers. The rest of us have to wear grey worsted shorts, which leave your legs exposed to the elements. Someone like me will never get to be a prefect, but my friend Trubs, even though not yet in the sixth form, is a deputy prefect. He was raised to this unique position so that he could be in charge of a school club. He runs the Socrates Club, which meets in the school folly, a sort of Greek temple with no roof. Trubs takes his philosophy very seriously. So here we are in a new term, and I am looking forward to catching up with what Trubs has got up to over the Christmas hols.

Headmaster This is the worst term of the year. We are in winter, so the heating must be adequate, especially in the Masters' Common Room, which has a coal fire. My handyman, the cook's husband, has to keep the central heating boiler going, which is an art only he has mastered, so my fuel bills are huge. This is the key problem of owning and running a school like this. Every penny spent on something is a penny less for me and Mrs. Walker. Simple economics. If I reduce costs too steeply, then the parents will start to think of sending their boys somewhere else. The fees they pay are the only income. So it is a juggling act. I have four key members of staff, all just too old to have been in the war, and another younger man who has been with us for seven years now, having joined as soon as he was demobbed. He had been a chaplain in the forces during hostilities, and came to me as Chaplain here, teaching Divinity and Latin. Finally I economise by appointing any young

fellow I can get, to do the games and manage the youngest boys in the First Form. I am lucky with Easton, the current chap, who came straight here from school, because of a mix-up with his National Service. He has a two year wait for his place at university, so he is an ideal choice for me. Unqualified, so I can pay him next to nothing, while making it palatable by giving him free food and accommodation. But he will leave at the end of next term, so I must start looking to my usual agency for a similar sort of replacement. The other forward planning I must do is with regard to prefects. This year's lot will all leave at the end of next term too. It is interesting that prefects, although entirely powerless, are an important part of the way the school hangs together. We need the boys to be a happy community. We do not have the capacity to control rebellion, especially since I am totally opposed to any form of corporal punishment. Some other headmasters I know swear by it, but I am sure it is not the best way. I do sometimes threaten to whack the boys, and this is what they

expect. I rejoice that they have changed my surname from Walker to Whacker, as the nickname they use for me. My view is that if a boy cannot be controlled other than by the fear of pain, then I will ask his parents to find another school for him. In senior schools the prefects are allowed, even encouraged, to cane the younger boys. My prefects are forbidden any such actions, and I was very relieved when my star pupil managed to deal with a prefect who had become a bully. He is already a deputy prefect, a post I invented specially for him so that he could take charge of a school club. Trubshaw wanted to run a sort of philosophical debating club, and I decided he should take charge of it himself, even though he was obviously too young to be a prefect. Without any doubt he will be my first choice for next year's set of prefects. But who else shall I choose? Perhaps I will do best if I ask him to choose them for me.

Ivy It has been a wonderful Christmas break from the tedium of my work here. Florence, another girl from the village and about my age, and I are called by the fine sounding title of Assistant Matron. But we teenagers are simply underpaid skivvies, doing all the cleaning, washing, and cooking jobs given us by Matron or Cook. There is little else for girls like us who have just left school to do in a small rural village like ours. It is an easy bike ride to the school, and better some work than none, I suppose. But the problem for me is that I have seen a glimpse of a possible future. All this because I was invited by Trubshaw to join his family for Christmas. His father intends to marry his Polish housekeeper, and I have been invited to be bridesmaid. More than that: I am now looking at the prospect of being invited to become a trainee art restorer at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, where Trubshaw's father is a trustee. We Assistant Matrons are strongly forbidden from having any contact with the boys, and I nearly got into trouble about this

once already. But I really do need to keep in touch with young Trubshaw, so that I can keep up to date with news from his father. Florence knows nothing of all this, but I must let her into the secret, so that I can devise a way to communicate with my friend, which she is bound to find out about sooner or later. Better to be open and tell her what I plan. So while we had a break from work on the very first day of the term I opened up to her. “Flo, I need to let you into a secret.” “Gosh. What?” “I spent part of the break in Cambridge.” “Where is Cambridge?” “Quite a way away, but all right if you can get a lift in a car.” “So who took you?” “Trubshaw's father. He is a professor at the university there.” “But how . . .?” “It was all down to young Trubshaw, that

brainy boy in the fifth year.” “But why?' “His dad is going to marry the woman who has looked after Trubshaw since he was a two-year-old, because his real mother had died. She is a Polish refugee, so has virtually no friends in this country she could ask. So Trubshaw's dad asked him to find a bridesmaid, and he chose me. And I was collected by car to stay with them for a few days to meet the prospective bride.” “Lucky you,” was all Florence could say. “Now this is a secret, and Matron must never know.” “Obviously.” “But I need to keep in touch with Trubshaw, and the best way is by putting the occasional note under his pillow, and collecting any note he writes in return.” “So you're telling me in case I find a note there?” “Hope you don't mind.”

Of course not. I like secrets.” Thus my plan was ready to put into action.

Chaplain I have been here for seven years nearly, following my demob from active service as a chaplain during the hostilities against Nazi Germany. It was not my first choice as a way of fulfilling my ministry as a cleric, but with so many other newly demobbed chaplains looking for a parish, and so few vacancies, getting a job of any description was a priority. So here I am, with the fine sounding title of Chaplain, and I simply have to manage my frustration. I use the holidays to serve as a locum in any parish needing such. Christmas is not a time when clergy take holidays, as they need to stay with their parishioners for this important festival. So there are few enough opportunities, but I read my Church of England newspaper avidly, and apply to any parish that is looking for someone to step in briefly. This is usually where one vicar has retired, and their replacement has not yet been appointed. This recent holiday was a good case in point. A busy urban parish, and the

chance to use an empty vicarage for the whole holiday period. And being single means that all the local ladies were more or less queuing up to provide meals and generally help with housework. Their presence reminded me that if I continue in my present situation for much longer I shall end up a grumpy bachelor, just like my colleagues. These four men were all too old for the war, and they are now at that age when they are so set in their ways that they are a bit sad. They have one obvious thing in common: they all smoke pipes, as if it were a badge of their profession. They pretty much dress alike too: tweed jackets, grey flannels, and a tie that proclaims a former college or university. I teach Scripture, of course, and Latin as well. Peale teaches Maths; Newberry teaches English; Marsden teaches French; Mitchell teaches History and Geography, though I do not think he makes much distinction between the two. And then there is Easton, who teaches Games and looks after the First Form of our eight-year-olds. He came to us straight from school, as he has to fill in

two years before he takes up his place at university. He and I are the only two masters here still young enough to put on sports clothing and go out and take the boys for rugby and cricket. My real calling, in fact the reason why I was ordained, was to have a Christian ministry to all and sundry. Here the masters ignore me in one way, and all the pupils ignore me in their own different way. With one exception: a boy called Trubshaw, who came to us much later than most boys. He came at eleven, after being educated at home by his father. I say 'educated', but that is obviously wrong. He was allowed – encouraged – to learn everything at his own pace and by his own efforts. For example, he learnt more Latin than any of the boys here simply by being given a Latin text, a grammar book and a dictionary, and invited to make his own translation. And the Latin text was the Latin version of St John's Gospel, as made by Jerome in the fourth century. And now he is my one and only pupil of Greek, and we are using the same method. He spends half-an-hour

with me in my vestry every weekday translating the original Greek of St Mark's Gospel. I cannot actually call my contribution teaching. I sit with him, ready for his questions. And here my original desire for a Christian ministry comes to fruition. I get asked theological questions all the time. Some very challenging. Trubshaw is a problem too for me as his chaplain. This term all the boys in his year get offered for confirmation. This year my bishop has asked if he may visit the school and do the confirmation of all my boys himself. This is not the usual thing, and I suspect he is looking for a reason to pay the school a visit and judge for himself how my 'parish' is getting on, since I am technically the incumbent here, as well as a teacher on the staff. Trubshaw is by far the most spiritually minded boy I have ever come across. But his father forgot to have him christened when he was a baby. And you cannot go for confirmation in my church without a prior baptism. And that will be my responsibility this term, to prepare him

for a baptism service at his local church during the Easter break.

Mrs. Walker The Christmas break has been a restful time for Archie and me. We give Cook a holiday, which leaves me in the sole charge of the kitchen. Our domestic arrangements therefore become as much like an ordinary household as possible for a couple who actually own and run a boarding school. I take great delight in arranging a menu, even within all the current post-war restrictions, that includes the sort of dishes never seen in a school menu. Roast chicken, for instance, and of course the turkey on the great day. Now that all the staff are back, as well as the boys, our bridge quartet can resume. This consists of Matron and Chaplain alongside Archie and me. I do not like the game very much, especially when I have to partner my husband, but what I do like is the opportunity to listen in to the gossip about the boys. I am, I must admit, somewhat frustrated about motherhood. We have managed to produce none ourselves, but sixty or so surrogate sons go some way to easing the frustration. It

is difficult to get Archie to talk about them very much, but Matron knows many of them pretty well, and she too no doubt has the same sort of surrogate maternal feelings as I do. So our bridge games give the four of us the setting where we can share things about the boys in a relaxing way. Our first session gave Archie the chance to talk about prefects. We had just finished the first rubber, and we were now cutting for partners again. We always did this, and the dynamics of our playing was greatly affected by this. The combination I preferred was with Matron, which gave us females versus males. The combination I disliked most was to play with Archie as my partner. He did strive not to find fault with my all too frequent errors, but though the criticism was rarely verbal, the sighs and the body language were almost worse than the verbals. So while we were re-arranging our places at the table, and Chaplain was shuffling the cards in his usual very

precise way, Archie started the conversation by saying: “Got to start thinking about prefects for next year soon, I suppose.” This was a sort of invitation, and Chaplain responded to the invitation: “Well, headmaster, you already have a deputy prefect for the first time.” “Yes, Trubshaw, who not so long ago demonstrated my total incompetence at choosing prefects.” He was referring to a lad called Gardner who had turned out to be a bully, and whom Trubshaw had summoned to a trial for that bullying. Poor Gardner had been put to shame even by his fellow prefects, and Archie might well have expelled him, but only in the end chastised him with words. Archie does not cane errant boys, even though most prep school heads think it the best way to deal with miscreants. His only real sanction is expulsion and he has never even used that yet. There was a pause while we waited for

Archie to continue. “I bet Trubshaw would make a better job of choosing prefects than I can.” This was rather extreme, I thought, and I could see Chaplain frowning at the idea. But he was tactful enough to make no comment, and I rather supposed that Matron simply thought that Archie was joking. How wrong I was.

Headmaster The best time to see a boy in my study is after supper in the evening, so that evening I quietly walked up to where Trubshaw was sitting and asked him to come to my study when he had finished eating. I tried to make this invitation in a very casual way, in case he thought he was in trouble. As I walked away I overheard Wetherill, who was sitting next to him, say: “It's OK. He is not cross with you.” As I walked out of earshot I could sense that the reason for the summons was being discussed round that table. This is the aura that always goes with the post of headmaster: the ultimate authority figure. I sat in my study, on the captain's chair I have behind my desk and waited. Actually I was more nervous than Trubshaw was likely to be. Soon there came the eventual knock, a confident one I thought, and I barked out a COME IN. There was an ordinary chair in front of my desk, the signal that the boy was not

in trouble (bad boys must stand for their rebukes), and I wordlessly pointed to it. He sat, also wordlessly. His silence was another sign of the sort of boy Trubshaw is. We looked each other in the eyes, and he held my gaze with no difficulty. How to begin? “This is the Spring Term.” Good grief, I was telling him what he already knew. “In the Spring Term I always choose who will be next year's prefects. This is so that I can advise their parents in good time, by letter sent during the Easter Holidays. So that they know the change of uniform that will take place at the end of the Summer Term.” Trubshaw now at last helped me out from the stumbling explanation I was giving. “They will be wearing long trousers if they are made prefects.” “Exactly.” Now came the difficult bit, so I stumbled on: “You are already a deputy prefect, so you will obviously be a prefect next year. In fact I will declare you the school's Head

Prefect.” I paused now to give him a chance to thank me. Instead he asked a question: “What do prefects do? What are they for, sir?” I wish I knew the answer to that question. Unlike the next school the boys here all went to, where prefects had great power, including the power to cane the junior boys, at my school prefects have no such power. So I stumbled on with an answer that did nothing to disguise my own inability to satisfactorily explain why I had prefects at all. “I need the senior boys to set a good example to the younger boys.” Trubshaw made no response, which was a bit of a problem. So I floundered on: “Of course all the boys in the Sixth Form are senior boys . . . “ “ . . . but some are more senior than others?” came his continuation. This floored me. A twelve year old who

read Orwell, and remembered the most memorable sentence from the whole book. My silence made him aware that I really did not know how to answer his question, so he began to supply the answer for me. “I suppose it is useful for all boys, as they get on up the school, to have some reward to aspire to. The privilege of wearing long trousers, and the use of the Prefects' Room, which is actually a far greater benefit in a school like this.” “Yes. If they think they will be rewarded with the privileges of a prefect, they will see that as an incentive to behave well.” “Unless they are like Gardner, and see it as an opportunity to bully others more effectively.” He had hit the nail on the head. This was the very reason I was talking to him. The boy he referred to was a bully, and it had taken Trubshaw to expose him to me in a very effective way, and I had taken his prefect status off Gardner. Being put back

in short trousers was a very visible and humiliating sanction, Now I came to the real point of seeing Trubshaw. I now spoke with a solemnity that I am sure he spotted. “Gardner has made me realise that I am not very good at choosing prefects.” I paused for effect. “So I am going to delegate that task to you.” This really did take him by surprise. “You want me to tell you who to appoint, sir?” “Precisely.” “But suppose I suggest a boy you think will not make a good prefect?” “If you propose any boy, that is it. He will be made a prefect. That is what delegation is.” He sat thoughtfully for quite a while. “How many are to be prefects?” Good question. I usually had five or six, as he must have already known. “Five.” This would allow the possibility

of a promotion during the year if any boy showed the right sort of character, and it would also leave that possibility open, so as to help the other senior boys to aspire to it. Now another pause for thought. “I will have to ask any boy if they are willing to be a prefect, and as soon as I ask that question they will realise what you have delegated to me. Are you sure you want this to become known, sir?” Why had I not thought of that? The very mechanics of what I was proposing had an inherent difficulty. “Could you manage to do all this and still keep it a secret?” “Secrets are a bit difficult, aren't they?” “Indeed they are.” “Will you let me organise the process in my own way, if I can find a way to keep the whole thing a secret?” “I am already putting my trust in you, Trubshaw. Do it in your own way, and if

you can avoid it becoming known that you are the sole selector of next year's prefects, it will save my face.” “I will try not to embarrass you, sir.” “Thank you.” “I suppose that is the best definition of a prefect, isn't it?” “You mean someone who does not embarrass his headmaster?” “Someone the headmaster trusts. That is a good definition, I think.” This boy is already showing the kind of insight I had always suspected he had. My plan might have been absolute folly with anyone else. But now it was in Trubshaw's hands I felt a sort of release of tension. This arrangement was something I could not possibly share with the staff. Could I even share it with my wife? Time to think about that later.

Wetherill My friend Trubs has been looking very thoughtful all day today. He always looks thoughtful, of course, because he is a boffin. So I am saying he is looking even more thoughtful than usual. As he is closer to me than any of the other boys in the Fifth Form I am pretty sure I will find out soon. I suspect it was something said to him last night by the Headmaster. I hope it is not any trouble at home, or some other bad news. I know better than to ask him about it, as he will tell me when he is ready to. It came after supper. “Let's talk,” he said, and I followed him to the basement room where we kept our tuck-boxes. “Do you trust me, Soapy?” he asked. Rum sort of question, I thought, but I said: “You know I do,” in response. “I am starting a secret society, and I want you to join it.” This really took me back. Trubs is the last sort of person I would have thought

of to be doing this sort of thing. What else could I say? “Yes.” Much better to wait for an explanation than to ask for one. “Good. You're in.” A long pause. I think Trubs really was waiting for me to ask the questions, so I did. “What have I just joined, then?” “The Five.” “That's its name is it? The Five?” “Yep.” “Like in Enid Blyton books then?” “No. Not like that at all.” “All right. What do the Five do?” “Nothing . . . yet.” This seemed crazy. “So what are the Five?” “That is the secret.” “So I have just joined something, but it is a secret that I have joined it?”

“Exactly.” I looked totally baffled, and Trubs could see that he was not really making sense at all. “You have got to understand the dynamics of secrecy, Soapy. Even the existence of a secret society being secret is what makes it so powerful. Being in something no one outside knows anything about is what matters.” “OK. Who are the other members? I bet it is just you and me, right?” “So far.” “Let me guess. We need three more members, and then we really will be 'The Five'.” “Spot on.” “So how do we recruit the next three?” “We have to decide who we trust most. And they must also be in the Fifth Form. Only in the Fifth Form, you see.” “Fifth Form. The Five. So it is a secret

society of Fifth Formers?” “I knew you would understand, Soapy.” “And they must be people we trust.” “Precisely. Trust is the only criterion of membership.” I wish Trubs would not use long words all the time, but I gathered what he meant. At least I think I did. “So who in our form do you trust most?” Oh dear. Here I was, the most despised member of the form, because I am so bad at games, and so looked down on by everyone except Trubs, and he wanted to know who I trusted most. I didn't really trust anyone very much, apart from Trubs himself. So it almost boiled down to who was least dismissive of me. Who made my life least miserable? Who was least scornful about my pathetic showing on the games field? Just then a junior boy came in to fetch something from his tuck-box, so we had to stop talking. This was useful, actually,

as I was beginning to despair of thinking about this rationally. “Do I have to produce three names?” I asked when we were alone again. Trubs thought for a bit. “No, one name will do, and if this guy joins we can have his input as well for the next two.” “It really has to be exactly five members, then?” This was the bit I could not understand. “Yes, exactly five.” “Why?” “That is part of the secret.” Crazy. But I had to trust Trubs, so I said nothing. “I will give you one name then: the Duck. He is the least obnoxious fellow in our form at present.” His real name was Allard, and the obvious nickname had been applied to him from the very beginning of his time here. If I were better at being friends with

anyone I might even have thought of him as a possible friend. And then I realised that if he was part of a secret society that I was in too I might even begin to have a circle of other boys I could think of as friends. I was beginning to like the idea of a secret society, even if what it was for was a secret that it seems only one member was allowed to know. “Shall I ask him, or will you, Trubs?” “Leave that to me, Soapy.”

Allard I remember very well the new boy who came to us a year and a half ago. He was streets ahead of us in all the subjects, but seemed very modest about it. I remember how our first impressions were changed and it became obvious how useful it was to have someone the masters actually seemed a bit afraid of. I was also rather jealous of Wetherill, the most unpopular boy in our form, simply because Trubshaw befriended him. I realised that Trubshaw was looking after him out of sheer kindness. Why not me too? I am quiet enough, and although not as bad at games as Wetherill, I am not all that good either. So you can imagine how I felt when Trubshaw came up to me one break and said he would like to talk to me. Privately. Wow! That evening, just before bedtime, we found no one in the library. There are very few of us who bother with the library. It is a small room, window one end, door the other, both side walls full of shelves of books, and a table in the middle

with chairs either side. Sit-up-and-beg chairs, with hard wooden seats. There was an exercise book where you recorded the books you were borrowing or returning. He closed the door and looked me in the eyes. “Duck,” he said, “can I trust you with a secret?” Gosh, I thought. Why me? “Yes, Trubs, of course you can.” I presumed this was some sort of conspiracy against one of the masters. “I am going to ask you a question,” he said,” and if the answer is NO I want your word that no one will ever know I even asked you that question.” This made it seem even more mysterious, but of course I gave him my word. “Do you want to join a secret society that is only open to Fifth Formers?” “What does it do?” I asked. “That is part of the secret.”

“You mean I have to join without knowing what I am joining.” “Yes.” “This sounds a bit like the club my father belongs to.” “A club?” “Not so much a club as almost a religion. He knows that I know a bit about it, but he is very clear that I must not talk about it to anyone outside our family.” “Then I must not ask you to, and I will not, but I do need to know if you will join my club, as we might as well well call it.” “Trubs, if it is something you have dreamed up then it cannot be bad. If you want me in, I will join.” “Good. Now remember what you have agreed to. No mention of this to anyone, not even that such a thing exists.” “Got it. So when is my initiation?” “Initiation?”

“Yes. With my father's lot the initiation ceremony is very important. That is how you join, apparently. All very full of ritual stuff. No idea what, just that my father says it is all part of the secret.” “Hmm. I see.” He was obviously a bit surprised by this, and was not sure what to say. So I helped him out. “Of course, I must not ask who else is already a member, or what your club is called. I will just wait till you are ready to tell me.” “Good. That is the right approach. I will let you know soon enough.” I wondered if we should shake hands on our agreement. In my dad's thing shaking hands in the right way is very important, but he did not offer a handshake so we just nodded and walked out of the room together. He is not in my dorm, so we went off to our dorms apart. But I was feeling rather pleased with myself, without really knowing why.

Headmaster Two or three weeks had gone by since my strange decision to award Trubshaw the responsibility of appointing, well selecting, next year's prefects. There is no easy way for a pupil to ask for time with me, since I only take lessons when any colleague falls ill. I do wander round the school quite a bit, but not in any predictable way. And no boy wants to give the impressions of being a toady by actually approaching a master and asking for a chat. So I used the same tactic as I had done at the beginning and asked him to see me as the evening meal drew to a close. Once again there was a chair for him to sit on in front of my desk. “So, Trubshaw, a progress report, if you please.” “Well, sir, the secret part is the problem.” “How so?” “I am not to allow any of the Fifth Formers to know that you have delegated the decision of who is to be the next set of

prefects to me.” “Yes. You just give me their names and I will do the rest.” “I could give you five names easily enough, but would they be the best five? I think you want me to put them through some sort of test. So I am going to test their trustworthiness.” “Good. I like the idea of trustworthiness.” “So I am in the process of testing it.” “How.” “I am finding out how well they can keep a secret.” “Sounds good. How precisely?” “I'd rather not tell you, sir.” “So it is a secret from me too then?” “Yes, sir.” This floored me. Stuff and nonsense, was my first reaction. I am the head here. There can be no secrets from me. So I said nothing while thinking these thoughts. My

silence invited an explanation. “You see, sir, I have to able to tell them quite truthfully that you know nothing of this..” “So I simply have to trust you? Is that it?” “I knew you would understand, sir.” Of course he was right. I had given him a huge responsibility. If I knew how he was carrying it out then I would be tempted to make judgments about his methods. I might end up approving or disapproving, and then it would have my influence all over it. Bless the boy's innocence. No sense of his own importance. Just sheer logic. “Oh, sir, and by the way, can you put another chair in the library? There are only four at present, and there really needs to be five.” “All part of your plan, presumably? No, wait, I did not ask that question I have no need to know, have I?” “That's right, sir. No need to know.”

“Very well. A fifth chair will be there. I will attend to it myself.”

Allard It did not surprise me when Trubshaw came up to me after supper and said: “We meet in the Library in five minutes.” I knew straight away that this must be the new secret thing I had joined, and so merely nodded. No one ever goes to the library, as boys of our age do not read books unless we have to. And the library has all the wrong sort of books. The teachers think they are 'improving' books, and that is good enough reason for ignoring them. When I got there not only was Trubshaw there but also Wetherill, who every one calls Soapy for obvious reasons. Trubs was sitting on a chair at the end of the table, with Soapy on his right. I chose to sit on his left. I also remembered the last time I was here that there were only four chairs, and now there were five. So two vacant places, and it occurred to me that so far we were only three, but the intention was that we should be five. So I asked: “Just three so far, then, or are the others late?”

“Duck, you are right. We are due to be five, and that is what this meeting is about. We need to decide who else is worthy to join us.” Trubs spoke with calm firmness. “We are called the Five,” said Soapy. This was progress, I thought. I now knew the name of the group I had joined. This whole thing was getting more and more like the group my Dad belonged to. You did not know what you were joining until you actually joined. I did not want to ask the wrong question, but there were so many questions in my mind. What were we for? What were we going to do? Who gets to join? Trubs was looking at me and I could tell he knew my mind was full of questions. So he answered one of them straight away. “Only Fifth Formers may join the Five,” he said. “And joining is only by invitation, I suppose,” I replied. Just like my Dad's lot, I thought.

“Yes,” Trubs went on, “and we need two more recruits. They must be chaps we trust, since being a member of the Five is a secret they must be able to keep.” “That is going to be difficult,” I said. “Most chaps like having something to brag about.” “Exactly,” said Trubs. “Well I can think of a few I would not trust to keep a secret. Always showing off, some of the chaps in our form.” “Excellent,” said Trubs smiling. “We will eliminate all those we know we cannot trust, and see who we have left.” I was about to start naming names, but Trubs held up his hand. “We must do this independently. We will meet here again after supper tomorrow with our lists of chaps we do not consider safe. Then we will compare lists and see who we have left.” He stood up and said simply: “Meeting closed,” and walked towards the door. I glanced at Soapy and he was getting up

too, so I followed them out as well. When Trubs makes a decision, that is it. The matter is settled. I like that.

Wetherill Of course I was at a big disadvantage in this task of choosing all the boys in our form whom I did not trust. As I was the most unpopular guy on the Fifth Form it more or less applied to all of them except Trubs. What it boiled down to was who did I dislike most, and that was simple enough: Smithson. Smithson is pushy and full of himself. He makes no pretence of liking me, and happily finds opportunities to make me feel small. He certainly would want to brag about anything he thought would increase his self-importance. So he went straight down on my notional list. Who else? The only other boy I could think of was Brown. Not because he was like Smithson but because he was a clot. He is an absolute idiot, without even a smattering of common sense. So I had two names. Would that be enough? I would have to hope so, and in any case Duck was smarter than me and would probably come up with a better list

of undesirables. It was already clear to me that Duck had really caught on to the idea of a secret society. This was something that I had not thought about at all, but obviously he had, with all his references to the thing his dad belonged to. My father did not have time to belong to anything since running a hotel was a full time job seven days a week. I was thinking along these lines when I saw Duck in the corridor. I joined him so we could talk together. “How are you getting on?” he asked me. I knew what he meant and so told him I had two names on my list so far. But I knew instinctively that it would be wrong to tell him who the names were, So to make sure he did not ask me I asked him a question: “Tell me more about this thing your dad belongs to.” “The most important thing is that it is secret. They meet for special ceremonies, and only members get to go. They meet in the evenings, and there is always a meal I think, cause dad does not eat with us on