Work Text:
Duck and cover
by Ceindreadh
Eton College, Berkshire, circa 1960
Donald Mallard stood in front of the House Master’s desk, eyes fixed firmly on the wall in front of him.
“So, Mallard,” the House Master’s voice boomed from behind him. “Matron Jones tells me she’s had to treat you for bruised knuckles and a split lip. Is that correct?”
It was on the tip of Donald’s tongue to say that surely his injuries were obvious to the naked eye, even to somebody as shortsighted as House Master Grimes. But having been on the receiving end of the master’s cane for insubordination on more than one occasion, he wisely curbed his impulse and instead settled for saying, “Sir, that is correct.” Past experiences had also taught him the value of not volunteering more information than was asked for.
“She also reports that you are the third boy this week requiring medical treatment for similar injuries.”
Donald remained silent.
“Answer me, boy!” Grimes’s voice was a bellow in Donald’s ear, making him jump involuntarily.
“Sir, I wasn’t aware that you had asked a question.” Even as the words left his mouth, Donald knew it had been a mistake. He felt the breeze of the master’s cane as it swished through the air, thudding heavily on the desk. Donald winced, knowing that it would soon be striking a different target.
“As you are well aware, fighting is strictly forbidden. However, if you are prepared to give me the names of the other boys involved, I might be prepared to reduce your punishment. Come now, Mallard, tell me who the ringleader is.”
There was silence for a few minutes; Donald kept his gaze on the wall as Grimes paced up and down behind him. Finally the House Master spoke, “If you will insist on this foolish loyalty to your classmates, you know the price to be paid. Bend over, hands on the desk.”
Donald tried to let his mind wander as a distraction from the caning. It would have been almost amusing he though, the way that Grimes had made the wrong deduction with nary a scrap of evidence to prove his case. Almost, were it not for the punishment that was being doled out. Donald wondered if maybe it would have been a better idea to come clean from the start: tell the Master about their project and perhaps seek assistance with some of the more difficult aspects of it. But no, there was something about the element of secrecy involved, forbidden fruit and all that, that made it so much more exciting.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
“What on earth is *that*?” asked Donald.
“That, my friend is a mighty steed which will take us where ever we want to go,” said Herbert Powell, the head boy in Donald’s year.
“It looks like a motorcycle,” said Donald, “Or to be more accurate, a very old motorcycle.” He tapped the heap of metal with his foot. “The only way that will go anywhere is if we carry it.”
“Just because something is old, doesn’t mean it’s past its prime,” said Powell. “All it needs is a bit of restoration. Clean up the frame, give the engine a bit of a tune up. And then we’ll have our own transport any time we wish to leave the grounds.”
“We already have bicycles,” said Donald. “And besides, where would you want to go?”
“It’s the journey that counts, not the destination.”
And that had been the beginning of it. Of course such a secret didn’t remain between the two boys for long. Capshaw Minor was recruited to the project as being the most mechanically minded boy in the school. He’d soon stripped the engine down and rebuilt it, scavenging parts and tools from the metalwork rooms to assist his task. “You have to be careful with these beauties,” he’d said. “Get an imbalance in the fuel injectors and you might as well be sitting on a bomb!”
Powell was a generous sort, and had willingly opened the ‘club’ to a number of his friends. By the time the motorcycle was ready for its first test drive, there were almost a dozen youths eagerly awaiting their chance to take part. Powell of course had the first ride, a ride which ended somewhat ignominiously as he pulled too hard on the throttle and lost control. He’d ended up flat on his back in the mud with a ruined blazer and a sprained wrist.
And his was by no means the only injury. The riders soon found that it was much harder to control the motorcycle than it looked and there was soon a steady stream of bumps and bruises being hidden from the teachers.
It was all part of the fun thought Donald, as he’d come off the motorcycle yet again. This time had been his own fault. He’d gotten somewhat overconfident and had pulled on the brakes just a little too hard. The motorcycle had stopped, he hadn’t, and the resulting split to his lip had been immediately spotted by the sharp-eyed Matron. She *had* appeared to accept his explanation that he had simply tripped while out walking. However her weekly report to the House Master had obviously raised concerns.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ducky gritted his teeth as the final stroke landed. The next modification to the motorcycle was definitely going to be a well padded seat, he decided.
-----------------------------
Half an hour later, Donald, his rear end still stinging, returned to the common room.
He was soon surrounded by a number of his classmates. “Well Ducky,” sneered one of them. “I suppose you blabbed everything to Grimesy as soon as he raised his cane. I knew having you in the club was a bad idea.”
“For your information, Poole,” said Donald, his accent showing through as it often did when he was barely keeping his temper in check. “For your information, my name is *Donald*, not ‘Ducky’, and I’ll thank you to use the two brain cells still in your head to remember that.”
“Easy there, Mallard,” said Powell “Poole’s just worried he’ll be sent down if Grimesy gets wind of the club” To Poole he added, “I keep telling you, the worst that will happen would be six of the best, followed by lines. Maybe we’d lose our next half-term holiday, but it’d be a small price to pay.”
“Well if Poole is such a nervous individual, then maybe he’s the one who shouldn’t be in the Club,” snapped Donald. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. Mr. Grimes hasn’t a clue about what’s going on. *He* thinks there’s been fighting going on, but he can’t do anything without proof, and as long as nobody lets on, we’re safe.”
There was some disgruntled muttering, but most of the group seemed somewhat reassured by Donald’s words. Poole was an exception of course, making unpleasant comments about scholarship boys and their lack of class. Donald was half tempted to force a retraction out of Poole, but decided that in this case anyway, discretion was indeed the better part of valor.
“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” said Powell. “Ignore him and he’ll stop bothering you.”
“I could take him,” said Donald, still seething over Poole’s remarks.
“I have no doubt you could,” said Powell with a smile, “But the last thing we want is for Grimes to be proven right. Besides, there’s a time and place for everything and right now I’ll wager it’s time for you to start writing lines.”
Donald groaned at the prospect, “One thousand lines, ‘I must not fight’ before tomorrow evening. I’ll never get them all done, not with all the prep we’ve been given tonight.”
“Never fear, the Club is here,” said Powell. “All we need is a few people with handwriting as bad as yours. I swear, Ducky, sometimes I think it’s as well you’re heading for medicine.”
“Don’t call me ‘Ducky’,” said Donald, automatically.
“I’m afraid it’s a name that’s going to stick. What *were* your parents thinking?”
“I believe they *weren’t* thinking, that was the problem,” said Donald with a sigh. “I suppose it could be worse though.”
“Yes,” said Powell, “They could have called you ‘Daisy’!”
The End