Usual disclaimers: not my characters (though some are, obviously), just borrowed from ACD, MG and SM, who are all gods, for the sheer joy of writing for them. No profit, just pleasure.

Chapter Two

Whilst the Shells were at Speech Room, attending their first assembly at Harrow, the matron took a walk round their rooms to check the status of their unpacking. Usually, at the start of their first term, and quite often at the beginning of every term, the mums unpacked for them and this was certainly the case today. She observed that the dorms would never look so tidy again, once the residents returned. Holmes' unpacking was the one notable exception. She had been in this job for a number of years, now, and it never ceased to amaze her that some parents could actually send their children off to boarding school and not even bother to bring them themselves. On one particular occasion, she recalled, it was the family chauffeur who brought the poor child – although, actually, he did a very good job of settling the young man into his dorm and seemed to have a good rapport with the boy. Perhaps the child saw more of him than he did his real parents. But that was most definitely not the norm. More often than not, the mothers, in particular, would be quite tearful at the prospect of leaving their young off-spring in the care of relative strangers and there would be many anxious phone calls over the next few days, as parents rang to check that their child was OK. But, occasionally, one would get a boy like this one, who had been delivered by his older brother – barely more than a child, himself – and dumped. There was no other word for it. What could possibly be so urgent that it out-weighed the importance of settling your child into his new school, especially when one was not going to see him for at least a month? She sometimes wondered why some people bothered to have children at all, but then, for some of these families, it was basically a matter of securing the blood line – heir and a spare.

As she surveyed the train wreck that was Holmes' unpacking, her heart went out to the little scrap of humanity who had already done a runner, barely an hour into the new term. This one would need a lot of extra TLC. She set to, emptying his drawers and wardrobe and re-storing all his belongings, folding them neatly, hanging them on hangers – none from home, here, she noted; just the wire ones that the dry cleaners provided. She would get him some more rigid hangers from her stock of spares, as the wire ones bent so easily and then the heavier items fell off, into the bottom of the wardrobe, to become creased and soiled. With the practiced hand of experience, she soon had his storage organised, straightened his books and files and placed his toilet bag on his chest of drawers instead of his desk – toothpaste and school work did not mix well. She noted, also, that his duvet was twisted inside the cover. This was one of the first things she taught the new boys – how to change a duvet. She sorted his bedding and straightened it on his bed. Where was his bedtime toy, she wondered? The boys usually brought a bedtime toy and most of them continued to take their toy to bed, even in the Upper Sixth. It was a talisman, a link with home. This boy did not seem to have one, at all. She found that almost unbearably sad.

That evening, after the house master had had the new boys in his study, for a briefing about house and school rules, they were sent on to her, in her sitting room, to give them the goods on things like changing their clothes regularly, and their bed linen; personal hygiene; laundry drill; self-medication and the like. It was important to lay down all these ground rules from the beginning, since once a bad habit was established, it was hard to shift. She always sweetened this pill with hot chocolate and marshmallows and she began the session by having each boy introduce himself to her and the others. Many of them knew one another already, from Prep School. Even those who were not at the same school had met up at sporting fixtures. The world of private education was a very close knit community. As this new batch of Shells filed into her sitting room and arranged themselves on the sofas, chairs and bean bags, it was very obvious that young Holmes was not yet 'one of the team'. It always amazed her how quickly these boys bonded and became a band of brothers. It happened right before one's eyes. But, in almost every year group, there was usually one who did not seem to gel easily. Usually, this was a temporary hitch, a late developer who soon caught up, but sometimes the odd one out never, ever got to be 'one of the boys' and she had a bad feeling that Holmes might well be one of those. He came last into the room and chose a straight-backed chair to sit on, against the wall. The others piled in like puppies and flopped down everywhere, leaning on one another, squishing two in a chair, arms over one another's shoulders, legs in a tangle. Holmes looked at them as though they were an alien species.

When it came to introductions, she went first.

'My name is Miss Everett. You may call me that or you may call me Matron; that is up to you. I even answer to 'Sir', sometimes, if I think it's a genuine mistake but don't push your luck.' Then she asked each of the boys to say who they were and a bit about themselves, starting with the boy on her left. They all did this dutifully, some being purely factual, some making a joke, some making a mistake and having to start again, which seemed to be a source of great hilarity amongst these prepubescent future politicians and captains of industry. When it came to Holmes' turn, she heard a few sniggers, even before he started speaking, so she fixed the culprits with a beady eye. They stopped and looked suitably chagrined but she knew there was a potential for bullying here and she made a mental note to speak to the house reps on the ABC (Anti Bullying Committee) and ask them to be on their guard on Holmes' behalf. Formalities over, she got on with the talk and rounded it off with a quick demo of how to change a duvet cover without finishing up inside it yourself, then it was time for the refreshments and she served them, from a thermos jug she had prepared earlier. She had advised the boys to bring a mug each but someone usually forgot so she always had a couple of spares. It was no surprise to see that Holmes did not have a mug. She poured chocolate into one of hers and handed it to him, then offered him the bowl of marshmallows, to help himself. He was extremely polite but she could see that he was not enjoying this gathering at all. He did not join in any of the banter and he was the first to leave when she announced that it was time to go and get ready for bed.

First night back was always difficult. Even some of the really senior boys suffered from homesickness on the first night. She remembered Percy, a boy from a couple of years back, who right up until he left, at eighteen, would knock at her door in the middle of the night, first night after every holiday, sobbing piteously. Her technique with him was to talk at him on any banal subject she could think of until she saw his eyes begin to droop and then pack him back to his room, where he invariably dropped straight off – she called it 'boredom therapy'. So, having seen the new boys into their beds and made sure that the older boys were all safely back and had handed over their medications, she returned to her flat and sat, in the sitting room with the door open, reading a book and waiting for the first victim of homesickness to put in an appearance. One essential prerequisite of this job was to be able to manage on very little and often disturbed sleep.

Next morning, at7.15, Reba Everett was on her rounds, knocking on doors, waking up sleepy boys and making sure they all got off to breakfast. Meals were compulsory and were served for the whole school in Shepherd Churchill Dining Hall. No one was allowed a lie in. The Shells were up early anyway, too excited or perhaps apprehensive to sleep in, and she was pleased to see that all the shepherds had reported for duty and were taking their protégés to the dining hall. Strictly speaking, matrons were not required to wake the senior boys, as they were supposed to be becoming independent in preparation for going off to university next year, but there were certain individuals who would sleep through an artillery volley, let alone a breakfast bell, so she made sure they were at least stirring, then went to open her surgery. There was already a queue but mostly not for medication. Some needed a tie, some a shirt, one boy had managed to come back to school without packing any uniform at all, so he needed a full kit, from the second hand cupboard.

'What did I say at Callover, last night, Harris? Check before lights out that you have everything you need for the morning. Don't leave it 'til tomorrow. Do you remember my saying that?' she quizzed the errant boy.

'Yes, Matron, but then I forgot. Sorry, Matron,' he wheedled.

'Lucky for you I'm feeling generous today. I could send you out in Sunday dress.'

'Not really, Matron. I left that at home, as well,' he confessed.

'Get on with you, you pain in the….ankle,' she retorted and sent him off with a full set of kit.

Once she had cleared the back log of boys needing her attention, she made her way to the laundry room to check in with 'the ladies', her team of domestic cleaners, who managed to keep this house of seventy boys clean, reasonably tidy and fresh smelling, despite the boys' best efforts to the contrary. They were a good team of local ladies, who all worked part-time and liked the hours, as they fitted in with their own children's school times. They were not permitted access to the boys' rooms until they had all gone off to morning assembly, by 8.30 am, but the Sewing Lady, Glenda the Mender, as she was styled by the boys, was always in by 7.30 am, to carry out any emergency repairs that needed to be done immediately. The other ladies came in as their contracted hours specified. These ladies were a second line of defence for the matron. They each had their own cleaning area, which they guarded jealously and in which they took great pride. They got to know the boys who occupied their areas like their own children and would soon notice if something were amiss. Some of these ladies went on to become matrons, as vacancies arose, having learned the ropes at this level, so it was a little like having a team of assistant matrons working with one. Glenda was sitting at her sewing machine, hemming the cuffs of one of the boy's greyers, whilst he stood waiting, in his boxers.

'Williams, did you not think to ask your mum to get that done over the holidays?' the matron asked him.

'Sorry, Matron. Slipped my mind,' he pleaded.

'That is impossible, Williams. I have it on good authority that you do not have a mind,' she retorted, giving him a playful poke in the upper arm. Glenda finished the hemming and gave him back his trousers and he thanked her and, smiling at both ladies, heading off towards breakfast, hopping on one leg as he tried to put the garment on, en route.

'Morning, Matron. What's the new bunch like, then?' Glenda asked, cheerfully. She was one of those ladies whom people described as 'the salt of the earth'. She had worked in The Park for over thirty years, starting out as a basic cleaner, in the days when there were no carpets in the house and the beds were all made of metal. Now she was Sewing Lady, Housekeeper to the house master and the unofficial 'senior lady'. Glenda was a one-woman walking archive, who could name every single boy who had been a member of the house, since she came to work there and tell you an amusing anecdote about any of them.

'Morning, Glenda. Not a bad bunch, I don't think. There is one, in particular, we need to keep an eye on: Sherlock Holmes. He's very quiet, quite withdrawn, in fact. He did a runner yesterday, just after the parents left – not his parents, mind. They didn't even show. His older brother brought him and wasn't too happy about having to, either. If you see him wandering around, just give him a bit of time, will you? He's a good looking child. Quite tall for his age, very slim, dark wavy hair, beautiful eyes, amazing cheek bones – the very image of his mother. I remember her from the barbeque in the summer. She upset a lot of the new mums by fluttering her eyelashes at their husbands. Typical socialite, she couldn't find the time to bring her little scrap to big school on his first day. Oh, shut my mouth, bad matron, I should not jump to conclusions,' she chided herself, though she did not believe she was far wrong.

The bell for Callover rang, and Matron went to Reader, the room where roll call was taken and house meetings were held. As the boys made their way out of the house to go to Chapel, she scanned each one, top to toe, to make sure they were properly dressed. Custos, the Head Master's right hand man was overall responsible for ensuring that uniform was impeccably worn by all the boys in the school, at all times. He could issue a Custos Report for a uniform infringement and the recipient would then be required to report to him before 7.40 the following morning for inspection, having had twenty-four hours to correct the fault. The current Custos was a former Regimental Sargent major and commanded great respect amongst the boys, as he patrolled the school environs, in his distinctive uniform of tail coat and grey trousers. The house matrons, however, took great pride in the appearance of their boys and saw it as a personal failure if any of them incurred a Custos Report, so went to great lengths to ensure they all left the house in good order. She pulled up a couple for minor infringements – shirts not tucked in, ties not tied properly, top shirt button not fastened – and a couple of more serious failures – wearing non-regulation items of clothing. These, she sent back to their rooms to change the offending item for the correct one. The Shells were all impeccably dressed. How long would that last, she wondered?

ooOoo

Buri Anders was in his ceramics studio, housed in a former Fives court, on The Hundred Steps, which gave access between Wellington Terrace and West Street, setting up for his first lesson with a new group of Shells. Today, as a taster session for these new boys, he had planned for them to make pinch pots and coil pots but first they would all be having a lesson in studio etiquette. He ran a highly disciplined ship. Ceramics was an area which combined art and chemistry and many of the substances used in the making of pottery were hazardous so his first task, with any new group of pupils, was to read the riot act on the do's and don'ts specific to this environment.

Mr Anders was of Scandinavian descent, as evidenced by his surname and rather unusual forename, after the first god in Norse mythology, grandfather of Odin. His mother clearly had big ambitions for her son, giving him that name and he had lived up to those expectations. From quite humble beginnings, in a northern town, he had made it all the way to an MA from the Royal College of Art and the post of Artist in Residence and part time Sculpture teacher at this prestigious public school. This was his second year at Harrow and he had taken on the additional responsibility of becoming resident tutor at Gayton, an overspill house for Removes that was also used as a therapeutic environment for boys whom it was thought might benefit from a quieter atmosphere, with a higher adult to pupil ratio, for a specified period of time. This was a small house, just sixteen beds, and the residents still spent time in their own houses but lived in Gayton. Buri was looking forward to this new challenge, especially working with the more troubled boys. He had had his own fair share of troubled times, as a child and teenager, which he had overcome so he felt this could give him an insight into where some of these young men were coming from.

Just as he completed his lesson preparations, he heard footsteps coming up the metal stairs towards the Sculpture Department, and his first Shell group of the new school year arrived. He went to the door of his studio and waited for the boys to quiet down, and then he began their induction into the world of ceramics.

ooOoo

A/N: I hope the Harrow terminology is self-explanatory, in context, but, if not, you can look it up on their website and it gives you a list of the most common terms. Cheers!

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