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CHAPTER SEVEN

The headmaster was sitting behind his desk when Mr. Dawes escorted Martin into his office. Martin was literally quaking with fear; he had never done anything like this before, and he was ashamed and confused by his outburst. What had come over him? He had never felt such anger for another person, and had certainly never hit anyone before. But when Pearson had called Aunty Joan a 'cow' and 'ugly'-well, Martin just couldn't let that be said without a fight. He hoped his Aunty Joan wouldn't be too disappointed in him for resorting to violence, even if it was to defend her. He also worried about what his father was going to do to him when he got wind of the incident. It certainly wouldn't set well with him to have the Ellingham name tarnished by a son who went about using his fists to solve his problems.

'Well, Mr. Dawes, to what do I owe the pleasure?' Headmaster Winthrop asked a bit wearily. As if he couldn't already guess. 'I don't believe I've seen you in here before, young man; what is your name?' He had worked at this particular boarding school for nineteen years, having been headmaster for six of them, and had become very acquainted with many of the students. The lot of them couldn't seem to stay out of trouble for more than an hour at a time before showing up in front of him because of another disciplinary infraction.

'Ellingham, sir. Martin Ellingham,' Martin replied quietly, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on the floor.

'Ah yes, Christopher Ellingham's your father, isn't that right?' the headmaster said, a bit surprised. 'One hell of a surgeon, your father...not bad on the golf course either.'

'Erm...yes, sir.'

'What seems to be the trouble, Ellingham? Surely a well bred gentleman as yourself isn't here for disciplinary purposes?' Winthrop spoke the words with a touch of sarcasm; many a 'well-bred gentleman' had stood right where the boy was standing after being caught doing something abominable. Take them away from their parents and many resorted to behaving like animals. Some of them gleefully turned into barbarians before their Mum and Dad's car had even made it out of view on the driveway.

Mr. Dawes cleared his throat and said sternly, 'There's been a bit of an incident, sir; it seems Ellingham here felt it necessary to punch another boy in the face.'

'My goodness...I'm surprised at you, son...why would you do such a thing? The other boy obviously didn't throw the first punch; there isn't a mark on you.'

Martin swallowed nervously. 'No, sir. He didn't put his hands on me, although I feel I was provoked.' He continued to look at the floor.

'What do you mean, you 'feel you were provoked'? Is that any excuse to strike another person?' the headmaster demanded. 'And who was it that you thought deserved to be used as a punching bag?'

'It was Graham Pearson, sir. And I know it is wrong to hit anyone for any reason. I should have controlled my temper. I apologize, sir.' Martin dared to sneak a quick glance at Headmaster Winthrop, who seemed to be trying to hide a smile but couldn't contain a few chuckles that emitted from his throat. The headmaster paused for a few moments before musing, 'Graham Pearson, eh?' This time there was no denying it; the man had certainly found something amusing about this exchange.

'Graham Pearson,' he said again, sighing. 'He is one young man with whom I am very familiar indeed. As a matter of fact, his name comes up nearly every time there is an incident in this school. Do you know why that is, Ellingham?'

Martin looked at him in surprise. Was this a rhetorical question, or was the headmaster really asking for his opinion? With a small amount of hesitation, he replied sarcastically, 'because he's a mean, irritating little bully who likes to make everyone's lives a living hell?' As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Martin wished he could cram them back inside. He was only trying to be honest-would Headmaster Winthrop take it that way, or would he think Martin was being cheeky? Ah well...in for a penny, in for a pound; he was already in trouble, so one more infraction wasn't going to make that much difference in the end.

Luckily for him, the headmaster interpreted Martin's statement the way it was intended, and actually laughed out loud. 'Quite right, my boy...quite right indeed! I believe you have a strong grasp of the situation,' he exclaimed. Martin breathed a sigh of relief as the man continued, 'It may be a bit awful for me to say so, but I am sure Pearson has finally gotten his comeuppance. However, there is the subject of your punishment; though it may have been well deserved, there is still no excuse for hitting someone, and I am afraid I cannot just let this incident pass. You do understand?'

Martin was prepared for this, and he nodded unhappily. 'Yes sir, I understand.'

'Very well. I want you to write an apology letter to Pearson and deliver it to him- in person-during breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Dawes will be on hand to make sure the two of you shake hands like proper men,' he glanced at the teacher, who had been listening quietly to the exchange, wishing they would wrap it up so he could get back to the meal that he had left unfinished. 'Furthermore, I have it on good authority that you are a very bright young man and an excellent student, so I had better not see you in this office again for acting like a common hooligan. I will not hesitate to give you 'six of the best' the next time...so let's make sure there is no next time, agreed?' The headmaster rose from his chair and held out his hand to Martin, who shook it solemnly.

'Agreed. Thank you, sir,' he replied. He was not especially looking forward to writing an apology to the boy who had made him miserable more times than he could count, but there were certainly much worse punishments. He had witnessed with his own eyes some of his classmates being hit on the hands with large wooden sticks, and that had only been administered by his teachers and not the actual headmaster of the school. He knew of others who were given the 'slipper', that was what Headmaster Winthrop meant by 'six of the best', which usually meant being given six good whacks on the bottom with a large, hard soled shoe. Yes, Martin would take letter-writing over the slipper any day.

XXXXX

Word got around quickly that 'Wingnut' had managed to knock Graham Pearson flat on his arse, and Martin noticed that the other boys had begun to look at him with a modicum of respect. Most of them had themselves been tormented by the bully, and seeing him being bested-especially by the crybaby who wet the bed!-was exceedingly satisfying. Martin had written the apology letter and shaken hands with Pearson as instructed, and Graham had even muttered a few words of apology in response. The final few days before the Christmas holidays thankfully went without incident and soon young Martin was boarding the train from Paddington Station to Bodmin for his Christmas on the farm.

Aunty Joan was waiting for him at the station, like always, and her heart nearly burst with joy when she saw her nephew step down from the train and smile at her. He had grown so tall and awkward, all limbs and ears, bless him; there was quite a bit of young Christopher in his features, but the full lips and large eyes were definitely a gift from his mother. There was no denying Margaret's beauty, but she was like a snowflake-delicate and lovely, with a core of ice that stung you in small doses and caused irreparable damage in large ones. Joan sighed and removed the bitter thoughts of Marty's mother from her mind, and rushed to greet the boy she had come to think of as her own.

'Look at you, Marty-you're nearly as tall as I am!' she exclaimed as she pulled him into a ferocious hug. 'You must have grown four inches since I last saw you!' Martin only grinned and blushed a bit, but his eyes shone with the pleasure of being with his Aunty again. The crisp wintery air bit into them as they loaded into the farm truck and made their way back to the farm.

The road on which they traveled was mostly fields and moors, but occasionally Martin spotted a Christmas tree in a house window, or a string of lights festooning a front door. His mother always decorated their home in London to the hilt during the Christmas holidays, with greenery on the banisters and mantle pieces and an enormous tree in the front hall. This was not because of warm family feelings; her ministrations were a showcase of her status as a prominent surgeon's wife, as there were endless dinner parties and cocktail hours to be hosted in her home. Being surrounded by all the trappings of Christmas had always made Martin feel more sad and alone. There always seemed to be something missing-something he hadn't ever really experienced but instinctively knew should be there all the same.

'I've already started baking and I have a few things hanging here and there in the house, but Uncle Phil and I wanted to wait to get the tree until you were here...you can help him find a suitable one and we can all decorate it together,' Aunty Joan said, unable to hide the excitement in her voice.

'Oh, Aunty Joan, I wouldn't know how to decorate a tree...maybe I should just watch you do it, I wouldn't want to ruin it,' Martin replied.

'Don't be silly, Marty, you can't ruin a Christmas tree. There is certainly no wrong way to do it; in my opinion, the more bits and bobs you put on it, the better it looks,' Joan replied, and added under her breath, 'although I am sure some people would disagree.'

'And there is to be a Christmas Fete in the village this year, it's shaping up to be quite an affair! I am on the food committee and there will be no end of good things to eat. Your Uncle Phil is supplying a big fat goose to raffle as well. It'll be good to have your help; we are going to be very busy these next few weeks.'