The autumn term had barely begun when the newest boys arrived at Highdon School.
Suitcases of every shape and size were stacked neatly outside Ash House while anxious parents offered last-minute advice that nobody seemed particularly keen to hear.
“Write every Sunday.”
“Keep your socks together.”
“Work hard.”
“And mind your manners.”
The boys nodded dutifully.
Some were excited.
Others tried very hard not to look frightened.
Mrs Margaret Bellamy stood by the front entrance with a welcoming smile, greeting every family as though they were old friends.
“Welcome to Highdon,” she said warmly. “We’ll take good care of them.”
Those simple words reassured more than one worried mother.
Inside the house, polished wooden floors gleamed beneath tall windows. The corridors smelled faintly of beeswax and furniture polish. Framed photographs of rugby teams from years gone by lined the walls, each one showing serious-faced boys wearing blazers far too large for them.
Above the entrance hall hung a formal portrait of the school’s headmistress, Miss Charlotte Bowflower. Every boy soon learnt her name. She was a dignified woman in her late fifties, always immaculately dressed and seldom seen without carrying either a register or a bundle of papers beneath one arm. She believed deeply in good manners, honesty and hard work. Although she was known to be fair and willing to listen before reaching a decision, she also believed that discipline was an important part of boarding-school life. Serious breaches of school rules could still result in a visit to her study, where she kept the traditional school cane locked away in a cupboard, while a well-worn carpet slipper rested in the drawer of her desk for lesser offences. No boy wished to be summoned there, for Miss Bowflower’s calm voice was often more unsettling than raised tempers.
The new boarders soon found themselves sharing dormitories with boys from every corner of England.
Peter Lawson came from Yorkshire and could talk for hours about cricket.
Simon Reed had lived in London all his life and was amazed at how quiet the Sussex countryside seemed.
Andrew Collins admitted on the very first evening that he had never spent a single night away from home.
“I shan’t sleep a wink,” he confessed.
“You’ll be so tired you’ll sleep like a log,” laughed David Mercer, a cheerful second-year boy who had been appointed to help the newcomers settle in.
David quickly became everyone’s favourite guide.
He explained which staircases creaked, which teachers appreciated punctuality above everything else, and which gardeners occasionally allowed boys to help in the greenhouses.
“There are plenty of rules,” he admitted, “but life isn’t nearly as frightening as everyone imagines.”
He lowered his voice slightly.
“And if you’re ever sent to Miss Bowflower’s study, remember she’s always fair. She listens first. But if you’ve done something serious, she’ll use the cane without making a fuss. For smaller matters she sometimes reaches for the old carpet slipper instead. Nobody argues with Miss Bowflower.”
The newcomers exchanged nervous glances.
By tea time the boys had already begun learning each other’s names.
After supper, Mrs Bellamy gathered them together in the common room.
“I expect kindness here,” she began.
“You will discover that boarding school works best when everyone helps one another. You’ll make mistakes. Everyone does. What matters is that you learn from them.”
Her calm voice immediately put the younger boys at ease.
The following morning brought their first proper taste of Highdon routine.
The great bell rang before sunrise.
Within moments, the dormitories became a whirl of blankets, uniforms and hurried washing.
David checked his watch.
“Five minutes until inspection!”
That announcement produced remarkable speed.
Beds were pulled tight.
Wardrobes were straightened.
Shoes were carefully lined beneath each bed.
Andrew nervously examined his blanket for the fifth time.
“It still doesn’t look right.”
“It never does the first week,” David smiled.
“You’ll soon get the knack.”
Inspection was carried out by Miss Eleanor Harcourt.
She entered without saying a word.
Every bed received exactly the same careful examination.
She adjusted one pillow.
She straightened another blanket.
Finally she stopped beside Andrew’s bed.
He held his breath.
Miss Harcourt studied the slightly uneven corners before quietly saying, “Better than yesterday.”
It was not exactly praise.
Yet Andrew could not help smiling.
Breakfast was followed by the boys’ first full day of lessons.
Miss Beatrice Blyton introduced English with stories of explorers and hidden treasure.
Before long the entire class had forgotten they were supposed to be studying grammar.
Mrs Dorothy Fenwick demanded careful mathematics but patiently explained every difficult problem.
Even those who struggled soon realised she expected effort rather than perfection.
Only evening preparation seemed endless.
Rows of boys worked silently beneath the watchful eye of Miss Vera Pritchard.
Pens scratched steadily across exercise books.
Occasionally someone shifted in his chair.
Otherwise the room remained remarkably quiet.
When prep finally ended, the younger boys hurried upstairs.
Lights-out came promptly at half past nine.
At first silence filled the dormitory.
Then came the whispering.
“What do you think tomorrow will be like?”
“Have you seen the lake yet?”
“I heard there’s an old tunnel beneath the chapel.”
“Nonsense,” someone replied.
“Or is it?”
Within minutes the rumours had begun.
Every old boarding school seemed to possess mysterious stories.
Hidden rooms.
Forgotten passages.
Secret bells.
Ghostly footsteps.
Highdon, it appeared, was no exception.
David grinned in the darkness.
“If you want to know whether they’re true,” he whispered, “meet me after games on Saturday.”
“Where?”
“By the old cedar tree.”
“What for?”
“You’ll find out.”
Before anyone could ask another question, footsteps echoed outside the dormitory.
Every boy instantly became silent.
The door opened.
Miss Harcourt looked inside.
Satisfied that everyone appeared to be asleep, she quietly closed the door once more.
Only after her footsteps faded away did anyone dare breathe properly.
David smiled into his pillow.
Saturday suddenly seemed a very long way off.
And somewhere beyond the chapel, beneath the ancient cedar tree, another Highdon adventure was already waiting to begin.
