“Abolish the Honors System” read the banner headline in the third edition of the St. Andy.
In the editor’s opinion, the honors system was nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of clapped-out politicians to award themselves and their friends titles that they didn’t deserve. “Honors are almost always given to the undeserving. This offensive display of self-aggrandisement is just another example of the last remnants of a colonial empire, and ought to be done away with at the first possible opportunity. We should consign this antiquated system to the dustbin of history.”
Several members of his class wrote to the editor, pointing out that his father had accepted a knighthood, and the more historically informed among them went on to add that the last sentence had been plagiarized from a far better cause.
Keith was unable to ascertain the headmaster’s view as expressed at the weekly staff meeting, because Penny no longer spoke to him. Duncan Alexander and others openly referred to him as a traitor to his class. To everyone’s annoyance, Keith gave no sign of caring what they thought.
As the term wore on, he began to wonder if he was more likely to be called up by the army board than to be offered a place at Oxford. Despite these misgivings, he stopped working for the Courier in the afternoons so as to give himself more time to study, redoubling his efforts when his father offered to buy him a sports car if he passed the exams. The thought of both proving the headmaster wrong and owning his own car was irresistible. Miss Steadman, who continued to tutor him through the long dark evenings, seemed to thrive on being expected to double her workload.
By the time Keith returned to St. Andrew’s for his final term, he felt ready to face both the examiners and the headmaster: the appeal for the new pavilion was now only a few hundred pounds short of its target, and Keith decided he would use the final edition of the St. Andy to announce its success. He hoped that this would make it hard for the headmaster to do anything about an article he intended to run in the next edition, calling for the abolition of the Monarchy.
“Australia doesn’t need a middle-class German family who live over ten thousand miles away to rule over us. Why should we approach the second half of the twentieth century propping up such an elitist system? Let’s be rid of the lot of them,” trumpeted the editorial, “plus the National Anthem, the British flag and the pound. Once the war is over, the time will surely have come for Australia to declare itself a republic.”
Mr. Jessop remained tight-lipped, while the Melbourne Age offered Keith £50 for the article, which he took a considerable time to turn down. Duncan Alexander let it be known that someone close to the headmaster had told him they would be surprised if Townsend managed to survive until the end of term.
During the first few weeks of his final term, Keith continued to spend most of his time preparing for the exams, taking only an occasional break to see Betsy, and the odd Wednesday afternoon off to visit the racecourse while others participated in more energetic pastimes.
Keith wouldn’t have bothered to go racing that particular Wednesday if he hadn’t been given a “sure thing” by one of the lads from a local stable. He checked his finances carefully. He still had a little saved from his holiday job, plus the term’s pocket money. He decided that he would place a bet on the first race only and, having won, would return to school and continue with his revision. On the Wednesday afternoon, he picked up his bicycle from behind the post office and pedaled off to the racecourse, promising Betsy he would drop in to see her before going back to school.
The “sure thing” was called Rum Punch, and was down to run in the two o’clock. His informant had been so confident about her pedigree that Keith placed five pounds on the filly to win at seven to one. Before the barrier had opened, he was already thinking about how he would spend his winnings.
Rum Punch led all the way down the home straight, and although another horse began to make headway on the rails, Keith threw his arms in the air as they flew past the winning post. He headed back toward the bookie to collect his winnings.
“The result of the first race of the afternoon,” came an announcement over the loudspeaker, “will be delayed for a few minutes, as there is a photo-finish between Rum Punch and Colonus.” Keith was in no doubt that from where he was standing Rum Punch had won, and couldn’t understand why they had called for a photograph in the first place. Probably, he assumed, to make the officials look as if they were carrying out their duties. He checked his watch and began to think about Betsy.
“Here is the result of the first race,” boomed out a voice over the P.A. “The winner is number eleven, Colonus, at five to four, by a short head from Rum Punch, at seven to one.”
Keith cursed out loud. If only he had backed Rum Punch both ways, he would still have doubled his money. He tore up his ticket and strode off toward the exit. As he headed for the bicycle shed he glanced at the form card for the next race. Drumstick was among the runners, and well positioned at the start. Keith’s pace slowed. He had won twice in the past backing Drumstick, and felt certain it would be three in a row. His only problem was that he had placed his entire savings on Rum Punch.
As he continued in the direction of the bicycle shed, he remembered that he had the authority to withdraw money from an account with the Bank of Australia that was showing a balance of over £4,000.
He checked the form of the other horses, and couldn’t see how Drumstick could possibly lose. This time he would place £5 each way on the filly, so that at three to one he was still sure to get his money back, even if Drumstick came in third. Keith pushed his way through the turnstile, picked up his bike and pedaled furiously for about a mile until he spotted the nearest bank. He ran inside and wrote out a check for £10.
There were still fifteen minutes to go before the start of the second race, so he was confident that he had easily enough time to cash the check and be back in time to place his bet. The clerk behind the grille looked at the customer, studied the check and then telephoned Keith’s branch in Melbourne. They immediately confirmed that Mr. Townsend had signing power for that particular account, and that it was in credit. At two fifty-three the clerk pushed £10 over to the impatient young man.
Keith cycled back to the course at a speed that would have impressed the captain of athletics, abandoned his bicycle and ran to the nearest bookie. He placed £5 each way on Drumstick with Honest Syd. As the barrier sprang open, Keith walked briskly over to the rails and was just in time to watch the mêlée of horses pass him on the first circuit. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Drumstick must have been left at the start, because she was trailing the rest of the field badly as they began the second lap and, despite a gallant effort coming down the home straight, could only manage fourth place.
Keith checked the runners and riders for the third race and quickly cycled back to the bank, his backside never once touching the saddle. He asked to cash a check for £20. Another phone call was made, and on this occasion the assistant manager in Melbourne asked to speak to Keith personally. Having established Keith’s identity, he authorized that the check should be honored.
Keith fared no better in the third race, and by the time an announcement came over the P.A. to confirm the winner of the sixth, he had withdrawn £100 from the cricket pavilion account. He rode slowly back to the post office, considering the consequences of the afternoon. He knew that at the end of the month the account would be checked by the school bursar, and if he had any queries about deposits or withdrawals he would inform the headmaster, who would in turn seek clarification from the bank. The assistant manager would then inform him that Mr. Townsend had telephoned from a branch near the racecourse five times during the Wednesday afternoon in question, insisting each time that his check should be honored. Keith would certainly be expelled—a boy had been removed the previous year for stealing a bottle of ink. But worse, far worse, the news would make the front page of every paper in Australia that wasn’t owned by his father.
Betsy was surprised that Keith didn’t even drop in to speak to her after he had dumped his bike behind the post office. He walked back to school, aware that he only had three weeks in which to get his hands on £100. He went straight to his study and tried to concentrate on old exam papers, but his mind kept returning to the irregular withdrawals. He came up with a dozen stories that in different circumstances might have sounded credible. But how would he ever explain why the checks had been cashed at thirty-minute intervals, at a branch so near a racecourse?
By the following morning, he was considering signing up for the army and getting himself shipped off to Burma before anyone discovered what he had done. Perhaps if he died winning the VC they wouldn’t mention the missing £100 in his obituary. The one thing he didn’t consider was placing a bet the following week, even after he had
been given another “sure thing” by the same stable lad. It didn’t help when he read in Thursday morning’s Sporting Globe that this particular “sure thing” had romped home at ten to one.
It was during prep the following Monday, as Keith was struggling through an essay on the gold standard, that the handwritten note was delivered to his room. It simply stated, “The headmaster would like to see you in his study immediately.”
Keith felt sick. He left the half-finished essay on his desk and began to make his way slowly over to the headmaster’s house. How could they have found out so quickly? Had the bank decided to cover itself and tell the bursar about several irregular withdrawals? How could they be so certain that the money hadn’t been used on legitimate expenses? “So, Townsend, what were those ‘legitimate expenses,’ withdrawn from a bank at thirty-minute intervals, just a mile from a racecourse on a Wednesday afternoon?” he could already hear the headmaster asking sarcastically.
Keith climbed the steps to the headmaster’s house, feeling cold and sick. The door was opened for him by the maid even before he had a chance to knock. She led him through to Mr. Jessop’s study without saying a word. When he entered the room, he thought he had never seen such a severe expression on the headmaster’s face. He glanced across the room and saw that his housemaster was seated on the sofa in the corner. Keith remained standing, aware that on this occasion he wouldn’t be invited to have a seat or take a glass of sherry.
“Townsend,” the headmaster began, “I am investigating a most serious allegation, in which I am sorry to report that you appear to be personally involved.” Keith dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from trembling. “As you can see, Mr. Clarke has joined us. This is simply to ensure that a witness is present should it become necessary for this matter to be put in the hands of the police.” Keith felt his legs weaken, and feared he might collapse if he wasn’t offered a chair.
“I will come straight to the point, Townsend.” The head paused as if searching for the right words. Keith couldn’t stop shaking. “My daughter, Penny, it seems is … is … pregnant,” said Mr. Jessop, “and she informs me that she was raped. It appears that you”—Keith was about to protest—“were the only witness to the episode. And as the accused is not only in your house, but is also the head boy, I consider it to be of the greatest importance that you feel able to cooperate fully with this inquiry.”
Keith let out an audible sigh of relief. “I shall do my best, sir,” he said, as the headmaster’s eyes returned to what he suspected was a prepared script.