Never Surrender. Michael Dobbs

       PROLOGUE

      Ascot, 1883.

      The boy was small, only eight, the youngest in the school. Red-haired, blue-eyed, round in face, and nervous. He had been at the school only a term and was not popular. One of the older pupils had written home that this new boy was ‘irksome’; the headmaster already found him intolerable. ‘A constant trouble to everybody and is always in some scrape or other,’ the headmaster wrote to his parents. ‘He cannot be trusted to behave himself anywhere.’

      The boy didn’t fit in. And he was about to discover that failing to conform carried with it a heavy price, even for an eight-year-old.

      St George’s School was a private educational establishment of four teachers and forty pupils, set in woodlands that had once been the ancient hunting forests of Windsor. It couldn’t claim much of a tradition since it was only six years old, so it sought to make up for that by charging outrageously high fees. It made the place instantly exclusive. Perhaps that was why the boy’s father, a man habitually committed to over-extending himself, had found the place so attractive. Anyway, it was time for his son to move on; up to that point he’d been educated by private tutors and seemed ill at ease amongst other boys – he’d developed both a nervous stammer and foul temper. But that, as his father had written to the headmaster, was what he had been sent to St George’s to cure.

      He was almost a year younger than any of the others, but within days of his arrival, perhaps seeking the approval of the older boys, he had leapt onto a desk and begun to recite a bawdy song he’d learnt from some of his grandfather’s stable lads. Only his recent arrival saved him from a punishment harsher than being sent to bed without his supper.

      Yet the boy carried with him his own sense of justice, and the following day he felt not only hungry but also poorly treated. After all, St George’s was one of the most expensive schools in the country: he felt sure his father hadn’t sent him here to starve. So, in order to balance the scales of elementary justice, he had sneaked into the basement kitchens and stolen a pocketful of sugar. Inevitably he’d left considerable evidence of his crime spilled upon the counter, so the kitchen staff had reported the loss to the headmaster, the Reverend Herbert William Sneyd-Kynnersley.

      ‘Mr K’, as he was known to the pupils, was tall, almost gangling, mutton-chopped and sandy-haired, a graduate of Cambridge with very distinctive ideas about education. To some he was a man of impeccable standards and something of a reformer, a schoolmaster who liked nothing more than to join in with his pupils while they swam naked in the pond or pursued him on a paper chase through woodlands they called the Wilderness. For others, however, he was nothing less than a ruthless brute, who punished pupils so savagely that he would not stop beating them until they bled. It was also remarked upon that, for some reason no one either could or wished to explain, Mr K seemed to pay particular attention to those with hair of a colour even more red than his own. His childless and overwrought wife had red hair, and pupils with similar colouring seemed to be summoned frequently to the headmaster’s study. The young boy had been dubbed ‘the red dwarf’ the day he arrived, and he seemed to spend more time in the study than most.

      For Kynnersley, chivalry, posture and truthfulness were the highest virtues attributable to an English gentleman. The boy’s relationship to these virtues was, in Mr K’s opinion, ‘like a rainbow in the night’. His habits and language belonged more to the stable yard than the schoolyard, he disliked sports, was constantly late, had few friends and was rebellious with the teachers.

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