These sorts of stories always begin with an inspirational teacher, and mine is no different. Mrs Ashworth, who taught me in year five at Waterman Street Primary in Nuneaton, was one of those teachers for whom nothing was ever too much trouble. She answered every question with patience, always knew the right thing to say to cheer you up and made every day in her classroom an adventure in which all the kids in the class, even the badly behaved ones, wanted to participate. Anyway, one wet autumnal parents’ evening Mrs Ashworth told my parents something they hadn’t been expecting to hear, news that for better or worse would change my life forever: she told them I was educationally gifted.
I suppose on some level, even before that day I’d been aware that I was a bright kid. I could read and write long before I arrived in reception and knew all of my times tables by heart. By the age of six I received special permission from my teacher to take editions of the school library’s encyclopaedias home because I had devoured everything else I was given to read. And things that took other kids weeks to learn I’d pick up in a single afternoon. At the time, none of this seemed all that impressive to me because Waterman Street was a particularly average school, populated by particularly average kids from a particularly average housing estate and so if I thought about it at all, I put my success down to nothing more than being slightly better than average. But Mrs Ashworth didn’t see it like that.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Danny’s future lately,’ she told my parents, ‘and I firmly believe that a boy of his unique intellect needs to be in an environment where his talents are allowed to flourish, and I can think of no better institution where that might happen than King’s Scrivener Boys’ School.’
At this point I’d never even heard of the place, let alone been aware of its lofty status but I could tell from the way she said its name that it wasn’t any ordinary school.
‘It’s a public school just outside Warwick,’ she explained, ‘and it’s the best school in the county if not the country. I firmly believe that with preparation and lots of hard work, Danny could pass their entrance exam with flying colours. And given his academic aptitude, I’d expect him to receive a full academic scholarship so it shouldn’t cost you a penny.’
‘Cost us a penny?’ repeated Dad. ‘You mean it’s not free?’
Mrs Ashworth apologised. ‘I should’ve explained. King’s Scrivener is a public boarding school with a very long and esteemed history, Mr Allen. Most of the parents whose sons attend have to pay many thousands of pounds per term for the privilege but, fingers crossed, Danny would get to go there for free.’
This last bit was especially important because if attending King’s Scrivener had cost actual money there would’ve been no point in even talking to us about it. Dad had been laid off at the car parts factory he’d worked for three years earlier and barring a few odd jobs for friends and neighbours, had been out of work since.
‘Boarding school?’ said Mum. ‘Isn’t that where the children live at school full time?’
‘I completely understand that this aspect of Danny’s education will be of particular concern for you,’ replied Mrs Ashworth. ‘But for your son to get the most out of a school like King’s Scrivener and not spend all of his time travelling to and fro, I think boarding would be the best option. Obviously he’d be home at Christmas, Easter, and the long summer holidays. And I’m sure you’d be able to visit him any weekend you liked.’
‘I’m really not sure,’ said Mum. ‘What do you think, Roger?’
‘Blowed if I know,’ said Dad. ‘Why not ask Danny what he thinks?’
Mum turned to me, her face the very picture of bewilderment. ‘So what do you think, Danny? Do you like the sound of this new school?’
My ten-year-old brain fizzed with the possibilities. It felt like I was at the beginning of an exciting new adventure, on the verge of being handed a brand new life, one where I could be whoever I wanted to be. ‘Very much,’ I replied. ‘I really want to go.’
Once Dad had checked and double-checked that it wasn’t going to cost any money, a deal was struck whereby I would be tutored for the entrance exam by Mrs Ashworth. Every day after the end of school I’d wait until the other kids had left for home and she would give me lessons in verbal reasoning, Shakespeare, Latin, applied maths and anything else that came to mind. I loved every moment and soaked up everything I learned. When the day of the exam came the following September, Mrs Ashworth – worried that we might be late if we took public transport – drove Dad and me over to Warwick in her car. I remember as we passed through the huge cast-iron gates at the entrance and saw the school building for the first time, my jaw literally fell open. I’d never seen anything like it, at least nothing that was supposed to be a school. In the world I inhabited, schools were single-storey grey blocks surrounded by tarmac, and King’s Scrivener was anything but. With its perfectly manicured lawns, water features and stately architecture it seemed more like a grand manor house or the home of a king or queen. I remember looking at Dad and thinking, ‘What is this place?’ only to see the same question written across his own face.
The three-hour exam was due to take place in the Great Hall and as my dad, Mrs Ashworth and I followed the other candidates along oak-panelled corridors, I gazed in awe at the walls lined with bronze busts of former headmasters, cabinets bursting with trophies and wooden plaques commemorating the sporting triumphs of scholars dating back to the late 1800s. It was like travelling back in time, walking back through history, and the more I saw of it the more desperately I wanted to pass the exam.
As we waited outside the Great Hall for the doors to open, I took the opportunity to get a better look at my rival candidates. Without exception they were in school uniform, even though it was a Saturday. I, meanwhile, was wearing the first clothes I’d picked up from the floor that morning: a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. In addition to this it was hard not to notice how much taller and broader than my school friends these other boys were. If I’d passed them in the street, I would’ve guessed them to be at least a year or two older than I was, even though Mrs Ashworth had assured me we were the same age. Of all the boys I saw, however, one in particular stood out. He was a good four or five inches taller than I was, with a big mop of thick blond hair and the gait of a rugby player. I could tell he was the most popular boy at his school simply from the way he stood, shoulders back, spine straight as a rod, as if there wasn’t a person or situation in the world that held any fear for him. When he spoke, the boys in his orbit hung on his every word and every now and then, boys in different school uniforms would go up and shake his hand firmly, in a way I’d only ever seen adults do. It was as if they imagined it was essential for them to pay their respects to him. As though he were a king, and everyone else mere subjects.
The doors to the Great Hall finally opened and as the first influx of pupils filed into the room, I felt an odd mix of dread and excitement. I felt sick at the idea that my entire future was riding on a single examination and yet, at the same time, I couldn’t wait to show off everything Mrs Ashworth had taught me. As my turn to enter the room approached, my dad put his hand on my shoulder and told me he was proud of me no matter what happened, and then Mrs Ashworth patted me on the back and said, ‘Now go and show them what we’re capable of at Waterman Street.’ Moments later, in the hall I sat down at a table not far from the centre of the hall and carefully set out my pens and pencils. Looking up at the stage in front of me, I noticed that painted on the wall in gold lettering, high above the red velvet curtains was the King’s Scrivener school motto: ‘Sic parvis magna’ which, using the Latin I’d learned from Mrs Ashworth, I translated as, ‘Thus from small things comes greatness’.