The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) by W. E. Mann

night’s events, or something resembling it, had spread
throughout the school like a contagion.  People were turning to stare at Algie,
Freddie and me as we waited nervously outside of Wilbraham’s study.  There was
a small cluster of boys loitering in the Front Hall, obviously intending to
listen in.
    Algie’s
right eye, magnified by his thick glasses, was purple and seeping and had
swollen shut.  It looked like a rotten plum.  He sat next to me with his cap
pulled down over his forehead and his red armband strangling his sleeve.  He was
trembling in fear, his left eye darting around frantically.  I had tried to
reassure him that we wouldn’t be in any trouble, but it was impossible.
    My
face was just as colourful a picture as his.  The left half of my bottom lip
was fat and wobbling, my right elbow was still throbbing faintly and a great
bruise had spread down my forearm like spilt ink expanding across blotting-paper.
    “In
you come, boys,” growled Mr. Wilbraham, holding the door open for us and
looking all the more fearsome in his gown and mortar-board.  “Sit!”
    We
sat.  Algie was staring at his sandals.  He was almost convulsing with the tension. 
Wilbraham perched on the edge of his desk, which creaked painfully under his
monstrous weight.
    His
study was like the inside of a huge trophy cabinet.  The wood panelled walls
were adorned with glittering cups, shields and medallions awarded for
who-knows-what.  There was a pair of crossed swords on the wall over
Wilbraham’s right shoulder, and a pair of crossed shot-guns on the wall over
his left.  Directly behind him, almost seeming to hover over him like a grizzly
halo, was the severed head of an enormous white stag with antlers that spread
out in a vast, uncomfortable embrace.
    “Now,
look here you three,” he began.  He was speaking very softly.  It was
unsettling.  “Vanderpump has officially informed on you.  He has said that
Portico is a hotbed of rebellion and that you, Turnpike, and you, Strange, are
the ringleaders.  I trust you understand what this means.”
    He
looked at each of us, allowing time for the message to sink in.  Algie released
a shuddering moan of terror, tears streaming down his cheeks.  The mention of
the word “inform” was enough to fill even the bravest soul with dread.  My
stomach weakened.  My poor mother.
    “But...
but...,” stammered Freddie.
    “ Quiet,
boy !”  Wilbraham boomed, making the windows rattle and Freddie recoil. 
Wilbraham looked towards the door as if to ensure that anyone outside it would
have heard him.  He then leant towards us, his angry scowl softened and he
started to speak in a conspiratorial whisper.
    “Look
here, boys.  I don’t give a damn about Vanderpump’s lies.  Fact is he’s a
disgraceful bully.  But unfortunately, as I’m sure you are aware, he has
friends in high places.  Very high places.”
    I
was bemused.  But then I realised:  Wilbraham was trying to protect us.  The
rules were clear.  If a boy heard a Master or another boy plotting or conspiring
against the Party, or even accidentally muttering something that sounded
vaguely anti-Nazi, he had a duty to inform to Mr. Wilbraham and nobody else. 
Mr. Wilbraham then had a duty to pass the information directly to
Schulekommandant Ludendorff.  The information would pass straight up the chain
of command and end up with the Gestapo, who would put you on file or perhaps pay
your family a visit to ensure that no harm was meant.
    “I
will take this nonsense no further,” whispered Wilbraham, “on the understanding
that you will not, under any circumstances, mention this conversation to
anyone.  Yes?  I know the boy’s father.  He still owes me a favour or two, so
there will be no trouble.”
    Algie
looked up from the floor.  He had stopped shaking and whimpering and was
staring in open-mouthed disbelief at Wilbraham. 
    He
was usually such a terrifying man.  Well, he was more ogre than man