The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

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      ‘Talibus orabat dictis arasque tenebat,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘cum sic orsa loqui vates.’

      He walked around the schoolroom at Whitcombe House tapping out the rhythm of the Latin with his hands. Tom and Alan sat with their schoolbooks lying closed in front of them. They would have looked out of the windows, except that the schoolroom windows were pitched deliberately high, revealing nothing except a wide, bare square of sky. Tom yawned.

      ‘Sate sanguine divum, Tros Anchisiade, facilis descensus Averno,’ continued the schoolmaster. ‘Creeley, translate for me, if you please.’

      Tom said nothing. He didn’t move to open his books.

      ‘Creeley, if you please.’

      Silence.

      The schoolmaster frowned. ‘Montague, then. Translate for me, if you would.’

      Alan too sat like a stone, staring down at his desk. Unlike Tom, who actually enjoyed these moments, Alan found them difficult – difficult, but in this case essential.

      ‘Am I to understand that neither of you has prepared today’s lesson? Creeley? Montague?’

      Then Tom spoke. ‘Please, sir, we would prefer to study Persian.’

      Six minutes later, the two boys were standing in front of Sir Adam. A cane lay on the table in front of them. The cane was yellow and knobbled all the way along its length. It wasn’t an implement they’d seen used very much, but that didn’t mean it mightn’t be now. Tom and Alan stared at it unhappily.

      ‘You won’t learn your Latin?’ said Sir Adam.

      Tom shook his head, slightly but definitely.

      Alan echoed his twin’s gesture, but added, ‘We don’t mind learning Latin, Father, but we think it would be better to learn something useful as well.’

      ‘Persian? That’s your idea of useful, is it?’

      The two boys exchanged glances. So close was their communication, they hardly had to speak to understand each other. It was a fact of life that the adults of the family needed to get used to. Alan nodded slightly to Tom, as though to confirm some invisible agreement.

      ‘It’s for the oil, you see,’ said Alan reasonably. ‘We’re going to need to speak the language.’

      Sir Adam held his hand over his mouth. The two boys looked back at each other, then at the bamboo cane.

      ‘If you boys want to learn Persian, I suppose that might be arranged,’ said Sir Adam. ‘What I don’t like is the fact that you didn’t prepare your Latin lesson. That’s no way to win an argument.’

      ‘Oh, but we did,’ said Alan.

      ‘You did? That’s not what –’

      ‘Of course we did, Father,’ Alan interrupted, supplying a quick translation from the morning’s lesson. ‘We only said we didn’t because we didn’t think anyone would take notice of us otherwise.’

      Sir Adam frowned. ‘You could have asked. If you had –’

      ‘I did ask,’ said Tom, interrupting. ‘Twice. Two weeks ago at breakfast. Again last week.’ He spoke with a kind of flat stubbornness; not exactly asking for trouble, but quite ready for it if it came. ‘You kept saying maybe.’

      ‘Very well, then. Persian it is. I shall give you the first few lessons myself, until I can find a schoolmaster to take over.’

      ‘Thank you, Father.’

      It was Alan who spoke, but with the two boys it hardly mattered which of them said the words: each always spoke for them both.

      ‘Good. Then it’s back to your Latin. At least, I assume so. Unless you have any other ideas I should know about?’

      His tone was sarcastic, but sarcasm has a habit of bouncing off eight-year-olds. The two boys exchanged glances again. This time, it was Tom’s turn to speak.

      ‘Thank you, Uncle, yes. We think it’s high time we learned some geology.’

      Tom’s face looked perfectly innocent, but Sir Adam knew that the look concealed a will of steel. The older man was exasperated, but proud. Proud and fond. He rumpled the two boys’ heads.

      ‘Geology too, eh, Tommy? Very well then, geology too.’