The last day of term arrived. On my way to assembly I dropped in to Andrew's study, dumped my books on his table and had a quick chat, picked up the books, and off we went together. I forget what the first period was, but the second and (after break) the third were both with the senior classics master, who was also my form master, Steve Phillips. A splendid man, a born teacher, flowing with the milk of human kindness, who I suspect saw me as his star pupil. He was already a great friend, and my debt to him is eternal. The O Level results had just that morning arrived - they came earlier then than now - and Steve handed them out with due praise all round. Impartial though he was, he seemed to beam especially at me. And I had indeed excelled myself, passing the lot with flying colours.
After allowing us time to absorb our results and chat about them, he turned to the last real business of the term, our final piece of homework, written translation of a bit of Euripedes. The practice was for each of us to read our version out in turn, while he commented on our efforts. He called on me to open the batting, so I found the place in the Greek text and took the notebook where I'd written out my translation. It opened automatically at the last page with writing on, and I pushed my specs up my nose, lowered my head, and opened my mouth to read. I got no further. I blushed to the roots of my hair and spluttered.
After what seemed an age I forced myself to lift my head, look at Steve, and stammer out, "I'm sorry, sir, I've brought the wrong book."
He gave me a shrewd look and said kindly, "Never mind, Leon. Can you get the right one in break?"
When I nodded dumbly, he passed on to the next boy and left me to be carried away by my whirling thoughts. I was no longer in classroom C3, still less in ancient Greece. What I had read - to myself, thank God, not out loud - was a sentence from Andrew's diary. It was easy to see what had happened. In his study I'd dumped my books on top of his diary, and in picking them up had picked it up too. All school notebooks were identical: cloth-bond and black.
But that didn't matter. What I needed was time, to try to think. For what I'd unwittingly read, at the top of the page, said in Andrew's angular writing "... end of term. But now that I'm sure at last, I still haven't a clue how to tell Noel I love him." The whole structure of my life rocked like a building in an earthquake. I'd been wildly wrong. Helen and Jack had been wildly wrong. Andrew was in love, but not with me. A gaping chasm of despair opened up, ready to swallow me. But even as I teetered on the brink, my critical faculties came to the rescue. Tiny question marks began to flicker into my mind. Hang on. Hang on. Can this be right? It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit Andrew. It doesn't fit anything that's happened this term, or last. Andrew's never mentioned anyone called Noel. I don't know of anyone in the school called Noel. Who the hell is he?
The easiest way to find out was to read more of the diary. I'd seen only the one sentence. I'm not the sort of person to pry into things not meant for my eyes. It's not my style. But another quick glance offered a chance of resolving this awful conundrum. So I suppressed my scruples and looked again. "... end of term. But now that I'm sure at last, I still haven't a clue how to tell Noel I love him. Can only hope the right opportunity crops up at Cambridge." Cambridge? Noel lives in Cambridge? And Andrew's going to see him there? And all of a sudden the penny dropped, resoundingly. Of course he's going to see him in Cambridge. Because Noel is Leon. Spelt backwards. A simple code, protecting my name against idly prying eyes. Typical caring, considerate Andrew. Abject apologies for having doubted him, if only for a moment. My face was in a muck sweat, and I mopped it, heaving a great sigh. I came back to classroom C3 long enough to see Steve dart a quick glance at me before I soared off again on my thoughts.
Right. Try again. What matters now is that Andrew's long journey is over. He's taken the final step from uncertainty to certainty. He now loves me, full stop. It's there in black and white, or blue and white - even in my turmoil I couldn't help being pedantic. For the first time in my life somebody wants me, somebody needs me, somebody not only likes me but loves me. That's something that needs savouring when I've time. But not now. It's clarified the picture wonderfully, but it's raised new problems. That need immediate attention. How do I make it easier for him to tell me? Or do I get in first and tell him I love him? But how? And when? At once, surely. Be honest, confess I've read his innermost thoughts. All very well, but when? Be practical. This needs time, plenty of time, together, and there is no time. It isn't something that can be done in five minutes, or even an hour. Andrew's playing cricket from midday till tea-time, we can't talk about it at tea with fifty-odd boys around, the evening's full of end-of-term events, tomorrow morning we leave at the crack of dawn. If I spring it on him, he'll be unprepared. Anyway, I need time to get my own mind in order. No, it can't be done. Not now. Festina lente is still the order of the day. Leave it till August. And that, by the time the period ended, was what I had decided on.
The bell for break brought me down to earth with a jolt, and as the others filed out, casting curious glances at me, Steve motioned to me to stay behind. He was well aware that I hadn't been with him for the last half hour or more, and I had to be honest with him, if discreet. "Sorry about that, sir. I had a shock, and needed to think it over."
"I'm not going to be nosy, Leon. I just hope it was a pleasant shock, not a bad one."
"No, sir. Pleasant, in the end."
"Well, none of my business. But good luck with it. And very well done for your O Levels. I knew you'd come up trumps."
"Thank you, sir. And thank you for making it all possible. I'll go and get the right book now."
I didn't need to, as it had been in my pile all along, but I had to return the diary. Not many boys went back to the house at break - it was too short to make it worth while - and there was no sign of Andrew. So I put the diary back on his table, and slowly wandered back to Steve's. Still in half a daze I read out my translation and was commended, and the morning finally wound to an end. Andrew was lunching in the pavilion. I saw him briefly at tea, briefly before bed, and briefly in the morning as we left for the school trains, long enough only for a quick farewell. "Bye, Andrew. Thanks for everything. Look forward to your visit. We'll be in touch." And, last thing of all, I handed him a paper bag containing the translation of the Symposium and a note that he was to read it before coming to Cambridge.
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