Dead Letters - Chapter 1

Alexander Harrison has been a renowned English tutor for the past twenty years, and he’d reluctantly acclaim he has taught many different types of pupils; from the lazy and rebellious to the meek and studious. All of his pupils learned discipline with him, just to grow to become proud members of society. His reputation as an excellent, be it a very strict, tutor has seemed to have preceded him. As well, growing almost at the same rate, the number of wealthy London families in need of his services seemed to have grown at a steady rhythm.

This seemed to be the very reason Mr. Harrison had became quite selective, only choosing those pupils that he could model to his taste. The kids had to show some form of challenge, he had grown tired of dull boys and girls who could easily grasp lessons that could be learned at any old school. Few had earned the privilege of having such a renowned tutor, especially in the recent few months; the waiting list seemed to grow with the end of the summer holiday.

Having to go through the preliminary interviews grew to become a tiresome necessity, and it usually took a full week. Alexander would meet individually with the potential student, and only when they were personally approved would he bother to speak with the parents to discuss the needed arrangements. Despite the lengthy interview, it only took him a few minutes to gauge the personality of the child; following this would be a few questions to determine intellectual ability, willingness to learn, and most important, good manners.

Today, alike the others this week, all the candidates had been a disappointment; either being too shy or like others being extremely insolent. He reluctantly looked at the last name on the list of potential pupils; the young boys name was Evans, Peter Evans. This boy had been the one the authorities had chosen from St. Phillip’s Orphanage.

Many of London’s private tutors were part of this agreement, binding them to teach one of the socially unfavored children during the year; if they merited the opportunity for a private education. They couldn’t just be bright but talented in their current form of education. The government would pay any fees in these cases, so a poor child would have the opportunity for an education that would usually be unattainable.

Mr. Harrison has turned down all of his orphan applicants. This is because he had the same standards for potential students, be them form noble families or from an orphanage; to be painfully honest none of the poor kids could pass his tests. A few cam close but would only show some knowledge in one subject, and he wanted a well rounded student. He didn’t think young Mr. Evans would be any different, and thought it would be just another useless case.

A small knock on his door broke Harrison’s thought process forcing him to put his paper work aside.

“You can come in.”

Like normal, he refused to get up to open the door for the child. This was the first true test of the pupil, how the student walked up to the desk was key in his decision.

The crystal doorknob slowly turned, only to reveal a short, skinny boy; as the young child entered the office, Alexander could tell the child was greatly malnourished. According to the report from the Orphanage, the Peter was 12 but appeared more as if he was much younger and very ill. He had a very pale complexion that seemed to darken the circles under his eyes. His hair was a curled mess of light brown hair, and looked as if the child had combed his fingers through it, to elude it being well kept. The boy was wearing grey shorts and very worn out socks that barely reached knee length. Though missing a tie and waistcoat, his white shirt was relatively clean. On the other hand, his grey jacket was quite ragged, and obviously was made for an adult, but was altered to fit this young child. What skin that was visible was mainly bruised and scratched.

The boy took a large swallow and with hesitation said, “Good morning, M-Mr. Harrison.” His voice shook with clear fear, and it was hard to miss that he avoided contact with the man behind the desk. The man was a tall and muscular middle aged man. His hair was short and black but still showed some of his boyhood curls. His stature was quite stiff, almost like he wanted to strike fear into those he met; though he had a hint of kindness in his face, and he spoke softly.

“Good morning, Mr. Evans. Please, do take a seat.”

The boy hesitantly obeyed, and he approached a chair in front of the desk. Sadly the chair didn’t help the fact he looked so young, seeming it looked massive compared to him.

“I have been speaking with your teacher at the orphanage, Peter. She seems to believe that you solve arithmetic problems well. As well, she said you have quite a memory. How do you feel about being home schooled?”

The boy squirmed uncomfortably in the chair, almost refusing to answer.

“Well, Mr. Evans?”

“I don’t have a home, sir.” The boy said this while staring at his feet hanging of the chair.

This puzzled Harrison at first. He had always asked this question to get the truth that the education was sparked by the parents need to boast that their child is getting a private education from a renowned tutor.

“That could be arranged” Harrison continued, “I usually teach pupils in their homes, but in your case you’d come and live here. I have an extra bedroom set aside for students in you predicament.”

Almost ignoring the adult, the boy looked around the office with anxious excitement; it was unlike any place he had ever seen, so lavish. The shelves were filled with books varying in sizes, all with beautiful bindings of all colours. When his eyes hit the desk, Peter flinched when he noticed the wooden ruler was so close to the tutor’s hand.

“Okay, Peter. I am going to ask you a series of questions.” Harrison continued, watching as the boy’s eyes remained on the ruler, “I’d like you to answer the best you can. If you do become my pupil, you will learn many subjects like arithmetic and Latin. Lets begin with Latin. What is the accusative singular of dominus, domini?”

“Dominum” he whispered.

Harrison didn’t expect the right answer, and he raised an eyebrow appreciatively.

“Now the nominative plural bonus, bona, bonum?”

“Boni, bonae, bona.”

“If I say quarum, what can you tell me about the noun?”

Peter hesitated, closing his eyes and searching for the answer. As he opened his eyes he lifted his head, peeking a furtive look at the stern tutor.

“I, um, I--” he took another hard swallow and ducked his head again, “Mr. Harrison, um sir, quarum...sorry, but it’s not a noun.”

Mr. Harrison smiled out of the corner of his lips. “Oh, What is it then?”

“It’s--” Peter closed his eyes again in thought, then risked another look at him “It’s a genitive plural of the pronoun qui, quea, quod. Meaning, who, which, that.”

Harrison’s smile grew wider, and not only because this was yet another correct answer. Almost all of his pupils fell for this little trap, proving they lacked basic Latin knowledge. As well, those who knew there was a mistake, were too afraid to correct him, proving they were undeserving of his time.

Harrison leant back in his desk chair and considered the skinny boy thoughtfully. There was something under his disheveled, scruffy, appearance, something fierce that spoke of strength and resilience. He recognized the survival instinct for what it was, a drive that without which young Peter couldn’t have possibly survived in the orphanage all these years.

“We are going to move on to Arithmetic now. I’d like to see you do these exercises.” Harrison said while handing him the problems. Peter gave yet another hard swallow and sort of frowned at the paper. It read:

1) £sd
412 8 1/4+

2 14 2 1/4+

135 1/4 =

2) A gentleman left his eldest daughter £1500 more than the youngest, and her fortune was 11 thousand pounds, 11 hundred pounds and £11; what is the eldest sister's fortune and how much did the father leave them in total?

To the boy the first one was easy; he was very good with additions. Each number had a colour in his mind, and Peter like putting them together to see the final picture. The second one looked more difficult, not because of the numbers but the words. They were colourless and dead, and he found it difficult to distinguish some letters from others. This always led him to being in the corner of the orphanage’s classroom with the dunce cap; despite his age, he couldn’t read properly. With Latin, Peter could remember the long strings of declensions and conjugations when the teacher would recite them aloud, but reading English was painful and difficult.

“Ready?” Mr. Harrison said handing him a pen and pointing at the abacus by the desk.

“Yes, sir.” Peter said in a small voice, and he grabbed the pen awkwardly; he was used to writing on slate, and even then his handwriting was lacking.

Harrison closely watched as the boy constantly left his chair to work with the abacus. He only required that one of the questions to be correct to accept a child as his pupil; it usually was the first problem. Since it would take Peter some time to complete the problems, he went back to writing the letter he was working on earlier, looking up every now and then to watch the boy chew on his bottom lip and move the beads of the abacus.

“I, I have finished, sir” Peter said after some time had passed, and he left the sheet of paper on the large oak desk.

Harrison’s nosed wrinkled. The paper was full of ink stains and things crossed off, which was very far from the neatness and elegance he demanded in all tasks. The boy’s numbers were a mess, illegible in many cases, but he did underline his results.

“£8. 10s. 3d and 3 farthings. That is right for the first addition. As for the second problem...” Harrison paused.

“She had £12,111. She had £13,611. He had £25,722“.

The results were right, surprisingly so. Only two pupils had been able to answer both problems correctly. But there had been something odd about the way Peter answered the second problem. He wrote it as if only the numbers mattered to him, and not the imagined characters of the problem.

Harrison considered the boy closely as he tried to rub away the ink that stained his fingers. He definitely had an aptitude for Arithmetic and Latin, and that should be enough. It had to be enough to be fair, which he like to think he always was. But he sensed there was something else to this boy, something rather peculiar. It would be rewarding to discover little Peter’s abilities; to nourish then and see them flourish.

“Excellent” he said leaving the paper on the desk “And congratulations, Peter. I’ll talk to the orphanage prefect so that you can move in right away. Hopefully, this very same afternoon.”

In his experience, such good news always earned a smile of pride and satisfaction, But Peter didn’t smile at all, he actually looked rather anguished.

“Is there something wrong?” Harrison asked, and to his surprise, the boy’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Clarence” Peter mumbled under his tears.

Harrison just stared blankly.

“And who is Clarence? Your brother? A friend?”

“No, sir.” Peter sniffled “He’s my dog. If I come here, he’ll die. I’m the only one wh-who feeds him.”

“You feed him your food?” Harrison was pensive for a brief moment.

“Half of it.” The boy nodded and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

That explained the boy’s malnourishment, and the very pungent smell of his ragged clothing. Harrison considered the issue, and he then left his chair.

“I’m sorry, Peter, but I do not allow dogs in the house. You’ll sleep in--”

“B-but sir.” Peter interrupted, “Clarence would be no trouble. And no cost to you at al, I’ll give him a little of my food and he is very good and he doesn’t bark, and--”

“Mr. Evans” the tutor warned in a severe tone, and Peter ducked his head immediately. The teacher at the orphanage would slap him on the back of the neck or twist his ear if he spoke out of turn, and he flinched in fear as Harrison circled the big, oak desk.

“The rules are clear Mr. Evans. I do not allow dogs in my house. And unless there is something of this lesson you don’t understand, I do not repeat myself.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” Peter mutters, and then for good measure, “I’m sorry sir.”

“Good, I’ll write a note to the prefect with all the necessary arrangements, and I’ll send somebody to pick you up this afternoon.”

Peter remained silent in his chair for a little longer, his frown knitted as if he were lost in some deep thought. Then he jumped to the floor and spoke softly:

“Thank you sir. I... I am very grateful. But I won’t come.”

Harrison stared at the boy with a raised eyebrow.

“What did you say, Mr. Evans?”

“I won’t- I won’t come here, Mr. Harrison. Not without Clarence.” The boy now began to shift his weight from one foot to the other and fixed his eyes on the rug.

Peter’s reply was so unexpected it tok Harrison a log time to react. I all his years as a private tutor no single pupil had ever rejected him. Sure, the first weeks were difficult at least the until the student got used to his strict discipline. But he had never received a single No in his career, and watching the skinny, talented boy speaking it so easily made him clench his jaw.

“Mr. Evans, I’m not sure if you fully understand how lucky you are. You have an unusual talent, and an opportunity any boy like you would dream of. You’ll leave the orphanage to live in a proper home, and a sleep in a proper bed. I’ll take care of your education for a full year, during which you will be fed and clothed. You have a second chance to better yourself, Mr. Evans, and they don’t come easy in life.”

The boy stood very still, pondering the words of the tutor while picking on his thumb nail nervously. He looked endearingly young and vulnerable, but Harrison could read his determination in the way he tensed up before speaking.

“I understand, sir” the boy looked up then, and he met Harrison’s gaze for the first time in the interview “But Clarence is all I have. I can’t leave him.”

His voice quivered with emotion, and he rubbed a tear with the back of his sleeve.

“Then you are dismissed, Mr. Evans.” Mr. Harrison said with dismay.

The boy sniffled and turned around, drooping his shoulders and dragging his feet as he made his way to the door of the office.

“Good day, sir.” He said as he was about to leave, as if he remembered something important.

“Good day, Mr. Evans” Harrison replied.

The door clicked shut then, and Harrison sat in his desk chair again. There were on more interviews today, and it was just as good. He was quite upset about what had just happened, and the feeling pricked stubbornly at the back of his mind. H refused to believe that a poor, rickety orphan had just said No to the prospect of bed, food and an excellent education at his hands; and all for a lousy, flea-ridden puppy. It was unheard of. It was intolerable.

Harrison’s nostrils flared with rage, and as he considered the sheet of paper the boy had filled with ink stains and brilliant numbers, he knew the issue was far from over.