Young bloods

Each day they rose at first light.The boys washed in cold water drawn from the abbey's wells, and then dressed for the day. All meals were served in the hall and featured a steady diet of porridge, broth, salted meat and boiled vegetables, served with a hunk of bread. Meals were eaten in silence, and the teachers slowly patrolled the hall with short lengths of willow, ready to swish them down on any boy who spoke, or infringed any rules of precedence and propriety in the ma

Lessons were held in cells leading off the cloistered quadrangle, twenty boys to a room, seated on bare benches as they leaned across well-worn tabletops and struggled with dictation, basic maths, reading exercises and the rudiments of Latin and Greek. Failure to master tasks set by the teachers was rewarded with slashes of the willow canes across the back of the legs or the palm of the hand. At first Arthur cried out, but then received an extra three blows for not controlling his pain. He learned quickly to clench his teeth hard and stare over the shoulder of the teacher at a spot on the far wall, concentrating on containing the agony. Despite such incentives to excel at the tasks set for him, Arthur resolutely remained an average student, struggling with every subject. Misery piled upon misery and his longing to return home steadily became more intense, passing from mere homesickness into a kind of dark despair that this harsh and cruel life would never end.

On Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons, the boys were allowed out of the abbey's grounds and Arthur made straight for the bridge across the Boyne and explored the ruins of Trim Castle. Often small parties of boys would play at medieval knights, slashing away at each other with makeshift swords and spears, pulling back their blows at the last moment so as not to inflict hurt, but in their mind's eye hacking their enemies limb from limb. When such contests began, Arthur quietly withdrew from the fray and watched from the shelter of a moss-covered wall or crumbling archway. It was not just the prospect of pain that caused him to withdraw, it was the wildness in the expressions of his peers, the relish of violence in their faces. It frightened him when he saw how easily play crossed over an ill-defined boundary into naked aggression.

Towards the end of his first term, a package arrived from home. It contained a violin in a finely decorated case, and a brief note from his father.

My dear Arthur,

Since you demonstrated such a flair for the instrument at home it would be a great shame not to persist with your lessons. I am sending you the violin I was given at your age. It may be a little on the large size for you at the moment, but won't be for long! I have made enquiries and have found a suitable music teacher close to Trim – a Mr Buckleby – and have arranged with Father Harcourt that you might attend a private lesson in Trim once a week. I look forward to hearing of your progress when you return to Dangan.

Your loving father

PS. Please take great care of the violin.

So every Saturday, Arthur quitted the abbey and walked into Trim, outsize violin case tucked under his arm. Mr Buckleby lived in a stone cottage with a slate-tiled roof on the edge of town. Arthur found the place readily enough on his first visit and, steeling himself, he lifted the iron door knocker and thudded it home. Almost at once the door was wrenched open so suddenly that Arthur took half a step back in fright.

A huge man in a brown suit filled the entrance. His stockings, once white, were now a misshapen grey and drooped over the top of the pinchbeck buckles on his scuffed shoes. A powdered wig rested at an angle above his wrinkled jowls. He wore spectacles, behind which dark brown eyes scrutinised the young boy.

'I saw you coming up the path, young man.What can I do for you?'

'Good day, sir,' Arthur said quietly. 'I'm looking for a Mr Buckleby.'

'Dr Silas Buckleby, at your service.You must be young Wesley, Garrett's boy. Come in, come in.'

He stood aside and Arthur squeezed past into a small hall.The space was lined with stacks of music, bound and loose, and musical instruments in various states of repair were propped up against the walls. Motes of dust twinkled in the broad shaft of light entering from the door, and abruptly disappeared as Dr Buckleby slammed it shut and turned round, gesturing to a door at the rear of the hall.

'Through there, sir. We must begin at once!'

He brushed past and pushed the far door open, beckoning Arthur inside. The room behind the hall was in sharp contrast to the hall. It was almost bare, save for a single chair and two music stands. A leaded window looked out over a small overgrown garden and faded tapestries hung over the other three walls.They depicted scenes based on ancient myths and Arthur's gaze was riveted to the details of a bacchanalian scene. Dr Buckleby's keen eyes noted the boy's expression.

'The hangings are for acoustic purposes only. Try to ignore them.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I find that the quality of some of my students is such that I am obliged to deaden the screams of their tormented instruments as far as possible, else I should go mad.' He smiled as he slumped his ponderous form down on the chair, which creaked in protest. 'Now then, young Arthur, do you know who I am?'

'No, sir.' Arthur bit his lip. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

Dr Buckleby wave his hand. 'No matter. Let me tell you. I am the man who taught your father to play the violin. A great talent he has. And gone on to great things. I hear that he is Professor of Music at Trinity.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well then, we must ensure that the family tradition is maintained.' He held out his hands.'Now let me see what you can do with that instrument of yours!'

Having already been introduced to the violin by his father Arthur quickly proved to be an excellent student with a natural talent. For his part, Dr Buckleby was a fine teacher, who coaxed the best out of the sensitive child with a firm and friendly ma

In contrast, school life became almost unendurable, with its scant comforts and harsh disciplines. As autumn gave way to winter, the cold stone walls of the abbey were clammy every morning, and icy blasts of wind found their way through every gap in the windows and doorframes. Curled up beneath his shared blankets, Arthur shivered through each night, and rose wearily to endure day after day of learning by rote. And while his command of maths was tolerable he continued to show no aptitude for the Classics, much to the frustration, and then growing anger, of his teachers. The more he struggled, and was punished for his lack of progress, the more miserable and introverted he became, so that eventually even Dr Buckleby commented on it.

'Arthur, your mind's wandering.You played the last section as if you were handling a weaving loom.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' he mumbled.

Dr Buckleby saw that the little boy's lip was trembling, and he leaned forward and gently took the violin and bow from him. 'Tell me what ails you, child.'

For a moment Arthur was silent.

'I – I hate school. I want to go home.'

'We all hate school at times, boy. Even I did. It's part of growing up. It's what trains us to cope with later hardships.'

'But I can't bear it!' Arthur looked up defiantly. 'Sometimes I… I just want to die.'

'Nonsense! Why would anyone want that?' Dr Buckleby smiled. 'It's hard, but you will get used to it, I promise.'

'But I won't. I'm no good at it,' Arthur sniffed.'I've no friends. I'm no good at sports. And I'm not clever, like my brothers. I'm just not clever,' he concluded miserably. 'It's not fair.'