Chapter 1
The bus arrived at half past four on a wet Thursday afternoon in September, and by the time it had crawled through the iron gates of the Jaggy Jersey School, most of the boys inside it had gone quiet.
It had been a long journey. Some had come from Manchester, some from Hull, some from Kent and the Midlands, and two of them had been brought up within a few miles of one another in London without having ever met. The bus had stopped twice since noon, once for the driver and once at a little place where the boys were allowed out to spend their money on tea and buns. There had been no conversation worth remembering after that.
Edward Bell sat against the window with his knees drawn up beneath the seat in front of him. He had been looking at the country for the last hour, though there wasn’t much to look at except fields, hedges and the occasional farmhouse with smoke coming from the chimney. He had begun to wonder whether the whole of England looked like this outside London.
The boy opposite him was asleep with his mouth open.
“What’s your name?” Edward asked.
The boy opened one eye.
“Arthur.”
“Arthur what?”
“Briggs.”
“Where you from?”
“Manchester.”
Edward nodded.
“Thought so.”
Arthur opened both eyes. “How’d you know that?”
“You’ve got a Manchester face.”
Arthur stared at him for a moment, then grinned.
“What’s a Manchester face?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you just said I’ve got one.”
“I know.”
Arthur gave a small laugh and went back to the window.
Two seats behind them, somebody was arguing about whether Hull was actually in Yorkshire. Nobody could agree. A boy called Tommy Vale insisted it wasn’t, although he had been born there himself.
“It’s Yorkshire when they want your money,” he said, “and not Yorkshire when they’re giving you trouble.”
“You’re talking rubbish,” said the boy beside him.
“I know.”
That was about as much conversation as there had been for the last ten minutes.
Edward looked out again.
The gates had disappeared behind them.
The school stood at the top of a long hill. It was larger than he had imagined from the prospectus his guardian had shown him. The main building was made of dark stone, with four chimneys and a clock tower above the central entrance. There were other buildings behind it, low and square, and beyond those he could see playing fields stretching towards a line of trees.
It looked more like a barracks than a school.
Arthur noticed it too.
“Blimey.”
Tommy leaned over the seat.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said blimey.”
“I know what I said.”
Tommy looked out of the window.
“Looks like a prison.”
The boy beside him laughed.
Nobody told him to shut up.
That was when Edward noticed the older boys.
They were standing outside the main building in two rows.
There must have been thirty of them.
They were all in dark jackets and grey shorts, though the weather had turned cold. Some had their hands behind their backs. Others stood with their arms hanging loosely by their sides. They were supposed to be watching the bus.
Most of them weren’t.
One boy was staring at the ground.
Another was rubbing the skin around his thumb until it had gone red.
A third had a cut across his cheek.
There was something odd about them which Edward couldn’t quite put his finger on. They didn’t look frightened. Frightened boys fidgeted, whispered, looked for their mothers or stared at the doors.
These boys looked as though they had forgotten what they were waiting for.
The bus stopped.
The driver turned in his seat.
“Right, lads. Out you get.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Arthur stood up.
“Come on, then.”
They began climbing over one another towards the door.
Edward waited until the others had gone before taking his case from the rack. It was a small brown case, much older than he was, with a leather handle that had been repaired with wire.
Samuel Carter was standing at the bottom of the steps.
“You coming?”
“Yes.”
Samuel looked at the case.
“That’s yours?”
“Yes.”
“Looks ancient.”
“It is.”
“Fair enough.”
Samuel walked off.
Edward followed him.
They had both been born in the same part of London. They didn’t know it yet, but that small fact would become important to them. In a place where almost every boy had come from somewhere else, knowing the same streets was a sort of family connection.
There were six masters waiting for them.
The youngest was holding a clipboard. Another had a cane tucked underneath his arm. At the end stood a broad man in a dark military coat with a face that looked as though it had been carved out of something harder than flesh.
Nobody spoke to the boys.
The broad man looked over them.
“Stand still.”
The boys did.
“Properly.”
They shuffled.
The man walked slowly along the line.
Edward could hear the gravel beneath his boots.
“Bell.”
Edward looked up.
“Sir?”
“Edward Bell?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man looked at the clipboard.
“Orphan?”
Edward said nothing.
The man looked up.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
He moved on.
Edward didn’t look at him again.
The boys were taken inside.
The entrance hall was enormous. There were dark wooden panels halfway up the walls and a row of framed photographs above them. Nearly every photograph showed boys standing in lines.
Some were smiling.
Most weren’t.
There were photographs from before the war, during the war and after it. In one, a group of boys stood beside a tank. In another, six young men were dressed in naval uniforms. There was a photograph of a football team from 1937 and another of a cricket team from 1946.
At the very end of the corridor was a large portrait of the Headmaster.
Dr Reginald Vale.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t frowning either.
But simply looked down upon the boys with the calm expression of a man who had already made up his mind about them.
Tommy looked up at the portrait.
“That’s him, is it?”
Arthur whispered, “Shut up.”
“I only asked.”
“Shut up anyway.”
Samuel had stopped beside Edward.
“Where you from?” he asked quietly.
“Fulham.”
Samuel looked at him.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Blimey. I’m Chelsea.”
Edward smiled for the first time since the bus had arrived.
“That’s near enough.”
“Near enough,” Samuel agreed.
One of the masters turned around.
“You two.”
They stopped talking.
“Move.”
They moved.
At the far end of the hall, a set of double doors opened and an older boy came through carrying a bucket.
He stopped when he saw the new boys.
For a moment he looked at them.
Then he looked at the master.
The master gave him a nod.
The boy lowered his eyes and continued down the corridor.
Edward watched him disappear around the corner.
“What was he doing?” Peter Hargreaves whispered.
Nobody answered.
The master turned.
“Did you say something, Hargreaves?”
“No, sir.”
“Then don’t.”
The boys carried on walking.
They passed a staircase.
Then another.
Then a door marked DINING HALL.
Somewhere beyond it they could hear plates being moved and boys talking.
It was the first ordinary sound Edward had heard since arriving.
For a moment he felt relieved.
Then the door opened.
The smell of food came out.
And from somewhere above them came the sharp blast of the whistle.
Every older boy in the corridor stopped.
Every master stopped.
Even the boy carrying the bucket stopped.
Nobody had to tell the new boys what to do.
They stood still as well.
Edward looked at Samuel.
Samuel looked back.
Neither of them knew what the whistle meant.
But the older boys did.
And whatever it was, they were afraid of it.
A Note on The Jaggy Jersey School
The Jaggy Jersey School is a novella set between 1949 and 1953, following six boys who arrive at an English boarding school in the years after the war. They come from different parts of England and different circumstances, but are brought together under the same rules, the same uniforms and the same idea of what a young man ought to become.
At its centre is Edward Bell, an orphan who has never had a brother or sister and who finds, perhaps unexpectedly, a kind of family among the boys in his dormitory. Their friendship becomes one of the most important parts of the story. At night, when the school’s quiet, they talk about their lives, their fears, their futures and the strange world beyond the gates. They joke, argue, invent their own words for things and slowly grow into one another’s company.
But the school itself is always there.
It is a place built around discipline, obedience and the belief that character can be manufactured. Its masters teach the boys how to stand, speak, behave and eventually how they ought to think. Some believe deeply in what they are doing. Others have their own doubts. Over the years, the boys begin to notice things which don’t quite fit with the respectable image the school presents to the outside world.
The story is not simply about disliking school. It is about what happens when an institution becomes so certain that it knows what is best for a person that it leaves very little room for the person themselves.
The story will move slowly. Four years is a long time in the life of a boy, and the boys of 1949 will not be the same boys who leave in 1953.
This is only the beginning.
The Jaggy Jersey School (Ⓒ J.P. 2026)
Even though this short story’s a work of fiction, there’s actually league tables for boarding schools in the real world. Our boy’s don’t have wealthy parents, and haven’t received a scholarship. They’re sent here instead.
