The Whitwood Institute
Give your children the chance of their life!
For only £200 per quarter, our establishment has offered them for over a century a pedagogical team composed of the best teachers of the United Kingdom willing to share with the new generation their taste of knowledge. In addition, students will have at their disposal a park of more than 25 hectares specially arranged to facilitate their development...
A black spot stretched over the end of the sentence, and the fire pierceded the paper from the prospectus to devour it eagerly. He blew on the casting flame of the match and flung the half-burnt stick at his feet.
"... cloudy sky for Newcastle, rain in the late afternoon. We are Friday, September 5, 1958 and you are listening to the BBC!"
The words in the black ink disappeared one after the other, reduced in a few grey ashes that fluttered under the cool breeze of late summer. His fingers released their grip on blackened paper only after the burning heat radiating from the orange flames was unbearable.
"Now, let's listen once again to That'll Be the Day by Buddy Holly and the Crickets! Let's g..."
A long sizzling choked the bass voice of the radio host. His brown irises finally detached from the deteriorated prospectus which was agonising in the still moist green grass of the morning dew, and he deferred his attention to the transistor post placed near him.
"Bloody piece of junk!"
One of his hands landed on the brown wooden case and turned the huge buttons while he was crushing the antenna in the hope of capturing the station's waves again. Before he had the pleasure of hearing a few notes from the American group, a dry cough came from the other end of the garden. No need for words: James knew exactly what it meant.
The hour was approaching.
***
The small heels of her black ankle boots struck the asphalt at every step, and resounded in the deserted street - with the exception of young boys on bicycles who were laboriously ascending the slope of the hill and some cars with flaky paint that easily exceeded them. Every time their big black wheels were caught in a muddy puddle and sprinkled the sidewalk, this fifty-year-old woman with perfectly capped black loops let out some annoyed grunts and tightened her grip on her nephew's arm.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
They both formed a strange couple who had always attracted the eyes of the curious: Helen Bown was a dry and straight woman whose skinny silhouette was lengthened by her endless beige wool coat. A hand covered with a black glove placed on the white scarf that protected her of the wind and the other on the wide leather jacket of James Anderson, the son of his younger sister who died the year before, she walked at a quick pace in the middle of the sidewalk while the young man was dragging his feet, grumbling as if he were being carried to a slaughterhouse. Dressed in black from head to toe, grease on his hair in a curious imitation of Elvis Presley's haircut, it seemed absurd to see him arm in arm with a woman who was his perfect opposite. He had a bag swinging on his right shoulder and he was holding a large suitcase in his hand, but his aunt did not seem to care about the weight he was carrying and was constantly begging him to speed up his pace.
"It's still early, Helen", James sighed, abruptly releasing his arm from Mrs Bown's grasp. "I'm sure no one has yet arrived, so I don't see why we would... "
His voice died in his throat when Whitwood's iron fence entered his vision field. Unique entrance overlooking a long dirt road bordered by grass, dense bushes and shrubs, its carmine red paint was almost a nasty stain in this green painting.
"... hurry", finished James before abruptly turning on his heels, ready to go back home.
"Oh I don't think so, silly boy", Helen said, grabbing him by the elbow and pushing the squeaky grating from the tip of his gloved fingers. "Stop acting like a child and follow me. I don't think you realize how lucky you are to be able to study in this establishment."
"Wrong, Helen. Look at me: I radiate joy!", James grumbled with the most stern look he was capable of on his face.
"After you were expelled from your high school, I doubted you'd be able to go back to school. But I know that you are far from being foolish, you just lack... discipline. And I'm counting on this boarding school to get you back on the right track."
They walked along the path, lost between the trees, inhaling the smell of the wet earth and the vegetation, so different of the one of gas and the sewers which usually embalmed the city. By passing this rusty fence, they seemed to have penetrated into a whole different world.
Soon the sharp roof of a Victorian building appeared in front of them. Its slate tiles were shining under the white light that pierce the clouds and reflect on the tall rectangular windows. At the top of the highest tower, under a steeple surmounted by a small iron cross, James looked at the clock with the Roman numerals, which indicated seven hours and fifty minutes. When this large pointed needle would be on the twelve, he would become officially a pupil of the Whitwood Institute.