fic: One Of England's Finest (1/5)
One Of England's Finest
Youngest son of a genteelly impoverished Church of England vicar, Brendon is sent off to public school when his parents are seized with the desire to become missionaries. At first he has no friends, but then he meets snarky best friends Ryan and Spencer. Not to mention a certain Jon Walker...
G, brendon/jon, ryan/spencer, ~22000 words
So, so many thanks to colouredmango, for putting up with my whining while I was writing it and helping me when I got unstuck, nova33, for looking it over and providing an excellent beta, ticking_empathy for giving me the idea in the first place, and anyone else who provided me with ideas when this was still in its stages of infancy.
The first thing Brendon did after pulling his school uniform for the first time - the entire rigmarolethat was - was to race over to the mirror and look at himself.
It was not quite the complete transformation he was expecting - he still looked disappointingly like himself, even with his dark hair slicked back behind him and the stiff collar forcing him to hold his head straight up. Perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing, after all. Brendon took a moment more to consider himself in the looking-glass, then, because he felt rather silly, pulled a face at his reflection.
His mother laughed from the doorway. "Now you’re a proper public school boy," she said fondly. "Is your trunk all packed?"
Brendon turned around, even though he could see her quite clearly from the looking glass, and smiled at her. "Yes, Mother," he said.
To say that the Uries were a religious family would have been an understatement. Mr. Urie was the vicar in the tiny village where they lived, and Brendon had grown up going to the small school where his mother taught, along with perhaps ten other children from the village. Alone among his mother’s few pupils, Brendon grew up knowing his scriptures word perfect, drilled ceaselessly by his parents at meals and in the morning.
It was to this end that his parents had decided that to go to China as missionaries, for the next three years. ("We must remember that there are those in the world who are less fortunate than us!" his mother had said, voice trembling, when his parents had told him of their decision, and Brendon hadn’t questioned it.)
As a result, Brendon, who was the youngest in his family, was to be packed off to boarding school for at the belated age of fifteen. It was rather a stroke of luck - as a genteelly poor vicar and father of a large family, Mr. Urie hadn’t had much money, but with a scholarship offered by the school, it had finally been decided that Brendon was to arrive for the summer term in the fourth form. He was rather excited - although, as he hugged his mother, and shook his father’s hand for the last time for a very long time at the train station, he felt a lump come into his throat.
He felt his father’s warm grip encircling his hand, and stood up even straighter, determined not to cry. "Remember," his father said in a low voice, "obey the Lord and no harm shall come to you." Brendon nodded, and boarded his carriage rather shakily. The station master gave the signal, and Brendon sat on the train stiffly, propped up by his starched uniform as his parents waved him off in a cloud of steam.
On the train, Brendon couldn’t help touching his silver cross pendant on the chain around his neck.
--
Halfway through the train journey, a young woman swept onto his carriage and looked at him levelly. Brendon, who had been bored, was at the moment hanging off his seat upside down and tried to sit up with a shock. "Sorry," he mumbled, and tried to keep his hands in his lap.
The woman sniffed. She was dressed very fashionably, and wore her hat with a certain insouciance that commanded attention. Brendon had never seen anyone like her - she was intimidatingly tall - taller than him even - with dark hair and dark amused eyes and clothes that looked more stylish and sophisticated than he had ever seen, except in the occasional women’s magazine that his mother used to confiscate from his sisters, before they were married.
"My name is Miss Victoria Asher," she said. "I teach French at Malory Towers, where I assume you will be starting your first term. You’re Brendon Urie?"
Brendon nodded. Oh yes - his parents had said something about a teacher accompanying him part of the way there, although he hadn’t seen the necessity of it.
"Well then," Miss Asher drawled, "Be a good boy and don’t make any trouble for me. You don’t mind if I smoke?"
Unsure of himself, Brendon shook his head. Soon, Miss Asher was engulfed in a cloud of smoke coming from a cigarette, and she expertly tapped her cigarette holder with an experienced finger so that the ash fell out the train window. Silence reigned in the carriage for quite a while. Brendon, unused to both the prolonged silence and imposed stillness, soon fell asleep.
--
Brendon awoke just as the sun was setting, with a dry mouth and a stiff neck. The carriage rumbled under him - oh, right, travelling in train to new school - and opened his eyes to see Miss Asher staring at him with eyes that seemed to hold in equal parts detached fascination and amusement.
"Are we there yet?" he asked.
"Nearly," Miss Asher said. "Your hair is in a mess. Fix it before we arrive at Malory Towers proper; you can’t make your appearance in such a state. Have you got your Health Certificate for Matron?" she enquired, as Brendon tried frantically to scrub his hands through his hair, and he nodded - he had it in his overnight case, which he’d packed since his trunk was sent ahead.
"Please, Miss," he said, unsure of how he should address her, "What is Malory Towers like?"
Victoria cast him a kind look, which was surprising. "This is your first term away from home, if I’m not wrong?" Brendon nodded.
"Well then," she said, "I’m afraid you’re in for a change."
And that was all she had to say on the subject. Brendon tried not to fidget too noticeably.
--
After the train pulled in, there was a flurry of movement that eventually ended in Brendon landing up in the school’s infirmary ("Above all else," Miss Asher had said solemnly, "the Infirmary first.") being presented to Matron Greta.
They swept in (well, Miss Asher swept in, while Brendon trailed behind) and a plump, golden-haired nurse in an immaculate white uniform looked up. "Oh, thank goodness you’re there," Victoria said with obvious relief, and crossed the room in a few strides. She kissed Matron on the cheek and said, "This is Brendon - Brendon, this is Matron Greta - and I’d best go off - I have no idea why the Headmaster insists on assigning these duties to me, just because I’m the only other female on staff -" she touched Greta affectionately on the arm, and exited the room as quickly as she had come.
Matron Greta was everything that Miss Asher was not, maternal and welcoming, yet Brendon understood that she was a person not to be crossed. After Miss Asher had left, she smiled kindly at Brendon, a flush beginning to stain her cheeks. "Welcome to Malory Towers, Brendon," she said. "I hope you’ll have a good time here. Now, where’s your Health Certificate?"
--
When Brendon got to his dorm all the other boys were already there, settling in. He stood in the doorway uncertainly for a while before summoning up his best smile, the one his mother always said made him look approachable, and walked in as confidently as he could.
One of the boys turned to him, and Brendon went knock-kneed with relief.
"Jenkins, oy!" the boy called past him. "Have you seen my socks?"
"Why are you asking me that?" Jenkins was a freckly boy who had sticky-out ears. Brendon thought he looked nice, the kind of friend he might enjoy. "It’s only been, say, two hours since we started term…"
"You always have my socks," the boy grumbled, and another boy, pudgy and with a bowlcut, piped up, "Maybe you could try searching -" before a chorus of voices told him to shut up, Wattles, he’d been banned from speaking for the rest of the day until after supper.
"Just trying to help," the improbably named Wattles grumbled, before another boy said accusingly, "Again!"
As Brendon sidled in no one took any notice of him. He took one of the still-vacant beds (a nice one, by the window) and prepared to dump his overnight bag on it, before a blank-eyed boy turned to him and said, "Bags I this one for Buggy Jones."
Brendon didn’t understand all of what he was saying, but he backed off anyway, before hauling his trunk all the way to the other end of the room. Soon the bell rang, and all the boys abandoned the room in their rush to get to the dining hall.
No one spoke another word to Brendon for the rest of the day.
--
The next day, Brendon woke up when his alarm clock trilled at him and he leaped out of bed, eager to start the day. Brendon was a morning person, and this morning he felt undefeatable. So it had been a bad start, yesterday! Still, today Brendon would sweep them all over with his charm and ineffable friendliness.
He would find a boy to sit next to during lessons, with whom he could trade notes with and sabotage inkwells and pull pranks and sneak out of school with. They would soon be the best of friends! As ever, Brendon’s mind found itself leaping ahead. They would marry each others’ sisters! (Here Brendon conveniently ignored the fact that all his sisters were already happily married.) They would be godfather to each others’ children, and when his best friend became a grandfather, he would pull out well-treasured, well-preserved photos of the both of them together in the prime of their youth and talk fondly of him to the numerous interested grandchildren sitting astride their grandfather’s knee. He would -
The boy in the bed next to him stirred and made a noise that would have been intensely amusing had it not also been utterly terrifying. With a start, Brendon realized that his alarm was still ringing. He leaned over hastily and turned it off, toppling some books off his nightstand as he did so.
"For god’s sake," he heard Jenkins mutter, "What the hell was that?"
"I don’t know," a sleepy murmur came from across the room. "It’s not a fire alarm, is it?"
Brendon thought he had better declare himself. "Um," he said nervously, twisting his fingers against the sheets. "That was my alarm clock, I apologise." He’d thought six-thirty a perfectly acceptable time to get up; in his house they were always up at least half an hour before that. He tried not to think about the house in his village, which was surely boarded up with a "To Let" sign by now.
The boy next to him had piled his blanket over his head, and now only an eye with a completely murderous expression was discernable through the mess of sheets.
"You do know we have bells for waking up, right?"
Brendon bit his lip, and looked down at his fingers. "Sorry, I didn’t. Know that. I mean," he fumbled for the right words, aware that no one was that interested in listening anyway, "I’m new."
Someone muttered from across the dorm, "Fucking new boys." Then there was silence, save for the occasional gentle snore.
Brendon decided he might as well wash and dress, and did so, returning to his bed afterwards. He sat upright and cross-legged, hugging his pillow to his chest. He stayed like that until the bell rang, at half-past seven.
--
The rest of Brendon’s first day went past in much the same manner. At geography - the first lesson of the day - Brendon had to sit in front because nobody wanted to sit next to him, or as Brendon preferred to think of it, everyone else already had someone else to sit next to. Except him, because he was the new boy.
When Master Colligan finally assigned him to the front seat with an indifferent wave of his hand, he discovered that the inkwell could not be used because someone had dropped a sugar cube in it. Not willing to kick up a fuss, Brendon spent the first fifteen minutes of lesson trying to use the inkwell anyway, until Master Colligan swept by and arched an eyebrow at him. He did get it replaced without a word, though, so Brendon considered it a win.
--
"Good day! My name’s Brendon, and I’m new -"
"We know who you are."
Brendon tried not to sound too pathetic, but as soon as the words left his mouth he knew it was a lost cause. "Do you mind if I sit at this table?"
"McMillan! McMillan, you ass, get over here - sorry, this seat’s taken."
Brendon lifted his chin and walked away, tray in his hands. Soon he found a half-empty table, sitting at the furthest point possible from the group of boys occupying it, who for the most part ignored him in favour of swapping jokes and holiday stories. He gnawed at his lower lip. The climate here must be considerably different, because his lips were cracking - he could taste some blood in his mouth already.
--
Brendon continued to feel miserable as the term wore on. He hadn’t made any friends, and most of his form seemed to think he was strange and continued to avoid him. He also missed his home, but - he knew boarding school was supposed to be fun, and he’d seen other students having fun, but couldn’t manage to summon up the same level of enthusiasm they had. He supposed it was noticeably easier for them; they had friends who seemed to enjoy their company.
Brendon knew he was silly and impulsive, and prone to saying the wrong thing and the wrong times. He just wished someone would love him for it, as his family had done.
At lunch, he had started a table rotation system. It wasn’t complicated, really - it merely involved sitting at a different table every day. He told himself it was so he could get to know more people, but really it was just so he wouldn’t have to speak much. The people he sat with always eyed him curiously, like yes, we know you’re new, but term’s been in session for two weeks. Don’t you have any new friends? We already have our own, thanks. Perhaps they never said a word, but he could tell that that was what they thought.
Brendon was getting used to spending a lot of time on his own. He’d go for a long walk around the school grounds, marveling at the vast sports fields and cultivated flowers - how much land did this school have? Within two weeks he prided himself on knowing the school grounds better than anyone else did, but it wasn’t fun when before that, he got lost. He’d asked a huge, burly sixth-former at the cricket field when that happened, half-fearing for his life at the same time, but the boy’d just looked at him solemnly before looking to the left and jerking his chin. For that he was thankful.
After a particularly horrible day, Brendon had a headache. He went to the nearest music room, hoping that no one would be there. Thankfully enough, it was empty. He went entered the door and then the door behind it - no one had ever explained why there were two doors leading to the room, he assumed it had something to do with soundproofing - and slumped against it, kneading at his forehead. He stayed there for a minute or so before heading to the piano. He might as well get some practice done, he reasoned.
As he lifted the top and ran his fingers over the piano he felt better already. At Malory Towers the pianos were better than the ramshackle one that had occupied the Uries’ family home. This one was encased in gorgeous wood and exuded a warm, jazzy and almost-modern sound, but Brendon soon found himself wondering what had happened to the old one. Probably it had been sold when the house was let, he told himself.
He didn’t bother to go through the scales even though he told himself he was supposed to practice thoroughly - a voice suspiciously like his mother’s warned no fooling around now, Brendon - and went straight to the piece he was working on. After a while, he just turned to improvisation, humming softly along with it to guide his fingers - and before he knew it, he had started to play Greensleeves - he still remembered when his older brother had taught that to him when he was nine.
Brendon couldn’t bear it any longer. He laid his head over his arms, ignoring the indignant poink the keys made as his arms crashed down on them, and started crying.
Brendon sobbed for what seemed a long, long time before stopping. He would have stopped earlier, but like a cork released from a bottle, memory after memory rose through him and made lump after lump in his throat, and it was all he could do to squirm around and press his mouth to his fist, to keep from crying out for real. Brendon had always thought of himself as a happy person - he was quite sure he used to be, he’d never felt this overwhelmed before - and it shocked him, that so much grief could be wrung out from one person, let alone him. He only had to think of a word or a phrase, which someone in his family might have used, or a sequence of notes, before he started off again, all the while reveling in his sadness, relieved that he was finally able to admit it, and also ashamed of himself.
When he was quite sure he was able to deal with it he sat up, ignoring the strange pattern the piano keys had made on his face, and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and continued hammering away at his piece until the polished mahogany of the piano showed a reflection with considerably less swollen eyes. Brendon was mostly calmed down now and considerably tired, and he gulped and licked his lips, before wiping his hands on his pants one last time and pushed out of the music room.
--
Eventually he found himself pushing out into the school grounds, where he started on the path where he would walk his usual route, before stopping. Why not? A voice whispered to him, and he looked around nervously before pushing out of the main gate, and down the road to the village.
Boarders weren’t allowed out of school, except during the weekends, but he knew of many boys in his form, and above, who went out all the time (to the cinema, into the woods) and never got caught. Brendon himself had never done such a thing, but all things considered, he put it down mainly to his lack of troublemaking accomplices rather than any innate strong moral compass. Rebel, he thought, I’m breaking the rules by myself! It really didn’t sound as fun as he’d been led to expect.
Nevertheless, as he walked past some fields and a farmhouse, he found himself getting cheered up for no reason. The sun glinted over the grass, and as Brendon walked into the middle of a meadow, he found himself breaking into a little jig, humming around as he gracelessly flailed his arms. He used to do this all that time at home, in the woods behind their house, and no one ever laughed at him because no one knew; he was always alone.
Three minutes in he got the feeling that he was being stared at, and it took him ten seconds to continue flinging his arms around uncertainly before he finally stopped, and looked around. At last, he finally discovered the location of his voyeur - a boy on the edge of the field, next to the farmhouse. As Brendon squinted, the mysterious boy - really he was far away enough for Brendon to be only just about able to identify, from his school uniform, that he was a student of Malory Towers too - raised a hand in greeting and waved. Brendon straightened up, and trying not to seem too eager, walked slowly over.
As he got nearer he could see the boy in more detail: slightly older than him, hair that fell into his brown eyes, and a stocky build, though Brendon was obviously shorter. Brendon slowed even more, uncertainly, until he came to a stop about a few yards away.
"Hello," Brendon said, uncertain of whether or not he should come closer.
"Hello," the other boy said easily. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "I thought I saw you dancing in the field."
Brendon couldn’t help it; he winced. "Yes," he said somewhat defensively, before trying to tone down the aggression. "What’re you doing here?" Then, remembering his manners, he said, "I’m Brendon. I mean - " he paused, remembering that in Malory Towers, the boys loved referring to each other by their last names, a fact that Brendon had always found mildly baffling, "Urie. Brendon, too, of course. Brendon Urie."
The other boy smiled easily. "I’m Jon Walker. I was just -" he turned his chin and jerked his head at the farmhouse. "Catching up with the hens."
"Don’t the people living there mind?" Brendon asked curiously.
"No, they don’t." Jon grinned. "They’re used to me, I suppose - I've been coming down here for two years, at least. Want to see the hens?" Brendon nodded eagerly.
Jon led Brendon to the side and said, "Here." In a small pen, there was a magnificent cockerel and two hens, and some vaguely adolescent chicks that looked scrawny and ugly and thin.
"That’s the Firebrand," Jon said, pointing to the cock, "and this is Daisy and Martha."
Brendon blinked. "Did you name them, or did they?" he asked. "The farmers, I mean."
Jon went a little red, and shoved his hands into his pocket. "I named them," he said, mumbling a little, "Folks around these parts don’t really like to name their farm animals, you know? Except for cows, because they don’t really eat them."
Brendon felt sad too, and said, "That’s why I don’t eat meat." It was a little hard, at first, and a little inconvenient, but he didn’t enjoy it that much, and they were eating animals which used to be alive.
"Wow," Jon looked impressed. "That’s really good of you, I don’t think I could do that. Is it hard, though?"
Brendon was pleased, and a little embarrassed. He felt his stomach give a little squirm, and tried to prevent himself from bouncing on his feet too obviously. "Well, not really, but sometimes people just don’t understand why I can’t - I eat eggs, though," he finished anxiously. He didn't know if that counted as a being a proper vegetarian - but eggs were delicious, and Brendon didn't know why, but he wanted Jon (Walker, he reminded himself firmly) to think the best of him, but he didn't want to lie either.
Jon was about to reply when they both heard the sound of thunder, and looked up at the sky at the same time. The sky was grey, and a curl of lightning split the sky briefly, so that Brendon, lowering his head, saw Jon’s features lit up for half a second. This was followed by another clap of thunder, almost deafening this time.
"Come on," Jon said. "We’d better run."
And because Brendon always had to say the first thing that came into his head, he said, somewhat anxiously, "But what about the chickens?"
Jon said, smiling slightly as the first drops of rain came thudding down on them: "They’ll be fine, just watch."
The chickens seem to have pulled themselves into a minor frenzy. The hens squawked and flapped their wings, making their strange chicks run to them, while the Firebrand ran around them in a circle before pushing them towards the pile of straw in the corner. Eventually they all waded under the pile, and were fully hidden from view. Jon, leaning forward and watching them with as much fascination as Brendon felt, turned to him and said, "There you go."
Brendon ducked his head, although he didn’t know why. "Thanks."
They spent the next few seconds smiling stupidly at each other, until a raindrop hit Brendon in his left eye and he couldn’t help it, he wasn’t expecting it; he jerked his head back slightly and stumbled just a little, but regained his balance as quickly as he could, feeling like a fool. Embarrassed, he jerked his chin and said, "Come on." The rain was getting heavier and heavier.
They raced each other across the field, and Brendon was faster; he couldn’t help doing a little jig of glee at that, and of course that was when Jon caught up, and stopped too. He took his blazer off and put it on his head, and Brendon thought, oh, good idea and did the same, before starting off again.
This time they didn’t stop until they reached the school, and they ducked under a roof, breathing heavily. Brendon said, "That was a good race, Jon Walker," and sneezed.
Jon laughed, from where he was standing opposite Brendon, leaning against a pillar, and said, "Now you had better go to the infirmary, in case you’ve got a cold."
"M’fine," Brendon protested, and just after that he had to sneeze again, and glared at himself. Traitorous body.
Jon got up and herded Brendon to the infirmary, against any further protests, and Brendon couldn’t deny that the right side of his body felt much colder, as opposed to the other side where Jon was crowding him in slightly. "It’s my duty," Jon said loftily, "as an older boy. Now, Matron’s orders."
When they got to the infirmary, Jon handed him over to Matron, who tutted a lot and said, "Well, of course you would fall sick, being out in the rain," which Brendon thought unfair, given that Jon had been exposed to the elements at least as long as Brendon had, and was dripping as much water over the infirmary as he was.
"Thank you for bringing him to me, Jon," Matron Greta said to him. To Brendon she said severely, "Now come along and change into something drier." Jon winked at Brendon, and tipped two fingers at Matron in a salute.
"What about Jon?" Brendon said indignantly. Matron didn’t look up. "Oh, he’ll be fine."
"I’m a sixth former," Jon said loftily. "Sixth formers don’t get ill." His back disappeared out the infirmary, while Matron Greta (how was she so strong?, Brendon thought) restrained him. Brendon gaped in outrage, before protesting, "But that’s cheating!" to the closed door, just before Matron popped a spoonful of the most vile-tasting medicine Brendon had ever tasted into his mouth.
"Cheer up, dear," she said cheerily as Brendon choked and sputtered, "It’s only a cold. You’ll get better soon."
--
As it turned out, Brendon had indeed caught a cold. It wasn’t a very bad one, but bad enough to warrant his being laid up in the Infirmary for a week, having to be fed the most detestable medicine. It was certainly bad enough to make Brendon feel absolutely miserable, what with the continual rain and the lack of visits from any of his form-mates. At nights, Brendon would stay up and curl his hands into fists as he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the work he had missed, and imagining that he would eventually do so badly in end-of-term exams that he would have to be sent back home, only his parents would be in the Far East, so he’d have to go there and be a public school drop-out, preaching to the faceless masses there…
Brendon knew that he had an overactive imagination. That didn’t mean that it wouldn’t come true.
On his fifth night, Brendon got to thinking about how it was his niece’s fourth birthday, and remembered the way in which they had celebrated last year. The Uries never had very much to spend on celebrations, but the whole extended family had come over for tea and there had been three types of cake, and Brendon had given little Emily a bouquet of flowers he’d picked that morning, and even then his heart clenched a little, remembering the solemn expression on her face as she sniffed them carefully.
It was only his allergies, Brendon thought, that made him sniff. As for the choked sob that rose out of his throat from nowhere, that was another thing altogether.
Just then, Matron Greta poked her head into the curtains surrounding his bed.
"Anything wrong, Brendon?"
Brendon swallowed a sob hastily. "Not wrong, no."
"You’ll have to tell me where it hurts, or you won’t be able to get better as soon as possible."
Maybe it was the way Brendon sensed that Matron wouldn’t go away until she had been thoroughly satisfied, or perhaps it was the way she seemed concerned - less efficient than during the day, perhaps, when she bustled around dealing with various matters - and rather inclined to give him some sympathy, or perhaps it was just that Brendon had been bottling up his homesickness for far too long that he finally couldn’t bear it any longer.
"Nothing’s wrong, I just -" Brendon broke off to bite at his lip, before continuing, "I’m not used to it, I suppose, I'm not used to being away at school and I’m not very ill but it just feels awful, and we were supposed to start on an important part of French and I miss my family a little." Brendon’s voice got smaller and smaller, before he eventually trailed off, looking at his hands, placed on his thighs. He felt ashamed and sick and slightly hysterical, and was fairly sure he could feel Matron looking at him, even through the darkness.
"Oh darling," she sighed finally, after a long, heart-stopping pause, during which Brendon thought she was about to mock him for being pathetic, and came closer to pull him into a hug. Brendon gave a slight ‘oof’ sound at that - it wasn’t what he was expecting at all, he’d thought she’d merely tell him to cheer up. He had tried, and it didn’t seem to be working so far.
"You’re all right, it happens to everyone. Just try to wait it out, pet." She didn’t let go, even after that, and Brendon found himself a little embarrassed to find himself crying a little, but mostly just relieved. It happened to everyone, which must mean that sooner or later it would stop.
After a few seconds, Matron got up, gently disentangling his limbs from her, and returned with a cup of warm milk, which she gave to him. "Here, drink this."
Brendon didn’t know why, but after he had finished the milk he fell asleep swiftly, and didn’t dream of anything.
part ii.
Youngest son of a genteelly impoverished Church of England vicar, Brendon is sent off to public school when his parents are seized with the desire to become missionaries. At first he has no friends, but then he meets snarky best friends Ryan and Spencer. Not to mention a certain Jon Walker...
G, brendon/jon, ryan/spencer, ~22000 words
So, so many thanks to colouredmango, for putting up with my whining while I was writing it and helping me when I got unstuck, nova33, for looking it over and providing an excellent beta, ticking_empathy for giving me the idea in the first place, and anyone else who provided me with ideas when this was still in its stages of infancy.
The first thing Brendon did after pulling his school uniform for the first time - the entire rigmarolethat was - was to race over to the mirror and look at himself.
It was not quite the complete transformation he was expecting - he still looked disappointingly like himself, even with his dark hair slicked back behind him and the stiff collar forcing him to hold his head straight up. Perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing, after all. Brendon took a moment more to consider himself in the looking-glass, then, because he felt rather silly, pulled a face at his reflection.
His mother laughed from the doorway. "Now you’re a proper public school boy," she said fondly. "Is your trunk all packed?"
Brendon turned around, even though he could see her quite clearly from the looking glass, and smiled at her. "Yes, Mother," he said.
To say that the Uries were a religious family would have been an understatement. Mr. Urie was the vicar in the tiny village where they lived, and Brendon had grown up going to the small school where his mother taught, along with perhaps ten other children from the village. Alone among his mother’s few pupils, Brendon grew up knowing his scriptures word perfect, drilled ceaselessly by his parents at meals and in the morning.
It was to this end that his parents had decided that to go to China as missionaries, for the next three years. ("We must remember that there are those in the world who are less fortunate than us!" his mother had said, voice trembling, when his parents had told him of their decision, and Brendon hadn’t questioned it.)
As a result, Brendon, who was the youngest in his family, was to be packed off to boarding school for at the belated age of fifteen. It was rather a stroke of luck - as a genteelly poor vicar and father of a large family, Mr. Urie hadn’t had much money, but with a scholarship offered by the school, it had finally been decided that Brendon was to arrive for the summer term in the fourth form. He was rather excited - although, as he hugged his mother, and shook his father’s hand for the last time for a very long time at the train station, he felt a lump come into his throat.
He felt his father’s warm grip encircling his hand, and stood up even straighter, determined not to cry. "Remember," his father said in a low voice, "obey the Lord and no harm shall come to you." Brendon nodded, and boarded his carriage rather shakily. The station master gave the signal, and Brendon sat on the train stiffly, propped up by his starched uniform as his parents waved him off in a cloud of steam.
On the train, Brendon couldn’t help touching his silver cross pendant on the chain around his neck.
--
Halfway through the train journey, a young woman swept onto his carriage and looked at him levelly. Brendon, who had been bored, was at the moment hanging off his seat upside down and tried to sit up with a shock. "Sorry," he mumbled, and tried to keep his hands in his lap.
The woman sniffed. She was dressed very fashionably, and wore her hat with a certain insouciance that commanded attention. Brendon had never seen anyone like her - she was intimidatingly tall - taller than him even - with dark hair and dark amused eyes and clothes that looked more stylish and sophisticated than he had ever seen, except in the occasional women’s magazine that his mother used to confiscate from his sisters, before they were married.
"My name is Miss Victoria Asher," she said. "I teach French at Malory Towers, where I assume you will be starting your first term. You’re Brendon Urie?"
Brendon nodded. Oh yes - his parents had said something about a teacher accompanying him part of the way there, although he hadn’t seen the necessity of it.
"Well then," Miss Asher drawled, "Be a good boy and don’t make any trouble for me. You don’t mind if I smoke?"
Unsure of himself, Brendon shook his head. Soon, Miss Asher was engulfed in a cloud of smoke coming from a cigarette, and she expertly tapped her cigarette holder with an experienced finger so that the ash fell out the train window. Silence reigned in the carriage for quite a while. Brendon, unused to both the prolonged silence and imposed stillness, soon fell asleep.
--
Brendon awoke just as the sun was setting, with a dry mouth and a stiff neck. The carriage rumbled under him - oh, right, travelling in train to new school - and opened his eyes to see Miss Asher staring at him with eyes that seemed to hold in equal parts detached fascination and amusement.
"Are we there yet?" he asked.
"Nearly," Miss Asher said. "Your hair is in a mess. Fix it before we arrive at Malory Towers proper; you can’t make your appearance in such a state. Have you got your Health Certificate for Matron?" she enquired, as Brendon tried frantically to scrub his hands through his hair, and he nodded - he had it in his overnight case, which he’d packed since his trunk was sent ahead.
"Please, Miss," he said, unsure of how he should address her, "What is Malory Towers like?"
Victoria cast him a kind look, which was surprising. "This is your first term away from home, if I’m not wrong?" Brendon nodded.
"Well then," she said, "I’m afraid you’re in for a change."
And that was all she had to say on the subject. Brendon tried not to fidget too noticeably.
--
After the train pulled in, there was a flurry of movement that eventually ended in Brendon landing up in the school’s infirmary ("Above all else," Miss Asher had said solemnly, "the Infirmary first.") being presented to Matron Greta.
They swept in (well, Miss Asher swept in, while Brendon trailed behind) and a plump, golden-haired nurse in an immaculate white uniform looked up. "Oh, thank goodness you’re there," Victoria said with obvious relief, and crossed the room in a few strides. She kissed Matron on the cheek and said, "This is Brendon - Brendon, this is Matron Greta - and I’d best go off - I have no idea why the Headmaster insists on assigning these duties to me, just because I’m the only other female on staff -" she touched Greta affectionately on the arm, and exited the room as quickly as she had come.
Matron Greta was everything that Miss Asher was not, maternal and welcoming, yet Brendon understood that she was a person not to be crossed. After Miss Asher had left, she smiled kindly at Brendon, a flush beginning to stain her cheeks. "Welcome to Malory Towers, Brendon," she said. "I hope you’ll have a good time here. Now, where’s your Health Certificate?"
--
When Brendon got to his dorm all the other boys were already there, settling in. He stood in the doorway uncertainly for a while before summoning up his best smile, the one his mother always said made him look approachable, and walked in as confidently as he could.
One of the boys turned to him, and Brendon went knock-kneed with relief.
"Jenkins, oy!" the boy called past him. "Have you seen my socks?"
"Why are you asking me that?" Jenkins was a freckly boy who had sticky-out ears. Brendon thought he looked nice, the kind of friend he might enjoy. "It’s only been, say, two hours since we started term…"
"You always have my socks," the boy grumbled, and another boy, pudgy and with a bowlcut, piped up, "Maybe you could try searching -" before a chorus of voices told him to shut up, Wattles, he’d been banned from speaking for the rest of the day until after supper.
"Just trying to help," the improbably named Wattles grumbled, before another boy said accusingly, "Again!"
As Brendon sidled in no one took any notice of him. He took one of the still-vacant beds (a nice one, by the window) and prepared to dump his overnight bag on it, before a blank-eyed boy turned to him and said, "Bags I this one for Buggy Jones."
Brendon didn’t understand all of what he was saying, but he backed off anyway, before hauling his trunk all the way to the other end of the room. Soon the bell rang, and all the boys abandoned the room in their rush to get to the dining hall.
No one spoke another word to Brendon for the rest of the day.
--
The next day, Brendon woke up when his alarm clock trilled at him and he leaped out of bed, eager to start the day. Brendon was a morning person, and this morning he felt undefeatable. So it had been a bad start, yesterday! Still, today Brendon would sweep them all over with his charm and ineffable friendliness.
He would find a boy to sit next to during lessons, with whom he could trade notes with and sabotage inkwells and pull pranks and sneak out of school with. They would soon be the best of friends! As ever, Brendon’s mind found itself leaping ahead. They would marry each others’ sisters! (Here Brendon conveniently ignored the fact that all his sisters were already happily married.) They would be godfather to each others’ children, and when his best friend became a grandfather, he would pull out well-treasured, well-preserved photos of the both of them together in the prime of their youth and talk fondly of him to the numerous interested grandchildren sitting astride their grandfather’s knee. He would -
The boy in the bed next to him stirred and made a noise that would have been intensely amusing had it not also been utterly terrifying. With a start, Brendon realized that his alarm was still ringing. He leaned over hastily and turned it off, toppling some books off his nightstand as he did so.
"For god’s sake," he heard Jenkins mutter, "What the hell was that?"
"I don’t know," a sleepy murmur came from across the room. "It’s not a fire alarm, is it?"
Brendon thought he had better declare himself. "Um," he said nervously, twisting his fingers against the sheets. "That was my alarm clock, I apologise." He’d thought six-thirty a perfectly acceptable time to get up; in his house they were always up at least half an hour before that. He tried not to think about the house in his village, which was surely boarded up with a "To Let" sign by now.
The boy next to him had piled his blanket over his head, and now only an eye with a completely murderous expression was discernable through the mess of sheets.
"You do know we have bells for waking up, right?"
Brendon bit his lip, and looked down at his fingers. "Sorry, I didn’t. Know that. I mean," he fumbled for the right words, aware that no one was that interested in listening anyway, "I’m new."
Someone muttered from across the dorm, "Fucking new boys." Then there was silence, save for the occasional gentle snore.
Brendon decided he might as well wash and dress, and did so, returning to his bed afterwards. He sat upright and cross-legged, hugging his pillow to his chest. He stayed like that until the bell rang, at half-past seven.
--
The rest of Brendon’s first day went past in much the same manner. At geography - the first lesson of the day - Brendon had to sit in front because nobody wanted to sit next to him, or as Brendon preferred to think of it, everyone else already had someone else to sit next to. Except him, because he was the new boy.
When Master Colligan finally assigned him to the front seat with an indifferent wave of his hand, he discovered that the inkwell could not be used because someone had dropped a sugar cube in it. Not willing to kick up a fuss, Brendon spent the first fifteen minutes of lesson trying to use the inkwell anyway, until Master Colligan swept by and arched an eyebrow at him. He did get it replaced without a word, though, so Brendon considered it a win.
--
"Good day! My name’s Brendon, and I’m new -"
"We know who you are."
Brendon tried not to sound too pathetic, but as soon as the words left his mouth he knew it was a lost cause. "Do you mind if I sit at this table?"
"McMillan! McMillan, you ass, get over here - sorry, this seat’s taken."
Brendon lifted his chin and walked away, tray in his hands. Soon he found a half-empty table, sitting at the furthest point possible from the group of boys occupying it, who for the most part ignored him in favour of swapping jokes and holiday stories. He gnawed at his lower lip. The climate here must be considerably different, because his lips were cracking - he could taste some blood in his mouth already.
--
Brendon continued to feel miserable as the term wore on. He hadn’t made any friends, and most of his form seemed to think he was strange and continued to avoid him. He also missed his home, but - he knew boarding school was supposed to be fun, and he’d seen other students having fun, but couldn’t manage to summon up the same level of enthusiasm they had. He supposed it was noticeably easier for them; they had friends who seemed to enjoy their company.
Brendon knew he was silly and impulsive, and prone to saying the wrong thing and the wrong times. He just wished someone would love him for it, as his family had done.
At lunch, he had started a table rotation system. It wasn’t complicated, really - it merely involved sitting at a different table every day. He told himself it was so he could get to know more people, but really it was just so he wouldn’t have to speak much. The people he sat with always eyed him curiously, like yes, we know you’re new, but term’s been in session for two weeks. Don’t you have any new friends? We already have our own, thanks. Perhaps they never said a word, but he could tell that that was what they thought.
Brendon was getting used to spending a lot of time on his own. He’d go for a long walk around the school grounds, marveling at the vast sports fields and cultivated flowers - how much land did this school have? Within two weeks he prided himself on knowing the school grounds better than anyone else did, but it wasn’t fun when before that, he got lost. He’d asked a huge, burly sixth-former at the cricket field when that happened, half-fearing for his life at the same time, but the boy’d just looked at him solemnly before looking to the left and jerking his chin. For that he was thankful.
After a particularly horrible day, Brendon had a headache. He went to the nearest music room, hoping that no one would be there. Thankfully enough, it was empty. He went entered the door and then the door behind it - no one had ever explained why there were two doors leading to the room, he assumed it had something to do with soundproofing - and slumped against it, kneading at his forehead. He stayed there for a minute or so before heading to the piano. He might as well get some practice done, he reasoned.
As he lifted the top and ran his fingers over the piano he felt better already. At Malory Towers the pianos were better than the ramshackle one that had occupied the Uries’ family home. This one was encased in gorgeous wood and exuded a warm, jazzy and almost-modern sound, but Brendon soon found himself wondering what had happened to the old one. Probably it had been sold when the house was let, he told himself.
He didn’t bother to go through the scales even though he told himself he was supposed to practice thoroughly - a voice suspiciously like his mother’s warned no fooling around now, Brendon - and went straight to the piece he was working on. After a while, he just turned to improvisation, humming softly along with it to guide his fingers - and before he knew it, he had started to play Greensleeves - he still remembered when his older brother had taught that to him when he was nine.
Brendon couldn’t bear it any longer. He laid his head over his arms, ignoring the indignant poink the keys made as his arms crashed down on them, and started crying.
Brendon sobbed for what seemed a long, long time before stopping. He would have stopped earlier, but like a cork released from a bottle, memory after memory rose through him and made lump after lump in his throat, and it was all he could do to squirm around and press his mouth to his fist, to keep from crying out for real. Brendon had always thought of himself as a happy person - he was quite sure he used to be, he’d never felt this overwhelmed before - and it shocked him, that so much grief could be wrung out from one person, let alone him. He only had to think of a word or a phrase, which someone in his family might have used, or a sequence of notes, before he started off again, all the while reveling in his sadness, relieved that he was finally able to admit it, and also ashamed of himself.
When he was quite sure he was able to deal with it he sat up, ignoring the strange pattern the piano keys had made on his face, and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, and continued hammering away at his piece until the polished mahogany of the piano showed a reflection with considerably less swollen eyes. Brendon was mostly calmed down now and considerably tired, and he gulped and licked his lips, before wiping his hands on his pants one last time and pushed out of the music room.
--
Eventually he found himself pushing out into the school grounds, where he started on the path where he would walk his usual route, before stopping. Why not? A voice whispered to him, and he looked around nervously before pushing out of the main gate, and down the road to the village.
Boarders weren’t allowed out of school, except during the weekends, but he knew of many boys in his form, and above, who went out all the time (to the cinema, into the woods) and never got caught. Brendon himself had never done such a thing, but all things considered, he put it down mainly to his lack of troublemaking accomplices rather than any innate strong moral compass. Rebel, he thought, I’m breaking the rules by myself! It really didn’t sound as fun as he’d been led to expect.
Nevertheless, as he walked past some fields and a farmhouse, he found himself getting cheered up for no reason. The sun glinted over the grass, and as Brendon walked into the middle of a meadow, he found himself breaking into a little jig, humming around as he gracelessly flailed his arms. He used to do this all that time at home, in the woods behind their house, and no one ever laughed at him because no one knew; he was always alone.
Three minutes in he got the feeling that he was being stared at, and it took him ten seconds to continue flinging his arms around uncertainly before he finally stopped, and looked around. At last, he finally discovered the location of his voyeur - a boy on the edge of the field, next to the farmhouse. As Brendon squinted, the mysterious boy - really he was far away enough for Brendon to be only just about able to identify, from his school uniform, that he was a student of Malory Towers too - raised a hand in greeting and waved. Brendon straightened up, and trying not to seem too eager, walked slowly over.
As he got nearer he could see the boy in more detail: slightly older than him, hair that fell into his brown eyes, and a stocky build, though Brendon was obviously shorter. Brendon slowed even more, uncertainly, until he came to a stop about a few yards away.
"Hello," Brendon said, uncertain of whether or not he should come closer.
"Hello," the other boy said easily. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "I thought I saw you dancing in the field."
Brendon couldn’t help it; he winced. "Yes," he said somewhat defensively, before trying to tone down the aggression. "What’re you doing here?" Then, remembering his manners, he said, "I’m Brendon. I mean - " he paused, remembering that in Malory Towers, the boys loved referring to each other by their last names, a fact that Brendon had always found mildly baffling, "Urie. Brendon, too, of course. Brendon Urie."
The other boy smiled easily. "I’m Jon Walker. I was just -" he turned his chin and jerked his head at the farmhouse. "Catching up with the hens."
"Don’t the people living there mind?" Brendon asked curiously.
"No, they don’t." Jon grinned. "They’re used to me, I suppose - I've been coming down here for two years, at least. Want to see the hens?" Brendon nodded eagerly.
Jon led Brendon to the side and said, "Here." In a small pen, there was a magnificent cockerel and two hens, and some vaguely adolescent chicks that looked scrawny and ugly and thin.
"That’s the Firebrand," Jon said, pointing to the cock, "and this is Daisy and Martha."
Brendon blinked. "Did you name them, or did they?" he asked. "The farmers, I mean."
Jon went a little red, and shoved his hands into his pocket. "I named them," he said, mumbling a little, "Folks around these parts don’t really like to name their farm animals, you know? Except for cows, because they don’t really eat them."
Brendon felt sad too, and said, "That’s why I don’t eat meat." It was a little hard, at first, and a little inconvenient, but he didn’t enjoy it that much, and they were eating animals which used to be alive.
"Wow," Jon looked impressed. "That’s really good of you, I don’t think I could do that. Is it hard, though?"
Brendon was pleased, and a little embarrassed. He felt his stomach give a little squirm, and tried to prevent himself from bouncing on his feet too obviously. "Well, not really, but sometimes people just don’t understand why I can’t - I eat eggs, though," he finished anxiously. He didn't know if that counted as a being a proper vegetarian - but eggs were delicious, and Brendon didn't know why, but he wanted Jon (Walker, he reminded himself firmly) to think the best of him, but he didn't want to lie either.
Jon was about to reply when they both heard the sound of thunder, and looked up at the sky at the same time. The sky was grey, and a curl of lightning split the sky briefly, so that Brendon, lowering his head, saw Jon’s features lit up for half a second. This was followed by another clap of thunder, almost deafening this time.
"Come on," Jon said. "We’d better run."
And because Brendon always had to say the first thing that came into his head, he said, somewhat anxiously, "But what about the chickens?"
Jon said, smiling slightly as the first drops of rain came thudding down on them: "They’ll be fine, just watch."
The chickens seem to have pulled themselves into a minor frenzy. The hens squawked and flapped their wings, making their strange chicks run to them, while the Firebrand ran around them in a circle before pushing them towards the pile of straw in the corner. Eventually they all waded under the pile, and were fully hidden from view. Jon, leaning forward and watching them with as much fascination as Brendon felt, turned to him and said, "There you go."
Brendon ducked his head, although he didn’t know why. "Thanks."
They spent the next few seconds smiling stupidly at each other, until a raindrop hit Brendon in his left eye and he couldn’t help it, he wasn’t expecting it; he jerked his head back slightly and stumbled just a little, but regained his balance as quickly as he could, feeling like a fool. Embarrassed, he jerked his chin and said, "Come on." The rain was getting heavier and heavier.
They raced each other across the field, and Brendon was faster; he couldn’t help doing a little jig of glee at that, and of course that was when Jon caught up, and stopped too. He took his blazer off and put it on his head, and Brendon thought, oh, good idea and did the same, before starting off again.
This time they didn’t stop until they reached the school, and they ducked under a roof, breathing heavily. Brendon said, "That was a good race, Jon Walker," and sneezed.
Jon laughed, from where he was standing opposite Brendon, leaning against a pillar, and said, "Now you had better go to the infirmary, in case you’ve got a cold."
"M’fine," Brendon protested, and just after that he had to sneeze again, and glared at himself. Traitorous body.
Jon got up and herded Brendon to the infirmary, against any further protests, and Brendon couldn’t deny that the right side of his body felt much colder, as opposed to the other side where Jon was crowding him in slightly. "It’s my duty," Jon said loftily, "as an older boy. Now, Matron’s orders."
When they got to the infirmary, Jon handed him over to Matron, who tutted a lot and said, "Well, of course you would fall sick, being out in the rain," which Brendon thought unfair, given that Jon had been exposed to the elements at least as long as Brendon had, and was dripping as much water over the infirmary as he was.
"Thank you for bringing him to me, Jon," Matron Greta said to him. To Brendon she said severely, "Now come along and change into something drier." Jon winked at Brendon, and tipped two fingers at Matron in a salute.
"What about Jon?" Brendon said indignantly. Matron didn’t look up. "Oh, he’ll be fine."
"I’m a sixth former," Jon said loftily. "Sixth formers don’t get ill." His back disappeared out the infirmary, while Matron Greta (how was she so strong?, Brendon thought) restrained him. Brendon gaped in outrage, before protesting, "But that’s cheating!" to the closed door, just before Matron popped a spoonful of the most vile-tasting medicine Brendon had ever tasted into his mouth.
"Cheer up, dear," she said cheerily as Brendon choked and sputtered, "It’s only a cold. You’ll get better soon."
--
As it turned out, Brendon had indeed caught a cold. It wasn’t a very bad one, but bad enough to warrant his being laid up in the Infirmary for a week, having to be fed the most detestable medicine. It was certainly bad enough to make Brendon feel absolutely miserable, what with the continual rain and the lack of visits from any of his form-mates. At nights, Brendon would stay up and curl his hands into fists as he stared at the ceiling, thinking about the work he had missed, and imagining that he would eventually do so badly in end-of-term exams that he would have to be sent back home, only his parents would be in the Far East, so he’d have to go there and be a public school drop-out, preaching to the faceless masses there…
Brendon knew that he had an overactive imagination. That didn’t mean that it wouldn’t come true.
On his fifth night, Brendon got to thinking about how it was his niece’s fourth birthday, and remembered the way in which they had celebrated last year. The Uries never had very much to spend on celebrations, but the whole extended family had come over for tea and there had been three types of cake, and Brendon had given little Emily a bouquet of flowers he’d picked that morning, and even then his heart clenched a little, remembering the solemn expression on her face as she sniffed them carefully.
It was only his allergies, Brendon thought, that made him sniff. As for the choked sob that rose out of his throat from nowhere, that was another thing altogether.
Just then, Matron Greta poked her head into the curtains surrounding his bed.
"Anything wrong, Brendon?"
Brendon swallowed a sob hastily. "Not wrong, no."
"You’ll have to tell me where it hurts, or you won’t be able to get better as soon as possible."
Maybe it was the way Brendon sensed that Matron wouldn’t go away until she had been thoroughly satisfied, or perhaps it was the way she seemed concerned - less efficient than during the day, perhaps, when she bustled around dealing with various matters - and rather inclined to give him some sympathy, or perhaps it was just that Brendon had been bottling up his homesickness for far too long that he finally couldn’t bear it any longer.
"Nothing’s wrong, I just -" Brendon broke off to bite at his lip, before continuing, "I’m not used to it, I suppose, I'm not used to being away at school and I’m not very ill but it just feels awful, and we were supposed to start on an important part of French and I miss my family a little." Brendon’s voice got smaller and smaller, before he eventually trailed off, looking at his hands, placed on his thighs. He felt ashamed and sick and slightly hysterical, and was fairly sure he could feel Matron looking at him, even through the darkness.
"Oh darling," she sighed finally, after a long, heart-stopping pause, during which Brendon thought she was about to mock him for being pathetic, and came closer to pull him into a hug. Brendon gave a slight ‘oof’ sound at that - it wasn’t what he was expecting at all, he’d thought she’d merely tell him to cheer up. He had tried, and it didn’t seem to be working so far.
"You’re all right, it happens to everyone. Just try to wait it out, pet." She didn’t let go, even after that, and Brendon found himself a little embarrassed to find himself crying a little, but mostly just relieved. It happened to everyone, which must mean that sooner or later it would stop.
After a few seconds, Matron got up, gently disentangling his limbs from her, and returned with a cup of warm milk, which she gave to him. "Here, drink this."
Brendon didn’t know why, but after he had finished the milk he fell asleep swiftly, and didn’t dream of anything.
part ii.