Good old Twilks Finds the Key to the Problem

     I admit that I had drawn attention to myself, once or twice, but the job that put the rope around my neck was the matter of the master key. When the builders vacated the new school premises, they left every key in every lock. For some reason, the store cupboard at the end of each of the three floor corridors, had been left with a master key, to all the classrooms. The school’s head prefect, no less, George’s blue eyed and golden boy, having acquired one of these master keys, listened to a certain proposition from me, then eagerly vouchsafed said key into my keeping.
     I waited for April 1st. In the days approaching, I checked every classroom door lock. Any I couldn’t lock easily, I marked on the lintel. Friday April 1st, my first lesson after morning break was Complementary English, so a late arrival would go unremarked. At the end of break, when everyone seemed settled, I whipped round, locked about 70% of the school in their rooms, then I slipped into class. My late arrival was noticed but not queried.
     At the end of the lesson- pandemonium! It took about 10 minutes to free everyone. Most people, including staff, seemed to think it was a hoot. Yes, it would have been a different matter if there had been a fire- not to mention an almighty coincidence. Our English master and form master, Joe Fielding, must have remembered my late arrival, used his brain, and shopped me to good old Twilks.
     At lunch time, I was sitting in our common room, when George burst in, all breathless from struggling up the stairs, pointed at me, and yelled-
     “Was it you?”
     “Yes”.
     “Go home!” and he disappeared. I packed my bag and set off down the stairs, to be intercepted by a prefect, half way, with a message. Mr Wilkinson wanted to see me immediately, in his office. I went there, and found him with his deputy head, Les Buckham, a very unpredictable man. He could be charming, entertaining; he could be treacherous, a bully, a shit. George opened with-
     “I want that key”.
     “I haven’t got it”. I’d already given it back to Dave Hanson, my supplier.
     “Bring me the key”, said George, “and we will say no more about it”. Off I went, to return in 5 minutes with the key, which I handed over. Then Les put his oar in-
     “I want to know where you got this”. Shocked, I looked at George, who said-
     “Tell us how you acquired it, and the matter is closed”. I could have spit blood.
     “You said if I brought you the key, that would be the end of it!  If I can’t trust you, I’m not making any more deals!” George blew his lid again-
     “Go home! I’m going to write to your parents (he immediately knew he’d shot himself in the foot with the plural) and I don’t want to see you back until I receive a reply!”
     “That’s silly; you know I’ll have to write it”.
     “Get out!” I got out, and went home.

“Twilks”

     Next morning, after his letter arrived in the post (he must have moved fast) it being Saturday, I was up at the school field with Peter Skevington, wrecking everyone’s kidneys with cocoa slurry. One of the staff was in the habit of giving me a lift home, afterwards, and he said most of the staff thought it was hilarious, particularly watching the indignation on certain pompous faces.
     So, on Monday morning, I was back in school, with the reply, which was clearly in my hand, and I had made sure that Betty signed it with a different pen. I delivered it to his secretary before George arrived; I’d show him he wasn’t the only one who could move fast. That was the end of it, apart from another of George’s Dutch Uncle type heart to hearts, about having to make a report to the grants committee as to each pupil’s suitability as a money risk. As it happened, he solved the problem by killing my application. He’s long dead now; I can’t call him to account, and he can’t sue me for defamation of character. It’s all blood under the bridge.