n postwar England, Melvyn is cast adrift in the unyielding corridors of an elite boarding school, forced to conceal his vulnerability behind a facade of tradition and stoicism. His fragile bond with a grieving mother and the upheaval of a nation in transition propel him towards the seductive, morally ambiguous sphere of antiquities trading.
When fate leads him to Southern Rhodesia on the cusp of independence, Melvyn journeys into a landscape riven by remarkable beauty and looming rupture, confronting both personal and colonial complicity.
As conflicting loyalties and uneasy alliances demand choices, Melvyn must reckon with the true price of belongingâeven as ambition draws him deeper into a world where betrayal may be the only constant.`
n postwar England, Melvyn is cast adrift in the unyielding corridors of an elite boarding school, forced to conceal his vulnerability behind a facade of tradition and stoicism. His fragile bond with a grieving mother and the upheaval of a nation in transition propel him towards the seductive, morally ambiguous sphere of antiquities trading.
When fate leads him to Southern Rhodesia on the cusp of independence, Melvyn journeys into a landscape riven by remarkable beauty and looming rupture, confronting both personal and colonial complicity.
As conflicting loyalties and uneasy alliances demand choices, Melvyn must reckon with the true price of belongingâeven as ambition draws him deeper into a world where betrayal may be the only constant.`
Chapter One
The sensation was overwhelming; the anticipation engulfing Melvyn. Each muscle of his small body tense and expectant. Heart pounding, rapid, shallow gasps escaped his lips as he struggled to control his breathing. Fear, now accustomed, coursed through him.
He should move, assist, but lacked the ability. In the shroud of darkness, he could hear his peers shoving wooden footlockers from the base of their bunks, positioning the cumbersome barriers in the middle of the dorm corridor. Their hushed voices whispered in excited agitation.
Melvyn, with caution, raised his head to see, to determine if they approached. Beyond curfew, the doorway at the passageâs end stood eerily still, devoid of shadows and movement, even as the darkness of lights-out enveloped everything. His dormmates reverted to their beds, their conspiratorial whispers less now, better for the activity, but then for the stillness. The waiting.
His mouth dry, he craved water, the feel of liquid, and he wished for this to go away, but their arrival was imminent. Tradition demanded so. They were first years, new boys and obligated to undergo induction. Tradition, as a conduit, compelled them to confront what still awaited, and the foreboding that accompanied it. Edgy. Heart beating. His grip was tight around his rugby sock; a tennis ball lodged in the heel. He ought to calm himself; he counselled himself, endeavouring to slow the breathing, try to⌠A shout, cursing as the first of the senior schoolboys entered their dormitory and stumbled over the sturdy locker, impeding his way.
âBloody hell â my shin.â An angry yell.
More profanity as the older-aged students rushed into the dormitory, only to encounter a series of solid barriers.
âFootlockers.â A voice hollered out.
The lull carried the illusion of safety. It ended abruptly as the attackers, invigorated, set upon the footlockers. In the weak glow, Melvyn watched their silhouettes swell and warp, shadows straining against the cabinets as they struggled with the stubborn wood. Every muttered oath, every guttural effort, throbbed with a raw and unsettling menace.
âCunning wee bastards.â
âTheyâre going to pay.â
Then the attack began. Melvyn watched, horrified, as the older pupils stalked through the dorm, raising their sock-encased tennis balls high before slamming them downwards on the new studentsâ beds, bodies, or anything that moved. Not a soul screamed or cried out. Many of the first years leapt from their bunks and, with grim determination, tried to retaliate, attempting to land at least a single solid strike while enduring the stinging onslaught and learning, through sheer necessity, resilience and to tolerate pain.
Instinct drove them â a primal wiring that demanded resistance when danger pressed in. They had a set resolve. Nurtured on tales of endurance and triumph, several stepped forward to make their stand. Yet Melvyn stayed paralysed. He curled up as the initial blow struck his back. Tears sprang to his eyes as another, and another, strike found his recoiling body under the covers. Despite his attempt to shield himself with the pillow, his assailant, with ease, ripped it from his grasp. He wanted to cry out; he wanted this to stop. A reprieve as the boy in the adjacent bed jumped up and struck the older student with a few hurried, satisfying thumps. The elder lad laughed at the audacity and turned to inflict pain on his young attacker when Melvyn heard the accustomed voice of his elder brother, Tristan.
âHurry, get under the bed.â
Without hesitation, Melvyn slipped free of the sheet and crawled beneath the iron frame. The intruderâs laboured grunts revealed the strain of his assault. The stark dormitory walls amplified the clamour of weaponised tennis balls striking the young boys. Sounds of exertion. Sounds of torment. Mocking laughter. No crying. Melvyn reclined, coiled, his hands covering his face.
âLetâs scram. Quick, before the colonel comes.â A familiar voice.
A few more swings, a few more satisfactory hits, and then the seniors withdrew, their mirth muffled as they clambered up the stairs, adrenaline yet coursing through them. The task was done. Melvyn understood: Tristanâs actions had intervened, allowing the tradition to play out, but preventing it from being unreasonable. His brother again offered him protection. He scrambled out from under the bed before anyone noticed his hiding place. Most of his dormmates, faces flushed and heavy with breath, stood exhilarated by their resistance. Standing amidst the shadows, they persisted, clutching their sock weapons, just in case. Every stare converged on the open entryway. Their ragged gasps slowed, returning to normal as they waited. Finally, footsteps drew near and their assigned prefect entered.
âGet this place straightened up. Put those lockers where they belong. Quietly now.â
Their prefect, who appeared unaffected and unfazed, climbed into his bed and drifted off, signalling the ordealâs conclusion to the relieved first years. Initiation complete. Until the next time. Melvyn inched under his covers, wiping tears from his face with the sheet. His back stung. He worried whether anyone had seen his furtive escape, his cowering, concealed by the bedding. Tomorrow, there would be accounts, tales of bravery. What might his dormmates say then? He hoped he possessed bruises to show. He had to have bruises. Out in the distance, a dog barked. The sound carried on the gentle nocturnal breeze.
Sleep must have claimed him, for when he awoke, the ache in his body lingered, and the first wash of dawn was brushing colour into the sky. As he pushed up from the bunk, the metal cross-braces beneath his mattress groaned but held steady. Theyâd only survived this long thanks to Tristan, who had shown him how to twist coat-hanger wire to shore up the frame. The damage had come after a pack of seniors had turned the beds into trampolines, snapping the supports. Even with the repairs â and even with his slight weight â Melvyn still found himself scavenging for more wire to keep the structure intact.
He was not the earliest awake, he realised as he walked by the other bunks. Edwin, recently returned from the hallway having checked the imposing wall clock, held the dented bugle tucked inside his rugby jersey for warmth and to foster the timbre. His friend extended a wide, affable smile and rubbed his spiky hair, which seemed even more pronounced after the turbulent night. His striped pyjamas hung baggy on his slight frame, Edwin advising that he wasnât sure if his mother was economising to ensure they lasted at least a couple of years, or that his too-big clothes would encourage his body to grow. Their dorm prefect was snoring.
The hallway remained empty. On his left lay the darkened prep rooms, and to his right, the stone staircase climbed upwards. He paused. The senior dormitories and prefectsâ studies occupied the upper floor. But the stairwell was unoccupied, an unchangeable path, more often echoing with shoves, scuffles, even open brawls. Melvyn hurried up the steps, mindful of the stinging welt smarting on his body.
Away from the older studentsâ lodgings were compact rooms, two house prefects sharing a single room. He proceeded into his prefectâs study. A musty, smoky odour permeated the area. Inside, there was a set of two desks, two chairs, and two wardrobes. Above the workstations, hand-drawn, coloured class timetables were patched to the wall with tape. Otherwise, the surfaces lacked decoration â Matron made certain of that. He positioned himself in front of the oval mirror and lifted his pyjama top. Round red blotches. Good.
His allocated prefect, Scraggs, was the messy one. On the desk was the prefectâs accessible science textbook, its pages covered in his spider-enjoy handwriting. The well-worn crimson hardcover notebook had dog-eared corners, its glue failing from much use. Melvynâs eyes landed on the detested wooden ruler, a familiar instrument of his many past thrashings. Ralph, however, enjoyed hero status. Another first-year, his gangly, urban-savvy friend had, with precision, sawed into his prefectâs ruler so it could snap on his buttocks when used as a punishment. Ralphâs prefect at first apologised, but the clean break exposed the sabotage. Ralph had paid the price but now had legendary prestige amongst his peers.
Melvynâs gaze fell upon Scraggsâs ruler, its surface a canvas of marks and doodles, and he envied Ralphâs defiance. His attention shifted to the ink pens that were on the desk. Could he? Should he? No, too obvious. He moved closer to the threshold. Not a soul was in sight. Too early. The open science workbook, its spine? No, it had to be something personal. The laboratory notebook. The one his prefect submitted for grading. He seized the red journal with its black spine and examined the small, scrawled label bearing his prefectâs name. Two initials and his surname, Scragg, a name he could never forget. Opening the book with a quickness, he scanned its pages. On the left, lined paper for writing; on the right, a page filled with squares. Scraggs had sketched three linked blocks, using lines extending outwards to create a sense of depth, resembling steps. Melvyn placed the journal face down on the floor. He could stomp on the binding. The black spinal tape would not withstand the pressure. A firm step was all it required. He eyed the notebook warily, seized it, shoved it back, and hurried to neaten the space.
They were habitual smokers. The rain and wind that had battered the boarding house overnight had subsided, leaving only a silent drizzle. Now with the window open, he inhaled the morning air, then sudden fear overcame him. What if someone had caught sight of him? He gathered his prefectâs clothes from the floor, laid out a fresh school uniform, and then slipped out of the study, carefully carrying the full ashtray. He would take the container into the shower with him. One could easily dispose of cigarette ash and butts through the drain. The bugle sounded, Edwin signalling the start of the day, and Melvyn fled down the flight of stairs.
Morning showers were compulsory and swift. The water proved brutal, chilled, and each boyâs breath came in ragged gasps as the icy fluid poured over their youthful bodies. Each pale, naked child, lined up, exhibiting the effects of the night before. Much of the oxygenated blood under the skin had still not come to the surface. Scores of blemishes appeared as red and round â before the expected purple and yellow bruise colours developed, only misshapen spots marred their flesh. Melvyn listened to the boasting and chatter, ashtray in hand. In the weak light, after the darkness, they displayed the welts, soon to be bruises. Stories were told, shared, and understood. Only a few stood silent, unable to take part. The frigid showerâs spray descended on Melvyn as he scrubbed the ashtray, conscious of his fewer symbols than other fellows, his tribal markings minimal.
Spoilers: Borrowed Times by John Glynn has a lot of promise. It's a bildungsroman about a young Englishman trying to find his path in 1940âs and 1950âs Rhodesia but could be so much better. There is a huge glaring flaw that must be addressed.
Melvyn feels rootless and out of place within the rigid expectations drilled into by his harsh boarding school upbringing and his self-involved status seeking mother and stepfather. He takes his interest in antiquities and cartography to Rhodesia to stay with his older brother Tristan. Rhodesia is still under British rule because of colonialism and there are hints of rebellion on the horizon.
There are parts of Borrowed Times that are worth reading. Melvynâs character is particularly developed through his experiences in school.
His encounters with a rigid class system born from aristocracy is compelling. He is someone who recognizes the privilege that is installed by others because of their birthright. They were born at the finish line and Melvyn feels insignificant because of them.
When Melvyn travels to Rhodesia, it's to find a sense of belonging that he is denied from his indifferent family and the society in which he was raised. He gets along with his brother and sister in law rather well. There is an agonizing moment where Melvynâs true affection for his brother/surrogate father figure is revealed.
Setting also makes the book. While in Rhodesia, Melvyn moves out of his comfort zone by doing rigorous farm work, preparing maps, and exploring the landscape around him. The book is filled with descriptions of the landscape without resorting to assumptions to depict Rhodesia as a savage backwater or an idyllic paradise.
Instead it is both realistic and atmospheric. It captures the environmental and political structures which characterized the country during that point in time.
Politics are actually part of the issue. Melvyn befriends many native Rhodesians and begins to understand their concerns about the restrictive white establishment. It's a situation that we can see will create the subsequent years of segregation and racism that still mar the country years later.
However, this is at the expense of a local voice which is the book's glaring flaw. We only receive primarily Melvyn's voice, a white newcomer from an English background not from a local black character. It lacks intimacy and authenticity At the very least, a Black character could have shared narrative duty with Melvyn.
Otherwise it's similar to a Hollywood movie that uses a white voice to tell what is primarily a story involving the Black experience. It projects the overall impression that Glynn could only tell this story at a distance from someone separated from this experience instead of from the people who actually lived it.