The Green Years
Reid had come to the Academy two years before as a stop-gap when Mr. Douglas was appointed to the headmastership of Ardfillan High School. Reid himself made it clear that his appointment was temporary—he did not care to remain long in one place—also the Rector was obviously not impressed by Jason’s careless dress, unorthodox methods and exasperating lack of deference. Yet Jason remained. He was a brilliant and original teacher; even the Rector came to admit it: and besides running the science side he could, most convenient, take the higher English class—he had both the M.A. and B.Sc. honours degrees from Trinity College. As for Reid himself, when I asked him, many years later, why he had remained so long in the dead-end of Levenford, he replied, with his peculiar flat-nosed, ox-eyed smile: “It was very handy for the pawnshop.”
This flippancy was the persistence of a pose forced upon him by the circumstances of his life. He was the son of a North of Ireland clergyman and, despite his slight disfigurement, had been intended for the Church, but halfway through his studies he had fallen under the influence of Huxley and renounced the Book of Genesis. The family estrangement which resulted was something Reid never mentioned, yet I sensed it was this upheaval which had forced on him his mask of indifference, the contempt of conventional conduct which broke through, even in his teaching. On his first appearance before the English class we were following a practice introduced by Mr. Douglas rising in turn to proclaim our views on a chosen subject—which was, that afternoon, “What I Shall Do Next Sunday.” Lounging in his chair, with his feet on his desk, which was the unconventional attitude in which he chose to instruct us, Reid heard us out: we were all extremely virtuous and correct. Then, in a considering voice, he declared: “Next Sunday? Why, I think I shall lie in bed and drink beer.”
For all his bravado he was an unhappy and lonely soul. He kept apart from the other masters: he had nothing in common with them. Occasionally he attended a meeting of the local Fabian Society; but all the other Levenford clubs, including the famous “Philosophical,” he dismissed derisively as mere “ drinking dens.” He had no apparent interest in women. I never at this time saw him speak, or walk, with one in, the street. Yet, because of his devotion to music, he had become friendly with Mrs. Keith and her little circle. The house in Sinclair Drive was the only one he seemed to care to visit.
Perhaps Reid thought I had the makings of a scientist; more probably it was our common heritage of oddness which led him to take an interest in me. Frequently on Sunday mornings he had me to breakfast and fed me with many delicious fried sausages. He was not a great talker and was never in the smallest degree demonstrative. On the contrary he parodied the emotions. He had an austere taste in literature and did his best to knock my fine phrases out of me. He liked Addison, Locke, Hazlitt and Montaigne. He was an admirer of Schiller. Referring to his own isolation in the narrow-minded town, he would quote that philosopher: “The only relation with the public of which a man never repents, is war.” Yet occasionally I surprised in his full eyes a glance which was not warlike, but affectionate.
As Grandpa and I went up the narrow staircase, dark and unhygienic, we heard the strains of music coming from Reid’s rooms. Grandpa tapped with his stick on the door. And a voice from behind the panel called out: “Come in.”
Jason lay exhausted in a wicker armchair by the window, jacket off, trouser ends clipped round thick socks, his feet—still incased in black lace-up bicycle shoes—resting against the table on which stood a foam-topped glass and a gramophone with a flat revolving disc and a long flower-shaped trumpet. As Grandpa began in his suavest manner to introduce himself, Jason silenced him warningly, and with a sweep of his arm motioned us to seat ourselves. When the disc came to an end he rose quickly and changed it, then flung himself back into the basket chair. From time to time he mopped his brow and drank from the glass. I saw that he had come in from one of his violent bicycle spins—spasmodically, when he felt he needed exercise, he would fling himself upon his machine and scorch furiously, up hill and down dale, head down, legs working madly, rivers of sweat running from his eyes, miles of dust floating in the air behind him. Then, safely returned, he would soothe himself with vast quantities of food and drink, and the symphonies of Beethoven recently produced on Columbia records by the Philharmonic Orchestra of London. Reid loved music, he played the piano quite beautifully, but seldom, for he despised his own talent as inadequate and amateurish.
When the symphony was finished he stopped the machine and restored the discs to an album.
“Well, sir,” he addressed Grandpa politely, “ what can I do for you?”
Grandpa had been slightly irked by the waiting, the lack of éclat in his reception. He said peevishly: “Are you quite free to attend to us?”
“Quite,” said Reid.
“Well,” Grandpa said, “I wanted to talk to you about this boy and the Marshall Bursary.”
Jason gazed from Grandpa to me, then he went to a cupboard below the bookshelves and brought out another bottle of beer. He glanced sideways at Grandpa while he inclined the bottle. “My instructions—and of course, a contemptible usher like myself can only obey his instructions—are to keep our young friend and the Bursary as far apart as possible.”
Grandpa smiled, his grim, majestic smile, and leaned forward on the handle of his stick. Waiting with pitiful eagerness, I saw that it was to be a peroration, one of his fruitiest:
“My dear sir, it may be true that you have received these instructions. But I am here to countermand them. Not only in my own name, but in the name of decency, freedom, and justice. There are, after all, sir, even in this unenlightened age, certain essential liberties permitted to the humblest individual. Liberty of religion, liberty of speech, liberty to develop the gifts with which the Great Artificer has endowed him. Now, sir, if there is anyone low enough, and mean enough, to deny these liberties, I, for one, will not stand by and countenance it.”
Grandpa’s voice was rising magnificently and Jason was listening with delight, the faint smile which had appeared when Grandpa used the words “Great Artificer” still stretching the scar on his upper lip.
“Hear! Hear!” he said admiringly. “ Take this, old boy, you must be dry.”
He handed the glass of beer to Grandpa, and added: “ Rhetoric apart, I don’t in the least see how it can be done.”
Grandpa sucked in the foam from his moustache, and said quickly, in a different voice:
“Enter him on the quiet. Don’t say a word to anyone.”
Reid shook his head. “ It couldn’t be done. I have enough trouble on my hands already. Besides, the entry must be signed by his guardian.”
“I’ll sign it,” Grandpa said.
Jason received this oddly, and began presently to pace up and down the room in his soft cycling shoes, his brows knitted, lips no longer smiling. Following him with intent eyes, I saw that he was turning over in his mind the idea presented by Grandpa; and, with an almost painful undersurge of hope, I discerned in him signs of a mounting enthusiasm.
“By Jove!” He stopped suddenly, staring straight ahead, thinking out loud. “It would be rather splendid if we could pull it off. Keep the whole thing mum. Work like fury on the quiet. And then … if we could do it … the look on all their faces, from the Rector’s to that little runt Leckie’s … at the surprise result.” He spun round to me. “If you did get it, they couldn’t possibly prevent you from going on to college. Good Lord! It would be something. Like a dark horse winning the Derby.”
He studied me, with his full eyes, as though weighing up my points, while I flushed vividly and, turning my cap nervously in my hands, tried to sustain his stare. Whatever Mrs. Bosomley’s opinion of my equine propensities, I did not feel like a Derby winner. Mama, who always cut my hair to save the barber’s fee, had given me the day before a crop which made my scalp gleam through and reduced the size of my head to most unintellectual dimensions. But Jason, always, from the beginning, was my friend. And now, his Irish blood was quickening, quicke
ning to this new and sporting flavour of the event. He struck the air with his closed fist.
“By God!” he exclaimed, his own cheeks now flushed with excitement. “ We’ll have a shot at it. Might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. You know I always wanted you to try, Shannon. And now I do, more than ever. We’ll not say a word. We’ll just tear in and win!”
That moment can never be repeated—the lifting of my insufferable disappointment—the splendour of a re-opened future, of knowing that Reid believed in me—all this created in my heart a sense of singing joy. Grandpa was offering his hand to Jason; in fact we shook hands excitedly all round. Ah, it was, truly, a splendid moment. But Reid, wisely, cut it short.
“Don’t let’s make fools of ourselves.” He drew up a chair close to us. “This thing is going to be damned difficult for you, Shannon. You’re only fifteen and you’ll be competing against fellows two and even three years your senior. Then you’re full of faults. You know how you rush at things, jump to conclusions without proper deductions. You’ve got to correct all that.”
I gazed at him with parted lips and shining eyes, not daring to speak, but conveying everything by my silence.
“I’ve a good idea of the lie of the land,” Reid resumed in a tone so confidential it thrilled me through and through. “The picture for this year, as I see it, is this: A less than average entry in numbers, but high, quite high in quality. There are three boys in particular that I’m afraid of …” He enumerated on his fingers. “ Blair of Larchfield, Allardyce of Ardfillan High, and a youngster named McEwan who’s been educated privately. Blair you know—he’s first-rate, a good all-rounder. Allardyce is eighteen and has been up before, which gives him a tremendous advantage. But the danger, the real danger is McEwan.” Jason paused impressively—and oh, how I hated the unknown McEwan! “He’s young, about your own age, the son of the classics master at Undershaws, and his father has been tutoring him specially for years. I understand he could speak Greek fluently when he was twelve years old. Knows half a dozen languages now. Quite the child prodigy, all high forehead and large spectacles. In fact, it’s believed by those who know him that the Marshall is as good as in his pocket.”
The slight bitterness in Reid’s tone, his inflection of satire, could not disguise the fact that he was seriously afraid of this horrible boy who at breakfast probably asked his parent to pass the toast in Sanskrit. I could do no more than grit my teeth in silence.
“So you see, young Shannon,” Jason concluded in a gentler tone, “we’ll have to work genuinely hard. Oh, I won’t kill you, not quite. You shall have an hour off every day, for exercise. You won’t want to take it, once you get to the really hysterical stage, but I shall insist. You can cool your brain—God help you—walking in the country—or you can take out my bicycle—and mind you don’t puncture it. I shall have quite a number of books to give you. Keep them in your bedroom. You’d better study there too. Nothing like a good blank wall for keeping you at it. I’ll work out our schedule. I’ve got all the examination papers for the last ten years in my desk at school. We’ll go over every question. We start work to-morrow … I think that’s everything. Any comments?”
I gazed at him, my eyes lit by a white flame of ardour, my whole body quivering with the intensity of my feeling. How could I thank him? How could I tell him that I would work, fight, and die for him?
“Well, sir,” I stammered, “ I promise you …”
No use; but I am sure he understood. He rose, with alacrity, and began to select books for me from his shelves.
Grandpa helped me to carry them home. I was between heaven and earth, treading upon air.
Chapter Eight
At the beginning of June an event occurred, trivial in itself, yet so helpful to my purpose I felt it as an intervention of Providence upon my behalf, a direct answer to the petitions with which I was bombarding the Heavenly Throne.
Not long after our great decision in Mr. Reid’s room I had come in from my morning “ roll delivery” to find Adam, who seemed always to reach the house in the early hours, seated at breakfast, fresh and well-groomed, talking to Papa and Mama, having stepped out of his first-class “ sleeper” on the night express from London—whenever Adam travelled on his expense sheet he did so in slap-up style. Although his Winton business connections required these periodic returns to the North, Adam was now in London: he had been appointed Southern representative of the Caledonia Insurance Company. While this change had brought him no increase in salary, Adam insisted it was a tribute to his business acumen and a step towards great things. He was living, at this time, in a residential hotel in Hanger Hill, Ealing.
As I began my own breakfast, of porridge and buttermilk, he resumed his remarks, having broken off to give me his usual hearty greeting.
“Yes, Mama, I think it would interest you to see the house.”
“What house, dear?” Mama asked.
Adam smiled. “Why, the house I’ve just bought…”
“You’ve bought a house?” Papa spoke with the acute, almost professional interest of a member of the Levenford Building Society, in which, as a matter of fact, all his hard-wrung savings lay. “ Where?”
“On the Bayswater Road,” Adam said easily. “A first-class situation overlooking the Park. It’s a first-class house, too, cream-painted stucco, seven floors high, mahogany staircase, marble piazza, very dignified, and a freehold. But there, you don’t want to hear about it.”
“But we do, dear,” Mama breathed. “It’s the most exciting news.”
Adam laughed, holding out his cup for more tea. “Well, I’d had my eye on this property for some time, passed it every day on my way to the office. The ‘For Sale’ board had been up six months when one morning I saw a notice pasted across it: ‘Auction. Next Week.’ Ha! I thought. Might be interesting! I’d been looking out for a suitable real estate investment ever since I came South. So I dropped in the following Monday at the Auction Rooms. Usual sort of place, fine panelling, lots of gents in top hats. The auctioneer had a top hat too.” Adam gave his bacon and eggs an amused glance. “After announcing that the house had cost six thousand, which incidentally is true, he started the bidding with his eye on me, at three thousand pounds. Up it went, up, up, all the top hats bidding against one-another, until it reached five thousand five hundred, where it hung a long, long time before it was knocked down to the shiniest top hat of all. I sat back, never said a word; it was funny the way they’d tried to get a rise out of me. I’d made my inquiries, you see. I knew the bank had a mortgage of two thousand and was threatening to foreclose. The very next day I had a letter from shiny top hat offering to sacrifice the property for four thousand. I threw it in my wastepaper basket. Then …”
He took us, step by step, down the devious yet unhurried ways which had made him, only a week before, absolute owner of this magnificent mansion for the cash payment of nineteen hundred pounds.
“My goodness.” Mama gave a little gasp, enthralled yet fearful—although the bargain had been great the sum involved was, to her, colossal, terrifying, and indeed it represented most of Adam’s capital, saved over the last ten years. “ You certainly got the better of them … and London men, too. What will you do with the house now, dear? Live in it?”
“Well, no, Mama.” Adam received the naïve suggestion, enough to make the angels laugh, with a nice consideration. “The thing’s a white elephant in its present form. My idea is to convert it. Eight self-contained flats at rents varying from seventy to one hundred and fifty pounds. I calculate on a net six hundred after paying taxes and the caretaker’s wages. Let’s say a twenty per cent. return. Not bad for my first real venture outside my own business.”
Papa had been listening with strained attention. He moistened his lips. “Twenty per cent. And the Building Society pays me three.”
Adam smiled carelessly. “ Private enterprise pays higher dividends. And of course the conversion will take money. Probably another nine hundred. It’s a nuisance havi
ng to find it. I’m not anxious to let all and sundry in on such a good thing.”
A faint colour had crept over Papa’s forehead. Always his respect for Adam had been tinged by a vague distrust, the distrust of a cautious man for the intangible operations of finance. But now, this house, solid mahogany and marble, offering a princely income—he spoke with difficulty.
“I’ve always believed in bricks and mortar. It’s a pity I couldn’t take a look at it with you, Adam.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t … you might do worse.” Adam paused thoughtfully. “ Why don’t you and Mama come down and spend a couple of weeks with me this summer? Take a month if necessary, combine business with pleasure. I can put you up at Ealing. You owe yourselves a holiday.”
“Oh, Adam,” Mama exclaimed, clasping her hands at this long-hoped-for invitation.
A great deal of discussion followed: Papa, intensely cautious, never made a decision lightly. But before Adam took his departure it was settled. And I realized, with a thrill of joy, that they would be away, leaving me free of all observation and restraint, during the final stages of my study, during the Bursary examination. Nothing could have been more blessedly opportune.
The days rushed on and soon, while I worked in my room, I heard a strange sound in the house. I had to think for several minutes before I understood that it was Mama singing—low and unmusical to be sure, but still singing. Papa’s good clothes hung all pressed and ready, the two Gladstone bags were polished till they shone. Somehow, Mama had managed to buy herself, from Miss Dobbie’s, the small millinery shop which dealt in “ remnants,” a length of dark brown voile and, with flying needle, had “run herself up” a summer dress. But her greatest adventures were with fur—a stringy necklet which she had possessed for at least a quarter of a century, yet which she produced proudly each spring from its camphored hibernation. Mama’s fur! One never knew what animal had died to give it being: although there was always, at the back of my mind, the unmentionable vision of some unfortunate cat, flattened by such a prodigious weight as had destroyed poor Samuel Leckie. Mama relined it with a strip of voile, saved from the dress length, reshaped it slightly to bring it up to date. I could see her on the back green, airing it on the clothes-line, shaking it, happily, blowing into it to raise its meagre pile.… She had not had a holiday in five years.