‘You’re fat enough; we’d better kill you off, hadn’t we?’ Roars of applause.
‘Funny, aren’t you?’
‘Does your father wear leggins?’
‘You’d better shut up.’
‘If he looks like you, I bet the cows kick him when he tries to milk them.’
The overwrought Smithers breaks out and clouts his tormentor on the head. The Hon. Wyvern-Wemyss sets up a theatrical screech. Cries of ‘Fat ’em up and kill ’em off!’ ‘Go it,’ ‘Prime Beef,’ etc., from all round. And Tiverton comes wearily down to put an end to this tableau of original sin.
One more conversation and our prologue will be over. Stevens minor, the dictator (title derived from Evans’ modern history teaching) of the Black Spot society, leans close and whispers to his lieutenant, a cheerful, chubby infant, Ponsonby:
‘This afternoon: immediately after lunch; in Mouldy’s hut: private conclave: password “Dead Man’s Chest,” countersign – “Bottle of rum.”’
‘But, you fool,’ hisses the lieutenant, ‘we’re supposed to be in the day room then.’
‘We can easily oil out; there’s no roll-call. It’s a life or death matter.’
It is a couple of hours later. Michael has a period off. He fills a pipe and walks down the long passage between classrooms that lead out to the grounds. On either side of him arise sounds of education, curiously antiphonal in effect; a strident, confident recitative from the master, alternating with a treble solo or unison passage. In Sims’ room something halfway between a marathon of coloratura sopranos and a witches’ sabbath seems to be taking place. Michael shrugs his shoulders and passes on. Tiverton’s rather petulant tones on his left: on his right Wrench is teaching the youngest form – a fluky, spasmodic voice; but he is doing it well; he has a gift. I must be nicer to him, thinks Michael. But how nightmare-ish these disembodied voices sound. And no doubt mine sounds just as repellent; though I flatter myself that I speak to boys in my natural voice. Anyway, it can’t be as bad as that hectoring drawl of Percy’s. No, I don’t like the man, I definitely do not like the man. What on earth did darling Hero go and marry him for?
He emerged into the airy sunlight, lit his pipe, and strolled down the asphalt path between Big Field and the Hay Field. Mould, the groundsman, was whitewashing afresh the lines of the running track. Big circular stacks of hay, hollow in the middle, reminded him of yesterday’s hay battle. A good romp. Tomorrow they would be dismantled and carted. He walked to the end to the path where the grounds were bounded by a thicket, and turned back. Passing behind the school block and the back of the headmaster’s house he came to the high brick wall of the private garden. At the far end of this, where a shrubbery ran close to the outer side of the wall, was Hero’s pillarbox. Just like her, he thought – not for the first time – her strange mixture of madcap play and reckless loving, to have chosen this romantic line of communication. He looked round once, his heart beating quicker, annoyed by the word ‘furtive’ entering his head, took out a loose brick, transferred a piece of paper from the cavity to his pocket, and replaced the brick. Then he walked back and sat down on a seat by the Big Field, and read her note.
‘Darling, I shall be in the Vth form haystack during lunch tomorrow. Yes, highly imprudent, isn’t it? But please come. I must see you. I must see you. H.’
He sat there, content to feel happy, till the bell range for recess. Then he went in to the common room. Surely they must be able to read his secret on his face, see that he was walking in an air of glory? Wasn’t Tiverton looking at him in a rather peculiar way? He endeavored to compose his features into a workaday expression. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.
‘Have you taken to Kruschen, or what is it?’ said Tiverton.
‘No, I’ve just had an hour off.’
Griffin came up to him, ‘Will you change the chaps after lunch? I want to have a last look round in case Mouldy has committed any gaffes. Oh, and I say, Sims wants to know if you’ll take on the stopwatch this year.’
‘Certainly, if he really doesn’t want to – are you sure, Sims?’
‘Yes, I’d really rather you did. I made rather a bloomer of it last year. I mean, I get so excited that I forget to press the button.’
‘All right, then: but I shall probably commit some solecism myself.’
‘Well, for God’s sake don’t commit it during the 440,’ said Griffin, ‘I’m backing Stevens for a record. Will anyone offer me three to one against? None? Have you no sporting instincts? Two to one, then?’
‘Done,’ said Wrench.
On which immoral note this chapter may very well close.
II
Lyric and Elegiac
‘In the morning, in the morning,
In the happy field of hay’
was lilting in Michael’s mind as he hurried out of the buildings, having seen every one sitting down safely to lunch and made appropriate excuses for his own nonattendance. The kitchen windows did not give on to the hayfield. Of course, there might be a servant wandering about in the classrooms at the back. Well, if they see us, they see us. Let them. It’s about time we had a showdown. The possibility gave Michael a warm, excited feeling inside, like brandy. He was a natural fatalist – the type of person who, rather lacking in personal initiative, welcomes the feeling of having definite action imposed upon him by circumstances. He gave one look at the blank rows of windows and stepped quickly through the gap in its walls into the haystack.
Hero was there already, in a green dress, with a packet of sandwiches at her side. She was fresh and straight as the green corn. Michael drew her down and kissed her, with the scent of hay in his nostrils. A little stream of wind flowed into their sanctuary, blowing her golden hair against his cheek.
‘Darling, you are crazy. You’ll be asking me to meet you under Percy’s study table next.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘I love you, my sweet.’
‘I think you’d better stop kissing me now. I want to eat my lunch. There are some sandwiches here for you, too.’
‘But “I on honey dew have fed”.’
‘My dear, you are lovely. No one else could carry off a remark like that.’
‘Leaving that aside for a moment, what explanation have you given to the authorities for this picnic?’
‘I told Percy that I wanted to have my lunch out in the sun. He’s used to my fantastic behaviour by now.’
‘You know, I feel rather bad, the way we talk about him – as though he was your aunt, or a dog, or something.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is rather awful. Of course, I’ve never loved him; but since I have loved you, I do feel much more kindly to him. It sounds very wicked, somehow, but there it is.’
‘Just like a woman, making the best of both worlds.’ He spoke lightly, but was aware that some hidden motive of antagonism or jealousy had caused the words. She felt it, too.
‘Darling, that was a cruel thing to say.’
He took her hand, with a quick impulsive gesture.
‘I know. I’m sorry, my beautiful. But why, why did you marry him?’
‘Panic: sheer panic. Michael, you don’t know what a craving women have at times for comfort, reassurance, the feeling of firm ground beneath one’s feet.’
‘And now you’ve gone out of your depth again.’
‘But I feel different now. I’ve got you beside me, and it makes me seem buoyant and much stronger. I don’t think I could be a coward again, unless you stopped loving me.’
‘Hero, you’re much braver than I am.’
‘I don’t know. One can’t really tell till the emergency comes along, can one? I wish sometimes that some crashing big one would turn up, and cut this tangle we’ve got tied up in.’
Michael stroked the feathery down of her arm; said tentatively: ‘What do you think about this divorce business? Would Percy –?’
‘Dear, we’ve had this out before. I’m not sure, but I think it’s a thing he would be hopelessly obstinate over
. And anyway, I’m not going to ruin your career.’
‘My career!’ broke in Michael bitterly: ‘an assistant master in a preparatory school. God help us! Don’t you understand that if I was prime minister, poet laureate, admiral of the fleet, and editor of the Times, I’d rather have my career ruined by you than live without you. The trouble is, I’ve no money: none of your “comfort and reassurance”.’
Tears started in Hero’s eyes.
‘Oh, my sweet, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. This business has just got me down. But, Hero, you would like us to be more than lovers, to be married, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then, let’s tell him. Please. After all, I’m not a halfwit. I’m sure I could get some sort of a job. I might even degrade myself to writing novels.’
‘You sweet; let’s hope it needn’t be as bad as that. But be patient. I’m going away tomorrow, for two months. I’ve promised my mother. I’ll think it out by myself then. I can’t think when you’re so close to me. And in August I’ll write and tell –’
‘Hero, I love you. I leave it all to you. Don’t let’s waste any more time talking. They’ll be out of dinner soon.’
So they turned to each other and kissed for a long time. Then Hero went in. And after a little Michael walked towards the thicket, hugging his pain and happiness to himself.
It is two-fifteen p.m. The Rev. and Mrs. Vale are standing at the far gate, welcoming the first arrivals of the parents. Michael Evans, Esq., B.A., has just supervised the boys’ changing; sent this one to the matron for a clean pair of trousers, found the lost stocking of that one, adjured A. not to go out without his hat and B. not to carry that large duck’s egg in his pocket. He has also answered in ringing tones and the negative no less than fourteen separate and consecutive queries ‘need we wear sweaters, sir?’ All this has been done in the midst of a shindy like a rookery ten times amplified, for discipline is relaxed today, and the silence rules abandoned. As a matter of fact, Michael has noticed this uproar no more than a city-dweller notices the sounds of traffic. The preparatory schoolmaster soon learns the knack of retiring into a kind a soundproof shell: if he fails to learn it, he either takes to drink or goes crazy.
Neat in their clean white shorts and bright blue blazers and stockings, the boys stream out on to the field. Those who are expecting their parents move off separately and with restraint towards the far gate. As each recognises father or mother, his pace quickens involuntarily for a step or two, then is controlled to a self-conscious sedateness. Only the very youngest ones run. Michael sees Griffin approaching him, with an exercise book and a large pistol. He is wearing a double-breasted grey flannel suit and looks murderous.
‘Who were you thinking of shooting?’
‘Can you believe it? That moron, Mouldy, put up one too many sets of hurdles?’
‘I can well believe it. Look out, here comes Gadsby. Let’s move off.’
But Gadsby, borne along on a strong gale of whisky fumes, caught them up and held them in the doldrums of his conversation till they were rescued by Percy fussing up to Griffin with inquiries about the tape.
Michael moved away with alacrity to where Tiverton was standing, looking very cool and dapper.
‘I see you’ve just escaped.’
‘Really that man makes me despair of my profession,’ exclaimed Michael.
‘Preparatory schoolmasters,’ announced Tiverton sententiously, ‘fall into two categories – the Old Contemptibles and the Young Objectionables. Gadsby and I are included in the former class, yourself and Wrench in the latter.’
‘This station will now close down,’ replied Michael rudely.
‘I say,’ he went on, ‘old Simmie’s had a wash and brush-up, hasn’t he?’ He pointed to where Sims, in a suspiciously creased brown suit of antique workmanship, was talking with a parent.
‘Yes, he’s brought out that suit for Sports Day every year since I can remember. His contribution to the universal gaiety.’
Michael craned over the assembling heads to catch a glimpse of Hero. There she was, in a cluster of animated females and deferentially inclining males. A gust of unreasonable anger swept over Michael. He hated it, seeing her at home in a different world from his own; so withdrawn from him and lively and socially competent. His anger transferred itself to the company in general. The spectacle of all this painted, feathered, complacent, chattering flock made him feel sick inside. It was to maintain this portentous scum that millions sweated or starved beneath the surface. ‘The fine flower of civilisation’: but they hadn’t even looks to justify them. The women were powdered, jerky skeletons, and the men like lost sheep.
‘The British bourgeoisie is beginning to have rather a hunted look in its eye, don’t you think?’
‘If you’re going to talk politics you’d better foregather with young Wrench,’ snorted Tiverton.
‘Thank you, but I’d rather not. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Dunno. I’ve not seen him for some time. I expect he’s crouched over his illustrated copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin.’
‘Really, Tiverton, you have a most unhealthy imagination. Oh, Sweeny’s just going to ring his bell. I must go over to the finish: got to time this race.’
The 440 was run on a circular course twice round, the start and the finish being opposite to where the main body of the spectators stood. The boys began to shout for their favorites. ‘Go it, Stevens!’ ‘Come on, Anstruther!’ ‘Wilkinson! Wilkinson!’ A large-eared, bespectacled boy was giving, no too sotto voce, a faithful rendering of a wireless commentator to an admiring group of friends. ‘This is the Sudeley Hall sports ground. The 440 yards race is about to commence. They are taking off their blazers. They are lining up. Where is Stevens? I can’t see Stevens. Yes, there he is. He has the outside berth. The favourite has the outside berth. Mr. Griffin is officiating with the pistol – Mr. Edward Griffin, the celebrated gunman. Will you speak a few words into the microphone, Mr. Griffin? No, perhaps it’s as well that he should not. Now! They are going down on their marks! In a moment you will hear the pistol. Hallo, what’s happening? I can’t quite see. (Get out of the light, Biles, you little tick!) Stevens is sitting down. Oh, he is doing up his shoelaces. Now they’re ready again. On your marks! Get set! Hallow! Old Griff has got the pistol jammed. Now it’s right. On your marks! Get set! Go!! That was the starting-pistol you heard. They are rounding the first corner. Anstruther is in the lead. Bravo, Anstruther!’ Here the violently cultured voice broke off, and was replaced by the owner’s natural shrill screams: ‘Come on Stevens! Steeevens!’
It was a great race. Michael, in the appalling days to come, was to remember it vividly and gratefully, as front line soldiers in the Great War remembered some scene, cricket on a village green, a farmhouse tea, shire horses standing up grandly against the skyline – which somehow grew to become their vital link with sanity and England. The brown-green short grass; the greyhound grace of the runners; the feel of the stopwatch hot in his hands; Anstruther’s grim tenure of the lead round the last bend and Stevens, white in the face, coming up with a superlative rush of speed and passing him three yards before the tape. A set of pictures that was to recur again and again to Michael; as though to a man drowning, at the last crisis of breath.
Michael had automatically clicked the watch, smiling uncontrollably, tears pricking his eyes. He became aware of a hand squeezing his elbow. He looked down and saw Sims, trembling with excitement, his usually dull eyes sparkling behind his spectacles. He felt a ridiculous wave of affection for the little man. ‘By Jove,’ Sims was saying, ‘what a race! I say, has he beaten the record?’ Only then did Michael remember to look at the watch’s hand. Yes! He’d beaten it. By a fifth of a second. Every one crowded round. The time was chalked up on the blackboard, ‘a school record’ underneath it. Yells and clapping from the whole ground. The hero was practically winded again by dozens of hands clouting him on the back.
The sports ran their
course. Parents began to get bored and move about in gossiping groups. The distinguished local resident stood up uneasily behind an array of silver cups, and drew shaky parallels between running and citizenship, patriotism, Christianity and other abstract themes. More cheers and backslapping. At four-thirty it was all over. The parents had retired, some to tea with the headmaster, others to stuff their children in the neighbouring village. The remnant of the boys and the staff went in to their more frugal meal, unconscious of the fact that one of their number had been lying dead for some time, his face hideously black and his tongue clenched between grinning teeth, not a hundred yards away.
Tea is over. Sims, Evans, Gadsby and Wrench are sitting about in the common room, in various attitudes of exhaustion. Griffin has gone out to supervise the clearing away of the sports apparatus.
‘Well,’ said Gadsby expansively, ‘that’s over. It’s extraordinary how good a cup of tea tastes after a hot afternoon in the sun. Jove, we’ll not see a race like that 440 for a good few days to come – eh, Evans?’
‘No; it was certainly a race and all.’
Wrench lit a cigarette, ‘The way Stevens caught him up on the last bend! A jolly good effort.’
‘Why, old man, he caught him in the straight, surely,’ protested Gadsby.
‘Yes, I know. But he was coming up on the bend fast, wasn’t he? Or wasn’t he?’ Wrench was grievously addicted to obsolete society slang.
‘Didn’t see you at the beginning of the race, Wrench?’ said Sims. ‘Where were you standing?’
Wrench leaned over to flick his ash into the grate, ‘Oh, I was gadding around. Acquiring merit with parents and all that.’
Tiverton came in. He had been doing the rounds. As he opened the door a piercing shriek was raised in the passage: ‘Wemyss! Wemyss!’ Then a snatch of conversation. ‘Where is that squit, Wemyss. I want to borrow some cash off him. He’s always rolling.’ ‘I expect –’ The door closed. Tiverton came in and sat down, saying: