‘I am sorry to hear that. Is it perhaps this hot spell of weather?’
‘It may well be. I have heard of that kind of thing. There is no way of telling; personally I have little faith in the medicos of today. Let us talk of something pleasanter. Who is this young man who is to take over Dowse’s?’
‘He is a good man, I believe. Certainly he comes with a high reputation.’
‘He has much to live up to. I refer to Dowse, not his successors.’
‘Ah, Dowse.’
‘Dowse,’ said General Sanctuary who was standing near by with Mr Nox. ‘We shall not forget Dowse, eh, Jaraby?’
‘I shall not,’ said Mr Jaraby, and the Headmaster slipped away.
‘Dowse,’ repeated General Sanctuary. ‘The most sinister figure I ever encountered.’
‘I was speaking of H. L. Dowse, our old Housemaster.’
‘So was I. So am I. H. L. Dowse was perverted, sadistic, malicious, and dangerous. He should never have held that position.’
‘But Dowse –’
‘He hated all boys, possibly all people. He was a misanthrope of the deepest dye. He had so many peculiar tricks you couldn’t keep count of them.’
‘Really, Sanctuary, this is a lot of nonsense.’
‘I well remember once he invited me to his room, opened a small notebook and read me some of the filthiest stories I have ever heard. When I made some appropriate remark he hit me thunderously across the face. I thought my nose had been broken, but I had the presence of mind to threaten to report him to the Headmaster. Whereupon he promptly desisted and begged me to spare him. He was an old man, he said, the disgrace would kill him. Imagine that to a child of fifteen!’
‘Dowse was not above a bit of man-to-man smut. He saw it as part of conversation. Don’t tell me you’ve never told a smutty story, Sanctuary?’
‘Mainly at school. At school such stories were half one’s education.’
‘That’s an exaggeration. And Dowse cannot defend himself against your slander. I never heard anyone say such a thing of him before.’
‘Everyone took it as a fact. At least I’ve always assumed so. Surely I am right, Nox?’
‘Of course, of course. Dowse was half crazy.’
‘Nox’s opinion –’ Mr Jaraby checked himself. ‘Really, I’ve never heard such balderdash.’
‘Dowse used to tell boys they were going mad. He used actually to recommend brothels to boys who were leaving, claiming that he knew them to be free of disease when in fact he had specifically ascertained the opposite.’
‘Be careful, Sanctuary. You are going too far. I cannot stand here and have Dowse maligned like this. You know I think highly of him.’
‘I only speak the truth.’
‘It is not the truth.’
‘Everyone –’
‘Everyone nothing. He was a good man, he did wonders for the House. It is Dowse’s House today, after his name.’
‘It is typical hypocrisy that it should be.’
‘It is only fair. You have got some grudge against H. L. Dowse. So has Nox.’
‘My only grudge,’ replied General Sanctuary, ‘is that the man half killed me.’ He laughed and Mr Nox laughed with him.
‘You couple of old fools, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice had risen to a high-pitched shout. General Sanctuary spoke to calm him.
‘Never mind, Jaraby, we probably don’t. Dowse was a fine upstanding fellow, eh, Nox?’ And the two men, who didn’t much care for one another, laughed again.
But Mr Jaraby, walking alone towards the cricket field, was angry and upset. He had always thought Sanctuary a level-headed, sensible fellow. And what was he doing hobnobbing like that with Nox? Nox had a sly poisonous tongue and would make trouble where he could. Mr Jaraby, not for the first time in recent weeks, felt himself beset by idiots and sinners.
He slipped into a deck-chair. The players were coming on to the field again; the School had declared at a hundred and twenty for three, and now fielded. Nox used to keep the score at cricket matches; Mr Jaraby seemed to recall someone once telling him that Nox eventually became scorer for the first eleven. He closed his eyes. As President, there would be no further need to fear incurring the wrath of Nox, no need to fear his tongue and the direction it spread its venom. As President he would be once again in a position to overrule Nox when Nox got out of hand. As President he would have asked for Sanctuary’s resignation a moment or two ago; in time he might well have to ask for it, and Nox’s too, if the unfounded rumour about Dowse was not agreed to be a figment of Sanctuary’s imagination. But waiting until the time came, waiting about, neither here nor there, curbing his speech so that he should not give offence – none of that suited him; it irritated, and made him feel almost imprisoned. He wished they had had the sense to make the decision at the last meeting, so that he knew where he stood.
Mr Jaraby slept and in his dream he was one of the flannelled figures at the wicket. Cricket had never been his game; he had always regretted his inability to reach high figures quickly, to bowl a deadly ball, neatly and to a length. Yet he had acquitted himself without disgrace. He had tried, and in turn he had received an adequate satisfaction. He was happier as a second-row forward, a forward who was not just one of the eight, but one who was out on his own: the pick of the pack. In his time Dowse’s had won the House Cup four seasons running.
Jaraby’s entry to the School had been, more or less, like everyone else’s. He had suffered indignities similar to Nox’s. He had fagged and been beaten, and lazed when he should have worked. Once when he was very new his fag-master sent him into the town to buy two pounds of sugar. On the way back he dropped the soft grey bag on the road; it burst and the sugar spilled, mingling with the dust. He spooned together as much as he could with his hands, but three-quarters was lost. He explained about it to his fag-master, who beat him first and then sent him back for more. His face was blotched and red as he trudged for the second time along the road. His body, in the process of development, was awkward and gangling; his gait, affected by the punishment, somewhat out of control. He hated the whole incident, the image of the torn paper-bag, his untidy efforts to clear up the mess, the set face of his fag-master as he learnt the news, the gesture with which he so casually reached for his cane, and the deft strokes with which he inflicted pain. Years afterwards Jaraby remembered the incident. When Nox was his fag, and others before and after Nox, he saw in retrospect the justice of what had happened to him. It was not difficult to see it thus, when justice might be justly passed on. Even as he returned to the shop for another two pounds of sugar he realized that he was there to accept such things, that he must learn to ‘take it’. That was what he had not been able to teach Nox. Nox would not learn that his time would come, that for the moment he must simply ‘take it’ and live for the future, harbouring no grievance.
Mr Jaraby awoke, refreshed and lively. The scoreboard registered twenty-five for five, last man one.
‘On the contrary,’ said General Sanctuary, ‘I think Jaraby would make an excellent President. He is just the sort of man to fill the position impeccably. Ponders is nicer but less efficient.’
Seeking an ally, Mr Nox was disappointed. Back in the environs of the School, so totally the scene of Jaraby’s triumphs, his case seemed lost. Not that he had ever had one. The whole Swingler business was ridiculous; Swingler and the work he did were beneath contempt. Mr Nox felt ashamed of his own chicanery in employing the man. He would call Swingler off and would not see him again, since he disliked him so as a person. At this stage in his life he could at least choose with whom to associate.
Sanctuary, while obviously disapproving of Jaraby, would accept him as President. To Sanctuary he was just a clown. Mr Nox had not known that it was Dowse’s practice to recommend brothels. Clearly – or it could be made to seem so – Jaraby had simply been passing information on; there was nothing to support an accusation that he had spoken from his own experience. It was perhaps
a little odd that he had kept this address of Dowse’s by him for half a century, but retaining an address of that nature hardly amounted to the picture of a reckless and disgraceful profligate that Mr Nox had hoped to paint. Abruptly he accepted defeat. He knew his limitations, and the knowledge hurt him; he could not see how he might ever now achieve victory. Jaraby remained top dog: it was still in the nature of things.
13
Mr Turtle stood alone by the bicycle sheds. They were sheds that had not been there in his time: he was trying to think what had stood in their place. A small boy was cleaning the handle-bars of a bicycle with a rag, taking advantage of the day of freedom.
Approaching the boy, Mr Turtle said: ‘I broke my leg in this yard once.’
He looked around him, establishing the spot.
The boy paused in his labour, interested in the remark. He saw that at lunch something had spilled on Mr Turtle’s waistcoat and left a white stain. He said: ‘Are you an Old Boy, sir?’
He had slipped on a stick running to see if there was a letter for him. Somehow his foot had caught in the cobbles, and the weight of his falling body snapped the bone in his leg. ‘It was in plaster for nearly a whole term. I almost had to learn how to walk with it again.’
‘Wigg broke something, sir, at his prep school. I think he said a collar-bone.’
‘It is easy to break the collar-bone.’
Why should they interfere with his life like this? Why should they talk against Miss Burdock? What business was it of anyone’s but his that he was getting married? Old men got married, no one prevented them. Did they know better than he what it was like to have Mrs Strap coming to the house every morning, grumbling about the marks of his walking-stick on the linoleum? Did they know what it was to be always escaping from the images in his mind, and seeking people to talk to in parks?
‘On Sundays, sir, we can go out on our bikes. We can take sandwiches. Me and Wigg are going out on Sunday.’
‘Is Wigg – is that your great friend?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Wigg’s father has a Mercedes-Benz. And a horse called Lightning. They’re very rich, but the old horse never wins anything.’
‘What’s – what’s the other thing you said?’
‘A Mercedes-Benz? Don’t you know, sir? It’s a German car. It’s probably the finest car in the world. It’s very fast. I’ve been in it when it’s gone a hundred miles an hour. On the M.1.’
Mr Turtle said: ‘You would not reach that pace on your bicycle.’ He smiled to show he knew he was making a joke.
‘I don’t think even a motor-cycle would, sir. No, I think a motor-cycle could go that fast. A motor-cycle can go as fast as a car, can’t it, sir?’
‘Oh, definitely, I think. Faster, you know.’
The boy nodded. Mr Turtle said: ‘I had a great friend: Topham minor.’ Topham had died a few years ago, after making a success of life. Mr Turtle was godfather to one of his sons. In his will there was a legacy for the younger Topham. ‘I was keen on wild flowers when I was here.’
‘Were you, sir? I’m quite good at carpentry. I made a bird-box last term. It’s in the Junior Exhibition.’
‘I did carpentry too; but I wasn’t up to that standard. I don’t remember ever having anything in an exhibition. I don’t think there were any exhibitions.’
‘We have a woodwork exhibition every year, sir. Mr Rathbone teaches us. Who taught you, sir?’
‘Well now, d’you know, I can’t remember that either. I think it was a little man with a moustache. It’s a longish time ago.’
‘Mr Rathbone has a beard. He teaches pottery as well; and archery. He’s here today, sir, keeping an eye on the exhibitions.’
They shouldn’t have spoken that way at lunch, discussing his private affairs in public. A total stranger had even become involved in the conversation. Why should they treat it so lightly, and laugh so much, as though he too treated it lightly and was marrying without thought or care? He enjoyed talking to Miss Burdock at the Rimini, he enjoyed going with her to the Gaumont. Was that a crime? Was it a folly? Did they think he didn’t know his own mind?
‘It’s a B.S.A., sir. I had it for my birthday, from my grandmother. My parents are in Kenya, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My parents are out in Kenya. I go to my grandmother’s in the holidays. She lives in Totnes in Devon.’
Once he had gone to stay with Topham in Yorkshire. They had followed a river to its source, wading with their clothes tied to their heads. They must have looked odd, but Topham said that was the way to do it. Coming to the source was like reaching the peak of a mountain. Probably, he thought, it was one of the most exciting moments in his life.
‘Kenya is a troublesome place these days.’ The words slipped out: as soon as he spoke he was sorry he had said them.
‘It’s very beautiful, sir. Have you been there?’
‘No, I’ve never been there. I’ve seen pictures, though.’
‘Look, sir.’ And the boy drew photographs from his wallet, of scenery and animals, of a house with children and adults in front of it.
‘My mother’s just had another baby. I haven’t seen it yet, but I will this summer. I’m going out there.’
‘You’ll – you’ll like that.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s funny having a sister you haven’t seen.’
‘Your mother is a very pretty lady.’
‘She’s photogenic, sir. I’ve got another sister, older than me. She goes to school in England too.’
‘Do you know if it’s half-past three?’
‘A quarter to four, sir.’
‘I must take a pill for my heart.’
‘Yes, sir. Is that a bind, sir?’
‘Well, I have to have them.’
‘If you didn’t, sir, what would happen? Would your heart stop altogether? Would you die, sir?’
‘Probably. I have to lead a very quiet life, no excitement.’
‘Wigg says they can take your heart out and put it back again.’
‘Not, I imagine, if it’s in poor shape like mine is.’
‘I wouldn’t like to have it done to me. The heart isn’t the seat of affections, is it, sir?’
‘I’ve heard it said the kidneys are. I think you know more than I do.’
‘It’s Wigg really, sir. His father tells him. Like what would happen if you laid all the railway lines in the world end to end all the way to the moon.’
‘If you laid all the railway lines end to –’
‘We’d have to go everywhere by car. D’you think that bike looks clean?’
‘Very clean. Spotless.’
‘Would you like to see my bird-box in the Exhibition?’
‘What? Your –? Yes, yes, I would.’
‘I’ll just put the bicycle away.’
She had told him her Christian name and asked him to call her by it, but he couldn’t for the moment remember what it was. Agnes? Agatha? Angela? Helen?
The boy returned from the bicycle shed. They walked to the Exhibition.
‘That’s Mr Rathbone, sir. The man with the beard. There’s my bird-box.’
‘Well, that seems finely made. Did you do it all yourself?’
‘Mr Rathbone helped me a bit. You lift up the top to put the bread in, and that hole at the side is for the birds to go in and out. It’s got to be just the right size; if it’s too big they won’t use it. Would you like to meet Mr Rathbone?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Mr Rathbone. Sir, this is –’
‘Turtle the name is.’
‘Sir, this is Mr Turtle. He’s an Old Boy. Mr Turtle did woodwork too, sir.’
‘How d’you do?’ said Mr Rathbone, shaking hands.
‘Quite a display,’ Mr Turtle said.
‘We do our best, you know. Some good stuff the older boys turn out. You interested in woodwork, sir?’
‘Well, it was just that this young man –’ Mr Turtle looked round for the boy.
‘He
trotted off,’ Mr Rathbone said.
‘A polite boy. Very nice. You don’t often get that at that age.’
‘We do our best with them. Not the same class of boy at all, of course. Still, tempora mutantur, as the Classics have it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just a reflection in passing, sir.’
‘What?’
‘The type of boy has changed since your day.’
‘Oh. Well, I must trot off myself. Are you tied to your, hmm, stalls? Would you join me in a cup of tea?’
‘I am tied, I fear. Some kind lad may fetch me a cup if I’m lucky.’ Mr Rathbone laughed and they shook hands again. Mr Turtle, who had been fingering a sixpence to give to the boy, felt sorry that he was gone.
Tea was laid out in a large marquee, the property of a catering company. There was chocolate cake and shortbread, sandwiches, biscuits, and plates of raspberries and cream. The tea itself was of poor quality, metallic like rust water. It gushed from great tarnished urns that hissed and steamed menacingly. There were bowers of summer flowers against the canvas, tall delphiniums, roses and early asters. The Headmaster’s wife fussed about, a nuisance to the caterers.
‘Cake, Mr Turtle?’ she cried, proud that she remembered his name. ‘Chocolate cake with a thick filling? Or something else? There is lemon for that tea if you would rather.’
Mr Turtle took tea and cake. The woman was right, the filling was thick and good. Should he give her the sixpence, he wondered, to pass on to the boy? He remembered the boy’s face quite well; it would not be difficult to describe. But the Headmaster’s wife was talking to someone else.
He stood alone, drinking from a flowered cup, watching the marquee fill with people and voices. He and Topham used to hang round the marquee on Old Boys’ Day, waiting to slip in at the end of tea and take what remained of the cakes and the raspberries. Probably it was the same marquee, or at least of the same vintage: marquees are made to last. It would be nice to be talking to Topham today, as Cridley had Sole to talk to and Sole had Cridley. They weren’t aware of it but they guarded their friendship a bit. He had felt too grateful when they invited him to journey with them today. When one needed friendship, now or as a boy, there were always difficulties like that.