Lord Dismiss Us (14 page)

‘Naturally I assumed that you two would want to commune about your afternoon effort. It’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m writing a long poem about it for the Mag.’

‘You’d better not.’

Carleton shared the showers with the other three, when everyone else had finished: Pryde, the poxy-faced giant; Rogers, square and almost unrecognisable without his heavy spectacles and dandruff; Johns, tall and gangling. They had to raise their voices in all that noise and steam, and they didn’t speak much anyhow, being paired off in disparity. Afterwards, he waited till Johns had reached his bed down the far end, and said: ‘Lights Out! No more talking.’ He switched them off, and crossed the landing in pyjamas, slippers and grey woollen dressing-gown, and knocked on the Doctor’s door.

‘Come in! Sit yourself down there. I’ll be with you in a moment.’

Rowles was doing something at the desk, under the green lampshade.

Carleton sat in the one ancient brown leather armchair. There was a brick pile, jutting out on the other side of the fireplace, with a flat hard cushion, on which Rowles liked to squat. On the hearth, a kettle steamed on a gas ring, beside a brown teapot, sugar-bowl, milk bottle, and two white mugs. Above the bookshelves were old School photographs, and above the mantelpiece was a photograph of the Old Man, which he had not seen before.

He was pondering, with surprise, that Roly must, of course, have felt affection for his old Headmaster of so many years, when the Doctor swivelled round, saying: ‘Well, we made right idiots of ourselves this afternoon, Carleton.’

‘I’m afraid so, Sir.’

The Doctor’s bottom obliterated the brick seat. He was crouched
over, pouring the water into the teapot.

‘I intend to persevere with my ambuscade, nevertheless.’

‘Do you mean you’re going to sit in the shower again?’

‘Whenever I have time. It’s too damn good a dodge to let it go. I’ll spare you your share in the performance – you have your own life to lead. I’ll catch him myself, you’ll see. There’s milk and sugar there. You’ve seen him, I take it?’

‘Well, naturally, I’ve seen him in dorm. He looks very innocent.’

‘He would. He’s an extraordinary creature. There are biscuits there in the tin behind you, Carleton. I won’t have any. Ah, that’s a good cup of tea.’

‘Yes very, Sir.’

The Doctor was leaning forward, looking into the empty fireplace, with his hairy hands around the hot white mug.

Carleton was thinking it was more fun in the winter, when there was a fire roaring there. It was easier to talk.

Rowles seldom made the openings, in any case. Whether this was deliberate or not, it forced you to come out with things – to break the silence, and be a worthwhile guest – which might not otherwise have been spoken.

‘Another biscuit?’

‘Um . . . no thank you, Sir.’

‘Ah.’

This was too awkward. Carleton cleared his throat.

‘I was up in Mr Ashley’s room this morning. He was . . . a bit odd.’

He had selected this subject as more interesting than the later incident concerning the tree. So far, The Crab had shown himself not to be a tough nut at all, but weak and ridiculous. It had been worth a laugh or two.

‘Ah, hah.’ Rowles put down the mug, took a pipe from the mantelpiece, and a tobacco pouch from his tweed pocket, and seemed to be going to enjoy this. ‘In what way, Carleton?’

‘Well, I don’t know exactly . . . he asked me did I mind solitude, and he said I’d slipped through here with agility, or something, and he keeps on saying “ou-boom”.’

‘Those damn Malabar caves.’ Rowles drew in, pensively, and blew out a cloud. ‘Panic and emptiness. He’s quite a performer, our Ashley, his mother’s an actress, you know, you don’t want to pay too much. . . . What did
he
have to say about solitude?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t like to ask.’

The Doctor puffed. Time passed.

‘Another cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Good. Help yourself.’

Carleton did so, trying to think of something else to say.

‘You know, Carleton, in my opinion it’s time Ashley left this Forster business to the undergraduates. It’s time the man grew up. I understand he’s now going in for yoga or some damn nonsense.’

‘Is that not grown-up?’

‘Ah no. There are biscuits in the tin behind you, by the way.’

‘I’m all right, thanks.’

‘Of course that other lunatic of his, Yeats, went Eastern too. I don’t believe in hero-worshipping myself, any more than I believe in seances or the rest of the codology. People should have more sense.’

Carleton was wondering about a whole life of common sense; doing sums here in this room and smoking a pipe. How was it achieved, and was it valuable?

‘You know we thought he was going to turn for a while?’

There was humour in Roly’s eyes. (‘We’ always seemed to mean the Pedant).

‘He had some damn priest in tow. He had him up to the School once or twice. One of those Italian smilers. I didn’t go for him. But I gather that’s over now. He’s on this other nonsense. Personally, Carleton, I don’t mind if he wants to stand arse over tip and eat yoghourt or whatever they do. It’s no concern of mine. The only thing that troubles me is that it’s a waste of a damn fine brain. It’s a great pity he didn’t get that job. It would have absorbed him, and given him the best way of losing himself. By the way, you know the jacks is next door if you want it?’

‘Yes, thanks, I’m all right.’

They gazed into the empty fire; the Doctor leaning forward, with his hand round the bowl of his pipe. Carleton glanced at the great head in profile. The tea was black, and its effect stimulating. He said: ‘My mother once wrote a poem with a quotation at the top – I think it was from some book – “Serenity only comes after passion”.’

The Doctor slowly took his pipe out from between his teeth, but continued to gaze at the fireplace.

‘Have you . . . known passion, Sir?’

The great head jerked up. The Doctor’s mouth had dropped open. He examined Carleton as if he were mad.

‘Well, I mean . . . otherwise where did you get all this serenity from?’

‘You’re a very curious bird, do you know that, Carleton?’

(This would go on to the Pedant. Or, no, maybe not. Rowles was flushed. He seemed quite embarrassed).

‘Well, tell me, Sir,’ said Carleton weakly; faintly smiling, and unconsciously using the far-apart eyes to which Ashley had objected.

‘My dear fellow, I’m not compelled to answer your extraordinary queries. I declare to goodness, Carleton, I think you must be a bit touched in the head.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir.’

This was painful.

‘Ah, never mind. You’re not the only lunatic in this place. More tea?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve lots.’

Carleton felt very uncomfortable. They sat looking away from each other.

Rowles scratched his temple delicately with his thumbnail. He said: ‘My passions have always been, firstly Mathematics, and secondly, Weatherhill, Carleton. I don’t expect you to understand that.’

There was, for once, a lack of serenity. There was feeling in his voice.

‘I think I do, Sir.’

‘I think you don’t. Listen here, Carleton, if there is one thing it is necessary to learn – and as quickly as possible – in this life, it is this – ’

Roly smoked and was tantalisingly slow.

‘The one thing that is utterly useless . . . more than that, entirely destructive, and to be avoided at all costs.’

‘What is that, Sir?’

‘The emotions.’

Carleton was most surprised.

‘I don’t understand, Sir.’

‘I don’t expect you to. But you will later on. And the sooner the better for you. I had hoped that Ashley had learnt it unusually young. But I fear not. This is certainly not the place for him. Between you and me, I opposed his coming here at the time. But I couldn’t in fairness explain to them why.’

Carleton was baffled. He tried to imagine Ashley when he was unusually young, but he was one of those people with whom it was impossible.

‘Where did
he
go to school, Sir?’

Roly made his fish face.

‘Ah, come off it, Carleton! Where do you think he went to school?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Here, man! Here.’

‘Here? Good Lord!’

‘There’s nothing unusual in that. Mr Dotterel was here too. The Old Man always preferred Old Boys to other candidates. They know the ropes.’

‘Which House was Ashley in?’

‘This House.’

‘Good heavens.’

The Doctor pointed with his pipe-stem at one of the School photographs. Carleton rose and crossed the room. It took him a while. But there was one fair-haired laughing boy who could just possibly be Ashley. Yet how he had changed! How he, too, would change! It was alarming.

‘But why didn’t you want . . . ?’

‘Ah, he got himself involved here in one of these damn silly romances. I personally steer clear of that topic. Let them get it over with and learn better. Unfortunately this developed to ridiculous proportions. I damn nearly had to ask for their expulsion.’

It was amazing to hear Roly admitting the existence of such a thing. But the way he did it made it curiously unembarrassing. Carleton felt man-to-man and adult.

‘Gosh. And who was the other. . . .’

‘He was younger. Took Orders. Now a respected rural vicar. Ashley has not only intelligence but a sense of humour. One would have imagined that. . . . Ah, never mind.’

‘But what makes you think . . . ?’

‘The point is, Carleton, he only came temporarily on the understanding that he would be getting this appointment, for which we gathered from
him
that he was a red-hot favourite. Now that, too, has gone arse over tip, and I don’t like the look of him. And your report of this morning’s conversation doesn’t improve matters. By God, it’s late. You’d better be getting along. By the way, Carleton, I am not customarily given to indiscretion, but you will shortly be adventuring away from us, and, into the bargain, you should perhaps do so with some understanding. . . . In short, put that under your hat and keep it there, would you?’

‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.’

‘Ssh!’ someone whispered, as he opened the door and light fell across the dorm. There was a click as McIver’s torch went out. He was always reading photographic magazines under the bedclothes. In the dark, Carleton felt his way past the end of McIver’s bed, and then got in between his own cool sheets.

He usually went to sleep at once, but not tonight.

It was strange to think of thirty different individuals lying there in silence, in the dark.

There was an odd, regular rustling somewhere near. If Wolseley was really doing it – and doing it incessantly – he was going to tell Dr Rowles. It was revolting. It stopped, thank goodness.

Was Gower, over there, still gloating? Or was he sleeping in forgetfulness?

Another day was over at Weatherhill.

It had been a good one; far from usual. Ashley, Ma Crab at lunch, Gower, Roly. In spite of its difficult beginning, their talk had been the best ever. He was sure that he had never talked with Johns about such matters; in so adult a way together. Imagine it of Ashley! He could not. It was incredible. And anyhow Ashley was grown-up and it couldn’t mean anything now. It was just one of Roly’s hobby-horses, like Gower. Best of all, the Doctor had, for once, made no reference to him being a cynic. Perhaps he had at last realised that he was wrong.

And yet. . . .

When he thought of tomorrow, it presented itself as the same old round: the bell, cold shower, breakfast, School, Break, more School, lunch, lie-down, Afternoon School, Games, Chapel, Tea, Prep, hot shower, bed.

And it was his last term.

He didn’t know what he wanted, but he wanted something more.
He felt restless, and empty.

There was someone infuriatingly beautiful in a corner bed, away in the dark, in that very room.

Would he go absolutely mad and ask McIver secretly to take a picture? Imagine having it in his wallet! Being able to take it out any time. This dark, happy, tantalising face smiling back at him. Small, with square shoulders, in a brown jacket perfectly cut to show his narrow waist. The face speaking their secret back to him. Imagined conversations. Whispers. Yes, you’re mine.

What rubbish! They had no such secret, and would not have.

He was astonished and alarmed to find that he was excited. He turned over, and tried to think of something else. Eventually, he thought of Gower. He managed to visualise him slipping out of the Big Schoolroom, and down the steps into the Quad. His face was an unwashed mask, with slanting eyes. Under that horrible dirty blue sports coat, there was a large tin of mixed fruit salad. Where was he going?

It was his last vision before sleeping. But he had another in the form of a dream. He saw Ma Crab leaning over a steaming vat, stirring its contents and moaning the while. Her two hairpins were gone and her greying hair hung over her face. She muttered curses now and then, and the Chaplain, near at hand, was intoning something else. ‘Say it in French! Say it in French!’ called out Ashley. There was steam all about and you couldn’t see who was there. Suddenly, with a terrible look, Ma Crab lifted out a ladle full of baked beans and thrust it straight into the face of the Chaplain, who threw up his hands and recoiled away, with an expression of horror and disgust. ‘This is all damn nonsense,’ shouted Dr Rowles. ‘It will have to stop!’

Chapter Ten

The first match was Away.

The team, plus a Twelfth Man, was allowed off School, from morning break on. They had to take a train from Marston to Temborough, which was not only a country town but also a public school of greater fame sixty miles away, where they would be given lunch; and immediately afterwards play would commence.