Lord Dismiss Us (17 page)

We need seventeen. We must do it. We’re going to.

There’s another three, at least!

Up to you. Ouch! Be careful.

Glorious! ‘Come on!’

He smiled at me as he passed. He smiled! We have it. He knows it. We have it.

They’re shouting their heads off by the Pavilion.

We’re down to six.

‘Yes, come on! Yes. Yes, again!’

We’re down to three.

And it’s you.

Watch these slow ones. Watch these slow ones.

Yes, that was wise.

What about this? Gosh he’s going to try it.

Yes! It’s a four. It must be. A certain four. We’ve won!

He’s grinning and blushing, and I’m running down the pitch to him. What am I doing? What on earth am I doing? I’ve grasped him by his bare brown arm – these awful clumsy batting gloves!

‘Well done, marvellous, marvellous!’

‘I didn’t. You did.’

He thinks I’m mad.

The whole field is watching me, but they’re all clapping. Perhaps it’s all right.

‘Well played, Allen.’

That was better.

Carleton started off, thinking they would walk out together. But Allen wasn’t with him. He stopped and looked around, confused.
The two umpires were communing. Yes, of course, it wasn’t necessarily over: there was Sinnott and someone else, and it wasn’t nearly time up. ‘We’ll carry on for a wee while, Carleton,’ called out
Jimmy Rich.

‘Oh. Well then. . . .’

He didn’t like to shout this across the field. It seemed immodest. So he went over to Jimmy, and said: ‘In that case, I think I should retire, and give the others their turn.’

‘Righto. Great going, Carleton, boy. Whatever came over you at all?’

‘I don’t know.’

As he began to walk off, the clapping began again all round. He thought there had been too much now, and wanted it to be over. All the same, one couldn’t deny the glow of delight. What have I made? I don’t even know what I’ve made. Lost track there at the end. But it must be a hundred and twenty something. Not out. I’ve never made more than fifty in my life. Wait till my father hears! There were happy faces ahead of him, and shouts of ‘Hurray!’ and ‘Well done, Carleton!’ The nearest was Sinnott, who was going in to bat, and though he must have hated being put in after Allen even he looked admiring. ‘You must feel pretty good,’ he said, with a smile on his wrinkled, sexy face. It was perhaps a little too perceptive. Carleton had instinctively made his way towards the Matron and Ashley – as the persons least likely to keep up the performance. But as he sat, taking off his pads, she kept on bubbling away – ‘Honestly, I never thought I’d be interested in a cricket match. You were marvellous. I’ve never been so excited in my life.’

‘You’re embarrassing the hero of the day,’ said Ashley.

And normality returned, like a cold shower.

But not for long. They all foregathered outside the great main door at seven. Merryman and Bewick and Sinnott turned up at the last minute, with two of the Temborough players, trying to look innocent. They had actually asked Carleton to come away with them for a smoke – an amazing compliment. But it wasn’t worth risking, with Steele around. Jimmy Rich said nothing. There was too much confusion going on. Foxy Fred was all flustered and apologetic. Only two cars had turned up, and he was in such a state that he had put everyone in a fever, on top of the general excitement of leaving: with Rich shouting, ‘Don’t worry, old boy, sure what does it matter, we can all squeeze in. Come on, Nancy, on me knee. Pile in, lads, pile in!’

Ashley had cunningly got himself the seat by the driver. There was a scramble for places. Carleton was in the back corner, with someone between him and Rich. On a pull-down seat, Sinnott had quickly and calmly gathered little Hamilton Minor into his lap – the nerve of them! There were people still outside and the other car must be just as full. There was a face at the door. ‘Come on,’ he said. Allen sat on his knees. Oh gosh . . . as they drove away, waving and cheering. On the very points of his knees. Everyone was shouting and laughing, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Not even Allen, who was joining in. Did he know? Did he know that if he moved down it would be unbearable? Impossible to tell, he was a cool cricketer. And this was ecstasy enough. Such absolute unimagined joy. He was afraid to raise his hands to hold him. No, he had laid his right hand gently on Allen’s soft blue blazer. On his waist. Oh heavens . . . has he felt my hand, does he know? The black hair came out in a wave from under the back of his blue cap. His neck was brown. His beautiful shoulder-blades moved inside his blazer, as he turned at an angle to join in the talk. He had a faint, sweet smell. He is on
my
knees! He is on my knees, and you can all see, and nobody, nobody cares . . . and nobody really knows. Good luck to you Sinnott and your little friend, you don’t feel what I feel, you don’t know what I feel. May these moments of bliss go on and on for ever!

Chapter Eleven

It was even windier as they struggled in the dark up past the front of the Head’s House. God had set the school upon a hill and given it no protection against the elements. Hence its name. The front door opened and Lloyd stood there, with his bat-like ears silhouetted against the hall light, looking like a character in some Gothic mystery.

‘Mr Rich.’

The hollow sound came clearly to them, out of the gale, even though the butler had scarcely raised his voice. It sounded like an invitation to disaster.

They followed Jimmy Rich uncertainly up the steps. Lloyd was murmuring something to him. He turned and said: ‘Come along in, lads, the Head wants to see us.’

They crowded awkwardly into the hall. A faded carpet ran down the centre, but it was narrow, and their boots mostly resounded on grey stone flags. There was a small, dusty chandelier on high. Lloyd had gone into the Head’s study to announce their capture; and the Crab came out at once.

‘Well, what’s the news?’ he said, looking benevolently at Rich, and at all of them, but sounding almost apprehensive.

‘We licked them, Sir,’ said Rich.

‘Really!’ The Head was surprised. He looked around them, and he appeared startled again when his eyes fell on the Matron and Ashley.

‘Well done. Well done,’ he said.

‘This is the hero of the day,’ said Rich. ‘Tell him what you made, Carleton, boy.’

‘Um . . . A hundred and twenty-eight, not out, Sir.’

‘Really! Well done, indeed, Carleton, well done!’

Carleton felt he was being examined in an entirely new light. Of course the Crab was an old ass. But even so. . . .

There was a faint cough from the staircase.

‘They’ve had a great victory, Cecilia,’ called out the Head.

She had paused half-way down, looking strange. Carleton wondered if she had been visiting the Reverend Cyril Starr.

‘I see that supporters were in attendance,’ she said; and everyone glanced at the Matron and Ashley.

‘You people cricket fans?’ asked the Head; and somebody giggled.

‘Yes. We were very excited,’ said Nancy, blushing. Ashley was running fingers through his hair, and looking as if he was going to commit murder.

‘I trust no medical attention was required?’ said Ma Crab.

‘No. There were no injuries, Mrs Crabtree,’ said Matron.

‘Well, we’re very pleased,’ said the Head. ‘Carleton, Dr Kingsly asked me to tell you that he wants you and Allen right away at Choir Practice. Allen, you’ll be excused the rest of Pre
p
.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

They thought he was pretty silly, but it had been decent of him to see them. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad sort.

They clattered out past Lady Jane Grey’s trunk, and then past the door of the Dining Hall and into the Quad. Allen had to relinquish his side of the Bag, which Jimmy Rich had agreed could be taken up to his room for the night, to save them bringing it all the way down to the Cricket Pavilion in the dark. There was no one obviously Junior as a substitute, and Sinnott promptly took hold of it, with the air of being a great help. When he and Hamilton Minor had delivered it, they would be alone together in the night. Carleton envied and wondered at Sinnott’s daring and promptness. But he and Allen had parted from the others now, and were walking along the Cloisters together, under the two lights.

He had escaped again when they boarded the train, and told himself that it was all dangerous nonsense, to be forgotten at once. But his heart was fluttering and the ache to stretch out a hand and touch was a marvellous pain. To be singled out by the Head! He had thought for a second that the whole world must know. But in fact they
were
the only two choir members on the First Eleven; old Kingsly
did
hold his choir practices on Saturday nights, in preparation for Sunday, and because Saturday night Prep was shorter and not very serious; and it was perfectly natural. They went up the steps without a word, and the Chapel Square was dark, and he thought oh gosh I’m going to put my arm around him, what will he say, what will he do, will he be horrified or will he accept, does he know, did he know in the car, can this possibly exist in one of two people only, mustn’t it surely be something created between two, is it possible it would come to him as a complete surprise?

Carleton thought of so many questions that they reached the open doors without incident and passed through the ante-chapel.

The lights seemed terribly bright. Carleton was dazzled. Kingsly – known as The Beatle – was perched on the narrow front rail of one side, conducting the trebles across the aisle. The voices ceased as he turned his round spectacles on the newcomers.

‘Your cap, Carleton,’ he said. ‘Your cap, man.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

Allen, who was no Prefect, least of all a Chapel Prefect, had remembered to take his off. Damn everyone for being so calm and sensible.

‘To whom was the victory?’

‘To us, Sir.’

‘Good for you. I’m afraid we’ve nearly finished, but of course in this place Music bows to Cricket,’ said Dr Kingsly, who was usually the best-tempered of men. ‘You and . . . uh, Allen, had better stay behind after Chapel in the morning and I’ll run through the anthem with you.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘Now then, let’s have all of you together.’ The Precentor sprang from his perch into the middle of the aisle. ‘Beginning of the second verse. O.O.O.O.’

He sang out the note for the basses, the tenors, the altos and trebles. The Beatle could sing any note. He could sing a whole soprano solo if anybody wanted it. He raised a hand to conduct and they all began –

‘O loving wisdom of our God!

When all. . . .’

A funny thing happened as Carleton went to find a place. A boy named Ferguson moved out to let him in beside Naylor, murmuring: ‘I expect you two want to sit together.’

Really, something acknowledged like this was so much easier, so much more real, than the other: and Naylor was looking very good in a dark-green coat. Carleton was still in an excited state. But everything was now translated into Naylor’s elbow, which was pressing on his. Was it deliberate? Yes, it was. He glanced across the aisle and saw Allen studying his hymn-book. Of course the boy had shared and noticed nothing! In any case, it was out of the question. There was no hymn-book in front of Carleton and he was singing out of Naylor’s –

‘A second Adam to the fight

And to the rescue came.’

‘Quiet, you tenors, quiet! Ssh!’

‘O wisest love! that. . . .’

The Beatle was comic to watch, for those who were not used to him. He was extremely imitatable: a tiny man, tense and springy in all his movements, and always exhibiting the utmost enthusiasm for the work in hand. He was seldom caught in repose, and had formerly been known as The Sprite. His black hair took years off his age; which was fifty-five. It fell down on his forehead in a thick wild fringe. But his round specs, his enthusiasm, and his innocence, were all boyish too.

He was suddenly singing with the trebles, in a voice purer and more piping and more like a young boy’s than any of theirs – ‘Should strive and should prevail.’

Naylor had moved the hymn-book, lying on his open right hand, on to Carleton’s white trousers. The back of his hand pressed firmly down on Carleton’s leg.

‘And that a higher gift than grace . . .’

This was very unlike Naylor, who was always the impassive recipient of Carleton’s little advances.

Carleton was surprised by his own calm. He sang exactly as before.

Kingsly clapped his hands together and they were silent.

‘You must go down
cleanly
there, trebles. This isn’t some dreadful pop song or whatever they’re called. Again, please. Trebles only.
And
.
. .’

‘
And
Eh-eh-ssence aw-aw-all. . . .’

‘Once more!’

‘
And
Eh-eh-ssence. . . .’

‘Better. Everybody!’

‘
And
Eh-eh-ssence aw-aw-all dee-vine.’

‘Better. Now we’ll finish with the last verse, and let’s hear your very best this time. Tenors, up! “Praise to the
Ho
-liest. . . .” Some of you were flat. Now then –

‘Praise to the
Ho
-liest. . . .’

Naylor moved the hymn-book again, so that the back of his hand rested firmly between Carleton’s legs.

‘. . . in the height.’