Lord Dismiss Us (18 page)

Carleton found himself responding. As he did so, there was a slight extra pressure from the back of Naylor’s hand. It was extraordinary: no one had ever done such a thing to him and yet he sang on, coolly and calmly. So did Naylor. There was a cool, but thrilling, complicity between them. He thought for a second that there might be some terrible blasphemy in this; but the hymn meant nothing; the words meant nothing; not, at any rate, to this rather unusual pair of Chapel Prefects.

‘In all His words most. . . .’

Why, suddenly, this initiative from Naylor? Could it be something to do with him being in his cricket clothes? There was nothing else different. Never mind, it was so simple and so exciting.

‘Most sure in all His ways.’

‘Good, good. Sing it like that tomorrow. Good night to you.’

Naylor put the book away. Carleton glanced at his profile. He was impassive.

One might almost think he had done nothing. Noticed nothing.

Later, there was a curious silence between them as they made the Chapel ready for the morning’s Sung Communion. There was something a little uncomfortable, and the few things they said were cold – almost curt, almost hostile.

The Chaplain was in his room, reading a book. He made some comment about Carleton’s cricket clothes. They set off with the altar-cloth, the gold communion cup, the bread and wine. In the Chapel, they laid a damp cloth over the wafers. There was none of the usual nonsense. Carleton felt constrained.

Naylor locked the big oaken doors with a large key, which he put in his pocket. They had switched out the light above the door. It was inky dark. The wind was making a wild noise among the trees of the wood.

Carleton was walking away towards his own House, over the Square, but for some reason he had not said ‘good night’, and for some reason Naylor was walking that way too, beside him. And he realised he was excited again. Somehow Naylor knew it. Or did he? At any rate, Naylor suddenly grabbed at him. Fiercely. No, no, impatiently – perhaps that was it. Carleton was in no condition to analyse. He heard himself say, pushing Naylor’s hand away, ‘Wait a minute’. And it seemed to confirm that Naylor was merely impatient. It was extraordinary: he had made a decision, instantly, and with this amazing calm, as if from experience. ‘Over here,’ he said. He was leading the way towards the storm-tossed wood. Naylor was somewhere behind him; obedient.

Cool as he thought he was, he knew that he must really be eager too; because their feet were scarcely in the long grass when he lay down; and it was right under the upper window of Roly’s room. The light was on, but far up and of no importance. All the other lights were out. Naylor was down beside him, and scrabbling at his buttons. There was something not so good about this. He had to help. Naylor
was
being fierce now. It was as if . . . as if this was some kind of revenge for all Carleton’s attentions. Naylor had touched no other part of him. There was no affection at all. No love? Yes, it was like some kind of vengeful attack.

Something had gone. The pleasure had gone. He was not there. Naylor was just attacking him. And failing. His own voice, cold and clear, and with a detached and mild animosity, was heard in the wind, directly under his Housemaster’s chambers:

‘You don’t seem to be having much success.’

‘We’ll soon see about that,’ was Naylor’s harsh reply, right in his ear. And he went at it with renewed ferocity.

It had to be seen through now, if it was possible. The funny thing was, he felt a bit sorry for Naylor and his failure, and maybe disappointment; though his detachment was complete.

He waited for news.

Naylor stopped.

Was it possible? Yes, it was. He was wet.

He buttoned his trousers. Naylor was still there beside him, but miles away. Yet for some reason, in spite of everything, he felt a tenderness. He wanted to turn and embrace Naylor. But only for a moment. It made no sense, after this unpleasantness. Naylor would probably push him away. Or would he? Was he expecting something? No, it was a washout. They were apart.

‘I think we’d better go.’

‘I think we had,’ Naylor said; not doubtingly, but with – almost – bitterness.

They were getting to their feet.

Carleton’s home was the nearer.

‘Good night,’ he said; and this was quite fond. After all, there was now an understanding between them and them alone. There had been an unmasking, even though it had been a fiasco. They shared a secret, even if it was only a failure.

‘Good night,’ said Naylor; and it was sharper; but almost sarcastic, and almost amused – which Carleton thought was a good thing. All was over. This would never be mentioned between them. But they would still be quite good companions. Perhaps better.

Naylor had disappeared.

Yes, Carleton thought, going into his own House, we are both older and wiser. We have both disposed of something. We have learned something. It was what they called Experience.

He felt good. He felt more grown-up. He wiped himself with a handkerchief, and went into the Big Schoolroom, which was in darkness. Feeling his way, he struck his hip painfully on a corner of the ping pong table. There was a light falling into the corridor. It must come from the washroom. It shouldn’t be on. He turned the corner and glanced in, with his hand on the light switch.

Dr Rowles was there.

He was polishing his shoes. At this hour of the night!

It must be nearly eleven.

He was bent over, with his large behind under the sports coat directed towards Carleton, and with one foot up on the bench. He always kept his shoes on for this performance, to leave both hands free to whip a cloth back and forth across the shoe, occasionally grunting as he did so.

‘Sorry, Sir, I didn’t know. . . .’

‘Look here!’ roared the Doctor, standing bolt upright, but with one foot still upon the bench. He turned. He was flushed with exertion, and fright.

‘Look here, Carleton . . .’ he said faintly. ‘Don’t do that again, damn you. Do you want to give me a blasted heart attack?’

‘I’m very sorry, Sir. I thought you heard me.’

‘I see you’re still in your regalia,’ said Rowles, turning away and polishing again, but with less vigour.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Carleton went across and stood looking down in fascination at the astonishing shine that was appearing on the round-capped, slightly creased, brown shoe.

‘I’ve heard all about your apotheosis,’ murmured Rowles, rather breathlessly. ‘I’d very much like to have seen it.’

This was kind, and flattering – about something which Carleton
felt had happened years ago. Yet the Doctor seemed unusually tense.

‘They tell me Ashley was there. What in God’s name induced
him
to travel?’

‘Well, I don’t know, Sir. He was with Mr Rich and Matron.’

‘He’ll get small change out of that bright pair,’ said the Doctor, putting his foot down on the pink flags, and substituting the other foot with a ‘clonk’ that shook the whole bench. ‘The man should learn to live with himself.’

Why couldn’t people one admired speak kindly of each other?

‘They say that no man is an island, Sir.’

(He was putting in the ‘Sirs’ tonight, because the Doctor’s mood was a little frightening).

‘Balls. Come off it, Carleton! All men are. Thank God,’ said Rowles, attacking the second shoe with his former vigour.

‘I don’t see that, Sir. And I don’t see why it’d be something to be thankful for.’

(He couldn’t help thinking Roly’s remark had a very odd relevance to what had just happened with Naylor).

‘You don’t? You really are a curious bird, Carleton. If you’re going in for platitudes, why don’t you try “the bliss of solitude”, which at least is real, unlike yours?’

‘I don’t know such bliss, Sir.’

‘No. And I’m afraid Ashley doesn’t either,’ said the Doctor, standing now on his two shining feet, and throwing the cloths, brushes and polish into a large wooden box, on which were the initials ‘W.R.’ ‘Or he’s forgetting. The whole world is afflicted now with the notion that bliss, and even mere contentment, are only obtained by running after each other’s arseholes. Whereas, in fact, that’s the last place they’re to be found.’

Rowles had moved across the floor on his silent, spongy soles, and was running the taps in one of the basins.

Carleton had felt a moment of fright. Was it possible that Rowles had seen something from his window? What else could he be talking about? What on earth had it to do with Ashley going out with the other two?

‘Where are they to be found, Sir?’

‘In solitude. In yourself. It’s so bloody easy – that’s what gets my dander up.’ He had stopped the taps, and washed his hands with the bar of soap at least three times. ‘We are islands anyhow, and, as islands, by God’s good grace we can find Joy. It couldn’t be made more easy. But people prefer to put their trust in fornication. Well, that’s all right by me, but let it not be suggested that they are living Life at its richest, and I am not. Because the exact reverse is the truth.’

The Doctor lowered his great head, cupped his hands, and splashed the water on his face. And did so again, snorting through his nose.

‘No one would suggest that, Sir.’

‘
You
have, Carleton! Or you’ve come damn close to it.’

Rowles was going blindly across the room, with his hands held on high, towards the roller towel.

‘I never . . .’

He pulled the towel down with a sharp jerk.

‘You tackled me there with some balls about passion and serenity. I knew your game all right.’

‘Oh, Sir, I never meant . . .’

Rowles jerked the towel down again.

‘Ah, skip it, Carleton, you won’t fool
me
. Listen here. . . .’ He took a nail-file from his pocket, and worked deftly on nails. ‘That creature’s got my goat. I was in the shower for a while this afternoon, and I saw him go in and out, but he appeared unencumbered. Find out discreetly if anyone’s lost anything. In future, you’ll have to put out large articles – like cake – so it’s
quite clear
to me in the mirror if he’s encumbered.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘It’s damn late. Where have you been, by the way?’

‘At Choir Practice, Sir. And then we had to put out the things for Communion tomorrow.’

‘Mm. . . . Well, I should do up your flies properly, if I were you. Why you chaps have to go round pissing in the dark – and on your pants too, I see – when there’s a perfectly good jacks, I’ll never know. I put in two new bulbs myself there, yesterday. You’d better get up to bed.’

‘Yes, Sir. Good night, Sir.’

‘Good night.’

He went upstairs, blushing, and with the shaming suspicion that somehow Rowles knew, or had guessed. He was in such a state – could it be merely because of Gower? And maybe missing the cricket? He always seemed to know everything. No, he couldn’t. He would have said much more. It must be just Gower.

He opened the door. A torch clicked off somewhere. His hand found the end of McIver’s bed. Wolseley was, mercifully, asleep – but snoring.

He lay on his back and remembered Someone at the end of the dorm. Sitting on his knees. How could it have all turned into this? Was this what they meant by the treachery of the human heart? No, there had been no treachery. It had been something entirely different. One of his mother’s many incomprehensible poems had been called ‘Love: Sacred and Profane.’ That was what it was; and from now on it would be Sacred or nothing.

Having made his solemn decision, and being tired out after a long, eventful day, young Carleton fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Twelve

After Chapel next morning, The Beatle was unable to take them through the anthem for that night’s Service; to Carleton’s great disappointment, because it had begun to seem like a marvellous stroke of fortune.

Mr Crabtree had decided that this was the Sunday for delivering his Conclusions to the entire, and fully available, Staff; though the Chaplain – perverse as ever – chose to remain above in his eyrie. Dr Kingsly’s plea for absence was rejected. Steele had arranged for the placing of high-backed chairs along two walls of the Study; and the gentlemen of the teaching body sat uncomfortably in line. Occasional glints of sunshine through the tall windows illumined this ill-assorted company. There were peculiar pairings; most of them cases of faute de mieux. De Vere Clinton was muttering through his Beard at Dotterel, who was keeping a straight face. Ashley sat next to Jimmy Rich. The Beatle was beside white-haired old Mr Wall, with whom he shared an ever-youthful innocence, though without the aura of Mr Chips. Rowles smoked his pipe next to The Pedant, and ignored The Cod on his other side. The Doctor looked stern: he was very aggrieved indeed that, contrary to the precedent of forty-seven years, the Headmaster had omitted to consult with him in advance.

The Head was behind his desk, which again displayed Old Weatherhillian Magazines. The four Demon Barbers had recently visited – (How was it that the hair of De Vere Clinton’s artists appeared to be unaltered? He would have to look into it) – and the high sweep above the ears always gave him an extra confidence. All the same, he was apprehensive. Some of these men held him in disdain, for his lack of scholarship. None of them had been particularly friendly. Ashley, with his nose wrinkled, and his hand going continuously through his hair, was examining him like some unwelcome and incomprehensible freak.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Head began, ‘the term is now well advanced, and I don’t think you can accuse me of being hasty in coming to conclusions. I wanted – as did my wi
f
e – to get the feeling of this ancient and celebrated school, before making any judgements. I believe that we have achieved that. It was not difficult. As you will all agree, Weatherhill has a very definite character; a combination of history and tradition, of loyalty and Christian fellowship, in this truly wonderful setting.

‘At the same time, I will not disguise from you that I came here forearmed with reports that all was not entirely well. Lord Mount-heath and Sir Charles Pike, who I hope you will all shortly have the good fortune to meet, had expressed their concern to me on several occasions. A number of parents have been confiding doubts and fears over the past few years. The yearly admissions have been perceptibly diminishing. I consider that nine New Boys this summer term is definitely not enough. It is true that it is gratifying that Lord Fitzmaurice has seen fit to trust us with his son’s education, but we can do much better than this. Lord Mountheath and Sir Charles have in confidence mentioned to me the names of friends and colleagues of still greater renown, who are merely awaiting a sign that Weatherhill is what she was always reputed to be.

‘There have been too many failures in examinations, gentlemen. There have been too many defeats on the field. (Though I may say we were delighted with yesterday’s victory). And there have been rumours – notably in Marston – of a more serious and disturbing nature, some of which have been echoed in the correspondence of parents themselves.

‘All these things point to a laxity, a lack of earnestness and of the ambitions proper to the young men whose lives it is our duty to shape. Failure is popular nowadays. Inferiority becomes a source of pride. Not here, please, gentlemen. We are here to produce superior young men – not commercial travellers.

‘In this context I want to read you out some alarming and, I fear, representative contributions to recent issues of our Old Boys’ Magazine.

‘Consider this, for instance. . . .’

‘You were seeking an escape from these tiresome platitudes,’ thought Ashley. ‘Now you have it. Satisfied?’

For is it not true that for the past six years you have opened every copy of that damned Magazine, when it came in the post, with excitement and dread, and looked for a name beginning with ‘M’?

Yes, you. A grown man and scholar.

And only once has it been there. And ‘J. L. Manson (the Reverend)’ came right out of the page. And when the sense of guilt – yes, guilt – had passed, you were filled with memories and longing. ‘The Reverend’ – and there was no other information save his parish and address – after the first shock, was meaningless. Farcical. As you envisioned his small square figure, with a hard white collar, up in a pulpit, pontificating down at rows of elderly ladies in hats. Impossible.

Is he married? Yes, confess: you have wondered every time.

You have even thought that at the end he had a strangely high voice.

Hoping him a child for ever?

Only six years ago. And are not these hills, the wood, yes, come on, the corner nook made by the buttress at the rear of the Chapel, and oh God the small room in the San where the Innocents put you alone together for a whole week, all still part of your love?

And in the interim? Much study. But evasions – rejection of ‘human nature’ underneath, as against the persona above. And consolations – great religions of the world!

That sense of futility. How ‘philosophical’ has it been?

Are you afraid – have you always been – of what this may mean? of the future?

How dreadful an expression – a ‘dab hand’! Should you perhaps accept?

Another evasion?

‘Laxity,’ said the Head. ‘This brings me, first and foremost, I’m afraid, to a subject upon which I find it extremely difficult to speak. I shall call it “moral laxity”.’

The Head reddened, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and looked slowly along the ranks.

It was difficult to tell whether he was examining the Accused, or asking them to share his embarrassment and face this awesome problem together.

‘As you all know, I have hitherto been responsible for younger boys, and some of you may regard me as inexperienced in these matters. Nevertheless, you may rest assured that I have the very strongest view on the subject. From what I and my family have heard and seen in these weeks, it is plain that the rumours have not been entirely fictitious. There is an element – I hope and believe a small one – among the boys, which evidently indulges in the kind of behaviour to which I refer, and does so without a sense of wrong, but rather with a kind of brazen conceit, actually speaking of this disgusting subject as if it was a matter of ordinary everyday acceptance. My reaction is one of horror, and also of astonishment; because it is impossible for me to close my eyes to the fact that it is you, gentlemen, who have permitted this state of affairs to persist, or at least you have done nothing to stop it.’

They gazed back at him. Silent, they were embarrassed
for
him; except for The Beatle, who glanced at Mr Wall, hoping for some elucidation of the incomprehensible.

To the Head they merely appeared embarrassed. It gave him a sense of satisfaction, and confidence.

‘
I
, however, intend to do something to stop it.’

‘What do you propose, Headmaster,’ said Ashley, in a dry voice. ‘Castration?’

A muffled noise from Jimmy Rich in the corner was the only sound. The Head looked quickly his way and saw a hand over a mouth, and directed himself towards Ashley. He was crimson.

‘Mr Ashley, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. . . .’

‘Hrrmph.’

Dr Rowles had cleared his throat, and was leaning forward, with his arms on his knees and his pipe in his hand.

‘I think, Headmaster, that Mr Ashley was implying – in a quite inexcusable manner, to my mind – something which I believe most of us nevertheless feel in this matter.’

‘And what is that, Dr Rowles?’

‘That there is no remedy, Headmaster,’ said the Doctor, being careful not to look in Ashley’s direction, ‘for something which, whether we like it or not, is evidently natural to some – not to all. You may punish, expel, what you will, Sir. But I fear you won’t eradicate. I have been here quite a while, Headmaster . . .’

‘I know that, Dr Rowles. But I still don’t agree with you. At the moment I don’t contemplate these extremes you mention. I intend to make a start of a more imaginative kind, and one which I fear will not be any more to your liking. I’ve come to a decision, gentlemen.’

‘May we know it, Sir?’ inquired Rowles, controlling, with difficulty, his anger that he did not know it already.

‘Certainly. That is one of the main reasons why I have asked you here. It is an idea that has been given to me – quite indirectly – by my daughter.’

‘By your daughter?’ said The Pedant, with his eyes brightening.

‘Yes. I am inviting the Senior Girls of Gillingham College here for the day, gentlemen.’

At length, Dr Rowles, who had turned very pale, said: ‘I beg your pardon, Headmaster?’

‘There will be a tennis match, and tea outdoors under the supervision of Miss Bull,’ said the Head rather stridently.

Dr Rowles said: ‘Headmaster, I would like to say at once . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Dr Rowles. As you know, there are only three weeks now to Weatherhill Day. I want to be able to announce this, I hope, permanent innovation in my Speech,
and
to report that it has taken place. So that we have no time to lose in argument. I hope also to be able to announce a reciprocal visit to Gillingham, and many more in the future. I have already sent on to the Board a letter from Miss Hutchins expressing full co-operation. And we’re all quite certain that our parents will applaud my decision without reservation.’

‘I can only say . . .’ began Rowles.

‘Our life here may be of a monastic nature, but we are not a monastery, Dr Rowles. It can do our boys nothing but good to know that the tender sex not only exists, but is worthy of respect. I want everyone behaving like little hosts and gentlemen on the Day. And I have no doubt that those who are at present a disgrace amongst us, will begin to see the error of their unnatural ways, and at the same time it will certainly be made more plain to them by the majority. And, I must insist, by you too, gentlemen.’

‘Tell me,’ the Chaplain was saying, in his room above, ‘Since communication seems inescapable – have you always preferred the floor?’

Mrs Crabtree continued to poke the fire and gaze into its flames. The truth was, she had not sat on a hearth-rug since university days. But for that very reason it evoked happy memories.

‘I mean, is it not a trifle indecorous at one’s age?’

She turned her brown eyes towards him, enthroned in black in his chair, and jerking them up to the ceiling, said: ‘You are less perceptive than you imagine. Your excessive ill-manners merely put one at ease.’

‘Heaven preserve me,’ said the Chaplain, who was holding the orange at the ready. ‘Do you suggest that if I were more amenable you might take a chair – or, better still, cease these infernal visitations altogether?’

‘I might take a chair.’