Lord Dismiss Us (19 page)

‘It is not much to hope for, God knows,’ said the Chaplain miserably.

He had tried everything. The woman was unbearable and beyond comprehension. Only one consolation had been salvaged: the Starlings were more than mildly amused by his scathing accounts of the latest persecutions. (‘The good lady appears to be enamoured of me. I cannot begin to express to you my extreme revulsion’). There were shouts of laughter, and on the last occasion young Robert had choked over a piece of cake, while the others slapped him rather too vigorously on the back. The hope that some of this might reach her husband had been vain. To have been beyond Rumour in
this
academy was going to be that wretched man’s final epitaph.

‘Within a few moments I shall be holding a private Confirmation Class. Ought you not to be upstanding, and preferably absent when the boy arrives?’

‘I’m going in a moment.’

The Chaplain sighed.

‘What if your husband enters?’ he demanded, with daring born of extreme impatience.

‘He’s with the Staff. Why aren’t you?’

‘Had I known the alternative . . .’

‘Why will you not cooperate? He is doing his best. He’s a good man. I know that I’ve said things. . . .’

He brought the orange to his nose.

‘My good woman, if I have to endure another tasteless word about your husband’s inadequacies . . .’

‘You won’t. I promise that.’

She was pushing the cedar wood and coals about. Philomena laid an excellent fire. It was beyond endurance.

‘Shall I tell you what he is saying?’

‘No. I have already extracted a confession. We are to become a school for girls. The man is to be pitied, if one had the capacity. His stay here will be brief.’

‘In my opinion yours will,’ she said, dipping up and down. ‘Unless you make alterations.’

‘Alterations?’

‘To this room for a start,’ she said.

It is possible to have murder in one’s heart. She had lately given a new and terrifying meaning to many sections of the Old Testament.

‘I understand your Vision,’ she said. ‘He does not. He was in here on Friday.’

‘With two inane propositions relating to my Services.’

‘He said nothing, but I could tell.’

‘Tell what, may I ask?’

‘Your décor is not consonant with his beliefs or intentions,’ she replied. ‘It is too naked.’

‘Now will you leave?’

‘I wish to help. There are a number of Impressionist reproductions in the attic. . . .’

‘Kindly rise and. . . .’ he began. But the knife entered his stomach, and it was impossible not to grimace, and the woman had seen it.

‘You
are
in pain,’ she said. ‘I’ve always known it. I have known it since you spoke of the Fire. Why will you not see Dr Boucher?’

This was beyond answering.

‘Or someone. You must. You must!’

‘We are all in pain,’ he said, and it happened again but less severely. ‘The thing is not to turn it into La Traviata. Now would you mind leaving me in peace?’

‘I’m going,’ she said, disposing of the poker and rising awkwardly to her feet. ‘How
you
can turn suffering into a tea-party! You!’

‘It’s an achievement you might emulate.’

‘I’m not interested in tea-parties.’

‘No. You’re interested in upsetting other people’s. But it seems to give little satisfaction. You would be wise to adopt some other occupation.’

‘It is for people’s good. Do you intend to sit here and die then? When you could be cured. When you have so much to give us, so much to say?’

‘I can’t be cured. And I have nothing to give – except Confirmation Classes. Please leave.’

‘I heard your sermon,’ she said.

‘One hears what one wants. It has nothing to do with me.’

She paused at the door. ‘And moral standards,’ she said, ‘in our school. Is it all to be put on the Headmaster? Are you not the Chaplain?’

‘You must be jesting.’

‘How blind are you? How blind are you, for instance,’ she said, with a sudden onrush of bitterness, ‘With regard to the shameless example being set by the Matron and Mr Rich?’

The Chaplain was smiling: wretchedness had turned to farce.

‘I have seen no signs of what you speak of. Quite the contrary.’

‘You should talk to my daughter.’

‘Heaven forfend.’

There was a knock. Allen came in. Mrs Crabtree went out without a word. Allen closed the door. The Chaplain made his more familiar grimace.

‘Another visit from Medusa,’ he remarked, and shuddered, only partly for the boy’s benefit.

Allen smiled and said, ‘Poor you.’

‘Yes, indeed. Pull up a chair, Nicholas.’

Rowles and Milner were walking between the borders towards the New Buildings. The sun had gone in. It was a sad, grey, Sunday morning. The Pedant at length said: ‘It seems as if your Cynic may have been right after all, Rowles. In his own way he may well be a tough nut.’

Rowles, who was breathing deeply, merely gave Milner a quick, cold glance.

‘I said he was due some surprises,’ went on The Pedant. ‘It seems it is
we
who are due the surprises.’

Rowles continued to be self-absorbed. The Pedant was secretly enjoying himself. They passed under the arch, made by the ancient vine, and on between the borders.

‘Listen here, Milner, if I wasn’t fast approaching retirement in any case, I’d resign now. On the spot.’

‘Oh come now, Rowles!’ The Pedant couldn’t help smiling. ‘You take it too hard.’

‘I don’t, I assure you. I assure you I don’t. Do you realise I wasn’t even consulted on this outrageous, damnable and farcical decision?’

‘He’s not a fool, Rowles. He knew it was profitless.’

‘But my position, Milner! My position!’

The Pedant looked solemn.

‘Yes, I agree with you there. Naturally.’

‘In forty-seven years. . . .’

‘I feel we should approach him more closely, if only to teach him better manners. We’ve perhaps been a little aloof. We haven’t helped.’

‘Pah!’

Gower was slouching ahead.

‘What the devil are you doing, Gower?’ the Doctor barked.

‘Ooh, Sir. You gave me a fright.’

Gower smiled: fear and taunting.

‘Well?’

‘Nothing, Sir, what should I be doing, Sir?’

‘Something, damn you, something. Go and exercise that fat body of yours. Go and do something with your brain before it atrophies.’

‘It what, Sir?’

‘Listen, Gower, you give me cheek and I’ll boot you right up your fat arse, do you understand. Now clear off!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘A very curious child,’ said Milner.

It was the Doctor’s phrase, and it should not have come from The Pedant.

‘As for the Event itself, it is the end of Weatherhill and all it stands for,’ said Rowles. ‘It is the end of my entire life’s work.’

‘Oh, Rowles! Come now!’

‘I mean it, Milner.’

‘I think it should be rather amusing.’

‘It what?’

‘You have always taken an excessively severe attitude towards the fairer sex, if I may say so, Rowles.’

‘It has been exactly the same as yours, Milner,’ said Rowles, ‘until recently. Might one know why?’

The Pedant was not answering.

Lucretia Crabtree was balancing in gym shoes and jeans on top of one of the round stones at the edge of the border.

‘Go away,’ the Doctor said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Go away.’

She gave him the Look, but it was no use. She slouched away, vowing vengeance.

Everyone else engaged in Activities, except these two bored and nefarious souls. Idleness the Doctor detested above all else. The refusal to progress. Here in his beloved school, where progression was the one requirement.

Everything seemed to be going wrong of late; and it was all on account of the new regime.

He had a sense of approaching doom.

         — — E   — A — —   — A — I — — E —

W:    — A — — A — E —   — O — — — OO —

W:    — A — — A — E —   — U — — E — — O — —

M:    — I — — AE —   — E — — — A — E

M:    — A — I —   — A — — O — —

M:    — AU — — O —   — A — — E

‘There’s a dead easy one, since you seem to be losing heavily,’ said Johns, moving away from the blackboard and throwing the chalk back on the master’s desk.

Sunday afternoons when you hadn’t taken an ‘exeat’ – (Carleton was saving his up till later) – were dreary and difficult to pass. He and Johns used to go for bicycle-rides and walks, but in the end they found they had nothing to say to each other. This game was better, though Johns always won.

It was raining now. They had picked Classroom Number
2
in the New Buildings, and unfortunately Sexy Sinnott and another Senior, called ‘Blondie’ Beauchamp, had come in out of the rain and were passing the time outrageously on a chair in the back row. It was hard to concentrate, though Johns had been treating them with complete disinterest.

‘Well, the M for Man gives the A E away,’ said Carleton. ‘It must be Michael. Michael who? Can’t think. It’s the Something Something. Do the two women have the same christian-name?’

‘Looks like it,’ Johns replied.

‘Ossie is coming for me next Sunday in the new Austin-Healey. It’s milk white, I believe, and very, very fast,’ said Beauchamp, who was seated on Sinnott’s lap, even though he was considerably the taller of the two. ‘Freddie Ainslie may come too. He’s sweet, but quite mad and he drinks like a fish. I hope the dear little Crab is p
e
ering out of his window as we zoom away.’

It seemed unbelievable, but Beauchamp did go off on his ‘exeats’ with these grown men, in vivid check caps, and he was always talking about the one called Ossie. What on earth did his parents think – who never saw him? But everything about this quite clever fellow with sleek blond hair spoke of an unpleasant, adult, sophisticated existence beyond Carleton’s ken. He was even more careless of public opinion than Sinnott, who was a much cruder specimen. This was all they had in common: it must have brought them together; it was a brand new line up. How did these things suddenly happen?

‘The double O and the AU,’ said Carleton. ‘What
is
that christian-name? It must end in an R. No, not an R, Um. . . .’

‘Hey, easy on, dear,’ said Beauchamp, giggling.

Sinnott, who had scarcely spoken a word, had his hands in Beauchamp’s pockets. This was the final futility, Carleton thought, when there was no love; when nothing was sacred. Shocking, and pointless.

‘Ossie has this glorious motor-cruiser at Henley. The bar’s the size of this room. Last time I fell in, with some very dubious people. My God, was I wet!’

‘A
T. It could be a T.
E T. Margaret. It must be Margaret. Margaret who? Double O.’

‘I’d ask you, dear, but I’m afraid Ossie gets so terribly jealous. Besides, there won’t be any room in the white elephant if Freddie turns up. Hey, for Christ’s sake go easy, or I’ll come off.’

‘Look, could you two not take your disgusting performance somewhere else?’ said Johns. But he spoke with his usual weariness.

‘How crude you are, my dear Johns. Certainly not. We like company. Don’t we dearest?’

‘It’s Margaret Lockwood,’ said Carleton, writing it on the blackboard. ‘Um . . . “The Wicked Lady” . . . No. But “The Lady” would fit. “The Lady Vanishes” of course!’

‘I wish you two would play your infantile game next door,’ said Beauchamp. ‘It upsets our concentration.’

‘So it’s Michael Redgrave. And who is that marvellous woman? . . . Margaret Rutherford!’

‘Carleton’s pretending not to be shocked,’ said Beauchamp.

‘I know,’ mumbled Sinnott.

‘Ossie once asked me who the pretty boy was with the wide eyes. Not your type, my dear, I said. That’s nice.’

Carleton turned round.

‘You’re a revolting fool, Beauchamp.’

‘Tch, tch. Language, dear.’

‘Pay no attention,’ said Johns. ‘Who are the men?’

‘The two funny men. I know them well, but I can’t remember. . . . A U should be easy. . . . Yes, I have it, Naunton Wayne. Now what the devil was the name of the big man with the moustache?’

‘ “He’s our public school type,” I said. “He has played the game, and leaves us without a stain on his character. Respectable to the last. Oh, but let’s talk about something less boring.’

‘I’ve got it. Basil Radford!’

‘Let’s talk about this weird thing someone told me at lunch. My dear, would you believe it, the little Crabs are worried about our genes going wrong. The invitation has gone forth to a horde of muscular young women who are coming here to beat us with tennis-rackets. Well really! One knows that Mother is repressed, but this is going too far. I can’t wait to tell Ossie and the crowd.’

‘Let’s chuck it,’ said Johns. ‘I can’t listen to any more of this rubbish.’

‘Good-bye for now,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.’

‘You’re a disgusting little twit, Beauchamp,’ said Johns.

‘Oh, charming. Have a look at yourself in the mirror some time.’

In the corridor, Carleton suggested they continue in another classroom. But Johns, who seemed upset, was going to the Library. They parted at the corridor crossroads: the Library was down by the Pedant’s Palace; Johns put up his coat collar, and went off with loping strides between the dripping borders. Carleton got as far as the other door out, intending to return to the Common Room. He stood looking up at Ashley’s tree, and the wood beyond. The rain was coming straight down, with a sizzling sound, out of a dull grey sky.