Lord Dismiss Us (20 page)

It was quite cool. He shivered. No noise, except for the rain. It was extraordinary how more than two hundred people could disappear. He was sorry now he had not picked this Sunday for one of his exeats: they would be having tea; his mother talking with friends, his father reading the Sunday papers. It was very odd, but even now, at the end, it was still possible to feel moments of homesickness; and when one was being left back, in the car, from Sunday’s out, there was still the faint recurrence of his first year’s feelings, when these seemed to be prison walls.

Who had a home here? Not poor Ashley, who was probably now up in his room, directly above where he was standing. Not Rowles at his desk, with his little bedroom and ‘jacks’ next door. The Crabtrees had a house, but it scarcely seemed to be a home. Curiously enough, the Chaplain’s warm apartments, with their entirely personal furnishings, seemed to come nearest.

But it was an institution, and cold. It was funny that this was most obvious on Sundays. The place was Work and Games, and without them it was nothing. He felt depressed, and lonely. He had perhaps not spoken the truth to Ashley about solitude. He wondered if he’d go upstairs and ask him if he had looked at his story yet.

But he didn’t like to intrude.

Where were Jimmy Rich and the Matron? Some Sundays they went to London. There was an early morning train. Distant, magical, enormous, mysterious place. He had stayed there a few times with a wealthy uncle.

Dotty, The Beard and the Chaplain were probably all giving tea. Dotterel had tried to tempt him into his group once, but he hated their crude talk and the way the man caught one’s arm in bony fingers or let a hand fall tightly round one’s neck.

How did he come to be standing alone and friendless here, on a hill, in the rain?

With his collar up, he bounded up the stone steps and dashed along past the bogs, and so into his own House. Gower was in the washroom alone, combing his lank black hair. He appeared unencumbered. With the utmost caution, Carleton glanced down at the mirror which remained in place in Roly’s shower, but he could not tell quickly enough whether Rowles was in there. Gower was saying: ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘I hope not, for your sake.’

That was a bit cruel. Why did one badger Gower so? And, on second thoughts, risky. He hoped Rowles had not heard.

In the dark corridor, a blast of sound came out from the Big Schoolroom – and it was most welcome – and through the open door he saw Rowles playing table tennis with that comedian, Metcalfe. The Doctor, with his pen-handle grip, scarcely ever missed a shot; he moved fast on his spongy soles, concentrating intently even in the midst of the bedlam he so much detested, and was almost unbeatable.

He was just turning to go down to the Common Room, when a boy dashed out of the Big Schoolroom with another in pursuit. The first turned the corner and had gone out, into the rain. The
second halted, a yard away from Carleton. He was flushed and out of breath. It was Allen. He whispered: ‘In your mackintosh pocket’. And was gone.

Carleton was dazed. Allen had spoken with a peculiar intimacy, as if there was something between them.

His mackintosh was hanging in the fifth wooden locker down on the left.

He moved along to it, and undid the latch. He felt afraid. He thought, ‘Gower must feel just like this when he does it. What if he comes out and sees me? Well, after all, it’s my
own
locker.’

There was a small piece of paper in one pocket, folded up very neatly.

He held it tight in his hand, and went on tiptoe to the Common Room. Reynolds or Pryde might easily be in there.

But there was no one: it was dark, and smelly, and empty, with that awful rug on the table.

He took out the note and unfolded it. His stomach felt sick. The message consisted of two little pages from some lined notebook, with three little holes down each side. The writing was big, and wild, and all over the lines –

‘I know you think it’s great to have so much blasted sex appeal you can make other people miserable! You go your own sweet way and they can go to hell. I know you’re laughing at me already. I can see you reading this out to Johns for your amusement. Well I don’t care. I can’t keep quiet any longer. I’ve
got
to see you.
P
lease
meet me, if only once. I will be in No.
4
classroom after Chapel tonight. If you don’t come and meet me there I don’t know what I’ll do. Allen.’

Chapter Thirteen

Fear was cautious Carleton’s overwhelming reaction. Out-and-out fright at being caught in something forbidden and – if he had anything to do with it – easily discoverable.

Could it be some mad joke? The boy had given no signs of anything at all – and now suddenly this! As if it had been going on for weeks. From someone who had been laughing, and chattering, and chasing other people about the place – apparently perfectly happy.

It was so peculiar too. It was kind of tough. Positive abuse – of the Second Prefect! From a New Boy, who was almost a Junior.

And what was this extraordinary accusation, using a phrase that had always puzzled him, that adults used, that he had never seen used by anyone younger before? People had accused, and admired, him on astonishing grounds lately, and this one was the most surprising of all. He stood and examined himself in the dirty, cracked mirror that hung beside the half-naked cutie. Perhaps he was rather good-looking. There had been remarks about his eyes. Was that sex appeal? How the deuce was one supposed to know? What was the value of something that only others could see? Nothing. Had the cutie sex appeal? Surely not.

He was feeling better. Well, one couldn’t help feeling a bit puffed up. And this crazy note seemed to say that other people were being affected as well.

But that he could be ‘amused’. . . . Allen must be nuts. Imagine being so puffed up as to go round being amused at other people being affected. It came from distress, of course. The boy really
was
worried. It was frightening.

Yes, he was afraid again. He was not going near Number
4
, that was certain. It was all very well he and Naylor making asses of themselves. But this didn’t sound the same thing at all. He would stop it at once.

But how was he going to face Allen for the next couple of months?

And what would Allen do?

He wished to goodness he’d never received the blasted note. Everything had been so pleasant and easy, till now.

He thought about this.

It was his last term.

Well, why shouldn’t it be pleasant?

The huge figure of Pryde came through the open door in a brutal check sports coat.

‘It’s pissing cats and dogs,’ he said.

‘I know.’

Quickly, and with a poor pretence at being casual, Carleton had pocketed the note. Pryde had seen. Had he the wit to guess anything? No.

Pryde’s back was turned to him as he leaned over the gas cooker. The kettle was on, and he had thrown a piece of stale, sliced bread on to the hot plate. A Demon Barber had shaved his brown head and there was a large red something-or-other on his thick neck. It was surprising that Matron had not put a dressing over it.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, crossing the room. ‘You look as if you’d swallowed a ghost.’

‘Nothing. A wet Sunday.’

‘It’s a bugger.’

He had taken down a plate of butter and a jar of strawberry jam, and thrown them on to the rug, on the table. They were kept on a dusty wall shelf. So was Pryde’s Bible, just above them. He had not been doing penance for a week or more. Perhaps the Romance was over. The toast was burning already: Dr Rowles would be down at any moment. No, Pryde had noticed, and turned it over.

‘I’ve an appointment at five with a couple of brats.’

‘Oh. Well, I’ll leave you so.’

‘Stay. It impresses them. The more the merrier. It scares the shit out of them.’

Pryde poured the water straight into a teacup, threw the toast on a plate and sat at the table, facing the door, in a round-backed wooden chair. He ate as if he were starving. The butter was covered with week-old jam and crumbs. A knife protruded from the lidless jampot. He had provided himself with a half-empty bottle of almost stale milk. He had red lumps and spots on his face too – and thick brows that went right across the top of his nose.

Carleton was trying to think of a reason to leave. The terrifying thought had struck him that it might be Allen and the boy he was chasing. It was too late: there was a very soft rap on the door.

‘Enter!’ shouted Pryde, through a mouthful of toast.

They had trouble with the handle for a moment; and then two boys sidled in and stood against the wall by the cooker. The first – fair and wan – was the Honourable Fitzmaurice. The second –
smaller and reddish haired – was Hamilton Minor, the Twelfth Man on
the First Eleven.

Pryde concentrated on his food – for hours, it seemed. They watched him. They never once glanced at Carleton.

‘If the door isn’t closed in two seconds, Hamilton Minor,’ said Pryde, in a surprisingly quiet voice, ‘I’m going to make you bleed.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

Hamilton Minor closed the door.

‘We are charmed by your apology. Are we not, Carleton?’

‘Yes,’ said Carleton, who wanted no share in this. So much came back; the many real terrors of one’s first year; so very easily forgotten. What was a note from a junior compared with this? Now, one had pride and privilege. It was the good time. There were inferiors now who had once been a nightmare: Merryman, for instance, who had given him three terms of it in the shower; ‘pigeon chest!’ and the inevitable smack of Merryman’s fist on his two front bones.

Entirely in the Past. Merryman wasn’t even a Prefect. He would certainly have forgotten. Carleton had a chest now that he could show with no shame at all. So much that was frightfully important happened so quickly here.

‘Unfortunately it will not help your situation.’

Pryde threw his plate across the rug, and leant back so that his feet were up against the table. Casually, he stretched out an arm and picked up one of their canes, which stood against the wall in the corner.

‘Let us hear your offence, Fitzmaurice.’

‘Um . . . we . . . we had. . . .’

‘Well, well,’ Pryde interrupted. ‘I do declare the Honourable Fitzmaurice is frightened, Carleton. In fact, our noble aristocrat is so scared he’s about to shit in his pants. What is our country coming to? Tut, tut. You disgust me, Fitzmaurice, do you know that? Do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Good. . . . Am I right to be disgusted?’

‘Um. . . .’

‘Answer the question!’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s better. . . . Hamilton Minor, are you also too shit-scared to speak?’

‘No.’

‘Well speak then!’

So saying, Pryde whipped down the cane and struck the table a fierce crack, just missing the teacup.

‘We had our hands in our pockets,’ Hamilton whispered.

‘Hamilton Minor is beautiful,’ Carleton thought, to his great surprise. ‘Am I going mad these days? Am I going like Sexy Sinnott? With one move of my right foot I could tip Pryde’s chair over backwards.’

‘Which is forbidden to first year warts. Correct? Correct, your Honourable?’

‘Yes.’

Fitzmaurice kept biting his quivering lower lip.

Carleton hated this. He was also powerless. Did Pryde know his hate? Had he deliberately involved him?

‘So the question is . . . what are we going to do about it?’

Pryde held the cane above his head at either end. He slowly worked it up into a bow, and released it again.

This was one of the few offences for which one could not be beaten; at least, not without a previous warning. But they probably didn’t know this.

‘That is the question, is it not?’

They nodded.

‘Well, let’s see . . . let’s see. . . . Very well. . . .’ Pryde seemed suddenly to be bored with it; or else he had merely run out of tortures. . . . ‘You will write out one hundred times – “I must not put my hands in my trouser pockets” – and you will give it in to me here before Chapel tonight, and no later. And if I ever catch you at it again we will think of something else. . . . Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Hamilton Minor.

They shuffled out, and had difficulty in closing the door.

At least the performance had been quick.

They would have to write quickly too.

‘That should settle them,’ said Pryde. He put his hands behind his head and yawned. ‘Nancy and Jimmy went to London,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘Lucky sods.’

They both glanced at their watches.

‘Are you going to do some reading?’

‘Are you trying to take the mickey out of me, Carleton?’

‘No.’

‘You’d better not.’

‘Oh, dry up, Pryde.’

Pryde looked at him, in slight surprise, and then knifed some jam into his mouth.

That whole evening was dreadful: sitting at the head of a nearby table at Tea, and trying to look as if nothing had happened, and noticing that Allen was silent, with his eyes downcast; putting on a blue suit in the same dorm afterwards and pretending not to see him; and all the time wondering what to do.

For something had happened. That was inescapable. By placing your hand in a coat pocket you could become involved with another life. The two of them were now separated, in this, from the whole school. He and the dark boy down at the far end of the dorm.

This beautiful boy was going to be waiting for
him
, in the night, in the silent classroom. And waiting. And waiting.

Was this not what you wanted?

No. No. That was just daydreaming.

He will turn to someone else. Will you be able to bear that?

Naylor was no problem at all. It was just as he had known it would be. Naylor smiled wryly when they met. He was certainly a good looking chap, but Carleton couldn’t think how he had ever been attracted. They let themselves be separated in the choir. It was all perfectly simple.