Lord Dismiss Us (28 page)

‘Now let’s see. . . .’

Lucretia, who had returned to the tree, moved away. This time she was confident that a strip-tease was being enacted.

She crossed the Quad again, but with certainty now. She had been looking for something like this. She had been out in the cold for too long; ever since that silly ass, Lawson, had not only believed about the half-crowns, but passed it on. Her father was remote. Her mother was worse. She would recapture them. She would show her willingness to cooperate. She would sink this Mr Ashley without trace.

Lucretia put her ear to the door of the Study, and heard two male voices. She opened the adjacent door and went into the sitting-room. Her mother was seated with her stockinged feet up on the large chintz sofa. She was knitting herself a sombre jumper in dark grey wool.

Lucretia sulked across the room and leant her blue-jeaned bottom against the piano. Her mother said – ‘Well?’

‘I wanted to tell you something.’

It was a tremendous statement.

The knitting-needles were still.

At last her mother accepted. She banished the Past. She said: ‘What is it?’

‘Carleton’s been up in Mr Ashley’s room since Class.’

‘Mr Ashley?’

‘Yes.’

‘For two hours?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can see them through the window. They’re sitting together. Carleton’s taken his clothes off.’

This went down very well! Her mother flinched. She paled.

‘What did you say?’

‘Well . . . he’s in his shirt.’

‘I see. . . . Why do you . . . report this?’

‘It looks funny. They look peculiar. I can’t explain exactly. It’s a long time.’

‘Yes . . . our Mr Ashley . . . I think your father would be grateful if you went back and observed this curious scene to the end.’

‘Righto.’

Lucretia slouched out. With great difficulty she subdued the desire to bound and leap.

Her mother fought with temptations too: a conflict of emotions.

She had just passed a wearying tea with a Mrs Benthall, who had gained the impression from her son Harry, on his last exeat, that his extreme sensitivity was making him the victim of others. Harry was a dirty-minded, lying little bully.

But it was in this same room, over tea with her husband, some days ago, that something remarkable had happened. Without preparation, with awareness only after it had occurred, she leaned across the table and placed her hand in his.

They were astounded.

She took her hand away. They said nothing. But the apartness of years had gone in that one moment.

She knew why. She was not one to endure love denied for very long. The Chaplain had undoubtedly achieved greatness. But he was dark, and forbidding, and his manners were bad. He had set her heart in motion. She had looked about, to give it occupation, and begun to think that her husband was really rather handsome. It was a little late for a second honeymoon, but she could put her mind to his service. She had nothing else to put it to, except Extra Latin. She was offering outright support against all opposition.

Mr Ashley had shown himself to be among the opposition.

In the neighbouring room, the Head and Dr Rowles had been discussing arrangements for Weatherhill Day. The Doctor, pleasantly aware of his superior knowledge, had written out an agenda in his scrupulous hand –

Confirmation.

Old Boys’ Cricket Match.

Lunch. The Loyal Toast.

Headmaster’s Speech and Prizegiving

(in Big Schoolroom)

Cricket Match.

Tea Outdoors.

Rowles had already prevailed upon the Bishop, who was confirming, to stay and preside at the prizegiving. His role had been active, as Assistant-Head. The two men were finding each other much improved.

‘There is another matter, Dr Rowles, which I hope we shall settle as agreeably.’

The Doctor was seated on his large posterior, leaning well forward in his customary way, with his pipe held between his knees. So that he had to raise his eyes to see his rubicund companion at the desk. The Crab was sporting a linen summer-suit rather like Milner’s. (Horrific, well-nigh incredible news!)

‘What is that, Headmaster?’

‘As you know, I had an unnecessarily abrupt letter from Miss Hutchins. She believes our experiment to have been premature. She withdraws. Very well, she may be right. Meanwhile, our problem persists. I intend to solve it. I’ve come to a decision.’

‘May one know it?’

‘Commencing the morning after W. Day . . .’ (Rowles closed his eyes in pain. This had already happened before) . . . ‘an investigation will be conducted daily. Younger boys will be questioned about older boys, and vice versa. Boys may even be questioned about masters – we shall see. In strict privacy, you understand. There will be no half measures. Finally, we shall conduct a purging of the few baser elements. Few, I believe them to be. They will be expelled. Immediately.’

‘I fear I may go crackers,’ said the Doctor softly. ‘Who conducts this . . . ?’

‘Against the advice of my wife, who otherwise fully supports me in this matter, I consulted with the obvious candidate. Our Chaplain.’

‘You did? With the Chaplain?’

‘Certainly.’

The Head pulled down his lips.

‘He was not only reluctant. He was insulting. Well . . . he may have his reasons. There is another and more fitting candidate. Mens sana in corpore sano. I have asked him, and he has consented. With an enthusiasm even beyond my expectations.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Well, naturally, Dr Boucher.’

Never before had the Doctor seen the hand holding the bowl of his pipe quivering as if from some tropical disease. He tried to bring it to his mouth, but could not do so.

‘He tells me that he has known of this evil, and wished for such a remedy, for many years. He will call daily. I am putting my Study at his disposal. I take it you approve?’

‘I most certainly do not. But let me say one thing. The term is far advanced. There are not many weeks to run. Might I ask for a postponement?’

‘I’m afraid not. It is urgent.’

‘By expulsion I take it, at this late date, you mean that you would merely ask boy or . . . great Scott, master . . . not to join us next term?’

‘You take me wrong, Dr Rowles. I said “immediately”. The example is the whole point.’

‘The case is different to that of Mr Rich,’ said Rowles. ‘One might do great harm.’

‘It would be deserved,’ said the Head. ‘The harm being done to the School is the one that counts.’

‘Sit, Nicholas,’ said the Chaplain.

The day was now advanced. The sun had moved away from his green satin curtains; which was as well for ‘Nicholas’, since Philomena had lit a particularly good fire.

‘This will be our last time before your Great Experience.’

‘Yes,’ said Allen, who was looking nervous, bashful, and quite charming, though over-clean.

‘You have something you wish to tell me?’

‘Yes.’

‘You seek absolution, Nicholas?’

‘Well, I’m not sure if it’s anything or not.’

The boy’s beautiful eyes were fixed on his buckled shoes, emerging from the black habit. The orange lay on his black skirted lap. Rather regrettably, he was not likely to need it. No odour of pig; and that black head was wavy and alive without a hint of Brylcreem.

‘Look at me, child. Don’t be afraid. What is it?’

‘It’s just . . . we’re in love. Someone older. Carleton. I don’t know
if it’s wrong or not.’

The Chaplain fingered his great blue ring. The only surprise was always the other name. One never knew who would drop out of the sky. Carleton! One would never have suspected him of sentiment, or of daring to transgress.

‘Does it feel wrong?’

‘No.’

‘Then it almost certainly isn’t. Does it feel right?’

‘Yes. . . . But other people mightn’t think so.’

‘That’s called Morality, my dear Nicholas. We needn’t trouble about that. I take it you meet?’

‘Yes, all the time. And we write notes. There’s one waiting for him now.’

‘Has there been temptation?’

‘Yes, but we agreed we’d never . . . I mean . . .’

‘And kept to it?’

‘Yes.’

A strange child. Somehow wise and direct beyond his years. He was going to make an admirable clergyman.

‘How much does it mean to you?’

‘It means everything.’

‘Oh dear,’ the Chaplain thought. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Nicholas, though you were right to tell me. Love is no sin. The contrary. Is he not leaving this term?’

‘I, too,’ the Chaplain thought. ‘Let them wait. Let them be surprised.’

‘Yes. . . . He thinks it’ll go on. Just the same.’

‘He does?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t?’

Allen looked at the carpet.

‘No.’

The Chaplain turned his head and gazed into the burning fire.
Love in the terrestrial sphere was more than mildly alarming. Thank
God he had been spared it, man and boy. The Headmaster’s un
speakable proposition came to mind. How many were to fall? How
many would perhaps be hurt for life?

‘Tell me, frankly, Nicholas, have others put this temptation your way? For your own sake, tell me. My cloth is the guarantee of secrecy.’

‘Well, when I first came, Mr Dotterel and Mr De Vere Clinton both asked me to tea, with other boys. They said it was for New Boys, but Fitzmaurice and I were the only ones there.’

‘At both receptions?’

‘Yes. I didn’t like them. I didn’t like the jokes.’

‘You have good taste, Nicholas.’

‘Ever since, Seniors who were there have asked me would I go for walks. I’ve always said I wouldn’t. One of them has taken a down on me. A Prefect.’

‘Who, Nicholas?’

‘Well . . . Sherriff. He’s had me beaten, and so on. He’s got my photo in his wallet. He paid McIver to take it. I didn’t even know it was being done.’

‘McIver?’

‘He . . . takes them.’

‘I see. . . . Dear me. Do you tell Carleton these things?’

‘No. They’d only upset him.’

It was like resting by some river-bank, the Chaplain thought, and some damned naturalist comes along and chatters about reality, mercilessly elucidating the turbulence underground, underwater, in the trees, in the sky, all about.

But then he smiled, and his eyes twinkled wickedly. He had just thought what an excellent inquisitor he would have made, had the idea not been abhorrent.

‘Anything else, Nicholas?’

‘Yes. Yes, there is. I was going to say it first, but. . . .’

The Chaplain ceased smiling. Pride before a fall, he thought, and he found that the fingers on his right hand were closing gently, in anticipation, around the orange.

‘Oh?’

He was back in the confessional. It was truly necessary: the child must achieve Grace. What others would be unlikely to understand was that he did not enjoy it. Not at all. He enjoyed peace and mild amusements. He disliked what was known as reality. (Fortunately what others thought had never been of the slightest interest). There was a dull pain in his stomach, and a sense of nausea. How long, oh Lord, how long? The absolute peace.

‘Tell me, Nicholas.’

‘The other night. We were waiting for the bell for Dorm. I was playing ping pong with Caldicott.’

‘Oh?’

A new name. No. The Chaplain remembered. Rather appealing. The
r
e were so many in this place – outside of one’s circle.

‘I don’t mean in the Schoolroom. In the Senior Ping Pong room, down in the yard.’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

The Senior Ping Pong Room. To what had one devoted twenty-three years? Never mind – it would soon be over. Without regret. Sure? Yes, yes.

‘Sinnott and Beauchamp came in. They sat on the bench. They . . . compared us. We went on playing. We couldn’t do anything else. We were a bit scared. But they weren’t really nasty. They flattered us, really. Everyone was . . . more or less smiling.’

‘Everyone?’

The Chaplain’s fingers closed around the orange.

‘Yes, we played quite well.’

The Chaplain looked like the Grand Inquisitor, and felt terrible.

‘The bell went, and we finished the game – I don’t remember who won – and Caldicott just suddenly ran off, and Beauchamp said “I’m leaving you children” or something, and he went, and I was left standing with Sinnott. There was the light up at the top of the steps. And I said – ’

‘Yes?’

‘I said “all right”. I don’t know why. . . . And he said kind of roughly, “I’ll see you in dorm”, and just walked off. He has a funny walk. He waddles. And I was scared.’

The Chaplain sniffed the delicately coloured globe.

‘I wished to goodness I hadn’t . . . I thought he was going to . . . jump into my bed or something awful and crazy.’

Told with such address! Or was it just absolute confidence? In a father. A Father Confessor. The Chaplain had never bargained for so much, or been so alarmingly rewarded.