Lord Dismiss Us (30 page)

‘There’s your Tea. You’d better be off.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He was going out of the door.

‘Carleton!’

He turned.

Rowles was suddenly looking desperate – even a little mad.

‘He didn’t need to do it, you know. He didn’t need to do it.’

‘No, Sir.’

Carleton went out; completely bewildered.

The Doctor stood there, and felt that there was no hope for Weatherhill. After forty-seven years. Why now? Why suddenly? Why this term? These new people, certainly. But their share was small. That the place was everywhere yielding to that lethal adversary, the emotions, could scarcely be put at their door. It must be the weather: this damn, endless sunshine, which even at this hour was blazing across his desk.

There was something lying there on the blotting-paper. Someone had written him a note.

He walked over, and looked down at it.

‘Every time I see you – you’re more wonderful than ever,’ he read, and his whole great head flushed with embarrassment. ‘Love, love, love. . . . N.A.’

Chapter Twenty-two

‘Almighty and everliving God, who hast vouchsafed to regenerate these thy servants by water and the Holy Ghost, and hast given unto them forgiveness of all their sins; strengthen them, we beseech thee, O Lord, with the Holy Ghost the Comforter, and daily increase in them thy manifold gifts of grace. . . .’

The small white figures stood in line before the altar.

The Bishop had white tufts above either ear, and a ring that rivalled the Chaplain’s. He was enormous.

Ashley wondered about water and the Holy Ghost.

Carleton was jealous of both: Nicky was removed from him, submitting himself to something else, something incomprehensible. Still, Weatherhill Day was exciting: they could forego each other more easily; the Day dominated. His last – yes, his last. Everyone was, at the least, a little nervous. He even felt a bit out of it that
he
did not have the awful expectation of his parents appearing on the scene. Perhaps this last time he should have submitted himself to more than a fluttering stomach. Perhaps he should have shared with others this true and ultimate nausea.

Dr Rowles believed in the regeneration, but it was up to the curious birds, and one never knew what was going on in their heads. The most seemingly devout of the group must have written that note: there was only one N.A. at Weatherhill at the moment. After the first flush it had been clear that it was unlikely to be for him. But for who, then? And who the devil had put it on his desk?

It was a minor matter. Behind him, the Other Sex packed the ante-chapel. One could sense the cherries and feathers. On the Chapel step, Milner had introduced him to a young woman, covered in bows, and called her his fiancée. He had nodded; incapable of speaking.

‘We make our humble supplications unto thee, for these thy servants upon whom (after the example of the holy Apostles) we have now laid our hands, to certify them (by this sign), of thy favour and gracious goodness towards them. . . .’

His hand on Nicky’s head. Carleton saw the fat old man as almost a rival. Ashley had looked across at him and held his eyes for an awkward moment. Why?

The Reverend Cyril Starr, removed at some distance along the altar step, scrutinised the faces of his charges. His expression seemed black, but this was merely repose. There was a remote contempt for the Bishop, and a mild amusement at these passionate young children wishing for grace; and some hair-raising recollections which would not depart.

Mrs Crabtree, with her chin right up, watched the ceiling and wished for grace too.

At her side, the Head let his eye rove until it fell upon Dr Boucher; with satisfaction. He looked sturdy enough for the task.

But first there was W. Day to be gone through: the highest peak of his life; and his nervous excitement about it was identical to that of the boys. Both Lord Mountheath and Sir Charles Pike were now modestly seated in the ante-chapel. He had asked them to breakfast, and would reveal his plans. They would need to know of Milner’s astonishing digression, but the young lady’s origin had best be kept secret.

Ashley debated it, and decided that there could be no doubt about the look he had just received. He wondered about his confrères. Dotterel, Clinton, the Chaplain. . . . How did they resist – or did they? How did they survive? Tough? Superficial? Shameless? People lucky enough to possess no heart? He felt faint, and afraid. He thought about resigning. But where to? Was this something that would travel with him or not? After all, the place was an emotional hothouse. Was this thing not equally unreal? What was his history? Not promising. Even if Joan was to be regarded as merely wrong for him. My God, was it not possible that Clive at Cambridge had born a definite resemblance to J. L. Manson (the Reverend)? (Charming, shallow, vain Clive, of whom he had been so – as it was finally revealed – absurdly fond). And Carleton to both of them? Great heaven, was it possible that his emotional life was already fixed, way back, as merely looking for copies of J.L.M.?

‘O Almighty Lord, and everlasting God, vouchsafe, we beseech thee, to direct, sanctify, and govern, both our hearts and bodies, in the ways of thy laws. . . .’

Carleton wondered if the Pedant’s love was sacred or profane.

And Jimmy Rich?

What
were
the ways of the laws?

‘The Blessing of God Almighty. . . .’

Gower! Of course!

Carleton almost spoke the words out loud.

Yes. It must be. No one else would search his mack. It must be that fiend. But what had he done with it?

How the dickens could one find out? Challenging Gower was always useless, and in this case would be downright embarrassing.

They would have to think of another hiding-place.

The fiend, in an innocent white surplice for disguise, was filing out now with the rest of them; dirty skin and slanting eyes, and enigmatic as ever. But probably filled with glee. Carleton would like to have seen him hung from a height.

Following at the end, with Naylor, he glanced nervously at the parents in the ante-chapel, with the mad thought that his own might have slipped in. But no. Breakfast at the Crown and Anchor was the tradition. The other visitors came mostly in the afternoon. New faces, ignorant of everything, invaded the grounds. Their sons put away their secrets for the Day. They allowed the invaders the assumption that there was some connection between here and home; whereas, of course, there was none whatever. Tomorrow, normality again.

Standing in the alcove with his fellow Prefects, looking down the steps along the Cloisters, Carleton fixed Nicky with a penetrating gaze. Had he lost him? Had the rival gained? Had the Church swallowed him up?

My goodness, Nicky looked away! He stared at the stony ground.
For heaven’s sake, you’d think he’d been canonised.

Johns had murmured something; something horribly unexpected.

‘I suppose it could happen to a bishop.’

Johns had been watching him. Johns was looking him in the eyes. That beaky face. Johns was pitying him, patronising him. Gosh, he was almost succeeding in making him feel guilty – caught out. By what right? Johns had never felt a wound; never would. It certainly couldn’t happen to
him
; not with that ugly mug. For an instant they looked at each other with animosity. It came mostly from Carleton.

‘What do you mean?’ he said; not as boldly as he had hoped.

‘Will you never grow up?’ said Johns.

Right. That was the end of Johns. Good riddance.

How had they ever been companions?

Carleton had the curious intuition that there would always be a Johns in his life. Copies of this one. The passive companion. The scrutiniser. The one who let him do the living, and make the mistakes. ‘Will you never be young?’ he should have said; but it was too late. There was a common need; which was infuriating. Another Johns would turn up like a shadow, and he would not be able to say ‘go away’.

But I’m the one who has sent a story to an adult magazine, he thought, not you.

The Bishop came last. The Chaplain, just ahead, was smiling a smile for all to see – and every one of them watched with fascination – a smile of demonic contempt.

But the Chaplain’s expressions were always over-estimated. The smile expressed mild amusement.

They had changed from surplices to gowns – torn, and covered with food and shoe polish – and Carleton was breakfasting at the head of a Senior table.

Ashley was slowly stomping up and down the aisle, seemingly in a dream. It appeared fitting, to those who thought about it, that he turned out to be the Master on Duty. The most removed from the place, and its ethos, he was there as he might be on any other old day.

But it was not any other old day, and there were three sausages each to establish that point. Also, the din was far greater than usual. Cold showers and work ahead always dampened them. But this was different. The prospect of no Classes had such a releasing effect that one might have imagined hard labour under the lash to be their customary fate.

This table came low on Carleton’s preference list, because it was dominated by Beauchamp and Sinnott. They had been separated once, but since whatever it was that had happened they had switched places and were now elbow to elbow.

‘Just
wait
till I tell all you dear children the latest!’

Beauchamp was down at the far end, but there was something about his voice that cut through everyone else’s.

‘Our dear Pastor has let it out of his bag. Our heavenly Starr has spilt the nasty beans.’

‘Oh, get on with it, for Christ’s sake,’ said Sinnott.

‘Now, dear, just because I’ve let you in on the Great Joke. . . .’

‘It may be no joke.’

‘Oh, come off it, you fool, it’s the funniest thing that has happened in the entire history of this godforsaken jail. I can’t wait to tell Ossie. It’s far better than Miss Hutchins. My dears, there is to be what our heavenly Starr terms – with the utmost distaste, I may say, God bless the dear sweet man – a Purge.’

‘A what?’

There was mild interest, and savage attention to the food.

‘We are to be investigated, my little chicks. We are to be questioned as to what we do with our spare parts.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re codding.’

‘You’re making it up.’

‘Questioned by who?’

Carleton felt strangely uneasy, and then saw that Beauchamp was leaning forward and looking down the table at him. An unnaturally healthy and provocative creature. He kept a sun-ray lamp in dorm. He had been a Starling for a while, and found it a little too tepid; but had later graduated into an almost adult friendship with the Chaplain.

‘But Carleton can tell you all about it.’

‘I can’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Ah. Excellent. Dear me, are our Prefects losing favour?’

‘Shut up, Beauchamp.’

‘My dears, according to the Starr in the East, we are to be questioned, young and old, the halt and the lame, Staff and School, and those found with a stain on their whatever are to be decontaminated, disinfected, hung, drawn, quartered and, in short, expelled forthwith.’

Carleton was suddenly afraid. It was obviously the truth. He tried to eat, but the sausages and fried bread were sickening. Just suppose. His mother’s amazement. Her hostility for the first time in his life. His father’s horror, and shame; both profound, and for ever. No home any more.

My Lord – the note! What had Gower done with the note?

‘Look at Carleton! My dears, I declare he’s turned quite pale. Just look at him.’

‘I haven’t turned anything. Shut your blasted mouth, Beauchamp.’

‘Oh yes, you have. We’re beastly scared about Barbara Allen.’

The table was shocked. Even at the best of times, most of them found Beauchamp crazy and frighteningly sophisticated. Their silence would have been unbearable if the rest of the Hall hadn’t been thunderous. Carleton was appalled, but the funny thing was at the very same moment he felt a little proud. He still wanted everyone to know. He even suspected that Beauchamp was a little admiring. This pleased him. Why, for goodness sake?

But it was nasty all the same.

‘Oh chuck it, for Christ’s sake,’ Sinnott murmured.

To be defended by Sinnott!

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Carleton said. ‘And I don’t know why
you
’
re
feeling so cheerful.’

‘Oh, I don’t tamper with the young. Only with contemporaries and elders. That doesn’t concern the little Crab. He doesn’t understand it. He couldn’t imagine it, poor sweet. And even if he could – I’m just dying to be expelled. It would solve everything. Perhaps we should explain it to him, dear.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Sinnott.

‘You’re very dreary today. Confirmation must have upset you. You’re all as disappointing as ever. No one’s asked me the question.’

‘I’ll ask it then,’ said Sinnott. ‘Who’s doing the Purge?’

‘Thank you. The Butcher, my dears! Can you believe it?’

‘The Butcher?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Who?’

‘Dr Kinsey in person,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

‘Cripes.’

‘They must be nuts.’

‘Of course they are,’ said Beauchamp. ‘Oh, you’re all such bores. Nobody’s mentioned the future Mrs Milner. Did you see? Did you all see? Isn’t it glorious? Buttons and bows, my dear. The Pedant’s Wife. What a tale she’ll have to tell! What a pilgrimage! Canterbury, here I come. . . .’

How could he get it from Gower? There seemed to be no way.

It was a funny feeling, changing in dorm at ten in the morning. Unreal. It seemed, disturbingly, in this vast, chilly place that he might be the only one in the whole school putting on cricket togs. But, of course, the Old Boys were probably going on to the field by now. Hurry up. Being late. Being late was the one and only terror that remained. They’re all waiting and I’m late. The bell’s ringing and I’m late. Yes, even now as a Prefect. Even now his fingers would scarcely button up his white shirt. It wasn’t very white: he kept it inside his blazer. And he had forgotten to tell a fag to blanco his boots. Never mind, it was only the Old Boys; and they were only concerned with themselves.