Lord Dismiss Us (34 page)

Carleton took the top negative from the pile and held it up. It was black against the rainwashed windows.

‘I can’t . . .’

The Butcher leaned forward and clicked on the table-lamp. Carleton held the negative against the green shade.

It was Hamilton Minor, grinning, with trees behind him. Evidently he had knowingly posed for it. For who? Carleton felt a slight and inexplicable shock, as if he was implicated.

‘Carry on,’ the Butcher said.

He also felt shame, but he could hardly refuse.

Henderson and Finch Minor together! Also somewhere in the wood. And very definitely posing. In their bathing-togs, with Finch Minor carrying the bearskin rug.

‘Henderson’s a Prefect,’ said the Butcher. ‘They’ve shared a room
in the San. Carry on.’

Sexy Sinnott. In his favour, he had not known of it. He was running up to bowl, in his big sweater. Beauchamp? Surely Beauchamp wouldn’t bother with a photo. Wait a minute. . . .

‘What are you thinking?’

‘These may all be for Gillingham, Sir. I heard a rumour that Lucretia . . .’

‘All?’ said the Butcher. ‘Are you looking for excuses, Carleton?’

‘No. . . . No. But . . .’

‘Carry on.’

It was Nicky.

Carleton could scarcely hold it steady against the lampshade.

He seemed to be coming out of the front door of the Music Building. His head was down. Thoughtful maybe – it was hard to see. Anyhow he didn’t know, thank goodness. McIver was cunning as hell. He must have taken it from across the drive, from behind a tree or something. For who? It was trembling in his hand. He had forgotten what he was doing.

‘You seem interested.’

‘No. No,’ Carleton said. ‘I was just surprised.’

‘Surprised! I’ve stopped being surprised, Carleton. There are twenty-four snaps there. The Honourable Fitzmaurice appears three times – once in company with Peters.’

Steele was a cad, Carleton thought. An absolute stinking, dangerous fool. What was it for? The School? The Army?

‘But. . . .’

‘But what?’

‘I mean, they’re only photos, Sir. Maybe they don’t do any harm. It’s just . . . silly.’

‘Silly! I. . . . Have a look at the next one.’

Carleton held it up. He was looking at himself. It was a nightmare. He felt sick and terrified. He was standing crouched at the net. There was a crowd in the background. It was at the tennis-match with Gillingham College.

His hand was so wet the negative was sticking to his fingers when he tried to put it down.

‘Any ideas about that?’ asked the Butcher.

Carleton’s voice was quavering.

‘No. . . . No, I don’t. But. . . .’

‘But what?’

‘But why shouldn’t McIver just take photos anyhow, Sir. I mean, for memories of School or something. I mean, he
is
crazy about taking photos.’

It sounded terrible: like a plea from someone guilty.

The Butcher was putting them back in the box.

‘That’s possible. But not likely. We’ll soon know. I’m having a chat with McIver. And the others. Thanks for coming, Carleton. If you think of anything helpful, I’ll be grateful. This isn’t a pleasant job. I’m getting it over quickly.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Carleton rose and walked to the door. His knees were wobbly.

‘Oh, Carleton!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Mrs Crabtree tells me you’re having extra tuition with Ashley.’

‘What, Sir?’

‘For hours at a time.’

‘Oh. . . . That was just once, Sir.’

‘Ah. . . . She said there were no extras down on your fees, and you’ve passed your leaving exam. She was curious, of course. And worried, too, because she feels that Ashley has been looking overworked.’

‘Oh, that had nothing to do with School, Sir.’

The Butcher put his pipe-stem into his ear.

‘Can you explain that?’

‘Um . . . he was helping me to write a story.’

‘Really?!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘It must be a long one.’

‘No. . . . Well, yes, quite.’

‘I see. Right. Off you go. Oh, send McIver along to me, would you.’

‘Uh . . . now?’

‘Yes. Straight away.’

‘He’s in Class, Sir.’

‘No matter. Our Head has laid down that any boy shall be released to me. Good for the others too. Put them on their toes. I want everyone to know I mean business. Any chap who decides to help can see me at once.’

‘Yes.’

He went out into the Hall, feeling weak and bewildered, and there was a cry of – ‘Here, watch out!’

Philomena Maguire was looking down on him from a height, through her hair; over a silver tray of morning delicacies that she was bringing up to the Chaplain.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ she said.

‘Sorry,’ he murmured, vaguely wondering how she was able to do so. It was dark as night at the back of the hall past Lady Jane Grey’s trunk. The rain was streaming down the grey stone of the Old Buildings, and turning them black. He was going along between the borders, with his gown pulled over his head. Though he was being drenched, he wasn’t running. McIver. What would McIver say? Nicky. He was going to see Nicky. Eric Ashley. A long story. Ma Crab had said something. What on earth had Ashley got to do with anything? He passed under the arch of the vine. He felt cold and shivery. Could he be expelled? And Nicky? What for? He went up to the New Buildings, through the open door. Four tennis-balls had lain here, on a ledge, in an open brown box. He trod softly on the pink flags of the corridor, taking his gown down, off his head, and smoothing his hair. There were murmurs behind each green door. There were cricket and other notices pinned to green baize. A shout behind one door – ‘No, boy, no!’ – Dotty. The Fifth Form was McIver’s. He paused at the door and for a moment thought that he just couldn’t enter. Who was taking Class? He stood closer, but he couldn’t hear. He knocked gently.

‘Come in!’

A very testy voice. The Pedant.

Milner had his back to the class, and was writing on the blackboard in his small, very clear hand –

‘Having conquered the city, he inquired who their leader might be.’

Carleton watched him write to the end, hypnotically; while conscious that the whole class had turned in his direction. Conquering, and cities, how completely meaningless it all was.

The Pedant faced him, frowning.

‘Well, come on, come on, what is it?’

‘Um . . . Dr Boucher wants to see . . . someone, Sir.’

‘Someone? Someone? Look here, man, do you think I’ve all the time in the blasted world . . .’

‘Um, McIver, Sir.’

Carleton sensed a kind of gasp from the company, though there was really no sound.

‘Very well. Cut along. And hurry back. Your present progress, McIver, is such that you cannot afford to mess about.’

McIver went out in front of him, and he closed the door carefully. McIver was looking up at him. He was not making Eddie Cantor eyes. His face had turned white.

‘What . . . ?’

‘Ssh,’ Carleton said. ‘Come away. . . .’

They moved along the corridor.

‘He’s got your negatives,’ Carleton whispered.

‘Oh, gosh. . . .’

‘There’s one of me. Who did you take it for?’

‘I
can’t . . .’

‘Listen, McIver, you’ve got us all in a blasted mess. We’ve got to get ourselves out of it.’

‘It was . . . Allen.’

Carleton was amazed. Bewildered, and then relief, and then fear.

‘What are you going to say? What are you going to say?’

McIver was maddeningly pathetic, and dumb, and sickly, behind his spectacles.

‘I don’t know.’

He’s so small, and young, Carleton thought, with sudden compassion, up against that great brute.

‘Listen, there’s only one thing you
can
say. You must say you took all these photos, because it’s your hobby, and you just like taking photos of everyone. Can you do that? Can you do that, McIver?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There’s one of him. Of . . . um . . . Allen. Who was that for?’

‘Uh . . . Sherriff.’

Carleton, in the midst of astonishment, felt a stab of hatred for Sherriff.

‘McIver, you’ve got to say that you just like taking photos of anyone. It’s your own skin too. You’ll be thrown out. Do you understand?’

‘Yes . . . I’ll try.’

‘Try damn hard,’ Carleton said. ‘Good luck.’

McIver went out into the rain.

There was ten minutes between Class and lunch – a warning and then a final, tinny bell. It hung from the wall outside the Dining Hall. Metcalfe liked doing it, and was curiously reliable.

Among the mob, emptying into the corridor, Carleton spotted Nicky, who at once put his hand in his pocket.

Everyone was sprinting away, with gowns over their heads. Carleton ran out, under Ashley’s window, and along past the bogs and into his House. Gower was in the washroom, combing his hair. He hurried through the door into the Big Schoolroom, which was crammed, yet curiously quiet. He hesitated, and then dashed down the steps and across the Chapel Square, pretending to head for the Chapel. The great oaken doors were open, and there was one light on, over the organ, in the midday darkness. The Beatle, who was practising something, sensed him standing in the ante-chapel, stopped and called out his name.

Carleton approached this little dark-haired sprite, perched on high on the organ bench.

‘We must get cracking, Carleton.’

His fringe was almost over his spectacles.

‘I beg your pardon, Sir?’

‘I’ve picked my twelve,’ the Beatle said. ‘They’ve all permission off from Rest. First rehearsal in the Music Building after lunch. Silly of me not to have told you, but I was so concerned with getting the others off Rest, and you’re a Prefect so I’d no trouble there.’

‘That’s all right, Sir.’

‘See you then, after lunch.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Carleton moved back to the door. There was a river running down the cement strip to the Cloisters, and spilling over the top step. He peered out: there was no one in sight, and no one in the Big Schoolroom doorway. He suddenly dashed out, and round the end of the Chapel, into the long, soaking wet grass. A tall clump of nettles made the buttress difficult to approach, and he thought it safer not to trample them down. His hand was stung as he reached forward and took the paper out of the crack. The ink was running already as he read –

‘
Can
’
t
meet at any of the old places. Too dangerous. But I can’t
bear
it if we don’t. We’ve
got
to think of somewhere???

‘One piece of good news. Has the Beatle told you? He tried me alone in the Music Building after Tea last night and I’m to be Alice. We’re meant to be in love. Isn’t that a laugh!! I could hardly keep my face straight. Anyhow, we’ll be together. And I
do
love you. Terribly.’

He had to tell. He searched in his wallet and found a letter from his mother which had a blank space at the end. He tore it off. It was almost impossible to write in the rain, but under his gown he managed to say – ‘The Butcher is seeing you. Photo of you by McIver. Not me. That sod, Sherriff. Of me too – taken for you! Why on earth did you need that? Just say you’re a friend of McIver’s and you remember him taking it. He’s saying the same.
Don
’
t worry
.
It
’
s easy
. I love you terribly too.’

He inserted it in the crack in the buttress. He crumpled up Nicky’s note in his pocket, reminding himself that he must get rid of it safely. Yes, Nicky would find it easy. Silly, maybe, to have said it. He’d manage it much better than McIver – or me. Metcalfe was ringing the bell. Edging up to the corner of the Chapel, he thought, ‘A laugh? A laugh?’ Nicky must be crazy. Or crazy brave. There was no one to be seen. Peter and Alice, up on the stage! His mind was all confused. He could not even visualise it. He didn’t want to, and he dashed across the Square, and then walked slowly down the Cloister steps, which were turning into a mild waterfall. He could hear them all pouring into the Dining Hall, behind the stained-glass windows.

The skivvies were waiting in a black body just outside the door. And just inside Clinton, the Master on Duty, was talking quietly with Miss Bull who stood behind her hot plate with her vast bosom sailing out over it.

The funny thing was, theirs were almost the only voices to be heard. There was something in the air. Everyone knew now. There was an awe, a hush, even a fear; something sinister. They were all waiting to see the Head come in.

Carleton, going up the aisle with his fellow Prefects, was looking for Nicky. He caught his eye, and at once put his hand in his right coat pocket. Then next he looked for McIver, who was at the usually rowdy comedians’ table, with Metcalfe and company. He was as pale as before, and stood with his eyes fixed on the table. The others standing beside him appeared uneasy. It was agony not to know what had happened.

Thank goodness he was at the end of the High Table today, and nowhere near the Head and Ma Crab. Everyone was watching the open door at the end. Carleton found himself studying Steele. He had a German military head; which was going to help him in the army. What was going to happen to Steele when he ceased to be Senior Prefect? Surely someone was going to order him about . . . tell him to look smart and so on. Though it was difficult not to think of Steele being made an officer in command straight away. Would it hurt when he found himself under orders? Could one hurt Steele? Had Steele got a mother? A home? Did she march about the place, paying no attention to Steele, while Steele marched about contentedly too, in the opposite direction? It was the only possible vision.

But what was this? Steele was next the Head, and there were three empty places beside him; not two. A smaller chair beside the two thrones. And three rolled napkins in silver rings.