Lord Dismiss Us (36 page)

Arthur Cecil, will you be mine?

Will you be mine? Will you be mine?

Arthur Cecil, will you be mine?

My little grey-headed bo-oy,

My little grey-headed boy.

‘Well done. We’ll have to powder your hair, Naylor. My wife, by the way, is hard at work on the costumes. The ladies among you will have some really pretty dresses. She’ll be asking you to come to the bungalow for fittings. Which reminds me, Allen, you have a reprise on our Canada song. Here we are. You’re singing to Carleton, don’t forget. . . .’

Nicky’s neck was red, and his voice very faint.

‘How I’d love to go with you – to Canada.

How I dream of just we two – in Canada.

So let us not delay,

Let us make our way,

Let us go today,

To Canada!’

‘That’s it. Don’t be nervous. It’ll come easier as we go along. Da-da-da-dee-dum-da-da-dadadada. . . . Now then, that’s all of us, except you Chorus. And don’t you worry, you’ve plenty to do. So we have three weddings at the end, before Alice and Peter set sail. We have a wedding reception on the croquet-lawn. A marquee. We can use a tent. The vicar is a little sad to see his daughter go so far, but then he’s happy with Matilda Fenwick, now Mrs Sinclair. The three couples embrace. We have our final number. Chorus of guests. I think they’ll like this one. They always used to. I think we might have the whole School singing it. Come on! –

‘We dreamed that we might be together,

And now our dream has come to pass,

We dreamed we’d come through stormy weather,

And here we are, at last.

‘All together!’ shouted the Beatle, striking the piano hard, with his head tossing.

‘Our dream is ending now,

Our life begins with the dawn.

Our day is starting now,

Though the stars linger on.

The happy days that lie ahead,

Are beckoning so clear.

We must be wending now,

Our life is starting anew.

And now it’s time to go to bed,

My darling . . . my . . . Dear.’

‘Our couples kiss. Final Curtain.’

The Beatle turned round more slowly, beaming with satisfaction.

‘By the way, you chaps, this is going to be a real treat for our new Head,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know our talents. He is in for a big surprise.’

‘Well, dear children, we have not long to go now,’ said the Chaplain, at his private tea. He smiled, more benignly than wickedly, assuming that the end of term meant freedom from the Persecutors to all of them. But added, perversely – ‘Humphrey is looking forward to Gleneagles.’

‘Serve him right for eating all the chocolate biscuits.’

‘Now, now, Robert. Charity. Charity.’

It was a full house of Starlings. They entirely covered the carpet. The rain had stopped everything. Farming included. It had even stopped the Run, which was normally enforced in all conditions: the Cod had decided that there really was a danger of pneumonia.

The green satin had been pulled by Philomena against the deluge – as it had been against the sun. The Chaplain avoided all extremes, except the one Extreme. The fire blazed. Without it, the room would have been dark. As it was, it was dim. An atmosphere that tempted one to Confession. They could scarcely see his face.

‘What would you say if I were to tell you that this is my last orange?’

They were absolutely silent. It was mildly satisfying.

‘How do you mean, Sir?’

‘I mean, dear Charles, that I shall no longer need protection from the curious scents you bring me from the Farm – and otherwise.’

They stopped munching.

‘I am going to the Hebrides,’ the Chaplain said.

‘You mean, for the hol?’

‘No, Humphrey, not for the hol, as you so quaintly term it. For ever.’

The silence was remarkable. He almost permitted himself the thought that they cared.

‘Under the circumstances, a brief period,’ he added.

Aghast faces were looking up at him from the floor. They did care; though presumably less for him than for their own skins. No more tea. No more flag of No Surrender. No more safety and refuge. They would be at sea, with no shore to swim to; buffeted, without hope of consolation.

They would even have no name.

Thinking of this, and feeling sad now, though mildly amused, the Chaplain said: ‘There will be a cuckoo in our nest.’

‘How do you mean?’ a voice appealed anxiously out of the gloom.

‘A new Chaplain.’

There were sounds of surprise and distress.

‘And I am afraid we cannot rely on him to provide chocolate cake, my dear Robert.’

Having played with their feelings, he found that he had touched his own.
He
could not rely on a remotely situated home for decaying clergy to provide a circle of dirty boys of infinite charm to be spread about his feet in the afternoons.

Everyone was losing.

No one spoke. The fire flamed. The Chaplain gazed down into it.

‘But
why
, Sir?
Why
are you going?’

They all watched, while he continued to stare at the fire. It was like dusk; like an evening in autumn. The square white head came slowly round; a glint of inky hair, and black eyes.

‘Because, my dear Adrian, I am dying.’

They had heard that this was something people did. The Chaplain gave it a dark resonance. He made it awesome and entirely personal. They might have guessed that he would do it in a different way to everyone else.

‘Oh don’t alarm yourselves, children,’ he said, and his smile flashed, and so did his ring. ‘It is a matter for rejoicing. Humphrey, give everyone some more tea. Come along, you heard me, my dear fellow. And let us all cheer up.’

They were unable to make this leap.

‘But you seem . . . well.’

‘They said I would be, Adrian, if they used the knife. I find it amusingly mistaken of them. And I am bold enough to believe that God’s view is identical.’

It had never been easy to coax them into the flash and flame of conversation. Now they were more mute than ever. He was alone on stage.

‘
You
are the subject of proper concern,’ he said. ‘We can only trust that you will find another friend in the spirit. With my knowledge of fellow clergy, I can hardly promise that it will be the same. There is an asceticism abroad. . . . But we may hope.’

‘It’ll never be the same.’

‘No. It won’t.’

‘No. It never will.’

‘Ssh,’ he said, raising a hand.

He was touched, perhaps for the first time.

‘You are young. You are children. You know nothing of what will be.’

‘I bet he won’t even give us tea.’

‘No. You bet your life he won’t!’

‘Ssh, Robert . . . I have one little piece of good news for you. A little surprise. I am altering my End-of-Term Sermon.’

They waited; almost invisible in the gloom. The rain made sudden rushes against the window, as if it wanted to come in and share this sad occasion.

‘As you know, at the beginning of term I have always spoken of Our Lord as the burning fire of Love,’ he said. ‘It puts us on our toes.’

‘Yes, and at the . . .’

‘Allow me, my dear Robert. And at the end I speak . . . it is a time of parting, and of release . . . of feelings, paradoxical ones . . . I speak, more gently, of Christ as the shepherd.’

‘We know.’

‘Yes, we know.’

‘This has been a curious term – to describe it as mildly as I feel compatible with truth. And, in addition, it is a curious time for myself. I am delivering an entirely new Sermon!’

There was silence. Normally unaware of any inadequacy in themselves, they knew, each and all of them, that they could not come near appreciating the immensity of this decision.

What happened next was rapid, bewildering, and more than mildly alarming. The Chaplain didn’t grasp it fully, but the door had opened and his young friend, Beauchamp, was there, looking unrecognisable and shouting in his direction, in a new voice – ‘You might like to know that the filthy little shits have told me to go – now! And my father’s coming and I don’t care. I wish I’d never been to this filthy dirty little shit school. And I’ll get that dirty bastard later on, you’ll see if I don’t. I’ll come and kick in his dirty little backside. I’ll smash his filthy little red face, you’ll see. . . .’

Beauchamp’s voice had broken, and he had evidently gone, because the door had slammed and there were no more sounds.

‘Cripes.’

They heard a deep breath from the Chaplain.

‘I think you had better leave, if you don’t mind. It’s not . . . the best of days. Tomorrow.’

They were rising, and half-heartedly gathering everything from the floor.

‘Run along. Please.’

They filtered out, and someone closed the door.

The Chaplain watched the fire. He was mildly surprised to find that his mind was empty. At last a thought appeared. He leaned back and pressed the bell by the fireplace. And waited.

There was a knock. Philomena entered. Troubled immediately, she looked down through her hair at the litter on the floor. Near where she stood, Beauchamp had walked on a cup and saucer. She was bending.

‘Leave that,’ the Chaplain said. ‘I want a tossed green salad.’

‘Righto,’ said Philomena, and she went quietly out.

As she descended the stairs into the hall, and slipped away to the kitchens, she heard Dr Boucher saying – ‘Tomorrow then. At the same time. I think that should see us through.’

He was putting on a pork-pie hat which looked sportive and accorded with his boxing reputation. The Head, watching, felt a vague unease: the hat had a flippancy which did not accord with the dreadful seriousness of what they had just achieved. His wife, who was standing politely in the sitting-room doorway, experienced – such was their present closeness – an identical reaction.

‘And may I say, Headmaster, your promptness and decision have all my admiration.’

‘Not at all, Doctor, it was plain there was no other way of dealing with this evil. Our thanks go to you. We have now to complete the day, as it were.’

‘The parents, you mean? I don’t envy you.’

‘No, it’ll not be an agreeable evening, Doctor. But my wife is an ever present help in time of trouble.’

‘I’ve no doubt of it,’ said the Butcher, instinctively touching his hat towards the doorway. ‘Well, I’ll say goodbye.’

The Head went out with him on to the top step, and, scarcely noticing that they stood in a downpour, said: ‘Do you contemplate that there will be many more?’

Anxiety had crept in, although he had tried to keep it away.

‘No, no. There are just a very few cases that still worry me. I want to bring ’em into the ring. Sound ’em out.’

‘I see.’

‘Good-bye.’

The Butcher sprang away down the stairs with remarkable agility for his age, and seemed to jump into his ancient dusty Vauxhall, and drive it off, all in one instant. He left the Head staring blankly out over the lake, the great trees, and the pink roofs of
Marston, all sad and subdued under a wet colourless sky. His spirits
were very low.

In vain, he scanned the view for a sign of Lucretia, his own alien, incomprehensible daughter. She was late. The poor child was going to be soaked through on her bicycle, even in her heavy uniform.

But Cecilia was waiting within. He turned, and walked towards the sitting-room, knowing that assurance was there: the certainty that they were doing the right thing for this noble but ailing academy.

Carleton was keeping quiet on the old arm-chair in the corner, with a plate of burnt toast and strawberry jam in his lap.

‘It’s pretty good going,’ Rogers said, through mouthfuls. ‘Four in one day.’

He and Pryde were seated at the table, eating voraciously off the rug.

‘Serve the bastards right,’ said Pryde. ‘Ruddy pansies.’

If only one had the courage to say, ‘What do you mean exactly? Enlarge upon and justify this glib, inhuman thought.’ Where was his one-time ally? He was there, beyond them, on the ottoman, reading his Film Book; which seemed to be taking him the entire term. Perhaps he was memorising it.

Do they know that I am silent – and afraid?

No. Not the second part, thank goodness.

He had never disliked them so much: two brutes hogging toast under a bare light bulb with a filthy white shade. It was on, because the grey rain was still falling heavily outside the little window. Rogers’s great black spectacles, like an American lawyer’s, flashed in the light each time he turned slowly round to throw a piece of sliced bread on to the hot plate of the cooker – or to take it off, too late. And each time he turned, Carleton saw the little snowflakes of dandruff on his collar.

Pryde, on the other hand, had his back to him, so that his poxy face could not be seen. Carleton noted that the red boil, or whatever it was, had gone from his neck. He had been in a permanent bad temper ever since Matron’s departure, and had given up reading the Bible. There seemed to be a controlled ferocity in the movement of his great shoulders, in the bookie’s check coat, whenever he speared the jampot with his knife.

‘There’ll be more tomorrow,’ said Rogers, settling his spectacles with his right hand – which was a kind of nervous tic with him. ‘He’s coming back. Did you see Henderson?’