Lord Dismiss Us (41 page)

Coming down the wood, Ashley saw him going into the New Buildings. ‘Why have I done this?’ he wondered. Is this true sympathy and understanding, or is it some vicarious self-deception?’

It was not the reason for his sudden return. Heading up the hills, through the gorse, he had been nagged at by Crabtree’s declaration to the Common Room: ‘I’m asking you, gentlemen, to remain out of the way, and allow the School to act as it sees fit.’ It had smelt then. It still did. They had two mass emotions, these young creatures, Ashley thought: sentimentality and savagery. There was no doubt which would be put to use today. He heard shouts, and began to hurry down through the long grass.

The rope had been untied; the pretence of separate hangings was over; and Bond and Tyson were being bundled out of the Chapel, surrounded by a dense crowd. The addition of these younger admirers had revivified Steele, Pryde, Rogers and the others in their desire for blood. The hangings had faded into anti-climax. It was ending without satisfaction. Tyson, who had regained his battered bicycle, was even wearing a half-grin. And though insults were being delivered, with much shoving, there was no doubt that the two victims, who were pushing their bikes at the centre of the parade, were on their way down the drive again, and so towards freedom.

Tyson solved the problem for them. He murmured, ‘Dirty little cowards,’ and after a moment’s surprised silence Pryde stepped in and hit him hard on the teeth with his fist. Tyson fell back, with his hand to his mouth. Bond dropped his bicycle and rushed bravely at Pryde. Two boys jumped on him, and the three crashed down on top of the bicycle. Tyson aimed a blow at Pryde, and both Steele and Rogers went for him. All control was gone; Bond and Tyson were on the ground, and were grunting with pain as the others lashed out at them. Someone was shouting at them to stop, but no one heard; until Pryde found himself pulled back, saw a flash of Ashley’s fair hair, and Ashley’s fist coming at his jaw. Even in the melee it took only a moment for everyone to realise that a master had struck a boy. The two heaps were slowly unravelling; though Bond and Tyson were still on the ground. ‘Filthy little swine, all of you!’ Ashley shouted. ‘You can’t do this,’ Steele said. ‘Hold your tongue, you ugly bully!’ said Ashley. Bond and Tyson were getting up. They were covered with gravel. Bond had filthy marks of tears and dirt on his face, and at the corner of Tyson’s mouth there was bright red blood. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and it smeared across his cheek.

‘Get on your bicycles and go!’ said Ashley. ‘And the rest of you, bow your rotten little heads in shame.’

‘You hit Pryde,’ said Steele. ‘I saw it. You can’t do that. I’m going to the Head.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Ashley.

It was silent in the sunny room.

Will I pull the curtains? No, no, that would be too daring, and embarrassing. Besides, there was not a soul outside; not even Lucretia. just sunshine and silence. It was stuffy. He opened the window, and a wasp immediately buzzed in, and out again. The long grass of the wood looked cool. He was leaning over the desk in the window, and a photo of a handsome woman in some play. She was probably Ashley’s mother. Imagine him having one!

What was it he had said about the story, and the mother? There was no need for her – and he had sounded odd for a moment.

If so, why was she on his desk?

He turned back again into the room. On the mantelpiece, under a round mirror, there was a small clock in a leather case, ticking away fast and softly, in the silence. It was just ten past four. Where was Nicky? Surely he was coming? He must be. Why did small clocks seem to tick faster than large clocks?

He realised he had been trying not to look at the bed, but he didn’t like to think why; and suddenly he saw the wooden crucifix over the end of it, on the wall. He had the alarming thought that this might make Nicky become religious and remote; and even moved across the room with the mad idea of taking it down and hiding it under the bed. But it was fixed there with a large rusty nail.

No, it wasn’t so mad, he thought. Because this is terribly important. Dr Rowles said it wasn’t – it was just childish. But Rowles wasn’t waiting here, aglow with love and excitement; impatient, frightened, with his heart banging in his chest.

He went back agitatedly towards the window, and his eyes fell on a row of shoes, under bookshelves. They were highly polished, and nearly all had little holes in them – whatever that was called. There was also a grey coat on the chair at the desk. And for a moment he had the disconcerting thought – this is someone else’s room; this is no good; we don’t want to be concerned with anyone else. Yes, there was something new, a personal something, about the room: aspects of a private life, of a more human and ordinary Ashley than the one who presented himself. A person like oneself; just another person, that was all. Someone who needed shoes too. Funny, there was something sad about people’s belongings when the person wasn’t there. Yes, even the striped rug over the dispensary door. They were deserted. Deprived of any meaning. Waiting.

Like Carleton.

But there was a definite sound in the corridor, and he became tense. He had locked the door. He saw the handle turn. He didn’t dare call out, but a voice whispered, ‘It’s me.’

He unlocked it, and Nicky slipped in, and he locked it again.

The cool, the unconcerned Nicky was trembling slightly! He gave Carleton his hand, as if for help. It was quite cold.

‘Hey, what’s up? It’s all right. It’s all right. This is safe as houses. Here – let’s sit down.’

Carleton led him across, and pulled the chair round, and sat on it, taking Nicky on to his knees. He was much shyer than usual. It was warming to feel oneself the leader, the older, for a change.

‘Sorry I’m wearing this old coat,’ Nicky said, looking at the floor.

It wasn’t his brown one. It was a faded dark blue, with a red line in it.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake what does it matter! Anyhow, I like it. You look marvellous.’

It was true. Carleton lifted Nicky’s chin with a finger, and turned his head, and they gazed at each other, and smiled.

‘You’re all right now, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

They didn’t need to speak. But at length Carleton heard himself  saying, ‘You’re a bit high up there. Someone might see. Let’s . . . lie down.’

‘What?’

‘Over there. More comfortable.’

Nicky hesitated.

‘O.K.,’ he said, and slipped off Carleton’s lap.

Carleton led him across. They lay face to face and found themselves almost laughing with happiness.

‘Oh I do love you,’ Carleton said, and he had moved impulsively over on top of Nicky, putting his arms around him. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ He bent his head to kiss, and Nicky turned away, saying ‘tch, tch’ – exactly like Naylor. Though, unlike Naylor, he blushed crimson; while Carleton kissed him on the cheek and the eyebrow. And the most appalling, unbelievable, terrible thing began to happen; and he could not stop it. He tried, but he could not stop it. And the worst part was that it was wonderful too, and yet it was awful. Thus the shame was doubled. The disgrace and horror were absolute. It was profane. It was ruin. It was done now. It could not be undone. He lay still. He was paralysed. And Nicky smiled up at him. He didn’t even know! He didn’t even seem to know!

‘What’s up?’ Nicky whispered.

He couldn’t speak. He looked down into Nicky’s face, in despair. But there was no response. Only a query. Nicky was innocent. Yes, entirely innocent. Though it made no difference. All was defamed, and finished. He moved off, and sat on the edge of the bed, with his back to Nicky, trembling with shock.

‘What is it?’ Nicky said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘What on earth’s up?’

‘Don’t.’

Nicky took his hand away. There was a coldness in the room. Carleton had to move out of reach. He stood up and went over towards the window. His legs were shaking. Everything, everything lovely, their whole past, was contaminated. He had sinned and profaned; as with Naylor, but this was with Nicky!

‘You’d better go,’ he said, gazing blindly out of the window.

‘What? Go?’

‘Yes. Go now.’

He turned. Nicky was standing up, looking pale and confused.

‘It’s best. I don’t feel. . . . Somebody may come up. You’d best go . . . really.’

Nicky stared back into his eyes; surprised, miserable, and then, just as he had begun to look like crying, angry.

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ he said calmly.

‘What?’

‘I told you. I told you.’

‘No. No. . . .’

‘I told you, I told you.’ Nicky went to the door. ‘Blast you, blast you, blast you. . . .’

There were tears in his voice, and he was turning the key. Carleton stared at his back. He couldn’t move. There was nothing to be done.

Nicky threw the door open and went out, and slammed it, and was gone from his life – just like Naylor.

He didn’t realise what he was doing. He felt powerless to leave the room and go out into the sun. What did it matter now whether he was here or not? He could not face anybody outside. Rowles had been right. Rowles had advised, and he hadn’t listened. Diseased rubbish. The emotions – they just led to horror and disgust. But what about this school, yes this school? He’d been sent here. Not his fault. Thank goodness he was going. If only today, yes today, he had been already gone!

He didn’t remember moving there, but he was standing against the mantelpiece, with his bent head on his arm, when he heard the door open and shut.

Ashley had come in, breathing heavily, and looking almost unrecognisable.

After a long stare he slowly turned his head and glanced down at the bed. There was a depression along the centre, in the dark green cover. Carleton had not thought of rearranging it.

Ashley looked along the bed in a deliberate way, and addressed him finally with that sneering expression – ‘Satisfactory?’

Carleton was numb, and afraid, and couldn’t reply.

‘Evidently not. I’m not surprised. You should stick to your elders.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘We’re in the same boat now. I have been requested to leave at the end of this delightful term. So you see – we haven’t much time.’

‘Oh gosh . . . I’m sorry. . . . But what do you mean?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ said Ashley, taking a pace forward. ‘You’ve worked hard, and I grant you your success. I love you.’

‘What?!’

‘Stop pretending,’ said Ashley, in a most peculiar voice; and he was coming towards him. His arms were out. His hands were coming at him. There was a moaning noise. It was like some animal. It wasn’t him. It was vile. His hands had clutched Carleton’s arms, and his mad face was pushing forward, and it was incredible but it must be that he was trying to kiss him. Carleton moved his head aside, and banged back against the mantelpiece, fighting against the fierce grip on his arms. In silence they struggled, until Carleton managed to dodge aside, pushing Ashley across the room. The clock had fallen face down on the tiles, and he bent to pick it up, though Ashley was shouting from somewhere, ‘Never mind the clock!’ The glass was broken. He put it back on the mantelpiece, panting and shivering, and not daring to look. Ashley said, from out of the blinding light in the window, ‘You blow neither hot nor cold. I spew you out of my mouth!’ Carleton couldn’t move or speak. He couldn’t see the figure there against the light. The voice became calmer – ‘Je m’égare, Seigneur, ma folle ardeur malgré moi se déclare.’ It was ‘Phèdre’ or something. The only thing was to escape. He managed to get to the door; and going out heard a cry behind him – ‘This is what will happen to
you
!’ Then he ran away down the corridor with the words ringing in his head.

Chapter Twenty-eight

At Tea he was at the end of the table no longer dominated by the departed Beauchamp; nor even by Sinnott, who had grown very quiet. The others chattered. The whole Dining Hall seethed with the drama of the afternoon. The Cod was on duty, marching up and down and saying ‘Hush, hush,’ now and then. Carleton ate nothing, and sat in a daze of confusion and shame. He gathered that Ashley had entered the fray, struck Pryde and been asked to leave. So he must have been in a terrible state. Never mind; it excused none of the horror that had happened.

At last the Cod released them, and he wandered out, avoiding Nicky, and not knowing what to do. Someone had grabbed the old bat and they were playing Cloister Cricket already in the break before Prep. The tennis-ball appeared at his feet as he crossed the Quad, and someone called out to him to chuck it back. He paid no attention and went up the steps towards the War Memorial. There was no Prep for him. He couldn’t face the others in the Common Room. He wandered across the Chapel Square and into the wood, which looked inviting on this still, warm, marvellous summer evening. There were midges under the trees, and he had to scratch his itching head. Where the sun came through, it was surprisingly bright for this hour of day. He would rather it had retired by now. His own mood was not sunny at all. He felt wretched, and terribly alone.

He strolled up the wood. The sound of voices behind faded. It was strangely quiet. It was mysterious, with a brooding life of its own. Lucretia’s rabbits in the wire cage hurried about and nibbled, on silent feet. Their activity seemed an intrusion. They were imposters and should have been placed elsewhere. He passed them, and went on higher, wondering – what has happened? What really has happened? How wrong was it, how final? Who in the world was there to ask? What about mothers and fathers? Weren’t they supposed to help sometimes? But they were a thousand miles away. For eight years of his young life he had been put out on his own, to decide everything for himself.

More voices were heard in the distance now. When he came out of the wood, into the far too brilliant sunshine, he saw that there were people in the pool, way up on top of the grassy hill. The hooligans had come over the wall again and were disporting themselves; their filthy clothes piled in heaps round the pool. He had better avoid them, and go round behind the gorse bushes. They didn’t interest him any more; and besides, he was unlikely to be able to disperse them on his own.