Lord Dismiss Us (42 page)

And had he ever decided anything? No, he seemed to have always merely done what others had moved him to do. Except for getting out of things. Was he doing that now? But he had to, surely? Surely?

There was that sweet smell from the great clumps of gorse, under a pale blue sky. He knew every foot of this; every one of the pathways between them. And it was nearly all gone. One could be sad in bright sunshine. The far-off shouts from the hooligans sounded mournful.

‘Slipping through with agility’. That was fine from Ashley, who had turned into a disgusting animal!

Getting out of things? Was it possible? Like Senior Prefect? Showing no charity to others? Being a Cynic? But surely he was respecting Nicky, and admitting his own shame?

An old dried-up tree stump. He had once sat on it, and smoked a cigarette, until he heard someone coming. His Past. Everything
was dusty and dried-up and comfortless. But it felt cooler. The sun was beginning to descend. Would a cigarette ever be so good again?

He was above the pool now. It was way up at the end of this alleyway, where the view appeared, that they used to meet.

‘You go your own sweet way and they can go to hell. . . . I’ve
got
to see you.
Please
meet me, if only once. . . .’

Well, he had met. And now?

At the memory of that first note he was nearly in tears.

Was it really over? Muck and carry on, Rowles called it. Was that right? All term the Crab had been trying to part everyone, and Rowles said he’d begun to agree. Contentment is to be found in solitude. In yourself. Was it true? Was it really true?

After the last great clump, the view struck him like a blow. Here they had met. The fields swept away to the far horizon, with the winding Thames in the middle distance. And straight down below was the school itself.

‘Well, just now he talked mostly about temptation.’

Was there any point in going to see the Chaplain? No, there was none.

He lay down on the grass, on his elbow. Their favourite place. The sun was going behind the hill.

‘You’ll get tired of me.’

‘Never, never, never.’

‘Oh yes. You will. Even before the term is over.’

But he hadn’t!

That was not it at all. Nicky thought it was. But it wasn’t.

Two people were coming slowly up through the wood. Surely everyone was in Prep. It must be Prefects. No, it was a man and a woman. They emerged. My gosh it was the Pedant and that girl, and he had his arm around her waist. It was horrible. But why? Well, it was so unbelievable. They stopped – and my goodness he was kissing her! For quite a long time. And then they walked on, disappearing behind the gorse.

What was one to make of it? What was right?

The light was fading, and it was becoming quite cool.

‘Do you know what I’m going to tell you? – We’re in love, lads, and we’re going to be married. And I only hope you’ll be as happy in later life.’

Why was that right? I want to be happy now, and it’s gone, and I’ve made it go.

It was almost unbearable being in this same place. Never again. I haven’t even got his photo, except in the School photo – though Sherriff has. Nicky has mine. He will tear it up. He’ll throw it away. He’s strong like that.

There were distant shouts. The Pedant was at the pool – ‘Out of there, the lot of you! You wretched creatures, you won’t get away with it! I’m setting the police on you this time!’

The Pedant might come this way. In any case, the memories here were intolerable. He rose, and started down between the gorse, walking more quickly as he reached the wood. Nothing was resolved; nothing was clear. There was no one to advise. He felt he was fleeing from these hills for ever.

There were sounds from the Chapel. Music. They had stood beside the buttress, in silence.

He went quietly in past the oaken doors and the bell-rope. It was dusk in here: no, thanks to the stained-glass it was almost dark. The Beatle had his little light on, as he sat up there on his perch; and Carleton saw his feet dancing about on the pedals. He had just begun the D Minor Toccata and Fugue – a glorious sound.

Almost impossible to see who was there, as he tiptoed down the aisle. About ten people seated alone and apart, like dark statues. The great rumbling announcement of the Toccata made him feel small. He was looking for a place with no one near, and eventually settled on the front pew up near the pulpit; and glanced back.

Johns was closest to him – which was nearly enough to put one off! The suspicion that Johns found something dry, remote and superior and Johns-like in Bach. Never mind. Each found himself; and he found other things.

Naylor – another puzzling fellow. Several Artists. Way at the end, against the anti-chapel screen, Rowles was seated in his customary throne; shrunken into it, with its flat wooden arms jutting out. And Ashley was up at the back on the far side, under some old tattered regimental banners – still here, still alive! That didn’t matter either: Carleton merely felt distance and disgust.

One couldn’t spoil this. Such nights. Never again. The centre of school life: yes, there was something warm and touching and memorable about the Chapel – and the Beatle playing. Reading Lessons here he had loved too. He had always rehearsed them out loud, here alone in the semi-darkness. The others never bothered. They got names and everything wrong. But he was ready, assured and clear. The whole School listening. If he wasn’t going to be a writer, he’d like to be an actor.

But the Beatle had begun the fugue, and Carleton, who was sensitive to music, was stirred at once. A clear, laughing stream of notes. . . . Chills of delight up his arms and round the back of his neck.

Rowles, who had spotted him, was listening more calmly – to church music by a master. Church music was the only music he knew; it was the only noise that was tolerable; and this, of course, was supreme. It was not a resolution of anything. It didn’t dabble in disturbance. It was without trouble, thank God. It was religious, and mercifully sane. Old Bach was a bit like himself, though of course a quite extraordinary and remarkable fellow. Sixteen brats, wasn’t it? Poor chap, how on earth did he manage? Shut himself up – the only thing to do.

Still, it was difficult to attend with Ashley sitting over there. What a damned fool! What a wretchedly upsetting case! Why didn’t he go? What was one to do? Help? There was no help. He had tried, God knows.

Ashley sat immune to these reflections. Numb. He didn’t know why he had wandered in here. The music was comfortless, meaningless, scuttling around in circles. It was certainly not Beethoven.
T
here was nothing here to break down the reliable walls of youth. No goblins here to walk quietly over the universe. No acknowledgement at all of panic and emptiness.

Or of shame. How squalid! It had been distress . . . urgency. . . . He really loved the youth with tenderness. But that was equally without hope. And that creature’s poxy face as he hit it. And the other’s scarlet face shouting at him – ‘This is the end! This is the last interference.’ Yes, everything ends in this damn place – where it all began.

What alternative? His mother’s flat. Theatrical society. Players and painted stage. . . . A pity it was not an inherited talent. Othello’s occupation’s gone; along with everything else. As a child he had sat in the Stalls of every theatre in London, watching his mother pour tea gracefully. With no result. No temptation whatever to parade: though it didn’t seem so far from schoolmastering.

Why hang on? What else to do? Besides, Carleton was here – and there were only three more days.

I am simply a person like other persons. How is it that I find myself empty, perverted, without hope, dead inside, dark inside . . . with that sense of futility near to panic . . . ? Why? When did it happen? Here?

Once, and once only, he suddenly remembered, he had met J.L.M. away from here. In the holidays. He was not yet a Cambridge man: two children . . . two young people. Two people? In a cinema in London’s West End. What had they seen? He had no recollection. It was winter. He had put his brown overcoat over their knees. Under it, they touched legs, held hands. . . . An usherette shone a torch, requesting them to stand up for new arrivals. It seemed to shine with disapproval . . . disgust? Could she have known? He had put his coat under a seat. They sat close, but more tense. And afterwards, having tea upstairs in a terrible place, on wicker chairs, with violins playing. J.L.M. had said: ‘Supposing someone from School sees us?’ School – which seemed a thousand miles away! But it frightened them both. And, more important, the meeting now seemed unreal. They had not tried it again. They were very young.

What had they done in his room? Had they really done something? Carleton with bowed head.

A nice future, God help him.

Carleton was needing no help. He listened in delight. The stream of notes was slowly gaining a ground bass of strength; melding in patterns too swift to follow into a great tapestry. For a while, urgent questions were asked, and were responded to with deep, resounding, certain answers. And then, gradually, the whole Chapel became one marvellous, thundering bell of triumphant certainty and joy.

Then Silence.

It seemed to leave the stone walls trembling.

Silence.

How small are my troubles!

A strange sharp little sound. Ashley’s shoes on the pink flags. He was walking out. The ten dark figures watched. On the slender step down into the ante-chapel he nearly fell. My God, he’s been drinking again, thought Rowles. Then he was gone.

Oblivious of this, the Beatle, who had been taking a breather, began again.

It was the Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor.

Carleton was not interested in Ashley. This was quieter. It was more reflective. The noble sound of organs. In chapels, churches, yes cathedrals. . . . What are my troubles! Profound . . . peace. Sitting beside someone you loved. The love made more pure and yet more intense. Two fingers gently interlocked on the pew. His and Nicky’s eyes raised to the great golden organ pipes, to the vast height above. Together as never before. Blissfully humbled into two simple souls made for each other; chosen and found by marvellous fortune out of the whole world. So simple, and perfect. Us, and something greater which unites us all the more. . . .

Stop dreaming.

For something was wrong. The Beatle had commenced the fugue, and there was a disconcerting memory. What was it?

Yes, the Beatle had once sung them, with delight, a rhyme to this fugue, about some old arranger –

‘Old Ebenezer Prout,

Oh, what a funny man!

He plays Bach fugues

As quickly as he can.

He-ee plays Bach fugues

As quickly as he can.

Old Ebenezer Prout,

Oh, what a. . . .’

Very hard to listen properly, with this nonsense running in one’s head. The Beatle’s feet leaped and plunged – What a funny man! and again, What a funny man! His head tossed. His hands danced. As quickly as he can. Oh, what a funny man!

Yet wait. . . . It gradually swept you in, as did the Toccata. It persuaded, and overwhelmed. Funny, yes, happy, yes. And why not? Happiness. Laughter. Fun. How terrible to forget such things. The Beatle knew his Bach. They must be maintained, enjoyed . . . never forgotten. How easy to lose them! And mope about the hills. And yet how valuable beyond measure.

They had smiled often, with this kind of happiness. They had smiled on the pillow. And then. . . .

A complete surprise, and shock. That was all.

How simple. Just love.

Again, all was resolved: serenely this time. Not so thunderously. The world and life were to be properly enjoyed. It was all there. It was up to oneself. This was what it sounded like when you achieved it. Serenity after. . . .

Silence again. And his guilt was washed away. Nothing was crushed.

The others began to drift out. He sat there, remembering how music leaves you with wonders which promptly vanish.

But not this time. Not this time.

Chapter Twenty-nine

But how?

The days were few. One could count it in hours now.

And they were rushing past.

In the morning he wrote a pleading, begging note, and left it in the buttress, and saw Nicky on the way to lunch – the second-last lunch – and put his hand in his pocket.

Nicky promptly turned his head away.

In the afternoon the Big Schoolroom was out-of-bounds to everyone else. It was their Dress Rehearsal for the following night.

He came in from the Chapel Square, and stood for a moment, dazed by the noise, the footlights, the excitement and confusion. Someone was hammering like the devil up at the back of the stage, which blazed with a backcloth of Little Dingley-on-the-Marsh, done by Clinton’s Artists: church tower, village green, post office, pub, and so on. The sunny afternoon was obliterated by curtains and sacking across the high-up windows; though thin beams came through, alive with dust. In the wings, the Beatle was trying to run over points on the upright piano, against the bangs of the hammer. His tall, grey-headed wife sat at a desk in front of a pile of clothes. The Chaplain surprisingly, for he emerged seldom – was seated at a desk near where Carleton stood, smiling to himself. And across the blinding stage wandered Nicky.

Nicky wore a red velvet frock with a double string of pearls.

He looked amazing!

My gosh. Shiny black high-heeled shoes.

‘Ah,’ said the Beatle’s wife, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

She held up a marvellous kind of fancy-dress summer suit. It was black and white stripes.

‘This may not fit.’

She plonked a straw hat on his head. It covered his eyes.

‘It doesn’t. Never mind.’

She wiped it off again.

‘Go and change at the back of the stage.’

The Beatle’s wife was older than her husband, with grey hair going straight up, and cut short at the back. But there was something young and easy about her. A breeziness like the Beatle’s, with an extra commanding ‘no nonsense’ which the boys respected.

Carleton climbed on to the stage, past McCaffrey, who was fiddling about with one of the big aluminium plates that covered the footlights, and went round the back of Little Dingley. There was an exciting smell . . . greasepaint, old clothes. Desks in a row with mirrors on them. The Old Crone was putting stuff on Stoddart Major, who wore a frock with big red roses; a job that Nancy had always done so well; but this Matron seemed irritable and uncertain, and Stoddart was wincing. Nicky had been called over to the piano by the Beatle. Almost unrecognisable people were milling about: Naylor, with his crinkly hair all powdered, in a clergyman’s collar; McIver, rolling his eyes, in a black lace dress down to his ankles. But no mockery; no embarrassment. Serious, and exciting. A job to be done. They were going to slay them. A true team spirit. We will astonish them together. How to get off his trousers without Matron seeing? Maybe she should be used to it, but after all she was an old spinster.

The suit was great!

It was all stripey.

‘Do
I
need anything, Matron?’

She was still painting Stoddart.

‘A moment, please! One at a time. I’m doing this now,’ she added,
blacking Stoddart’s eyelids, ‘So that I’ll remember tomorrow night.
I can’t remember if you interrupt.’

He moved over towards the piano.

The Chorus was standing about, brightly dressed as villagers of both sexes; and Nicky was beside the Beatle, finishing –

Come with me to Canada.

Today!

Strange, and disconcerting. His brown cheeks were slightly rouged. But when you got used to it, he was even more beautiful than ever. Carleton’s heart felt like a balloon.

‘Good!’ the Beatle said.

Nicky came out through the group.

‘I wonder how I look in this,’ Carleton thought. ‘Surely I look rather dashing. He’s marvellous, but maybe it’s not fair that I’m allowed to be a man. My goodness, I can just see the tops of two tennis-balls inside his red dress.’

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he whispered, looking into those dark eyes. ‘It was all a mis. . . .’

‘I’m not interested,’ Nicky said. And he walked past.

It was unbelievable. It wasn’t him at all. It opened up a sudden emptiness that was impossible, unbearable. . . .

‘All right, everybody!’ the Beatle called out. ‘Are you there Milner?’

‘Yes, yes.’

The Pedant was somewhere out front. He always came in at the end to help: because the Beatle had to play the piano. The Pedant was surprisingly good at it: it was the Jack Buchanan in him; and the need to get everything neat and tidy, and in the right declensions, and so on.

‘Now let’s see if that wretched curtain will come across.’

McCaffrey pulled a string. The two old red curtains joined. The Beatle began playing a medley of all his tunes.

The Chaplain – which was unlike him – closed his eyes.

The Schoolroom was stifling. The pain had, of late, turned into a constant grinding, accompanied by nausea; and only the green salad was tenable.

But the curtains clattered aside, and someone was beating a bell, and there was the devil of a din, and his eyes opened. Villagers of both sexes were strolling arm-in-arm in the sunshine, with the gentlemen raising straw hats and bowing. There were only two Starlings, and both of them, to his mild disgust, in summer frocks. Remarkable how it obliterated all attraction. There was a sudden outburst –

‘At Little-Dingley-in-the-Marsh,

Where days are fair, and never harsh. . . .’

The Chaplain was almost dozing.

Naylor had walked on, altered by grey hair and a dog collar.

‘Good morning, dear people.’

‘Good morning, Vicar!’

‘Well, well, what a day, eh! I believe I quote the immortal Wodehouse correctly when he takes his metaphor from the golf-course – “It was a day when all nature shouted ‘Fore!’ ” ’

‘Yes, indeed, Vicar! Very true. . . . Quite right. . . .’

‘But to our onions,’ said Naylor. ‘Since I have but five minutes till Morning Service. We
all
have only ten days now till our Little-Dingley fête. Firstly, may I address myself to you ladies. . . . Ah, but here comes my daughter, Alice, who is better equipped than I. . . .’

At the sight of Allen in red velvet, the Chaplain felt iller, and chose darkness. The disease, he knew, was not improving his nature. They have expelled my friends, he thought. They have committed brutality on Bond and Tyson. The place is now cleansed, they imagine. As if people can be cleansed! Only by the Fire. Next term will be no different. No term will. The naïvety of fools. Ignorance is the only crime. In its name all the sins are committed. Allen was singing, and the Chaplain actually smiled.

It seemed his fiancé, Percy, was on the way from Oxford.

‘Percy,

Waiting for Percy.

Will he bring me the love that I require?

Will he bring me the life that I desire?

Surely,

But surely,

Yes he’ll. . . .’

He was old. That was it. Never before had he really appreciated it; but it was so. They were in their springtime. How strong were their feelings? Were they truly a blueprint? That quaint fellow, Proust, whose mother had omitted to kiss him. Childish things that are not put away. Unless one became a man. Whatever that meant. As far as he was concerned, all men were children: God’s. And there was only one strong feeling. He could recall bringing no one to it; save a lady who had poked his fire; and this, regrettably, had proved to be a testimony – transitory, thank God – to his own personal charms. Ashley had slipped in and was leaning back against the far wall. An odd, remote, troubled looking fellow. The Chaplain had never communicated with any of the Staff. Had this been a mistake? Adults were so childish.

Caldicott, who wore a monocle, Carleton, in stripes, and McIver, in black lace, had come labouring on with suitcases.

McIver said, with nice humour, rolling his eyes – ‘A short walk from the Station, indeed! You young men have no respect for age. Let us rest here awhile, or I shall expire in this heat. Where is everyone?’

‘I think they’re all in church, mamma,’ Caldicott replied.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ McIver said. ‘People should always have an occupation of some kind. You look somewhat fatigué too, my son. But as for your friend, Peter, he seems horribly fresh. These Canadians! The wide open spaces, they call them, do they not?’

Carleton said, ‘That’s right, ma’am. Why, sometimes we’ll walk fifty miles in one day.’

‘Gracious!’ McIver exclaimed.

‘You’re joking,’ said Caldicott.

‘I’m not,’ said Carleton.

‘Well. . . . Well, well!’ said McIver. ‘I do think that Alice – as your fiancée, Percy – might at least have met us at the Station with some conveyance.’

‘Well, her father is the Vicar, mamma,’ Caldicott explained. ‘And he does like her in church, you know. She did say so in her letter.’

‘If
I
may say so,’ Carleton interposed. ‘It seems mighty reasonable to me, ma’am.’

‘Well, I suppose so,’ McIver conceded. ‘A vicarage. It’s many years since I stayed at a vicarage. The vicarages of England.’

‘They mean a lot, mamma,’ said Caldicott.

‘Shall we tell him?’ McIver suggested coyly.

‘I’d be mighty obliged if you would, ma’am,’ said Carleton.

They sang.

McIver: Oh, they may be somewhat draughty,

Caldicott: And
some
rooms in bad repair,

McIver: But England needs her vicars,

Caldicott: To stay and prosper there.

McIver: The plumbing may be risky,

Caldicott: The roof. . . .

‘Just a moment, just a moment!’ The Pedant was irritated. The Beatle was silent at the piano. ‘It’s far too static. We’d better have you swapping places on each line. Now then. . . .’

Carleton was dazzling in that suit, Ashley thought. Dazzling. But there is something wrong. My hands. They’re apart. Separate entities. Bring them together, and they will not have it. They seem wise. But what’s to be done? Now, apart, they feel dead. My feet too. The body needs to love. But there is no action to be taken. A cloud passed over him. But it departed. He had not fainted. The body gives in, but it recovers. Optimist. It needs to be taught a lesson. This cannot continue. The hands – if they were chopped off, would they be missed? Yes. Odd. Alarming. . . . Definitely. Dimly he saw Allen run on, with his tennis-balls bobbing –

‘I thought I heard singing, and I slipped out. . . . Percy!’

He rushed into Caldicott’s arms and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Mrs Fenwick, how nice! Oh?’

‘Ah, yes, uh, darling,’ said Caldicott. ‘This is my great friend at Oxford, Peter Piper.’

‘How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’

The Pedant shouted out – ‘Well, for heaven’s sake, Allen, do at least look at the fellow! And look closely. You’re about to fall in love. Do that again.’

‘How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’

Allen looked briefly, and coldly. Carleton looked with desire, and without shame; his heart thumping. How to disguise it? Had the Pedant seen? Dreadful of Nicky. Hellish. What was it? – ‘I don’t want ever again to turn away whenever I see somebody. Never again.’

Very well, the Chaplain thought, I shall give them a taste of the refiner’s fire. I shall enter their hearts. I shall tear out the distresses. I shall show them, for their own good, and whether it be true or not, that the distresses are garbage in the eye of heaven. The greater love, yes, but not this red velvet. . . .

His right hand felt empty. He had come without the orange.

‘That was worse,’ the Pedant said. ‘But we haven’t time. By the way, can you hear us back there, Chaplain? Are we loud enough?’

The Chaplain was asleep.

‘Damn the man,’ said the Pedant. ‘Very well, then. Get on with it!’