Lord Dismiss Us (43 page)

Chapter Thirty

I will do this once more, just to finish it.

My last day. My last Rest in dorm – ever.

It’s hard to believe things end, but they do.

A funny mixture of sadness and excitement.

The dorm is all littered with trunks, with an odd, old smell. Some people have great boxes with big clamps on them. Clothes are strewn about. Everybody is a bit hysterical. It took us about ten minutes to get Silence. Gower was extremely cheeky to me. He seems quite content to be chucked out. I wonder what he’s got in his trunk!

The Doctor said last night – ‘There’s a kettle on if you happen to be passing’ – and for the first time I didn’t feel like it. I felt we’ve no more to say. And we hadn’t really. He kept on mumbling things like – ‘So you’re leaving us’ – and there were awful silences. He didn’t mention the Subject. It seems I’m forgiven. Not that I care.

After Tea I had gone round behind the Chapel with some crazy hope: and there
was
a note sticking out of the buttress, and I was ready to shout out with happiness and joy. But it was my own. He hadn’t even touched it.

As for singing with him – I could scarcely control myself, and he could scarcely look at me. The Pedant congratulated me, and told Nicky off. My hand round his waist at the end was shaking. But he was like a cold fish. He wouldn’t kiss. He turned his head away when I tried. What on earth will happen tonight?

My greatest night.

It’s not a Sunday, but of course we have a full-dress Chapel – early. Cyril Starr’s last sermon. He’s going. It seems he was really ill all the time. You never know. And we’ll sing, ‘Lord, dismiss us, with Thy blessing.’ I’ve been moved enough before, when I wasn’t even leaving. What will it be like now?

Afterwards, everyone troops into the Schoolroom for our performance. I’m scared.

Then we all line up and go into the Common Room and say good-bye to the masters. (Ashley is still here. Why? He looks a bit bonkers to me).

Pryde said that later there was a plan for cigarettes and beer somewhere up in the wood, and he even asked me to join the group – which surprised me.

But there’s only one person I want to meet in the dark.

I know that Nicky will have been ‘Weatherhill’. And yet it was only one term. How strange.

What can I do? How can I save it?

I mustn’t forget to tip the skivvies. Philomena looks tearful. She really liked old Starr. There’s a warmth in people. They’re amazing really. Muck, the Doctor calls it. I’m tired of hearing that.

Tomorrow morning – will I sleep at all tonight? – Father with the car . . . and all the other cars on the drive. Except for fellows who live further away. They’re all going on the early train to London.
We
can sleep later. I said not to come too early. I’ve never slept late here. Breakfast lingers on – which is fun. Not that I’ll be able to eat much.

I must know his address. I must do it. I must see him. I can’t go out into the world without him. I know now that it’s absolutely impossible.

I was finishing like that, but there’s a question I’ve never admitted to, and I feel I must set it down.

Who
is
Nicky? Who is he? Love is blind, they say, but must he remain quite such a mystery? Is he really better than me . . . than us all? Petty piped up about Dante not knowing Beatrice, but for gosh sakes he has been in my arms and I still don’t know who he is. Can it be, he’s too young to be anyone? No, he doesn’t seem young. Not a bit. He’s perfect, yes. Is he too perfect? Must we not risk things, risk being wrong, a little? Should I move him? He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He blows neither . . . what was it? Hot nor cold.

Gosh, that was Ashley.

Chapter Thirty-one

317
. Carleton slotted the number of the third hymn into the board. ‘Lord dismiss us. . . .’ in the End of Term section of Public School Hymn Book.

He was hanging the board up on the hook when he heard Naylor, who was doing something with the gold plate away near the altar, say quietly down the length of the deserted Chapel: ‘You don’t seem to be having much success.’

He had remembered. Naylor, of all people! Or had he?

‘How do you mean?’

‘Hadn’t you better patch it up, whatever it is, or this show tonight’s going to go for a burton?’

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

What he wanted to say was, ‘Yes, yes, but how, Naylor, how, damn you?’

‘Everybody else does,’ said Naylor.

‘Boo!’ Seaton-Scott jumped out from behind the screen to the ante-chapel.

‘Oh, go to hell, Seaton-Scott,’ said Carleton.

‘I thought I’d visit you guys for the last time,’ Seaton-Scott said humbly, with his specs flashing.

All three of them were wearing white surplices – a garment to be discarded for the rest of one’s life. They were like spectres in the dusk.

‘We’re not flattered,’ said Carleton, ‘But you can make yourself useful and switch on the lights. I can’t see where to hang this.’

‘Oh. Right.’

There were a lot of clicks, and the place was ablaze.

‘Where the devil is Metcalfe?’ said Carleton, who was experiencing the old, old fear that he might have to try and ring the bell himself.

‘At your service, my lord.’

Metcalfe had appeared, bowing in his white sheet, in the ante-chapel. He had evidently polished his black shoes with the hem of his surplice.

‘Is the time nigh?’

‘Yes, get going. And you, Seaton-Scott, buzz off, you’re supposed to be at Roll Call.’

‘Not till the bell stops. I know why you want to get rid. . . .’

‘Scram!’

‘All right. All right. Keep your hair on.’

Metcalfe was pulling the rope, and there was a light clanging at first, and then the great boom ringing out.

Carleton felt nervous and excited. Everything . . . everything that mattered . . . was now about to happen.

Rowles and the Pedant, in gowns and hoods, had already been the first to assemble in the oak-panelled Common Room. Rowles was knocking out his pipe against the fireplace and saying – ‘Has it occurred to you, Milner, that this performance you’re conducting on the stage may not exactly meet with approval?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rowles, you’re becoming quite preposterously prim of late. We’ve been putting on the Precentor’s works for thirty years.’

Milner was examining
The Times
crossword – which was irritating.

‘I know, but
he
is unacquainted, Milner. And his attitude could scarcely be plainer. I foresee ructions, I don’t mind telling you.’

Milner sniffed, and said nothing.

‘I wish someone would tell me why this wretched Ashley is hanging on here and haunting us like some damn ghost,’ said the Doctor, blowing out smoke. ‘Why hasn’t he the decency to clear off?’

‘Don’t ask me, Rowles. I thought you had his ear. I thought you had some understanding of that particular gentleman.’

‘You did, did you?’

‘Certainly. I’ll even go so far as to say I thought you liked him.’

Rowles was silenced. The bell continued to boom out over Weatherhill. He scratched his forehead with his pipe-stem.

‘My God, what can one do, Milner? There’s nothing to be done.’

‘Where will he go?’

‘How in arsehole would I know? I don’t see what there is for him if he won’t grow.’

‘You sound concerned.’

‘I’m not. Not a bit. Not a bit.’

‘I see.’

‘His mother will be . . . much upset. Well, there it is.’

He was thinking that he, personally, was going – but only for the holidays – to the usual hotel in the hinterland of Eastbourne, where he would enjoy a vast intake of mathematical reading. Milner would decamp into the bungalow in the field; an unnecessary and preposterous victim of the emotions.

‘I . . . uh . . . read a postcard. You may expect Rich and our former Matron among your audience.’

‘You don’t say?’

Milner was interested at last.

‘I do. Our unfortunate Head is surrounded by embarrassments.’

‘He has caused a few himself.’

‘Really, Milner!’

‘The term has born a notable resemblance to the Spanish Inquisition.’

‘Come, come, man! I’m inclined to think he has done well. Showed a firm hand. We’ll be better for it. There was too much muck altogether.’

‘You know what the old man of Nepal said about muck?’

‘No, I don’t. And I don’t care to. I’m not in the mood.’

Yes, that sadness was still there. They were almost bores already. Carleton – last night. Their many talks about literature and life and School might never have been. Scarcely an intelligent word had fallen. One scented that the Quest was over . . . and this was one of those dreadful creatures called a young man. Reasonably, School meant nothing any more. But the mind retired from
all
matters. Literature ceased to be an adventure. Life was not discussable as a mystery. They were out in it already. Plodding about. Educated bores. The child extinguished. He had thought that the creature would never go to bed. This being their last cup of tea, it had seemed harsh to hustle him out.

An expectant silence. The bell had stopped.

‘Allen,’ shouted Steele for the last time.

‘Present.’

‘Andrews.’

‘Present.’

‘Beauchamp . . . oh . . . sorry. Bewick.’

‘Present.’

The evening sun came through the arches, upon the angels in white, lining the Cloisters below.

‘The comedy is almost ended,’ murmured Johns, beside Carleton
in the alcove.

It was best not to reply; though the answer was, ‘Oh no, it’s not – and it’s not a comedy either.’

Yet the dark and beautiful one, half way along the outer line, was resolutely turning his head away and looking out on to the Quad.

Goodness, what can I do, and what’s going to happen?

A sudden terror struck him. I can’t remember a word I say! How do I start, how do I start? Oh, yes. . . . ‘That’s right, ma’am. Why, sometimes we’ll walk fifty miles in one day.’ Could that be right? Wasn’t it odd? No, it was correct, and his Canadian accent was fine. But what on earth came next? It’s gone!

To go blank! And my songs. What order are they in?

I can’t remember!

Stop it. It’ll all come back. Have faith. There’s nothing else to be done.

‘Hamilton Minor.’

‘Present.’

‘Hargreaves.’

‘Present.’

Philip Crabtree rejoined his wife and daughter in the sitting-room, having said farewell to Lord Mountheath and Sir Charles at the front door. He was still holding a brandy glass. They had dined above, served by the supernatural Lloyd. His wife had been enigmatic, and his daughter in a silent sulk, but benevolence had carried the day. The two new Governors were satisfied without reservations. Laughing, and no longer sober, they had tactfully departed, because the last Service was for the School alone; a time of private group emotion, and divine dismissal.

Seeing him so rosy and benign, when he rebuked her Lucretia thought – ‘will I tell him he’s called The Crab?’

‘Don’t do that, dear, there’s a good child.’

She had been striking haphazard notes on the piano.

‘Well, well, that was most satisfactory.’

‘One would seem to have found favour in their sight,’ Ma Crab agreed. She stood, as so often, with her back to the fireplace studying the ceiling, and wearing a new costume for the evening; a suit of thick brown tweed.

‘
We
have, my dear.
We
have.’

‘Let us hope the rest of the night is equally comforting,’ she said, and jerked downwards.

For once, he had scarcely heard. He was beyond alarms. He warmed the brandy-glass and drank. Only three months now till
the
Headmasters’ Conference. The news would go round. Weatherhill was batting again. He was Captain. He knew the whole team now: all two hundred names, gleaned over Scripture. And those unwanted had been erased.

He spoke automatically: ‘How do you mean?’

‘Our Chaplain grows gaunt,’ she replied. ‘I fear some upheaval.’

‘Ah. Have no qualms about that. I’ve made inquiries. It seems his end-of-term sermon is of a modest and wholesome nature.’

She faintly smiled – which at other times had been unnerving – and studied the miniature chandelier.

‘One hopes so. He looks as if he might bring us news from the Underworld.’

‘Now, now, not before. . . .’ said the Crab; and Lucretia gave a grunt.

‘Have you also inquired into the night’s entertainment?’

‘I’ve not had time. I gather it’s some harmless stuff that they’ve enjoyed for years.’

‘Let us hope that too,’ she said.

‘And now my lace, Philomena, my finest lace,’ said the Chaplain.

He stood at the centre of the room, already billowing in white, and speaking almost through the orange. The room temperature, this summer evening, with the logs ablaze, brought an extra pungency to her black-frocked armpits. Inches taller than himself, thin as a stick, and perspiring miserably, she was searching among linen shelves behind a corner curtain.

‘Hold on a minute. I’m looking.’

Her voice lacked its usual certainty. It was faint. With her back to him, and behind her hair, she was weeping. His present appearance, the last robing, the coming departure of which he had informed her, had altered mere love into passionate despair. Dare she turn round?

She decided to trust to her hair.

‘I think this is it.’

He was examining his own hair in a silver hand-mirror, and was, as ever, oblivious of her state.

He lowered the mirror as the attendant approached and from her immense height allowed the lacework to descend over his head, without ruffling his careful design. She considered him lovely as a lady in a lace blouse, and yet with this tremendous man’s head. There was a gorgeous smell of perfume.

But suddenly she thought, ‘It’s like doing up a corpse.’ His cheeks had sunk right in: he was white as death. But the black eyes still flashed and twinkled.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘I’ll be more than all right,’ he said, swirling round like a ballerina and crossing the room with a magnificent squeaking of the buckled shoes.

Through her fringe she watched him lift up a golden throat-spray, and give three terrific squirts into his cavernous mouth.

She thought she was going to swoon. With terrible difficulty she said – ‘But where you’re goin’, after. Will you be all right there?’

‘Ah, my dear Philomena,’ he replied, with the eyes wickedly laughing at her over the orange, ‘None of us can tell
that
in advance.’

The second bell was ringing. Ashley came striding past Lady Jane Grey’s trunk; his sweeping gown brushing against a grandfather clock, his outward-turning brown feet resounding on the grey stone flags of the Head’s hall. His face was tense, his hair uncombed. Reaching the white door of the Common Room, he seized the porcelain handle and flung the door open, announcing loudly – ‘Good even, homosexuals all!’

Male faces gazed back, in sudden total silence, from every part of the hallowed room. They were hazy, undefinable . . . though he did note Clinton’s black beard. From somewhere came Rowles’s familiar bark – ‘Look here, Ashley . . . !’

But there was another voice behind him. He turned and found the detested red face and purple lips close to his own. The eyes evaded his, and looked past him into the room. The Head’s voice said brightly: ‘Ready, gentlemen? Let us proceed.’

Chapter Thirty-two

‘All praise and thanks to God

The Father now be given,’

Heedlessly, Carleton sang the words of the second hymn, trying all the while to make his darling, over the way, raise his eyes from his hymn-book. But the black, wavy head remained down. ‘He can’t do this. He can’t turn it all into emptiness. I will take him and shake him and force him to admit that this is pretence. How
can
he have altered overnight? I will take him in my arms and say – stop it, admit, give in, you are breaking both our hearts.’

‘The Son, and Him who reigns’

The whole Chapel was aglow. There was sadness and excitement: everyone sharing this emotional night. Everyone waiting for that final hymn, and – less so – for the Chaplain.

‘And the two of us are parted!’

‘With them in highest heaven;’

On the other hand, Ashley, up in the back row, directly behind Nicky, was looking straight at him. So that he himself had to lower his head; because it was painful.

‘The one eternal God,’