Lord Dismiss Us (44 page)

‘Maybe I’m being just as cruel as Nicky,’ he thought suddenly. Maybe he really feels just as I do.’ It seemed incredible, for a grown man, but perhaps it was just possible. There had been another boy, Roly said. A clergyman now. Nicky was going to be one. ‘Ought I not, of all people, to have been more understanding? Outside of this, he had been the best of all the Staff. He made for me the marvellous discovery of Writing. He has made Learning for each of us a delight; made us think, made us laugh, treated us as equals. He stepped in on behalf of Nicky, of Jimmy Rich, of Bond and Tyson. And he is sacked, and must be miserable. It is horrible that he should want to hold and persuade me, but isn’t that exactly what I want to do with Nicky?’

‘Whom earth and heaven adore,’

Carleton raised his eyes, but could not meet that puzzling, frightening stare.

All the same, he had forgiven.

‘For thus it was, is now,’

‘That’s the sort of glance,’ Ashley thought, ‘that I took for flirtation. But it’s merely embarrassment. I am finished now. I stand here as a sickly outcast. I have insulted them finally. Thinking man, and child. Emotional immaturity. Yes, I know what it’s called. I know what it’s
all
called. It is not popular in the world outside, and it is terrifyingly real and utterly hopeless here. Not to be needed. His mother, yes, but that was all mothers. Joan, only under a delusion. But no one, no one at all, with need
and
comprehension.’

‘And shall be evermore.

Amen.’

The Chaplain had arrived at his central position, and his burning eyes seemed to hypnotise them into sitting down. He waited, motionless, for absolute silence. He looked horribly impressive and unwell.

‘The Second Book of Samuel, verse twenty-six,’ he said; and only Ma Crab knew what was coming. ‘ “I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women”.’

A sudden final emphasis had assured an even deeper silence.

The Head, beginning to redden, tried quickly to gauge his wife’s expectations, but saw only a tilted nose and chin.

‘Tonight is a time of parting. We say “good-bye” to acquaintances, friends . . . loved ones. I myself am saying “good-bye” to you all, for ever. I am going away to die.’

An indescribable smile, as he let the deeply satisfying word fall into the arena. The Head, startled, really did look at Ma Crab to see if she had prior information. But nothing was revealed except a pallor comparable to the speaker’s.

‘I go, I trust, if I may say so, to a more agreeable place than this. I leave no David in distress. Hush, Humphrey, hush.’

With pain and a curious pleasure, he had heard the astonishing sound of Watson-Wyatt uttering a sob.

‘Earthly love has not been to my taste. It
has
been, however, to many of you. This is as it should be. I hold no brief for the criminally ignorant activities of our rulers in the course of this remarkable and pitiful term.’

As all eyes slowly turned his way, the Head cleared his throat loudly, in a vain attempt at warning: being unable to think of anything else to do.

‘This remarkable and pitiful term,’ the Chaplain repeated, putting out a supporting hand against the side of the pulpit. Something had happened: the grinding had become more painful, and everything had grown hazy. He could distinguish no single face. He felt himself sway a little. And worst of all, it had gone. Something about feeling the earthly love too deeply. Something about embracing the heavenly. But it had all gone. There were no words.

He waited. Gradually, distinctness returned. Yes, he held them rapt.

But still it was all gone.

He felt cold sweat on his skeleton face. How long had he paused? How long had they waited?

The solution came as if from heaven.

‘It is my office to remind you . . . and to remind you forcibly . . . .’

Amazed, marvelling, they were sitting up on their pews. Right out of the blue, it was coming at them . . . like an unexpected catch at cricket.

‘. . . that such persons are, in their blindness, in their ignorance, and in their folly. . . .’

Down it came, and they nearly cheered.

‘
crucifying christ for the second time
.’

Yes, his voice had regained full strength. His right hand was already up.

‘No! No! No! This is not Christianity! This is the vapid
spawn
of misguided blasphemers. This comes not from Christ, but from small men too ignorant . . . nay, too cowardly . . . to embrace the True Message. Cast your eyes upon the windows of this very
building
!’

No one turned. Not one. They could not leave him for a second.

Now he was the great white bird with both wings outstretched.

‘
Look what they have done to him
!
’

They looked, but only at the Reverend Cyril Starr.

‘This pale, weak . . .
effeminate
. . . creature. This is
their Christ
!
And fittingly so. For only such a one could tell us to accept the Pattern . . . to become ciphers . . . to embrace . . . Respectability.’

He spat it out and folded his wings. He was all right now. He was more than all right. He was playing the concerto as never before. What folly to have been tempted to play a new one! Divine providence had guided him sharply back.

‘But this is not Christ. This is
not
Christianity. This is not . . .
Love
. What . . . you may well ask yourselves. . . .’ (And they did. To a man). ‘What is love to these people? I will tell you. . . . It is some faint, wishy-washy anaemic little regard for playing the Game . . . for doing honour to these premises in which we reside. But this is not Love. . . .’

He saw them leaning forward, gaping, restraining themselves with the utmost difficulty from leaping into the air and shouting.

‘No, no, no! Christ is love . . . And Christ . . . is a
burning fire!
’

It was hot gas; it was molten lava; it roared forth and burst like an atomic weapon. And he rushed in after it.

‘Yes! Yes! Christ is a scorching flame of Love! Such love that ravages the heart and soul of those who truly know him. A Love that burns its way to our very innards – reducing to dust and ashes our sackcloth – our pettiness, our pride, our ambition – all the vile balderdash of creed, class and society . . . and leaving us naked and alone and free, and
joyful
, before Him. No, no, I tell you! Christ is not a milkmaid! Christ is not a bearded lady! Christ is not even a schoolmaster . . . or a rural dean. Christ . . . is a
burning fire!’

The long glance, to his deep satisfaction, took in staring face after staring face. He spun. ‘And-now-to-God-the-Father. . . .’

He spun back, gathered up his skirt, and swept down and away, squeaking to shattering effect; stumbled suddenly on the steps up to his place, thrust away the helping hands that reached out; regained his position, announced, ‘Hymn Number three hundred and seventeen’, and sank down with his head in his hands, in prayer.

Immediately, Ma Crab did the same.

Comprehensive though the sermon had seemed to him, it had been abbreviated to one of the shortest ever delivered. Dazed by the speed and passion of it, no one moved. The Beatle himself, blinking through his spectacles, was facing the wrong way round on the organ bench.

But it was as well that they had time to recover. For this was the Moment. And as the Beatle began the first loved notes, they rose, even better equipped emotionally, after these transports from a dying man. Another Starling – Robert – was crying. The sad melody was coming forth in a lingering, tempting manner. The Beatle knew that they liked it this way. They liked to give it everything.

‘Lord . . . dis-miss us . . . with thy . . . bless-ing;

Thanks for . . . mercies past . . . re-ceive,

Pardon all . . . their faults confess-ing;

Time that’s lost . . . may all re-trieve.’

‘He
must
look at me now,’ Carleton thought. ‘Surely he can’t help it?’

‘May thy chil-dren

Ne’er again . . . thy spi-ir-it grieve.’

The Chaplain’s head was still in his hands. Also Ma Crab’s. What were they praying? It was sad. Ashley, with no hymn-book, was looking down at nothing. The wrong sadness; each of them. The right sadness swelled up, fortissimo, from every other voice: the Beard quavering, the Head doing bravely under the circumstances, even Lucretia piping high, Rowles and the Pedant giving forth close at hand. . . . And those who were really saying ‘good-bye’ making the stoutest effort of all. Carleton fought against tears in his eyes, and a catch in his throat. It all seemed to have been right and good now; everything, even cold showers, even geometry; everything, every day and hour of it; and all about to be lost for ever.

‘Bless then . . . all our . . . days of leis-ure;

Help us . . . selfish lures . . . to flee;’

Nicky glanced up, and down again!

It was very quick, but there was no doubt about it. ‘He looked at me. He’s relented. He will, he will. Oh, why have we wasted this time! Never mind, never mind, we have all time!’

The last verse. A mass intake of breath. And then they gave it forth.

‘Let thy . . . Fa-ther . . . hand be . . . shield-ing

All who here . . . shall meet . . . no more;’

Yes, it was true. They had all time, but never here again. Not on these hills. How sweet it has been; how sad and happy and rich; my boyhood at Weatherhill!

‘May their . . . seed-time . . . past be yield-ing

Year by year . . . a richer store:’

The Beatle paused, for the last deep breath; and out they gave them – the final, thunderous, heartrending lines!

‘Those re-turn-ing

Make more . . . faith-ful . . . tha-an . . . be-fore.’

Chapter Thirty-three

‘Chuck us over the lipstick, would you, Carleton?’ said Stoddart Major.

A big fellow, he looked enormous in red roses on a white ground.

Carleton picked up the lipstick from the hollowed out pencil rack on an inky desk, and threw it across. Backstage was alive with people and noise. It was almost impossible to move.

‘I’m darn well doing it myself this time,’ said Stoddart eagerly reddening his lips. ‘She made a balls of it yesterday.’

Carleton could only just hear. From the other side of the Little-Dingley backdrop, behind which they prepared the mysteries of their art, there was additional uproar. Everyone had dashed into the Big Schoolroom, fighting for places. Several of the chairs up on tables at the far end had crashed to the floor. Only the three front rows were now untenanted: waiting for the Crabtrees, parents and staff. There were catcalls and whistles, and objects flew about. It was almost over now. No more Latin, no more French, no more sitting on the hard old bench.

‘Want some?’

Naylor, amazingly enough, had produced a half-bottle of brandy from under his cassock.

‘Have it. It’s good for the nerves.’

Carleton took a swig. He had never tasted it before. It was like fire.

‘Thanks.’

It was all very well, but was he now going to reel on and fall down on his face?

No, he seemed to be all right: except for the one terror that he was pushing aside – his part. The only memory at the moment was – ‘That’s right, ma’am. Why, sometimes we’ll walk fifty miles in one day.’ Then absolute blankness.

‘Have you patched it up?’

‘What?’

Naylor nodded towards Nicky, who was separated from them by about fifteen people in various kinds of dress and undress. The Beatle’s wife was on her knees, doing something to the back of his red velvet. She had a huge safety-pin in her mouth.

‘What chance have I had?’ said Carleton, thinking ‘I’m being terribly open with Naylor, but after all it’s not the first time. We both revealed ourselves once.’

‘Well, I only hope he acts up, or he’ll ruin the show.’

They found Ashley in his room.

He had been lying on his bed, drinking whisky as a cure for alarm. It had not been working well. The Chaplain’s collapse had been very disturbing. When he opened the door, he was dismayed to realise that he had no wish to see either of them.

Rich said: ‘Found you out, me boy!’

His smile seemed offensive; his teeth enormous; the swoops of his hair and his purple-orange coat, vulgar in the extreme. Nancy, beside him, appeared to have shrunken over the months; diminished in stature and person.

‘Well, well.’

‘Are you going to ask us in?’ she said. She had been smiling too, but her Matronly scrutiny evidently told her that there was nothing to smile about.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Enter.’

‘We had to come and see how you poor devils have been lasting the. . . .’ Rich began. ‘What’s this, what’s this? I didn’t know you went in for the hard stuff, Eric.’

‘No? Uh . . . sit down, sit down. Yes, my seed-time past is yielding, year by year, a richer store.’

‘Ah, ha, you’ve just been singing that old number. Don’t tell me you fell for it?’

‘Only that line.’

They sat in silence for a moment, surprised by the awkwardness of the meeting. He wondered how he had ever associated with such common, ordinary people. Who had changed? It must be him. They, in turn, were shocked by his altered appearance.

‘I’m sorry . . . I’ve . . . only one glass.’

‘That’s O.K., old man, you go ahead.’

When he raised the glass, his hand was not steady. What right had they to come here and inspect him?

‘Some of us have
not
been lasting, as you can see.’

‘What is it, Eric, what’s wrong?’ Nancy asked.

‘Yes, you’re looking a bit down, old chap.’

‘A number of things. One of them will appeal to you. I’m being removed from office. This is my last night.’

‘Oh no!’ she said.

‘That bastard!’ said Jimmy Rich. And after a moment, ‘What reason has he cooked up this time?’

Ashley downed his drink.

‘Disturbing, once too often, the correct functioning of the team spirit. I saved two wretches from being beaten to a pulp. They came and rang our bell in the middle of the night.’

‘Sounds like quite a wheeze,’ said Rich.

‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Nancy. ‘But you can do much better outside, Eric. Jimmy’s making a mint.’

‘As what?’

‘Golf club secretary,’ said Rich. ‘The salary’s nearly double.’

‘Can you see me as a golf club secretary?’

‘No,’ said Nancy. ‘But there must be something else.’

‘Must there?’

They were silent. He found them inadequate, and in this particular case they knew themselves to be.

‘Well, let’s cheer up, for the Lord’s sake,’ said Jimmy Rich. ‘Come
on, are you coming to the show?’

‘Yes, do, Eric.’

‘Very well.’

‘We’ll have to stay at the back,’ said Rich. ‘We want to be in evidence, but not too much.’

‘That suits me.’

How on earth had he ever endured – indeed, enjoyed – their company? Plainly, they had not changed. How much, then, had
he
altered in a brief time? Plainly, as they say, out of all recognition.

The Schoolroom was full now, with everyone except the Crabtrees and the parents. There were shouts and cheers at the back as Jimmy Rich and Nancy came in through the door from the Chapel Square. Dr Rowles and other masters were up in front.

It was the moment for action. Gower slipped out of the other door, into the corridor, and up the stone steps to Roly’s room.

It was done in a trice.

Cunning and long practice told him that the objects selected must be such that their absence would not be noted until at least the following day. First – a random selection from the bookshelves: one Dickens, one Scott, one Meredith, one Thackeray, and one Jane Austen; something about Shakespeare by somebody called Bentley, something about geometry, something about algebra,
A Passage to India
by E. M. Forster, and something about Bach by Albert Schweitzer. He piled them on the desk, leaving his hands free for filling his pockets. Subtly, he restricted himself to only one pipe from a rack holding four, six biscuits from the tin, and a thick wad of incomprehensible papers from the very bottom drawer. The kettle proved a ridiculous temptation, but he resisted it. Seizing the books again, he tiptoed rapidly out of the room and into the Upper Dorm.

Totally deserted.

On top of his trunk was a half-empty tuck box which had served to conceal many a social indiscretion before now. He unlocked the clasp, raised the lid, and emptied the entire hoard into it, on top of three slices of stale bread and a pot of raspberry jam, abstracted that very afternoon from their beastly Common Room.

He closed and locked it.

He smiled. No Fear of any kind. Entirely Taunting.

‘He’s here, he’s here, the Head’s here,’ said McCaffrey, who had been keeping watch through the crack in the curtains.

‘All right, all right, calm down, man,’ snapped the Pedant. ‘Now then, I want you all in line, and be smart about it.’

The din in the auditorium had diminished; more out of curiosity than respect. With the Crabtrees in the middle, the front two rows were filled by strange men and women, parents of the dear knew who. Strangers were a rare sight. Everyone had a good, critical look.

With bony fingers, the Pedant pushed and pulled the people of Little Dingley into line for their opening entrance.

‘Are you all right there with the curtains, McCaffrey?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Ready, Kingsley?’

‘Right you be,’ said the Beatle, and he suddenly started to bang out the opening number on the piano. McCaffrey pulled a cord and the curtains parted, and the villagers poured on to the stage, singing at the tops of their voices.

The Head, who had been chatting with the mother of somebody in the seat behind him, turned back contentedly to view the stage and in a moment of frozen disbelief saw four boys, dressed and painted as young women, holding on to the arms of four other boys. Someone had instructed them to walk in a mincing manner that was assumed to be ladylike. Someone, it seemed to him, in an undisguised and blinding light, was throwing his life’s achievement straight back in his face. The violence of the Chaplain’s insane hostility was as nothing to this.

‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘It seems it’s customary,’ murmured Ma Crab.

‘You knew about it?’

‘Well, no. But I gathered some form of disguise was assumed.’

‘I would have banned it on the spot.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no option now but to endure.’

He sat there, scarlet, as they roared ‘At Little-Dingley-in-the-Marsh’ for the fourth time; gazing flirtatiously into each other’s eyes.

The exodus had suddenly left a vacant space backstage. Carleton approached Nicky, who turned his head away. In his rouge and lipstick he was breathtaking. The Beatle’s wife had produced a pink brassiere to contain the tennis balls.

‘This is madness. Stop it. I love you. I’ll explain. I can’t explain now. Meet me afterwards behind the Chapel.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘Stop it, you must give me a chance. I’ll be there anyhow. But you’ve got to pretend now. You’ve got to act.’

Nicky said nothing.

Naylor came over and butted in. ‘Do what he says. Don’t be a damn fool. You’ll mess up the whole thing.’

There was loud applause for the end of the song. They were winning already! Naylor walked away, and on to the stage, and they heard him say, ‘Good morning, dear people,’ and a shout of ‘Good morning, Vicar!’

‘Have you patched it up?’ That fool Naylor had said. He thought he was talking about something small. He didn’t know that he was talking about Everything.

Nicky had turned his back to him. They were both looking on to the stage. Naylor was doing it very well. But Carleton could only look at Nicky’s black wavy hair going down to the pearls. He wanted to hold him. ‘Ah, but here comes my daughter, Alice, who is better equipped than I. . . .’ Nicky strode away, on his high heels. Carleton saw the Head, in the middle of the row, utter some exclamation and sharply turn his head towards Ma Crab, who continued to gaze at the stage. Then Nicky was standing out in front, immediately above them, and singing confidently, ‘Percy, Waiting for Percy, Will he bring me the love that I require?’

Everyone was doing terribly well. His legs felt weak and he had an awful fear that he was going to have to go to the lavatory. Where the devil was his group? They were there. They came shuffling over, and the three stood together; Caldicott with his monocle, and McIver in black lace. ‘You forgot your case, you clot,’ whispered McIver, handing it to him.

To be called a clot by McIver, whom he had recently beaten! This was the Last Night and no mistake! Still, how awful to have forgotten the suitcase. Was it an omen? What on earth was it he had to say?

No time to think. Everyone went off the other side, and they laboured on, wiping their brows.

‘A short walk from the Station, indeed!’ said McIver, and he rolled his eyes, and the audience roared.

And suddenly it was easy; it was wonderful; out there all dressed up, with a disguised face, in the hot, dazzling light, which threw the adversary into impenetrable darkness; with nothing to do but let oneself go and let them admire. He sat down on his case – which the Pedant had never told him to do, but it seemed absolutely right. And it was coming now. He had the strange illusion that McIver was personally concocting it and throwing it at him as a challenge, and, at the same time, paradoxically, he sensed a sympathetic alarm in McIver’s face that he was not going to be able to answer.

‘The wide open spaces, they call them, do they not?’

It came out frightfully North American, and with a terrific emphasis that he had never thought to use before.

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

‘Gracious!’

McIver threw both hands in the air, and simpered, and there was a roar of laughter. He did it brilliantly, and Carleton had difficulty in keeping a straight face. How incredible to have beaten this gifted fellow!

‘You’re joking,’ said Caldicott.

‘I’m not,’ said Carleton, for the first time lingering on it and shaking his head from side to side; so that there was another laugh, and someone in the audience actually gave an admiring imitation – ‘I’m naht.’

‘Well . . . well, well!’ McIver for the first time sat on his own suitcase, crossed his legs, remembered roguishly, and delicately pulled his skirt over his knee, using two fingers. And there were screams from the auditorium.

It seemed to be nearly all from the back. There was a curious patch of silence just beyond the footlights.

But now Nicky was under discussion. Caldicott’s fiancée. What on earth was Nicky going to do? He came rushing into Caldicott’s arms, very nearly losing one of his shoes. Carleton felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy. Acting this was not very difficult. They were well cast.

But now the introduction.

‘. . . great friend at Oxford, Peter Piper.’

‘How do you do?’

‘How do you do?’

Nicky looked him straight in the eyes. To Carleton it was cold and even hostile. But to the audience it must have seemed meaningful.

In fact, someone whistled!

All was well. At least Nicky was trying.