Lord Dismiss Us (45 page)

Far removed from the crowd, the Chaplain lay in red silk pyjamas which clashed a little with his pink sheets and pillow-cases. He had been asleep, with the bedside lamp still on. It illuminated a room more ascetic than the adjoining salon: white, with purple curtains; no fireplace; few decorations – a nature photograph of a boy standing by a lily pond; a figurine of beautiful Perseus, holding up the bleeding head of Medusa who, he liked to think, bore such a striking resemblance to the Headmaster’s wife. He could remember nothing except praying for the peace that passeth all understanding. He didn’t even remember how he got into bed, and vaguely wondered, with mild alarm, if Philomena had been in attendance.

It was her knock that had awakened him. Though only half her face was visible, she was plainly in distress.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to say it.’

‘You’re trembling. Are you unwell?’

‘No, no, not a bit. It’s . . . the Doctor’s here.’

‘Doctor? What Doctor?’

‘Dr Boucher. It seems Herself phoned him to come up at once.’

‘Herself? Ah, God, will no one rid me . . . ?’ His eyes fell instinctively upon Medusa. He felt himself being turned to stone. ‘Tell the man to go home, Philomena.’

‘Oh, Lord, he’s just out on the landing.’

‘I don’t see why that. . . .’

‘Ah, Chaplain,’ said the Butcher, pushing past her in a very peppery suit, carrying the pork pie hat and a black bag, ‘Sorry for barging in like this, but Mrs Crabtree sounded concerned. . . .’

He paused, startled, even in his professional capacity, by the white skull and black eyes on the pink pillow.

‘How dare you,’ the Chaplain said quietly, closing the eyes and opening them again. ‘Tell me something before you go – what exactly have I delivered?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Butcher, who had the curious and instantaneous notion that he had been attending at an accouchement.

‘What did I come out with?’ the Chaplain asked.

‘When, Chaplain? When?’

‘Oh God,’ the Chaplain said. ‘Would you be kind enough to hand me that orange?’

‘Just a moment, Chaplain. I’m not so sure that you should be eating. . . .’

‘I don’t intend to eat it, you preposterous creature,’ said the Chaplain. ‘Just hand it to me, would you? There is an odour of hospitals. . . . Thank you. Now you may go.’

‘Go?!’

‘Yes, there is nothing for either of us to learn. I am afflicted with cancer of the abdomen, my dear ass.’

The Butcher was only just controlling the temper which had won him many a bout.

‘If that is so, there are remedies.’

‘A carving knife,’ the Chaplain said. ‘No thank you. I have had life as abundantly as was within me. I may not have warmed both hands, but I am unquestionably ready to depart. I suggest you follow my example. At any rate, I am now going asleep.’

‘Might I have a look?’

‘Certainly not, you obscene creature,’ said the Chaplain, closing his eyes.

The Butcher was boiling. He clenched his hat.

‘It is contrary to my Hippocratic Oath for me to leave you in this condition.’

‘I am fully acquainted with your morality. You may well have destroyed four young lives. Go home.’

‘I did my duty,’ said the Butcher.

‘You did mine.’

‘Only because you refused to do it.’

‘Your Oath is to attend the sick who request it. Not to enter uninvited, and weary them with specious argument.’

‘Good night!’

The Butcher banged the door.

The Chaplain felt nauseated, and very faint indeed, having only eaten lettuce for a week. But it didn’t matter. Not to him, or anyone else. Not, certainly, to the sister with three children in Los Angeles. Absolutely nothing mattered. It was an ideal state for sleeping. Philomena tiptoed in, and stole a long, tearful, secret look.

Exulting in the heat of the lights, his own dashing costume, and the roars of the audience, Carleton made an emphatic gesture of the hands as he told Nicky – ‘Gee, I’m just crazy about you, Alice. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Peter, darling,’ Nicky solemnly replied, giving him an overwhelming glance. He had been acting properly, spurred on by the competition; yet retaining, to Carleton’s knowledge alone, a distance and coldness. The combination was maddening.

‘But, dearest, what about Percy?’ Nicky inquired.

‘Nothing to worry about there, Alice, darling. Anyone can see Percy is just crazy about the Honourable Priscilla. That gal sure got her hooks into him mighty fast.’

There was a shout of laughter at the recollection of Stoddart Major going to work. He had been rivalling McIver as chief comic. The furthest spectators were becoming increasingly noisy; though the leading lovers had hitherto been treated with silent respect. Jimmy Rich, seated between Ashley and Nancy, could be heard above everyone. They were perched high, on chairs, on tables, and everything shook when he laughed. The noise had started when a real croquet ball, loosely struck, had landed in Ma Crab’s lap and Rich had called out to his neighbours, ‘It’s a goal, lads!’

‘Same with your Dad,’ Carleton continued. ‘He’s starry-eyed about Matilda. That just leaves us, honey. Whaddya say, sweetheart?’

‘What are you suggesting, Peter?’ asked Nicky, with a shattering glance.

Carleton moved near, and as instructed by the Pedant put his arm round Nicky’s waist and his cheek beside Nicky’s. The Beatle was playing. They swayed slightly to the music. Carleton sang –

‘Come with me – to Canada.’

Rich suddenly shouted – ‘That’s it, Carleton boy! That’s a nice little bit of stuff you’ve got there!’

There was a guffaw from the rougher element.

It filled Ashley with disgust.

Carleton was too engrossed to hear, and it came from too far. Surely now, he thought, I can win him back. He must feel more in my touch now. We have been too delicate. He must feel that I really mean him to be mine.

‘Come and see the magic of a prairie sky.’

‘I simply can’t believe it,’ the Head said. ‘The Precentor is out of his mind.’

‘See the snowflakes fall,

Hear the coyotes call.’

‘Better than the crabs any day’ – Rich addressed his admirers, who were in transports.

Ashley sat frozen beside his boorish, uncomprehending, vulgar, former associate, thinking, ‘My God, you in your striped suit, with your blasted little darling, what a blazing nerve! How you must be in heaven. You are nearly my age. It would seem nearly possible. Yet it is fatally impossible.’

Nicky’s cheek was hot, and soft. Carleton held him more tightly round the waist.

‘When you fill your lungs with air – in Canada,

You will feel a millionaire – in Canada.’

‘Not too near the footlights, lads! You’re making someone jealous.’

It was just audible in front, and the Head’s scarlet face flashed round. Several parents turned. Ma Crab remained motionless.

‘Ssh, Jimmy,’ said Nancy.

‘Yes, shut up,’ said Ashley.

‘So let us not delay,

Let us make our way.

Come with me – to Canada,

Today!’

In the midst of the applause there was a shouting of – ‘That’s it, Carleton, boy, clear off out of harm’s way! Let them stew in their own juice!’

It came to Carleton as incomprehensible uproar, somewhere beyond the lights.

There was a sense of loss as Nicky moved out of his arms. The whole cast was slowly gathering. The parishioners of Little Dingley showed their approval as McIver sang, ‘I’m in love with a clergyman, named Arthur Cecil Sinclair.’ The audience cheered. Weddings were in the air. Carleton’s heart felt like exploding as Nicky sang, ‘How I’d love to go with you to Canada,’ and again he put his arm round Nicky’s waist. Three couples were thus joined. ‘Hurrah’s!’ were given by the people of Little Dingley. And then all together they began the Beatle’s most haunting melody. First the introduction from the three couples – ‘We dreamed that we might be together. . . .’ And then the whole cast gave it out –

‘Our dream is ending now,

Our life begins with the dawn. . . .’

Just right, it was, for the last night: the audience was silenced; touched, saddened.

‘Our day is starting now,

Though the stars linger on.

The happy days that lie ahead

Are beckoning so clear. . . .’

Ashley felt sickened. In the mass they were either savage or sentimental.

An increased outpouring of emotion –

‘We must be wending now,

Our life is starting anew.

And now it’s time to go to bed,

My darling . . . my . . .
Dear
!’

He turned Nicky towards him and kissed him hard on his warm cheek. All three couples kissed. A roar from the audience. Cheers. And McCaffrey pulled the Curtains, and it was over. Nicky broke away. The Curtains parted again, and they bowed. Tumult. The Crabtrees were on their feet, pushing their way out in protest. No one was interested. The Pedant, uplifted by his triumph, had leaped to a corner of the stage, and was shouting, ‘All together everybody!’

The Beatle struck up again. The cast gave forth. The audience joined them. The Pedant conducted.

‘Our dream is ending now,’ sang Weatherhill School. ‘Our life begins with the dawn. . . .’

Ashley jumped down from where he was seated, and went out into the Chapel Square and the purity of the night.

The huge dark bulk of the Big Schoolroom pursued him with song, as he strode away –

‘We must be wending now,

Our life is starting anew. . . .’

Chapter Thirty-four

The scene was confused in the Head’s Hall, as the School shuffled along in double file, on the way to the Common Room, and the handshakes and good-byes with the assembled masters. The chandelier threw a dim light. It had not been dusted for twenty odd years.

The Beatle came past, in a flurry, with his gown flapping, knocked on the door of the Head’s study, across the hall, and entered.

‘You wish to see me, Headmaster?’

The Head’s face looked purple above the green table-lamp.

‘Close the door, if you please. Dr Kingsly, we are outraged and appalled by this repulsive contribution of yours.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Beatle, coming eagerly forward with his spectacles shining, and the black fringe nodding on his forehead.

‘This obscene dressing-up of . . . this pantomime of indecencies. . . .’

‘Are you referring to “Peter Piper”?’ said the Beatle, turning white with astonishment and shock.

‘I refer to the unspeakable scandal you have perpetrated tonight.’

‘Scandal?’ said the Beatle. ‘Gracious me!’

‘You have done your utmost to destroy our entire term’s achievement at Weatherhill!’ the Head shouted.

The Beatle held on to the desk.

‘My dear Headmaster . . .’

‘How dare you address me in that way! My wife and I have had to sit through a personal and vile insult. How your own wife, not to mention Mr Milner, have leant themselves to it, I don’t know, but I intend to find out.’

‘My dear fellow, you can’t be referring to our little Show?’

The Head had lost the gift of speech. The blood pounded in his brain.

‘ “Peter Piper” is an old favourite,’ said the Beatle. ‘I have a dozen others. We perform them regularly.’

‘You will never perform them again!’ shouted the Head.

Across the way, the queue moved in, round the great polished table, and out again. Masters’ faces passed quickly by. Roly, the Pedant, the Cod. . . . ‘Good-bye, Sir.’ ‘Good-bye.’ ‘Good-bye, Sir.’ ‘Good-bye.’ A slightly altered relationship. They were almost free – at least for the holiday. They were on more level terms. Dotty and the Beard gave an extra special squeeze of the hand to their associates. There was no sign of Ashley.

Carleton and Naylor came hurrying past Lady Jane’s trunk. They had been changing into their suits. Nicky was already there. He was in the queue, beside Hamilton Minor. He was in his Sunday suit, but still wore make-up. So did Carleton. They would have to wash before bed. Meanwhile, he felt important and exhilarated; a Star, for the watching queue.

They were headed for the sitting-room, next to the study. Here there was always coffee and biscuits for those who were leaving. But something was wrong. The door was open and a group, including Johns and Pryde and Steele, was standing uncertainly just inside. Carleton peered round Johns’s beaky profile and saw Ma Crab before the fireplace; her hands behind her back, her eyes on the ceiling. ‘I repeat,’ she said, ‘there
is
no coffee.’

‘We don’t quite understand, Mrs Crabtree,’ said Johns.

‘I should have thought it was perfectly clear,’ said Ma Crab. ‘The Headmaster and I are deeply distressed and repelled by the lesson in the less wholesome facts of life to which Dr Kingsly subjected us tonight. My daughter is prostrate. We are in no mood for entertaining. You may go.’