Lord Dismiss Us (47 page)

Mother. Would she really care if he lay down and slept, for ever? would it not be a relief? Would it not spare her the future,
his
future?

No sign of Old Gregory, thank God. A saloon car very nearly hit him as he stepped out of the gate. The world outside. He retreated to the grass border. There seemed to be an endless openness under the blue sky of Buckinghamshire, on a path leading nowhere: with cars roaring past; roaring in his head. But red houses appeared, and oh God that hotel, that scene of pity and misery and infantilism. Where had
she
gone? Not that it mattered.

‘I am not going to be able to ask for the ticket,’ he thought, ‘nor handle the change to pay for it.’ The only alternative was to wait and try and do it on the train. A car hooted at him and he staggered stupidly aside. They were assembling in number up against the long low red-brick Victorian building. McCaffrey and a fresh group were unloading trunks.

He went dazedly through the little gate. On the opposite platform was a long line of boys, and several masters, some standing, some sitting on trunks and tuckboxes; none of them ever to be seen again. That was the side for London. One had to climb up the covered-in bridge, and down to join them. But a glider was mesmerising him. It went round and round, very slowly, up in the blue. Just round and round, nowhere, nothingness . . . silence, emptiness and panic. There was a sound to his left, from behind the curve of the trees. Directly ahead of him was the stretch of wooden planks, for the convenience of railway workers. And suddenly it was perfectly simple. This was the non-stop train going the other way. As he stepped forward, a kindly face – two big rectangular glass eyes, with a number written underneath them, on yellow – approached, as it seemed, gently, remarkably slowly. He closed his eyes. He closed his mind. He was thinking about nothing at all when someone on the platform let out a shout and the train bore down on him at speed.

He was not conscious. He felt nothing.

He may have been at peace. At any rate, he was dead.

He had set a bad example. One of the boys on the platform had fainted, and another was being sick.

Chapter Thirty-six

What a strange luxury, a breakfast to be eaten whenever one liked: no Classes, nothing to follow. Dining Hall was only half full. The rest had gone to the train. No one bothered to sit as previously ordained. They slipped on to the nearest bench, by the oily wood tables with their jampot stains. Miss Bull was ladelling out sausages in a lethargic way as if the term had exhausted her. Carleton walked away with his plate, feeling too nervous to eat, avoiding Nicky who was in a corner with Hamilton Minor. There was a hubbub of excited noises. So this was how it ended . . . faded out . . . how could they rejoice so brashly! The mended window was just above his head. The beginning. Ages ago. A stranger in a brown jacket dangling in the sunshine.

Was there hope? Surely there must be. Yes, yes, away from here would be different. Nicky was going to say – ‘I’m terribly sorry, when can we meet?’

‘Wonderful, I’ll ask my parents when you can come and stay. They’ll be delighted. We’ll do some sailing.’

Otherwise? Just two objects, two memories. His diary and the School photo. He had packed them last. Fags had taken his trunk down to the drive, where his father or mother would soon be arriving. The farmyard was adjacent and convenient. Nicky as organiser had always been a little disconcerting. He was now eating a hunk of bread and jam; whereas Carleton couldn’t even face the two shiny brown, greasy sausages. Someone had been murmuring beside him. The beak of Johns in profile. Why sit here?

‘Sorry. What did you say?’

‘I might give you a ring sometime.’

‘Oh. Oh yes, do.’

Yes, there would always be a Johns hanging around.

‘Might take in a flick.’

‘Yes. Yes, fine.’

Having to go to a flick with Johns! Was it possible Johns actually liked him? If so, it had been well camouflaged.

‘It wasn’t Margaret Rutherford, by the way.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘In “The Lady Vanishes.” I looked it up. It was Dame May Whitty.’

Imagine being able to think of such a thing at the last breakfast!

‘
’Bye, Carleton.’

McIver had stopped at the end of the table with a camera hanging from his shoulder. A nice, funny fellow. He would never see him again. Someone he once beat.

‘
’Bye, McIver.’

‘Sorry I never took that photo.’ McIver rolled his eyes. ‘But you won’t want it now. ’Bye.’

‘
’Bye.’

McIver was gone. But McIver would still be here to take it . . . for anyone who wanted it. Nearly all these fellows would still be here with him.

‘You won’t want it now!’ Why not?

‘What’s your cure for hangovers?’ said Johns.

‘I’ve never had one.’

‘No . . . no, I suppose you wouldn’t. You were missing from our little rout last night. You should have come and observed the Philistines. It was extremely sordid.’

‘So I gather,’ said Carleton. ‘Sinnott was sick all over the washroom.’

‘Rowles has confined himself to his room. I fear we’re leaving in bad order . . . or odour.’

Something he had never properly realised – Johns was a deathly bore.

Nicky and several others at his table were getting up.

‘I hope you said your good-byes nicely.’

‘What?’

‘Last night.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Nicky had gone out.

‘You’re well rid of that particular episode. It was not exactly bringing out the best in you.’

Carleton felt tempted to pour the cluster of jampots over Johns.

‘I must go, the car’s probably waiting for me.’

‘I’ll give you a ring.’

‘Right. ’Bye.’

‘
’Bye.’

There was a black cluster of skivvies in the doorway, towered over by Philomena, their self-appointed leader and collector of funds. Carleton handed her two pounds – from the departing Second Prefect – and said, ‘Good-bye, Philomena.’

‘Thanks very much. Good-bye now.’

‘Is the . . . Chaplain all right?’

‘He’s gone.’

Philomena’s voice sounded odd. But her eyes were secure behind her hair.

‘Gone?!’

‘He went off in a great car with a whole crowd of priests . . . I mean clergy. Off to some airport . . . for Scotland.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘All his lovely pictures went after in a van. And the little statues.’

‘Really!’

‘He was a good man,’ said one of his supporters. ‘Poor soul.’

Philomena was silent.

‘His soul has nothing to fear.’

Ma Crab came through the black bevy, in her crossword puzzle suit. She was pale and angry, but she spoke as slowly and precisely as ever, with her head nodding up and down – ‘I will not have you all standing here like a Greek chorus in mourning. See to these tables. They’re a disgrace.’

Dazed by these curious words, they slowly began to move away.

‘I’ll say good-bye, Mrs Crabtree.’

She gave him a cold, lifeless hand, and addressing a spot somewhere above his head, said – ‘You are bound for my old university, I believe?’

‘Uh . . . Oxford?’

‘We must hope that it leads you to maturity and more acceptable forms of behaviour.’

He had not realised she could be so alarming.

‘If you ever care to come back to us, you will find things much changed. Not least our theatrical entertainments.’

Come back! Would they let him see Nicky here if he came back? Yes. Why not? He’d be a Senior.

There was the sound of Lloyd clearing his throat. The gaunt ghost in a tail-coat filled the doorway.

‘Excuse me, Madam, but the Marston station-master is on the phone. The Headmaster is indisposed. A matter of some importance, I understand.’

‘How curious! Let us hope the trains still run. Good-bye, Mr Carleton.’

‘Good-bye.’

He was a ‘Mr’ now. That was fine.

They departed, and he hurried out after them, into the bright morning. What a term of sunshine it had been! Strangely vivid. Never to be forgotten. He couldn’t go to the farmyard via the drive, because his mother or father might already be sitting there, but Nicky had said there was a way out at the end of the other yard. Rushing down the steep steps, he found himself impeded, to his annoyance, by Gower. He was labouring with a tuck-box; being assisted, astonishingly enough, by Lucretia, who was in front. As they reached the bottom, she said – ‘It’s blasted heavy. What have you got in it?’

Gower’s reply was inaudible. What a fine marital pair they would make, thought Carleton, and he congratulated himself on this grown-up reflection. Cars lined the drive, but he couldn’t see the family Rover. He went into the cobbled yard, past the Photographic Room, thinking, ‘What am I going to say? Does he regard me as being on trial? If so, what will I do? Will I tell him everything? Actions speak louder. Take him in your arms. Oh my God, to have my arms around him again!’

Weirdly silent and deserted, it was. The Photographic Room was closed. So was the Printing Room.

What makes it difficult is that he has always been, curiously, a stranger. Why? Is it our ages? Only two years? Or is it Nicky?

Not so deserted. The Honourable Fitzmaurice came out of the Senior Ping Pong Room with a Prefect named Scott. They were hand in hand. They looked odd; quiet, self-absorbed, unhappy. They didn’t even notice him. It was a surprise to be reminded that there were others parting today. Dozens of couples. Love either temporarily or for ever interrupted.

Funny – one is sent to a place selected for no particular reason. It’s called ‘going to School’. They think – even people who’ve gone to School themselves – you learn lessons and depart.

This is not what happens at all.

He had been given only one lesson.

Poor Ashley. It’s not fair to have blamed him because he’s a man. I’m a man myself now. And I love too. It matters nothing who one loves, as long as one loves. But why should Ashley be so desperate? Yes, he’d been sacked. That was true. That was terrible.

It’s also true that Ashley needs to be the boss. Bad luck. So do I. Let him search.

Suiting this reflection neatly, the way out presented itself. There was a green wooden door in the high stone wall. He stepped out and found himself in the sunny lane that led down to the farmyard and the drive. One figure stood there, some ten yards away. A simple vision that would last for ever. Nicky against the stone wall, which was bright grey – almost white – in the morning sunshine. In the brown coat and grey flannels that always seemed so clean and new and freshly pressed. Black-haired, sunburnt, astonishingly beautiful, and strangely calm and complete. Emerging from the coat cuff, the slim and surprisingly strong hand which had once slipped into his. Even though it was brown you could see the white bone of the forefinger. Eyes that overwhelmed, whether he wished them to or not. Not just their beauty, but their openness, a giving and needing of love.

A soft snuffling of the pigs could be heard now and then from behind the wall. Otherwise they were surrounded by silence. Just the two of them in the sunshine. Which was all that mattered in the world. This was bliss. The devil with solitude!

But Nicky was saying – ‘I’ve only a few minutes. My mother’s waiting. It was just to say good-bye . . . though you don’t deserve it.’

Impossible to believe that this hard, hostile person was the same Nicky who had lain and kissed with him in the summer fields.

‘Why, why? What have I done? What do you mean “good-bye”? Do you mean you won’t see me?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid. It’s over. Long ago. It was
you
who said so. . . .’

‘No!’

‘Now it seems you want to change your mind. I’m to jump whenever you say. . . . Whenever you change your mind. Well, I won’t.’

‘Listen, Nicky . . .’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Why not, you let everybody else call you that? Listen . . . something upset me, for the moment, but I was all wrong . . .’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got to go. . . .’

‘Wait! I’ll explain.’

‘I don’t want to hear. You can’t play with people like this. I’ll tell you one thing.’

‘What?’

‘You’re no Christian.’

This extraordinary remark, though it had no meaning for Carleton, hurt more than any other possible; because he knew what it meant to Nicky.

‘You should never say that to anyone.
You
, of all people . . . !’

‘ “You” is the word for it. You’ve always been full of yourself. You, you, you. Hamilton Minor agrees. . . .’

‘What?!’

They stared coldly at each other.

‘I can’t believe it! So that’s it. But he’s your junior by miles.’

‘You should know about that.’

‘Nicky . . . Nicky, that’s not you. So that’s it. You’re setting up for next term, are you?’

‘It’s not like that at all. He’s very intelligent.’

‘Hamilton Minor?! But he wants to be an
accountant
!’

‘Why not? You don’t understand. We’ve had talks. He’s a Christian. He believes.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘He needs someone older to talk to.’

‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘And so it goes on.’

‘For those of us still here,’ Nicky said, very calmly. ‘Now I must go. . . .’

‘I can’t believe this. It’s just impossible. I can’t believe it’s all to be wiped out as if it had never been. All our wonderful time together.’

Carleton was trying not to cry. It would be shameful if his junior saw him cry.

‘I always told you it would happen. I told you what you’d do.’

‘But I haven’t done it!’

‘Yes, you have. You have. You’re different already.’

‘I’m NOT.’

‘You are. Don’t touch me! You are. You don’t know it, but you are. You want everything your way. You think you’re grown-up. Good luck. Go on. Leave us alone here.’

‘Do you mean to say you’ll never see me – or ever write to me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I couldn’t stand it! Listen, did you think I did something wrong? Is that it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. You got tired of me. I knew you would. Now you think you can change your mind, just like that. Well, you can’t. It’s done. You’d only change it again. It’s you who did it – not me.’