Lord Dismiss Us (9 page)

‘We cannot do better at such a time than to consider the true nature of this Christianity of ours. And as intelligent people . . .’ (a faint smile – meaning what?) ‘we shall approach the subject in a useful way if we first of all consider what it is
not
.’

Yes, this was it – hurray! They had
known
he wouldn’t disappoint. Almost the whole School braced itself for action. Hearts ticked faster under surplices.

‘There are some . . . misguided persons . . .’

They watched keenly for his eyes to settle on some specific victim; but no, as always, he kept them slowly, alarmingly, roaming.

‘. . . who labour under the impression that this Christianity of ours is a milk-and-water recipe . . .’

The Chaplain spat it out, and lingered so long on it, that visions arose of mountainous rice puddings and other horrors.

‘. . . for the Good Life. If you play the Game – these regrettable persons maintain – if you keep your faces washed and your hands clean, if you conform to the accepted pattern of the Society in which you find yourself, then you are leading the Christian life. . . .’

Mr Rowles glanced over at the Head.

‘It is my office to remind you . . . and to remind you forcibly . . . that such persons are . . . in their blindness, in their ignorance, and in their folly . . .
crucifying christ for the second time!
’

Sudden as a thunderbolt, the words hit the back wall of the ante-chapel, reverberated about the numbed figures of the parents and relatives, and came echoing along the sides up to the altar, and so filled the vault.

Embarrassment was the major reaction, holding them all motionless. Only one head moved: Mrs Crabtree brought her eyes down and let them settle directly upon the ghastly white face of the speaker.

His right hand went up, with the long fingers outstretched and the blue ring flashing.

‘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
!’

Almost everyone had to turn their heads round to do this comprehensively. Almost everyone knew what they were expected to see. But they acted under hypnosis. There was a stirring and rustling, and several hymnbooks fell.

Both the Chaplain’s hands were outstretched now, and directed at the side walls; his garments issuing from his wrists like the wings of a great white bird.

He waited.

They had seen. They turned back to face him.

He cried out – a baying sound, wolflike and desperate – ‘
Look what They have done to Him
!
’

The Head’s mouth was down. He was scarlet.

Wrath took the place of grief in the Chaplain’s voice: ‘This pale . . . weak . . .
effeminate
.
.
. creature. This is
Their Christ
!’

He reduced volume suddenly. His rubato.

‘And fittingly so. For only such a one could tell us to accept the Pattern . . . to become ciphers . . . to embrace . . . Respectability.’

The Chaplain folded his white-winged arms across his front, and uttered the word with searing disgust.

‘But this is
not
Christ. This is
not
Christianity. This is not . . .
Love
.’

Mrs Crabtree dipped her chin several times, unconsciously. She had turned as white as the Chaplain himself.

‘What . . . you may well ask yourselves . . . What . . . is Love to these people? I will tell you.’

The Chaplain paused, and scowled, waiting to tell them what they knew; but in a manner which even Mr Dotterel could never approach.

‘It is some faint . . . wishy-washy . . . anaemic little regard, for playing the Game . . . for doing honour to these premises in which we reside.’

The Head wondered if he could immediately halt the proceedings. But how? How?

‘But this is not Love. No, no,
no
! Christ is Love. And Christ . . . is a
burning fire
.’

Like spectators at ‘Hamlet’ who know all the lines, they heard it explode with complete satisfaction, unmarred by familiarity. The Chaplain’s long thin mouth had opened into a dark cavern, and in his High English accent the word
fah
was like hot gas rushing out of 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, 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.’

His black eyes went along the pews, one by one, all through the building, and finally
appeared
to settle for a moment on the Headmaster’s pew.

They could hear the Chaplain breathing.

Then he spun away from them, and was facing the altar, making the sign of the Cross. There was a rush of words too swift to be audible—‘And-now-to-God-the-Father-God-the-Son-and-God-the-Holy-Ghost-Amen.’

He spun back, took his skirt in his right hand and swept down from the altar-step, moving rapidly along the aisle which seemed to be entirely filled with his rustling white garments; his large buckled shoes squeaking as he went.

The rest was not entirely anti-climax. When Carleton and Naylor took up the Collection, during the final hymn, the Chaplain made great play with receiving it on the gold plate like the sun. Having allowed it to flash and glitter in the face of all, in various swooping movements, he then offered it up on high with dramatic ceremonial that put one in mind of the Aztecs. But, otherwise, everyone was merely waiting to break forth and rejoice in the fulfilment of their expectations.

Night had fallen.

The boys paraded out first. This time they had the great satisfaction of standing aside, in the dimly lit Cloisters, in two lines, and intently scrutinising every face that passed down the middle and out the end door. The satisfaction would have been greater, were the Masters not such born actors. Jimmy Rich could be relied on for a nod and a grin – even a quick wink – but the rest were expressionless.

The Crab was scarlet, with his chin up and mouth down. This was quite revealing, but no one suspected that he was dazed with shock and burning with rage; aggravated, if that were possible, by his having to give pride of place in the procession to the so-called Man of God.

Ma Crab, beside him, walked with her eyes on the stone flags, and her hands behind her back, revealing nothing. She walked with the new knowledge that the pain and all the hidden bitterness of her life were of infinite value and sanctified by the Love of Christ. She could see nothing, save the face of the man who had made this plain.

The Chaplain followed after them, faintly smiling, and went upstairs to eat a plate of smoked salmon.

The School broke ranks with a roar. (The Head heard it from the hall of his House, and his hand went straight to his heart: it sounded like Revolution). They stripped off their surplices and let themselves go.

The Chapel Square, the Quad, and the night, resounded with running feet and repeated cries of: ‘Christ . . . is a burning
fah!
’

Blood was running faster. All things were intensified. Alone in the silent Chapel, Carleton took one end of the white and gold altar-cloth and Naylor the other, and as they moved together to fold it, Carleton let Naylor take his end of the cloth and he put his hands instead round Naylor’s waist. Naylor’s face, close to his, blushed a little and he said, mildly, ‘Tch, tch, Carleton, for heavens sake!’ Naylor was wonderfully slim and fresh in his dark-blue suit. Turning away out of Carleton’s hands, he folded the cloth again, with his back to him, and Carleton, feeling warm and happy, put his hands around Naylor’s chest. They were the same height. Naylor did not move away. Carleton kissed the nape of his neck. ‘You’re crazy,’ Naylor said suddenly. ‘Someone’ll come in.’ He stepped away across the flags to a ledge on which was lying the tray containing the red velvet money-bags.

‘I’ll carry it,’ said Carleton.

‘I saw you! I saw you!’

Seaton-Scott, with his spectacles glinting, had leaped out from under the altar-table. Carleton nearly dropped the tray. They hadn’t even noticed him crouching there.

‘Caught in the act, caught in the act!’ shouted Seaton-Scott, beaming and jumping up and down like an idiot.

‘Oh, buzz off, Seaton-Scott!’ said Naylor, as they started down the aisle with their burdens.

This was an old game with the altar-cloth, and Seaton-Scott had been present at it in the past. They regarded his presence with indifference. He was round-faced, with specs. To have bothered to come back and secrete himself under the altar-cloth was typically childish and typically Seaton-Scott.

‘You’re a bore, Seaton-Scott,’ said Carleton.

‘I saw, I saw!’ said Seaton-Scott, jumping about behind them. ‘Let
me
do it next time, Naylor, and I’ll let you off.’

‘Not bloody likely,’ said Naylor.

‘Cheeky little runt,’ said Carleton.

Naylor, who had only the altar-cloth to carry, switched off the lights and they went out on to the Chapel Square.

‘for the second tahm
!’ somebody shouted out of the dark.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Seaton-Scott called after them; but weakly.

They didn’t bother to respond. They had forgotten him.

They went down the stone steps and along the Cloisters.

‘Cloister Cricket’ was permitted here, and the two light bulbs up above were in wire nets to protect them from hard-hit tennis-balls. There were flies buzzing around them in the warm night. The grass Quad was through the arches to their left, and someone called out – ‘Ooh, Carleton, can I have one of those?’ – meaning the money-bags.

It was terribly boring and wasteful of one’s youth, Carleton thought, to be surrounded by so many obvious minds. In a moment they were going past Lady Jane Grey’s trunk, and so upstairs.

There was an immense cupboard of dark wood grapes and flowers on the landing outside the Chaplain’s rooms, and Naylor carried the key. They put the altar-cloth inside it, and, following their usual practice, Naylor took out the bottle of Communion wine, removed the cork, and had a long drink.

‘Steady on,’ Carleton whispered, laying the gold tray on the carpet and taking the bottle from Naylor.

It was warm and sweet.

‘It’s jolly good stuff,’ said Carleton, wiping his mouth.

Carleton had to take the tray in and count the money with the Chaplain. They took it in turns, and they had tossed for it and he had lost. It was the only thing that Carleton did not like about Sunday nights: he was uneasy in this strange man’s presence, and the deception over his delayed baptism had not helped.

As he raised his hand to knock on the door there was a weird cry, like a sob, from within.

‘Come in!’ the Chaplain shouted.

Carleton went in.

The Chaplain was seated in his usual chair, with the orange held to his nose.

It was not he who had sobbed. Huddled at his feet in front of the fire was Mrs Crabtree. She was in tears, and she held the Chaplain’s poker in her right hand.

The Chaplain lowered the orange. He was paler than ever, and he looked over towards Carleton with his expression of extreme disgust.

At the same moment, Mrs Crabtree’s tearful eyes had come up and seemed to spell murderous revenge upon Carleton for this intrusion.

Carleton did not hesitate. He put the plate down on a table beside one of the Greek figurines, and went out.

‘Carleton!’ the Chaplain shouted.

Carleton closed the door behind him and made off.

There was a howl that not only filled the landing but must have been audible all through the Head’s House –

‘
Will no one rid me of this turbulent woman?
’

Chapter Eight

A letter arrived on Monday morning.

Although Ashley had been in residence barely a week, it seemed to him that it came from a different, forgotten, world.

My dear Eric,

Formal and more than apprehensive opening from erring friend. What a dreadful scene, and I only wanted to talk about your Writing! Miss Godfrey gave me warning of eviction if it happens again. A certain irony in that, you must agree! I’m afraid I was over-expressive – it must have been the gin – but did you have to flee quite so far, and for so long? You certainly live up to that strange thing on your notepaper – the birde flewe all right. The slam of the door rang in my ears all night and I was blushing for weeks.