R. Delderfield & R. F. Delderfield (34 page)

'What should I do but leave it in the bank? Money never interested me. If it had, I shouldn't be here, any more than you.'

'But, damn it, man, you could retire now if you cared to. Properly invested that would provide an income double the pension you can expect.'

'I don't give a damn about the money,' Howarth said, savagely. 'It's discovering, this late, that I could have married the girl if I'd had the nerve. You can't buy back the fruits of your own folly and cowardice with eight thousand pounds! She must have been miserable with that bloody stockbroker!'

He took another drink and his gin began to mellow him. 'Let this be a lesson to you, P.J.! Get married again if you can. Don't play the little gentleman, as I did.'

'I'm not looking for two lucky breaks, Howarth. Most men don't get one. You didn't, it seems.'

'Well, then, what will you do with your life? Don't fancy you can live celibate, my friend. Or not without corroding your personality. Some could, but you aren't made that way and it's my opinion you know it.'

He wondered if this was true. In the last twenty-two months he had not been aware of physical yearnings, of the kind Beth had satisfied so gaily and so graciously, but who could say whether this was permanent? A time might be approaching when enforced celibacy developed an itch, to be scratched at all costs, or bottled up until it began to warp him, the way he had noticed among ageing bachelors and long-term widowers. In the strictly personal sense the prospect of holding a stranger in his arms was vaguely repugnant to him but would it always be so? He was only just thirty; all things being equal he had another forty years ahead of him. Curiosity nagged him, encouraging him to risk a formidable snub. 'What did you do about women all these years, Howarth?' and Howarth, draining his gin, got up and crossed over to his bureau again where he extracted another photograph. From a different drawer, David noticed. It was an enlarged snapshot, featuring a very different woman, a big, blowsy, cheerful girl about twenty-five, with bold eyes and a wide mouth daubed with too much lipstick.

'I know her, don't I?'

'You should. She keeps the Unicorn, over in Challacombe. She didn't when that photograph was taken. It was partly my money that set her up. Before that she was the barmaid for ten years.'

'You still call on her?'

'No, but I could do. She's a generous soul. She probably wouldn't charge me nowadays.'

On the face of it it seemed incredible. Howarth, the dry, irascible symbol of rectitude, utterly dedicated to his job, feared and respected by almost everyone at Bamfylde, slipping away to a chintzy bedroom at the Unicorn every now and again and paying cash down for a few moments' frolic. It occurred to him that Howarth was tacitly offering him solace if he needed it. Not in a spirit of leeriness, like two men drinking and talking women in a pub, but as a sincere gesture of friendship.

He said, deciding to make a joke of it, 'Well, thanks for the tip. I'll bear it in mind,' but Howarth replied seriously, 'There's something more important you should think about. If you mean to spend your life here, and not move on if you get the chance, then it's time you began planning, my friend. Herries will be gone in a few months, and so far there's been no serious attempt on the part of those idiots on the Board to replace him. Why not put in for the job?'

'For Algy's job? As headmaster here? You can't be serious, man.'

'I assure you I am. You've taken to this place and it seems to have taken to you. The most hopeful sections of it, that is. Well then, since you've committed yourself to soldier on to the point of no return why not try to ensure it's run your way, and not the way of some other officious new broom. Replacing Herries won't be easy. Whatever this place is it's his creation and he's stayed too long to give it flexibility. Someone who had worked under him would have a flying start.'

'But good God, Howarth, you're senior to me by twenty years. Why not you?'

'Can you see me assuring mothers that their little darlings won't be corrupted by the writing on the lavatory walls? Or that Bloggs Minor, solid from the neck up, is a future Cabinet Minister? Don't talk bloody nonsense, P.J.'

'Well, then, Carter, although God forbid. Or Barnaby, for that matter. He was upset when Algy gave me Havelock's after Ferguson died.'

'Barnaby's a pleasant chap but he isn't headmaster material. He's too amiable and too close to his subject. Administration and real authority would send him out of his mind. How does communion with the Ancients
qualify a man for the job of modernising this place, without converting it into a factory, of the kind Carter and his ilk regard as essential? And speaking of Carter, he's already backing himself for the job.'

David had heard a vague rumour to this effect but Howarth's positive statement shocked him into reassessing his own future. He could never work here under Carter, or anyone like Carter. Their methods, theory and practice were too opposed, and suddenly what had so far proved a fireside chat with an intimate ran him into an impasse. He said, sullenly, 'If Carter was appointed I'd resign. I wouldn't even wait until I found another billet.'

'You don't have to tell me that. Well?'

'What are his chances?'

'Only fair. He's got Alderman Blunt in his pocket, and can probably win over one or two of the fence-squatters, men too timid to jump down until Herries is out of the way.'

'Suppose he got it, what would be his line?'

'Overnight modernisation, with the emphasis on science and technical education. New labs, I daresay, and men like yourself replaced with nonentities. History and the classics don't cut much ice with Carter.'

'But Bamfylde isn't that kind of school.'

'A school is what a headmaster makes it.'

'But there are several Old Boys on the governing board. They wouldn't stand for a complete reversal of policy.'

'They mightn't see it as that. Who knows? Maybe Carter is right. This is 1927, and Herries's conception of the place is 1907, or earlier. Don't forget he was a year old when Prince Albert died.'

'Bamfylde could be brought up to date without making a bonfire of everything Algy brought to it.'

'By someone like you, someone with imagination plus drive. Not otherwise.'

'I've been here eight years, and I'm five years younger than the most junior headmaster in the country, discounting dayschools. What chance would I stand?'

'About the same chance as Carter. I'd say you were about even at the moment. It would mean canvassing, of course.'

'You mean soliciting votes among the Governors?'

'In the nicest possible way.'

'I don't think I could do that.'

'You'd have to, old boy. And you jolly well would if it meant keeping Carter out. You could begin on Brigadier Cooper. He's very partial to you, I hear. Converted by that son of his, no doubt.'

'Will Herries have any say in it?'

'Officially, no. Unofficially, quite a lot.'

He sat pondering a moment, his thoughts centring on the likely reaction of both Brigadier Cooper, 'Warrior' as older Bamfeldians thought of him, and Algy Herries. Headmaster at thirty. Headmaster of Bamfylde. In authority over men like Howarth, old Bouncer Acton, Rapper Gibbs, Barnaby and even Carter if he didn't resign. It was preposterous and yet, if it meant a choice between him and Carter, he couldn't stand aside without a fight, even if it was only a token fight. He said, 'I'll think about it. No more than that, Howarth,' and then, with a slightly baffled expression, 'You'd serve under me?'

Howarth permitted himself the luxury of one wintry smile. 'What choice would I have, so long as I stayed on the job? I'm well past the point of no return. Besides, I daresay you'd need your Eminence Grise!'

Down in the quad the end-of-prep bell jangled. On its final, jarring notes, the hum of the manumitted rose to a subdued uproar. David got up. 'Thanks for the gin, Howarth. And thanks for your trust. I'll think about it, I really will.'

In fact, he did rather more than think, broaching the matter to Brigadier Cooper when he saw him emerge from Algy's house one afternoon a week later.

Howarth must have been a shrewd judge of character. The Warrior was surprised but delighted, making no bones at all about his dislike of Carter or, for that matter, his apprehension concerning the appointment of anyone likely to change the style of the school. In fact, his extreme conservatism left David a little doubtful of his choice of patron. 'We don't want a Clever Dick prancing about here with God knows how many damn silly modern theories,' he growled. 'All I ask of the place is to turn out chaps who can speak up, play up and look anyone straight in the eye. Some of the Governors have been naggin' poor old Algy for years. “Get the scholarship level up and never mind Kipling's 'If,' “ they kept telling him, but he never took a dam' bit of notice, bless him. He knew what he was about and kept the flag flying, didn't he? As to that feller Carter, he's not the type either. We used to regard chaps like him as oddities
in my time here. Called 'em “Stinks” and they were very small beer then, I assure you. Not saying we haven't got to watch the science side, mind you, but he'll do well enough right where he is for my money. Have a crack at it, young feller-me-lad. Why not? What have you got to lose?'

'My job, sir. I couldn't serve under Carter. We'd be after one another's scalps from the word go and no matter who won the school wouldn't.'

It was a situation the Warrior obviously relished. He said, rubbing his long nose with a nut-brown forefinger, 'Tell you what you do. Leave the reccy to me. I'll sniff around and flush something out before the next monthly meeting. Carter's application is in, and they're already whittling the first batch down. Nothing definite yet, of course. They'll leave it all to the last minute, if I know 'em. Wish to God I'd had a few of 'em under me in S.A. and Mespot.'

He went off, growling to himself, the traditional Blimp and a Godsend to the cartoonists but still a man to be reckoned with. He had won his V.C. at the Modder River more than a quarter-century ago, and later served four sweltering years in Mesopotamia, Palestine and Salonika when he was recalled from retirement. David had intended asking his advice on approaching Algy if he hadn't marched off so abruptly. As it was, he decided to delay that until he got some idea of the amount of support he was likely to receive.

He did not see the brigadier again before the end of term but on the first day of the holidays the old chap wrote saying David could be sure of three votes, including his own. Three wasn't many out of a Governing body of eighteen, but it insured him against ignominy. The brigadier added that the short list was now almost complete, and that it included at least one headmaster, of a school roughly equivalent with Bamfylde. The passing of information, he supposed, was very unethical but Cooper was not a man to worry on that score. It had the effect, however, of preventing David from confiding in Algy. The approach would now have to come from him, as soon as the news leaked that he had applied. In the interval David took Grace off to London to spend the Easter holiday with Beth's people. It would provide a change for her, Beth's sisters having daughters about her age. 'She'll grow into a boy if I don't change her diet now and again,' he told Ellie. It did not occur to him, as the Taunton-Paddington express pulled in, that he had reached a point where he needed a change himself.

2

He had almost outgrown cities and city amusements but he liked to visit the theatre when the opportunity offered and with Grace in good company took himself off to the West End one afternoon to see a matinee at the Globe, in Shaftesbury Avenue. The play did not impress him overmuch and he was emerging into the crowd of teatime shoppers, heading for the Coventry Street Corner House, when he heard his name called and turned to see a smartly dressed woman waving excitedly in his direction. At first he could not be sure and hesitated but then, with pleasurable surprise, he identified her as Julia Darbyshire, who came up very much out of breath, saying, 'You always were one for stepping out! I saw you in the foyer and almost lost you…' then stood back, letting her glance run over him as she said, 'You're looking well, P.J.! Better than I expected. Wuthering Heights must agree with you. All I really wanted to say was… well… how terribly sorry I was when I heard what happened, and how many times I thought about writing but didn't. Why? Does one ever know whether letters of that kind are welcome?'

She stopped, looking a little confused, so he came to her rescue, telling her he would have liked to have heard from her, and was pleased to see her looking so pretty and cheerful. She coloured at this, but then smiled and said things had taken a turn for the better. Her husband had died a year ago and it would be hypocrisy to regard that as anything but a mercy. Later she had landed a job as manageress of a fashionable teashop, in Old Bond Street. 'The pay is a lot better than Bamfylde's,' she added, 'and the waitresses are a nice bunch of kids. I get a free hand running it and every now and again celebrities drop in and that gives me the illusion I'm back in the swim. The wide open spaces were never for me, P.J. I was an idiot to ever imagine they were. As for Arthur, well, to be frank, I was relieved when he died under an operation. Glad for both of us but especially for him. There was absolutely no hope and he was never free from pain. Your loss was very different. I couldn't get you out of my mind, and you've no idea how glad I am to see you looking fit and… well, more or less yourself again. Not surprised, though. You always had plenty of guts.'

'Don't let's stand here,' he said, embarrassed by her directness. 'I was popping into Lyons' for tea. Won't you join me?' and she said she would be delighted for it was her day off, and everybody she knew in town was at work. He said, as soon as the Nippy had taken their order, 'How did you come to hear about
it, Mrs Darbyshire? I had no idea you kept in touch with Bamfylde. I always had the impression you were thankful to scrape the mud from your shoes.'

'Keith Blades wrote. Don't worry. Just once, and only about you.' She hesitated a moment. 'You see, I told him about your part in it. I thought I owed it to both of you, but don't worry, he's a very discreet boy. I'm quite sure he's never mentioned it to anyone and probably won't until he finds a nice girl, marries her, and lays his murky past on the table, the way men do once they've sown their wild oats.'