Silent Noon (22 page)

“Where did you find that?” said Miss Duchâtel, crossing the room.

Belinda paled, covering the bracelet with her other hand.

“In the rock pools,” she said.

“You stole it.” Miss Duchâtel’s voice was loud and hard.

“No, I didn’t.”

Miss Duchâtel slid her fingers between the girl’s skin and the bracelet, gave a single, hard tug. “Take it off, now.”

“It’s mine.”

“It is not yours. It’s hers, it was on her – take it off, take it off!”

Her voice was ugly, and in her fright Belinda slid the bracelet from her wrist and let it drop to the floor. The Frenchwoman grabbed it and shoved it in her pocket.

“Stealing from the dead,” she spat. “From a helpless baby!”

“I didn’t know,” said Belinda.

“It’s all right,” said Barney.

“It’s not all right,” said Belinda. “I didn’t steal it. I didn’t.” And before anyone could say anything else, she tore from the house.

“I’m sorry,” said Ivor to Miss Duchâtel. For the first time Barney noticed how red his eyes were. “We’ll talk to her.”

But Miss Duchâtel only nodded, and said that they should probably leave too. It would be dark soon, and the girl needed watching.

“Didn’t your mother tell you the story of the three little men in the wood?” said Ivor once they had caught up with her, tugging her to a halt at the crest of the hill where
the kittiwakes screamed overhead. “About the ungrateful girl who spurned the elves’ gifts, so that they punished her by making toads spill out of her mouth?”

“So she
is
a witch,” said Belinda.

“And you’re a spoilt, rude little girl.”

But by the time they had reached the road, the boys could hear her footsteps rushing to catch up. “I’m sorry,” Belinda said. “You’ll still let me help, won’t
you?”

It had been Ivor’s idea, inspired by Miss Duchâtel’s stories and a passage he’d come across in one of his books about something called Greek fire. The
firecracker he had set off behind the shelter was just a trial.

Like a snail that builds its shell by turning round and round, he had begun to talk himself into a burning disgust for anyone who wasn’t prepared to “act”. According to Ivor,
such people represented all that was wrong with their parents’ generation: their dreadful silences, and also their fundamental lack of heroism. Ivor wanted to create something that would defy
silence. In one glorious act of destruction he’d show everyone how the young, too, could find freedom in a pile of ashes. Never again would the masters assume that the war was something that
they could own exclusively. The young would reclaim it for their own, for the dads and brothers that they’d lost, for the awful fear that they left behind: the dread of silence and the
bomb.

After they saw the girl off at the road, he and Barney decided to wander back up to the school past the old pumping station.

“That bracelet,” said Barney. “She did find it in the rock pools. She told us so before.”

“So?”

“So nothing,” he said.

It had been almost two weeks since Barney had last come here with Robin, deliberately flouting the rule that boys weren’t to wander the grounds in pairs. Robin had offered his hand as they
crossed the narrow bridge together, holding on just long enough as they landed on the main platform to squeeze Barney’s fingers. As they’d sat fashioning sailing boats out of twigs and
leaves, Robin had confided about his terrible dreams: about firequakes that would break the island like a piece of chalk and terrible, walking sea monsters caked in black volcanic sand. The sea
claimed its due by swallowing them all before belching them out again and smashing their heads on the rocks. Barney mentioned this to Ivor now, hoping that the older boy would say something
confident and wise. But Ivor only laughed.

“
Don’t be afeard
,” he said, heaving himself up from the crossbar onto the upper ledge. “
This isle is full of noises that give delight and hurt
not
…”

Barney rubbed the smooth face of the silver Buren between finger and thumb. He swallowed his annoyance, wishing that for once Ivor might speak in a way that did not make him feel dull by
comparison. Just then he hated the oppressive emptiness of this place: the thick silence, the stench of rotting kelp and a river that was still and glassy, dotted with kingcup straining after light
through the gloom. From the forest floor, it seemed as though he could hear the click and rustle of a thousand tiny bodies battling against each other for survival. The ground under their feet
seethed with insect life: every footstep provoked the crack of tiny membranes.

Ivor was in a buoyant spirit. “They won’t know what hit them,” he was saying. That was the plan: like the crab that throws a pebble into an oyster yawning at the full moon, he
was setting a trap. Barney chewed at his nail, afraid to meet Ivor in the eye.

“You’re sure nobody will get hurt?”

“Oh, I see.” Ivor was busy lighting a cigarette. “It’s that
bijou
of yours, isn’t it? Littlejohn.”

“He’s not my anything.”

“I’m only having a laugh, Holland.” He passed the cigarette to the younger boy, standing close enough for Barney to smell the smoke on his breath. “You do know that,
don’t you?”

Barney nodded, unsure. He felt small and pathetic, because he knew his fear was to do with failure – with failing to stand in the middle of the woods talking as an equal to a boy like
Morrell. The Mede was standing too close now.

“It’s getting late. We should go back.”

Ivor reached for the cigarette between his fingers before grabbing Barney’s arm. His other hand locked on the back of his head, pressing him forward as he planted his mouth on
Barney’s. They remained like that for what seemed for ever, though it was only a few seconds: the warm, sweet taste of smoke laced with Miss Duchâtel’s chocolate éclairs,
the pressure of the older boy’s cool lips, the scrape of teeth on his mouth, the scratch of regrowth against downy skin. A twisting branch was heard – a whisper, a rustle of leaves
underfoot…

They pulled apart in time to see Cowper and Shields sprinting off towards the drive, and Hiram Opie’s copper-coloured eyes staring back at them through the silent forest gloom.

If Ivor hadn’t delayed things by going after Opie first, perhaps he could have caught up with the other two before they reached Runcie. As it happened, they reached the
boarding house just as Runcie was emerging from his study to take a lesson, and by their flushed faces and dishevelled state it was obvious that they had something serious to relay.

Since it was a Saturday, supper was a little later than usual. There were no masters present, and the boys were free to return to the common rooms as soon as they wished. This was precisely what
Barney did, pursued by whispers and meaningful glances. As he extricated himself from the dining table, Cowper started the chant –

– while Robin stared into his kedgeree with a mouth like a cat’s arse. When Barney got back to Medlar he made a beeline for the toilets, where he threw up his supper
and all of Miss Duchâtel’s tea to boot. Afterwards, staring into the bowl as he tugged down on the chain, he found himself wishing that there might be some way for him to squeeze
himself through the piping and flush himself out to sea.

If he hadn’t been so stupid as to spend the money Miss Duchâtel had paid him on cakes and ginger beer and cigarettes, he could have afforded a cab to Port Grenen and a ferry ticket
to Grimsby, and perhaps also the train fare back to London. It was Ivor’s fault that he couldn’t even run away from this place – that he was trapped here, a most despised prisoner
among murderous inmates. He would have gone straight to bed just to escape the significant silences of the prep hall, but no one was allowed in the dormitory until the bell had rung. When at last
it did, he climbed the stairs two at a time and buried himself under the covers without bothering to change out of his clothes. There was no point in that, he knew.

Sure enough, within half an hour Runcie’s footsteps could be heard on the staircase. It wasn’t as if Barney didn’t know what to expect – like so many things, the cane
held greater fear for the uninitiated – but right now that made little difference. The lamp at the end of the corridor was switched on: there was a knock at the door.

“Holland. My study, please.”

Nobody spoke as he laced his shoes and tiptoed past the row of beds, his hand slipping as he turned the handle.

The housemaster was at his desk when Barney entered, squinting in the glare of lights turned up to daylight brightness. For the first time he noticed the rattan cane sticking out of the umbrella
stand. Runcie did not invite him to sit.

“I received a disturbing report this afternoon,” began the master, returning his pen to the inkwell. “No doubt you will have some idea as to what it involved.” Barney
hung his head, concentrating on the swirl of vines patterned in the carpet. “I will, of course, have to ask you if it is true. That you were party to indiscretions with another pupil? A
senior boy.” Barney nodded. “And the name of this boy?”

“Morrell, sir.” At last Barney looked up, sensing his opportunity. “He started it, sir. We were just having a fag, and the next thing—”

“I see. But then why did you not come to me?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You understand, don’t you Holland, the fabric of our instruction in chapel, about the sins of the cities of the plain?”

“Sir.”

“In that case, Holland, I struggle to understand how you could have exposed yourself to such a situation without at least some expectation of wrongdoing. After all that this school has
offered to you. I shudder to think what your father would make of it.”

Barney swallowed.

“Mr Swift brought me this the other day.” Mr Runcie opened a drawer, withdrew the envelope addressed to him in Spike’s awkward handwriting.

“Sir.”

“He found it in the basement corridor. How do you suppose it got there?”

“I was reading my letter, sir. I must have forgotten it.”

“You do know that junior boys are forbidden from frequenting the basement corridor after supper?”

“Yes, sir. The library was locked, sir, so I—”

“Was Morrell with you then?”

“No, sir.”

“So what happened this afternoon was an isolated incident, was it?”

He’s looking for a way out
, thought Barney with relief.
His heart’s not in it
. “Sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” He wondered if
Runcie could hear the imperceptible ticking of Robin’s watch in his pocket.

The housemaster rose and walked around the desk, pausing in front of the boy, whose ears were now quite red. “Unfortunately, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not take steps to ensure
that we are quite clear on this point. That you have put me in this position is a cause of deep regret for me.” Runcie turned towards the umbrella stand. “The matter can be laid to rest
quite simply, right now. Six strokes for regular infractions: three each for straying in a group of fewer than three boys and for smoking. Four strokes for an act of perversion.” He sounded
weary. “I hope you’ll agree that it’s quite fair.”

“Sir,” said Barney, his throat now quite dry.

“Hands on the desk, Holland.”

There are worse fates, he told himself, as Runcie sliced the air behind him in two deft practice strokes. Death marches through the jungle. Bamboo shoots under the nails. Watching a Jap slice
your gut open and eat your liver right in front you…

The first cut was sharp, but the second landed with razor precision. Barney gritted his teeth, sucking in his cheeks and refusing to make a noise. They would be listening upstairs, taking grim
pleasure in the sounds of muffled yelps or sobbing, and it was for them, more even than for Runcie, that he refused to show weakness.

Mass graves filled with decapitated bodies. Samurai swords filleting a man as if he were a fish. Faces shot off, sending teeth into the back of blown-in skulls. Fly-blown heads rammed on
pikes…

He heard himself whimper, and at the next stroke he cried out. It was too much now: he would be severed in half…

“Up you get.” Runcie returned the cane to the umbrella stand and opened the door. He stood by as Barney shuffled past him into the dark hallway, each motion shooting pangs of agony
down his legs. Master and pupil heard the creak of springs overhead as five bodies scrambled beneath the covers, the excited whispers and impatient admonishments to be quiet, but neither gave any
indication that they knew what awaited upstairs: the excruciating process of undressing against his classmates’ taut silence, the awkward tumble into bed, and eyes that ached with the swell
of tears that wouldn’t come.

She did not ask him why he suddenly wished to go now: if anything, she seemed relieved, eager to join him. It was only when they were halfway down to the shore that she
suggested Ivor might have wanted to come along as well.

“Ivor can go to hell with the rest of them,” said Barney.

“Why?”

They had stopped at the edge of the beach, and the sand under their feet crunched with broken shells. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said.

“You can’t go all that way on your own. You’d never make it.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to see any of them ever again…”

“What about Robin?”

“Robin most of all.”

“But
why
?” She squinted at him, hands on hips. “Have you two fallen out?”

“I’ve had enough of people not telling the truth. Miss Duchâtel and Ivor and even you.” He could see that she was hurt, and ignored this. “I had to take the blame
for that stupid prank on Cowper, even though it was nothing to do with me. It would have been all right if one of you had bothered to tell me.”

“He said he had. You should have told Cowper it was Ivor’s fault.”