A Question of Proof (3 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then, let’s tell him. Please. After all, I’m not a halfwit. I’m sure I could get some sort of a job. I might even degrade myself to writing novels.’

‘You sweet; let’s hope it needn’t be as bad as that. But be patient. I’m going away tomorrow, for two months. I’ve promised my mother. I’ll think it out by myself then. I can’t think when you’re so close to me. And in August I’ll write and tell –’

‘Hero, I love you. I leave it all to you. Don’t let’s waste any more time talking. They’ll be out of dinner soon.’

So they turned to each other and kissed for a long time. Then Hero went in. And after a little Michael walked towards the thicket, hugging his pain and happiness to himself.

It is two-fifteen p.m. The Rev. and Mrs. Vale are standing at the far gate, welcoming the first arrivals of the parents. Michael Evans, Esq., B.A., has just supervised the boys’ changing; sent this one to the matron for a clean pair of trousers, found the lost stocking of that one, adjured A. not to go out without his hat and B. not to carry that large duck’s egg in his pocket. He has also answered in ringing tones and the negative no less than fourteen separate and consecutive queries ‘need we wear sweaters, sir?’
All
this has been done in the midst of a shindy like a rookery ten times amplified, for discipline is relaxed today, and the silence rules abandoned. As a matter of fact, Michael has noticed this uproar no more than a city-dweller notices the sounds of traffic. The preparatory schoolmaster soon learns the knack of retiring into a kind a soundproof shell: if he fails to learn it, he either takes to drink or goes crazy.

Neat in their clean white shorts and bright blue blazers and stockings, the boys stream out on to the field. Those who are expecting their parents move off separately and with restraint towards the far gate. As each recognises father or mother, his pace quickens involuntarily for a step or two, then is controlled to a self-conscious sedateness. Only the very youngest ones run. Michael sees Griffin approaching him, with an exercise book and a large pistol. He is wearing a double-breasted grey flannel suit and looks murderous.

‘Who were you thinking of shooting?’

‘Can you believe it? That moron, Mouldy, put up one too many sets of hurdles?’

‘I can well believe it. Look out, here comes Gadsby. Let’s move off.’

But Gadsby, borne along on a strong gale of whisky fumes, caught them up and held them in the doldrums of his conversation till they were rescued by Percy fussing up to Griffin with inquiries about the tape.

Michael moved away with alacrity to where Tiverton was standing, looking very cool and dapper.

‘I see you’ve just escaped.’

‘Really that man makes me despair of my profession,’ exclaimed Michael.

‘Preparatory schoolmasters,’ announced Tiverton sententiously, ‘fall into two categories – the Old Contemptibles and the Young Objectionables. Gadsby and I are included in the former class, yourself and Wrench in the latter.’

‘This station will now close down,’ replied Michael rudely.

‘I say,’ he went on, ‘old Simmie’s had a wash and brush-up, hasn’t he?’ He pointed to where Sims, in a suspiciously creased brown suit of antique workmanship, was talking with a parent.

‘Yes, he’s brought out that suit for Sports Day every year since I can remember. His contribution to the universal gaiety.’

Michael craned over the assembling heads to catch a glimpse of Hero. There she was, in a cluster of animated females and deferentially inclining males. A gust of unreasonable anger swept over Michael. He hated it, seeing her at home in a different world from his own; so withdrawn from him and lively and socially competent. His anger transferred itself to the company in general. The spectacle of all this painted, feathered, complacent, chattering flock made him feel sick inside. It was to maintain this portentous scum that millions sweated or starved beneath the surface. ‘The fine flower of civilisation’: but they hadn’t even looks to justify them. The women were powdered,
jerky
skeletons, and the men like lost sheep.

‘The British bourgeoisie is beginning to have rather a hunted look in its eye, don’t you think?’

‘If you’re going to talk politics you’d better foregather with young Wrench,’ snorted Tiverton.

‘Thank you, but I’d rather not. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Dunno. I’ve not seen him for some time. I expect he’s crouched over his illustrated copy of
Mademoiselle de Maupin
.’

‘Really, Tiverton, you have a most unhealthy imagination. Oh, Sweeny’s just going to ring his bell. I must go over to the finish: got to time this race.’

The 440 was run on a circular course twice round, the start and the finish being opposite to where the main body of the spectators stood. The boys began to shout for their favorites. ‘Go it, Stevens!’ ‘Come on, Anstruther!’ ‘Wilkinson! Wilkinson!’ A large-eared, bespectacled boy was giving, no too
sotto voce
, a faithful rendering of a wireless commentator to an admiring group of friends. ‘This is the Sudeley Hall sports ground. The 440 yards race is about to commence. They are taking off their blazers. They are lining up. Where is Stevens? I can’t see Stevens. Yes, there he is. He has the outside berth. The favourite has the outside berth. Mr. Griffin is officiating with the pistol – Mr. Edward Griffin, the celebrated gunman. Will you speak a few words into the microphone, Mr. Griffin? No, perhaps it’s as well that he should not. Now! They are going down on their marks! In
a
moment you will hear the pistol. Hallo, what’s happening? I can’t quite see. (Get out of the light, Biles, you little tick!) Stevens is sitting down. Oh, he is doing up his shoelaces. Now they’re ready again. On your marks! Get set! Hallow! Old Griff has got the pistol jammed. Now it’s right. On your marks! Get set! Go!! That was the starting-pistol you heard. They are rounding the first corner. Anstruther is in the lead. Bravo, Anstruther!’ Here the violently cultured voice broke off, and was replaced by the owner’s natural shrill screams: ‘Come on Stevens! Steeevens!’

It was a great race. Michael, in the appalling days to come, was to remember it vividly and gratefully, as front line soldiers in the Great War remembered some scene, cricket on a village green, a farmhouse tea, shire horses standing up grandly against the skyline – which somehow grew to become their vital link with sanity and England. The brown-green short grass; the greyhound grace of the runners; the feel of the stopwatch hot in his hands; Anstruther’s grim tenure of the lead round the last bend and Stevens, white in the face, coming up with a superlative rush of speed and passing him three yards before the tape. A set of pictures that was to recur again and again to Michael; as though to a man drowning, at the last crisis of breath.

Michael had automatically clicked the watch, smiling uncontrollably, tears pricking his eyes. He became aware of a hand squeezing his elbow. He looked down and saw Sims, trembling with excitement, his
usually
dull eyes sparkling behind his spectacles. He felt a ridiculous wave of affection for the little man. ‘By Jove,’ Sims was saying, ‘what a race! I say, has he beaten the record?’ Only then did Michael remember to look at the watch’s hand. Yes! He’d beaten it. By a fifth of a second. Every one crowded round. The time was chalked up on the blackboard, ‘a school record’ underneath it. Yells and clapping from the whole ground. The hero was practically winded again by dozens of hands clouting him on the back.

The sports ran their course. Parents began to get bored and move about in gossiping groups. The distinguished local resident stood up uneasily behind an array of silver cups, and drew shaky parallels between running and citizenship, patriotism, Christianity and other abstract themes. More cheers and backslapping. At four-thirty it was all over. The parents had retired, some to tea with the headmaster, others to stuff their children in the neighbouring village. The remnant of the boys and the staff went in to their more frugal meal, unconscious of the fact that one of their number had been lying dead for some time, his face hideously black and his tongue clenched between grinning teeth, not a hundred yards away.

Tea is over. Sims, Evans, Gadsby and Wrench are sitting about in the common room, in various attitudes of exhaustion. Griffin has gone out to supervise the clearing away of the sports apparatus.

‘Well,’ said Gadsby expansively, ‘that’s over. It’s
extraordinary
how good a cup of tea tastes after a hot afternoon in the sun. Jove, we’ll not see a race like that 440 for a good few days to come – eh, Evans?’

‘No; it was certainly a race and all.’

Wrench lit a cigarette, ‘The way Stevens caught him up on the last bend! A jolly good effort.’

‘Why, old man, he caught him in the straight, surely,’ protested Gadsby.

‘Yes, I know. But he was coming up on the bend fast, wasn’t he? Or wasn’t he?’ Wrench was grievously addicted to obsolete society slang.

‘Didn’t see you at the beginning of the race, Wrench?’ said Sims. ‘Where were you standing?’

Wrench leaned over to flick his ash into the grate, ‘Oh, I was gadding around. Acquiring merit with parents and all that.’

Tiverton came in. He had been doing the rounds. As he opened the door a piercing shriek was raised in the passage: ‘Wemyss! Wemyss!’ Then a snatch of conversation. ‘Where is that squit, Wemyss. I want to borrow some cash off him. He’s always rolling.’ ‘I expect –’ The door closed. Tiverton came in and sat down, saying:

‘Roll-call’s at seven, isn’t it?’

‘You on duty, Tiverton? Don’t envy you the job. Half these little devils who’ve been out with their parents will be sick as cats,’ said Gadsby.

‘And Tiverton can follow them about with a spade and bucket,’ added Wrench coarsely.

‘Ah, tchah.’

But at seven o’clock it appeared that the excitement of the day was by no means over. To Tiverton, calling the roll in the day room, one name failed to respond.

‘Walters?’ ‘Sir!’

‘Ward?’ ‘Sir!’

‘Wyvern-Wemyss?’

‘WYVERN-WEMYSS!’

‘Does any one know anything about Wemyss?’

Several
sotto voce
suggestions were put forward: ‘Yes, he’s a worm.’ ‘He’s probably throwing up into Percy’s wastepaper basket.’ ‘Or boozing at the Cock and Feathers.’ Nothing more constructive or audible being advanced, Tiverton asked: ‘Did he go out with relations?’

Silence.

‘Come along,’ said Tiverton irritably. ‘He must have told someone whether he was going out or not.’

A small boy at the back stood up and every head turned round towards him, as though he had them on strings.

‘Please, sir, he t-told me he thought he w-would not be going out.’

‘When did he tell you this?’

‘Yesterday, sir.’

A babel of voices arose.

‘Sir, do you think he’s run away?’

‘Good riddance.’

‘Please, sir, perhaps he’s been kidnapped, sir.’

‘STOP TALKING!
Sit quietly at your desks. Prefects, see that there’s no ragging about.’

Tiverton went through to the private side and found the headmaster in his study.

‘Wemyss is absent from roll-call.’

The Rev. Vale turned round sharply from his desk.

‘Absent? My nephew? But that’s impossible.’

Tiverton enlarged wearily.

‘He failed to answer his name. None of the boys seem to know anything about it. Had he leave out?’

‘Leave out? No, I don’t remember – I’ll just make sure.’

He opened a drawer and referred to a printed list.

‘No. No one was taking him out. This is most extraordinary. Unless Urquhart drove over – but he would have let me know. Have you ascertained whether he is anywhere on the premises?’ Vale was quite flustered.

‘No. I thought it best to inform you before any sort of search was instituted,’ replied Tiverton in his most official tones.

‘Er, yes. Quite right. What do you, er, suggest?’

‘Perhaps we should ask Matron first. He may have felt ill and gone to the sickroom.’

The matron was sent for, a large, imperturbable woman.

‘Master Wyvern-Wemyss? No, he has not come to me.’

The headmaster, who had by now regained some of his composure, directed Tiverton to keep the boys in
the
day room and the matron to organise the servants for a thorough search of the buildings. He himself hurried along to the common room, where the masters were at supper.

‘My nephew, Wyvern-Wemyss, is not to be found. Can anyone throw any light –?’

No one could.

‘The matron is supervising a search over the house. Perhaps it would be well to look over the grounds too, in case he has met with some accident. Could you arrange, Gadsby –?’

‘Certainly. I suppose you will be ringing up the police?’ added Gadsby tactlessly.

‘The police?’ Vale raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, I mean to say, he might have run away.’

‘And for what reason, pray, should he take such an extraordinary course? Are you suggesting that he had grounds for –? Really, Mr. Gadsby.’

Gadsby abased himself, and the search began. Gadsby himself went over the Big Field: Sims into the far field: Evans was allotted the garden, Griffin and Wrench the thicket. Haymakers had just come to work late on the hayfield, so it was not considered necessary for the staff to search there, or advisable to broadcast a possible scandal amongst the labourers.

Michael wandered about disconsolately for ten minutes or so, thinking of Hero, cursing the search for a farce and peering perfunctorily into bushes. When they assembled again, it was without tidings of the missing Wemyss. Matron and her forces had been
equally
unsuccessful; and the headmaster, deciding that Gadsby’s tactless hypothesis must now be entertained, rang up the village constable. A description of the lad was given, and the constable promised to make inquiries in the village and to communicate with the superintendent at Staverton, so that a watch might be set on all adjacent stations and bus-routes. Further questioning by Tiverton in the day room had elicited the act that no one seemed to have set eyes on Wemyss in the course of the afternoon, so it appeared that he might really have taken the incomprehensible liberty of removing himself from the Rev. Vale’s tutelage.