Lord Dismiss Us (25 page)

Yours sincerely,

J. Denham Walker.

Ashley crumpled it up and flung it to the ground.

‘How dare you!’ he said. ‘How bloody well dare you!’

It was like hatred. She flinched, and backed against the dressing-table in surprise.

‘How dare you interfere with my life in this vile, lying manner!’

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

She was blushing, and to his amazement he saw tears in her eyes.

‘It sounded such a marvellous chance. I thought I was helping.’

‘Oh God. Never mind.’

‘I’m sorry. . . .’

Her hands were on his shoulders and her cheek against his. She had moved very swiftly, but all the same he cursed himself for not being more agile.

‘Stay with me, Eric,’ she said into his ear. ‘Stay with me.’

‘How do you mean?’ he inquired. His arms were around her: there was nowhere else to put them. For answer, she kissed him desperately, silencing any possible protest, particularly as she was busy with her tongue. He tried, as there was no alternative. But it was of no interest at all. They were standing close to the bed, and she caught him off-balance, so that they were sitting on the side of the bed, and she was running her hands through his hair and kissing him. He tried again. If she was going to work as hard as this, maybe she was right. It was again useless, but it was evidently enough to convince her: she even uttered a few seemingly spontaneous moans. ‘Wait a minute,’ she whispered, and broke free and stood up. She whisked the chintz curtain across the tiny window, making the room almost dark, and went into her bathroom. His blood ran cold. He shouted – ‘That’s enough. Good-bye!’ and hurried over and put his hand under the dressing-gown and found the doorknob. The door refused to move. ‘What the blazes!’ he said.

He struck the bathroom-door and said: ‘Where’s that key?’

‘Never mind!’ came from behind the door.

‘Tell me where that key is,’ he threatened.

‘I can’t remember,’ was the reply.

‘Give me that key!’ he shouted.

‘Not yet,’ she replied.

‘This is a preposterous farce.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she said, emerging. She was wearing nothing whatever. He averted his eyes from the two vast white alien presences on her chest. They had no connection with any Joan Taylor that he had ever known. For a moment they had a life of their own, with huge nipples, but they were part of her, all right, for she had turned into Mother Earth. She had taken off his tie before he even noticed. ‘It’s all so simple,’ she murmured, in a special voice; and his coat was on the floor. Another useless kiss, and she had taken him by the hand and led him to the bed. He was in two minds. He actually assisted the final removals. An appalled glance had taken in what seemed like a huge white stomach, and hairs, on a lady, but otherwise he kept his eyes away. So did she. He lay on top of her, because that was what they said. She made all possible motions under him, and finally an assault on his backside which struck him as a damnable insult. He was cold as any stone. He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair and said, ‘Where’s that bloody key?’

He was not looking at her. There was no reply.

Then she jumped up, crossed the room and put on the dressing-gown, pulling the belt round her.

He was reassembling his clothing.

‘At your feet. Under the bed.’

He picked it up. She sat on the only chair, and crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. She was staring at him with a maddening, worried frown – ‘brows knit’. He was putting on his tie.

‘Eric, have you never . . . ?’

‘No!’

‘
Never?
’

‘No.’

He felt curiously at ease. It was almost a relief to have been stripped, even to no purpose. It was almost a relief to have been able to say it. Not that it had even seemed an admission . . . an inadequacy, a need. Not at all. It was merely him. After all, he had loved. But it lasted for several minutes only, because she said – ‘My dear, I think you ought to see a doctor. I can give you the name. . . .’

‘Blast you,’ he said quietly.

‘But, Eric, you
must
.
. . .’

‘The comedy is over,’ he said. ‘Good-bye.’

‘Eric, wait! Don’t go. . . .’

He inserted the key, and opened the door.

‘All right,’ she said, approaching. ‘But at least . . . listen, there’s a little book I’d like to send you. . . .’

‘WHAT?!’

She blinked and stepped back and tripped on the end of her gown, throwing out a hand against the dressing-table.

He departed, and slammed the door.

There was a crash of something being thrown within. He was hurrying down the stairs; and nearly at the bottom when he heard the door above opening, and her voice, almost unrecognisable, rending the Crown and Anchor – ‘God blast you to
Hell
!!’

Alarmed eyes gazed on him through the open door of the Saloon Bar. One pair belonged to Milner.

Then he was out in the street.

It had been a considerable sound, but he could not contemplate her pain at all. What had happened down here had not been real. A relaxing . . . or at least releasing . . . companion of the mind, she had for the second time made a conscious and therefore preposterous attempt at therapy of another kind. One of her mistakes. Not his failure.

Yet the emptiness was back, and the accompanying panic. An
absolute hollowness, joined with alarm. He scarcely realised where
he was going.

He was returning up the hill.

Chapter Nineteen

Such happiness.

The weather continues without a cloud. It seems to be helping to make a kind of magic out of my last term. Never will I forget it!

There’s an awful crowd always in the pool – which is too small and has slimy green stuff round the sides. I’m glad I’m not mad on swimming, as Nicky goes there a lot and I wouldn’t dare go in at the same time. He has dark red togs. I hate Sinnott and Co. watching him dive, but I can’t say anything.

There’s an organised group now who seem to get a great kick out of jumping out and stoning the hooligans who come over the wall for a free swim. The lower orders don’t seem to be very bright! They can’t work out when we’re in Class and when we’re not. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it myself. But they’re a filthy lot, and they’ve certainly no right to come over our wall.

Sometimes Nicky puzzles me, and frightens me. From the start he has at times – after we’ve been quiet for a while – come out with what I call his Gloomy Talk. At first I thought he was just flirting – and he does that too, and I love it. But he’s not. He means it.

‘It’s funny. With us it’s different to everyone else.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It’s nearly always the older one who loves more. But with us it isn’t so. It’s
me
who loves
you
more.’

‘That’s not true, darling, and you know it.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Why do you say that? I love you more.’

‘No. I have. From the start.’

‘Well, maybe at the start. But that changed very quickly.’

‘No, not really. You don’t understand how it is with me. You’re everything. Everything.’

‘But that’s exactly the same with me.’

‘No. Not really.’

He was so absolutely certain. That’s what I couldn’t understand. Why? Why? He nearly made me doubt myself. I tried to imagine something totally more – overwhelmingly – that he claimed. But it was merely what I felt already.

Then he’d go on –

‘You’ll get tired of me.’

‘Never, never, never.’

‘Oh yes. You will. Even before the term is over.’

‘That’s just ridiculous. I wish you wouldn’t say it. It’s just potty.’

‘It can’t be helped. You will. It’s the way it happens. It can’t last. I know.’

(Another souvenir of Eton?!)

‘Yes, it can, and it will, always. Unless
you
change.’

‘You’ll get bored with me. You’re bound to. It’s bound to end.’

‘It’s not, it’s not!’

But he had shaken me again. I couldn’t understand such certainty . . . such kind of grown-up knowledge, and such grown-up, smiling acceptance of something which, if it was true,
I
couldn’t bear.

And then he’d say –

‘Anyhow, you’re leaving.’

‘Oh, that makes no difference. We’ll always be together. We’ll be together all the holiday. I want to go sailing. Wouldn’t that be marvellous? And then I’ll write. And then you’ll be coming to Oxford. . . .’

‘No. You’ll forget. You won’t want to once you’ve gone. I know. It’ll be over. It’s all right. I’ll be O.K. You’ll be in another world. You’ll write and tell me.’

‘It’s not! It’s all nonsense! We can
never
be apart, you and I. How could we be?’

‘You’ll see how.’

‘Oh don’t. Please don’t.’

And my mind was churning over.
Can
we, in fact, sail? Will people see he’s younger? Will my mother and father see?

Oh for heaven’s sake, only two years! And he’s such company, and fun, and everyone likes him, and so good to look at. And they’ll jolly well have to accept it, because I’m going to be much braver and more definite about such things, as an ex-public schoolboy. Gosh, I’ll be a young man. Introducing fellow grown-ups to a marvellous friend.

Johns, now, is leaving too. Imagine sailing with Johns!

We’ve had two Home matches now, and lost them both.
I
made sixteen and a duck. Unless I smarten up my father is not going to be as proud of me as he was when I was home. Nicky made thirty-two and forty-eight. There are so many of us leaving, he may easily be Captain next year. I don’t know why, but I’m a bit afraid to think of him being older, and in authority. Just imagine – if he agrees in the end to be Senior Prefect!

We passed in the Quad yesterday, and to my horror Nicky stopped and talked to me!

I thought he’d gone nuts!

‘You may have to beat me,’ he said, and my heart seemed to drop out of my chest. ‘Sherriff caught me smoking with Metcalfe and McIver. He’s told Roly.’

‘Oh Lord.’

He ran away.

I was trembling. I couldn’t. It was unthinkable. What was I going to do?

Sherriff (for whom McIver had taken a photo) was within his rights. They were all in this House – Priestley. The only Prefect who could punish boys in other Houses was Steele.

Roly would ask me to do it.

What could I say? What could I say?

He sent for me after Tea. I was in a state.

He said: ‘Those idiots Allen, Metcalfe and McIver have been smoking. Give our two M’s four on the backside, would you?’

‘Yes, Sir. Uh. . . .’

‘I’ll deal with Allen.’

‘Oh.’

Did he sense my relief? Was he looking at me in a funny way? Did he remember what Ashley said? Yes, I think so.

‘He’s new. I’m not having him start like this. I’ll have something to say to him.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Gosh I nearly said – ‘Thanks awfully, Sir.’ I’m sure he knew. It was jolly kind, if so.

Metcalfe and McIver were both smirking. I tried to make it hard, but I know it wasn’t. One of Metcalfe’s strokes was nearly a clean miss. I don’t mind him so much, because he doesn’t give a damn. But McIver’s quite bright, with his cameras and all that, and I felt silly and embarrassed. It was like beating almost an equal. Also, when I told him to bend over the table he stopped smirking, and looked scared.

The funny thing is I hit him harder and more accurately than Metcalfe. It seems a peculiar thing to say, but I think it’s because I wanted him to respect me.

Even so, I find it hard to imagine Nicky going off with either of them. What does he say? What is this life he has that I can never know?

Never mind. One thing I
do
know. It was nothing like smoking with me!

I’ve had two more ‘exeats’. It’s funny, once upon a time – and not so long ago – home used to be the real place and this was just somewhere I had to be. Now it’s exactly the other way round.

Weatherhill Day is coming close. It begins with the Confirmation Service. Several times I’ve met Nicky after he’s been with Cyril Starr for private instruction. He never says anything about it, and always seems a bit more subdued and thoughtful. I’ve never dared question him. But yesterday afternoon my curiosity became so great I couldn’t resist it.

We were in a perfect little nook we’ve found in a clump of blazing yellow gorse away at the top of the hill. You can see anybody coming from miles away.

I said –

‘What exactly does Cyril Starr talk to you about in these sessions?’

Nicky was so quiet and pensive I thought he wasn’t going to answer. But at last he said – and he seemed to be perfectly serious –

‘Well, just now he talked mostly about temptation.’

‘Indeed!’

I was already feeling frightfully sarcastic. I couldn’t understand why Nicky was sounding so solemn.

‘And what, pray, did our Chaplain have to say about that?’

‘He said if I was tempted to sin I was to get up at once and move around.’

‘This was your Confirmation Class?’

‘Yes. He said it was only boredom. Sitting in the one place. He said if you get up and move around, temptation goes away.’

‘Crikey! I take it he was seated in his usual chair?’

‘What? Yes. Of course.’

‘Did he get up and move around?’

‘Don’t joke. It’s . . . serious.’

‘What?!’

All this time he had been talking with his brown back to me. We had taken off our shirts. He was propped up on an elbow, and playing with some gorse blossom. Weatherhill lay below us, beyond the swimming-pool, directly in our line of vision: all there, in one neat clump, from the Chapel to the Pedant’s Palace; and looking extraordinarily small, this place where no less than two hundred of us were leading our young lives.

Anyhow, the point is, I couldn’t see his face; I could only hear his tone of voice – sounding so strangely solemn.

‘I think I’m going to confess,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He says it’s best. One should be in a State of Grace.’

‘Confess to Cyril Starr? You’re codding me.’

‘No. I’m not. I’m very serious.’

‘Confess what, might I ask?’

Nicky pulled the petals off the gorse blossom.

‘About us.’

I felt as if I’d been hit over the head with a mallet.

‘But there isn’t anything to confess!’ I shouted – and for an awful moment I thought, I admit it, ‘No, there isn’t, and maybe we’ve made a big mistake, maybe we’ve been wasting our time, maybe we should have given that old fool something to make him sit up and walk around the room.’

‘I know,’ Nicky said. ‘But I think I should mention it all the same. I don’t know what the Church would say.’

‘The Church? Have you gone cuckoo?’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I believe in it. Very much. I’m going to be a clergyman.’

Well, I was really flabbergasted!

‘How
can
you have decided such a thing at your age?’ I said.

‘I decided it when my father and brother were killed. I decided it at the burial service.’

I couldn’t think what to say. It was beyond me. The whole glorious afternoon seemed to have gone sad and grey.

‘Well, I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I was only baptised at your age – and for all the wrong reasons.’

He sounded very surprised, turning his head to look at me – ‘But you’re a Chapel Prefect.’

‘I know. . . .’

‘I always thought that was . . . fine.’

‘Gosh, you don’t mean . . . that has anything to do with Us?’

‘No, but . . . it was partly why I . . . first noticed you.’

‘Before that Match? Even before that Match?’

‘Long before.’

All at once, we were both smiling. It was nice news – never mind the reason.

‘
You
don’t have to believe,’ he said, putting his hand on my bare arm. ‘It won’t come between us. The opposite, in fact. It’s why I’m going to Oxford. I want to go to Keble College.’

This, as I’ve said already, was the best news of all.

I decided never to mention the subject again.

‘I have a confession,’ I said. ‘I more or less flirted with Hamilton Minor in the Pavilion today, when we were putting on our pads for Nets.’

‘So what?’ Nicky said, smiling at me.

‘Well. . . .’ I said, a bit taken aback, ‘I thought you should know. It’s just that since loving you I feel a bit in love with everyone. But it meant nothing.’

‘I don’t mind. You can do whatever you like.’

‘Aren’t you jealous?’

(I suppose this is what I hoped for – though I
did
feel guilty).

‘Don’t be silly.’

What the devil?!

I don’t think I’ll ever understand him.

But I know, somehow, he’s
better
than me.

I wonder did that awful accident give Nicky some kind of wisdom, make him philosophical, even religious, so that he can’t be jealous or anything. Can it have made him good, and ready to endure anything bravely. He seems somehow different to all of the rest of us.

I thought this writing would . . . not improve on things, for that’s impossible, but sort them out, make them clear, and make them alive for me for ever. Most of all, I wanted to make a picture of him . . . and us.

But now, when I read my own words they don’t describe him or us at all.

Words are no use. Words don’t describe anything.
They only make something new
.

And less. Yes, I know writing is supposed to make something more. But this is much less than the actual thing . . . much.

Perhaps it’s because I’m not going to be a writer.

Perhaps I’ll give it up.

But not till I
make
Eric Ashley tell me what he thinks about that story of mine!

Chapter Twenty

‘I know we polished off Phèdre,’ said Johns. ‘But I’ve been thinking. I still don’t know why you say she accepted. It seems to me she never stopped complaining for a minute.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Ashley was looking very peculiar, Carleton thought. The afternoon was grey and heavy. Johns was pretty insensitive. Or was he deliberately provoking trouble?

‘Phèdre. I think she was half enjoying not being able to do anything about it.’

‘It is a possibility that has escaped Sainte-Beuve.’