Lord Dismiss Us (31 page)

He clattered down the stone stairs, holding carefully on to the bannisters, because his studs were slippy. Gosh, am I late? Metcalfe and his pals were cluttering up the Big Schoolroom doorway. Metcalfe bowed low. ‘Good morning, your Worship.’ He brushed past them, ignoring the tribute. It
was
a kind of tribute. He had always been popular. He liked that. It wasn’t really lack of courage, or conceit: it was the wish for human connection, however small. Yes, even with Juniors. Something which the Senior Prefectship would have destroyed. Was that an excuse? No, no it wasn’t. That some were called ‘fags’, and had to behave as such, was nonsense and inhuman.

Thank heaven, there was someone on the Chapel Square in whites. But it was only Hamilton Minor and he was only Twelfth Man. No, he was also Scorer, and nothing could happen without him.

He hurried on. ‘I am
not
walking down with Hamilton Minor.’ Why? Because he is small, and junior, and beautiful even though his head is red.

Gosh, what had Beauchamp said!

Some cars were drawing up in front of the Head’s House already. It was sunny and windy, with white clouds. It must have brought them out early. But it wasn’t a heat-wave any more. Lucretia was sprawled on the steps, making no attempt to receive them. Never mind, he had other duties.

More cars, belonging to Old Boys, were parked on the drive outside the Music Building, and these gentlemen were unloading pads and bats. He went down the slope, with most of the School ambling down beside him. Spectators always seemed like lazy lumps: you even had Clinton’s artists, who you knew perfectly well weren’t even watching. There were men and boys in white, bowling at each other all over the field. One of them was Nicky.

He felt an immediate sense of defiance. He quite forgot Gower. He felt a greater closeness than ever; and a new pride that his love was stronger than fear. He experienced a keen desire that made his heart race, as he ran down the stone steps that cut into the spectators’ grass bank, threw off his cap and blazer, and strode out on to the springy grass.

‘Sling us down a few, like a good chap.’

A tall, bald man even older than his own father threw a ball over to Carleton.

He remembered all this: it was a question of the Old Boys limbering up.

The man struck the ball with a kind of flourish when Carleton bowled it to him; a fanciful weaving of the bat; as if to demonstrate, and be sure, that the old style was still there.

There was much laughter and shouting. You’d think they had taken everything over and the School XI didn’t even exist.

They seemed to be bandying christian-names about to show that
they
had gone out into the world and learned them; and learned how to use them freely.

‘Another century today, Harry, what?’

‘Ah, ha, I don’t know about that, Geoffrey.’

‘Got you, my boy!’

‘Morning, Frank. Cutting it a bit fine, what? At the tables last night, eh?’

‘Not exactly, George.’

‘Hah, hah, hah!’

They were bouncing about in their Club sweaters and, Carleton thought, trying to seem young and vigorous. But these ones were all old. He remembered them vaguely from past years; and remembered well the invariable Captain, Sir Gregory (‘Greg’) Waltham, who had played for the Gentlemen of England and was said to be nearly seventy. His voice was the loudest of all.

The XI was always alarmed at first by these unabashed adult men, who came from gambling and late nights to take on mere children. But they weren’t so brilliant in the end.

The other, smaller group were all very recent Old Boys, and shy about it. The quick change of status unnerved them. They were not at ease with their former colleagues, who were now recognisably schoolboys, and they were silenced by their new companions. They had found the outer world unattractive; and had come smartly back. But it was not somehow what they had expected. Having become an Old Boy, the last thing one anticipates is being humbled.

The pattern with regard to letters to the Old Weatherhillian Magazine was exactly the same. Reaching the mid-twenties, volunteers for this Match suddenly were missing. Then round about fifty a number bounced back again, and stayed on until they dropped. They were in the world, but they were back at Weatherhill, and always had been. They took to the field as if it was theirs again; as if they were residents, and slept in dorm. The only thing to do was to bowl them out.

‘Hm. Miss Lucretia!’

She idly turned her head and looked up at the open doorway. Lloyd, the medieval manservant, was standing there.

‘I must get on with luncheon. I am preparing the cup for the Loyal Toast. If there are any further inquiries for Headmaster and Mrs Crabtree, would you kindly explain that they have gone down to the cricket?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘That is gracious of you.’

She wondered if he was getting at her, and if so whether at his age he was worth destroying. This was a dreadful day for her: she had no role to perform. She had stayed home and exchanged her jeans for the tartan skirt with fierce reluctance; but what was she dressed up
for
? To do Lloyd’s job for him? Yet another car was approaching. They kept on striding up into her house as if they expected a party or something. Her parents had fled into the open. It was a small black car, driven by a lone lady in a large hat; and it had come to rest quite close to the steps on which she sprawled.

The lady got smartly out and slammed the door. Lucretia liked the way she did that. There was something about her. Lucretia was almost never impressed, but this lady was somehow different. She had a light blue dress with a full, pleated skirt which swished as she walked. Her walk was elegant and commanding, as if she was used to people watching her. The front brim of the big hat was turned up, as if she liked her face to be seen clearly. It was frightfully made up, and she was pretty old, and probably not really a blonde at all, but even so Lucretia thought she looked a bit like a film star.

The nose was too long and thin. It reminded her of someone.

‘Good morning,’ the lady said, with a false, but nevertheless dazzling smile. ‘You look comfortable.’

‘I’m the Headmaster’s daughter,’ Lucretia replied.

‘Ah, that would explain it,’ the lady said; seeming a bit too motherly and patronising. All the same her voice was very special; kind of rich.

‘If you want them they’re not in,’ Lucretia said. ‘They’re down at the cricket.’

‘It was really my son that I wanted. Can you direct me to his room?’

‘They don’t have rooms,’ Lucretia said. ‘Only dormitories.’

‘You flatter me, my dear,’ the lady said; and she certainly looked as if she meant it. ‘My son is a master. Eric Ashley.’

Astonishment, bewilderment and animosity, left Lucretia without words. She had very nearly inadvertently produced the Scare Look.

‘My name is Helena Ashley. What’s yours?’

‘Lucretia Crabtree.’

‘Really!’

‘Yes. Really. He’s not in his room, in any case. He’s at the cricket too. He walked past a few minutes ago.’

‘I see. I didn’t know he watched cricket.’

‘Depends who’s playing,’ said Lucretia.

Their eyes met for ages. It was well worth it. The lady was a picture. Her face went through all kinds of expressions. First, surprise, and then doubt, and then suspicion, and then worry, and then – yes, almost – fear.

‘I don’t understand you. But I can find my own way. Don’t trouble to get up.’

‘Righto.’

Lucretia hugged her victory to herself. A tremendous adversary. Her own daring had left her quite shaken. She felt she couldn’t have stood up even if she had wanted to.

Mrs Ashley – who was still celebrated as Helena Parrish – swung down the drive towards the Music Building, saying to herself, ‘Bloody child.’ She clenched her right fist for a moment, and found she was slightly breathless with anger. What had that last remark meant?

There was an open iron gate in the railings, leading to the long grass slope down to the cricket field. One boy nudged another, and they stood politely aside, watching her with awe. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled on them, thinking, ‘Eric looked like this once.’ It was hard to remember. But there was enough memory to cause a pang. She felt sad. Her emotions always changed rapidly. It was partly theatrical training, though to what degree she herself no longer knew. Impossible, her son had once said, in mild accusation, to tell the dancer from the dance. Yes, there was the back of his fair head appearing over a deck chair; something known and intimate, and also for some reason sad.

He looked rather solitary and odd, sitting there half way down the slope. Everyone else was sprawling on the mown bank above the field, or else on deck-chairs close to it. Passers-by collected these chairs from two great piles; sons bearing the burden for fathers, mothers and sisters. Very few brothers – they tended to stay away. The School had opened the batting, and Carleton and Southwell were still in. The rest sat on the bank in front of the Pavilion; which was also occupied by people of distinction: the two new Governors, one of them dark-suited and military, the other tweedy and county – only the Head seemed to be quite sure which was which; and also the Bishop and Lord Fitzmaurice and others.

It was windy: she had to hold on to her hat, and her skirt was a mistake. She knew he was going to be startled, but could see no alternative.

‘Hallo, darling.’

‘Good God.’

He was more startled than she had expected. He was running his fingers quickly through his hair. She was shocked by his appearance.

‘Can I sit on something?’

‘Uh . . . yes,’ said Ashley, standing up and looking round dazedly for an unaccompanied boy. Watson-Wyatt was passing, with his Gleneagles golfing parents. One couldn’t command them when in company: they were somehow protected. Disturbing for mother to hear her boy compelled to obedience and service at the drop of his surname. Another hyphen, Seaton-Scott, was unencumbered.

‘Seaton-Scott, you idle knave, come here!’

The round face and specs seemed to light up, as if complimented. He approached quickly, as one delighted to be put to use.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Fetch us one of those chairs, would you, like a good fellow.’

‘Righto, Sir.’

She had never heard him speak to a child before and was pleasantly impressed: a kind of reluctant detachment; almost an intimacy. They must like him.

‘What are you doing, child?’

‘I don’t quite see which way it goes, Sir.’

‘The other way round, you idiot.’

He said it in a funny way, and Seaton-Scott began laughing.

‘How, Sir?’

‘Give it to me, you ass. Go away, you abominable creature.’

‘Righto, Sir.’

She saw his angry expression as they sat down.

‘You might at least. . . .’

‘Now don’t, Eric. I’m only staying five minutes. I’m expected at Henley. As I was passing, and I suddenly remembered the Day from of old, it seemed logical.’

‘What do you mean “expected”?’

‘A chance of a film part, darling. About ten lines, but one isn’t a chooser any more. Now tell me – what’s happening?’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘I had a very odd note from Joan. Good-bye and all that. She said I should have a look at you. I can see what she means.’

He actually seemed to have half an eye to the cricket. Could it be that he was really accepting this place?

‘Which is the new man?’

‘Down there – fawning. The mortar-board and red face.’

‘I expect you miss old . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘But he can’t have been very active in his position. Is that glorious clergyman still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘What a loss to the Theatre! I don’t really understand any of it. I never did. We mothers are kept out. The sons say nothing. The fathers are silent. Should we really send him to a public school? What’s it
like
there? What was yours like? They evade it always. There’s some conspiracy.’

Ashley wanted to speak. He wanted to be close, as they had for a long time been. There’s a conspiracy down there, running up and down the pitch, while they applaud. It seemed rather preposterous in her presence. Infantile. She made him feel like a schoolmaster, in a school: a fact he always tried to ignore.

‘There’s something I never dared ask
you
. Are some of these children as romantic, to put it politely, as one reads in books?’

‘More.’

‘More what?’

‘More so than in any of the books I’ve read.’

She turned and looked at his profile, holding on to her hat. She felt a little ridiculous. The wind was blowing right across the slope and she had to hold on to her skirt as well. It seemed to emphasise the point that ladies were not required, and could not decently exist, on these premises.

‘Darling, there are only a few weeks more, aren’t there? Are you coming back to the flat?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I hate to try to influence . . . but it’s fairly lonely. Especially without work.’

‘We are both educated to one job only. That’s the misfortune.’

‘Not you. Not you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Nonsense. Eric, why don’t you leave this blasted place?’

‘Don’t start that, mother. I’ve had enough of that.’

‘You don’t look well. You must know that.’

‘Maybe not.’

She glanced at her watch and felt the urgency to achieve something out of this. He had grown terribly difficult.

‘I wonder does it ever occur to you that I’m a widow and you’re my only child, and if something happens to you, it happens to me too. It’s a role I’ve never acted, so perhaps you’ll accept it.’

‘I do. I do, Mrs Alving.’

He placed his hand on hers, and smiled.

‘Perhaps rather heavy, but I’m glad I said it. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh, Eric, for God’s sake what’s it all about?’

‘Mother, have you ever woken up at eight o’clock on a clear summer morning and experienced terror?’

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. But Dr Henry gives me pills for it.’

‘Pills.’

‘Yes. Why not? But you’re young. What do you do – put your head under the bedclothes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I get up. You should try it.’

‘What for?’

‘Eric, being morbid is an Ashley speciality, and one gets sick of it. Your father was bad enough.’

‘What are you?’

‘I’m a Parrish. We enjoy. None of you seems to have ever known how.’

She was sorry. She realised that she had crudely rejected something.

‘Mother. . . . I’m beginning to find there are moments when I can’t be alone.’

‘My God, that’s not new to me either,’ she said, unable to stop herself.

‘But I don’t mean loneliness. I mean . . . a panic necessity for the company of another.’

‘Any other?’

‘No. I think there must be love.’

‘Well, that’s the first healthy piece of news I’ve heard yet.’

‘Is it?’

‘Of course. But what do you mean “panic”? That’s just the Ashley line.’

‘No. A gathering fear. A racing heart. Something is going to happen – I don’t know what.’

‘Stop it, Eric. Now you’re frightening me.’

‘The only hope is a faint one – that I’ll be rescued by unconsciousness.’