Lord Dismiss Us (38 page)

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, I know why you’re not writing. You’re not free. Freedom comes when the relationship is ended. If it ever ends.’

I was baffled, but if he meant Nicky, of course it will never end – and of course I’m free.

‘You’ve come through,’ he said. ‘I always said you were agile.’

I didn’t answer.

Then he went on, something like this – ‘The requirement is alarming. That’s to say, there are two requirements. You’re not only required to be a writer – which you are. You are also required to have an insight into people that is beyond the ordinary. That’s something you have yet to prove. To do it, you will need to have grown out of this.’

It was nonsense, I thought, and it was the first time I felt I knew better than him. In fact, I felt I
was
growing – though not out of ‘this’. (Again, I supposed he meant Nicky).

Then he turned away, very abruptly, and said, ‘At least keep that diary going,’ and strode off.

It’s odd. Even though he does make me uncomfortable, I have felt closer to him than with any other grown-up.

All the same, I’m not going on with this. There is nothing to say, except that we don’t meet.

Chapter Twenty-six

He woke in the night. Something wild and strange was happening. A noise. What was it? He had always slept the sleep of the young, and never woken before the morning bell. The wind was clattering the windows, which Roly insisted on leaving open. But it was not that. It was a bell – but a different one. Deep, mournful, and yet agitated at the same time. It gave an alarm. It called for action. Gosh, yes, it was the Chapel bell! This meant Fire.

The dorm was stirring in the dark. They were under his command, and in spite of past fire practices he was not sure what he was supposed to do. There were shouts and mutters in the blackness. ‘Jesus, we’re on fire!’ from Sinnott. His bare feet were on the cold wood floor. What did one do? Did one dress? The lights all clacked on. Blinding and bleak. Rowles was in the doorway, barking. ‘Come on! Come on! Up and out the lot of you. Carleton, get them moving there. Down to the Quad. On the double!’ He was in some kind of an old dressing-gown.

‘Do we dress, Sir?’

‘This is a fire, Carleton, not a circus. Put on your dressing-gowns and get out of here. I’ll have the arse off anyone who’s still here in two minutes. Come on. On the double!’

There was a rattle of lockers, and a clatter of slippers on wood, and some of them, still blinded by the unearthly light, banged into the ends of beds. They were dashing out past Rowles, who stood in the doorway whacking at an occasional behind, and seemingly enjoying himself. Down the stone steps they tangled with the crowd from the other two dormitories, and all broke into the Big Schoolroom in a rush, crashing against the ping pong table and meeting in confusion at the narrow door on to the Chapel Square. Someone was hit and cried out. Others tumbled through the door and fell on the gravel. Everyone from the other Houses was pouring into the Quad, shouting with excitement. All the lights had gone on, throwing beams from a distance on the vivid green grass, and making it just possible for them to identify each other. A half-moon looked mad behind the Chapel. The wind lashed the trees up on the wood. The bell had stopped. When? They hadn’t noticed. It had been rung. That was enough.

Steele was roaring down at them. He was standing up by the War Memorial with a pocket-torch and the Roll Call in his hands. Rowles was also shouting – ‘Shut your mouth!’, and the Pedant, in a dressing-gown to his ankles, ‘Be quiet, damn you!’ Carleton peered about in the dark. Marvellous confusion. Extraordinary sights. De Vere Clinton in a striped kimono. The skivvies giggling in the illuminated Cloisters, in floral gowns, with Lloyd, fully dressed, standing amidst them, in shame.

Order had won. Steele was shouting down –

‘Allen.’

‘Present.’

(Where? Where are you?)

‘Andrews.’

‘Present.’

A hand fell on Carleton’s shoulder.

‘Where are the flames?’

Ashley in profile, breathing tensely through his pointed nose; in his smart suit, with no tie.

‘I don’t know.’

The fingers massaged the bone of his shoulder. Gosh. Why? Were they equals or something? Friends? It was incredible. It stopped. Thank goodness.

‘Hamilton Minor.’

‘Present.’

‘Hargreaves.’

‘Present.’

The Crabtrees had come blustering into the crowd: all three dressed; and the Fire Squad – of four Seniors and McCaffrey – was with them. Gum-boots over their pyjamas. A scarlet extinguisher. A drum with reams of hosepipe around it. The Crab calling out – ‘Where is it, you people?’

‘We don’t know, Sir.’

‘McIver.’

‘Present.’

‘Metcalfe.’

‘Present.’

Carleton saw the enigmatic smile of the Chaplain in the light from a lower window: a black, amused figure, removed from them all.

The Crab: ‘But this is ridiculous, Rowles. Where is the fire?’

‘No idea, Headmaster.’

‘Wallace.’

‘Present.’

‘Young.’

‘Present.’

Silence. Only the wind tossing the trees in the moonlight.

‘Who rang the bell?’ asked the Head.

It was a good question. No one had thought of it except McCaffrey – who was in some kind of overalls. ‘I ran straight to the Chapel, Sir. There was no one there. The Squad and I have searched the school.’

The Head hesitated, and then shouted up the bank – ‘Come with me, Steele.’

He pushed through the crowd, with Rowles shouting. ‘Make way there!’ and joined Steele up on the Square. They crossed it together by the light of the torch, and disappeared into the dark doorway of the Chapel. Lights went on, illuminating the stained-glass windows. The Chaplain smiled more sourly. Everyone watched. They were peculiarly silent now. The wind. The moon. The mystery. The fun was over. Something different was emerging. What did it mean? Was some sinister bell-ringer hiding in the Chapel? A hunchback, maybe. Had he been caught?

At last the lights went out, and the two figures and the torch came across the Square. The suspense was terrible. They stopped. The Head called out, ‘There’s no sign of anyone.’

Ashley was the most keenly aware of what happened next. It was not pleasant. He sensed it even in the first few moments of silence. Then the voices began, from here and there. ‘It’s a hoax.’ ‘We’ve been hoaxed.’ ‘Lousy joke.’ ‘Rotten trick.’ They had had many lessons in corporate pride. Now they were hurt. Someone had spat on the team spirit. They were angry and vengeful. No, they had not tumbled, and run, and shouted with excitement. That was forgotten. There was merely Indignity – and Revenge. ‘We’ll get him.’ ‘Let’s get him.’ ‘Let’s crucify him.’ Rowles, who did not like it, but was not so disgusted as Ashley, was again roaring for silence; and so was the Pedant.

They realised that the Head was addressing them from on high. He had his hands up in the air. He was evidently incensed.

‘It is two o’clock in the morning. It is a cold night. Some of you may well be ill as a result of this outrage. We will not let it rest. We will punish whoever is responsible for this wicked, stupid act!’

There was a mild cheer. Never had he been anything like as popular as now.

‘It’s you who have been tricked. And I’m asking you to help us find the culprit. Anyone who heard anything before the bell went, anyone who has any ideas at all, should come forward tomorrow. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘Very well. Go quietly to your beds now, and try and get some sleep.’

Ashley woke at six. A faint light through the curtains. There was something different. There was no terror, and no dread.

Still drowsy, he lay looking at the ceiling, and feeling this lightness, and wondering why. He had put himself to sleep with whisky; which should have made awakening even more dreadful. But no. It had fallen away from him.

Suddenly, he remembered. Another being existed in the world.

That was it. The world was made more gracious by the mere existence of Carleton. What was his first name? Life was sweetened. Angst was gone. The terror was displaced by poetry. Living was entirely different.

How strange that someone’s mere existence – even without meeting – should work this magic!

Light in heart, he threw back the bedclothes and crossed the room in bare feet and pulled the curtains aside. There was a hazy sun just above the wood. The wind had gone. It was very still. It was going to be a hot day.

He went back to bed, and lay there with his hands behind his head.

But they
had
met. And they would meet. Within the walls of this dominant, indestructible place.

Yes, it was not to be evaded: there was now a quite new burden; better than emptiness and fear, but agonising too.

He had been astonished by his own spontaneity, in placing his hand on that shoulder; and, finding it there, had dared more, out of love. Had it been received? It had certainly not been rejected. But had it been received? Surely, yes. The young man was no childish innocent, thank God.

And if so. . . .

All at once, the magic was a mockery. The other’s mere existence had set up a hollow in his heart. There was no more solitude, but there was a need instead; and it was absolutely hopeless. Not only that, but he was revealed, finally and for ever. His own nature abolished hope. He detested himself. He closed his eyes and longed, and tried not to long, and knew that the trying and the longing were both hopeless.

The room lightened without his awareness. The sun rose, and an hour later, after the rude and insistent clanging of the usual bell, found one person in the whole school still profoundly asleep. What was wrong with Gower?

Gower’s face was positively yellow with oriental dirt and mystery. The slanted eyes opened and closed again. The blue and white pyjamas of thick material had somehow missed the weekly laundry. They were like old sacking in Carleton’s fingers, as he shook him by the shoulder, shouting – ‘Wake
up
, Gower!’ – supported similarly by a chorus standing round the bed, like medical students reckless of the victim. Until at last the patient woke, saying – ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll give you two minutes to get in the shower,’ said Carleton, remembering Roly in the night.

‘That’s not fair,’ said Gower, in his whine.

‘Up!’ said Carleton. ‘Out!’

It was bad luck: Rogers, almost blind without his spectacles, characterless without the dandruff, was in there behind the sliding door, and he was one of those who relished the icy downpour, and even turned red and warm under it. Three or four others were also lingerers, out of choice. Gower had no choice. He had to edge up to one of the douches; his arms across his shivering chest, the truncheon slightly diminished by the arctic conditions. And Rogers shouted against the thunder and splash of the showers – ‘Overslept, Gower? A bit late, aren’t you?’

The jet hit Gower’s face, taking away his breath and speech. Someone had slammed in, shouting, ‘Wonder why Gower’s so tired this morning.’

‘How do you mean?’ – from Rogers.

‘Carleton had to shake him out of bed.’

They were calling out to each other, in the midst of the flood.

‘Funny. Gower sleeps next the door.’

‘Yeh. That’s right.’

‘Gower could easily have got out.’

‘Yeh. While we were asleep.’

‘And,’ said Rogers, ‘Gower’s just the sort of little shit who’d do it.’

They were getting loud and excited.

‘What do you mean?’ Gower whined, stepping out of the torture, and rubbing his eyes. ‘I was there when Dr Rowles told us all to get up.’

‘Who knows that, Gower?’

‘Yes. We don’t know that, do we, Gower?’

‘It was very easy to slip into the crowd in the Quad.’

‘Yes. Wasn’t it, Gower? Nobody was noticing.’

‘I was in dorm. Everyone there saw me,’ Gower whined.

‘Nobody remembers that, Gower.’

He had backed to the sliding door, and was trying to pull it, in confusion and alarm.

‘You’re all crazy.’

That did it.

‘Listen to me, Gower,’ Rogers was shouting in his face. ‘You’d better come and see me first thing after breakfast.’

And first thing after breakfast the four Prefects were discussing it in the Common Room.

‘Roly thinks it’s definitely on the cards,’ said Rogers excitedly. ‘It’s in character. And he can’t remember whether he was there in bed or not.’

‘Of course he wasn’t,’ said Pryde. ‘We’ve got him this time. We’ve got him at last. Oh boy!’

‘If he did do it,’ said Johns, who was flat on the ottoman, reading a new film book, all about Eisenstein, ‘he deserves a medal.’

‘I’m getting bloody sick of you and your ideas, do you know that?’ said Rogers, feverishly fingering his spectacles. ‘They make me sick.’

‘Too bad,’ said Johns, reading.

‘He only does it to annoy,’ said Pryde. ‘It’s best not to listen.’

Carleton, who had feared a fight, was in two minds. Johns had said it because he thought the place ‘a prison’. It was not. All the same, it was true that they had enjoyed themselves. What had Gower done that was so terribly wrong? It had taken nerve, imagination, maybe even humour. . . .

There was a gentle knock, and Gower came in, faintly smiling: Taunting, and Fear too.

‘Ah,’ said Rogers. ‘Shut the door, would you. Now then, Gower, I’m afraid the game is up. You’ve had it this time. It’s all over – you little sod!’