Fools of Fortune (12 page)

The man placed a pound note on the table. It was ours, he said, if we would agree to lead him, in the middle of the night, to the window of Mad Mack’s bedroom.

‘We’d be delighted, sir,’ de Courcy responded immediately. It was the least we could do, he pointed out, after all the drink and cigarettes we’d been bought.

‘We could get into terrible trouble,’ Ring began. ‘Appalling trouble—’

‘There’ll be no trouble whatsoever, boy, if you keep your mouth shut. We might need the loan of a ladder, though.’

‘There’s a fire escape running up by those windows,’ de Courcy said. ‘But we’ll get hold of a ladder if it’s better.’

‘The fire escape might do the job for us. I think I remember it now.’

‘It’s great to have met you, sir,’ enthused de Courcy.

Shortly after that wt left the public house, Ring and myself considerably apprehensive, de Courcy jubilant. The arrangement was that we were to meet behind the chapel at two o’clock on a Sunday morning a week later. ‘We’ll never stay awake,’ Ring objected, and on the night in question he fell heavily asleep soon after lights-out. De Courcy and I, however, managed not to. We roused Ring when a distant church clock chimed half-past one.

The man arrived promptly at our rendezvous. He didn’t speak, and in the continuing silence we led the way to the masters’ house and pointed to the black fire escape that ended its descent beside Mad Mack’s bedroom window. As always, the top half of the window was open, an element in Mad Mack’s puritan zeal being his devotion to fresh air. The sacked geography master climbed to a height of six feet or so. He paused before pressing the lower half of his body against the opening, above the sleeping mathematics master. A faint sound disturbed the still night.

‘My God,’ whispered Ring, ‘he’s having a slash on him.’

Sunday-morning breakfast was a leisurely, if somewhat formal, occasion. Standing in our gowns in the darkly panelled dining hall, we waited in silence while the Scrotum and Mrs Scrotum led the small procession of masters to the high table, where the funereal Fukes awaited them with a silver-plated coffee-pot.
‘Benedictus benedicat,’
intoned a prefect known as Bamboo Jones because of his upright stance, ‘
per Christum Dominum nostrum.”
Mad Mack sat down next to Mrs Scrotum, with Monsieur Bertain on the other side of him and the chaplain next to Dove-White. Hopeless Gibbon hurried in late, red-faced and whispering an apology. The science man lived out, as did the other masters who were now absent.

Mad Mack appeared not to have suffered from the attention paid to him while he slept. Certainly he had not woken up at the time: we knew that because we had remained where we stood until the geography master had adjusted his clothes and descended to the ground. Without addressing a word to us, he had marched off into the darkness.

While the butler now hovered behind him with the coffee-pot, Mad Mack’s harsh voice rang out, deploring the fact that his shaving water had been tepid. And from boy to boy, from table to table, word went round the dining hall that he had been urinated upon during the night. Sniggering swelled into laughter. Heads turned towards the high table, eyes searching the gingery countenance of the mathematics master. Mrs Scrotum chattered across him to Hopeless Gibbon. Sleepily, Dove-White reached for the toast.

‘Why is there this laughter?’ The Scrotum was on his feet, the crimson orb of his face pushed out at us, his little knuckles resting on the table-cloth. He turned to Bamboo Jones, who was seated at the head of the table nearest to him, as by dining-hall tradition the duty prefect should be.

‘Why are we being treated to laughter, Jones?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Cease this unpleasantness at once,’ commanded the Scrotum noisily, and then sat down.

Mad Mack would have thought it was raining, Ring said, poking at the lumps in his porridge. He would have woken up and shut the window, wiping a few drops off his moustache. The laughter had dribbled away, but eyes still glanced in the direction of the high table and again the word went round: that it was the sacked geography master, already known by repute because of what we had reported, who had done the deed.

Again the Scrotum rose. ‘Why are you boys looking at Mr Mack? Why are they, Jones?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’

A boy called FitzPayne, at a table not far from where the Scrotum stood, was selected as a source of possible elucidation.

‘FitzPayne, why is Mr Mack the object of your interest?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

‘I’m not looking at Mr Mack, sir.’

‘Are you telling me lies by default, sir? Remember what we agreed between us about lies, FitzPayne. Less than half a minute ago you were staring at Mr Mack with an impertinent grin on your face. We are waiting to hear why that was so, FitzPayne.’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Step up to High Table, sir. Mr Dove-White, move your chair to one side so that FitzPayne may the better stare at Mr Mack.’

The maids, still handing round plates of porridge, had stopped in their tracks. Fukes, in the shadows of a recess behind the headmaster, was investigating the condition of his teeth with a forefinger. The matron’s ladle was poised dramatically above the enormous white enamel porridge container. Her assistant, placing thick slices of bread on plates, paused also. ‘Well now, FitzPayne,’ the headmaster urged, and FitzPayne, a youth ravaged by acne, said he begged the headmaster’s pardon.

‘You will please tell us why your attention was drawn towards Mr Mack.’

The silence was so complete and so intense that it felt like a sudden presence—as if God, de Courcy afterwards suggested, had chosen to pass through the dining hall on some minor mission. Mad Mack registered bewilderment, the chaplain looked concerned. Mrs Scrotum, the growth of her grey hair more horizontal than usual on a Sunday morning due to her Saturday-night washing of it, was impatient to return to her conversation with Hopeless Gibbon.

‘Did you once,’ pursued the Scrotum, ‘have a nursemaid, FitzPayne?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Had you once had a nursemaid, she might have informed you that it is distasteful to stare.’

‘Yes, I know, sir.’

‘It is gratifying that you know something.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We are still waiting to hear from you, FitzPayne. Mr Mack, can you throw any light on FitzPayne’s conceit of staring at you?’

‘I most certainly can not, Headmaster.’

‘In that case it must be left to you, FitzPayne. We have heard the view of Mr Mack, we have heard the view of the duty prefect. If you and I have to stand here all day, FitzPayne, we shall do so. The inconvenience to staff and boys is of course to be regretted. Fukes, I would have another cup of coffee.’

The probing of the butler’s cavities ceased, the forefinger wiped on the napkin he carried. Coffee was poured, the silence continued. Eventually FitzPayne broke it.

‘It had to do with a story that’s going round, sir.’

‘What story is this, FitzPayne?’

‘That something happened to Mr Mack in the night, sir.’

‘Did something happen to you in the night, Mr Mack?’

The mathematics master, who smiled rarely, permitted himself that relaxation now. A row of even false teeth appeared beneath the ginger moustache and then was gone again.

‘As a matter of fact, I dreamed I was teaching Shell B, Headmaster.’

Laughter, too long held in check, was gratefully released.

‘Well, FitzPayne? Mr Mack states he adventured no further than the land of dreams. Are you implying it was in a dream that something untoward occurred?’

There was further laughter. The porridge plates nursed by the maids were eased on to the serving table. FitzPayne said:

‘In the night, sir, a man passed water on Mr Mack.’

The Scrotum’s eyes bulged, and even over the distance that separated us I believed I could see the flushed flesh whiten. The lower half of his face twitched; Dove-White told us afterwards that he moaned. FitzPayne spoke again.

‘Through the window, sir, that Mr Mack keeps open.’

Mad Mack was standing up. Dove-White told us that the vein in the centre of his forehead had begun to throb, always a danger signal.

‘Headmaster,’ he began, and was ignored.

‘You will come at once to my study, FitzPayne.’

‘Headmaster—’

‘I’d be obliged if you would kindly accompany us, Mr Mack. FitzPayne, you will apologize to my wife. You will apologize to Matron and to her lady assistant. You will apologize to the maids.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Mr Dove-White, no one is to leave this room until we have returned. Breakfast will naturally not be taken today.’ He turned to his wife and his voice lost the quiver it had developed when he lowered it to address her. ‘My dear, I think it better that you accompany us also.’

He led the way. Mrs Scrotum, who had a way of holding her arms stiffly elongated, with her hands clasped in front of her, marched next in line. Then came Mad Mack, fury enlivening every aspect of him. FitzPayne was grinning through his acne.

Bamboo Jones crossed to the high table and spoke to Dove-White, who nodded. Bamboo Jones said we might sit down but must not converse. The head prefect, Wiltshire Major, bustled up to him and then bustled up to Dove-White. Whispering broke out among the masters, Wiltshire Major spoke to the matron and the undermatron, both of whom immediately rose and left the dining hall, taking the maids with them. Bamboo Jones stationed himself by the door, alert for the headmaster’s return. From time to time he ordered us to be quiet and when eventually he heard the headmaster’s footfall he hurried to the serving table and struck it repeatedly with a soup-spoon, another dining-hall tradition.

Obediently, we stood up. Mrs Scrotum did not return, nor did Mad Mack. FitzPayne went straight to his place. The Scrotum said:

‘We are going to pray. You will please kneel.’

Deliverance was asked for. ‘O Lord, to cleanse us,’ is a phrase that was quoted, and afterwards de Courcy remarked that though boys and masters might be cleansed of the distastefulness FitzPayne had exposed us to, the same might possibly not be true of the women who had left the dining hall, nor indeed of Mad Mack himself.

‘To Thy honour and Thy glory again we dedicate our miserable lives.’

‘Amen,’ said Dove-White.

‘Amen,’ said we, and rose from our knees.

‘We have heard a lie this morning.’ The Scrotum paused, the scarlet flesh of his neck bulging above his clerical collar. ‘A lie,’ he repeated, ‘which this unfortunate boy saw fit to perpetuate. Stand out, FitzPayne. Approach High Table, please.’

For the second time FitzPayne left his place and did as he was bidden.

‘Turn around. Face your peers, FitzPayne.’

Obeying this instruction placed FitzPayne at an advantage. With his back to the Scrotum, he at once allowed his mouth to drop open, drawing back his lips in a squinting grimace. Heads were bent, laughter stifled. Bamboo Jones started forward, then changed his mind. Wiltshire Major glared threateningly at FitzPayne.

‘This boy,’ pronounced the Scrotum, ‘has been misled by evil gossip. This boy has apologized to Mr Mack for the distasteful nature of the lie he saw fit to repeat, knowing it must needs be a lie. Mr Mack and I have accepted that this boy did not himself invent the lie, which indicates that its source is among you still. Whomsoever is responsible I would wish to converse with before an hour has passed.’

His gown flapped as he strode from the dais which raised the high table above the other tables. He clutched a mortar-board to his chest and looked neither to the right nor the left. Hopeless Gibbon brought up the rear of the procession that passed from the dining hall.

‘Stay!’ shouted Wiltshire Major. He closed the door and stood with his back to it. He told us to sit down.

‘I want to see you, FitzPayne,’ he said, ‘immediately after this. As to what the headmaster has just requested, will whoever started the ridiculous tale about Mr Mack report to him
without delay.
I have to warn you that if there is no owning up the entire school will be punished.’

During this speech Fukes clattered the high-table breakfast dishes, gathering them on to a tray. Wiltshire Major, who liked making speeches, continued:

‘If ever again there is anything like a repetition of such a stupid and pointless rumour it will be a most serious matter, I can assure you.’

It was difficult to know what to do. Wiltshire Major meant what he said, and already there were those who must have guessed where the story had begun. ‘I’d say we’re stumped,’ Ring suggested. ‘I’d say it’s a cop all right.’

But de Courcy was more sanguine. ‘We didn’t do much when it comes down to it.’

‘We took money from the man,’ I reminded him, ‘and we got up in the middle of the night.’

‘We could say we saw a stranger prowling.’

We hurriedly discussed the matter with Dove-White, who advised confession. He approved of de Courcy’s suggestion that, on the way to or from the lavatory, he had glanced from a window and seen a suspicious figure in the moonlight. Out of a sense of responsibility, he had woken Ring and myself and a decision had been reached: concerned about the school’s valuables, we had decided to investigate.

‘I see,’ said the Scrotum.

‘After which, sir, we hastily dressed. We followed the man to the masters’ house, sir, thinking he might be going to break in.’

‘I had one of MacCarthy’s golf sticks, sir,’ Ring put in. ‘I picked it up when we passed through the locker-room. In the circumstances, I didn’t think he’d mind, sir.’

The headmaster’s study was large and gracious, as impressive as the drawing-room next door, which featured two water-colours by Turner. Both rooms, richly carpeted, were full of knick-knacks and occasional tables. I stood beside the chair over which one bent when receiving punishment. It was tapestry-covered, yellow and blue, the same chair that had been there in my father’s day. ‘You’ll get to know it,’ my father had said.

‘The man climbed four steps up the fire escape, sir, and then he unbuttoned his trousers—’