The Guardians (14 page)

Rob remembered the class in history of engineering and his query on exactly the same point. He gave the answer the master had given him: it had been of no possible benefit to mankind, fantastically wasteful of resources.

“What is of benefit to mankind?” Mike asked. “Three-day riding events? County cricket? Parties?
Or holovision and the Games? And what's wasteful? Is there anything more wasteful than restricting human enterprise?”

“People are happy as they are,” Rob insisted. “That's what matters.” He saw Mike glance at him and added defensively, “The great majority anyway. And in any case I don't see the Penfolds organizing a revolution. They can't even organize their own home.”

“That's Mrs. Penfold and Lilian. It's nothing to do with Roger.”

“So Roger and Dan are going to do it on their own, are they?”

“There are others who look at things the same way. A lot.”

There probably were a few, Rob thought. Half a dozen or a dozen, grousing over dinner tables, very likely because their digestions had been spoiled by bad cooking as the Penfolds' had been. Lots of talk with nothing coming of it but more talk. All the same . . . He remembered what Mrs. Gifford had said, about Roger's dubious reputation. It would do Mike no good to be associated with them. He began
to say something of the sort, treading as warily as he could.

Mike listened for a time, and then said, “Mother's been on to you, hasn't she?”

“What do you mean?” Rob said awkwardly.

“She had a few words with me,” Mike said, “after she read my last report. And I overheard a snatch here and there at Christmas while I was playing the piano and you were in the drawing room. There are some funny acoustics in that house.”

“I didn't . . .”

“Tell her anything?” He grinned. “Don't worry. I know you wouldn't. And don't worry about me, either. She fusses at times.”

There was nothing to worry about, really. This was just a craze of Mike's. People got them at times. Like the boy in the house who had spent the first half of term teaching himself to play the violin, and the second half whittling boats to launch in the stream that ran through the school grounds. The second enterprise had been as enthusiastic and pointless as the first, but less of a nuisance for everyone else.

“It's funny,” Mike said.

“What is?”

“I don't suppose I would have been interested in any of this if I hadn't run across you that day.”

Was that true, Rob wondered. It might be, in a way. But probably only because Mike had been bored and looking for something to get interested in. It was a pity it had to be something like this which could cause trouble. But if it were just a craze it would pass quickly enough. He went back to his satisfaction at having left the Penfolds. There was a long open stretch of hill ahead.

“Come on! Let's give them a gallop,” he said to Mike.

•  •  •

The Lent term seemed to pass even quicker than the Michaelmas term had done. Rob felt he had settled into school by now and got the measure of things. It was not exactly a case of roses all the way—he had one bad spell in midterm with two beatings in three days—but he had to admit he was enjoying life. The high spot came with the junior cross-country run in which, after holding third place for most of the
course, he managed a burst of speed which put him in front. His name, R. Perrott, would be added to the hundred others inscribed on the base of the big silver cup and in June, at Speech Day, he would be given the small silver replica to keep. He felt a twinge of pleasure when he thought of it.

End of term was one of a succession of cold wet days. The post coach, taking them home, flung up spray from puddles that had formed where the road surface was worn. It rained almost continuously for three days after that, and then the April sun dried and warmed the land. Spring budded and sparkled. The chestnuts were in delicate green leaf and soon would be in flower. Spelled chestnut for the tree, Rob reminded himself, but chesnut for the horse. One more thing which everyone in the County took for granted but which for him represented a conscious effort. But it was an effort that got easier all the time.

He rode with Mike into Oxford to buy presents for Cecily's birthday. From a distance they looked at the city, their horses reined in. Spires gleamed in the sunshine. Like Mike he would go there some day—to Christ Church which was where the Giffords had
always gone. The House, as it was called, five hundred years old, brooded over by Tom Tower, having a cathedral inside its very walls for a chapel.

“Looks good,” he said.

One did not enthuse about things that impressed one: it was not customary. Mike said, after a moment:

“Yes. Do you see over there?”

“Those fields?”

“There were factories there once. Making cars. Not electrocars. The old kind, with internal-combustion engines. It was one of the biggest in England. Perhaps the biggest.”

The city was a jewel, the green fields a setting for it.

“Don't tell me you'd like to see them back?” Rob said.

They still argued about the state of society, but less frequently. They recognized that they were on opposite sides and that argument got them nowhere. There was a pause before Mike replied.

“No, I don't.”

He moved forward on Captain and Rob on
Sonnet followed suit. They rode into the city, tethered their horses at an inn just off the High, and did their shopping. Mike found a silk shawl for Cecily, bright red with a crimson fringe. Rob bought her a pendant, a small opal on a thin silver chain. It cost more than he could really afford, but he knew she would like it. After that they window-shopped for a time. Everything in the shops here looked so much more solid, more real, than the flashy trinkets and gadgets of the Conurb. There was a lot of silver and polished leather. He looked longingly at a magnificent bow with beautifully feathered arrows in a silver-banded quiver.

A clock chimed and he pulled out the pocket watch which had been his Christmas present from the Giffords, to check the time.

“Do you think we ought to be getting back for luncheon?”

“Look,” Mike said, “you go on. I'll see you at the inn. I've remembered, there's a chap I've got to look up. About a horse.”

“I'll come with you, if you like.”

Mike shook his head. “No need. It won't take
more than five minutes. I'd rather you ordered for me—they're usually a bit slow at that place. I'll have the steak pudding.”

Rob had an impression there was more to it than that—that Mike did not want him with him. Well, that was his affair. He nodded, and walked away in the direction of the inn.

•  •  •

At the beginning of the holidays Mike and Rob had done some fly-fishing on the river running through the grounds of Gifford House. They caught quite a few trout, some of which they cooked and ate out of doors, picking the firm, slightly pink flesh off the bones with their fingers. Rob commented on the color and Mike told him they were called salmon trout though they had no connection with the salmon family. Their flesh was pink because they fed largely on a tiny pink shrimp.

He had suggested they should go salmon fishing some time. In the last twenty years these had been coming up to the higher reaches of the Thames, and the Giffords had friends with a stretch of the river who had given the family a permanent invitation to
fish it. They were the Beechings whom Rob had met a couple of times already. He was a huge, corpulent man, she a small, thin woman. They had no children of their own but liked the company of young people.

After their visit to Oxford, Mike made a definite arrangement for the pair of them to ride over the following Friday. Then, on the Thursday, he himself backed out. It was the business of the horse again. His father had given him permission to look for another hunter and this coper in Oxford claimed he had the chance of a very good one. The opportunity of seeing it had come up earlier than he had expected, and he would have to take it. The man claimed other parties were interested.

“That's all right,” Rob said. “We can put the salmon fishing off. We've time enough before we go back.”

“I'd rather you didn't. The Beechings are expecting us for luncheon. I thought you could make apologies for me. They'll be very disappointed if we both drop out.”

“If you think so,” Rob said. “I hope you get the horse.”

“So do I. Harry will have to look at it as well, of course.”

“Are you taking him with you?”

“No.”

“Wouldn't it be more sensible?”

“I don't think so.” He sounded slightly irritated. “Mr. Lavernham would have to examine him as well before we bought him.” Mr. Lavernham was the vet. “I want to see him myself in the first place.”

It seemed a cumbersome way of doing things, but presumably Mike knew what he was about.

“Fair enough. You'd better give me directions for getting to the Beechings'. Let's go and look at a map.”

It was some distance from Gifford House, on the far side of a low ridge of hills. The sun was well up by the time Rob came to the river. He could see the Beechings' house across the meadows, recognizable by a cone-topped tower nearby which Mike told him had been built by some eccentric ancestor: there were lots of follies of this kind scattered about the County. The arrangement had been to fish through the morning and only after that call on the Beechings. He tethered Sonnet where she could crop
comfortably and took up his position on the river bank.

For some time he had no luck. The salmon were there—he saw their long sinuous bodies, scales gleaming, rise to take flies—but they ignored his lure. It was a couple of hours before he got a bite. The fish fought hard and eventually broke loose. There was another long and discouraging blank period. Then, inside half an hour, he landed three, two of four or five pounds, the third an eight-pounder at least. The day was hot by now. He wiped sweat from his face and hands and decided it was time to call a halt. He was to be at the house before one, and it was after twelve.

He rode across the meadows in a glow of satisfaction. He would have something to show Mike when he got back. He was thinking about this when he saw a troop of horsemen galloping along the road, a field away. It was a sight which no longer caused apprehension, but he was curious. The patrols were made up of young men who liked the exercise and display, and the rivalry between troops which was chiefly shown in point-to-point races and riding events. They went out in the morning
and evening, not in the middle of the day. And this was too big—much too big. Instead of half a dozen there was a score of riders. More, even. He watched them disappear along the road to Oxford and turned Sonnet toward the house.

He found confusion there, with servants dashing about in different directions. He called to one and got an unintelligible reply. He dismounted and was looking for a groom to take his horse when he saw Mrs. Beeching coming toward him from the house. She looked very white. Rob made a small bow of greeting, and asked, “Is there something wrong? Can I help?”

“Have you not heard the news?”

He shook his head. “I've been on the river.”

“A terrible thing.” Her voice trembled. “Terrible. Who would believe it could happen?”

“What's happened, ma'am?” he said urgently.

“A rebellion. But why? How? It's unbelievable. They've taken Oxford. And Bristol . . .”

Oxford, he thought. Mike. The man with the horse had been his excuse to get away. He must be in it. But it was all incredible. Violence was something that happened in China, or in the mindless drunken
riots of the Conurbs. It could not happen here, in the peace and security of the County. And Bristol was the County's capital, headquarters of the government.

“They can't have taken Bristol. How could they?”

“They used guns.”

There was a world of shock and horror in her voice. Guns had been controlled out of existence for so long that the controls themselves had been forgotten. They were used in the war, half a world away, but not here in England. Not even in the Conurbs, where knives and blackjacks were the limit of the criminal's armory. It was almost impossible to accept, yet he knew what she said must be true. Nothing else could explain the capture of the cities. Roger Penfold, he thought, and others like him . . . they must have smuggled guns back from the East somehow.

“I saw a troop of horsemen on the road,” he said.

“The vigilantes are forming,” Mrs. Beeching said. “But it may be too late. My husband has gone with them. He's too old and . . . not strong enough. But he would go.”

Another time the thought of fat old Mr. Beeching riding into battle would have been laughable, but
Rob did not feel like laughing. “I must get back.”

“Have something to eat first.”

Rob shook his head. “I'd better go.”

•  •  •

Gifford House had a deserted look. The stables were empty except for a horse that had gone lame a few days before. There was no groom to take Sonnet so Rob had to see to her himself. He was rubbing her down when he heard a sound and turned to see Mrs. Gifford.

“Have they all . . . ?” he asked.

“Gone with the vigilantes. Your uncle, too.”

“Do you know where they're gathering, Aunt Margaret? I'll go after them.”

“No. You're too young.”

“I can use a sword. I got a good report for swordplay and fencing. I want to do something.”

“They don't need the help of boys,” she said. “At least, our side does not. Where is Mike, Rob?”

“I don't know. He said . . .”

“I want the truth from you.” There was cold anger in her voice. “I think I'm entitled to that. He's mixed up in this, isn't he?”

“I don't know.” Her look cut him like a knife. “I think so.”