The Pupil (22 page)

Anthony tucked his bat under his arm and walked back over the grass to where Julia sat, smiling. Leo turned away. It was a quarter to five, teatime, and they were a hundred and eighty-five for eight. Not bad, so far.

At tea, Anthony was standing talking to Stephen Bishop in the pavilion when Leo came over.

‘Good innings, Stephen,’ said Leo. Stephen shook his head.

‘Too much weight. I can’t run the way I used to. No puff.’ He glanced over to where William was talking to someone from the other chambers. ‘There’s Preston. I’ve been trying to catch him all afternoon to find out what he
means by serving that Civil Evidence Act notice. Excuse me, won’t you?’ He bustled off with his teacup. Anthony and Leo were left standing together. They had not been alone since the evening of the May Ball. Anthony could think of nothing to say, and glanced at Leo, who was smiling at him, and burst out laughing. Leo laughed, too.

‘It is bloody absurd,’ he agreed. The sound of his cool Welsh voice lifted Anthony’s heart. He shook his head and began to say something, but Leo stopped him by laying a hand on his arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to start again in a minute.’ They walked out together into the sunshine. Julia glanced over at the two men as they emerged from the pavilion. She didn’t feel quite brave enough to join them, and sat down with Anita Brookner at the end of a row of chairs. She felt more than a little pleased when Piers threw his large frame into the chair next to hers, and began to buckle on his pads.

‘You fielded very well,’ she remarked. Piers laughed and straightened up.

‘Since when did you care anything about cricket?’ He folded his arms and watched the fielders take their places. Leo had placed Anthony at mid-on, and stood himself in the slips, near to where a nervous Edward stood as wicketkeeper. ‘You’re only here because of darling Anthony,’ he continued, shading his eyes with his hand. He did not look at Julia. ‘What keeps you two going, anyway? I thought he didn’t have any money?’

‘He has other – qualities,’ replied Julia, with a little smile.

He shifted a little closer to her so that he could murmur
into her ear, ‘Oh, don’t be so coy, Julia, darling. I think we can all guess what those qualities are. Time you gave someone else a try.’ His voice was cool and bored, but his smile never wavered. With his body so close to hers, Julia could smell a faint, and not unpleasant, tang of sweat. She looked up into his face.

‘By which you mean – you?’ Her voice was light and mocking.

Piers settled his body further down into the chair, so that his shoulder was level with hers. His long legs were stretched out under the empty chair in front of him. His voice was no more than a murmur, his eyes narrow with calculation.

‘You’re just dying to, aren’t you?’ he said with a caressing drawl, and at the same time slid his hand under her dress and along the inside of her thigh. With a small, swift movement, she pushed his hand away and crossed her legs.

‘Not here,’ she muttered. He picked this up as though it were a cue.

‘Where, then?’ he asked slowly, turning his eyes to hers. She glanced at him and said nothing, then looked back at the game. Piers laughed with lazy confidence and said softly, ‘You want to as much as I do, don’t you?’ He slid his tongue between his teeth, still looking at her. Still she said nothing, her gaze turned to where Anthony was fielding. She felt hot between her thighs.

Someone had been caught, and Piers pulled himself out of his chair and picked up his bat. Julia watched his tall, ambling figure as he walked out across the grass.

Anthony stood with a daisy in his mouth, watching Piers as he took guard. Leo was bowling, and the score stood at eighty-two for three.

‘Two,’ said Piers. Even on a cricket pitch, thought Anthony, he was loud. He noticed that Piers wasn’t wearing the usual cricket boots, but a softer, trainer-like shoe of the kind that professional cricketers wore. It was on a par with Piers talking loudly at teatime about the Eton-Harrow match. I hope you get hit on the toe, you great twat, thought Anthony, watching Leo run in to bowl. The ball struck Piers’ pad plumb in front of the stumps, and with elation Anthony looked expectantly at Sir Basil.

‘It hit my bat,’ said Piers quickly. There was a pause, and Sir Basil put his hands back into his pockets.

Piers blocked the next two balls. Anthony was now longing for him to be out. Leo prepared to bowl the last ball of the over, and Anthony watched him as he walked back to his mark, tossing the ball, the fingers of his other hand smoothing back stray locks of hair. Leo had placed Robert, who was considerably more sober now, at silly mid-on, some four yards away from Piers. Leo bowled and Piers pushed forward, the ball striking his bat and then his pad, then popping up over Robert’s head. Robert turned swiftly and dived backwards, scooping the ball in a cloud of dust from the dry pitch just as it came down. From where Sir Basil stood the dust made the view difficult, but he nonetheless raised a majestic finger. But instead of walking, Piers turned to the square-leg umpire, who happened to be his own head clerk.

‘Are you sure that carried?’ he asked loudly. The square-leg umpire scratched his chin.

‘I couldn’t see,’ he replied, indicating Jeremy. Piers glanced at Anthony, his hand on his hip. At short mid-on, he knew that Anthony must have had as good a view as anyone. But Anthony chose to say nothing, exchanging only the briefest of glances with Robert as Piers made his ungracious way back to the pavilion.

His labours over for the afternoon, Piers fetched himself a beer from the bar and took a large Pimm’s down to Julia. Neither said a word as he sat down beside her.

Robert was bowling now, and had found his length and pace. Four wickets fell. Michael bowled, and then David. One by one, the opposition team was bowled out, and by seven o’clock they were all out for a hundred and ten.

The players drifted from the pitch, broken clapping died upon the warm air, and people made their way into the pavilion.

Anthony was elated by the afternoon’s success. He stood talking over the game with David and William and a couple of men from the other chambers. After a while, he looked round for Julia. He’d probably better buy her a drink. He found her chatting to Edward out on the verandah.

‘Sorry, I got caught up in there. Drink?’

She smiled at him. ‘I’ve already had several more than I should, but I suppose another won’t hurt. G and T, please.’

‘Mine’s a pint!’ called Edward, as Anthony made his way back to the bar.

As he was coming out onto the verandah with the drinks, Piers stopped him in the doorway.

‘Good match,’ he said idly. ‘What about that catch, though? Can’t possibly have been good.’ He took a sip of his drink and looked lazily at Anthony. ‘What did you think? You had the best view.’

‘I really couldn’t say, you know,’ replied Anthony.

‘Well, that’s the trouble with letting clerks play, I suppose,’ said Piers, lifting his glass. Anthony paused for a second.

‘Piers,’ he said. Piers looked at him enquiringly. ‘As we say in East Dulwich, Piers,’ continued Anthony in a quiet, conversational tone, ‘why don’t you fuck off?’ He made his way out into the evening sunlight.

There was a light supper, and more drinking, and by the time the heat of day had softened into late evening, and the shadows stretched long upon the grass, Anthony felt tired and happy. He had spent half an hour talking with Leo and Michael and David, and was pleased simply to be able to look at and listen to Leo, to be smiled at by him, and occasionally to feel his arm brushing his.

Piers had spent the same half-hour talking quietly to Julia alone on the verandah. He had made sure that her glass was never empty. They stood close together in the rosy evening light, their voices never rising above a murmur. Eventually they moved off down the steps together, out of sight of the others, and strolled slowly into the shadows under the trees. Piers turned once to glance over his shoulder.

Back in the pavilion, Michael said, ‘Right, we’d better collect these glasses up and make a move.’

David glanced at his watch. ‘Good God, is that the time? I’ll have to be getting back. Here, I must find Roderick …’
He drifted off, and Michael began to pick up glasses and put them on the bar.

‘I’ll fetch the ones from outside,’ said Leo. Anthony followed him out and they made their way down the wooden steps together.

‘What a glorious evening,’ said Leo, pausing to gaze across the darkening line of far-off trees against a gathering haze of coral cloud. The sky above them was a deep, fading blue and the first faint stars were beginning to appear. After London, the air smelt full and sweet. Together they picked up the few glasses scattered amongst the chairs, stacking them in their arms. Anthony walked past the end of the rows of chairs towards the trees, to where he saw a glass glinting further off. He stooped to pick it up. As he straightened, he heard the murmur of voices, and then a faint moan. Not more than five yards away, he could make out the unmistakeable large figure of Piers, locked in a close embrace with a girl who was leaning with her back against a tree, the yellow skirt of her dress around her waist, the pale curve of her thigh gleaming in the blue shadows.

He was standing there when Leo came up beside him, saying, ‘I think that’s the lot …’ He stopped and followed Anthony’s gaze, then put his hand around Anthony’s arm and pulled him away. The lovers under the trees were oblivious. Leo and Anthony walked back together. Leo could see Anthony’s face was set and white; he could think of nothing to say to him.

When they got back to the pavilion, Anthony went without a word to the changing rooms and fetched his kit. Michael met him as he came out.

‘Ah, there you are. We’re just off. You and Julia want a lift back?’

‘It’s all right,’ said Leo to Michael with a smile. ‘I think Julia’s already left. Bit tired. Anthony’s taking a lift with me.’

They drove for some twenty minutes in complete silence. Anthony watched the dark shapes of summer trees and hedgerows slip by, the lights of other cars flash past. Leo put a tape into the cassette player. As the soothing, majestic sounds of a Mozart violin concerto filled the car, Anthony felt his mind drift loose on the current of music, like some lost thing about to be washed into the night. He closed his eyes and laid his head back. At last he spoke.

‘That was the third bloody time, you know,’ he said quietly.

‘What?’ asked Leo, turning the music down.

‘The third time,’ Anthony said again. ‘The first time was when I found him kissing her at a party, the second time was with you, and then – tonight.’ He stared ahead. Leo was about to say something about the time that he had kissed Julia, but decided against it. There was silence for a few moments.

‘Do you love her very much?’ asked Leo. The question was a fragile one; he almost wished he hadn’t asked it, afraid of the answer.

‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think I can, now,’ said Anthony, after a while. ‘I’ve never known anyone like her before. She was from quite another world.’ There was silence for a moment. Leo drove. ‘I did think she loved me, after a fashion. Which just goes to show.’ He laughed, sighed, and
leant his head back again. Then he glanced at one of the road signs that flashed past. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To my house.’ Leo glanced at him. ‘My own house. Not the place in London. Is that all right?’

Anthony stared ahead, then nodded. He was trying not to think of Julia being made love to under the trees, in the half-darkness, by Piers. ‘God,’ he said aloud, ‘I hate that bastard.’ He turned suddenly to Leo. ‘Did you see that first ball you bowled him? It never touched his bat.’

Leo smiled in the darkness. ‘I know. He cheats.’

There was silence once more, with the faint undercurrent of the music, as they drove for several miles. Then Leo heard Anthony sigh again, a slight, shuddering breath that seemed to have a sob caught in it. Quickly he pulled in to the left and brought the car to a halt. The handbrake creaked as he pulled it on. He turned to Anthony, who sat with his hand shading his eyes.

‘Look,’ said Leo gently, longing to take Anthony into his arms, to console him, ‘do you want me to take you back to London?’ Anthony said nothing for a moment, his hand still over his eyes. Then he took his hand away and looked across at Leo’s face. Leo did not think he had been crying.

‘No,’ said Anthony. He wanted to be held, to be soothed, to find some comfort to fill the void of loss and humiliation. Both men sat looking at one another. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ There was a pause. ‘Thank you,’ added Anthony. He shifted in his seat, the sound of his movements magnified in the enclosed stillness of the car. ‘At least I learnt one thing,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Not to trust women.’

Leo smiled back. ‘I don’t think they’re naturally monogamous, you know.’

‘No? I wouldn’t know.’

‘Not ones like Julia, at any rate. Made for love.’

‘That’s not love,’ said Anthony. ‘That’s just screwing around.’

‘I don’t know what love is,’ replied Leo, turning away to look out of the window. He let out a deep breath. ‘I really don’t know.’ He looked back at Anthony, and Anthony returned his gaze. Leo started the car, and they drove on through the night.

It was past two when they reached Leo’s house. Anthony got out and stretched his legs. The countryside around was magically still, the air only faintly chill. He gazed up at the black night, at the stars he never saw in London, filling his lungs with the pure night air. He felt adrift, sad, tired.

He heard the car door slam and the sound of Leo’s footsteps on the gravel, and turned to follow him into the house. Leo switched on the light in the hallway, and Anthony looked around. It was a low-beamed hallway, softly lit, leading into a large sitting room. Leo went ahead and switched on more lamps. It was utterly different, thought Anthony, from the flat in London. The dark floorboards were shiny and worn, with old patterned carpets scattered here and there. The furniture was haphazard and comfortable, large armchairs and high-backed sofas filled with cushions, a battered, polished table, a cushioned window seat, a low table between the sofas. The glow of the lamps was warm and comforting. In the cold grate lay the ashes of some long-dead log fire, and
on either side of the fireplace stood bookshelves, filled to the low ceiling with an incongruous array of books. The curtains were crimson, soft and faded. Leo did not pull them.