Wilberforce (38 page)

—
A bumping pitch and a blinding
—

—Shut up!

—
His Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
—

The ball was coming at him—

—
Play up
—

Beside him a different voice:

—Look.

Whispered but audible:

—Right!

The ball was swinging right. He whacked for all he was worth.

 

27

He never wanted to bowl another cricket ball again. His shoulder was throbbing in a way that it shouldn't. Thankfully, SCR duties spared him fraternizing with the Old Boys after the match. A shower (cruelly short), ten minutes with cold compress, then he bundled himself into warmer things and repaired to the SCR. Something was afoot, but amidst buzzing about the match, John couldn't discern what it was. Perhaps it was simply the undercurrent of gossip, which grew into rough surf whenever visitors descended. The Eagle and Clem congratulated him, REN offered condolences for losing, and Hazlehurst uttered some unsober witticism.

The last and only difficulty of the day lay ahead in having to bid farewell to the intruder. It was possible the intruder had departed already, but John doubted he would get off that easily. And indeed, there was the person across the quad. John spoke firmly to himself: This would pass. The person would presently depart. If forced to shake the person's hand, he could allow his hand to be shaken. The person could say what he wished, but John need not respond. He need not, strictly, be present. His body was required, but not his essential self. That could adjourn into the evening sky, which the wind had scraped bare of clouds, making space for the sun to beat down.

Old Boys were shaking his hand. Bradley was nodding in lieu of handshake, one mercy amidst it all. Boys were introducing him to their parents. He relied on his standard line:
A great pleasure to meet you, sir (or madam). It's plain where (insert boy's name) gets it from.
Only rarely was he asked to clarify what he meant by
it
. In the hubbub of the quad, he held his bowling wrist in the other hand to take the pressure off his shoulder, which ached, keenly.

Thank the Lord for trains, which departed at firm and infrequent times, enforcing departures and curtailing nostalgia. Presently the quad thinned. The few who'd come in motorcars drifted out to the parking area, gunned their engines, and roared into the bright evening.

All in all a satisfactory day. He hadn't had to touch the person again after all. Burton couldn't accuse him of mucking up the cricket. There had been no disasters that John knew of, the rain had held off, attendance had been strong. Everyone would have noticed the school's improvement under Burton, and presumably they could look forward shortly to his installation as Headmaster proper. John reminded himself that he and Burton were antagonists and that his rule-by-excessive-games was time-consuming and pedagogically suspect. Still, the Academy could not continue in its pro tem state.

The Eagle joined him beneath the arches:

—Come by if you need a place to change.

John asked his colleague what he meant.

—You
have
had a day. Supper? With the Board after the Ramble? Don't look at me like a half-wit. You saw the notice in the SCR.

—I did not.

—Don't tell me you've nothing to wear?

John didn't think his present attire was anything to be ashamed of.

—Don't be absurd, the Eagle said. You'll have to pop home. I'll cover for you.

John cursed everyone he could think of, Burton first and foremost, and went to collect his bicycle.

*   *   *

Everyone's attention was suddenly upon him, which posed a threat to his otherwise flawless plans. He'd taken rugs to the barn the day before. He'd double-triple confirmed with Polly details of the rendezvous. Nathan would tell everyone on the Ramble that Morgan was back at the Academy, and Laurie would assure everyone who stayed behind that Morgan was on the Ramble. What he hadn't planned for was throngs of people wanting his company.

The other problem, besides losing his guinea, was Nathan and Laurie, whom Morgan found in fierce conversation as tea was beginning. They paused for grace, but each looked to be preparing his next salvo.

—Amen.

—It was none of your business! Nathan hissed.

—It jolly well is my business when people mess my friends about. He's run amok with it all term, but this was just criminal.

—
What
happened? Morgan injected.

They both told him to shut up and nose out.

—How you would feel if I went to your grandmother and peached on you?

—First, Laurie said, I didn't peach. Second, there's nothing to tell her.

—Sure about that, Anton O'Masia?

Laurie flushed:

—You don't know what you're talking about.

—I think I do, Nathan said. And that's how it felt when m'pater took on Alex, only six hundred times worse.

—You two can either tell me what this is about, Morgan interrupted, or take your bollixing somewhere else.

Laurie turned to him with awful stillness:

—Will you keep your ruddy great boots out of this, for once?

—Who made you prefect? Nathan added. Or is that part and parcel of playing for the XI?

Morgan reminded himself that he needed their help. He addressed his bread and butter. Nathan addressed Laurie:

—After you buttonholed him, he went to Hazlehurst and asked if he could have a room to speak to us in private.

—Crikey.

—Twiggy gave his actual study, so there we were, stood on the carpet, except it was Pater. He had Mater wait outside, then he … well, I can't bear to think how he was.

Laurie's ears turned red.

—Sorry, JP.

—It's a bit late now, Nathan said.

—I mean sorry you had to take that. I'm not sorry I told him.

—He took every penny off Alex.

—But that's brilliant! Laurie said.

—And, you bastard, he stopped my pocket money as well.

—Why? Morgan exclaimed.

—Because, Nathan replied through gritted teeth, if we can't manage our pocket money like gentlemen and brothers, then we can go without.

—Harsh, Laurie said.

—Stopped it how long?

—Rest of term, first month of the hols.

Morgan gave a low whistle.

—It's shrewd, though, Laurie remarked. If you're skint, beastly Alex can't blackmail you.

Nathan looked as though he was exercising every ounce of self-control not to set upon Laurie with fists.

—So, Laurie summarized, all said a positive outcome.

—That was the least of it! Nathan cried.

—What's worse than losing all your money?

—Having him
talk
to you that way. Alex blubbed. I almost blubbed.

Morgan found it difficult to imagine Alex weeping genuinely. More likely, he'd treated his father to one of his performances.

—That's
it
? Laurie said. You're exercised because your pater took away your pocket money, stopped your brother blackmailing you, and
told you off?
Take a pull, JP!

—No, you take a pull, you ignorant vigilante. Do you have any idea why I put up with this nonsense from Alex all term?

Laurie glanced to Morgan for support.

—Not, you rag, because I'm a coward. I gave him my money because it stopped him doing worse. And now that you've so valiantly put an end to that, he's going to make my life a living hell.

—It's a point, Morgan said.

—But that's
my
point, Laurie persisted. Your brother, your
little
brother, stands over you like the worst kind of bully. It isn't right.

Nathan sighed:

—I don't see what's suddenly made you a moralist.

—Listen, JP, breaking rules is all very well when it doesn't hurt anyone. But when someone blackmails my friend all term, and then decides to sabotage my other friend's match just to win a bet, and then when that someone puts the screws to my friend and to me to recoup his losses—well, there's a limit to everything and that was it.

—Sabotage? Morgan said. How? Does Andrewes know?

—No, Nathan snapped, and he isn't going to.

—But—

—Alex tampered with one of the bats. Obviously.

Laurie lowered his voice:

—Bats don't break from fast balls, even Grievesy's.

—But … how can you…?

—Alex admitted it, little beast. Best villains always do. Can't resist boasting.

—But …

—Best not to dwell, Laurie counseled. As it happened, you didn't let the ball through, and thanks to you, the XI won. And since Alex had put—what was it, JP? A guinea?

—Two pounds.

—on the Old Boys, he was incandescent at the outcome.

—But how did he tamper with the bats? Morgan demanded.

—He did, that's all, and then he put the screws to us for the loss. He'd have squeezed you, too, if someone hadn't stopped him.

Nathan was holding his head in his hands as if it ached. They stopped talking and finished eating. Morgan, with no inch of nerve left for Alex, was slipping into the jittery state that always preceded a visit with Polly. Then glasses were clinking and REN was making announcements: The Ramble would depart in ten minutes from the front gates. Any boys opting to stay behind would report to Radcliffe and Kilby. In a slight change of program, REN and Lockett-Egan would conduct the Ramble. Their illustrious Headmaster would bid them good-night later.

—Concentrate on Polly, Laurie whispered. Me and JP will sort out the rest.

*   *   *

The Eagle had promised to cover for him, and since his shoulder was killing him, John went into the Keys to beg some ice and a steak and kidney pie. He'd had to skip tea to ride home and change his clothes, and on achieving Fridaythorpe, he'd realized that he would not survive the evening accident-free unless he ate something substantial. The pie would delay his return, but he'd get back before the Ramble; hopefully no one would miss him.

John scarcely dared to review the day. In the positive column: cricket. The match had come off without tragedy or embarrassment, and as a bonus, his protégé had performed better than expected. John had bowled harder against Wilberforce than against any of the others, and the boy had even survived a broken bat, a phenomenon John had never witnessed, without losing his wicket. John had enjoyed bowling to him. If only there were more such bombastic contests in school life.

He didn't want to dwell on the minus column, but the bald truth was that it required dwelling or he'd never get any peace. Perhaps he was overstating the matter. Nothing calamitous had happened. Nothing even compromising had occurred. The only twist in the day had been the unexpected (and outrageous!) encounter with a person he had known
many
years in the past, before the War, before he was the person he was now. The person had made it plain that they knew one another, but (plus column) the person had said nothing publically about the nature of their acquaintance. He had to stop fretting. Scores of people encountered schoolmates in odd contexts. Marlborough was not a small school, and he had to expect to meet Old Marlburians from time to time. He had known OMs at Cambridge and in the War. The current encounter was no different. The person had leveled no accusations at John and had seemed not to hold a grudge at all. In all likelihood—and this was exactly why it was sometimes productive to dwell on the unpalatable—the person had shellacked his memory with a coat of nostalgia. That was the only explanation for his light and essentially amiable demeanor. Conclusion: nothing compromising had been communicated because the person had nothing unpleasant to convey. The jarring encounter was over and need occupy no more of his mind, heart, or digestion. The pie was coming to him now. He removed the ice from his shoulder, put on his jacket, and took up his fork.

*   *   *

Finally, the Ramble departed and so could he. Morgan checked his appearance in the washroom. Hair slick; face, ears, and fingernails clean; teeth brushed; clothing neat. He made his way to the tunnel and plunged into the woods. His body felt exhausted, suddenly, as if he had walked twenty miles with a heavy rucksack.

—Snap out of it, Droit commanded. I'm not having you drop off just when you need to perk up.

Droit was dressed as for a party. He fell into pace beside Morgan and reminded him that the most important hour of the day was about to unfold. Strike that. The most important hour of his
life
. At last, Morgan was going to take his place amongst men and penetrate that much-desired country.
L'amour complet
. Polly might even swoon.

Morgan didn't think he would like Polly losing consciousness. How would he know she was not suffering some injury at his hands, or his … et cetera? Droit glanced severely at him and asked if Morgan was quite sure what it was he was about to achieve. Morgan was more than certain. But was he, Droit pursued, quite clear how he was to achieve it, anatomically? Morgan replied that he most certainly was clear. It was all rather like mucking about with boys, except that you put your cock in that place between her thighs that his fingers had already probed with her guidance. There was no need to be vulgar, Droit retorted, and there was no reason to get touchy. Droit had only Morgan's interests at heart, and to be perfectly honest, girls' bits were a good deal more intricate than boys', and just because she had taken his finger once didn't mean it would be so easy to find again.

Morgan informed Droit that he did not wish to continue the conversation. Polly was more than willing, and they had a good deal of time, privacy, and comfort. Things would take their course naturally, else how did the human race perpetuate itself?

—Certainly not by the bumblings of schoolboys, Droit replied.