Wilberforce (63 page)

—Hello, she said.

—Hello.

She giggled and looked curiously at them.

—You're a brick to meet me, Morgan began.

—Shall we go in? she asked.

Morgan smiled. She laughed again. Dr. Sebastian adjusted his grip on Morgan's elbow. He wasn't leaving, St. Stephen's or this man's grasp. He was staying and being punished. This was the beginning.

—I say, this is awkward, but I'm afraid I can't stay, as much as I'd like to.

Her face fell.

—I've made a mess of things. It's rotten of me. I'm most awfully sorry.

She forced a smile:

—It doesn't matter.

—It does. You're spectacular, and I mean it when I say I would rather be meeting you right now than anything else. I can only hope you'll be able to forgive me.

She didn't smile, but she didn't frown, either.

*   *   *

Outside in the street, Dr. Sebastian released him:

—Well stuck. Still breathing in and out?

—Unfortunately, sir.

—Good.

Dr. Sebastian hailed a taxi.

—Prepare yourself for the next dose.

They got in the cab, and Dr. Sebastian gave the address of Morgan's father's house.

*   *   *

His father received him with a combination of wariness and fear Morgan had never before seen, as if Morgan were an ogre and his father captive to it. His sisters were coming to tea. Emily and Captain Cahill, it emerged, were leaving for Spain in the morning.

—On holiday? Where?

—Barcelona, to live.

Morgan spluttered. He'd written Emily two letters from the Bishop's and received one in reply, but no mention of Spain. It was one thing to be hoicked around London by his future Headmaster, but for his own sister to leave England without telling him? What else were they keeping from him?

—Won't you stay? his father was asking Dr. Sebastian.

—I couldn't possibly intrude on a family occasion, but I'm afraid I must take a few moments of your time before I disappear.

His father's shoulders sank; he gave Morgan a look that froze his blood.

—You'd better come through, his father said.

*   *   *

The man overreacted, of course. Morgan tried to explain: he'd been wrong to arrange a rendezvous without asking permission, but she was a perfectly decent girl, and they were only meeting in a restaurant. His father didn't see it that way. He most especially did not see it that way given the telephone call he'd received from the Bishop a short while ago.

His heart was doing the kinetic things it had taken to doing lately.

—Oh, yes? Dr. Sebastian asked. What did he say?

—I cannot—will not contaminate this home with the details, but—

His father turned in Morgan's direction but did not look him in the eye.

—I think you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.

Morgan forced his throat to swallow.

—Not really, sir.

He reeled under the blow, his father's hand to the side of his head.

—How dare you toy with me! And how dare you take liberties with the Bishop's staff?

Where was the pit to swallow him now?

Dr. Sebastian turned:

—Get out.

Morgan fled to the corridor.

He thought he might be sick. He could hear nothing through his father's door. He sank to the bottom of the front-hall stairs and slammed his head into his hands.

*   *   *

He could feel him, a few steps above.

—Bugger off, Morgan said, not lifting his head from his arms.

He heard him slipping down one step at a time, as Morgan used to after he'd been sent to bed. Morgan did not have the strength to address the boy or even to actively ignore him. He was sitting beside Morgan now, wearing the short, gray trousers and knee socks of Morgan's prep school. The hall clock ticked over. The boy rustled in a pocket for something—a yellow ball the size of a marble. Meticulously, he picked the lint off and handed the ball to Morgan.

Softly sweet, a butterscotch like those his mother used to put in their stockings back when Christmas was still good. A warm drop of water fell on Morgan's wrist. The boy kicked him, but not hard. Morgan wiped his face with a sleeve:

—Thanks.

*   *   *

—Come, Dr. Sebastian said, emerging from the study.

Morgan staggered to his feet. He was to go with Dr. Sebastian. He was not staying to tea. He was not returning to his father's after all. His father had asked Dr. Sebastian to convey his farewell.

—Farewell? Morgan choked.

—He isn't disowning you. Pull yourself together.

Air returned to his lungs.

—What about Emily? I've got to say goodbye.

—You can write her a letter.

 

55

Dr. Sebastian put him on the train and asked the conductor, in Morgan's presence and accompanied by a tip, to ensure he stayed entirely out of trouble.

—Have you got anything to read? Dr. Sebastian asked. No, of course you haven't.

Morgan hoped he wasn't going to foist another appalling novel on him.

—In that case, Dr. Sebastian said, you can sit there and think.

Even more appalling.

—And don't forget what I said, Wilberforce. There's no getting round this, not today, not tomorrow. You're going to learn how to suffer one way or another. There's only one path out of this.

—What's that? a small voice asked.

—Through the fire.

*   *   *

The boy sat beside him all the way home. The Bishop's house wasn't home, of course, but his mind kept using the word. The boy's feet did not touch the ground. They sat together in silence as the countryside slipped away and grew orange, pink, gray, night.

Mr. Fairclough met him in the motorcar. Morgan was glad for the darkness so Mr. Fairclough might not see his face. The car crunched up the drive, and his heart lurched at the sight of a light in the Bishop's study.

—Old boy's sat up, Mr. Fairclough murmured.

Facing the guillotine couldn't actually be worse.

—You must have given him quite a fright.

Morgan's head swirled. He was used to things not making sense, but now they had begun to refuse sense in an entirely more perverse way.

*   *   *

The Bishop met them in the hallway. Mr. Fairclough abandoned Morgan and drove away in his motorcar. Morgan steeled himself to be ordered to the study, but the man lit into him as soon as the front door closed.

—How dare you? How
dare
you?

Morgan wanted to ask how the Bishop had found out about William, but he couldn't summon the nerve.

—Cat got your tongue?

—I … I didn't think it through.

—I suppose you didn't think through drinking six inches of my whiskey, either.

Morgan hung his head.

—And what about that outrageous stunt of yours at the museum?

—I wasn't thinking at all, sir.

—You aren't getting off that easily. When, I'd like to know, did Casanova reappear?

Was that antonomasia?

—I saw no sign of him last night, the Bishop said, although it's possible you were a bit off form. Were you?

Morgan shrugged.

—What happened at that prize-giving?

—Nothing, sir.

—You had to say goodbye to those boys, didn't you?

—So what?

—I understand they were very fond of you.

—I thought that was supposed to be a good thing.

—It's a very good thing, until you have to leave them.

—I'm not sentimental, sir.

—I expect one or two of them were.

Morgan shrugged again, wishing they could get back to William or the whiskey.

—So you abandoned those boys—

—It wasn't my fault!

—No one said it was—and returned here where … of course. I've been quite slow on the uptake.

Morgan looked daggers.

—You returned here and were upended by the news that you were to travel home the next morning.

—It was a logical time to leave, Morgan said. The term was over. I'd stayed past long enough.

The Bishop uncrossed his arms in astonishment.

—Surely you didn't think I was sending you away?

—You said Mrs. Hallows would sort out my things.

—Oh, for mercy's sake, the Bishop said to the ceiling.

—In any case, it's a good thing you didn't have time to send them on, since I'm back on your hands until my father has got over his monumental loathing for me.

—You thought … I can see what you must have thought. Oh, Morgan.

His eyes pricked. He clenched his fists:

—I don't see what was so wrong with William anyway. He's my age. I asked him. It was just two chaps mucking about.

He tossed his hat onto the table and made for the cloakroom. The Bishop blocked his way:

—We aren't finished.

—You can shout all you like! Morgan cried. You can quote Bible things at me—

He tried to push past, but the Bishop seized his wrist.

—but you can't—

Sharp, crushing—Morgan gasped in pain. The Bishop released him and exhaled with deliberate slowness.

—I've made a mistake, the Bishop said. I've had you in my household three weeks. I've treated you as I treat my own children, but I haven't treated you as my child.

Waves crashing towards the frightened breath in his lungs.

—That will change as of now.

Morgan, panicked, looked for the nearest means of egress.

—Go upstairs, wash your face, clean your teeth, change into your pajamas, and wait for me in your room.

Morgan quaked.

—Go.

*   *   *

The boy was there already. He, at least, wasn't afraid of the little room. He made no comment, but when Morgan returned from the bathroom, he was standing on Morgan's bed, shooting pebbles at the wastepaper basket with the aid of a catapult.

—Don't fight, he said. Hurts more if you fight.

Morgan's chest seized up. He sat down. He felt naked.

*   *   *

The Bishop drew the straight-backed chair to face him. Morgan drew his feet onto the bed.

—Nothing you can say will make me think badly of it, Morgan told him. It was decent. He's decent.

—It's called gross indecency, I think you'll find, and it carries a prison term.

—I thought you were broad-minded.

—Morgan Wilberforce!

The Bishop's face was pale, his voice rough enough to scrape:

—Whether or not I am
broad-minded
, as you call it, has no bearing on the perilousness of your actions yesterday evening.

Morgan set his jaw.

—You are both exceedingly lucky not to be in custody of the police.

His skin, as if swarmed by wasps.

—I don't see how—

—Under a
footbridge
, Morgan?

The whole swarm heavy upon him.

—I would be letting you down, the Bishop said, if I failed to censure your behaving this way. It is exceedingly dangerous.

—I'm not afraid.

—Of course not! the Bishop retorted. But did you ever bother to consider William? What did you imagine would become of a groundsman with little education, few skills, and a family dependent on him for support if he were discovered to have
mucked about
, as you put it, with a member of a bishop's household?

—He …

Wasps in his breath.

—You didn't …

The Bishop's stare, a stream of stings.

—But it wasn't William's fault. He—you can't sack him.

—I've no
choice
but to sack him!

Venom, blood.

—As for fornication, the Bishop continued, you know my views.

Wasps in eyes.

—The abuse of that gift has costs, Morgan, and refusing to believe it will not make the injuries disappear.

Morgan consulted the ceiling.

—But beyond that, beyond your recklessness with regard to the law and your selfishness with regard to William—

Morgan cast his gaze to the floor.

—it's plain you've never given a thought to how your actions affect
me
.

—If you don't like losing your gardener, don't sack him, Morgan muttered.

—Watch your tone. You aren't too old for a slippering, young man.

Morgan had never felt more appalled in his life. He drew his knees to his chest. The Bishop lowered his voice:

—I am a bishop with the care and oversee of a large diocese. I and those I employ, from archdeacons to vergers to gardeners, all must remain beyond reproach. Otherwise I will have failed the flock I've sworn to serve.

The Bishop's voice continued uneven, salt upon sting:

—How do you imagine it felt having to speak to William of this? Having to dismiss without reference a young man I've known, whose family I've known …

—Please, sir, it's all my fault!

—Your fault is yours, his faults are his, and mine are my own. We shall all have to answer.

Nothing was too severe for him now. He wished the Bishop had a rack to strap him to, until he changed into a better person.

*   *   *

The Bishop made him kneel and say his prayers.

—I don't care if you consider yourself a Mohammedan, the Bishop said in answer to his expression. No child of mine is going to bed without saying his prayers.

Prayers included not only the Our Father, but also the confession and various intercessions offered by the Bishop. The sting continued, enduring and unendurable. Afterwards, the Bishop waited while he got into bed.

—I am persuaded, he said, that neither death, nor life, nor things present, nor things to come, shall be able to separate us.

With that, the man put out the lamp and left him in darkness.

*   *   *

He was barreling across the pitch, fifty yards no-man's-land, Spaulding in sights, plug in mains—but the ground was falling away and they had him, bound and dragged. Plains, passes, hot, cold, heights, depths: citadel. They stashed him in the moat, cold water to his chest, rising oily—throat, chin, ears. They laughed and shouted words he didn't know, until arrived a young Captain of the Guard, sharp of suit, glint of sword. He lit a cigarette and put it between Morgan's lips.