Youth Without God (5 page)

“I’m W’s father,” he said. “You must help me, sir, something awful’s happened. My boy’s dying.”

“What!”

“He caught a terrible cold at the Stadium last week, and the doctor says only a miracle could save him now. But miracles don’t happen. His mother doesn’t know the worst. I couldn’t find it in me to tell her. My son’s only conscious from time to time, sir, then he’s off again. Delirious. But when he’s conscious he’s always asking to see somebody—”

“Not me?”

“No, not you, sir. It’s the goalkeeper he wants to see—the
man who played such a fine game last Sunday, he says. He’s my son’s hero. And I thought you might know where we could get hold of this goalie, we might ask him to come—”

“I know where he lives,” I answered. “I’ll see him. You go home. I’ll bring him along.”

W’s father left me.

I picked up my coat and went out.

The goalkeeper lived quite close. I knew the sports-goods shop kept by his sister.

It was a Sunday and the shop was shut, but the man had a flat above it.

I found him at breakfast, in a room glittering with trophies. He was ready to come straight away. He left his breakfast and ran down the stairs ahead of me. He called a taxi. He wouldn’t let me pay.

W’s father met us at the door. He seemed to have grown even smaller.

“He’s not conscious,” he murmured. “The doctor’s there. But come in, sir. Thank you—thank you for coming.”

The room was half dark. A bed stood in the corner. There lay W. His face was flushed deeply, and it struck me that he was the smallest fellow in my class. His mother too was a tiny woman.

The big goalie stood by, a little embarrassed. So here lay one of his most ardent admirers. One of the thousands who had cheered him, who knew the story of his life, who asked him for autographs, who loved to take their place waiting behind his goal, to be dispersed by the officials. He sat down quietly near the bed and looked down at the child.

His mother bent over him.

“Henry!” she said. “Henry! The goalie’s here!”

His eyes opened and blinked at his hero.

“Fine!” He smiled.

“You wanted to see me, didn’t you?” the other said. “Well, here I am.”

“When are you playing England?”

“That’s a secret of the gods. There’s a split in the league among the powers that be. We’re having trouble over the date. I think it’s likelier we’ll be playing Scotland.”

“You’ll walk over them!”

“Oho! The Scots can shoot as quick as lightning, and from any point.”

“Tell me about them.”

And the goalie told some of his stories. He told of famous victories and unmerited defeats, of hostile referees and corrupted linesmen. He got up, took two chairs to make a goal and showed W how he had made two successive saves. He pointed to a scar on his forehead that he’d got in a crazy game in Lisbon. He spoke of foreign lands where he had watched over his goal as closely as if the posts had been made of gold; of Africa, where the Bedouins bring their weapons into the grandstand, and of the lovely little island of Malta, where the ground is made of stone—

While the goalie was talking, little W fell asleep. With the happiest of smiles, quiet, contented …

The funeral took place the next Wednesday, at half-past two in the afternoon. The March sun was shining. Easter wasn’t far off.

We stood there, around the open grave. The coffin was lowered.

The Head was present, with nearly all the staff. Only the physics master was missing; he’s a queer fellow.

The priest read the funeral service. W’s parents and
some relatives of theirs stood motionless. Opposite us, in a half circle, stood W’s contemporaries—the whole class. Twenty-five.

The flowers lay near the grave. One beautiful wreath bore, on a greenish card, the words “From your Goalkeeper.”

And while the priest spoke of flowers that bloom and die, my eyes fell on N.

He stood behind L, H, and F.

I watched him. No expression betrayed itself in his face. He caught my eye.

He’s your bitterest enemy, I felt with a sudden conviction. To him, you’re a criminal. Beware of him when he’s older. Or he’ll destroy everything, even to the ruins of the memory of you. He’s wishing now that you lay down there; and he’d destroy your very grave, and none should know that you had lived. But don’t show that you’re aware of his thoughts. Keep your own ideals to yourself. Others will come after N. Other generations. Don’t think, friend N, that you can outlive what I hold holy, though you may outlive me.

And even in the midst of my thoughts, I felt that some one else was watching me. T.

He was smiling—very quietly, with a supercilious scorn. Had he guessed my thoughts? Was that the reason for that strange, fixed smile?

Two bright, round eyes, watching me. Gazing at me. Unblinking.

A fish?

SOME THREE YEARS AGO, THE AUTHORITIES issued an order which made changes in our Easter holidays. All schools were to go to camp for some part of them. “Camp” meant a kind of premilitary service. Our scholars must spend ten days in the open air—surrounded by the “freedom of nature”: they must live in tents like soldiers, under the eye of their form-masters. Sergeants from the reserve would direct the training. Marching and exercises were the order of the day, and for those above fourteen, rifle practice. The boys were naturally enthusiastic: nor were we teachers sorry, for we weren’t too old to like playing Indians.

That Easter Sunday, the inhabitants of a town, a good way off, saw a huge charabanc coming their way. The driver was blowing his horn as if he were driving a fire-engine. Geese and hens fluttered out of our way, dogs howled and the excitement spread to every one.

“Here they come. The boys! The cadets!”

At eight that morning we had left the high school and now it was half-past two as we drew up at the town hall.

The mayor greeted us, the police-inspector saluted. The head master of the town’s school was there, of course, and the priest very soon appeared, a little late. A friendly looking fellow with a round face.

The mayor showed me his map of the district and explained where our camp-site lay. A good hour’s journey if you didn’t want to race.

“The sergeant-major’s there already,” announced the inspector. “And two men went on ahead early in an Army lorry, to lay out the camp.”

While the boys got out and gathered their belongings together, I had another look at the map. The little town lay two thousand feet above sea-level: already we were in the neighbourhood of the great mountains which rose to six thousand feet or so; and beyond them stood others, dark and cold, capped with eternal snow.

“What’s this?” I asked the mayor, pointing to a group of buildings which the map showed on the western outskirts of the town.

“That’s our factory,” he answered. “The greatest saw-mill in the district. But unfortunately it was closed down last year. Profits too small,” he added with a smile. “We’ve got a good many unemployed now. It’s distressing.”

The teacher chimed in too, and told me that the saw-mill belonged to a big combine. I could see that he hadn’t much sympathy for the shareholders and directors. Nor did I feel any. The town was very poor, he went on, half the people lived by piece-work, at a terrible rate of pay. One child in three was undernourished.

“Yes,” chuckled the inspector. “Here too, with the beauties of nature all around!”

Before we started off for the camp, the priest came up to me.

“You’re the master in charge, I believe? Just a moment. There’s a little thing I’d like to bring to your notice. About an hour and a half from your camping-ground there’s a
castle. The State acquired it, and there are girls quartered there, round about the same age as your boys. They’re running round all day and half the night, so keep a look out”—he smiled—“and see that no complaints come to my ears.”

“I’ll take good care.”

“You don’t mind my mentioning it? When you’ve spent thirty-five years listening to confessions, you grow rather sceptical, and a journey of a mere hour and a half doesn’t strike you in the light of a deterrent.”

He laughed.

“You must come along and see me some time, I’ve got some new wine down.”

At about three o’clock we started. First through a valley, then up a winding hill-side road, from which we looked down again into the glen. There was a smell of resin in the air as our path entered a long wood. At last the trees fell back to let in the light: before us lay our site, in a meadow. The mountains were still closer to us now.

The sergeant and his two pioneers were playing cards. When they saw us coming they got up quickly and the sergeant advanced, a very military figure. About fifty, he’d be. He wore an unobtrusive pair of glasses. A decent fellow.

Now we must get down to work. The sergeant and his two men showed the youngsters how to put up a tent. I joined in. In the centre of the camp we left an empty space, and there we put up our colours. In three hours our city was built. The two pioneers saluted and started off back to the little town.

Near the flag-pole stood a biggish chest—our firearms. The targets were erected: wooden soldiers in foreign uniforms.

With twilight, we lit a fire and did our cooking. It smelt good. We sang a few Army songs. The sergeant drank a schnapps, and his voice grew hoarser.

The mountain-wind stirred.

“That’s coming down from the glaciers,” said one of the youngsters. Some of them were coughing.

I thought of the dead W.

Yes, you were the smallest fellow in the class—and the friendliest too. I believe you’d have been the only one to write nothing in your essay against the niggers. So you had to go. Where are you now?

Has an angel come and taken you—as the angels did in the old tales?

And did he fly with you to the place where all the blessed footballers play? Where the goalkeeper’s an angel too, and the referee, whistling when a player flies after the ball? For that must be off-side in heaven! Are you happy up there? Of course! Up there everybody sits in the grandstand—in the middle of the front row—while those horrid officials who always chased you out of the goal when you wanted an autograph must stand behind the giants who stop them from seeing the game—

Night now, and off to bed.

“To-morrow we start in earnest,” smiled the sergeant. He shared a tent with me. He snored.

Once or twice I flashed my torch to have a look at my watch. On the tent wall I saw a brownish-red stain. What was it?

To-morrow we start in earnest, I lay thinking. In earnest. In that chest near the flag-pole lies war.

War.

We were on the battlefield.

In my mind’s eye I saw the two pioneers—the sergeant from the reserve, who was in command now—and the wooden soldiers, who would teach us how to shoot straight. Other figures passed before me. The Head, N and his father the baker—the baker of Philippi. I thought of the saw-mill that now lay idle, and the stockholders, drawing larger profits, even in spite of its idleness. I thought of the smiling inspector and the priest who liked his glass of wine, of the negroes that might not live, of the piece-workers who couldn’t live: I thought of the powers that rule the land, and the underfed children.

And of the Fish.

We’re on the battlefield here. Then where is the front?

I heard the night-wind, and the snoring of the sergeant.

Was that—blood—that brownish-red stain?

SUNLIGHT FILLED THE CAMP. WE LEFT OUR TENTS.

We washed in the brook and made tea. After breakfast the sergeant made the boys form two lines, arranging themselves according to their height. They numbered off. He divided them into squads.

“No shooting to-day,” he told us. “Just a bit of exercise.”

He was a sharp disciplinarian: the two lines must be in perfect order. He had a habit of squinting one eye.

“Come up a bit here—back there, you’re too far forward. You’re a yard in front of the others, number three there!”

Number three was Z. How hard it is for him to keep in line, I found myself thinking. Suddenly I heard N’s voice.

“Back there, idiot!” he rasped at Z.

“Now, now”—from the sergeant—“don’t get rough. There’s no cursing in the Army now. That’s a thing of the past. Get that into your heads.”

N fell silent. Blushing hotly, he threw me a furtive glance. Now he could have strangled me, for it was he who was in the wrong. I felt strangely pleased, but I restrained a smile.

“Regiment—march!” came the sergeant’s command. The boys marched off. The biggest in front, the smallest at
the rear. Another minute, and they were in the wood. Out of sight.

Two remained behind. One of the M’s and one of the B’s.

They peeled potatoes and made other preparations for the midday meal. All in quiet high spirits.

“Sir!” shouted M suddenly. “Look what’s on the march over there!”

I looked. Some twenty girls were marching in military formation, weighed down with rucksacks. As they approached we could hear them singing—Army songs in a trilling soprano. B laughed aloud.

Then they became aware of our camp and halted about two hundred yards away.

Their leader addressed them and came on alone in our direction. I set out to meet her.

We introduced ourselves. She was a teacher in a large provincial town and the girls were those of her class. They were staying at the castle now—so these were the young ladies to whom the priest’s warning related! As I walked back with my new companion to her regiment, the girls stared at me like so many cows. I don’t think the priest need have felt any anxiety: these girls didn’t look very attractive.

Besmirched with sweat and grime, they were scarcely a pretty sight.

Their mistress seemed to guess my thoughts—at least she had that womanly attribute. She attempted an explanation.

“We don’t go in for frills and tinsel. And we don’t spend our time theorizing. We like to get something done.”

I didn’t want to embark on a long argument over the various schools of thought where education was concerned.
I just murmured “Ah!” as an answer, and thought to myself, Even N’s a human being by the side of these poor creatures.