Towards the end of the lesson, I looked up from my paper and found a small pot of honey carefully placed on top of a pile of books on my desk. Questioningly, I blinked at Hanson. He pointed his finger discreetly at his throat and continued the lesson without paying me any more mind.
Had I not liked honey quite fervently, I could not have accepted the pricey gift. But, the sweet, golden liquid was my favourite thing to eat in the world and for once in my life I would not have to fight my sisters over it. Quickly and quietly the small pot disappeared in my pocket.
I told no one about it, not even my close associates when they sat beside me during supper, instead we talked about William Chester, and how his open aggression towards me had shifted to polite loathing. I suspected it might be the calm before a storm, but Greenfield betrayed that Chester's sworn enemy was, and had always been, Richard Redford, and that his entire centrefold was now dedicated to him. I was almost insulted to be forgotten so quickly after all we had been through together.
Indeed, Greenfield proved to be right, as Chester attacked Redford in every way possible, but only when there were enough people around to hold the brute back. Even though Chester was in the wrong, I found it hard to renew my feelings of sympathy, which I had shortly felt by way of pity, towards Redford.
It so happened that Richard Redford found it his personal duty to fill the gap, which was left by my dear friend Chester. Thus, his unparalleled fondness of me showed in little acts of heartfelt kindness. One morning, for instance, he realised that my clothing needed airing and was considerate enough to spread them all out on my bed and the floor. The newly freed space in the shared closet was henceforth occupied by his own belongings, no doubt to release me from the burdening dwelling on what to put there. Another morning, he broke his blade in fencing and seeing how I was tired from practise, he gallantly decided to take mine, so I could rest. When he thought I had not studied enough, he took my recently finished assignment from me, so I could do it again, to fully understand the subject. Sometimes, my plate was too full during dinner, and he kindly volunteered to dispose of it on my behalf, by eating it.
It was not until he tried to take from me the small pot of honey, which I had scarcely eaten from, to save it for longer, that I finally opposed his 'kindness'.
He had seen me sneak it under my pillow, one evening, and felt that the treasure had to be shared. Retrieving it, proved to be difficult since the boy was as tall as a tree. All he needed to do, was raise his arm, with the pot in it, and watch me jump up and down in a futile attempt to reach it. After some minutes, he got bored of it, and smacked me on the head with his fist, just when I jumped up. The map of China appeared in front of my eyes in bright green and violet colours. My fall was prevented by the opening door, that hit me right on the forehead, and knocked me down.
'Jonathan!' Rajesh Greenfield shouted and looked frantically from me to Redford, who was doubling over from laughter.
I came to my feet. Something dark and sticky was in my visual field, but it did not bother me, as I was determined to get that honey back. When I tried to grab it from Redford's hand, he yanked it up, and the small pot slipped away. It fell on the floor and scattered to pieces. The honey spilled all over the room.
'You,' I growled furiously.
Greenfield caught me before I could get hold of Redford, and pushed me out of the room. My severe protest and swearing would have made my sisters' ears rot. Like this he manoeuvred me all the way to Hanson's office. Even when my room mate knocked on his door, I was still trying to fight him off. It took both of them to sit me down on the sofa and keep me there.
'It is not fair,' I yelped and my whole body slumped, as I suddenly felt overly exhausted.
'Thank you, Greenfield. You can leave,' Hanson said in dead seriousness that caught my wavering attention.
'It was not his fault, sir,' Rajesh Greenfield said distinctly while leaving.
'It never is,' Hanson countered poisonously.
When the door closed I stilled entirely. Hanson's anger was emitting violently from his rigid shoulders. Without looking at me, he went for the cupboard and retrieved from it the box I had come to dread. He took the arm chair from the desk and positioned it opposite the sofa I was sitting on. He let himself sink into it with the same impatient annoyance he had begun betraying towards me since the incident in the fencing hall.
Quite harshly, he yanked my head up by the chin and started to dab surprisingly carefully the left side of my forehead with a clean, white cloth. Oddly, it was very painful and made me flinch.
'Be still,' he commanded briskly and with a grave expression that sent a cold sensation through my body. He put the cloth aside. It had stains of blood on it.
'Whose blood is this?' I asked in a blank stupor and pushed his hand away to inspect the cloth. My hand wandered to my forehead. There was blood on my fingers. I looked up at Hanson who ignored me and proceeded in his treatment. With a swift movement he turned a small bottle upside down and a cotton wool ball came dangerously close to my face. I pushed his hand away and slid to the far end of the sofa. The burning pain from last time was still vivid in my memory.
'Don't be a child,' he hissed and grabbed both my hands with one of his, pulling me towards him.
I closed my eyes and tried to duck my head like a turtle, with little success. The stinging pain burnt persistently on my forehead.
'It does not look so bad,' he said at last. 'Do you want a bandage?'
I considered it and decided a cracked skull might look manlier than a mummified head, and thus voiced my preference. Hanson did not think it funny and only turned angrier. His frown was so deep that his eye brows almost touched.
'He took my honey,' I blurted out, out of context.
'The honey I have given you?' Hanson understood surprisingly quickly.
'The very one, sir.'
He sunk his head into his palms, rigorously shaking it.
'Sir?'
'Why do you have to do this?' his voice came through muffled.
'What do you mean, sir? I did not start it.'
'You never do,' he looked up, 'yet, it is always you I end up treating!'
'Well, I happen to really like honey and I do not see a reason why I should put up with absolutely everything!'
'Neither do I!' he cried. 'Why are you here then, other than to make both our lives miserable?'
His cruelty suffocated the words in my mouth. I had just begun liking him. Very much. The water levels in my eyes rose and I tried to blink it away, hating myself for being so much of a girl. I remained silent until I could speak without a tremble in my voice.
'My family is quite poor, sir,' I realised how bad it sounded and felt as though I was betraying my sisters by admitting our troubles to a stranger who evidently hated me. But what else was I to do? Perhaps if he understood my situation better he would cease to make his accusations. 'We were rather well-off once, but after our parents died, my sisters and I were left with nothing. This education and my ambition to earn a decent living one day, are our only hope,' I pronounced carefully and took a deep breath. 'I love my sisters very much even though they are not too pleased that I left home. They are quite displeased to be perfectly honest. Neither one nor the other has written to me yet, and I fear I am a disappointment to them. What they do not understand is that food, clothes, and a home do not grow on trees.'
'You think you can provide that?'
'No, but I can try to maintain it. You see, a wealthy gentleman, who only recently passed away,' I paused to catch air. I could think but not speak of the old man because it made a lump rise in my throat and the tears in my eyes, 'he – he made an arrangement for me to attend this school, and he,' I had to catch air again. Life had been easy and happy with him in it. Since his passing so many things had happened that I had scarcely time to think of how I would never hear his mockery, or be subjected to his eccentric humour, or listen to his wild stories from overseas. It was not only he who had died, my old life had d
ied with him. Nearly everyone seemed to hate me now, even my sisters. Tears and snot were running down my face in the ugliest way possible. By holding in the sobs I felt like I was about to suffocate.
Hanson gave me a handkerchief and a solemn pat on the shoulder. The fact that my terribly sad life story was not worth any more to him made me cry even more. It was as though all the tears I had held back until now, were coming out to drown the school and all of London. Hanson sighed while I wailed like a baby. I did not know how Eleanor, who was younger than me, could control herself to look pretty when crying. I had always been an ugly crier.
'Besides,' I continued through a veil of salty water, 'I always wanted to study at a proper institution. I am as good as everybody else in this school,' is what I wanted to say but it did not come out quite so eloquently through the sobs, the snot, and the scream-like wailing.
Hanson's frown softened but his expression became altogether more tormented. He had stepped on a land-mine and was now paying the price.
'Better even,' he said quietly. And I guessed it was only an attempt to sooth me since the patting did not seem do any good. I blew my nose noisily into his handkerchief.
'Do you really think so?' I said beginning to calm down.
'I am not in the habit of repeating myself particularly when someone is fishing for compliments and sympathy. Ryde, I do not think you are in any need of either. You are doing quite well. The results of your weekly tests are among the best of the class, your fencing technique is improving quickly, and you have made quite a few friends,' those few kind words made me feel much better one moment, and utterly embarrassed about my outburst the next.
'As for Mr Anthony Sears,' Hanson continued, 'who has arranged for you to attend this school, I understand your grief over his loss, but he was 92 years old. Not many people I know are bound to live quite so long.'
'You know him?' I asked forgetting all my tears completely.
'I do, indeed. He was headmaster at this school when I first came to teach here, he retired soon after and I did not know him as well as you but he was a good man – for goodness' sake, stop crying Ryde,' he interposed.
'I am not crying,' I cried.
Hanson sighed and gave me another gentler pat on the shoulder. I blew my nose on the soaked wet handkerchief and then wiped my face with it – which was admittedly the wrong way to proceed.
'I shall wash it and return it, sir,' I said shyly. Having tormented the poor man sufficiently for one day, I began taking my leave. On my way out I bumped into the bookshelf, and had to retrieve a book that had fallen to the floor. Hanson gave me a very strange look, that made me feel very stupid.
'I am sorry to bother you constantly, sir. Outside of business hours, too. I will try to reduce my visits.'
He shifted in his chair.
'You can come as often as you like, Ryde. But I rather you came in one piece.'
The scar on my forehead was small but everyone took notice of it, and I wore it with pride when Richard was not around. His presence made me too self-conscious to brag about it.
The loss of the honey, on the other hand, was a very different matter. Of all people, only Terry understood the full extent of the tragedy.
While the four of us sat together during dinner as we always did, William Chester approached us. His sudden and most unwelcome appearance made me drop my fork in surprise. As I retrieved it from underneath the table and cleaned it off on my shirt, the boy leaned in close and informed us in a conspiratorial manner that there was going to be a meeting after lights out at the end of the week, and that we had better come.
Fortunately, William Chester was not one to loiter – he was a busy man. As soon as he had given us his message, he went on to selected groups of students to invite them, too. A nervous stir went about the dining hall, wherever he chose to recruit accomplices. Once he was out of earshot I scoffed and told my friends how little regard I had for his silly schemes. I was about to say that no one in their right mind would voluntarily join him but stopped when I saw the excitement in my friends' faces. It seemed to have such a strong effect on Larry, in fact, that he put up no fight whatsoever when Terry stole his cake. I was in danger of loosing more than just the cake when Redford started eyeing my plate from the other end of the table. Without saying any more on the matter, I began eating as quickly as I could.
Chapter 11
TRIALS AND TRUST
Mr Walsh was ever as little in command of his students as he was of the hair on his head, it even seemed, the more vexation one of the above caused him, the more the other joined it, and so it was, that by the middle of the Latin and literature period, his greyish black strands pointed in all directions, while he breathed heavily through a big nose, which made a whistling sound with every blow. The wrinkled forehead came down over the thick brows, which made way for eyeballs, that almost popped out of their sockets. The man was far beyond clearing his throat, at this point, not that it ever accounted for any results.
The poor, small man waved his clenched fists, and stomped down the aisle between the desks. Furiously, he grabbed the first pair of ears, that was within his arms' reach, and yanked the unfortunate fellow to the front desk. In a trembling voice, he employed the boy to translate an English poem into Latin writing on the blackboard. Terrence Barclay, onto whom the task was bestowed, turned scarlet under the laughs of his class mates, and scrambled with a shaking hand unreadable hieroglyphics.
The other boys proceeded under the disposition of chaos throwing about paper, sitting on desks, and loudly discussing topics, which had little to do with the Mr Walsh' teachings, other than that they were conducted in English.
I felt sorry for him, I truly did, but not as much as I pitied Terry. He became a laughingstock while he tried hard to restrain his tears. The poor fellow could not handle pressure well.
'No one noticed,' I assured him after class. When his eyes became wet all over, I tried to think of something that would raise his mood, 'forget Latin, and think about tonight!'
He stiffened, and I concluded that it might not be something to look forward to. But why did everyone want to participate then? What bothered me most was that whatever Chester had arranged took place after lights out. I was not keen on breaking the rules, but of course, I did not want to be left behind either.
***
Clouds ran like the threads of torn fabric across the silver moon, the wind pushed them forward dunking the school's rooftops into darkness. With the clock's fingers running towards midnight the fog rose from the ground coming to life like the ghosts of the earth. The ominous hands of the surrounding trees reached for the fencing hall, condensation drops lay thickly on the inside of the windows which weakly lit the muddy path. The sound of our footsteps had a dullness to them, as if we were the only people in existence. My imagination running wild made me see silhouettes dance through the dense white, and hear noises, or voices, that made me turn, but there was no one there except for us. My breaths were short and quick, and the warmth exuding from my mouth fought the cold fog for seconds and then dissolved in it, while Rajesh Greenfield's back, before me, was almost devoured by it. A raven emerged from the grass and cried through the quietness as it flapped it's black wings towards the full moon, upon which Terry yelped and Larry hushed him.
Suddenly, a stone wall appeared in front us, the bleak bricks gave away the fencing hall. Under Greenfield's lead we walked around it. Again, I thought, I heard voices, and as we approached they gained in volume, then silenced completely.
'Who goes there?' someone demanded with a threatening tremor.
Instead of answering Greenfield howled like a wolf towards the diffused silver light up above, and the strangers acknowledged him by doing the same. He turned back to give me a quick smile, I stepped away from him and abutted against Terry who was rooted to the ground, his eyes big. I searched Larry's face but it was so high up, that I could not distinguish it in the fog.
'Who is it?' somebody else addressed the previous
speaker.
'Rajesh and his friends.'
'Let them come in.'
In we came. A moss covered and rotten trap door was opened for us with a devastating squeal. It was so close to the back wall of the fencing hall, and entirely hidden by tall, wild grass that I would have never found it even if I had been aware of its existence. A moist scent entered my nostrils as I followed Rajesh Greenfield down the slippery stone steps of varying size. Even though, I was not afraid to fall myself, I was very much aware of the chubby boy behind me, who was not exactly famous for his good sense of balance.
An oil lamp suddenly blinded us, then its glow was directed to serve as guide. Robust old stone formed an arched passage way where nature in all its forms grew from the walls, and insects scrambled from the light into the shelter of the cracks, and slimy water dripped from the ceiling. It was certainly not a place to bring Eleanor.
The passage flowed like a river into the vast embrace of a much bigger, broader hall. At least a couple dozen boys stood with lamps and candles in their hands, and another dozen without, they were still like the sea before a storm; their faces just as brooding. The boys without candles were first-years who looked about them with uncertainty. Dressed in their night-gowns they must have been abducted unsuspectingly from their rooms, of such deeds Chester was a master, although I would not have thought him to have so many followers.
They shoved Terry, Larry, and me into the circle of younger boys. When my feet steadied, I looked back into the grinning faces of the wolves, Greenfield among them. My heart pumped faster. I could not quite believe this to be merely innocent jokes, but there were too many people, too many witnesses, to think of serious danger.
The Girl who was a Gentleman (Victorian Romance, History) Page 9