Grievous

by H. S. Cross

  —Oi!

  … but missed.

  —It’s five!

  —Don’t be stupid.

  —Five o’clock!

  —It’s still light.

  —You swore—

  Trevor consulted the watch:

  —If you hadn’t kept me jawing—

  —Just this afternoon, you swore we’d be back!

  —And if you shut up, we still will.

  They dashed to their tasks. Trevor scoured the hay for cigarette stubs as Gray climbed down to stash their things in the wall (and lift the lid of the box long enough to snatch the letter he’d meant to—)

  —Cave! Trevor called.

  Gray froze on the ladder and then crawled back up to where Trevor was crouching. The window’s cracked glass broadcast news from the common: four figures, school togs, two from their own House, two from another. Four fags out-of-bounds, approaching, identifying, entering—

  —And this is where Fletchy and me bunked to last week, said a white-haired fag.

  —Plummy, said Malcolm minor.

  The white-haired fag was from Burton-Lee’s House, as was the one called Fletchy, or Fletcher. Of the two from Grieves’s House, Gray knew Malcolm minor from the dorm. Despite having an elder brother with a bold reputation, Malcolm minor ran his gaze across the barn as one viewing pin-ups for the first time. The white-haired fag, whose name proved actually to be White, bragged about his and Fletcher’s exploit, their escape last week from farmers, their refuge in the barn, the hours they passed there, hours they proposed to pass there again, regularly, having claimed it for their own.

  —Is this where that chap got killed? asked the last fag.

  Newly arrived that term, lowest in Grieves’s House, lowest in the school, his name was Halton.

  —Is this McKay’s barn?

  A horrified pause in which the other three absorbed Halton’s speaking the unspeakable. Then, they tackled him:

  —Shut up, Infant.

  —Shut up, you little sod.

  —Shut up or we’ll shut you up.

  —First, White lectured, there were two chaps, not one. Second, the chap who died didn’t get killed. He killed himself.

  The kicking stopped. Halton caught his breath:

  —That isn’t what Pearce said.

  The kicking resumed.

  —First, White said, Pearce is a cretin. Second, he’s an idiot.

  —Third, Malcolm minor continued, if he’d quit wanking over the Bible, he might get a notion.

  Not that Malcolm had a notion, but Gray supposed that compared with Halton, the others were fountains of notions.

  —Fourth, White said, they were in our House, not yours, so we ought to know.

  Wilberforce had known what happened, but he’d always refused to speak of it, even to Gray. If Gray didn’t know the truth, then without a doubt neither did these pip-squeaks from Burton-Lee’s. They needed taking down a peg. Or three.

  —You need taking down a peg, White told Halton.

  That was how it went, how it always went. Gray wasn’t sure where Halton had come from or why his mother should have shipped him off to the Academy in cold February when everyone else had been fighting their way through the Third Form since September. As a citizen of the Remove, Gray naturally made it a point not to notice the Third, but Halton, friendless save Malcolm minor, bottom of his form (Gray read the notice boards), fagging for the odious Pearce—

  —What’d he kill himself for?

  Halton, though balled on the ground, would not shut up.

  —And what happened to the other chap?

  Fletcher and Malcolm minor hauled him up until he hung, toes just off the floor, for White’s inquisition.

  —What’s the Natural History Society?

  —Bug and ticks, Halton answered.

  And on it went, pinch for yes, punch for no, slap across the face for hesitation.

  —Kit and Caboodle?

  —Choir. Ow!

  —A kitten indeed, Fletcher remarked.

  —Never fear, Fletchy, we shall educate!

  Fletcher took the lead: to expel (dispose), vegetables (grass), roast mutton—Halton hesitated. A ringing—

  —Dead Man’s Leg?

  A chorus of No!

  —You absolute shag-rag. It’s Cat’s Head.

  —Cat’s Head!

  —He’s a half-wit, Fletch concluded. And an infant, and a snot. I shan’t bother with him any longer.

  —One, White announced, grasping Halton’s ears, you have no brain in your putrid head. Two, if you want to assist us any longer, you’ll shut up and go stand guard.

  An emphatic yank and he let Halton go.

  —Cave canem, Halton muttered, moving gingerly towards the door.

  —Infant!

  —What?

  —What did I just say?

  —To shut up and guard the door.

  —And what are you doing right now?

  —Going to the—

  —What are you doing right now, Infant?

  —Talking to you?

  —Thank you. Now if, Infant, you are talking to me, would you kindly tell me how you can be shutting up?

  Fletcher seized him again as White applied a penalty.

  —I do believe he’s blubbing, Fletcher said. Are you blubbing, Infant?

  —I’m bloody not.

  —There he goes, Malcolm said, not shutting up again.

  Gray began whispered conference above:

  —It won’t take them long to monkey it up here.

  —Keep your hair on, Trevor said. I’m thinking.

  As the hour of call-over approached, they watched from their Olympus, gods trapped by human affairs. Halton went outside, White began tearing planks from the walls, and Malcolm attempted acrobatics from one of the stalls. Intruders in the Keep, not one or two but four, savages all, nothing to lose. As with all bad things, time raced, and just as one disaster had made itself at home, another arrived.

  —Bloody … Saul, Trevor breathed.

  Gray peered through the window where Trevor gazed in disbelief. Tramping up the slope, a fifth party, mackintosh, cap, prefect’s badge affixed to the front, Pious Pearce incarnate out-of-bounds, trudging with purpose towards the barn, around it …

  —What’s all this?

  Pearce threw open the door, dangling Halton by the collar like some music-hall bobby with public school accent. The juniors froze.

  —Malcolm, White, Fletcher, and Halton. Very good.

  White recovered first:

  —Hullo, Pearce. What brings you out this way?

  His bravado did not impress Grieves’s sub-prefect. Pearce informed them that he would be asking the questions.

  —What was the question? Halton piped.

  Pearce half smiled as the barn door fell closed behind him.

  —I don’t know where you get your cheek, he told Halton. You must be either a dolt or an adamant sinner.

  (—Oh, Saul, Gray whispered.)

  —You may as well out with it, Pearce told them. You’re already done for bounds. And trespassing at McKay’s barn.

  —McKay’s barn! White cried. Is that what this is?

  —Save it for someone less credulous than me, Pearce said.

  (—More credulous, surely?)

  (—Will you shut up? Trevor hissed.)

  —Honestly, Pearce, we’d no idea we were out-of-bounds. But the mist came in, and we ducked in here, and—

  —Where did you think you were when you crawled through the hedgerow?

  White looked to his companions:

  —Hedgerow? We didn’t see any hedgerow, did we?

  The juniors professed no knowledge of hedgerows.

  —The one that runs across the entire south bounds. Ever heard the term flagrante delicto?

  Trevor snorted.

  —Why compound it all by lying transparently?

  The juniors replied with silence. Pearce dropped Halton and commenced a tour of the barn. (Satisfying
his own curiosity about the forbidden?) Passing under the loft, he stopped.

  —What’s that smell?

  —Smell? White protested.

  —Oh, you’re in it now, Pearce said. Bounds, trespassing, smoking.

  He snatched Malcolm minor up to his toes:

  —Do you know the penalty just for smoking?

  —Hic! Yes.

  —Do you know why this place is out-of-bounds?

  —Yes. Hic!

  —Why are you making that revolting noise? Pearce demanded.

  —I—hic—have the hiccups, Malcolm said.

  Pearce dropped Malcolm and summoned his own fag. Halton approached.

  —I must say, Pearce opined, this does not look good. The Head is going to take a dim view. The dimmest.

  —But we weren’t smoking, Halton said. I swear.

  —Don’t perjure yourself in the bargain! I’m trying to help, don’t you see?

  He twisted Halton’s collar:

  —Do you know the root of the word worry?

  Halton did not.

  —It’s worien, to strangle. I want you to feel the worry I have for you. For your soul.

  Halton appeared to feel it.

  —Uncle Stalky’s had a flash, Trevor breathed. Wait for the signal, crawl across the ledge under the eaves, down that shaft, and bunk.

  —I’m not jumping off the roof! Gray protested.

  —Do it. Unless you want to wait for this lot to morris off.

  And he was gone, across the ledge and out of sight. Trevor hadn’t, of course, said what the signal would be or where to look for it, but below, Pearce continued to badger Halton, Halton continued to resist, and Malcolm minor’s hiccups continued to strain their nerves.

  —I worry, Pearce said, not what will happen if you do wrong, but what will happen if you carry on doing wrong.

  Gray felt it before he saw it. Could fear make things true? Or had all his errors rolled at last into this ball, festering, unguarded, until now when the rain had stopped—started, stopped, started again—it had been found, as all shame was found.

  —At least stop lying, Pearce said. At least do that.

  Halton—again off his feet, again at the wall, only hurt before him—Halton stared over Pearce’s shoulder, stared as if seeing, as if his gaze had o’erlept the desperate present and landed there in that gaping, fatal cleft where Gray would have placed, if allowed, their books and cigarettes, that chasm where still lodged, to any who would see—

  A ringing crack and Halton’s hand flashed to his face.

  —You make me sick, Pearce said. You deserve everything coming your way.

  Halton’s gaze was still in the wall, but he made no sound.

  —Right, Pearce announced, back to the Academy, all of you.

  He strode past them to the door and with an impatient thrust of the arm lifted the latch. The portal did not budge. He applied his shoulder, but the door held firm.

  Gray’s heart began to race before his brain could understand—the how and why beyond power of thought—but Trevor’s signal was undeniable, clear as an icy lake, chapter one, page fifteen, Stalky manifest.

  —Is this your idea of a joke? Pearce demanded.

  —Hic.

  —Malcolm!

  He didn’t wait for the rest. As Pearce rattled the door, Gray crawled along the ledge under the eaves and landed hard below.

  —Bottled ’em in there jolly tight, Trevor said.

  —You wouldn’t care if I killed myself!

  Trevor hoisted him to his feet:

  —Life’s perilous, Pauline, and that door won’t keep Pearce happy long.

  They slipped down the slope and through the hedgerow to the road. The rain, having spared them, began to fall in earnest as they ran. If they made call-over (5 percent, names in the second half of the alphabet) they’d be soaked, and yet, wasn’t there a story in there somewhere…? The bells of Fridaythorpe rang then, not five but quarter past, the hour of call-over. Gray staggered to a stop and bent over, panting. Trevor rummaged in his pocket, spilling coins, nibs, sheep bones:

  —Bloody sodding excuse for a ticker.

  —Only works when you look at it.

  —Bloody hell.

  —You’re so Stalky, Gray gasped, did you know that? You’re a whole Stalky and—

  —Shut up.

  They’d escaped the barn but would not escape punishment. They never should have gone, except they should have been weeks ago, before White & Co. tramped their nosy feet inside, before they conquered it, they thought, as their own, before Pearce, before Halton, before hungry eyes looked and took—

  —This will never do, Trevor declared.

  —We can appeal to Grieves. Maybe he’ll only gate us.

  Trevor had been tapping the surface of a puddle, and now he plunged his foot in.

  —If we hoof it now, we’ll still make lock-up, Gray continued.

  But Trevor wasn’t listening. No longer scowling, his face was calm, alert.

  —Hold on a tic, Trevor said. I think I hear something.

  Dread fell with the rain. Not only was Trevor’s expression one Gray had seen countless times before; not only had Trevor retreated from the twilight and taken refuge in Stalky; not only was Trevor, in their hour of doom, persisting with Stalky’s far-fetched adventure—

  —I believe someone is calling for help!

  —You can never admit you’re wrong, can you? You’ve always got to take things—

  —Riding, do you or do you not hear voices crying from yonder hillock?

  —I hear our docket in tonight’s prefect meeting!

  Not only was Trevor beyond reason—

  —You’re narrow-minded. That’s your trouble. All you think about is your own skin when there are people in need, and we—we have happened by!

  Not only that, but Trevor’s lunacy was the only logical course of action.

  And they were off, jogging back up the common to McKay’s barn, out-of-bounds, Strictly Forbidden, occupied by the enemy, Gray’s spectacles pointless in the rain, that blurry, dripping frontier—was that how it would be, if he could ever travel inside, inside Stalky, inside Valarious, to be the kind of creator who could take on flesh inside his creation and touch with his skin the people he had made?

  They arrived, as Kipling would have phrased it, bellowing halloos of rescue. Two more perplexed boys the March rain never wetted. And they were so difficult to enlighten.

  —Who’s there? Pearce called.

  —Who’s there?

  —We’re from the Academy!

  —The Academy?

  —St. Stephen’s!

  —So are we!

  —You are?

  —Are you?

  —Who the devil is that? Pearce thundered.

  —Mainwaring. Who the deuce is that?

  —Mainwaring, Pearce here!

  —Pearce? Trevor exclaimed. What are you playing at?

  —We’re stuck.

  —You’re stuck?

  —The door’s stuck.

  Trevor rattled the latch:

  —It’s jammed jolly tight, Pearce. It’ll take us at least half an hour to knock it open.

  —Unless we go to McKay’s for an ax? Gray suggested.

  Pearce implored them to do their best without troubling Farmer McKay, but Trevor was troubled by something else, specifically by having missed call-over tramping o’er moor and fen after yon hideous baying. If they stopped to break into the barn, they’d miss lock-up as well, and they didn’t want to worry Mr. Grieves.

  —He’ll worry a heap if we don’t come back.

  —He’ll what a heap? Gray shouted.

  —Worry! He’ll worry.

  Gray collapsed, stifling laughter in the grass as Trevor resumed parlay with Pious Pearce. The sub-prefect vowed not only to clear their names but also to burnish their reputations with their Housemaster. The rain was beginning to pelt. Trevor accepted the terms and commenced worrying the crossbar. It was one thing to read of
Stalky’s japes but quite another to stand cold and itching until Trevor at long last released the door—not a door of poetry or song, but theirs, unheroic yet instrument of metamorphosis. It swung aside for Pious Pearce, red of face, turning wrath away from his slanderers-cum-rescuers and towards his captives, recently so confident and brutish, now silent, dejected, small.

  3

  Stalking the school like leopards. There was no other way for John to think about the unseen, unknown, ultimately rapacious forces that toyed with his fate. He understood ancient prohibitions against displaying joy. One made oneself a target for jealous gods. He himself had not revealed so much as a bright face in anticipation of their holiday, but the leopards had found him all the same.

  Paris hadn’t become a concrete reality—tickets bought, pension booked—until just before Christmas, but hadn’t he and Meg talked for years of going, for Cordelia’s thirteenth birthday, they said. Of course, Owain would come as well, but John thought it not too much to hope that the man’s business would take him away for at least part of the time. And indeed it did not prove too much to hope, for Owain claimed the calling of some professional gathering, leaving John, Meg, and Cordelia a fortnight to themselves.

  He’d told no one of his plans, a concealment designed specifically to protect against the very beasts that stalked him now. The entire term had been brighter than Lent had a right to be, because each morning as he shaved, he imagined himself crossing out another box in the calendar with red china pencil, as he’d done when a boy hoping for the holidays. This crossing out, let it be repeated, had never trespassed into the physical realm; it had remained always and only in his imagination. But now on the day of fifteen-sleeps-to-Paris, now, after hunting him through the corridors, the classrooms, the cloisters, the bath, now had come the telegram. Not bringing news of the maiden aunts but of Meg, née Drayton now Líoht, wick of his hope.

  She often fell ill, but never had telegrams disturbed the break after luncheon. He’d spent the afternoon telephoning round to the hospital in Cambridge, endeavoring to learn facts, trying repeatedly to reach Mrs. Kneesworth, working himself into indigestion. Then, just as he’d managed to get Mrs. K’s voice in his telephone receiver, he found she had nothing helpful to tell him, and he realized like a blow that his hope, that shining good thing that had consoled him for so long, could possibly, would probably be ravaged, bones flung broken aside.