Grievous

by H. S. Cross

  —Don’t be silly, Jamie said again. She can come to me for Divinity and Latin. The Eagle can supervise her reading. She does French, doesn’t she? I’m sure Henri will chat to her a few times a week.

  John felt something scratch his eye, and he blinked to clear it. He’d rehearsed countless scenarios on the journey up, but none matched this.

  —Thank you, he managed. It’s—

  But Jamie dismissed his thanks and began to pace. John felt hungry for the first time in days. Had he actually eaten anything besides a bite of her sandwich since the halfhearted attempt at fish and chips the night before? Jamie’s clock chimed, and shortly the tea bell would sound—only soup on Sunday evenings, but Academy broth, brown bread, and a bit of butter would more than satisfy. John felt he wanted nothing in the world beyond warm, honest food, the bonds of friendship, the pleasing burden of his vocation, the asylum of their little world.

  Jamie was drawing aside the drapes.

  —Looking for something? John asked.

  —Nothing.

  John got up to leave, but Jamie began to riffle through the items on his desk.

  —Is something wrong?

  Jamie stopped:

  —Not exactly.

  —Was there some other reason you wanted to see me?

  —I think you had better sit back down.

  * * *

  The knock came halfway through Prep.

  —Housemaster to see you, young Riding.

  Mrs. Firth had narrowed her eyes as if to say, You’re for it. Gray’s mind, numb with events, offered no advice. Lead thou me on. He followed her downstairs, and she abandoned him at the study. When he knocked, the Flea burst out, looking daggers.

  —Come in and shut the door, Mr. Grieves called.

  He did as he was told. The man pointed to the orange chair:

  —Sit.

  And they were back: the hunchbacked man and the boy who fought back tears before him.

  —Well?

  As if he saw every lie, every vice and mistake.

  —What do you have to say to me?

  What did he have to say to him?

  —You can take that look off your face.

  —What look, sir?

  —Don’t be cheeky!

  His ears stung. It would take only the ash of a cigarette, the jostle of an elbow to ignite—like before, only worse. Yet she had trusted him. Completely, rashly, repeatedly. He had never betrayed her—

  —Well?

  If Grieves thought he could make him now, then he did not know his subject! The girl’s address was not on his person, so even if commanded to empty his pockets, he would reveal nothing. The one who had stolen the address was gone. Guilford was gone—the fact was hitting him now, here in the chair—but if this man thought he would yield to a scowl, he could think again. He, her confidant, might not be bold, but he was stubborn, Morgan always said. Grieves had no idea how stubborn he could be.

  —If that’s the way you’re going to behave …

  Grieves spoke slowly, each word a spark.

  —Then you’d best go back to Prep.

  —Sir?

  Thunder upon them.

  —You heard me. Get out.

  * * *

  His head was killing him. The boy had just left, and John had just decided to take his next dose early when there came another knock at the door, his goddaughter, sallow and dark-eyed. She pulled her blazer closed:

  —Is it always so cold?

  He beckoned her into the room and explained about the wind.

  —Like in Wuthering Heights?

  He paused, though he knew he oughtn’t to be shocked by her unsuitable choices of reading material.

  —I think you’ll find it far less dramatic here.

  No ghosts, he wanted to say, but no good came of putting ideas in people’s heads.

  —Aren’t you allowed a fire? she asked.

  She was wandering around the room, peering at objects on his mantel.

  —Of course, we are, but the coal allotments …

  Fingering the brandy decanter, its stopper now chipped by Audsley’s shenanigans.

  —Cordelia, sit down.

  He nodded at the chair before his desk, and she sat, shivering. He wondered if she was trying to make a point.

  —This, he said, is the timetable.

  He passed a card across the blotter, and she held it up to the desk lamp.

  —I did warn you I’d be busy and that life here would be dull.

  —Yes.

  What was it about her tone that reminded him of his last, enraging interview with the boy who’d said nothing at all?

  —Dr. Sebastian has very kindly made arrangements for you to continue some of your studies here.

  She looked up, attentive:

  —What form will I be in?

  A flash of alarm as he glimpsed her misunderstanding, one that might, he realized, be extensive.

  —Cordelia, listen. You are not going to lessons with the boys.

  She had misunderstood; disappointment crashed upon her.

  —You won’t—and this is very important, darling—be having anything to do with them.

  She didn’t look happy, but he’d never agreed to make her happy.

  —We’ll talk more tomorrow, John said, but since it’s Prep, I think you ought to make a start.

  He passed her Auden’s Latin Unseens.

  —Mr. Burton-Lee will be expecting you tomorrow at four o’clock with the first passage prepared.

  She opened the book and scanned the page, idly chewing the inside of her lip.

  —Now, look at me, please.

  She closed the book but kept a finger inside, advertising her intention to return to it as soon as he stopped wittering, so much like her infuriating counterpart that he had to bite back a reprimand. Of course Riding was in no way her counterpart even though both had sat in the same chair, a few minutes apart, and looked at him in ways that made him want to strike. The only face more infuriating, though not by much, was Jamie’s when he’d finally coughed up the truth about Guilford Audsley, a ludicrous tale delivered semi-incoherently. Jamie had rattled unsteadily at first—discomposed by guilt, John supposed—but then he seemed to settle into a spiteful kind of confidence. He’d left John dazed, confounded about where even to begin dismantling the mess. The story in its lunacy incensed him, and John was sure Jamie had not got the truth out of Guilford. More offensively, Jamie informed him that he’d already telephoned the Audsleys to explain, a task that John, as Guilford’s Housemaster and friend of his parents, ought to have performed. The Audsleys had been surprised, Jamie reported, but accepting. John felt this, too, was suspect, and he knew he must write them as soon as he could gather more information. After everything that had passed between him and the Audsleys, after all their trust, for this grotesque thing to transpire—he felt paralyzed with shame and failure.

  Jamie claimed that Audsley had acted alone—the boy had said so and had been discovered on his own—but John did not believe that either. Guilford had never done anything without his studymate, and there was no reason he ought to have started now. Riding had most certainly played a part and would possess information most germane.

  John had just dispatched his matron to fetch Riding when Burton had arrived unannounced. He’d treated Burton impatiently and then been mortified when Burton had proposed seeing his goddaughter for Latin. John, dumbfounded, had refused, explaining that Jamie had already offered. Burton had turned to examine his bookshelves:

  —You’ve accepted, then, after recent events?

  John wasn’t sure just what he’d said in reply, but he knew Burton had considered it burbling.

  —Do as you wish, Burton said, but it isn’t always best for boys, or girls if you prefer, to have to negotiate other people’s awkward situations.

  Burton had stood thumbing a book, giving John time to progress through outrage to truth: that he trusted Burton with the girl better than he trusted Jamie.

>   —I can’t honestly say I was sorry to see Audsley go, Burton said, but I do think—

  He set a copy of Auden on the desk.

  —it wouldn’t have made things any worse for Sebastian to wait for your return.

  The man gazed at him:

  —And, you know, none of us is indifferent—

  With subterfuge? Pity?

  —to you, and your circumstances.

  Compassion was impossible, yet—

  —We do worry, you know.

  John knew he’d accepted the offer with poor grace, hobbled as he was by pique; by removing the mask of cantankerousness to reveal a face of charity, Burton had destroyed the certainties that made life manageable.

  He was just ushering Burton out when Mrs. Firth had delivered Riding—would it never stop? He’d pressed the spot on his eye socket that sometimes gave relief, but the draft from the corridor chilled him, and he’d had to tell Riding to shut the godforsaken door. The boy had stood at the edge of the rug staring at him as if he were the one due an explanation. John knew he’d not handled the interview as well as he might, but the boy was enough to drive a man to violence. When John had asked him for something, anything which might shed light on the preposterous saga of Guilford Audsley, the boy had not only refused to answer but had looked at him with more impertinence, resentment, and arrogance than John had ever imagined possible from a pupil. What he’d ever seen in this boy, what Morgan had seen, what Guilford had seen, it was all beyond his withered comprehension. This boy deserved the soundest of thrashings, and a good clip round the ear, as Moss had dealt the other night before hoiking him off to bed.

  John had sent the boy away before he murdered him and was just about to fetch his drops, remembering that they lay in the pocket of his overcoat, when his goddaughter had arrived and complained of the cold.

  She shivered now as her eyes drifted back to her book. He fetched a spare muffler from his cupboard and gave it to her. She examined the purple and white as if at a Parisian boutique and then, having judged it acceptable, wrapped it around her throat.

  —House colors, he said.

  Still no smile. He fetched an exercise book and set it before her.

  —I shan’t bore you with rules. Let’s try to keep things simple.

  She gazed at him again, world-weary, nearly bored.

  —You’re expected at meals and Prayers, but you’re not to fraternize with the boys.

  She nodded.

  —You’re not to leave school grounds without my permission.

  Another nod.

  —And bedtimes are to be strictly observed.

  The corners of her mouth twitched, and she made him a sort of salute.

  —Don’t be cheeky.

  It came out sharper than he intended, and she pulled her face into a bland mask. He’d saved the worst for last, and he didn’t know how to manage it.

  —I want you to promise me something. It’s very important.

  From his desk drawer, he removed her pencil case. Set it before her.

  —Will you promise?

  She went to take it, but he closed his hand over hers.

  —You must promise me you won’t …

  She tried to pull away, but he held her.

  —Promise me, darling. For—

  —Don’t you dare say for her sake!

  —For my sake. For me.

  He let her open the case, devoid of penknife.

  —How am I meant to sharpen my pencils?

  —I’ll do it for the time being.

  —I’m not a child, Uncle John.

  He waited, firm.

  —I know you aren’t.

  * * *

  Sunday Evening Prayers were always brief, one reading, responses and collects, and a reprise of the day’s hymn sung now by the choir. Gray usually enjoyed it, but tonight as the choir prepared to sing, he felt afraid, a feeling that deepened as Dr. Sebastian rose from his seat and cleared his throat.

  —I should like to welcome back most warmly a visitor to our midst, Miss Líoht, who is Mr. Grieves’s goddaughter.

  A flurry in the pews as they strained to see.

  —I count on you to show her every courtesy.

  The girl sat beside her godfather, gazing up at the dark windows. She looked like a person who had never smiled, a Puritan who wore black the year round, occupying her thoughts with the sins of the world.

  * * *

  The song they were singing rattled her skull, knocking away bone to let the wind through. People at Meeting sometimes began to shake when the Spirit entered them, or so they said. Now, as the singing fell away to two voices, her elbows began to buzz, the words like spears.

  I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou shouldst lead me on.

  I loved to choose and see my path, but now lead thou me on.

  She didn’t belong, in this place or to it.

  I loved the garish day, and spite of fears, pride ruled my will

  She buried her head in her arms as if she’d received a blow to the back of her knees. She thought she’d been cut all the way to the ground—her mother on one shore, them on the other—but the axe hadn’t finished. It was falling still and still.

  * * *

  The choir sounded as it never had before, and it seemed to John that Kardleigh was conjuring the music to destroy what remained of his composure.

  So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on.

  To pulverize his doubt with a thing he couldn’t see.

  And with the morn those angel faces smile …

  He was coming apart, savaged by the hand that made him.

  Which I have loved … long since

  Mercy, mercy—

  45

  It snowed there at the drop of a hat. She would wake to their bells, and the pavement would be dusted. The days were shorter, and sometimes the snow fell like a veil across the afternoon, forcing them to switch on the lights before time. No one had weeded the grass from the pavement in the middle of the cloisters, and the snow made a carpet of green and white diamonds until the prefects trampled it with their bossy shoes. She cycled each morning, fingers cold in mittens, to the school in Thixendale where she was supposed to study geography and drawing, but where instead she helped the children with their arithmetic.

  The Academy, as she learned to call it, was shabbier than she remembered. The chapel ceiling needed new plaster, and the whole place needed airing. The food was still vile.

  Sometimes on the floor of the bathroom it hurt so much she felt sure she would break. If you cried hard enough, would it crack a bone?

  Mr. Lockett-Egan was shocked by her reading, whether by what she had read or what she hadn’t, he didn’t say. Dr. Sebastian was shocked by her religious education, Monsieur Henri was shocked by her knowledge of certain parts of Paris, and young Mr. Palford from Llangollen was shocked that she knew mathematics at all. Only Mr. Burton-Lee, the old man they all feared, seemed perfectly at ease with her. He would quiz her on the prep and demand her quick reply. He would answer her queries with conviction and let her know that they mattered, that he had no intention of taking pity on her for anything. When she burrowed beneath the rough blankets at night, it seemed not impossible that she might one day wake up and find herself a boy. She could change her name to something better, switch her clothes, play football, punch things, and be beaten for her crimes.

  That boy never looked at her, which meant he had done what she told him. Not that it mattered. Nothing that mattered could be changed. In the refectory, he sat with his scores of friends, laughed at their jokes, and shoveled the sickening brussels sprouts into his maw like a creature that couldn’t taste. He behaved like one who’d never known her, but on the floor of the bathroom she knew the truth: she had ordered him to forget. He was being faithful in the only way he could.

  * * *

  It was worse than he’d imagined, worse than any book described. To read her words on airmail paper was one thing, but to live and breat
he within her orbit, to glimpse her out the window as she mounted a bicycle and pedaled through the gates during timetabled lessons, free when they were not, to have to listen to every licentious remark from his fellows, each crude rumor and joke—it was enough to bring on angina.

  Was she bewitched or merely cruel to pretend he didn’t exist? Grief, he knew, could change people. It had turned his mother into a shade who despised him. Could this other one be the same? She’d no reason to blame him for what happened to her mother, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. Was he, by receiving her letters, supposed somehow to have stopped it? Did she regret her confidences now that the purpose behind them was dead? Or were her refusals meant to be defeated? Had she expected him to track her down months ago, and was her final, amputating letter a sign only of her disgust?

  Her wardrobe was a palate of gray and black—woolen stockings, pullovers, hat, and coat. She even tied her hair with black ribbons. The single splash of color came from the purple stripe of the House scarf and tie. He found it strangely indecent for her to wear House colors, as if she might one morning don their uniform entire.

  * * *

  Dr. Sebastian said that Advent meant coming towards. Not people coming towards Christmas, but Jesus coming towards all of them. Dr. Sebastian wandered off into the thickets at that point with the first and second coming and the end of times and the meanwhile. It was hopeful, he said, but also terrible.

  She had always been afraid of ghosts. When she was small, she had dreams in which ghosts filled her room but her parents refused to believe her. After the funeral, she lay awake, abruptly unafraid. Then there was the night in the kitchen with the smell and the cold, and for a few seconds—she wasn’t sure how long, it might have stopped time—she thought her mother was there. She went to call out, but before she could unfreeze her throat, the true freezing came: lemons but rotted, like her but not her. That time with Toad and the Green Fairy, that had been her, warm, not cold. In the kitchen was an imposter. She’d been fooled by it once, and was almost fooled this time, but in that frozen instant she had seen through it, smelled through it, thought through it, and she knew the only way to keep it away was to make the air so cold that its cold could not be felt, to make the room so loud that nothing could be heard, and to stop the smell—blood.