by John Hanley
A small concession. My hands steadied, though the bright spots still burned my cheeks. ‘As you say, sir, this is a matter of honour and for that reason I cannot apologise to Centenier Phillips. He provoked me. He wouldn’t listen. He’s a –’
‘Renouf, how far do you think you can swim against the tide?’
‘Well, sir, I can swim a hundred yards in about sixty seconds so, if I could maintain that speed, that would equate to about three and a half miles per hour. A spring tide will rise eighteen feet in the middle of its flood.’ I paused, trying to give the impression I was calculating, though I was trying to work out what was behind the question. I gave up. ‘Not very far, sir.’
‘If there was a higher certificate in flippancy, Renouf, you would doubtless achieve the top grade.’ He leant back in his chair and surveyed me as forensically as the biology master would a dissected frog. ‘I do fear for you, boy. Your stubbornness will “ensure that your voyage is bound in shallows.”’
The quotation game was something I had learned so well from this master. ‘Brutus might have been correct, sir but, however much the “tide is flooding”, it’s going to change and so is the “fortune”. Caesar was a sailor, though it was the “ides” rather than the “tides” that got him.’ I winced as the forced pun slipped out.
‘Pearls before swine, boy, pearls before swine. I had such high hopes. You had an understanding. I remember we were reading Julius Caesar around the room and some of your colleagues ceased their struggle to comprehend and started to giggle. You rounded on them and called them “blocks, stones, worse than useless things”. I reprimanded you at the time, couldn’t have you doing my job, wouldn’t have been right though I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
His pipe was in his hand again and he started the automatic routine of lighting it. ‘I shouldn’t have given in to you over Antonio when casting the Merchant of Venice though. I should have insisted you play him. You would have made the perfect victim and you might have learnt the humility that was hard earned for Antonio by acting that part but no, you had to swap it for Shylock with your friend Marcks.’
‘You know why I did that, sir –’
‘Yes, yes, all very noble. The Christian plays the Jew whilst the Jew performs as the Christian, but what humility did you learn from playing Shylock? You just managed to swim a few more yards against that tide which will always drive you back – on your own admission. Wake up, Renouf. You will always encounter people like Phillips. Don’t you understand, it is sometimes politic to lose and make a friend rather than win and confirm an enemy? Has my work with you been completely in vain?’
I stifled the obvious retort for I sensed that Mr Grumbridge was being sincere, had stepped aside from his role as headmaster and was now acting as mentor, even friend. Perhaps he was right. Why pick fights?
The pipe was now well alight and his silhouette wreathed in smoke. He sucked on the stem, leaving the question hanging in the air.
‘No, sir, I do understand your concerns but I have to make my own way.’
‘But why isn’t that way to Oxford? Why this stubborn refusal to stretch your mind, to achieve academic enrichment?’
‘You know the answer, sir. I love Shakespeare, love performing, love poetry, writing, reading, but those are hobbies.’
My father’s voice seemed to take over. ‘But I’m practical, I need real skills I can use to make a life for myself, my family. I want to learn about agriculture, about the science of the land. I want to get away from the island for a while. But you’ve heard all this before.’
‘Yes, your father and I did have a brief discussion.’
I imagined there was more brevity than wit during that encounter. Arguing with my father wasn’t like swimming against the tide; it was more like trying to plunge through ten-foot surf wearing wellington boots.
He grimaced. ‘He wasn’t overly impressed with the offer of the Raynor Award. Seemed to feel that £300 per year was insufficient recompense for the loss of your services, if I recall.’
In truth, it would have been enough but I couldn’t do it without my father’s full support. Caroline thought I was ducking out and playing safe with what I knew, that I had no sense of adventure, no courage. What I actually had was a sense of duty and no bloody choice.
I knew Grumpy had been disappointed for me, now he was disappointed in me.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I will apologise to the centenier if you think it will help the college. I will also apologise to Mr Brewster and, if you insist, I will speak to Mr Hayden-Brown, and to Mr and Mrs Vibert.
He turned back towards me, a slight smile on his face. ‘Of course you will, Renouf, of course you will. Whatever else, you have a strong sense of what is right, even though you perpetually seem to derive greater enjoyment from being wrong. I will write on your behalf to the centenier though I doubt he will appreciate the dramatic irony I intend to introduce in that particular missive. He is, in truth, an appalling man but one must respect the office, even if the badge is too big for its holder.’
I smiled at last, the tension ebbing away. ‘Thank you, sir, if you’re sure.’
‘No need to trouble Mr Brewster. He and I had an amiable enough telephone conversation. He informed me just in case the police wished to make an issue of it and he would be able to report that he had dealt with the matter appropriately.’
‘What about –’
‘The girls and their parents? I leave that to your conscience.’ He wandered over to the polished sideboard and picked up the crystal decanter. ‘A small sherry, perhaps?’
‘No thanks. Sorry, sir, I don’t. Nothing religious, or anything like that. It’s just that I’ve watched the older lads at the club trying to play water polo after a couple of drinks. It doesn’t seem to do much for their performance. Didn’t do too much for Falstaff either as I recall. I’m sure the time will come when I might be grateful for a drink, but it’s not yet. “Drink, Sir, is a great provoker of three things: nose-painting, sleep and urine.’’’
Grumbridge chortled. ‘ Macbeth, the Porter. You never cease to surprise me. There you are teetering on the brink of moral damnation and you can’t manage a small sherry. Anyway, there are a couple of things I want to discuss with you. Shame you couldn’t make the Bisley team this year. I saw you there this morning seeing off your brother. That’s before I got this.’ He waved at the letter again. ‘Hand delivered no less. How do you think your brother will do in the Shield?’
Bisley, the Ashburton Shield for rifle shooting, Victoria’s yearly chance to compete against the UK’s best public schools. ‘I’m sure we’ll do well, sir. Some good cadets in the team. I’m sure my brother will keep up the family tradition.’
‘Quite, though one rather hopes that he remembers which eye to close as he squeezes the trigger.’
Alan wouldn’t waste time swimming against the tide. He preferred jumping off cliffs, go-karting down the steepest hills or teasing Victor.
‘I shouldn’t worry about that, sir, his favourite trick is to shoot with both closed.’
‘I rather hope that is a feeble attempt at humour and not a serious recollection.’
‘Humour, I’m afraid – not my strong point, sorry.’
‘Well, let’s draw a veil over that.’ He waved it away. ‘One more thing, Renouf, the end of term celebrations. I assume you will be helping with the swimming at the Palace Hotel. I know you prefects have got some plans; though I hope they don’t involve placing my car on the roof again.’
‘Of course not, sir. Perish the thought.’
‘I understand you’re also helping out with some redecoration in the library and taking some of the juniors for life-saving lessons before we break up.’
‘Is that alright, sir?’
‘Of course, it’s most helpful now that you’ve finished your examinations. On that last day, the parents of our younger swimmers will have paid two shillings for a decent lunch before the swimming. Don’t ruin it for them by trying to win ever
ything. Losing, when everyone knows you could have won, shows true humility.’
I’d try that suggestion on Miko but doubted if Grumpy would approve of his answer.
I nodded politely.
‘Well, thank you, Renouf, I think that’s all. Unless you have any questions for me?’
I shook my head and turned to leave, then stopped. Dare I? ‘Sir, there’s just one thing. Part of my moral dilemma.’
‘Go on.’ His tone wasn’t encouraging.
‘I’m having difficulty with relationships, struggling to distinguish between love and –’
‘Quite, quite, always a problem that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’m hardly the one to help. The best advice I can offer is think of Bassanio and the caskets eh? you remember? “ So may the outward shows –’’’
‘‘‘be least themselves. The world is still deceived with ornament.’’’
‘That’s right. Don’t be fooled by the surface emotions. Look deeper.’ He paused. ‘One shouldn’t base one’s life round Shakespeare, but he does deal with the matter rather well. Just be careful of the false emotions, especially that most dangerous of all.’
I looked puzzled.
‘Think of the Moor.’
‘Sir?’
‘“The green-eyed god”.’
‘Jealousy?’
‘That’s right. Don’t ever be trapped like Othello and don’t be fooled by false counsel. Find the truth for yourself; even trusted friends can lie. Goodness, this serious stuff is making me thirsty. You sure you won’t join me?’
I shook my head again as the headmaster drained his sherry and licked his lips in satisfaction. I started to leave.
‘One moment, Jack.’ I stopped in surprise at his use of my Christian name for the first time ever.
He placed his empty glass on his desk. ‘How old are you?’
‘Why, almost nineteen, sir.’
‘Yes, yes. I know that, birthday in October, right? But that’s not what I meant. How old do you think you are?’
‘Sir?’
‘Even though you are flippant, even facetious at times, you are essentially very serious-minded. Now that’s a trait of someone closer to their thirties than twenties and it strikes me that you think too far beyond your age.’
I started to speak but he waved me into silence.
‘This, uh, fascination with the opposite sex; your obvious confusion over relationships. You attempt to rationalise it all but it seems to me that you are not meeting with much success.’
I nodded in agreement. That was for certain.
‘I can’t advise you other than to suggest that you shouldn’t be getting so involved yet. It is more sensible to wait.’ He gnawed his lower lip. ‘How old do you think I am?’
Now that was a devilish question. How could I avoid giving offence? He looked well into his sixties and, with his almost translucent skin and watery eyes, could be even older. ‘Excuse me if I’m wrong, sir, but I would think you are about fifty.’
He laughed. ‘That’s very generous of you as I’m sure you think I look at least ten years older. You’re pretty close though. I’m forty-four next month.’ He looked at me as though there was a specific meaning in that number. I must have looked puzzled because he continued. ‘Think, Jack. What would the date have been when I was your age?’
The penny dropped. ‘1914, sir.’
‘That’s right. I, too, faced your dilemma, though it was somewhat easier at my school. There were portraits of the old boys in their army uniforms stretching back generations on every wall. They were venerated.
I had a place at Oxford, due to start in that September, but in the patriotic fervour, I joined the colours. I was one of the fortunate ones, though, and apart from a small piece of shrapnel in my leg, I returned in one piece. But the things I saw, Jack, the things I saw…’ he stopped.
I waited. He couldn’t know that I had already had that horrific landscape painted for me by my uncle or that Miko had lacerated me further with his terrible story.
He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. My generation has failed. The war to end all wars hasn’t and you will be faced with the same choices I had in that last glorious summer. And I’m not just talking about university.’ It seemed he was on the verge of crossing a barrier of confidence with a student. ‘I hope you understand what I am saying.’
I nodded and waited.
‘There is going to be a war, Jack. It’s not just scaremongering. You should be prepared to make a most difficult decision, as the last thing you want to take to war with you is a serious relationship. Start your studies by all means, but save your passion for your books. At least you can take some of those with you.’
He moved round to me, his hand outstretched. We shook.
‘Good, luck, my boy. It’s been a pleasure teaching you despite the challenges. Remember, if all else fails, read the sonnets.’
I coughed to hide my emotion. ‘Thank you, sir, for everything.’
Grumpy turned back to his desk. ‘Not at all, my boy, not at all.’ He paused and looked out of the window, ‘if I think of anything which might help, I’ll let you know. Just close the door after you, there’s a good chap.’
14
I’d closed the door on the rest of the school as well and spent the morning in the library tracing Miko’s journey in an atlas. I’d also read some of the sonnets but couldn’t absorb them, couldn’t shake off the sadness of Miko’s story. Surcouf, and those who thought like him, should be made to listen to such stories. But what would they hear?
I rode down to the pool at lunchtime. The tide was out so I pushed myself for thirty-two lengths of the 110 yard course. My body froze but even an hour in the cold water couldn’t anesthetise my feelings.
I couldn’t face school again so I took Boadicea for a long trip round the island. She did her best to lift my mood but even the exhilarating acceleration and the beautiful scenery failed.
I turned into Union Street at five-thirty and pulled up outside Fred’s house. Rachel was waiting. She looked worried.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘There’s no one in.’
‘What about Malita? Didn’t she walk home with you?’
‘She’s not been in work. No message, nothing. I came here at lunchtime but it was all locked up. She’s in trouble at work because of it. I don’t know what to do.’
It wasn’t unusual for Fred to disappear for a few days though I was surprised that Malita hadn’t sent a message. The blinds were drawn but that was usual in this baking heat. I pulled Boadicea up on to her stand and eased myself off. An hour of swimming followed by several hours in the saddle had left me with concrete legs. Rachel should have laughed at my contortions but Malita’s absence had spooked her. As I stumbled towards her, the Jaguar, which had been parked in the road the previous evening, crawled past. They were still wearing their hats. The driver stared at the road but the passenger examined us. His eyes were shaded by dark glasses so I couldn’t read his expression. The car didn’t stop.
‘Who was that?’
‘I don’t know. They were here yesterday, parked up the road. They look a bit odd to me. Uncle Fred seemed concerned and spoke to Malita about them. I didn’t hear what they said. You don’t think there’s a connection, do you?’
She looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? Connection? To what?’
Big mouth again. Of course, she wouldn’t know much about Fred and his politics. It wasn’t my place to tell her that my uncle was viewed with great suspicion by the local establishment. He claimed that his mail was steamed open and copied before it was delivered. He also claimed that all calls to and from his telephone were monitored at the exchange. Just how much was his own paranoia and how much was real, I had no idea. I knew I couldn’t tell her any of that. ‘Well, there’s not much we can do. I can’t return the bike then, shame.’
‘Oh, Jack, you’re not taking this seriously. I’m worried about them, but I don’t know…’ she
tailed off as the Jaguar approached us again.
This time it slowed and pulled up behind Boadicea. The passenger door opened and a tall man eased himself onto the pavement. He left the door open and the driver kept the engine running. The stranger wore a grey three-piece suit with a white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. He doffed his hat towards Rachel and looked at the bike.
His voice was well modulated with no trace of an accent. ‘Nice, very nice. SS 100, isn’t it?’
I placed myself between him and Rachel. ‘Yes, it’s my uncle’s. He’s lent it to me.’
‘You’re Jack Renouf, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I believe you locals have a saying: “It is a small island.”’ He tapped the handlebar. I noticed some beads of sweat on his forehead. He must find it very hot in that suit. ‘Do you know where your uncle is?’ It sounded casual enough but there was an undertone in the query.
‘I’m afraid I don’t. He wasn’t expecting me. He could be anywhere. Is he expecting you?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s always expecting us.’
I think he wanted to sound ironic but it came out as a sneer.
‘Always on the lookout for us.’
‘What do you mean? Who are you?’
‘None of your concern, sonny. Sorry to have troubled you.’ He doffed his hat again and retreated to the car. The driver muttered something to him. He turned back to me. ‘Do you like puzzles, Jack?’
I found his use of my first name objectionable when he wouldn’t tell me his so didn’t answer.
‘Well, here’s one for you. That bike, George VII, you want to find out more about it? Bovington, May 13th 1935. Go look that up and then ask your uncle. See if his story matches the real one.’ With that, he lowered himself back into the car and sat watching, waiting for us to move, as though they planned to follow, hoping perhaps that I might lead them to my uncle.
Earlier, Beresford had invited me to join him and some of the other prefects for a tour of HMS Jersey at six o’clock. His brother was her engineering officer and he’d arranged a private viewing. I hadn’t intended on going but now, with these two watchers turning into followers, I thought it might be safer to be in company. They wouldn’t think of looking for Red Fred on one of His Majesty’s ships.