Young bloods r-1

by Simon Scarrow

  'I think so. Mother, he needs us. Most of all he needs you. Someone must have faith in Arthur or he'll just give up.'

  Lady Mornington was thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. 'Very well, I must make more of an effort to see him. I'll have him to stay with me this Easter.'

  'That would be a good start,' Richard replied tactfully. 'And meanwhile, write to him more often, and take an interest in his affairs. Then we might see some kind of improvement.'

  'And if we don't?'

  Richard looked down at his hands, and for the first time Anne saw him as the man he had become, laden with responsibilities that had forever closed the door of childhood behind him. The clean lines of his face were already marked with creases. Richard glanced up with a sad expression. 'If we don't see any improvement this year, then I'm afraid we will have to take him out of Eton.We'll need every penny to make sure that we can see Gerald through school. He's doing well – very well – and the money would be better spent on him.'

  'If you do withdraw Arthur, what will become of him?'

  'There's little choice in the matter. If he can't achieve anything at school then it'll have to be the Church, or the army. Believe me, I want something better for him, but we have to be realistic. We can try to save him from himself, but I can't help feeling that it's already too late. The damage is done.'

  'I see. So it's all down to his progress this year?'

  Richard nodded. 'His last chance.'

  It was a week before the end of the Lent Half – a hot day for the time of year and already most of the boys had discarded their coats as they played on the bank of the Thames. The sun shone down on them from a clear turquoise sky as Arthur watched the other schoolboys from the shade of an oak tree. He was leaning against the trunk and had been reading from a poetry collection he had borrowed from the school library. But the plain words on the pages had soon lost their attraction compared to the far greater aesthetic magic worked by the arrival of spring on such a fine day, and his attention slipped from the book and stretched out across the lawn to the easy glide of the river beyond.

  For the first time in months Arthur felt a surge of pleasure and contentment flow through his body. In a few days he would be going home to his mother, and would not be exiled to the gloomy hills of Wales for the Easter holidays. Already, he had planned a series of excursions to see the sights of London and attend the best public recitals that the capital had to offer. Arthur was looking forward to being part of the family again, and not just an embarrassment to them.

  A splash of white and silver drew his eye to the river and Arthur saw a group of boys had dived in and were racing across to the far bank.Their clothes lay in untidy heaps on this near side of the Thames. For an instant Arthur was sorely tempted to join them.

  'Why not?' he said aloud. 'Why shouldn't I?'

  Snapping the poetry book shut, he quickly rose to his feet and before he could change his mind he set off for the river bank, in long, purposeful strides. Ahead of him, the boys in the river had reached the far side, and as he approached Arthur recognised them: Bobus Smith and his friends. Before he could change direction and head for a different spot along the river Smith caught sight of him and, cupping his hands to his mouth, he called across the river to Arthur.

  'Wesley! Hey, Wesley! Are you coming for a swim?'

  Arthur's heart sank. All he wanted was a pleasant swim on his own. Now Bobus Smith had seen him and no doubt would not let him enjoy the moment in peace.Very well, he would just have to find another place to swim, out of sight of the other boys.

  'Are you coming in?' Smith called out again.

  Arthur shook his head. Then to make sure that he was understood he shouted back, 'No. I've got a book to read.' He raised the volume of poetry as proof of his intention.

  'Bookworm!' someone cried out, and at once the others joined in, instinctively co-ordinating into a chant that carried clearly across the river and turned the heads of those on the bank around Arthur. His face burned with embarrassment and anger as he turned away from the river and began to walk along the path, away from his tormentors. He did not get very far when he heard a splashing commotion behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Bobus Smith and his friends were swimming along the river, trying to keep up with him, some of them still calling out as they churned through the current.

  'Bookworm! Bookworm!'

  Arthur gritted his teeth, and abruptly stopped. It was not that he minded being thought bookish, especially given his poor academic record. Quite the contrary, since it provided an excuse for his refusal to take part in physical games. What angered him now was the knowledge that Smith would not leave him in peace. He would follow him up the river, and if Arthur turned and went in the other direction he knew they would shadow him like jackals. If he turned away from the river and went back to the school it would mark yet another petty victory in their campaign of intimidation.

  'Damn you, Smith,' he growled. 'Damn you and all those fools to hell.'

  'What did you say, Wesley?' Bobus called out from the river, swimming closer to the bank.'Spit it out! If you are man enough, that is.'

  Without thinking, Arthur bent over, snatched up a handful of gravel from the path and hurled it towards his tormentor. A scattershot of small pebbles and pieces of grit thrashed the water around Smith and several stung his face. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, and with a howl of rage swam straight for Arthur.

  Arthur's guts turned to ice as he stared towards the river. He had no wish to fight Smith on a day like this, and the prospect of having his good spirits dashed made his heart fill with a simmering anger and resentment.

  'All right, then,' he muttered to himself. He dropped his book on to the grass and clenched his fists as Smith's feet scrambled for purchase on the river bottom and then he waded ashore like a rock bursting from the sea. There was no preamble, no studied taking of position, just a mad scramble as Smith, naked and dripping, hurled himself forwards. Arthur crouched to lower his centre of balance, and raised his fists. At the last moment, he ducked to one side and stuck out his foot, hoping to trip his enemy. But the movement was mistimed. Instead of tripping Smith, the shoe stamped down on his toes with a loud crack and Smith pitched forward on to the ground with a howl of agony. For an instant Arthur was too shocked by his mistake to act. His fists relaxed and he was about to apologise when he saw the merciless look of hatred in Smith's expression.Any hesitation now would be fatal. Arthur tightened his fists again and closed in on Smith. He swung his foot back and kicked the boy in the knee, causing a fresh cry of pain, then in the knee again, before stamping on his other foot.When Smith, screaming now, reached for his toes Arthur moved round and slammed several blows against the side of Smith's head, and finally, and with all the strength he could muster, threw his fist straight at Smith's pug nose. When his knuckles connected Arthur felt the blow jar his arm all the way up to the shoulder. Smith's head jerked backwards and he fell flat on the grass and lay still.

  Arthur stared at him. 'Oh Christ! What have I done?'

  Around him there was a moment's stillness before the other boys on the river bank began to move hesitantly in his direction. From the river came the sound of splashing as Smith's friends swam to the bank and emerged. A circle formed around Arthur and the still form of Smith, sprawled in the grass.They glanced at Smith and then Arthur, and he saw the nervousness in their expressions. One of them looked him straight in the eye and gave an approving nod. A small boy, a first year, squeezed through the crowd and stared open-mouthed.

  'Th-that's Bobus Smith!' he said in a voice shrill with excitement. He looked at Arthur in awe and said. 'Is he… is he dead?'

  Arthur knocked on the door.

  'Come in, Wesley!' The housemaster's voice boomed from inside his study. Arthur, who had been summoned directly from the classroom, turned the knob and pushed the heavy oak panelled door open. Inside, the room was large and comfortably furnished. Seated behind his desk was Mr Chalkcraft. On the ot
her side, in two smaller chairs, sat Lady Mornington and Richard. Arthur had no idea they were coming to Eton and instantly suspected the worst. He gave them the barest nods of greeting before he lowered his gaze to the floor.

  'Over here by the desk, boy. And stand straight.'

  Arthur did as he was told, terribly uncomfortable under the eyes of his mother and brother.

  'You know why you're here,' said Chalkcraft. It was impossible to tell whether it was a question or a statement.

  'Is it to do with Smith, sir?'

  'Of course. What else? Smith's still in the sanitorium. Three broken toes. A broken nose and suffering from that blow to the head. Not a pretty sight.'

  'No, sir,' Arthur replied with feeling. 'But I can't claim all the credit for his noisome appearance.'

  His mother shifted uneasily in her chair and Richard glared at him. Only the housemaster seemed at all amused, and struggled to hide a quick smirk.

  'Yes, well. It's a serious matter, Wesley. Can't have boys demolishing each other so comprehensively. Why, soon there'd be no students left. This is a damned school, not a boxing club.'

  'I'm sorry, sir.'

  'I should hope you are. I've had to ask your mother and His Lordship to attend the school to discuss this matter. Now there's no point in prevaricating, so I'll tell you straight away. You're leaving the school at the end of next term.'

  Arthur glanced round at the three adults. 'I'm being expelled?' He felt a surge of indignation. 'But I was defending myself.'

  'Quiet!' Chalkcraft raised a hand. 'You are not being expelled. I did not say that you were being asked to leave. Besides, it is not entirely a question of your treatment of Smith. After discussing your progress, or lack of it, at Eton, your brother, mother and I have agreed that your continuing at the school would be pointless.You just don't seem to fit in here,Wesley.That's all there is to it. So your brother has given a term's notice of his intention to withdraw you from the school.'

  Arthur looked at Richard, struggling to hide his terribly injured pride. 'I see.'

  Richard met his accusing gaze levelly. 'You've been here three years, Arthur. I've seen your records. Not only are you failing to make the grade in your school year, but your marks are even lower than most of the pupils in the years below you. Frankly, there are better uses to which the family can put the money we have been spending on your school fees. And, I know that you are not happy here.'

  It was the truth,Arthur conceded.All of it.Yet now that he was faced with the consequences of three years of lassitude, he felt injured by the accusation that he had not matched up to the standard expected of him. Suddenly, he wanted to stay at Eton with a passion, rather than accept that his withdrawal would provide yet more proof of his inadequacy.

  'I want to stay,' he responded quietly.

  Richard smiled.'No you don't. I know you would like to think you do. And what if you did stay here? Your record is already blotted as far as your teacher and the other pupils are concerned. However much you might try to change, they would hold your past against you. After that fracas with Smith, you could hardly blame them.'

  Lady Mornington sniffed. 'And you can be sure that that vicious prig Sidney Smith is making London society fully aware of what Arthur has done to his little brother.'

  'Yes, Mother,' Richard interrupted. 'But we're not here to discuss your feud with Sidney Smith. We're discussing what's best for Arthur, remember?'

  'Yes. Of course I remember,' she snapped, and Arthur was suddenly aware that much more had been discussed prior to this meeting in the housemaster's study.Whatever he said now was not going to change anything. Decisions about his future had already been made. His mother turned to him and smiled.

  'Arthur, dear, I want you to come and live with me. It seems I've neglected you for far too long.Would you like that? I'm sure you would. In any case, I've decided that it's time to quit London.'

  'Leave London?' Arthur replied, his mind racing with images of returning to Dangan. 'I'd like that.'

  'I knew it,' Lady Mornington smiled at him.'I'm so glad.That's settled then. As soon as you finish here at Eton, we'll pack our bags and leave. I'll make sure I find a nice place for us while you complete your last term.'

  'Find a place?' Arthur was confused. 'What place?'

  'Why, some nice rooms for us,' his mother continued. 'In Brussels.'

  'Brussels?'

  'Yes. A lovely city. So I've heard.' Anne reached out and took his hand. 'Arthur, dear, we're going to have a lovely time there, aren't we?'

  Arthur stared at his mother, then glanced down at her gloved hand clutching his limp fingers. He fought back the frustration and anger welling up inside. 'Yes, Mother, whatever you say…'

  Chapter 30

  'Ah! I see that you have a musician in the family,' Monsieur Goubert smiled, as he caught sight of a violin case amongst the bags being unloaded from the carriage.There were several valises, a collection of hatboxes, a chest of toiletries, some boxes of books and sheet music piled in front of the door of the lawyer's house. It was an imposing residence, a short distance from the centre of Brussels, and for several years Monsieur Louis Goubert had let suites of rooms to foreigners attracted by the reasonable cost of rent and amenities in Brussels. Most of his tenants were down-at-heel aristocrats looking for somewhere more affordable to live while keeping up the appearance of being from the finest families in Europe. As a result Brussels had become a far more interesting place in recent years and Monsieur Goubert welcomed the arrival of socialites into the city, whose lustre might just rub off on him and his wife. Socialites like this English lady, and her young son.

  'Yes, indeed,' Lady Mornington regarded the violin case. 'My boy Arthur does occasionally like to strum the instrument.'

  Arthur winced at the gibe, but kept his mouth shut and forced himself to smile.There was no point in rising to the bait. Since he had left Eton and come to live with her, Arthur had learned the rules of the game quickly enough. If the whim took her, his mother could become extremely cutting and sarcastic to enemy, friend and family alike. If one took offence then she would accuse her victim of being too sensitive and lacking in humour. If the target of her spite chose to respond in kind, she would become hurt, and burst into tears. And, as Arthur had quickly discovered, there would follow a long tirade about filial ingratitude and the suffering of a widow left in reduced circumstances by a spend-thrift husband and a useless fiddler for a son. Arthur found such accusations particularly painful and therefore did his best to avoid provoking his mother.

  Monsieur Goubert turned to the boy. 'Well, I must say, it would be a pleasure to hear you perform, sir. Indeed, there is in my house another boy your own age who professes to like music. The Honourable John Armitage. I must introduce you to him as soon as you have settled in.'

  'Please do,' said Lady Mornington. 'It would be good for Arthur to make some friends. God knows, he has few enough.'

  'Aha!' Monsieur Goubert laughed, and slapped his chest. 'The robust English humour!'

  Anne frowned. 'What do you mean, humour?'

  'I, er, thought that Your Ladyship…'The lawyer wilted under her gaze and turned back to Arthur. 'Later then, if you wish.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Arthur bowed his head. 'I would be most grateful for the introduction.'

  'Good.' Monsieur Goubert smiled. 'Now I must be off to work. I trust you will settle in well.'

  'We will do our best,' Anne replied. 'The house looks to be in a decent state of repair, and I trust we will find the accommodation as described.'

  'I'm sure you will be most comfortable, my lady.' Monsieur Goubert raised his hat. 'Until later.'

  He waddled down the steps and then walked up the street with a stiff rolling gait.

  He seems a nice enough man,' said Arthur, with a quick glance towards his mother, 'for a landlord.'

  'Quite.' Anne turned and looked up at the facade of the lawyer's house. 'To think that we once had a bigger house than this in Dublin, and a better house in Londo
n.'

  'Mother, things have changed,' Arthur said gently. 'We cannot expect to retain a style of living that is beyond our purse. Our fortunes will change one day, you'll see.'

  'Ha! And pigs might fly.' She turned to the men unloading the carriage and ordered them, in French, to take the luggage up at once. Then she took her son's arm. 'Come, Arthur, let's go inside and inspect our little bolt hole.'

  The suite of rooms that she had taken were on the second floor and comprised an entrance hall, two bedrooms, a parlour and a study. There was a bathroom at the end of the landing that was shared with the occupants of the other suite on the second floor – a Norwegian merchant and his family.The rooms were all of a decent size and comfortably, but not expensively, furnished. Even so, Arthur watched his mother make her way round, running her gloved fingers over the fittings and occasionally prodding the upholstery, until she finally shrugged and turned to him.

  'It will do, for now.'

  Lady Mornington did her best to settle into Brussels society as swiftly as possible.Within days of their arrival she and Arthur were invited to a ball at the Chambre de Palais, a formal affair of silk gowns, glittering jewellery and military decorations. As his mother launched herself into the corner of the room taken over by Brussels' English contingent, Arthur climbed up to the gallery that ran along the sides of the ballroom and, leaning against the pillar, he gazed down at the hundreds of guests milling around below. The loud warbling of conversation was pierced here and there by the shrill laughter of women but he could not pick out a word of what was being said. He idly wondered if there was indeed anything being said – anything worth listening to, at least. He spotted his mother, engaged in animated discussion with an army officer. The latter stood tall and aloof, in shiny black boots that reached up to his knees and ended in a golden tassel. He was a tall, slender man with cropped, curly brown hair above a thin face dominated by a long prominent nose.