by William Boyd
Friday, 16 May
ABBEY
I thought H-D was more than usually patronizing today when he complimented me on my history exhibition to Jesus College. You would have thought from his self-congratulatory attitude that he’d purchased the place for me himself as one used to purchase a commission in the army. I told you Jesus was the college for you, didn’t I? And so on, as if he’d done me some great seigneurial favour. I said, without the slightest hint of a smile, ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, sir. Thank you so much, sir.’ I think he got the message. By way of apologizing he invited me for tea at his cottage next Sunday, promising to tell me more of Le Mayne.
Peter has his place at Balliol confirmed so at least there will be one fellow spirit at Oxford. We went into the woods during sports for a calming cigarette. We both think it strange and something of a shame that Ben is so dead set against varsity. Mind you, I said, given the choice between Paris and Oxford I don’t think I’d hesitate long. We decided that Ben must have some form of private income, though we couldn’t calculate how much. Clearly it wasn’t a fortune or he wouldn’t need to get a job. ‘Just enough not to worry,’ Peter said ruefully. The thought of having to earn a living one day does seem somewhat alien just now, but we both agreed we couldn’t wait to leave Abbey. I said I’ll probably end up a schoolteacher and asked Peter what he dreamed of becoming. ‘A famous novelist,’ he said. ‘Like Michael Arlen or Arnold Bennett with his yacht.’ This took me back somewhat. Peter a writer? The mind does boggle.
The summer term seems to stretch ahead interminably. I realize, with hindsight, how invigorating the ‘challenges’ had been, how they had transformed the boredom and banality of our life at school. H-D lent me a poem called Waste Land by Eliot, advising me to read it. There were some rather beautiful lines but the rest was incomprehensible. If I want music in verse I’ll stick to Verlaine, thank you very much.
Saturday, 17 May
At corps Sergeant Tozer was in a fearful bate. He looked like he was about to explode as he shouted and screamed at us on the parade ground. We are intrigued by Tozer—we find him droll’—so we take every opportunity to ask him about the war and how many Germans he had killed. He’s always very vague about the exact figure but gives the impression it was many dozen. Obviously he was nowhere near the front line. Today I told him I’d been in Austria for the vac and that Karl, the major-domo at the pension, had been in the war too—‘opposite British troops’.
‘What’s that got to do with the price of beer, Mountstuart?’
‘I mean it’s funny to think you might have faced each other, sir, across no man’s land.’
‘Funny?’
‘You could have been shooting at him and he at you.’
‘Or,’ Ben chipped in, ‘when you attacked the German lines you might have come face to face.’
‘I’d have given him short shrift, I tell you. Bloody Huns.’
‘You’d have had his guts for garters, wouldn’t you, sir?’
‘Damn right.’
‘You’d have had your bayonet in his tripes soon as look at him, eh, sir?’
‘I’d do whatever I had to do, Leeping.’
‘Kill or be killed, sir.’
We can and do keep this sort of banter going for ages and as a result Tozer likes us and gives us soft jobs. But he was in a state today because the night exercise was looming and he saw what a feckless bunch we were (Abbey is taking on St Edmunds). Ben says ragging is not enough: we have to come up with a memorable act of sabotage.
Monday, 19 May
I cycled out to Glympton. Still hot—a summery heat but with, somewhere, a layer of spring freshness lingering. We sat in deck-chairs in the sun in Holden-Dawes’s back garden and ate sponge cake and drank tea. I complimented H-D on the cake and asked him where he’d bought it. He said he’d baked it himself and somehow I don’t think he was lying. He asked me what I thought of The Waste Land poem and I said I thought it was somewhat pretentious. He found that very amusing. When he asked me what poetry I preferred I told him I’d been reading Rilke—in German. ‘And you think that’s not pretentious?’ he said- then he apologized. ‘I look forward to reading your own work,’ he said. I asked him how he knew I wanted to write and he said that it was just a wise guess—and then admitted that Le Mayne had told him what I’d said at my interview.
‘Show anything you do to Le Mayne,’ he said. ‘He’ll be honest with you. And that’s what you need when you’re beginning more than anything—honesty.’
‘What about you, sir?’ I said suddenly, spontaneously. ‘Could I show you something?’
‘Oh, I’m just a humble schoolmaster,’ he said. ‘Once you go up to Oxford you’ll forget all about us.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I said. I didn’t mean this but H-D brings this sort of thing out in me. He leads you on and then abruptly rebuffs you; seems to admit you into the circle of his affections and then slams the door in your face. It’s happened too many times to me now and I see it coming—so I say something hard and callous just to let him know. All it did was make him laugh again.
Then the doorbell rang and he came back out into the garden with the woman I’d seen him with before, last term, at the bus stop. She was pretty and dark with very arched, pronounced eyebrows. He introduced her as Cynthia Goldberg.
‘And this is Logan Mountstuart,’ he said. ‘We expect great things of him.’
She looked at me keenly and then turned to H-D.
‘James! What a terrible burden to place on anyone,’ she said. ‘I shall be scanning the newspapers for the rest of my life.’
‘Mountstuart needs burdens,’ H-D said.
‘He said, as the camel’s back snapped,’ I added.
They both laughed at this and for an instant I felt ridiculously pleased and sophisticated, making these adults laugh, as if I were an equal with them, and I sensed a sudden warmth for H-D and his ironic, distanced interest in me. Maybe he was right: this was the only way a master could develop a relationship with one of his charges—goading, provocative, testing, but genuine for all that.
And I was impressed with Cynthia Goldberg, my God. H-D went to fetch some sherry and she offered me a cigarette. I almost dared to accept it but declined, explaining the school rule.
‘Don’t you let your boys smoke?’ she asked when H-D reappeared. ‘Poor Logan says he’s not allowed.’
‘Poor Logan smokes enough, as it is. Here—‘ He handed me a glass of pale sherry. He raised his own in congratulation and explained about my exhibition to Jesus. We clinked glasses. Cynthia said, eyes mockingly narrow, ‘And clever with it, I see.’
It was a rather magical time that afternoon. H-D lit a pipe, Cynthia smoked her cigarette and I drank three glasses of sherry as we talked about this and that. The late sun lit the new leaves on the apple trees from behind, turning them a glowing lime green, and the swifts began to swoop and swerve above our heads. Cynthia Goldberg is a concert pianist—‘a poor and striving one’, she said. I find her profoundly, stirringly beautiful—intelligent, worldly, gifted. Oh for a world that contains Cynthia Goldbergs! I feel a growing jealousy for H-D—that he knows her, that she’s a part of his life (Are they lovers? Can they be?). And what will she remember of our encounter? Nothing, probably. Who? Mount-what? Oh, the schoolboy. A schoolboy. Jesus Christ, I have to start my real life soon, before I die of boredom and frustration.
Friday, 23 May
Peter, who has not seen the toothsome Tess for weeks, has finally managed to construct a means of communication. They leave notes for each other behind a loose brick of an old gatepost. He is trying to arrange a rendezvous as far away from Abbey as possible and together we have come up with the idea that it might be best achieved during the night exercise which, according to Tozer, is due to take place in the woodland around Ringford. Ben quizzed a school gardener who lived in Heringham and he said there was a nice pub in Ringford called the Lamb and Flag. Peter left a note in the gatepost urging Tess
to meet him in the Lamb and Flag at 9.30 p.m. on the 4th of June. Peter invited us along as well—which I thought was unduly civil of him, but there you go.
The school play was last night, I forgot to mention. Volpone— wretchedly bad. Cassell says he has a place at Christ Church—perhaps Oxford won’t be so grim after all.
Thursday, 29 May
Sergeant Tozer, bless him, has given us a wonderfully idle role in the night exercise: six of us are to guard a signal box on the branch line to Ringford, somewhere on the left flank of the Abbey defence. The section is under the command of a man called Crowhurst-Joyce (a corporal) and the other two are a couple of fifth formers from Swinton’s—all malleable, Ben thinks, though I’m a little worried about Crowhurst-Joyce—he has a little too much military zeal and I don’t think he’ll be easily suborned. It might not be quite so easy to slip away.
At Corps today Tozer was all fire and brimstone. Abbey was meant to be defending a notional ammunition dump that St Edmund’s would try to capture. Tozer was disappointed to have been cast in a defensive role, but, as he kept repeating as though he’d forged the axiom himself, ‘The best means of defence is attack’ Aggressive patrolling would be Abbey’s secret weapon, he insisted; in this way we’d stop them as far off as possible, never let them get close.
‘How ‘aggressive’ is aggressive, sir?’ Ben asked, with due eagerness.
‘Use your initiative, Leeping.’
‘What—even up to a mile in front of our positions?’
‘The aim, boy, is to sow confusion in the enemy ranks.’
‘So the sooner our aggressive patrols make contact the better.’
‘Catch on fast, Scabius.’
We carried on for another minute or two—as much for Crowhurst-Joyce’s benefit as anyone else’s—ensuring that the idea of aggressive patrolling was firmly established in everyone’s mind.
Thursday, 5th June
Well it all worked like a charm—at first. We were paraded after luncheon and issued with our rifles and ten rounds each of blank ammunition. Then Mr Gregory, who looked a sad sight in his uniform (how did he ever become a captain?), lectured us on the importance of what we were about to do. ‘This is not a game,’ he kept repeating. ‘You boys may be called upon one day to fight for your country. What you learn here will stand you in excellent stead.’ Then we were all bussed out to Ringford Woods—which turned out to be a mixture of patches of oak and elm coppices, scrubby heath land and some newish plantations of conifers.
The signal-box section were dropped off at the branch line. The box itself stood high on an embankment from where we were afforded a good view of the countryside to the south—whence the St Edmund’s forces would be advancing. Our brief was that, if we saw any St Edmund’s activity, we were to send a runner back to base and an aggressive patrol would be dispatched to intercept. Crowhurst-Joyce had been issued with a pair of binoculars.
It was a coolish overcast afternoon and evening. We lay about the embankment (under the amused and curious eye of the signalman—who obligingly brewed us up some tea) with someone always scrutinizing the woods and fields beyond. Studying the map we had been issued with, we reckoned we were about a half-hour walk from Ringford and the Lamb and Flag.
At about 7.30—the first hint of dusk coming upon us—Ben, who had the binoculars, said he had spotted some movement at the fringe of a stand of elms. Crowhurst-Joyce scampered over and peered through the lenses. ‘Can’t see anything,’ he said.
‘No, there was about a dozen or so,’ Ben insisted. ‘I just got a glimpse of them.’
‘I volunteer to go and check,’ I said.
‘You can’t go alone,’ Peter said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘We’ll all go,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll show you exactly where they were.’
‘Hang on—‘ Crowhurst-Joyce said, sensing his authority being threatened.
‘We won’t engage,’ Ben said. ‘We’ll scout, then report back. Then you can send one of these sprogs back to Gregory.’
‘But I’m in charge of this section,’ Crowhurst-Joyce whined.
‘You’re still in charge, Crowhurst,’ I said. ‘But remember Tozer said we should use our initiative.’
‘You’ll get the credit,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t worry.’
So we picked up our rifles, crossed the tracks and slithered down the other side of the embankment and headed into the woods. As soon as we were lost to sight we circled round and rejoined the branch line—a quarter of a mile or so down from the signal box—and tramped on down it until we could see the church spire of Ringford in the distance. Our plan—to explain our non-appearance in the night exercise, or if we were discovered—was to say we had got lost in the woods and had decided to rejoin the main unit, only to become further lost as night closed in. We hid our rifles in a bramble bush and unwound our puttees. We had our own shirts on under our tunics and our own ties in our kitbags. We looked a little odd, I had to admit: not quite soldiers but not quite bona fide civilians either. But Ben said no publican was going to query our outfits: we certainly didn’t look like schoolboys, and we were hardly deserters. We made Peter discard his tunic just to differentiate ourselves somewhat, then pushed on through a hedge and on to a lane that led into Ringford. We were ensconced at a table in the Lamb and Flag by 8.20.
It was quite a nice pub, the Lamb and Flag, not too busy, and we had pickled eggs and sardine sandwiches with our pints of bitter. We did attract a few strange glances from some of the regulars as one or other of us went to the bar for replenishments—our khaki trousers and hobnail boots did rather signal ‘military’, I thought—but nobody queried our presence. The landlord asked us if we were anything to do with the archaeological dig at Little Bradgate and Ben said, very smartly, that we were on our way there to lend a hand, so that seemed to settle the question of our identity.
Tess arrived early, just before 9.00, and asked for a port and lemon. Ben and I both went to the bar to fetch the drinks to allow the lovebirds a moment alone. When we returned they were sitting squeezed up against each other, holding hands.
This was as close as we had ever been to Tess and, given we had witnessed her tender ministrations, both Ben and I could hardly conceal our curiosity. She was a quiet plumpish girl with a pale square face and the slightest hint of dark downy hair on her upper lip and a slightly more luxuriant silkiness upon what we could see of her forearms. When Peter introduced us she said, in a quiet voice, ‘How do?’ to each of us, her eyes lowered demurely.
She and Peter talked to each other in hurried, almost inaudible voices. I could tell from the pitch and timbre of her words that she was tense—a crisis brewing at the Home Farm—and that whatever they were planning clearly was of some urgency. Ben and I went back to the bar for our third pint. By now I was feeling a little tight.
‘Look at them,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s like a dream.’
‘A bad dream,’ Ben said. ‘How did Peter end up with this wench?
What’ve we done for him, Logan? What did we think we were playing at?’
We talked on resentfully, glancing round from time to time, not bothering to conceal our jealousy from each other. I looked at Peter, almost with hatred, as he sat there holding hands with his sturdy country girl.
‘I can’t take much more of this,’ I said.
Ben looked at his watch. ‘Ten to ten,’ he said. ‘Better telephone school and tell them we’re lost.’
Then the door of the pub swung open and Captain Gregory and Sergeant Tozer walked in.
Friday, 6 June
In half an hour I’m up before the Lizard. We have been separated, like prisoners, and have each been moved into new studies. I feel curiously indifferent about my fate—in fact I think I’d rather like to be expelled. Ben feels the same: the sooner he goes to Paris the better, he said, and invited me to join him. Only Peter is in a state of shock, terrified as to what his father might do if he were sacked.
The only bit of luck we ha
d was that Tess was not discovered. Peter had leapt away from her the minute he spotted Tozer and Gregory (who were making for us at the bar) and, besides, they would never have dreamed there could have been a girl with us. They were in a filthy mood: St Edmunds had captured the Abbey ammunition dump with conspicuous ease.
Things became worse when we couldn’t find the bramble bush beneath which we’d hidden our rifles and Tozer swore vilely at us until Gregory asked him to stop.
Parker has just poked his snouty face round the door and has said that the Lizard will see me now.
§
Later. I am going to be controlled about this. I am going to set down the facts and record the sequence of events as they unfolded while they are fresh in my mind. I must never forget this, I must never forget what happened.
§
I knocked and was summoned in. The Lizard was standing looking mournfully out of the window, his pipe going hard. He puffed steadily as I stood there and I could hear his lips making unpleasant little popping sounds like a gas mantle not firing properly.
‘I’ve bad news for you, Mountstuart,’ he said, still looking out of the window. ‘But I’m not going to sack you—nor Leeping and Scabius. I would have to sack all three of you. I can’t sack two and not the third.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I wanted to say something audacious, something devil-may-care, something haughtily indifferent—but I couldn’t think of anything.