by George Hagen
“They are medical photographs. What is the matter?”
The headmaster was incredulous. “Isn't it obvious?” he said. “They are indecent pictures, especially for boys who are easily aroused and sure to be confused by their significance.”
“Aroused? Confused?” Tom laughed. “Good heavens, if they don't start being confused and aroused now, they'll never catch up with the rest of us!”
“I'm sure I need not remind you that they are young men,” Poole replied. “We are trying to cultivate loftier sentiments here.”
“Loftier sentiments? Such as crushing the enemy on a hockey field?” “Now, Doctor, you can hardly compare lust with the merit of sport.” Tom sighed. “Quite right. We each owe our existence to lust. What can we attribute to hockey, aside from relieving a few lads of their front teeth?”
Cornered, the headmaster smiled. “We can argue about degree, Doctor, but your son should not be selling photographs of naked women at King Henry's. The board of trustees expects me to expel him; instead, I am willing to give him another chance.”
Tom prepared to leave, his hand on his son's shoulder, when a thought struck him and he whirled around. “What about the other fellow, Crockett? I don't see his father here.” “His pictures were of clothed women.” “Aah,” Tom sniffed. “Neither arousing nor confusing, then?” During the tram ride home, Arthur waited for his father to reprimand him, but Tom simmered in silence. Finally, the boy could bear it no longer. “I'm sorry, Papa,” he said.
The doctor winced. “How much did you make from the pictures?” “Only about sixpence. Then Crockett saw them, and that's when I was sent to the head's office.”
Now Tom smiled. “Crockett, eh? I expect he reported you because he was afraid you might drive him out of business.” The tram came to a halt at their stop, and Tom looked at his son with amusement. “Forget about this,” he said. “There are far worse things you could do.”
Margaret and Mr. Bonney were waiting at the house when they returned. Tom sensed fresh tension and halted with Arthur at the doorstep, wondering what new crisis might greet him.
MARGARET AND BONNEY
THE THING IS, WE HAVE BEEN TALKING, AND FEEL— BEGAN BONNEY.
“Together, for we are in agreement,” interrupted Margaret.
“That the time has come to make our wishes—”
“What are you talking about?” asked Tom.
“Marriage?” ventured Bonney, looking cautiously at Margaret.
“Of course!” she cried.
“And we seek it with your blessing, sir.”
“My blessing?” replied Tom. He wondered how Margaret and Bonney could possibly endure together. His daughter seemed to bully the vicar at every visit. She ended his sentences, corrected his remarks, even directed his eating habits—reduced the sugar in his tea, urged him to eat his vegetables. Was that love? All this time, Tom had pitied the man for his infatuation. It hardly seemed a romantic match; Margaret offered not the slightest gesture of physical affection. Tom had expected her to fall for a man whose temperament echoed hers—an angry chef, perhaps, who banged pans and wrenched half-eaten meals from beneath the noses of his guests.
Should he set this gentle fellow free by denying him his daughter? Tom stood up and buried his hands in his trouser pockets.
“Father,” said Margaret, impatiently, “does he have your blessing or not?”
Tom frowned at his daughter. “Don't badger me, Margaret. I would like a private word with him, if you don't mind.”
Bonney rose, and Tom took his prospective son-in-law into the garden, behind the hibiscus bushes.
“Of course you have my permission, Bonney,” he whispered, “but before you do something you may regret, let me ask you this: Where will be the fun in it? She does nothing but finish your sentences and criticize you. Please don't misunderstand me, I love her dearly and wish to see her happy, but you must understand why I worry about the equality of this enterprise. What is in it for you—if I may ask?”
The vicar seemed amused by his appeal. “Sir,” he began, “Margaret seeks certainty. She derives more pleasure from ending my sentences than I achieve from beginning them. In short, I do not mind that.
“In my work, I must view two sides to most matters, sir,” he continued. “I've counseled unhappy husbands and wives, bitter parties, estranged relatives. It is my job to be impartial, sometimes to a fault. I am always available, I do not turn anyone away. Margaret, however, is judgmental. She fills this void in my nature. She is my advocate when I strive to please too many people at once. She insulates me, bolts the door at the end of the day, puts an end to my ruminations before they consume me.”
“And you grant her this authority?” asked Tom.
“I do, sir.”
“And she doesn't bully you as she bullies me?” asked her father. “Because I have breakfast in the garden out of terror of her moods.”
“Never, sir,” said Bonney.
“Very well.” Tom sighed, adopting the compassionate expression he reserved for the incurably afflicted. “It's not a marriage I understand, I'll admit that, but I'm willing to permit it.”
They returned from the garden to find Margaret and Arthur seated at dinner. Then Bonney reached for Margaret's hand, clasped it, and assured her that all was settled. Tom kissed his daughter's cheek and felt, in her sway, a softening of the fury that had risen between them. Perhaps, he thought, this was simply Margaret's way of leaving home.
“The wedding shall be on November eleventh, next year,” she said. “That will give us time to plan everything perfectly.”
“Very prudent,” said Tom. “I'm happy for you both.” “November eleventh, nineteen eighteen?” said Arthur. “Isn't that the day the Pendletons predicted the end of the world?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “but nobody believes it will happen!” Tom turned to Bonney “Well, John? Do we agree that the world will not end on that day?”
“It is my ardent belief that it will not, sir!” said Bonney, and he embraced Margaret, who tolerated this for a moment, then dusted his jacket and wiped the shine off his forehead with her handkerchief.
AS THE WEATHER GREW sultry the dark-paneled corridors of King Henry's stank with the odor of ripening adolescents. The masters were used to it, but the younger boys often hurried down the hall holding their noses. As scores of them worked out their frustration on the football pitch, others fed the burning fuse of this wild age with smutty verses scrawled in the bathroom cubicles, angry tirades about God and country, and jokes played upon boys whose voices were slow to change, or who hadn't grown pubic hair. Some were ridiculed by their mothers' names: Wally Hill suffered the indignity of being known as Fiona for most of his senior year. Ernest Wiggers kept a little red book in which he awarded stars to local girls depending on their willingness to kiss, grope, or indulge in other racy activities. The masters periodically confiscated it— though mainly to satisfy their own curiosity. Wiggers named his tome The Book of Virgins, which wasn't entirely accurate since he awarded four stars (the highest rating) to two girls whose actions, by definition, disqualified their inclusion on the list. When Mr. Poole's daughter earned a four-star rating, Wiggers's parents were summoned, the boy was suspended, and the book vanished. The legend lived on, however; an enterprising Greek teacher spread a rumor that the book's pages were scattered among the classics in the library, which inspired a run on Aeschylus, Herodotus, and the dustiest Homeric texts.
Though a few King Henry's boys might have been seen riding the Gantrytown trams arm in arm with two-star virgins on a Saturday night, the majority, Arthur included, were terrified by sexual attraction and turned their interests to that other vessel of passion—the war.
It was in the newspapers every day; it was good versus evil and us versus them; it made men of boys and heroes of clay. It shattered families, created orphans, robbed parents, and widowed spouses. It was a seduction, a distraction, an entertainment, and an addiction. At King Henry's, the boys marve
led at the technological advances that separated this war from all other wars: mustard gas, phosgene, U-boats, depth charges, hydrophones, machine guns, tanks, biplanes, zeppelins. It was the war of the future.
Andrew Boyle, the debonair Latin master, considered it a war as old as time. He drew upon the writings of Julius Caesar and Marcus Aurelius to put the novelty of battle into perspective. Eventually, he came under scrutiny by some parents when he sent his pupils home with a remark by Cicero: “An unjust peace is better than a just war.”
A letter was published in the King Henry's Gazette that said, “The master who chooses to undermine our brave fighters would do well to reconsider his influence on young minds.”
Boyle's orderly classes were interrupted by pupils wishing to take issue with his pacifism. They left cards with the words coward and traitor in his books and jacket pockets and heckled him during lessons.
“When are you going to war, sir?”
“Would you rather fight for the Allies or the Germans, sir?”
“What did Cicero say about the Huns, sir?”
In 1917, a single man in his twenties could not live in Gantrytown without being asked about his contribution to the war effort. Andrew Boyle faced twice that pressure because of the rumors that erupted from the Gazette letter and the hostility engendered by his remarks. One day, to the surprise of many, he announced his enlistment in the officers' corps.
Almost immediately, twenty boys committed themselves to follow him onto the battlefield after they had left school.
Tom, who considered Boyle the institution's last bastion of common sense, asked him if he'd lost his mind.
“My mind? Not yet,” he replied. “But I feel the ground slipping beneath my feet. Who am I to preach about war? I've seen nothing of it with my own eyes.”
“What is to become of any generation if it refuses to learn from history?” Tom asked.
“Didn't you serve in the South African war?” Boyle asked him.
“I did, but I regretted it.”
“Well, I must confess, Doctor, that I, too, value hindsight over ignorance,” Boyle replied.
AT THE END of term, Wally Hill made a present of his maps and newspaper articles to Arthur. “I don't need these anymore,” he said.
“Oh,” said his friend. “Have you found a girl?”
“No.” Wally laughed. “I've enlisted.”
He hardly seemed the type; he was so thin and skittish. Although he was an expert on troop movements, the thought of him thrusting a bayonet at anyone was laughable.
Wally had been inspired by Andrew Boyle's announcement of his enlistment: it had instantly reclassified the “soldier type” as urbane, scholarly, and dashingly handsome. Quite a few lads who might have lived long, sedate, and scholarly lives would die on Flanders fields for following Boyle's example.
“I want to go to the Western Front,” said Wally, “earn a few medals, and come back here to teach, just like Boyle.”
“But you're not old enough,” said Arthur, who knew that the enlistment age was eighteen and a half. Wally had just turned eighteen.
“I got into a conversation with the recruiting officer about the Battle of the Somme,” Wally explained. “I knew tons more about it than he did! He let me through without even looking at my papers! If you're eighteen, you can probably pass, as long as you don't have flat feet or bad eyes.”
Arthur's subsequent conversations with Wally rarely veered from his enlistment plans. Wally's family was having a big party for him before he left.
It was another big adventure, and Arthur could barely keep envy at bay. He played the piano with the school orchestra at the farewell assembly, which Dr. Chapel attended with Margaret and John Bonney
On the stage, the debonair Andrew Boyle appeared in uniform and was given an enthusiastic send-off. All the boys who had enlisted were asked to walk up for a round of applause. Their jubilation was in sharp contrast to the ambivalence of their parents. Never had Tom seen a group of more anxious faces. The masters were grim—five of their peers had been killed in the war; now another two were missing in action. As prayers were said for the fallen, the older folk stifled tears while the young applauded the handsome boys before them. Suddenly Tom noticed that his son was enthralled by those gallant figures. A grin split Arthur's face as he played the first notes of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” The doctor felt an urge to seal the boy's eyes and ears from this madness and carry him home, but it was too late.
AFTERWARDS, JOHN BONNEY accompanied Tom back to the house. The crickets chirped, and the scent of sweet peas from the gardens they passed enriched the night air.
“What a moving occasion,” declared Bonney.
“What a waste of time,” replied Tom.
Bonney's smile faded.
“If I had known I was to be subjected to a recruitment rally,” said Tom, “I'd have stayed at home and removed a few tonsils!”
At this moment Margaret and Arthur caught up with them. “Since when have you been removing tonsils in the evening, Papa?” she remarked.
“If patriotism could be removed as easily as tonsils, I'd work night and day, believe me,” said the doctor.
Bonney laughed nervously. “Surely we must acknowledge the war effort.”
“Then let us acknowledge foolishness too,” replied Tom. “And folly and stupidity. When millions of men die for no good reason …”
“It is a shame,” Bonney agreed. “But we cannot abrogate our responsibilities. Once a war is begun, we should be dedicated to its end!”
Tom frowned at the young man. “And if everybody were to walk off the battlefield—that would be an ending, would it not?”
“Well, of course, but—”
“I've heard stories of soldiers calling a truce to remove their dead and wounded from the battlefield,” said the doctor. “If a truce can last a few hours, why can it not be extended ad infinitum?”
“I've heard those stories too”—Bonney smiled—“but privates cannot run the war, can they? Surely we must have faith in our leadership.”
“It failed us when war was declared,” Tom replied. “War is the subjugation of reason by might. Thanks to our leaders, we are all savages again.”
“Sometimes it's necessary for people to die for a principle,” interrupted Margaret, “or the principle is not worth defending.”
“What principle?” Tom replied. “A series of border disputes between nations?”
“Well, sir,” Bonney asserted, “I believe God is on our side.”
“Oh yes.” Tom nodded. “And on the side of each dead Englishman, and each dead German. I just hope he's not on my side—I may not have long to live!”
Margaret put her hand up to her fiancé's shoulder to buttress him against the doctor's sarcasm. “Shall we talk about something else?” she said.
Arthur saw an opportunity. “I'll be eighteen in ten month's time!”
“What are you going to do when you leave school, Arthur?” inquired Bonney, equally anxious to change the subject.
“He'll work with me in the surgery,” replied the doctor. “He can't come to any harm there.”
“Yes, Arthur will replace me,” said Margaret. “Then Papa will see what a hard job it is—for anyone”
“I want to go to war,” said Arthur.
“Out of the question,” replied Tom.
“Everybody's going to war!”
“And when they return with missing arms and legs, you'll be here to sew them back together,” answered the doctor.
“I want to fight!” said Arthur.
Tom felt his heart race. “Look, Arthur, if you enlist, you'll find no glory, no pride, no happiness, no honor. At best, you'll witness humanity's disaster; at worst, you'll suffer mutilation or death. I forbid it. Do you understand?” he shouted.
Arthur stormed past his father into the house.
“How can you speak to him like that?” said Margaret.
“Easily,” Tom told her. “I don't want Arthur t
o fall for this foolishness. It is foolishness—soldiers, uniforms, valor, patriotism. It's seduction of the young by the old.”
“Foolishness?” repeated Margaret. “Who told him that boys didn't play with dolls but with toy soldiers? Who told him he must fit in? Who is to blame for that? You brought it all on yourself!”
Shaken by her words, Tom changed his tone. “Margaret, you have no idea how cruel boys can be. I was trying to save him from isolation, from being an outcast like—”
“Who sent him to King Henry's?” Margaret continued. “A school where half of the teachers are enlisted?”
“I did, of course, but—”
“Then what do you expect? You turned him into a soldier!”
ON THAT CLEAR, moonless night, the sky seemed to pulse with incredible intensity; each star was a point of brilliance; its power to steer destiny might have caused any skeptic to think twice on such an evening. Father and son couldn't help pondering their fates.
Arthur wished himself in Wally Hill's brand-new army boots and wondered why he was cursed with a father who blocked his way while his fellow classmates were applauded for their willingness to serve.
Tom stood in his garden, horrified by his mistake. All he had meant to do was protect Arthur from the Mansworths and Privots of the world. Margaret was right. He had himself to blame.
He sat down in the grass as the evening clamor of crickets swelled. In his pocket, he felt the impression of a letter he had saved from the mail that morning.
Dearest Tom,
I hope this letter finds you well.
You may remember that my son, Jonah, had been in the Australian Army. The last I heard he was on a ship to Gallipoli.
Within these four walls, I have struggled to instill in my wards a desire to reform, along with the conviction that the outside world is a place of opportunity, hope, and second chances.
Oh, Tom, what is wrong with the world? Have they all gone mad?
Audrey
As the stars glittered above him, the doctor emerged from the garden, spent but miserably defiant. Audrey was right, he decided, the world had gone mad. And he was damned if he'd surrender Arthur to such madness.