by Ian Sansom
But then, automatically, almost without thinking, while Morley busied himself with more measurements and calculations, I took up the camera and took the required photographs, attempting to record every detail as accurately as possible. We worked in silence for perhaps fifteen minutes.
One of Morley’s very last books is about photography, On Photography (1940): he has a theory about it, obviously. I have no such theory. All I do know is that a horrible scene like the one that was laid out before us on that bright Devon morning is something that – alas – demands a witness. Morley always spoke of the purpose of The County Guides as a form of witness. ‘This is here,’ he would sometimes say, in explanation of the books. ‘This is what this place is. What these people are. These are its glories.’ And these, I might add, are its horrors and its ruins: The County Guides tells one story about England and Englishness; my photographs, I suppose, tell another; they are perhaps the negatives of Morley’s words. Or the shadow.
I could not have described our work as such then, of course. What struck me most about the scene on that awful morning was the smell – precisely because there was no smell. There was just the smell of the sea, vast and thorough and entire, erasing everything, the waves crunching against the pebbles on the shore as though intending to devour the earth entirely – and I snapped back with the camera.
Then above the noise came another sound, and I looked up to see Dr Standish arriving with Alexander, their faces solemn.
The headmaster was dressed in the same clothes as the day before but Alex was the sort of man who likes to dress differently for different occasions. That morning he was sporting an outfit suitable for a stroll: a cap, a tweed jacket, plus fours and sturdy boots.
‘Good grief,’ said the headmaster. ‘What’s this?’
‘Ah,’ said Morley. ‘Good morning. Out for your morning constitutional?’
‘What?’ As they approached closer the headmaster was speechless. Alex seemed unperturbed.
‘Good grief. It’s …’
‘One of yours?’ asked Morley.
‘I … It’s …’ The headmaster was too disturbed to speak.
‘Michael Taylor,’ said Alex. ‘Well well.’
‘Michael?’ said the headmaster. ‘Not Michael!’
‘Stolen a car and taken a wrong turning, eh?’ said Alex.
‘Really?’ said Morley. ‘That’s what you think?’
‘Oh yes, he is – was – a terribly inquisitive sort of child, Michael. Forever fiddling around with things, poking around where he didn’t belong. Taking things apart, failing to put them back together. You know the sort of thing. Engines, all sorts. Isn’t that right, Headmaster?’
‘Is that right, Headmaster?’ asked Morley.
The headmaster was lost for words. He was down on his knees by poor Michael Taylor. All the colour had drained from his already ashen face, giving him the appearance of a ghost that had caught sight of itself. He touched the back of his hand to the dead boy’s face. The grey sea continued to spit pebbles up the beach towards us. He blinked several times in disbelief and then turned to stare at Alex, who in turn stared out to sea. Morley continued to fuss around the vehicle. And I stood with my camera, waiting.
And suddenly the headmaster became animated: it was like seeing a man regain his strength after having been knocked down, like a boxer getting up from the canvas. He stood up and strode ramrod straight over towards Alex, but then seemed to change his mind, and turned instead towards Morley, gripping him by the elbow and whispering something in his ear, taking him by the arm and leading him away from the vehicle and over towards the cliffs. I smiled weakly at Alex, who smiled confidently back. Though they were now some little distance away we could both still hear Morley and the headmaster speaking above the sound of the sea.
‘This is rather difficult … You understand of course that parents are going to be arriving all morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I wonder … if we might not mention this … immediately to the boys? It might cause distress.’
‘Distress, yes.’
‘And panic, even.’
‘Panic?’
‘Well … A tragedy like this. At this time. It would be very difficult for—’
‘For the boys.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What about the boy’s parents?’
‘Whose parents?’ said the headmaster.
‘The dead boy’s parents, Headmaster. Michael.’
‘Michael is … was … one of our orphans.’
‘You take in orphans?’
‘Their fees are paid for by some of our benefactors. It’s an arrangement we have. For boys who show exceptional promise, but who …’ He stared at the boy’s body lying motionless on the cold grey rocks. ‘Well. It would just be better if we could … Do you understand, Morley?’
There was a long lingering pause then as Morley hesitated before answering.
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘So might we keep this … for the moment?’
‘Between ourselves,’ said Morley. ‘But the police will be notified of course.’
‘Directly. Yes. Of course. But the boys, the parents, the staff …’
Morley glanced in our direction, and he looked for a moment lost.
‘Yes. I think we can keep this to ourselves.’
The two men then walked back towards us.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the headmaster.
‘We’re to keep it between ourselves,’ said Alexander.
‘Yes,’ said the headmaster.
‘But wouldn’t it be better to postpone the Founder’s Day—’ I began.
‘Good, that’s understood then,’ said the headmaster, ignoring me.
‘A tragic accident,’ said Alexander, ‘and to have occurred at this time seems particularly unfortunate.’
‘But—’ I started again.
‘Exceedingly,’ agreed Morley. ‘Yes, I quite agree.’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to remain here, to explain matters to the police?’ asked Alex.
‘No, no,’ said the headmaster. ‘I would prefer to stay, and if you wouldn’t mind taking Mr Morley and Mr Sefton up to the school and making a call to the local police station that would be most helpful, thank you.’
‘Certainly,’ said Alex. ‘The police will be here shortly, Headmaster.’
Wherever we went, in those years, there were always – eventually – police.
Morley glanced at me. ‘OK, Sefton?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I said.
And so we began the long climb back up to the school. As we reached the point from where the car had driven over, Morley bent down to examine the tyre tracks. Alex continued on ahead.
‘What do you notice, Sefton?’
‘Tyre marks.’
‘Several tyre marks,’ said Morley, pointing to a writhing mass of lines and marks.
‘Yes. Presumably where we also got stuck yesterday, Mr Morley.’
‘Presumably so, yes. Presumably so.’
A disturbing scene
We walked slowly and in silence back up to the school.
‘I do hope this won’t put a dampener on your speech, Mr Morley,’ said Alex.
‘I see no reason why it should,’ said Morley. ‘As you say, a tragic accident.’
‘With any luck we’ll have the matter all cleared up by this afternoon,’ said Alex.
‘I’m sure we will,’ said Morley. ‘I’m sure we will. But do tell me more about poor Michael Taylor.’
‘Not much to tell,’ said Alex. ‘Perfectly pleasant young boy. Nothing wrong with him. Mischievous, I would say. Accident-prone.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, clearly, given his unfortunate demise.’
‘Assuming it was an accident.’
‘I can hardly see any other explanation.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘I know he was a great favourite of my brother.�
�
‘Yes,’ agreed Morley. ‘Clearly.’
‘Your brother?’ I said.
‘The headmaster,’ said Alex.
‘You’re brothers?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I thought you knew, Sefton?’ said Morley.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Yes.’
‘Younger brother,’ said Alex, smiling.
‘I met Dr Standish, what was it, around 1917, I suppose?’ said Morley. ‘You were away at the war, Alex.’
‘For my sins,’ said Alex. ‘Hence’ – he held up his left hand, which, I suddenly realised, was lacking a thumb.
‘Cause you much pain?’ asked Morley. ‘We have a handyman who lost his arm. A kind of ghost pain. Causes him terrible agonies.’
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ said Alex. ‘It’s nothing really. One learns to manage these things.’
‘Of course,’ said Morley. ‘Though of course some pain never goes away.’
Reaching the top of the cliff, I looked back and saw the headmaster standing at the edge of the water, staring out into the distance, the waves dashing over his feet, for all the world like he was Canute, driven to the edge of his kingdom and his authority.
CHAPTER 8
THE SCIENCE MISTRESS
AS THE THREE OF US approached the school, in a silence that can only be described as deadly, we came upon a group of four or five boys about some business behind the tennis courts, a group of four or five boys whose business it clearly was not to be behind the tennis courts. They were, inexplicably, but as boys do, beating one poor chap about the shins with wickets and apparently trying to force him to drink some doubtless horrible concoction from a cup. Innocent horseplay, no doubt. Catching sight of them in the distance, Alex slowly, quietly and deliberately increased his pace: it was like watching one of Rousseau’s strange lions stalk its prey. Each silent step grew longer and more terrifying and then, when he was almost upon them, he called out in his deep, sepulchral, confiding tones – that might easily have been confused with a snarl – ‘Boys!’ The boys froze, like startled animals, and stumbled up against the fence surrounding the courts. They were cornered.
Alex strode over to them with such controlled and yet such obviously boiling fury that if not exactly murderous it might easily, clearly and most properly be described – as Morley was later to describe it to me – as ‘slaughterous’.
‘Boys?’ he called again, now just inches from them.
All colour had drained from Alex’s face and his fists, or fist, rather, was clenched tight; one could feel him about to pounce. I almost went forward to restrain him, but Morley held out his arm to hold me back and as he did so Alex spoke again, even quieter this time, up so close to them that he might almost have whispered, although what escaped his mouth was in fact more like a deep animal growl. ‘Boys.’
They looked, simply, terrified. Morley still held me back.
‘Yes, sir?’ piped up one poor little fat lad, in a terrified, adenoidal squeak.
I rather wondered what kind of punishment might now be meted out to them. One teacher at my old place of work, the Hawes School, had specialised in knocking heads together, the boys face to face: more than one boy had had his nose broken being subjected to such cruel punishment. Another teacher would have disobedient boys stand up at the front of the class while others were made to paste over their mouths using glue and strips of paper; I had seen boys faint from pure terror at the mere prospect of this punishment. Another colleague kept in his class a range of tools for disciplining that could really only be described as instruments of torture: a birch rod, which he kept planted in a pot of water, in order to keep it pliant; a cat-o’-nine-tails; and a set of battledores of various sizes made of thick sole leather. Yet another, a Scotsman, delighted in a technique he called ‘Kick the Can’, in which boys were instructed to kick their miscreant classmates as they crawled on their hands and knees beneath the desks. Alex’s chosen form of punishment, I had no doubt, would be equally and appallingly violent.
‘Don’t. Do. That,’ he said. ‘Do you understand?’ He raised his thumbless hand. I thought for a moment he was about to strike out with it, but then he simply reached out and put his hand on the shoulder of the fat boy.
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir,’ said the boy. ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’
‘Go,’ said Alex, turning his back towards them. And they went.
‘Well, you certainly seem to have them under control,’ said Morley admiringly, when we caught up with Alex, whose temper seemed to be entirely and instantly restored.
‘One does one’s best,’ he said, with a pleasant smile.
‘Restraint,’ said Morley, ‘is a virtue. Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem.’
‘Indeed,’ said Alex.
Morley picked up the abandoned cup, the contents of which the boys had been trying to force upon their companion. The liquid had been spilled on the ground. He sniffed at the cup.
‘Mmm. What do you think, Sefton?’
I took a sniff. It smelled to me of sea water – and something else. Something indefinable. I recalled from my own schooldays some of the noxious liquids we had tried to force upon one another.
‘Harmless prank, no doubt,’ said Alex. ‘Anyway, Mr Morley, perhaps you need time to work on your speech?’
‘Yes, I rather think I do,’ said Morley. ‘And I have a couple of articles to send off this morning. A history of the alphabet, something on keeping tortoises as pets, and a review of this book The Hobbit? Have you come across it?’
‘I can’t say I have, Mr Morley, no.’
‘Curious thing. By some man, Tolkien, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford.’
‘Really?’
‘Dragons and dwarves and what have you.’
‘It sounds fascinating.’
‘Yes. Clearly based on the Eddas. Some sort of allegory about England, I fancy. Need to think about it. Have to have it written and sent by noon, along with the others.’
‘Well, I can certainly make arrangements for your articles to be picked up and sent. We have post collected three times a day from the porter’s lodge.’
‘Excellent. I was rather concerned that I’d have to travel into town somewhere.’
‘No need, no. We’re not as cut off here as some people think.’
‘Clearly. Well, that would be very kind of you, thank you.’
‘And you have everything else you require?’
‘I think so,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps some barley water and a pot of strong tea? I am well provided with writing requisites.’
‘Very good. I’ll have those sent up to you.’
‘And you’ll know where to find me, when the police arrive?’
‘Indeed. And you, Mr Sefton?’
‘Me?’ I was still thinking about the body on the beach. I was in no state to plan a day’s work.
‘We need photographs, Sefton,’ said Morley. ‘For the book. Some local colour. Interviews. You know the sort of thing. Mustn’t let things slip.’
‘No shirking,’ I said.
‘No shilly-shallying.’
‘No funking.’
‘Precisely.’
‘I’ll get about gathering local colour then,’ I said.
‘Good man!’ said Morley. ‘Good man you are!’
We had now reached the school buildings, where the day had begun in earnest.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Alex, assuming authority, ‘you’ll perhaps excuse me. I shall telephone the police immediately about our tragic little accident.’
‘Excellent,’ said Morley. ‘As I say, if we’re required you’ll know where to find us.’
‘Thank you, your cooperation is much appreciated.’
Alex strode away, and Morley disappeared off to write. I entered the school alone through the back corridors.
The place was buzzing with activity. Boys were rushing around, carrying furniture under the instruction of the staf
f, who attempted to steer them round other boys who were washing and rubbing and scrubbing at floors. There were boys with buckets and boys with brushes – stiff brushes, small brushes, long feather dusters. Boys arranging flowers, and boys cleaning mirrors. Boys buffing brass, and boys dusting shelves. Wall scuffs were being wiped, windows washed, and cracked old floorboards were being coated with wax. Patches of rush matting were being watered from a can. Rugs were beaten and curtains shaken. It was a tornado of activity, like woodworms at a mighty felled oak. I recalled a phrase from Morley’s Manual of Housekeeping: A Practical Guide to Everyday Home Maintenance and Cleaning (1929): ‘The upkeep of our houses and their contents is both a Christian duty and a privilege afforded to the homeowner or householder. As Christian householders we might take our motto from Corinthians 14:40. “Let all things be done decently and in order.”’ Indeed we might. We might also take our motto from Matthew 23:27. ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.’
As I watched all this hectic human activity I thought of poor Michael Taylor lying down on the beach.
Picking my way among stacked tables and chairs, a piano, statuettes, tea chests, boxes, I made my way to the main entrance to the school. Outside on the gravelled forecourt stood a liveried van, which announced that it was from Potbury and Sons in Sidmouth, along with another small lorry that apparently belonged to a Mr Perry, a haulier from Sidford. While Messrs Potbury and Perry were unloading their vans – a marquee, more tables – yet another lorry arrived, loaded with logs, and then yet another, a Mr Roberts’ coal lorry.
My friend Mr Bernhard the mathematics master stood, waving his arms around like a conductor, shouting instructions at schoolboys, porters and lorry drivers, consulting all the while with a man in a flat cap with a clipboard.
‘Ah, Mr Sefton, Mr Sefton!’ He waved me over. ‘Come, come, come!’
‘You’re running quite a delivery depot,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.