At the gate Paul turned and waved his bandaged hand but Jenny, who’d been told to see him out, had already vanished from the front step. Still, the small muscular contractions of pleasure and politeness remained almost unconsciously on his face as he swung and scuffed along the lane. He smiled at the view over the hedge, at the other front gardens, at the approaching Rover and then its driver, squinting in a rictus of his own against the evening sun, and making Paul feel again like an intruder, or now perhaps an absconder. The sun was still hot on his back. Among the trees the church clock chimed the quarter-hour once more – he checked his watch: 7.15 of course; the hour just gone had taken about twenty minutes, and some compensating sense made him wonder if it shouldn’t in fact be 8.15. Here he was in Church Walk. Here was the marketplace. He had never really touched spirits before, and the second gin-and-tonic, as wildly drinkable as the first, had brought him to a state of grinning elation just touched by notes of worry and confusion. He’d been talking and telling himself not to talk, things he normally avoided saying, about his father’s plane being shot down, and his mother’s illness, and even his exploits at school, things that must have made him sound childish and simple. But no one had seemed to mind. Now he wondered if Mr Keeping, who said very little, hadn’t thought him a fool – it was actually rather creepy of him to get Paul drunk and just sit there watching, with his unnerving smile. He imagined some sarcasm about it, in the office tomorrow. On the other hand, he felt he’d been quite a success with old Daphne Jacobs, who seemed grateful for a new listener, and he’d laughed and winced sympathetically at her stories without necessarily following them. He often found, when he concentrated really hard on what someone was saying, that nothing much went in. The intoxication was partly that of being in the home of people who knew writers, in this case quite famous ones. He was barely aware of Dudley Valance, but he quoted whole verses of Cecil Valance’s to the old lady, who smiled indulgently and then began to look slightly impatient. She had a soft uncanny light about her, somehow, from having been his lover – it turned out ‘Two Acres’ had been written specifically for her. She told Paul about it quite frankly, over the second Gin and It (whatever It was), and Jenny had said, ‘I think Uncle Cecil’s poems are awfully imperialist, Granny,’ which she pretended not to hear. In Vale Street he looked through the windows of the International Stores, closed and shadowy. Something shockingly sad caught at him – he was free, buoyant and squiffy, twenty-three years old, and he was entirely alone, with hours still before sunset and no one to share them with.
The way to his digs took him out of the town, past the closed and overgrown yards of the old goods station, past the new secondary modern school, hard and transparent in the evening sun. Then he crossed into Marlborough Gardens, which was a loop, or noose, with one exit on to the main road. From the pavement he saw people eating in kitchens, or finished already and out in the garden, mowing and watering. The houses were a strange economy that there wasn’t a word for, built in threes, two semis with the central house in common, like segments of a terrace. Mrs Marsh at least had an end house, with a view behind on to a field of barley. Her husband was a coach-driver, with odd hours, taking a party up to London, or sometimes away overnight on a run to Bournemouth or the Isle of Wight. Now she was in the front room with the curtains pulled against the sun and the box blaring – it was the start of Z-Cars. She had a pleasant way of not bothering her lodger – she turned her head and nodded; in the kitchen there was a ham salad for him under a cloth, and a redirected letter with a note saying ‘This came for you, Mrs Marsh’. Paul went upstairs two at a time, used the bathroom, which was where he felt most a stranger, among the couple’s shaving-soap and flannels, Mrs Marsh’s other things in the cabinet. The bathroom had a frosted glass panel in the door, which showed if it was occupied at night, and made going to the lavatory especially seem audible and almost visible and even vaguely culpable. Paul’s designated bath nights were Tuesday and Thursday: so tonight! Saturdays the bank worked through till one, then he would be off on the bus to Wantage, and his first week of work here would be over.
After his supper he went back upstairs and got down his diary from the top of the wardrobe. He had hardly made his mark on the room – his slippers and dressing-gown, a few books he’d stuffed into his bag. He had the new Angus Wilson out of the library, and was getting through it in his own way, with a restless eye running ahead for the appearances of Marcus, the queer son, whose antics he pondered as if for portents or advice. He didn’t want to read this at home and risk his mother asking questions. Also the latest Penguin Modern Poets, The Mersey Sound, which he didn’t really think was poetry at all; and Poems of To-day, in fact published over fifty years ago, and full of things that he loved and knew by heart, such as Drinkwater’s ‘Moonlit Apples’ and Valance’s ‘Soldiers Dreaming’. The room had a hard square armchair in prickly moquette and up against the window a ladies’ dressing-table with three mirrors and a stool, which was where Paul sat each night to do his writing. Whenever he looked up he saw himself, the Bryant nose in triumphant triplicate, his two profiles playing hide and seek with each other. He’d been keeping his diary since he left school, a top-secret record, and the volumes themselves, black quarto notebooks, were growing harder to hide as they amassed. At home he had a box under the bed in which old school projects and browning newsprint concealed a lower layer of private things, frail mementoes of boys at school, three issues of Manifique!, with muscle-men in posing pouches, sometimes clearly drawn on afterwards, and then the diaries themselves, in which Paul let himself go in a way that these publications weren’t allowed to.
Now he leant forward, like a schoolboy shielding his work, and wrote: ‘June 29th 1967: hot and sunny all day.’As he wrote he pressed very hard with his biro into the page, so that the paper itself seemed to spread and rise in a curl at the margins. When closed, the book showed exactly how much of it had been used up. The written pages, their edges crinkly and darkened, were a pleasing proof of industry, the rest of the book, clean, trim and dense, a pleasing challenge. This week had been rich in material, and he had summed up the girls at work and given Geoff Viner a franker appraisal than was possible in the bank itself. Now he had his chat with Geoff in the toilets to write up, and the whole unexpected adventure at ‘Carraveen’. ‘It turns out Mrs J was married to Dudley Valance, C’s brother. But she also had big affair with Cecil V before WW1, said he was her first love, he was madly attractive but bad with women. I said what did she mean. She said, “He didn’t really understand women, you know, but he was completely irresistible to them. Of course he was only 25 when he was killed.” ’ At the foot of the page, where the edge of his writing hand had rested, the greasy paper resisted the ink, and he had to go over some of the words twice: ‘completely irresistible’, he wrote again, ‘only 25’ – the effect bold and clumsy, like the writing of someone who was still drunk or slightly mad.
2
Peter Rowe came out of his room on the top floor, crossed the landing, and looked over the banister into the great square stairwell. Below him he could hear and then for a moment see a small boy hurrying downwards, saw a raised arm struggling into a jacket. ‘Don’t run!’ Peter shouted, with such abrupt and godlike effect that the boy looked up in horror, lost his footing, and slid down bump bump bump on the hard oak treads into the hall. ‘Now you know why,’ Peter said, more quietly, and went back into his room.
He had the first period free, then it was the Fifth Form for singing. He filled his kettle at the basin, vaguely rinsed a mug for his Nescafé: the granules started melting and fizzing on the wet bottom. Then he lit himself a cigarette, first of the day, and squinting in the smoke tugged his bed up fairly straight and covered its irregularities with his rug. Along the corridor, he knew, Matron would be going from dorm to dorm, head down, breathing through her mouth. Wherever she found a bed improperly made, its corners loose, its top sheet less than taut, she stooped and tossed it, like a bull, made a total mess of it, and wr
ote the offending boy’s name on a card. The card was then pinned on the board by the staff-room, and in break the delinquents would have to pant upstairs and set about making the whole thing again from scratch, square and smooth and tight as a strait-jacket. Peter felt a twinge of guilty relief at his exemption from this regime.
He started on his weekly letter to his parents, a practice he did keep up as strictly as the boys. ‘Dearest Mum and Dad,’ he wrote, ‘What a beautiful week it has been. I’m glad, because it’s the semi-final of the garden competition on Sunday. The HM is to be the judge, and as he knows nothing at all about gardens it’s hard to know what he’ll be looking for, colour or “concept”. The boy Dupont whom I’ve told you about has built a rockery with a waterfall, but the HM, who has very plain tastes, may find this too “fiddly”. Besides that, things are building up nicely to Open Day. Colonel Sprague is very involved with organizing it all. He is true to type and rather a monster. I call him the Infolonel Colonel.’ Peter smoked for a bit, and drank his coffee. He thought he probably couldn’t divert his parents with the Headmaster’s latest obsession, the spread of supposedly sexy books among the higher forms. It was on the agenda for next week’s staff-meeting. Already this term the HM had confiscated Peyton Place and The Carpetbaggers, both on hearsay rather than any knowledge of their contents, which was doubtless why the boys themselves slogged through them. Dr No, found in Walters’s tuck-box, had been passed to Peter, as being possibly ‘more broad-minded’, for a judgement. He’d read it last night at a sitting and found three sentences in it unexpectedly arousing; of course he’d seen the film, which was much more exciting: on the page the plot looked slight and awkward, the whole thing explained by the villain himself in an enormous monologue. He noted a sort of tight-lipped sadism in the accounts of James Bond’s body and the injuries inflicted on it, but as in a movie the wounds all healed by the scene after next. The boys, of course, in the first derangement of puberty, could be ‘turned on’ by just about anything. Peter knew he had been so himself, and so saw the present purge as inherently futile. He stubbed out his cigarette, and told his parents instead about the First XI match against Beasleys.
At 9.35, with the recurrent momentary dread and resolve that come with living by a timetable, Peter opened his door again and went out on to the landing. In the glance he gave back into his room he saw it as a stranger might, as an appalling mess. He went down one circuit of the main staircase, and set off along the broad first-floor corridor. The classrooms at Corley Court occupied six rooms on the ground floor, but the room with the piano was isolated, with the sick-bay, in the rambling far end of the floor above. Boys with temperatures or infectious diseases were harassed through the wall by ragged bursts of folksong or the torturous practice of scales. He passed the Headmaster’s sitting-room, which must once have been a principal bedroom of the house: its high Gothic oriel looked out down the axis of the formal gardens, which now survived only in photographs but had once been a dazzling floral maze. A melancholy fishpond at the centre of the lawn was all that was left.
Peter had got the Corley job in the middle of the year, after the clouded departure of a man called Holdsworth, and took to the house from the start, in part out of natural sympathy for something so widely abused. ‘A Victorian monstrosity’ was the smug routine phrase. He had heard a boy in the First Form opine that Corley Court was ‘a Victorian monstrosity, and one of the very worst’, with just the same humourless laugh the boy’s father must have used when describing the place. In fact, the house was perfect for a boarding-school – secluded, labyrinthine, faintly menacing, with its own tree-lined park now mown and marked out in pitches. No one, it was felt, could want to live in such a place, but as an institution of learning it was pretty much ideal. Peter had started to research its history. Last year he had signed a petition to save St Pancras Station, and at Corley too he loved the polychrome brick and the fierce Gothic detail which were such an amusing challenge to more gracious notions of the English country house – though the rooms inside, which had been altered between the wars, were disappointingly bright and inoffensive. Only the chapel, the library and the great oak staircase, with its shield-bearing wyverns on the newels, had completely escaped the hygienic clean-up of the 1920s. The library was useful as it was, and the chapel, a real High Victorian gem, was also the site of the school’s strangest feature, the white marble tomb of the poet Cecil Valance.
Peter went into the sun-baked music-room and flung open the window; there was a pleasant sally of cool morning air over the sill. With a few kicks and long-armed tweaks he straightened the two rows of wooden chairs on the brown linoleum. The room’s single adornment, above the blocked-off fireplace, was an oleograph of Brahms, ‘Presented by his Family in Memory of N. E. Harding 1938–53’; Peter sometimes tried to imagine the family deciding on this particular gift.
He set the Acorn Songbook on the stand of the upright piano and went quickly through today’s songs. Most of the boys couldn’t read music, so it was a matter of drumming and coaxing the tune into them by remorseless repetition. They paid no more attention to the words than they did with hymns. The words were a given: high-flown, old-fashioned, accepted with a childish mixture of respect and complete indifference. Now the bell rang, the whole school held its breath, and then let go in a babble and clatter that rose dimly upstairs from the floor below. Again the momentary and instantly mastered sense of dread. He started playing ‘Für Elise’, waiting for the noise beyond to particularize in the slap of sandals and knock at the door. He always let them catch him in mid-performance, and when he’d shouted ‘Come in!’ he carried on playing, imposing a nice uncertainty on the class as to whether or not they could talk.
The piano was at right angles to the rows of boys, so he glanced at them along his left shoulder as he played. One day he meant to stun them with the Liszt Sonata, but for now he kept prudently to this simple piece, which some of the boys themselves played with Mrs Keeping; he was nearer their level than he intended to admit. ‘Good morning,’ he murmured, concentrating rather hard on the second section; one or two replied. The different forms had quite distinct atmospheres. He liked the Fifth Form, for their humour and ingenuity, and because it was clear that they liked him; sometimes the humour had to be kept in check. He stood up and looked at them, his frown as he went along the rows stirring odd gleams and doubts in their attentive faces. He was firm in suppressing any hint of favouritism, though he saw the flame of it rise expectantly in Dupont and Milsom 1.
‘Well, my little song-birds,’ said Peter, ‘I hope you’re all in the mood to make a din.’
‘Yes, sir,’ came a dutiful chorus.
‘I asked you a question,’ said Peter.
‘Yes, sir!’ came a lustier sound, breaking into giggles. Peter gazed round the room in deep abstraction, at last noticing the boys and raising his eyebrows in mild anxiety:
‘I’m sorry . . . did you say something?’
‘YES! SIR!’ they shouted, the laughter at this awful old gag contained by an undeniable excitement. The sense of being free to give a wildly corny performance was one of the pleasures of teaching in a prep-school. A great innocence was there to be tapped, even in the surlier and spottier boys, the nocturnal students of Peyton Place. Peter glanced past them, through the open window, at the wide hazy vista of fields and woods. It would be horribly shaming if Chris or Charlie or any of his London friends saw him carrying on like this, but the fact was the boys loved it.
‘Let’s have that in scales,’ he said, going over and striking the A below middle C, and in his large unembarrassed baritone, crescendo: ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Sir!’ So the boys sang it, climbing inexorably through the keys, in rapid repeated climaxes of assent that soon became mere yapping syllables.
Peter started them off with ‘The Saucy Arethusa’, ‘page 37 as you must surely know by now . . .’ and as they were still finding the place he launched out with enormous relish on the first verse: ‘Come all ye jolly sai
lors bold, Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould, While English glory I unfold’ – head shaking with the jolliness and boldness, chin tucked in for the gravelly descent on ‘English glory’, the risk of comedy brazened out: ‘Hurrah for the Arethusa!’ He felt he could sing to them all day. A hand was up, the feeble Peebles, as Colonel Sprague called him, had no book. ‘Well, share with Ackerley, use your nous,’ and then they were off. There was something Peter was expecting to happen, and he thought he would listen out for it and wait. For the moment he corrected nothing, the thing was to get them moving: ‘Not a sheet or a tack or a brace did she slack . . .’ They had sung the song every week this term and could belt it out with their strange uncaring glee; it was he himself, frowning over the piano, who sometimes forgot where they were and joined in furiously with the wrong words. ‘And now we’ve driven the foe ashore, Never to fight with Britons more’ – a reckless boast, overtaken in a moment by an immense bass crack in the air above the roof of the house, far away and right on top of them, so that the room shook and the piano itself gave out a faint jangling thrum. They broke off raggedly, then rushed to the window, but the plane was so far beyond them and moving so fast that they saw nothing. The great scientific fact seemed all the more eloquent and exemplary for that. On the back-drive below, the Headmaster too was standing and gazing at the sky over the tree-tops, his upper lip raised rodent-like as he squinted into the blue. ‘Come on, back to your places,’ said Peter carryingly, before the HM himself could do so; but in fact in the presence, or rather the immediate absence, of this sublime phenomenon, a minute’s mutual wonder seemed to be allowed.
‘Did you see it, sir?’ Brookings called down. But the Headmaster shook his head, with a shifty smile, almost as if he’d missed it with his gun. Peter leant out above the three boys who were jammed in the open casement. Though he thought the HM was a fool, he didn’t want to be shown up by him, and the HM found fault in the most unaccountable things. He picked up fag-ends, he brooded ingeniously on things he had misheard. Peter was a young master, far closer in age to the boys than the HM was to him. There was sometimes an imputation in the older man’s tone that Peter himself must be kept in check. Now he said,
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