Sandel

by Angus Stewart

  David smiled up at the sky. 'So do I! I've been to Vienna too.'

  'Have you really!'

  'Yep! Look, Tony, can you come out to tea with me?'

  'We're not allowed to,' the boy said automatically; then, after a pause, 'How?'

  David looked round at the empty field and the buildings of St. Cecilia's far away. But his thought was interrupted by the boy's excited voice.

  'I know! Verrucas!'

  'What?'

  'Verrucas! A boy in my dormitory's got them. If I touch his bare feet with mine I'll catch them and be off games!'

  The child was quite radiant; like one of his statues floodlit for photography.

  'Well, they don't take root as quickly as that, you know ...'

  'You'll see! I'll be over there by the fence at half past two tomorrow — we play games on the upper field, so no one'll know.'

  'But —'

  'Isn't tomorrow any good?' The boy's voice had dropped a semitone, becoming hesitant for the first time.

  All right,' David said 'I'll be there. But I'll want to see a note saying, "Sandel is off games and allowed to fly 'planes".'

  'Do you want me to put on my best suit?'

  'Do you usually put on your best suit to fly your 'plane?'

  'No, I s'pose not.' Tony looked at his shoes, then archly up at David. 'Why do you look at my eyes like that? Do you think they're wild?'

  'They're big,' David said, and felt foolish.

  The boy nodded without smiling, and began to wind up the control wires. 'My great-grandmother was a gipsy — one of the real Romany queens — and my great-grandfather was a Swedish prince. All our family are passionately conceived; or that's how my aunt puts it. Grandfather was a commoner of course, and since then we've been very English. He and my father really ran the Foreign Office. I'm the last of the Sandels' He wiped some oil off his finger on to the grass and tucked the 'plane under his arm.

  'I've got to go now. Goodbye.'

  For a second David thought he was going to shake hands. Instead, he adjusted the turn-over of one of his socks and began to walk away. A moment later he called back. 'David, what'll I do with the 'plane?'

  'Bring it,’ David said. As the boy turned again he became aware for the first time of a man and a girl leaning on the railings some way behind him. They were looking into the field without interest. David watched the receding figure in light grey and blue until it was out of sight. Then he sat down on the grass.

  Chapter 6

  David hadn't been to the Maypole Cellar since his first, weeks as a freshman. He stood on the stone steps looking down into the mass that was seething to the music of a single trombone. The weird, pastel colours were like a sandstorm in a Turkish bath. Henry Moore's tube stations didn't touch it. David felt sick.

  Beneath his feet the steps were wet with bottled beer, still containing tiny bubbles that stared glassily and then popped, closing their million eyes on him. Here and there was a darker pool, or slowly expanding promontory of draught Guinness. He saw Gloria lolling on the rostrum near the trombone player. No one knew who Gloria was, or what. David didn't now know what he wanted Gloria for. He had tangled with her his first year. It had seemed mature and contemporary.

  He fought his way through the pulsating body on the floor. A girl shouted a protest. David held course for Gloria. He could make her out more clearly now through the steam rising from the dancers. Her hair was the same badly hung black-out curtain he remembered; her mouth a candid gash. She must be about forty. David looked down at her as he approached and thought: her limbs are like joints of meat ineptly dispatched by the butcher. Gloria swung the blackout aside as he came up.

  'Henry!'

  'No.'

  'Well, Samuel then, or something! Anyway, I know you.'

  'Dance with me, Gloria,' David said.

  Gloria seemed to rise with the heavy wing-beat of a harpy. They moved on to the floor.

  'Come here often?' David asked.

  'Let me ask you a question, darling.' Gloria was pressed so tightly against him that he was almost winded. 'Where have you been? I always knew you weren't like the other boys. Have you been sitting over books? Or playing that square instrument of yours? Or sleeping with it ...'

  'You can't sleep comfortably with a piano,' David interposed practically.

  'What then? Undergraduettes?'

  David didn't reply. He'd had three double whiskies at the Wasp's Nest and the room was filling with wool. He dropped his chin on Gloria's shoulder. 'Shut up, Gloria. I hate your guts.'

  'Now, darling! That's not very kind, is it?' The rumbling passed over David like a mill-race. He was an exhausted swimmer trapped for ever in the pit of the mill-race. Nothing could stop the waters.

  They'd been jostling steadily towards the entrance He must have said some more offensive things.

  'You've had a long day, darling,' Gloria said. It's past tuck up time.' They'd arrived at the doorway, and she catapulted him off her stomach as if she was a horse ridding itself of a tiresome fly.

  David closed his eyes as he lurched over the bridge above the barber's basement. He shut the front door with exaggerated caution, and climbed the flights of stairs like a drugged octopus. When he had folded his clothes, he scoured the atomist's hairs out of the bath and turned the taps on. He went back to his room and smoked a cigarette, sprawling naked in the armchair. Then he emptied half a bottle of Mrs. Kanter's Dettol into the bath.

  Chapter 7

  There were two letters waiting for David in college. One was from his Literature tutor, and read:

  My Dear Rogers,

  I am very sorry to hear you have been ill. Thank you your essay. I am afraid I was really able to make very little of this, though, despite the evident care you had taken to edit it for me. Perhaps you would he good enough to come see me at 6 tomorrow (Wednesday). Sincerely, J. Thompson.

  The other letter was addressed to Mr. D. Rogers, and also come through the college messenger service. The boy must have dropped it off at the lodge on his way to Communion as it was dated 6 a.m. Tuesday! David read the rather angular hand.

  Dear David,

  I touched Lloyd, feet and I think I've got verrucas now. I told matron I had verrucas and it's all right because she put me off games.

  Lots of Love. Alessandro Scarlatti (Security!)

  David left his car by the Botanical Gardens. Just before half past two he walked up to St. Cecilia's Great Park, skirting the nearer corner that was Christ Church Meadow.

  The boy was leaning with his back against the fence, with his elbows spread on the top railing, staring at the sky. The 'plane was at his feet. As David came up he took a cap out of his blazer pocket, uncrumplcd it, and set it with some concentration on his head. It had the same badge in miniature as the blazer. 'Come on,' David said. The boy picked up the big model, and they walked back towards the car.

  David opened the driver's door and the boy scrambled in, on the other side, putting the 'plane into the boot behind them. He was still wearing the cotton summer shorts, but David noticed from the way they hung that they were a different pair. Following his eyes, Tony wriggled over on his side and pulled up the skirt of his blazer.

  'Look,' he said, and added with pathos. 'The Ghoul.' There was a heel-mark on his scat, faintly outlined in black. 'They were clean this morning and it doesn't rub off. It's coal, because he has to stoke the boilers.

  David couldn't help smiling. 'What were you up to?'

  'Well, he was reading us a story to do with history and it was about a wagon full of silver coins called dollars in Spain which fell over a cliff — and they all spilt. The story was called a Rain of Dollars, you see, r.a.i.n. Well, I drew a picture of an American dollar with a crown on top, and passed it to Hamley. D'you see? R.E.I.G.N. But the Ghoul caught me. He made me bend over in front of the whole class and spoiled my clean

  shorts. I think he likes to,' he added, 'to beat me, I mean. He does it sort of slowly.'

  David had stopped
laughing.

  'Would you beat a boy for doing that?' Tony asked. It was one of his philosophical moments, which David was coming to recognise.

  'I would say he was probably one of the brighter boys in the class,' he said. 'But not aloud. Or to him.'

  The boy nodded as if they were talking about someone else.

  'I agree, really.'

  'Right. Now, put your plate back in. I like it'

  Tony took the plate with the silver wire out of his pocket and picked some bits of stuff off it. He clipped it over his teeth, pushing it up with his thumbs, and then grinned at David. 'Where are we going?'

  'Burford, I think. I know a good place for tea there.' David let the clutch in. Oddly perhaps, the boy had hardly noticed the car. Now he accepted their destination uncritically. He was staring out of the window, and said in a tone at once formal and far off;

  'Can you have me back in time for Evensong, please?'

  David flicked the boy's cap if and tangled his fingers in his hair. Tony slid down the seat, and cupped his body in an attitude of languor, grinning up. David disengaged his fingers with a downward brush over the boy's brow. The traffic was thinning. They negotiated a roundabout, and the by-pass stretched before them.

  The Bowdenex cable drew open the twin throttles with a long, smooth pull beneath David's foot. The needles of the rev counter and the speedometer rose together. Irresistibly the rev counter pushed the speed needle before it in a steadily increasing arc. The boy had put down the fire extinguisher he had detached from the dash clip and was gazing ecstatically through the windscreen. With horror David recalled the boy. He didn't even know whose boy. He let the cable recoil sharply into its sheath. The twin needles before his eyes faltered, then fell back together, still linked in diminuendo. David realised he was shaking.

  Slowing to thirty he manoeuvred through the blanket town of Witney and out on to the road conning over the Cotswolds to Burford. The afternoon was very still. Away on the right the watercolour greens of the Windrush valley lay under haze. Above a line of slender poplars on the horizon the sky was contorted with white coils of rope where the US. Air Force had laid its vapour trails. David knew that in a few hours a wind would spring up in the valley. The lowered sun would transform the poplars to fine traceries of burnished copper gauze, and the wind would pull the vapour trails apart like a skein of silk in the hands of an idle god.

  Tony was looking down towards the valley. 'What's the stream called?'

  'The Windrush.'

  The boy thought for a moment. 'I think that's a beautiful name,' he said presently.

  David stirred at the return of the odd sophistication. 'Higher up another stream joins it which is called the Evenlode.'

  'I expect there'll be dragon-flies down there,' the boy said. 'Can we go and see?'

  David stopped the car. When they were half-way across the sloping fields the boy asked, 'What are you studying at the university?'

  'English.'

  'Just English?'

  'Yes.'

  How do you know the name of the stream?'

  'I used to walk here my first year.'

  'Didn't you have any friends?'

  David smiled and pointed out a dragon-fly on a stone; but it wasn't a dragon-fly. 'No, Tony. It wasn't that, I don't think. I just like being by myself most of the time.'

  'That's funny. No other boy at school makes 'planes, and I like being alone too ... There's Hamley … ' Tony was drawing the toe-cap of his shoe slowly through the water.

  David laughed. 'Come on!'

  Back at the car David took a clean piece of rag and soaked it in petrol. 'Now then, your shorts!'

  Obediently the boy bent over.

  'Don't be an ass, Tony. I meant you do it.'

  The boy took the rag and dabbed at the coal stain, twisting his head over his shoulder.

  'And just ask this Ghoul to wipe his feet before beating you up,' David added.

  'All right. I will!' Tony was apparently satisfied with his sartorial repair.

  David had chosen the Bay Tree because he imagined their habit of encouraging customers to cut their own slices from the selection of home-made cakes was likely to appeal to the boy. Also, the hotel was run as a training establishment for young ladies, and one was spared the lingering of untipped waitresses. There were few people on the terrace. The air was filled with the gently spiralling seed cases from the giant elms which flanked the garden. While their tea was being prepared Tony ran about on a lower lawn, trying to catch them as they fell.

  Tony certainly did justice to the tea, though David had twice to deflect the cake knife to a more obtuse angle to counteract the boy's modesty. He ate almost too properly, and seemed to have made easy adjustment from whatever lore might obtain in the school dining hall. The winged elm seeds covered the terrace and table and settled lightly in the boy's hair, while the young ladies were equally fond in their attentions to David's brother ... Or was it son, Or ...

  'Can I ask how old you are?' Tony seemed to have read a part of his thoughts.

  'Nineteen.'

  The boy addressed himself again to the gateau. He glanced towards the house and the girl standing by the cakes. She came out looking alarmed. Tony rocked his head on one side like a sparrow and smiled enquiry at her. David conceded to himself with a twinge of discomfort, that he importuned superbly. Perhaps it was outrageous. But the doubt passed as a sudden gust of wind blew another show of elm seeds down on their heads. Tony shut his eyes and gripped the arms of his chair as if at the dentist's.

  'She looks like a matron,' he whispered when the girl had gone, and another slice of cake lay capsized by its icing on his plate,

  'If you want some more chocolate when you've finished that you'll find some due south of your nose,' David said. The boy put out his tongue and searched his chin for the chocolate. Chocolate had built up in a drift on the wire of his plate too. Uncannily, he removed the plate, and after a glance at David, rinsed it in his tea-cup and clipped it back into his mouth. The wire gleamed hypnotically.

  Tony was fumbling in his pocket. He produced a crumpled letter. 'Can you help with this?'

  'What is it?'

  It's a letter from a French boy. Last term our French master went to a French school and he fixed it up that some of the boys there write to us and we write to them. Only they write in English and we write in French. It's the sort of thing pedagogues do.'

  David took the letter and read:

  Dear Antony, I've received your letter yesterday and I answered so quickly I can. I'm very glad to hear from you. I've not received letters from Oxford and I ask you, if it doesn't bother you, to write with me. I hope you're glad to read this words.

  I've look at your photograph and I've to write you're very pretty. I don't think find more nice boy than you.

  Since we write one another, I go speaking about french pubs and Sunday. Here the pubs are open from The morning from 6 o'clock to 4 in The morning. All the people can go into its; The boys like The men. The women like The boys and The girls. In my town there is 8 pubs for 6,000 inhabitants. For French man The Sunday is the amusement day. Here it remembers us, Morning - Go up at 9 o'clock - pub then Mass At 12 o'clock - dinner. With chicken (often). Afternoon from 2 to 3 pub. At 3 picture till 6. At 6 Ball till 8. From 8 to 9 Supper. From 9 to 9½ pub. From 9½ to midnight or 4 Ball. At 2 or 4 'Midnight' supper.

  In your next letter speak me about english pubs and Saturday please.

  Hoping to hear from you very soon,

  Your Friend, Gaston de Yonghe.

  'What is one to do?' Tony asked desperately when David looked up.

  'I think it, cafes, not pubs, he's curious about,' David said.'

  'We'd better try and explain the difference. Who is this Gaston?'

  'A choirboy in Rheims.'

  David nodded. 'Do we have to be honest? Or shall we wander back and forth between the High Altar and the pub?'

  'I think we'd better be honest.'

  David took a
sheet of paper from his wallet. 'Okay - dictate

  Five minutes later he passed the completed letter to the boy. Tony looked at it critically. 'Shouldn't a gateau have a hat?'

  'Accente circonflwxe, Mais oui!'

  'Alors!' Tony said loyally, tucking the paper in his breast pocket behind the Tudor rose. He stretched his legs under the table and adjusted his blue elastic belt. 'Sometimes it's trying being a schoolboy.'

  David smiled. 'Tell me about Sanders' proposed strike.'

  'Oh. I think he was going to put a notice on the altar saying, "Feed My boys better, or I'll leave this place: J. Christ".'

  David frowned momentarily; but the boy went on. 'It wouldn't have worked. We're not allowed up to the altar. It's sacrosant.'

  'Sacrosanct.'

  'Oh yes; thank you.' Tony had begun to brush the cake crumbs into the palm of his hand; then stopped. 'Can I take these back with me?'

  'Crikey!' David was astonished. 'Is it as bad as that?' The boy laughed. 'I've started to keep tropical fish. The book I've got says they can have things like cake crumbs sometimes. They like sugar. But you have to be very careful with them. Especially about buying them. Sometimes you get a bad one - I mean a weak one - and it dies. Sometimes they're not even proper tropical fish. But we get mine from Harrods!'

  'Are they proper, strong ones?'

  'Yes,' Tony said, 'but there's an awful lot of deceit in the tropical fish world.'

  The boy's legs were stretched out under the table. He flexed them suddenly, pressing his ankles against the sides of the chair like a jockey with short stirrup-leathers, and his knees were quite square.

  'Something's bothering me,' David said. 'You worry about the slightest mark on your shorts, yet you let ink leak on to your sock, and grind your shoes into the gravel and trail them in streams. Why?' To his embarrassment a deep flush spread over the boy's cheeks, as if the reflection of a fire had been caught in a copper screen.

  'Socks and shoes don't matter much,' he said, '-or not these old ones.' He plucked distastefully at his clothes. 'These are pretty awful too.'

  'You look very ... fine,' David said. Then he was angry with himself for substituting the last word, and because even then he'd fallen back on a facetious tone.