The child whose head was just visible, and who was staring at him through the angle formed by the piano's lid and its support, was weeping profusely. Hallo! David thought. The born audience of Tchaikovsky: a romantic heart. He stopped playing abruptly.
Can you play the piano?'
The child said nothing. He stared at David with red eyes, but came round to the front of the instrument. He was so brand-new that David half expected to see labels attached to his uniform.
'What's your name,' he tried again.
'David.' The boy got the word out, but the acknowledgement of his own identity was too much for him. A fresh supply of tears welled up in his eyes and ran an erratic course down his cheeks.
David nodded. 'I'm David too. But I can't tie my tie as neatly as you can.' Too late he saw his mistake. The child's face was now awash with tears.
'Mummy did it.' The sobs became convulsions. 'I forgot my lamb.'
After a moment David pulled out his pen and found a piece of paper. He drew a short down-stroke and barbed one end obtusely, like an anchor. He held the paper against the music rest; then looked at the boy intensely. 'Its nose …Is it like that?'
The boy nodded in bewilderment.
David's eyes narrowed. 'And black cotton?'
'It's black.'
David bit his lower lip in deeper perplexity. 'Now eyes … Glass or felt? Quick!'
'Brown glass ones.' The child sniffed, and left a silver smear across the cuff of his flannel jacket like the path of a snail ever a stone. Tony, David reflected, would have been horrified. But he was busy calculating relative angles with an unreservedly furious frown. At length he drew in the eyes and looked searchingly at the boy.
'In about that position?'
'Yes!' The boy's interest was visibly marked.
David looked at the boy with an amazement that was still troubled with suspicion. After a long moment he pulled himself together and shook his head. He drew a long narrow U, and then blocked it in the middle like a half-filled test-tube, shading over the lower portion. 'Think carefully before answering, David,' he said. 'The lamb is white. This is one leg. What colour is the lower part of the leg?'
'Brown.' said the boy without hesitation.
David was far away. 'I thought so! As if it had been dropped in chocolate.' He returned briskly to the present, and found a postcard in his wallet. 'Mine got lost years ago.'
Understanding spread over the child's face. 'You can still get new ones, I think,' he said anxiously.
'No matter' David said, 'we'll send for yours.'
He addressed the card as directed.
'Do we have reading and writing here?' the boy asked.
'I hope so!' David abandoned deception with relief. I'm not personally writing home for everything you've forgotten.'
The boy stood the test bravely.
'At my other school we had finger-painting. I'm going to have trombone lessons because Daddy plays the trombone for the London Philharmonic. Are you really called David too?'
David decided his work was done. The child was fully loquacious again. He got up from the piano. 'Do you know how long a trombone is when fully extended?'
The boy shook his head, suddenly suspecting a difficulty.
At least once times my size of David and two and a half times yours.' He made towards the door, leaving the child puzzle this out
How long Miss Poole of the second-helpings had been standing there he blushed to think. She was more attractive than remembered her, and she was looking at him as if be were some particular sign of the zodiac.
'Jean,' she said.
'I'm David.' said David. 'And this is a namesake's summons for a soft-toy.'
Chapter 23
David lay on his bed. It was ten to eight. The staff supper had passed off easily enough. It had been a ragged affair with people coming and going so that he didn't know whether he had now met all his colleagues or not. Apart from Jean Poole, there had been another matron, the sallow-faced man whom he thought of as a curate, who had greeted him so distractedly on his first visit to the school, a round, middle-aged man, Samuel, and a younger, mousy man, Wallace, whose natty dress suggested emotional compensation. The Joneses had not been present, nor had the duty-master, Hayden, whose voice, nevertheless, had reached them clearly from several parts of the building. When this happened the curate trembled as if submitted to a charge of electricity.
Now David closed his mind to them all, and wondered whether heart-beats really might in fact be audible as cornered secret agents invariably fear. He tried to see himself suddenly confronted with the strangeness of Tony, and wondered what he would do. There must be considerable shock in the blazing colour and live warmth denied him so long. Beyond that he could make no prediction as to what would follow. He suspected he would need compulsively to make some physical contact with the boy, but that this would be impossible for him to initiate because they would meet as strangers. Perhaps they might shake hands.
This time there was someone coming down the passage, and the step was the uneven footfall of someone carrying a heavy case. To beguile a sudden self-consciousness, David fixed a parody of boredom on his face and gazed over his chest at the door. The mask twitched about his lips. He couldn't keep his face still and was trembling all over.
Tony knocked thunderously, and then was standing within the threshold. He dropped a case on the floor, pushed it further into the room with his foot, and then closed the door with his hands behind his back. Instantly David recognised small changes. An attempt had been made to part the thick fringe of his hair, and Tony was wearing a long-trouser flannel suit which reflected the light in silver facets like some incomparably rich elfin armour, setting off the grace of his slight form. Tony smiled with the peculiar liquid dimension which dazzled, and David saw that the wire was gone.
'Portrait of one bad prep school master!' he announced.
'Bad'?' David echoed wildly.
'Lazy, then,' Tony emended easily. He stood in the middle of the room before the spluttering gas-fire. 'Stand up!'
David obeyed; swinging his legs off the bed.
Tony had placed one hand flat on the top of his head and was standing stiffly to attention. 'Nearer!'
David didn't understand.
Tony closed the gap which separated them so that his body was almost touching David's. He strained his eyes upwards at his hand, and then slid this horizontally off his head so that his hair fell willingly back into its old fringe. The blade of his hand bumped against the bridge of David's nose. 'Thought so. Up to your nose,'
The explanation, now that it had come, didn't sound wholly valid. Tony's eyes were laughing three inches beneath David's own. Then the boy's smile became self-conscious.
'What do you think of them? I bet they're the last thing you expected to see … Don't think they're symbolic, or anything,'
David smiled. 'I like them.'
Tony undid his jacket; holding it open like wings so that David might better admire the long trousers. He looked down almost morbidly at his own waist, pinched by the elastic belt, then flicked his eyes up at David again. Even the distaste in his voice could barely ruffle the moulding of his nose, 'You don't think I'm getting fat?'
Even had the absurdity of the question not betrayed the boy, his eyes now did. David was trembling at the carefully engineered proximity.
'Crook!' he said meaninglessly. Slipping his arms round the boy's waist, he let his forehead sink on to the cushioning fringe,
David felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. It was like embracing a symphony; something ultimate. Tony's body didn't yield. He stood there formally; triumphantly playing some private game of his own. Then suddenly he squeezed David with a tight, childish passion, and, uncoiling himself with an equally violent reaction, flopped back into the armchair with an ecstatic grin. David also sat down; at ease now himself.
Tony spoke first; jerking upright in the deep chair, and feeling in the pocket of his jacket. 'I've got a present for you
. I had to stop off in London and get a proper box for it, so that's why I'm late. Close your eyes!'
David did so, and then opened them again to find Tony slumped back in his chair, studying his tie with a bashful expression. The small box that had been placed in his hand was plastic and had a transparent lid. David read the name of a London dentist, and then raised the lid for a better look at the pink plate and gleaming platinum wire. Tony's chin was still lowered, but he was looking up through his lashes, and his lips were poised uncertainly between embarrassment arid laughter. David smiled.
'I couldn't have thought of a nicer present. I'll keep it always like the Cheshire Cat's grin!'
Tony was instantly alive again, 'You won't find any food or anything on it. I cleaned it up specially.'
David produced the compendium of statuary which he had bought with the credit Blackwells had allowed him on a sackful of Anglo-Saxon textbooks. Tony opened the heavy volume across his knees in amazement. A moment later he exclaimed, 'Ten guineas? That's more than a suit with shorts!'
'But I trust less worthy of being dropped into the sea!'
Tony looked up sharply. 'Who told you that?'
'Why, you did.'
Tony frowned, 'Oh, so I did. I wish I hadn't thrown it away now.'
'So it was an impulsive sacrifice rather than a standing resolution?'
Tony's eyes narrowed as he thought this out. He nodded; then smiled wickedly. 'Fraid so!'
David shook his head. 'And why the long suit?'
'For dignity at concerts and recordings,' said Tony awkwardly. 'But I still prefer shorts …'
'For vanity.' David finished helpfully.
Tony closed the book and laid it on the floor beside him. He tried vainly to draw his brows down from their high arches into a frown, at the same, time compressing his lips ferociously. The effect was merely comic. 'Do you know something, Mr. Rogers? You are talking to the head-boy, T. Sandel, and even privileged members of the staff are advised to keep on the right side of him.'
David burst out laughing. 'I don't believe it! And even if you were I should still take great pleasure in spanking your bottom as a public example in the dormitory.'
'Dormitory?' There was no mistaking the provocation in Tony's scorn. 'The head-boy, let me tell you, has a private bedroom.' Tony spaced the words emphatically, and added, 'It's just along your corridor. Don't knock.' He sprawled back, reviewing David's discomfort at leisure with his most outrageous expression.
David ignored the suggestion; and Tony's thoughts seemed to become more properly disposed again.
'What happened about the car? How long have you been up for now?'
David told him.
Tony was feeling in his pocket again. 'That don, Mr. Ricks, sent me a letter in the holidays telling me where you were, but that old bag of a Jones woman didn't send it on. Now I suppose I'll have to write him a letter saying I'm sorry I couldn't thank him for his letter because I hadn't got …'
'It (his letter) before today.' David volunteered.
'Thank you!' Tony sighed wearily. He passed a hand through his hair; and then did it again with a sudden, gentler curiosity. 'Have you got any shampoo?'
David shook his head with a smile.
'Blast!' the boy said abstractedly. He curled his legs beneath him in the chair.
'One plucks them up.' David made the irony light. 'Stops them becoming baggy at the knees.'
Tony was indignant. 'I know. Anyway I don't care about this suit because I've got your other one still new.' Nevertheless he tugged at the trousers, revealing, and obviously approving, of the gold shins and grey ankle-socks that became displayed.
'All right!' David was patient. 'Supposing you just tell me about the B.B.C. concert and the recordings,'
Tony looked up quickly. 'Didn't you see the Vittoria?' David shook his head, 'Alas. No telly for weak patients. It was on the first night of my awakening.'
Tony nodded, remembering. 'They had a small screen in front of us so we could see ourselves.'
'It's called a monitor screen,'
'Oh. Anyway, I could see us, but not me,'
'How very odd.'
'I mean they didn't show me close, I don't think, though I couldn't watch all the time.'
David smiled. 'Tones, didn't it occur to you that if people tune in to a concert it's not for the purpose of inspecting one-hundredth part of the cast – T. Sandel, head-boy?'
Tony looked numb. 'I suppose not.'
'Aural and visual works of art aren't compatible — which is why opera is absurd,' David hurried on, offering this muddled consolation as something Tony might dig for if he chose. 'What about the record, though?'
Tony's enthusiasm returned in a flood of animation. He took a deep breath. 'Well! It's all done. It took three days and I stayed with my other aunt and uncle who take me skiing sometimes, you know. Wow, was it exhausting! A full twelve- inch l.p., do you realise that, boy!' Tony was bouncing on the chair, and thumping his fists on the flat leather arms.
'And who supported Sandel, head-boy?'
'Oh, yes.' Tony simmered down a little, 'Six sopranos and two altos from Westminster Abbey. But they were only, well, chorus, you know,' he added, finding what he considered the right amount of modesty with difficulty. 'Seven of the songs are just me. Oh, and one of the sopranos was a weedy kid who hadn't a clue and had to be dropped after rehearsals. That makes it only five,'
'I've no doubt you extended your professional sympathy to him very nicely.' Even as David spoke, a little dryly, he sensed the futility of bringing restraint to the boy. He must accept that, or else involve them in all manner of destructive antagonisms. Or was he seeking to absolve himself from responsibility?
'Well, yes, I did!' Tony said hotly.
'Okay!' David laughed. 'What did you sing?'
'The other boys were all very good,' Tony said in slow, almost sulky, parentheses, He became earnest again. 'There are some bits and pieces of Schubert and Bach that we all did ... Oh, and Bruckner's Um Mitternacht, which they let me do in the end …'
'They let you loose as an alto?' David sat up in astonishment.
Tony spread his hands. 'They said it was a freak effect, and that's why I had such a time persuading them.'
'It is.' David was thoughtful. 'When this recording comes out we'll have professors of music from all over nosing about the place.'
Tony smiled with unfeigned delight now.
'Who is "they", anyway?'
'Argo.'
'And?'
'Oh, some London orchestra, with their own conductor, I think. Someone I'd never heard of at any rate.'
'So, we're going to have Sandel, alto, and Sandel, soprano, on the same record.'
'Master!' Tony emended.
David inclined his head. 'As is only proper. But that's not the point. I only hope people will think you're twin brothers, or we'll have the likes of Percy Scholes peering down throat and making notes. Yes, "open wide!"' David picked up the plate in its presentation box. 'Still, what about soprano twin?'
Tony smiled. The name on the little plastic box could have been world famous with a little unethical advertising. 'Well, Bach: Sheep may safely graze, first.'
'With the full Flagstad resonance?'
Tony heaved a chestful of air. 'Certainly! Then, Schubert's Standchen —the opus 135 one; his Ave Maria, for the innocent choirboy touch; and Handel, I know that my Redeemer. Now, where are we? Ah, yes, Schubert once again, Salve Regina; and, finally, Mozart's Laudate Dominum, from Vesperae solemnes de something or other …'
'De confessore.' David got up to turn the gas-fire lower. His smile had a helpless breadth about it. That's certainly going to town in a popular way! You know, people are bound to compare the Handel with the Lough recording?'
Tony closed his eyes and slid a few inches lower in his chair. Airily he waved his hand. 'Just wait. Have no fear. Master Antony Sandel, first competent soprano of the stereophonic age, will not let you down.' He opened his eyes again. 'An
yway that recording was practically before Caruso, and they'd only just learned to make records at all, the man said.'
'Tones, whatever the man said in the interests of encouraging stereophonic. Sandel, the H.M.V. recording will take some equalling. Just bear modestly in mind that the repertoire you've described is quite a bold one.'
'I know: Tony was confident. Morosely, he added: 'Do think you're going to be a schoolmaster for life?'
'I sincerely hope not!'
'Good. I'll save you yet.'
'Explain!'
'About the man again.' Tony was firmly set on a tangent. He said he would like a photo …'
'To enhance the innocent choirboy touch?' David interrupted. 'Your own qualification about the Ave Maria, remember? I don't think we've got one that looks suitably holy.' Tony leapt up and seized him by the lapels: his face was a comic mask of ferocity and excitement. 'Look, Mr. Rogers, sir, weed, if you think you're going to bully me this term you wait!' He thrust his blazing eyes to within an inch of David's. David passed his finger over the boy's nose. Tony dived head first back into his chair. He checked the somersault halfway, and regarded David through his legs. In a different voice he said. 'Can't we send one of the photos anyway? The man said it didn't have to be in vestments, and only had to be a face.'
David couldn't prevent himself from smiling. Tony poked his tongue out: then, finding he couldn't sustain the contortion, slithered his body into an upright position again. 'All right.' David relented. 'But I still have to process the photos.'
Tony seemed satisfied. 'When will you do them? '
'Soon.'
The boy looked up quickly. 'Pedagogue already!' he sighed. More seriously he asked, 'David, when are you going to have finished that music you want us to record? Can I look at it yet?'
David thought for a moment. 'I'd rather you didn't. It's still a mess, and I'd like to finish it first. But I'm working on it as fast as I can.'
'All right. Only don't forget I'm fourteen next month.'
'I'm already searching publishers' lists for further works on statuary.'
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