Sandel

by Angus Stewart

  Tony said nothing.

  'Don't worry,' David went on, 'there's lots of time.' As he spoke, with more confidence than he felt, he looked at Tony's face to become aware that there were facets of the boy's personality still quite unknown to him.

  'I don't know,' Tony said slowly. Abruptly he came out of his dream. 'What really annoyed me about the recording was that I wanted to do a piece of the Vittoria, but they said I couldn't .. . That bit in the Recessit Pastor part with the terrific soprano phrases, you know.'

  David shook his head.

  'What!' For perhaps three seconds Tony listened, intensely poised and with his eyes shut; then loosed the astonishing crescendo phrase flawlessly into the still room. With his hand, he followed the rising wave of sound as if he were launching a paper dart. David recognised the line, but was stunned by the musical feat. To pause in the middle of a conversation, and confidently pluck such a phrase from its choral context without so much as a hum, let alone a tuning-fork, was a musical exercise comparable, perhaps, to the linguistic one of spontaneously rendering Anglo-Saxon riddles in modern Chinese. Tony had simply closed his eyes, heard his choral support and its tempo, and launched himself with split-second timing.

  'Whatever's the matter?' The boy was alarmed. 'Did I miss it?'

  'No,' David said dully. 'You hit it all right.'

  Tony beamed. 'You recognised then after all?'

  David nodded. He got up to draw the curtains on the autumn night. 'Tones?'

  'Yes?'

  'If I were you I shouldn't worry much even when your voice does begin to go. For one thing you'll almost certainly have a decent tenor or bass when you're eighteen or so... And even if you haven't, or don't want to sing, then you'll still have got a musical sense that's more immediately accessible than anyone's I've known.' David turned round; then couldn't help laughing at the boy's expression. 'You'll soon sober-up I envisage stiff lessons in composition and harmony. You may have got your scholarship and be reclining on your laurels, but it's not going to be a slack term, Sandel head-boy, or no.'

  Tony was putting on his pet hedge-sparrow act.

  'Incidentally, if you behaved like that when Argo were calling you stereophonic Sandel, and promising you loud billing on record sleeves, I'm surprised they didn't turf you out of the studio. ...And now it, your bed-time.’

  Tony had bounced out of his chair again, and taken the same excited grip on David's lapels as before. He shook him violently. 'Only if you come and talk to me in my bath. I haven't warned you about any of the things in this crazy place I must; or given you the love my aunt sent ... and the advice ... About old Hayden too ... all sorts of things …’

  Not for the first time, David found himself acknowledging that Tony was a highly nervous creature, on top of whatever else he might be. Or rather, whatever he was originated in a highly nervous basis, that was not unlike his own. 'You don't happen to sing in your bath?' he asked suspiciously.

  'No, never,' Tony was tugging him about all but hysterically.

  'All right then. I’ll join you in five minutes ... But cool off

  a bit.'

  Tony paused to pick up his case; then looked round. 'You know, even the words you use are getting like the establishment.'

  'Out, quick!’ David commanded.

  Tony dropped a large emerald towel on the floor and a similarly coloured flannel into the bath. He lowered himself gingerly into the water, grinning inanely at David as he did so. 'The one good thing about the first night of term in this place is that all the juniors cut their baths so there’s some hot water left for me,' he said. 'This is the last decent bath I’ll get unless I work an off-games racket and have them then.'

  David looked about him. The room was bare except for a towel-rail which was cold, a nibbled cork bathmat, and a rickety chair, parts of the surface of which were still covered with a thick yellow paint, whose white lead base had become sticky through long exposure to steam. David perched himself instead on the rim of the bath, and wondered whether Tony proposed to put on some sort of aquatic show. The wretched boy had already drawn his attention to the area where his shorts had prohibited the even tan that covered the rest of his body. Now David watched the dissolving pattern of tiny indentations made about his waist by the band of the pants, which presumably he did wear in winter. Tony lowered his head for a moment beneath the water, blew three bubbles, then raising his head and legs simultaneously with a powerful contraction of his stomach muscles, balanced his heels on the hot and cold taps. He reviewed his legs with satisfaction. 'Shorts again tomorrow,' he announced thoughtfully.

  'Less silver more gold.' David's indulgence carried a hint of irony. 'Only don't forget to hang up the long all-wools carefully so as to preserve the creases.'

  For a moment he thought Tony was going to throw the face flannel; but he only muttered:

  'Right, Rogers!' He fished around for the soap, and blew his nose on his flannel to see if it would annoy David. It didn't. Disappointed, Tony asked:

  ‘What do you think of the staff?'

  'They seem a nice enough bunch to me.' David was guarded.

  'Has Samuel shown you his collection of moths yet?'

  David remembered the round man. 'No.'

  'What about that old fraud Hayden?'

  'I haven't met him yet.'

  'Oh boy! Just you wait!' Tony, face split into an almost hysterical discomposure and he sent a shower of water flying into the room. 'He teaches C.E. geography straight from the army manuals because he doesn't know anything else. Then every few weeks he has a general knowledge test - I ask you!' Tony slithered round on his side in the bath and threw this excitedly up at David. Then, clearly imitating the absent man, he went on. '"Question one: On what famous ground is the Eton-Harrow match played, eh? Question two: When does the Flat Season start? - Flat season, boy, you know what that means - no more questions. Hurry, boy, number three now: Who was Master of The Grafton before the Kaiser's little balls-up? - no, you cannot be excused, Hamley, old boy. Shut up, Ferris!"'

  Tony gave a low whistle as he lobbed the soap into a corner of the bathroom. 'Blackboard duster,' he explained. '5A has a proper ministry model with felt and a wooden back. The classrooms that only have an old school sock from the sewing-room are the lucky ones, I can tell you!' Tony sank back on his shoulders. 'Then there's his coughing. He smokes sixty a day. "Two hundred Seniors for me, Jakes, old boy, if you're going up into Oxford. My account at Grimbly's, you know. Just say Major Hayden, what? Oh, and look in on the cigar maturing room, that's if you don't mind, old boy. Tell 'em the Major'll be along soon about that home-grown stuff of his they're curing. They'll know all about it."' Tony pointed with a dripping hand towards the door. 'Exit Jakes humble and humiliated,' he said with satisfaction.

  As Tony finished speaking heavy foot-falls sounded in the corridor outside. The boy wrung out his flannel, and then carefully laid the emerald rectangle over his lower abdomen.

  There was a rap at the door, and the voice David had heard about the building throughout the evening bellowed 'Sandel!'

  Tony blew a stream of bubbles over his chest and moulded the flannel more delicately in position with his hand. 'Here we go! You'll get it now! All about his horse Wellington who had to be shot in the South Bucks '33, although she had "good bone, old boy"; and his dear old spaniel bitch that got distemper...'

  The door was thrown open and David found himself facing an emaciated, though still rugged-looking man of about sixty. His first impression was of a moustache that was less stained than sticky with nicotine, and of a nose like Bonaparte's, but bigger. When the man spoke his nose swung through several points of the compass.

  'Deuced sorry, old boy.... This one's broken barracks, what?' He indicated Tony with an orange finger.

  David waited while the newcomer fought off a paroxysm of coughing.

  'Must be ... new feller Roger, eh?' The old campaigner was straggling manfully with his diaphragm. Now he had it under some sort of control. 'I'm Ha
yden,' he spluttered.

  'Major, Gunners,' Tony put in formally. He submerged again.

  The Major ignored the boy, and David held out his hand. 'Yes. I'm David Rogers. How do you do.'

  It was inconceivable of course, but the soldier's hand seemed to have imparted something like liquid nicotine to his own.

  'You two are related somehow, aren't you,' the Major asked without curiosity.

  'Intimately,' said Tony, who'd raised his head. He submerged it once more, and the spluttering of bubbles suggested he'd been overcome with giggles.

  David stilled the anger that flicked through him. It would be wiser for the moment to ignore the boy as the Major was doing. The Major spoke again in sharp bursts as if afraid that a long sentence might bring a return of the coughing. 'By the way.... Are you a mild ... or a bitter man?'

  David stared at him. 'Mild,' think. Usually, that is.'

  The Major stared back in turn. 'No, no, old boy. That won't do at all. I'm afraid. Must know one way or the other for the barrel.'

  'Barrel?' David echoed stupidly.

  'Yes, old boy. Common Room beer barrel. Aren't you with me? Didn't Wallace tell you, eh? We vote in either mild or bitter each term. Strict ballot. Majority wins … All that.'

  David remembered the barrel he'd seen tucked away in the staff room with a wad of blotting-paper under the tap to catch the drip, 'I see. Then I'm still mild.'

  The Major was confused. 'Awkward that, old boy,' he said slowly. 'Complete deadlock. ... Fifty-fifty.' He frowned. I'm bitter myself. Gould was a bitter man too.'

  'You're telling me!' said Tony.

  Either the remark was beyond the Major, or else he hadn't heard. He continued to frown at the bathmat.

  'Perhaps,' David hazarded, 'the problem might be settled in one of two ways. Either we could persuade a brewery to supply us mild and bitter ready mixed, or else you yourself

  in the capacity of O.C. might be allowed an additional, casting vote.'

  The Major looked up at David with new respect. There was considerable emotion in his bloodshot eyes. 'I say, old boy, that's dashed handsome of you, you know!' The trouble returned to his brow. 'Have to put it to the others though. Jean, now.... Don't think she likes bitter much.'

  'Does Jean subscribe to the beer?'

  'Rather, old boy. Universal Suffrage here, you know ... Gotta do the democratic thing. That's the problem. Can't throw away cricketing principles over a thing like this, eh? ... Not after a life like mine.' He shook his head sadly and was lost in contemplation of the cork mat.

  'Sir!' said Tony heavily. 'How long till lights-out now?'

  'Eh, what?' The Major looked up from his dream. ' 'Bout two minutes, Sandel. Move, boy! On the command.'

  'I haven't washed my face yet,' Tony said dryly.

  'What about it then, eh?' The Major's nose swung through several compass points.

  'I don't know! I really don't!' Tony contrived to distil the essence of pity in his voice. He heaved a sigh as though he had come suddenly weary of life, then, patiently, he indicated the position of the face-flannel, the Major, and the door, with three uncompromising gestures of his head.

  The Major retired with a grunt.

  'That was just childish and rude,' David said when he'd gone.

  He saw the colour beginning to rise on the boy's cheek, suffusing them from below with a rich stain. Tony was about to say something, but David checked him, clasping his head firmly in one hand as he leaned over the bath. Instead, the boy plucked the flannel from his groin, and folding it laterally, laid it across his eyes.

  'Tony, listen,' he went on. 'I don't care how you behave towards your masters — that's their problem. But don't talk to them like that across myself. All right?' David peeled the flannel from the boy's eyes to find them closed underneath. 'Tony? You'll only make my position impossible here if you do... And yours, come to that.'

  A few moments later Tony opened his eyes. Then, as David had got up and was standing beside the bath, he called:

  'Catch,'

  Before David realised what was happening, and with a single movement that combined incredible agility with an almost lunatic degree of confidence, Tony had leapt wet and naked from the bath and was sitting with his arm about his neck and his legs locked around his hips.

  'You know, I haven't got quite as many suits as you,' David said mildly. He lowered the slippery, dizzy-eyed creature to the floor, and rolled it up without ceremony in its emerald towel.

  Tony lay inert except for his quivering eyes and lips. His sprawled, mocking candour was effortlessly contrived. David closed his eyes, and opened them again determined to see only Tony's innocent beauty ... what presumably other people saw.

  Tony got up with a single harmony of movement that was as consistent as the phrase of music he had so unexpectedly uttered less than half an hour before. He wound the towel into a turban about his head, and walked slowly, stark naked down the corridor, placing one foot carefully before the other as if he were balancing on a single crack between the bare boards.

  David sensed that something was wrong as soon as Tony came in. He had returned to his bedroom and was smoking a cigarette before the fire. Tony knocked, and then entered the room without waiting for a reply. He was dressed in cornflower-blue pyjamas, and over his shoulder on coat-hangers were slung the suit he had been wearing, and what was evidently another, though enclosed this time in a polythene wardrobe-bag. He avoided David's eyes, and spoke jerkily.

  'Can I hang these in your cupboard? This cellophane thing's got the other suit you bought me in.'

  'Never bought you anyhow,' David said; but when Tony - didn't smile, he waved towards the wardrobe. 'Yes, of course.'

  Tony didn't open it immediately. Instead, he laid the clothes on David's bed and then went over to the window where he poked his head between the drawn curtains, holding then, together about his neck so that only his back was visible to anyone in the room. 'David?' Muffled though the voice was, its tone was that peculiar one that demands an answer, makes a formal request to proceed.

  David struck a match. 'Yes?'

  Tony spun round into the room again with a movement that was at once restless and slow. His eyes still wouldn't meet David's. 'David, d'you remember those fashion models we saw in Cheltenham?'

  'Yes,

  'Do they have boys like that for boys' clothes anywhere?'

  'I don't think so.' David began to suspect what was coming. Tony came back towards the fire. 'I should like to show clothes like that.... I mean all different ones. I could have cricket shorts and a white pullover and carry a bat like they carried umbrellas, or gym things, or our summer shorts, you know, or those sort of puffed bathers with blue and turquoise squares that boys wear at Cannes.... And of course best suits like these ...' Tony shook off one of his slippers and turned the gas-fire up fully with his toes so that it roared loudly in the silence. 'Then I'd just wander round between the tables! Id take my cap off and people would inspect it and ask how much it was.... People would feel my clothes ...'

  'I don't like the people ... or any of it much.' David found he'd been startled to the protest involuntarily. He was angry and confused. As the boy had been talking there had grown in him the awareness that the whole thing was some sort of intensely nervous preamble, though to what end he had little idea. He suspected the fantasy wasn't wholly serious.

  'Well not just any people,' Tony went on. There was flavour of truculence in his voice now, and he seemed to be doing elaborate exercises with his bare foot. 'I'd always come to you first.'

  David was silent. The half-inch of ash fell off his cigarette before he could jerk his hand over the saucer he was using as an ash-tray. 'I won't always be there, Tones.'

  'No.'

  The boy's voice was perfectly matter-of-fact, and David instantly felt self-conscious. Tony was standing facing squarely away from him, with the back of his legs resting against the arm of the chair, and was idly reversing the winder of his watch with his finger s
o that the ratchet mechanism purred in the stillness. Then suddenly he turned round and his face was contorted with a violent flow of tears. As suddenly again, and as if the sensuous and beautiful boy were somehow left behind him in his haste, be scrambled blindly over the arm of the chair and butted his trembling face into David's chest. As David's shock subsided, the boy began covering his face with kisses.

  Gradually Tony's sobbing ceased. He began to find articulate expression for his grief. Often the words were so simple that they must have appeared naive had not his earnestness defined their importance. Sometimes they were oddly conjoined as he floundered for expression. They came as fast as the tears that had preceded them.

  'In the holidays ... when you weren't with me ... I thought you might be dead ... or killed.' The tears started to flow again, but now Tony wiped them away impatiently with his hand.

  Violently he shook his head. 'And I was rude … in the bathroom to the Major. But it was because of seeing you again. I was all excited and silly.'

  Tony went on, speaking faster; his thought following illogical sequences, pouncing haphazardly into the present and the past in his determination to exorcise all pockets of doubt remaining in his mind.

  'In your room … when I came to tea and you were on the piano-stool and I kissed you ... It wasn't because I was a skip like Hunter. And before that ... when I first saw you ...' Tony sniffed, and was crying again. But he talked on carefully, feeling for words. His tears had become incidental to his voice; something remote from himself that was to be ignored, 'You think it's because my father's dead … And you know, and you think I want you instead of him . . . But it's not ... Because it's different .. how I love you.'

  'Tony, you don't have to explain. You see — how to put it. When I was an undergraduate we used to have a fashionable catch-phrase — the way you'll have crazes for particular expressions here. People would say, "Don't rationalise." It makes more sense than many of the people who used it realised and means "don't try to explain' … And especially not what is most deeply inside you. You see … human beings are very near to one another. Nearly every feeling they have is common to all of them. Even if it weren't so, then I understand how you feel ...'