Sandel

by Angus Stewart

  Meanwhile the fourth week of term came to an end. Tony seemed happy enough. For his own part, David would often pause curiously to review their world.

  Chapter 28

  The first paper to arrive was The Sunday Times. Tony supposed that he was to receive the attentions of Atticus, or become the subject of Portrait Gallery. In fact the people were in Oxford mainly for another story. Nevertheless a small paragraph did eventually appear.

  Throughout the subsequent boom David was constantly to ask himself how one recording should have caused a singer to become the dramatic focus he did. Tony's voice, certainly, was a freak: its unparalleled performances was the coherent core of the business; but even so it was an insufficient cause. Had the boy been appearing live somewhere, in the sort of wild cabaret capacity which he sometimes indulged in an empty room on a wet afternoon, or, alternatively, had this been a Latin country, and his devotional performance become adopted as a stunt by a politic Church, the eruption of Sandel into the public eye might have been more readily explained. But neither of these things were so. Tony had simply made a recording which was as expensive as, patently, it was square.

  Part of the trouble, David concluded, in as much as it particularly inspired the lower echelons of the press hierarchy, was topographical. Oxford is always good copy; and Tony left his visitors in no doubt that St. Cecilia's choir, for all the abuses it suffered, and which he carefully described, was an integral part of the university. A further inflammatory ingredient was the attitude Tony himself adopted on interview. While this might never be described as immodest, it was, as David had often to acknowledge when prowling uneasily outside the prefects' room which Tony had commandeered as a press office, a show, and one of no mean conception. For the rest the boom followed the non-logic of a craze. Inspired reasonably enough by a musical feat, the craze soon acquired its own dynamics. The so. was all but forgotten; the singer became a cult.

  The two factors most obviously responsible for swelling the issue were both connected with the proximity of Christmas. The first was an opportunist move on the part of the record company, who struck off a forty-five record, comprising only two arias. Another quickly followed it. The success of the new discs was immediate. The public, always amenable to sentiment, and particularly mindful of its place in the approaching season, not only accepted the first record but promoted it in an impulsive moment to the hit-parade. Thus Tony with his square recordings became top of the top twenty pops. People elected avidly for this traditional piece of England. The choice of at least some of the purchasers of the forty-five records, David imagined, was considerably influenced by the new sleeve. This carried his photograph of Tony with one or two conspicuous differences. The portrait had been transposed into colour, with unlikely blue eyes: while in place of the favourite suit, the boy was wearing a surplice and ruff-collar. This last transformation outraged Tony because he supposed they'd somehow had first to undress him. If the sleeve had any distinction it was that a Tide packet looked dim beside it.

  But what really intensified the limelight was the publicity given to the four-figure offer of a film company who proposed

  to feature Tony in a special Christmas short. The idea was that he should appear in a three and-a-half-minute technicolour feature when he would sing the Schubert Ave Maria with pathos, and supported, as the letter put it, 'by other Photogenic youngsters'. Quietly Tony refused. The company raised their offer; and when Tony refused again the press, unable to announce the payment of perhaps the highest fee per screen minute ever made to a singer, became indignant. Tony, they felt, was their property. He had no right to deny this seasonal benediction to the nation.

  David watched helplessly while cuttings collected. Tony's eyes changed arbitrarily from blue to brown, and back to blue again. Not once were they the admittedly indescribable grey or hazel of the realty. For the purposes of the press the domestically attractive boy had blue eyes, and that was that. Grey was unheard of; while hazel suggested the possibility of beauty. David smiled wryly over this. Of all the attributes scattered over the boy, no one had used the most obviously appropriate one. Yet what were they afraid of? Tony's beauty was of a kind that defined itself in even the smudgiest newsprint: while its linear regularity could, and did apparently, survive radio transmission.

  The stir caused some consternation both in the school and the college. Mrs. Jones found in it reason to crystallise her resentment against the boy. Despite this it was agreed that it would be futile to try and insulate Tony from the press, and that the affair should be allowed to blow itself out. Tony's aunt was dismayed; and David wrote to her early in the boom saying he would do all he could to contain it. For his own part he began to hate the intrusion into their lives the more heartily.

  The Master of St. Cecilia's also showed consternation. Pilgrims had begun to arrive at the Chapel. All aspects of the college were fringe-news. There was an embarrassed meeting of the Governing Body; and a notice in the lodge announced that Master Sandel no longer sang.

  Of the school staff it was the Major who really enjoyed the commotion. Since it was the staff who were ultimately responsible for Sandel's fame, he was convinced that sooner or later some right-headed society would recognise the fact and reward them with unlimited beer.

  The choir, too, were not without consciousness of glory. They marched up St. Aldate's with their noses just that little bit higher in the air. One or two of the smaller boys were seduced into wandering eyes and smiles when flash-bulbs ambushed them. This though was a serious breach of Tony's discipline, which still overshadowed them. Long ago he had schooled them carefully in the proper conduct to observe when besieged by American tourists.

  On the Saturday morning of the fifth week of term Bruce Lang turned up. David had seen him only fleetingly earlier in the term, and was glad to have him to talk to. He unfolded the story of the press campaign. Some of it was familiar to Lang who had, in particular, noted a statement of Tony's where, in a moment of exuberance, and anxious to seize upon what he supposed to be a telling superlative to describe his friend, the boy had referred to one 'Sir David Rogers'. The news desk had apparently failed to check on its information. Sir David' was real.

  'Where does this lead?' Lang asked eventually. 'For you, I mean. I can't imagine for a moment that you've got the makings of a schoolmaster. When the boy leaves ... what then? He'll grow up ... stray away from you. He couldn't do otherwise. I can sense something of the intensity of your world … I know the sort of critical equipoise that governs it. Get out while you can. Got out now.'

  David stood looking out of the window. 'I can't, Bruce. Ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, he needs me. Ours is an equipoise too.'

  'Then answer me one thing.' Lang said. 'Does it never occur to you that the relationship is ludicrous? What beats me is how you can ever see it as whole. For instance, how does this child provide you with intellectual companionship,'

  'Easy! His musical genius gives him a certain precocity ... while for my part, I'm very young. We meet about half-way.'

  'I'm unconvinced,' Lang said. 'And you don't believe a word of what you're saying.'

  David flicked Lang a cigarette; spinning it over and over across the room.

  It's Glenelgin he's going to, isn't it,' Lang asked.

  'In theory ... He's got a scholarship. The trouble is he doesn't really want to go anywhere. To school, that is ... '

  Away from you, I suppose,' Lang finished.

  David turned his lip down. He lit a cigarette.

  'I gather you've made no further contacts with the Church,' Lang said. 'What is it you want? What do you believe in?'

  Now David smiled playfully. 'Practically all of Beethoven. I'm an artist without definition. Amongst other things that means that my relationship with the real world is tenuous ... Yet at the same time it's vital. I demand a lot of it, I know. For instance, that it harbours me.'

  'And the pixie?'

  'I don't know. Since I can't think in patterns that aren't
of my own making, I can't see any long-term picture. Sometimes I'm afraid, though, that he may only be a part of my lack of definition. I repeat, I can't see. He's someone I thought I'd always wanted. Now that he is, I must go on. At least. he needs me.'

  'You're very sure of that.'

  'I have to be.'

  'You condemn yourself from your own mouth!'

  'No! There'd be no need for defence ... argument … if it weren't for the constant, irrational challenge ... That can make you doubt your senses. It magnifies doubts, but proves nothing. Then I came through a lot to arrive on the life side … as you might say. I want Tony to get there ... is it stay there? ... with less pain. And perhaps there's more life to find … somewhere else.'

  Lang touched his fingers together and nodded towards the bed. 'Meanwhile …?'

  'Sorry, Bruce, I'm not being drawn. Well, perhaps I am. There was one night. There couldn't not have been ... I see that now , But not since then ...'

  'Guilt?'

  'No. I don't think so. It was simply premature … And then possibly only because of my position here ...'

  'I can't see any future.'

  'But there must be. We live into tomorrow ... Then, we can usually shape it somehow.'

  They talked of other things. David played Lang an excerpt from the fatal record, and showed him his photos of Tony. Lang leant back with his head on one side. Returning to his usual circumlocution he said:

  'I'm forced to concede that this little boy is a remarkably beautiful creature. That is all, though,' he added heavily. 'Now cease being so desperately anxious to impress me with lewd snaps of someone else's child and get me a drink.'

  Remembering the hospitality extended to the ice-cream man on the occasion of his first visit to the school, David found Jones and asked him whether Lang might stay to lunch. He considered the crowded dining hall carefully; then, finding what he wanted, he weeded out one boy, slid the bottoms of Hunter and Crockett a little wider apart on the shiny bench, and ushered Lang in between them. He left him. The chorus began. Later, Tony sidled over to rescue Lang and routed out Hunter. Meals were like that. David would have given a lot to have overheard their conversation.

  After lunch David went up to his room, signalling to Lang that he would find him there. He had become involved with the Major, who had proudly drawn him a glass of beer.

  At two o'clock Tony was due to give what David fervently hoped would be his last interview, and he felt he could safely leave him to it.

  When Lang came into the room David instantly sensed that something was wrong. 'The boy seems to be beating up the press,' he said with unusual simplicity. 'I think you'd better go and investigate.'

  David looked at him quickly, and was out of the room before ho had finished speaking.

  When he opened the door of the small prefects' study the scene that greeted him stamped itself on his memory. What was strange about it was its incongruity. The familiar, panelled room, with its few worn armchairs and desks, was somehow the wrong set for the trio that stood within it. The dramatic posture of the actors, too, was the more enigmatic for the lack of any apparent explanation.

  Tony stood where he had evidently risen from the seat in the bay-window. His face was flushed, and he was quivering all over, though from what proportions of anger and fear David could not be sure. The uncertainty made him intensely uneasy. The boy looked like a trapped animal that might do anything. One of the men present was just lowering a large press camera, and Tony's eyes were fixed on this as if it constituted a live threat that held them mesmerised. The other man was also standing. Now he put a scratch-pad in his pocket, and they both began to move away from the window.

  David closed the door behind him, leaning on it. 'Just a minute,' he said. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

  The man with the pad saw him far the first time. He pulled his lower lip down with the stub of a pencil and his eyelids creased into leathery folds. It was a lizard's face.

  'You Rogers?'

  David stared into the liquid slits of his eyes. 'I am.'

  The man gestured faintly with his head, but the other had already raised the camera. There was a, flash. The camera had a blitz device which didn't need reloading with bulbs.

  A change came over David which later he was to try and analyse with some embarrassment. Whether the weird scene fired some latent sense of melodrama in him, or whether the shock of the outraged boy tensed him so much as to produce a state of hyper-cunning where his normal responses were momentarily reversed, he never quite discovered; in fact he didn't like to recall the episode at all.

  At any rate something like meekness overcame him. He went towards the cameraman like a pupil called before the headmaster. Nodding at Tony, he asked, 'What did you do to him?' His eyes met the man's. Then his left fist was in his stomach, and his open, right hand cut down with a release of vicious, wholly animal fury. It was unfortunate that this was allied to the timing sense of a skilled musician. The man looked as if he might never get up off the floor. He could be dead.

  David felt weak. The upsurge of violence had surprised him. His right hand ached abominably. He slid the holder off the back of the press camera and exposed the plate to the light. Then he exposed some others that were scattered on the floor before tossing them to the photographer who was, after all, getting to his knees.

  The other man said, 'You shouldn't have done that.'

  The threat, if it was one, sounded unconvincing.

  'No? And why not?' David replied, equally meaninglessly. The man said nothing. He squashed a felt hat on to his head, which instantly reduced his role to comedy. The photographer was on his feet now; collecting his scattered equipment, and blowing through his nose. He looked the sort of man who might go in daily expectation of being slapped down. Possibly it was an occupational hazard he had grown accustomed to.

  'Now get out, both of you!' David said. He crossed the room and held the door open. To his surprise the pair shuffled out.

  He went back to Tony in the bay-window. For a moment he looked at him in puzzlement; then he put his hand on the boy's head. 'Not like you to refuse a photograph.'

  Tony smiled faintly, but said nothing. He was clearly still very shaken. They sat down on the cushions of the window seat.

  'Tell me,' David said.

  Tony rested his chin in his cupped hand. 'I thought they were nice at first ... then they were rude.' He faltered. It wasn't like him to fall back on childish terms.

  'How?'

  Tony jerked his chin out of his hand. 'I told them about us,' he said with quick resolution. 'Oh, how we got on, though we had fights, and how I only really sang for you. I said I loved you and would have run away if you weren't here..'

  Slowly David nodded. Tony broke off, frowning at a memory. Then suddenly he shrugged his shoulders.

  "They got rude and asked private questions ... They got on to the choirboy joke.' Tony had been picking at the cuff of his jacket. He began to make swooping motions with his hand, like a duck or a seaplane landing on David's forearm. 'There was more son stuff: "Now, careful, son, you mean this master .. ." As if you were just a master! But I warned you, didn't I! Anyway ... Then I knew they didn't understand — though I tried to explain. I got very angry, I'm afraid.'

  David smiled. 'I could see that. I heard your voice, too, before I came in. But what was happening before I did come in?'

  The combination of exuberance and resentment left the boy. His body tensed as if the recollection had assumed a physical presence in the room and he was poised again with the resilience of a hair-spring. Instinctively David moved nearer to him. At the same moment Peter stirred in his memory.

  'I hated them,' Tony said slowly. He put the palms of his hands together, crushing them between his thighs. 'You see, I sensed they were dangerous. Then when they wanted to take the photos ...' He broke off to straighten one of his socks. 'Well, just suddenly. I didn't want those men to have pictures of me.'

  The boy looked up. 'An
other thing. One said: "You ought to have longs, or is there a school rule against it?" Then the other said: "Rules don't count for much round here", and they both sneered. They were talking without me. Well, you remember how that morning I asked you to look at the day, and you put my long trousers to warm by the fire? That was my thing ... and our thing. It was as if they were trying to spoil it. I should have hit them like you did ... I kicked that dirty rat Hunter in the balls once.'

  Tony turned to look out of the window, pressing his nose against the glass. 'You don't think I told them anything I shouldn't have done?'

  'No, Tones. You only told them the truth. and what you wanted to tell them.' David smiled as the boy's composure returned. 'Feed Byrd,' he said. 'Bruce is up there with him.

  'There's blackmail,' Lang suggested as they walked down the drive between the gnomes. 'I should say they were unlikely to print a scoop on the strength of the boy's lyrical claims alone.'

  David stared at him. 'You must be nuts! Anyway,' he went on more thoughtfully, 'the blackmailed get nasty. I think I hit that slimy bloke insanely enough to alarm him.'

  'I'd never really associated you with physical violence, you know,' Lang said, pausing to poke the belly of a particularly repulsive gnome with the ferrule of his umbrella.

  'Nor me,' David confessed. He was still nursing the blade of his right hand. 'I was shown the trick by a drunken Irishman in Algiers. It never occurred to me it would work. But then the animal's a funny thing. The gambit must have been lurking at his disposal all this time.'

  They had arrived at the gates. 'No,' David went on, 'it's Tony - and perhaps the animal in him - I'm worried about; I'd no idea some lousy gutter gang might rub him up like that, or I'd have put a stop to the interviews long ago. I've seen him like that before ... Twice. He seems to become possessed by an absolute terror. A hare in a trap doesn't touch it. It's horrible …'

  David put his foot on one of the wrought-iron gate. 'Well, no more press conferences, and that's for sure.' he said, relieving the guilt he felt in the alien idiom. 'God, how I hate bloody England sometimes!'