The Horses

by William Lane

  After a chat with Cobblefield and Pike at the end of the session – this boy’s pace and sidestep, that boy’s ability to ‘read the game’, the tenacity of a forward – Val returned in the invigorating rain and darkness to his lodgings. He lived in a small sandstone cottage that had served as a chapel in colonial times. The school encouraged its masters to live on site. Their lodgings, most in the style of ‘colonial architecture’, were scattered about the school grounds. They included transplanted kitchens, servants’ quarters, stables, guardhouses, a station master’s cottage – sandstone, boxlike, lightless buildings, darkly stained. Val’s place was set on the eastern side of the creek, beyond the school hall, parade ground and classrooms. It nestled between the school graveyard and the firing range, within sight of Dartmoor House, which was Val’s house.

  Val kept his quarters neat. As with many of the masters, he was a bachelor. A bookcase and piano dominated his living room. Val woke at five in the morning regardless of the season and read for fifty minutes. He read widely, although he dismissed most of what he read. Then he played the piano for forty-five minutes (J. S. Bach, Mozart, then Beethoven, and always in that order). He followed this by exercising for twenty-five minutes. Then, after a cold shower (three minutes), he walked (four minutes) to the dining hall to eat breakfast with the other masters (thirty minutes), before strolling briskly to the staffroom. Val had grown up poor, small and smart in a decaying coal-mining town. To survive he had been a chameleon, and a chameleon he still was. These days he slipped in and out of a series of character modes instinctively, as unthinkingly as changing gears in a car. He had learnt early how to read people for what they most feared and desired, and on these two strings he played them. Val had been studying power and the powerful for as long as he could remember having a consciousness. This study had led him to the school, where he never thought of himself as anything other than a stranger, a cuckoo in some rare and exotic bird’s nest. He was extraordinarily energetic, he had to be. Val never wanted to taste vulnerability again. And it did have a taste.

  He took off his coat and shoes at his door. A maid had lit a small fire, which he sat before, quickly slipping into a meditation. (Val meditated on school days between five-forty and six p.m.) When he returned from this state it was time to shower again and shave, in preparation for dining with the other masters.

  While shaving he began prioritising a series of points in anticipation of a school council meeting, to be held after dinner. He had been trying to find Capon throughout the day, wishing to have a word with him about the agenda for the meeting, but Capon was not to be found.

  There he was, however, at the head of the dinner table. Wherever Capon might get to during the day, he never missed a meal. The other masters pretended not to listen when Val went up to the headmaster, leant over his shoulder, and began whispering in his ear. ‘Oh, I suppose there’s no harm in it,’ Capon said, with a flick of his serviette. ‘No, no, I don’t object, Val.’ Then, with a frown, wriggling his collar, ‘Oh, if you insist, Val.’ Finally, patting his serviette smooth, ‘Oh, very well, if you think it’s best.’ Val smiled, tapped the headmaster on the shoulder, and returned to his seat. Capon brushed his shoulder.

  The school council met monthly in a chamber behind the staffroom, under a row of portraits of past headmasters, who scowled, smiled placidly, or gazed vacantly over the long table and upholstered chairs. The lights were frosted and high on the walls, so it was cosily lightless below. Anyone reading had to lean forward and squint. Tonight a crackling blaze filled the fireplace. Meetings were usually short and businesslike. The council was comprised of eight men who had once attended the school as pupils, two members of the Anglican church, and the headmaster. No other masters were expected to attend, and were never asked unless their presence was specifically required. Val, however, had simply turned up from the beginning of his employment, and no one had thought or dared to inform him that this was not protocol. Five of the eight old boys were always Rurals, so it was no surprise that they rarely attended. These men lived out the back of Bourke, or past the Pilbara, or west of Wagga-Wagga, or somewhere equally inaccessible. (Some Rural councillors had served their full five-year tenure without attending a single meeting.) Present that night were three old boys, two members of the clergy, Capon, Val, and Cobblefield, who had made a special request to attend. Of the old boys, one was a lawyer, and another an accountant. This was a practical tradition of the council.

  Certain legal issues regarding the purchase of neighbouring properties were listed first on the agenda. These were deftly dealt with by the lawyer, Black. Black was a large man sporting a weathered and tanned yachtsman’s complexion. He was always smoking a pipe, and talked in a confident bass while easing himself about in a leather chair. Second on the agenda was a costing of the purchase of mechanical groomers and a list of new saddles, bridles and other tack, a droned summary delivered by the accountant, Tait, an always-weary man who attended meetings with the air of someone not unconscious of the time he was sacrificing. A man named Crib was the third old boy present, an uncertain, undistinguished-looking person whose face was hard to recall. As secretary, Crib moved the agenda on to matters concerning the resumption of the school term. At this point Capon asked Val to give an account of the new boy, David: ‘He’s already friends with Thomas Butter-Finch, it appears, the incumbent head boy,’ reported Val, ‘but has also been associated with Donald Kiss and Steven Lambert. None of you would have heard of them, they’re undistinguished boys. They appear to have attached themselves to him. He’s already proved his prowess on the sporting field, and I’ve decided that he will play number seven for the first fifteen as soon as the season starts next month.’

  ‘And you say he seems appreciative enough of the trouble taken to secure his unique position at the school,’ enquired Capon. (David was the school’s only day boy.)

  ‘Correct. He’s certainly no trouble, and appears to be nothing but an asset so far.’

  ‘Although I note his grandmother, whom he lives with, has yet to reply to our request for the grail fund. Only one other boy is in this position.’

  ‘Exceptions can’t be made,’ said Tait, the accountant, forestalling.

  ‘No question of it,’ said Capon. ‘We’ll send a final letter to the grandmother. Now, I think the next item on the agenda concerns the new master, Gregory. He appears to be fitting in well –’

  ‘Yes, he’s coming along,’ Val affirmed, or interrupted, in a louder voice, intimating a deeper knowledge of the subject. The fire had begun to smoke, however, as Val launched into his second report. Capon cut him off by tinkling a bell. One of the school’s small army of shapeless blue maids entered and prodded the coals. The woman shuffled out again without a word.

  ‘I think we can skip the matter of Gregory for now,’ said Capon. ‘Move on.’

  ‘Next item,’ said Crib, ‘the matter of Newbold.’

  ‘Yes, we need to hear more about this,’ said Black, easing himself into the leather.

  ‘Oscar Newbold was dealt with in a matter befitting his behaviour,’ snapped Capon.

  ‘But what of the newspaper he approached?’ insisted Black in his burnished bass, relighting his pipe. He smoked a brand with a clipper on the wrapper. ‘Are the press going to run the story?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Well, we need to find out,’ said Black. ‘I’m surprised that hasn’t been done.’

  ‘I’ll ring the editor and have it sorted,’ said Val. ‘They’re sitting on the story; they must have doubts.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Val?’ said Capon, ‘that would be a great help, if you cleared it up with a phone call.’

  ‘Might be best if I rang the paper,’ said Black.

  ‘I’m quite capable of dealing with it,’ said Val.

  ‘I don’t doubt your ability, Mr Val.’

  ‘We can’t stop them printing the story if they choose to,’ said the tired Tait, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’ll see ab
out that,’ said Val.

  ‘I’m sure Val will find some way of dissuading them,’ said Capon. ‘That’s settled then. Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill.’

  ‘But what precisely is the nature of the boy’s story?’ Black persisted, weighing anchor. ‘Do we know?’

  ‘I was going to ask the same myself,’ said one of the clergymen, who had been leaning forward, listening. He was a young man, well-shaven and dressed in casual clothes, named Bradley. His fellow clergyman, a very old fellow in crumpled clerical garb, appeared to be sleeping while frowning.

  ‘I don’t know precisely what the boy told them,’ said Capon. ‘The journalist I spoke to wouldn’t tell me. Do you know, Val?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Some cock and bull story about being manhandled,’ said Cobblefield, indignation pressing him to speak for the first time. He was still raw and sunburnt from riding throughout the holidays.

  ‘We do need to know the nature of the allegations against the school so we’re ready to rebut them, point by point, if indeed they do intend publishing them,’ said Black, tapping his pipe on the coronation ashtray.

  ‘But does it really matter?’ asked Capon, ‘I mean, who will believe it? And who reads the Sunday papers anyway? None of the parents who send their boys to this school, I daresay, and certainly no country folk. They don’t have time. It will sink without a trace.’

  ‘Best to have all bases covered,’ intoned the lawyer.

  ‘Why don’t we simply ask Newbold himself?’ asked Bradley. ‘I’m interested in what the boy’s got to say.’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ said Capon quickly. ‘The lad’s a liar.’ He looked at Crib. After an absent pause Crib jolted, peered at his papers, and read, ‘The next item is … item six: the stone fund.’

  This was Cobblefield’s moment. He coughed as he leaned forward to address the council – but the so-and-so fire had begun smoking again. Crib, Black and Tait had long ago removed their coats: now they loosened their ties, and settled further into their chairs with leathery squeaks. ‘Stones from our mother school’s city cathedral,’ began Cobblefield through the smoke, ‘what could be a more fitting link to our mother school …?’ His idea was that the stones were to be shipped across the world and incorporated into the face of the little chapel being restored at the school. The accountant asked a few basic costing questions. No, the project had not been fully costed, not yet, admitted Cobblefield.

  ‘Well, until then, until it’s fully costed, we can’t possibly decide, can we?’ sighed Tait, looking at his watch.

  ‘We do need to be practical, Cobblefield,’ said Capon. ‘Your idea is a splendid one, of course, splendid. I’m all for it, personally. I did let you go first at this morning’s assembly, when the boys were freshest. But let’s cost it.’

  ‘What was said on the matter at assembly?’ asked Tait.

  ‘I informed the boys we would raise the necessary funds through a small request –’

  ‘We’ve already made several such requests of parents this year,’ said Tait irritably. ‘Aren’t all money matters to be referred to council first? That’s standard. There was the jousting fund, the bridle request, the grail –’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ abruptly growled the old clergyman, rearing his head to clear his throat, before letting his head subside on his chest again.

  ‘We’ll decide at the next meeting,’ suggested Capon cheerfully. ‘I see no hurry. Agreed?’

  It was. Crib scribbled it down. Several councillors had been yawning. ‘Anything else on the agenda?’ asked Black. He too regarded his watch.

  ‘The last item,’ said the secretary, ‘is a note from Mr Val.’

  The councillors sat up straighter, began shuffling papers, putting on spectacles, rolling up sleeves. One, then another, refilled his whisky glass.

  ‘Yes, only a small matter,’ began Val, ‘it concerns the reading list for the fifth form English class.’ Some of the councillors relaxed. ‘Today I began teaching the top English class in the fifth form. They’re fine boys. Intelligent, eager, they’re open slates really, ready to become the men we want them to be –’

  ‘Yes, Val,’ twitched Capon, ‘now, it is getting on –’

  ‘It’s essential that their talents – their enthusiasm, their receptiveness – be met with the appropriate material, hence my concern about the curriculum.’

  ‘The curriculum?’

  ‘Curriculum. And herein lies the tragedy. I find on the book list prepared by my predecessor absolute twaddle.’

  ‘What books are we talking about, Val?’ asked Capon.

  ‘Nothing fit for a fifth-former of this school.’

  ‘But what books?’ asked Black. Anticipating a stoush, he moved broadside, and recharged his pipe.

  ‘You’re not likely to be familiar with the titles. Suffice to say it’s the very worst of what I would call modernist Christian literature. Self-indulgent, proselytising, moralistic rubbish.’

  ‘May I remind you we are a Christian school?’ said Bradley, showing his small teeth in a smile.

  ‘Well, Anglican,’ said Val. ‘But these texts reflect a rabid Christianity, the lunatic fringe, precisely the types highchurch Anglicans abhor. Evangelical spiritualist mystical tongue-talkers.’ Val leaned forward, employing his fine baritone and looking from one man to another. ‘I have no desire to teach these books, and be assured my boys have no desire to read them.’

  ‘What, you’ve asked them?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘I speak from previous experience,’ said Val. ‘Have you read the books concerned?’ He named them.

  The young clergyman coloured.

  ‘Believe me, there are better ideas for my boys to be musing upon,’ said Val. ‘I’m here to ask you for something very simple – the necessary funds to buy a new set of books. As the current list is entirely inappropriate – rubbish insulting to the spirit of our institution – I’m sure you’ll agree on providing funds for a new list. I know it’s late, and you want to go home; but it’s of the utmost importance. The books the boys read now stay with them for the rest of their lives. The shaping of their minds is at stake.’

  ‘What faith you have in books, Mr Val,’ said Tait.

  ‘I’d like time to read the books he wishes to reject,’ said Bradley, ‘before we ditch them.’

  ‘But the boys need to start their term’s work,’ said Val.

  ‘I could read them over the weekend.’

  ‘You must be very free this weekend.’

  ‘No, really, this is making too great a deal out of nothing,’ interrupted Capon. ‘The matter’s clear cut, as I see it. The head English master, Mr Val, wishes for a new set of texts. We must trust his judgement. Well, let’s provide them, I say.’

  ‘The problem with that, headmaster, is that all the books for this term were acquired and paid for at the beginning of the year,’ said Tait. ‘We can hardly send the parents another bill for a new list, telling them there’s been some kind of stuff up.’

  ‘You must be able to find the money from somewhere!’ cried Val, ‘this is important! One of the horses would buy a hundred books!’

  The room became silent. The portraits of headmasters past seemed to grow.

  ‘Do calm down, Val,’ said Capon after this pause, ‘of course we can find the money for the books. I suggest a compromise; we put aside the current books for a teacher willing to teach them, I’m sure one will come along before too long, and meanwhile we’ll dip into our war chest to provide for a new list. Let’s vote on that, shall we?’

  Tait grumbled. But he was weary. The vote was held, and it went Val’s way.

  However, Val had not quite finished. ‘I also wish to propose,’ he said hastily, ‘that we introduce both Ancient Greek and Latin to the curriculum from first form on, rather than force the boys to choose between them, when they can’t possibly be making an informed choice. I know young Gregory, our new master, is very keen that the boys learn both languages. I know it’s
late, and you all have other things on your minds, but this is a simple enough matter.’

  ‘But we don’t have any room in the curriculum,’ said Bradley.

  ‘How would you know?’ asked Val.

  ‘I’ve consulted it. And we’ve talked about it at previous meetings. I’m not a complete idiot.’

  ‘Well, I’m proposing we make the room.’

  ‘How?’ asked the clergyman.

  ‘By removing redundant subjects. Chopping off a little dead wood.’

  ‘And what subjects would they be, Val?’ asked Capon.

  ‘Anyone who works from day to day in this school, as opposed to someone who breezes in now and then, knows that there are a few subjects the boys consider a complete waste of time. They fall asleep in them. They get nothing from them. It’s a waste of their parents’ money and the boys’ precious time. A mockery of education. At precisely the moment when they are most open to influence – the moment they are in our hands – they are being dulled, deadened. It’s a crime upon the intellect. It reflects very poorly upon us.’

  ‘This is a matter far beyond the scope of the original item raised,’ said Black. ‘I thought we were talking about a book list. We’ve settled that matter. Now this. Last term it was special consideration for that scholarship lad –’

  ‘David,’ said Val, ‘and I’m glad you mentioned him. He happens to be in the English class concerned. Now, who here would want to see the mind of a boy like David, as fine a young man as this school is likely to see, perverted by superstitious hogwash? So far, David’s a success story –’

  ‘And we provided his place in our establishment at considerable cost, Mr Val,’ said Black. ‘But the boy’s another red herring at present. The point is that you always want some special consideration. Give you an inch, Mr Val, and you take a mile. This new matter of the curriculum is quite unrelated to the book list. If you wish to raise it, raise it another time, when we’re discussing next year’s curriculum. Raise it in November.’