by William Lane
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to be your friend. And we can’t be really close unless you know the Lord and you’re saved.’
David grinned, at first in confusion, then disbelief.
‘Either you’re with us, David, or you’re against us. That’s what the Lord says.’
‘I’m not against you, Steven. Why would I be?’
Steven bit his lower lip. He began opening and closing more of the lockers, exposing little black interiors containing nothing but memories of apples and umbrellas and textbooks. ‘You must be saved,’ he muttered, ‘but you don’t know it. I think that’s called grace. Peter told me that. Peter’s a Christian. And where were you on Thursday and Friday?’
‘My grandmother was sick.’
‘You stayed home for that?’
‘I had to look after her.’
Steven had a hard time that morning at assembly. It happened in the middle of Capon’s address. David noticed that the headmaster began the assembly looking rather rattled. His hair had suddenly thinned, and his face was blotched with uneven pinks. ‘It has come to my attention that there have been reports – rumours – of escaped horses attacking boys. These rumours are not true! I repeat, they are untrue, the incidents never happened! I repeat again, no one has been attacked by a horse. People get hysterical when a horse escapes, don’t ask me why. There is no reason to fear the escaped horses. I repeat, do not fear them. Simply give them a wide berth. Another unpleasant rumour I wish to knock on the head, right here and now, is the absolute twaddle – twaddle – currently circulating concerning Oscar Newbold. No, he has not been buried under the new swimming pool. No, he is not rotting in a cellar under Mace House. And no, he is not in a straightjacket in a ward of the hospital. There is to be no more talk of this Oscar Newbold. He is one of those who crave attention. Do not give it. He has simply gone home for a spell, to reconsider. And, oh dear, another outbreak of equine graffiti. This will be the last unpleasantness I mention before we move on to merrier matters. That deranged boy daubing his vulgar trash – copulating horses, inter-species sexual acts, and so on – on rock faces and walls of the houses – we’ll catch you, don’t you worry. I repeat, we’ll find out who you are. It wouldn’t be you, would it? Are you listening to me?’
Capon, red and trembling, was pointing into a middle row, where Steven sat.
‘What, me?’ Steven squeaked.
‘You, Lambert. Stand.’
Steven slowly stood. ‘I … never painted … anything –’
‘It wouldn’t be you, would it, Lambert?’
‘No, sir! I wouldn’t dare!’
‘What will you do, Mr Whipper, if you catch the boy?’
The Whipper rose from his perch at the foot of the stage, and enacted silent, enlarged thrashing motions. Festus energetically accompanied this on the organ, until the moment The Whipper’s mime ceased. The Whipper sat, but kept staring at Steven, his chin thrust forward, his bloodshot eyes bulging.
‘Now, on to cheerier things,’ continued Capon at a friskier pace, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, which he tucked back deftly into an underlying sleeve, ‘our rowers performed wonderfully well in the race last Saturday. Wonderfully well. Of the eight schools that participated, we came seventh. We’ll be congratulating those boys later in a special ceremony. The all-schools regatta itself, of course, is next Saturday, it’s always a wonderful social event, yes, and what a day it will be. Now, it has been raining a great deal. Take care by the river at the regatta. Don’t be silly. Don’t fall in. The water is running high and fast. Be responsible. That applies also to your day-to-day activities around the school. Yes, the creek is flooding, so don’t be tempted to go near it. I’m told the temporary bridge across the creek should be completed sometime later today, certainly by the end of the day. And I’ve been informed cracks have appeared in the walls of some of the houses. Do not be alarmed, engineers will be looking into it sometime soon. And, oh yes, there will be no classes after assembly.’ Some smaller boys cheered. ‘There’s to be a function today which masters – all masters – are required to attend.’ Here Capon paused, turning to the body of men behind him, who nodded as one. ‘Now, let’s move on. Mr C is going to remind us of the parable of the rock, aren’t you, Mr C? Come forth.’
Mr C came forth. ‘Indeed I am, Mr Capon. Actually, it’s generally known as the parable of the sands. But first, a small reminder, boys. Tomorrow your parents will be sent a small note. It simply provides information about a confirmation camp I and a few colleagues will be running over the August holidays. If your parents wish to contribute to the inevitable expenses of hiring the campsite and catering for the week-long stay, that would be greatly appreciated. Perhaps you could help explain to them the significance of confirmation. In short, boys, confirmation is about making a personal commitment to Jesus Christ, entering into a personal relationship with Christ, and receiving God’s Word into your heart. I’ll explain it all later, on the camp. But first, the parable of the sands –’
Gregory, seated beside Val, could hear Val grinding his teeth, and sometimes even growling throughout the minister’s sermon. However, Val grew silent as Mr C was concluding. He relaxed, and even smiled to himself, struck, it seemed, by some new idea pleasant to himself.
A hymn was sung, book-ended by a great shattering and clattering of the armour, the mobile shuddering above and tinkling like a giant windchime. Then Cobblefield took the lectern, literally took it and shook it with his big, peeling, pink, ivory-knuckled hands. ‘Boys, I wish to talk to you again about something very important: the stones –’
When the assembly was over Gregory milled about the rear doors of the hall with the other masters, looking into the rain, and slowly realising that the chilly atmosphere was not confined to the weather. The masters were to a man unpleasantly stony. A petulant Capon quit the hall, snapping his robes, followed by a flustered-looking Mr C. ‘No warning, no warning whatsoever!’ upbraided Capon. Then he turned on the minister in front of the other men: ‘I wasn’t told about this note for the camp, Mr C. Do you think we can simply send a note home at any old time and request funds on the school’s behalf? If you think that then you’re sadly mistaken, my friend. That’s not how things work around here.’
‘But, with the greatest respect, headmaster, you read the letter I wrote yourself.’
‘I read no such thing. Did I?’
‘I gave it to you personally – or your secretary at least.’
‘I recall no such thing. You know the protocol. Nothing goes home first without my express permission.’
‘I can only repeat –’
‘Don’t push this confirmation camp too hard, Mr C,’ thundered Capon, wagging a finger. ‘Many of the masters here do not understand this sudden need to go on a camp before a boy can be confirmed. In part, I sympathise with them, because it never used to happen in the past. One was confirmed as a matter of course when one reached third form.’
‘That’s right,’ thundered Cobblefield, ‘one didn’t need all this claptrap about personally knowing so and so.’
‘I don’t understand it either,’ snapped Parsons, emboldened by the general mood. ‘I never went to any camp. I was simply confirmed. It was all much easier back then.’
‘That’s right,’ piped Parsons’s look-alike, Mr Gribble, ‘we were Church of England schoolboys. We were confirmed as a matter of course. There was no exam. You weren’t in or out, so to speak. We were all in together.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Capon, a little soothingly now, perhaps on account of Mr C wearing the absent look of the martyred, ‘I concede that the camp will go ahead, I recall now that Mr C and I agreed to that. But this camp is not a ticket to salvation, Mr C. Let that be crystal clear. Crystal clear. Now, we have a party to attend. Come, men!’
With this the headmaster gathered up his drapery, straightened his back, raised his chin, shook himself, and set off. The masters followed according to their rank. Gregory, tagging alo
ng behind Val, passed Mr C and heard the minister berating someone, someone close. Had the minister been berating him? Something about Latin and Greek and Divinity. He paused, half turned. Some way off, Mr C stood looking at the ground, raking his hand through his hair, pulling it.
‘Come on, Gregory!’ Val called. ‘Come join the party.’ When Gregory did not move, Val came back from the body of departing masters and grabbed his arm. Gregory flinched, wrenching away his infected hand, but the older man only grasped it harder.
Val led, or steered, Gregory into the ‘ballroom’, a highceilinged chamber in the complex of rooms and corridors beyond the staffroom. Gregory never learnt the reason for the party that day. The occasion was presided over by Mistress Capon, as the headmaster’s wife was known. Mistress Capon had strewn blue and purple flowers about the ballroom, even over the long table covered in silver settings. The petals touched the plates of many meats and cheeses. Near the door stood a piano, and by the piano, Mistress Capon herself. Tall, imposing, with her overarching nose only ever referred to as distinguished, and her blue eye-shadow, Mistress Capon stood resplendent in all the cooler colours of the rainbow. Blue went particularly well against the boys’ armour, she often asserted (the blue things she wore, she meant).
‘Oh, Gregory, so this is you. I’ve been dying to meet you,’ cried Mistress Capon, as Val led him forward. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Val’s protégé. We could always do with another Val. I can’t get enough of Val. I’ve heard you’re wonderfully learned, simply brimming with youth and élan. A Greek and Latin lover? And I’m sure you look splendid on a horse.’ Capon, at his wife’s elbow, beamed at the subject of his wife’s attention, his smile stretching as the heap of praise grew. ‘This is Maud,’ said Mistress Capon, indicating a presence at her elbow. Maud was a dithering shadow in brown, with reflecting, owlish glasses.
‘Know much about horses?’ Maud enquired.
‘We’re teaching him,’ laughed Capon.
‘Oh, I know nothing about the beasts, but I don’t tell anybody that,’ sniggered Mistress Capon, lifting her hand to sweep the mauve edifice of her hair. ‘He’s a delightful young man to look at, don’t you agree,’ Mistress Capon stagewhispered to Maud. Maud’s chin subsided into her neck.
‘And look at his hair, doesn’t he have a beautiful head of hair?’ celebrated Capon.
‘Oh, yes, he’s scrumptious,’ said Mistress Capon. ‘A very good choice, Mr Capon. Why can’t they all be like this? You end up employing so many fusty old creatures. Youth! That’s what we need. The school needs new blood.’
Festus was fussing at the piano. Parsons stood ready to turn the leaves of music, rubbing his crotch in anticipation. Behind their heads rain audibly hit the large window. Branches rapped the glass. Gregory caught himself wishing he was outside, despite the rain.
‘The rowers are ready, sir,’ whispered The Whipper, stooping to Capon’s ear.
‘At attention?’
‘Sir.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Capon, clapping, so that the room fell silent. ‘Dearest, let’s go and review the first eight. They’re ready for you. The regatta’s this Saturday, you know!’
‘So it is! It’s a gala event.’
Everyone crowded into the hallway, led by Mistress Capon. Eight strapping lads stood in an erect line in the narrow corridor. Tacked onto the end was the jockey-like figure of the crew’s cox. Dressed only in Speedos, the boys were as good as naked. No shoes, no pants.
‘These are they,’ announced Capon, indicating the rowers with a sweep of his hand.
‘Well, will you look at that!’ cried Mistress Capon breathlessly, arrested in admiration, clutching at her understudy, who giggled, and turned from beige to pink.
The boys stood at rigid attention, barely blinking, as the masters and ladies cruised slowly down the line. Cobblefield, the rowing coach, provided a commentary upon each lad, listing his physical details and pedigree.
‘And this is Eaton,’ said Cobblefield.
‘Oh yes, young Eaton,’ cried Capon.
‘Finest stroke we’ve ever had,’ said Cobblefield, ‘steady as a metronome. Not so heavy. Sixty-nine kilograms. And not so tall. A hundred and seventy-six centimetres.’
‘Remember Johnny Eaton, dearest?’ asked Capon. ‘This is his second boy.’
They whisked by the apex of Eaton’s speedos. Cobblefield pointed out the boys’ musculature with a little stick he held, even encouraging Mistress Capon to grasp this or that boy’s biceps, to feel for herself how hard, how sleek.
‘Go on, rub his back. Feel how hard it is down there,’ recommended Cobblefield.
The lady did, eyes popping, sliding her hand as if over velvet, and shuddering. ‘Oh, I say! Feel that!’
‘And this is our number four,’ Cobblefield continued, ‘Gilbert Manning-Guilford, Jack Manning-Guilford’s boy – the Menindee Manning-Guilfords. Eighty-two kilograms, strong as an ox, one hundred and –’
Mistress Capon had to interject. ‘Oh, the Menindee Manning-Guilfords – I’ve always had a soft spot for the Menindee Manning-Guilfords! I spent a week on your adorable uncle’s delightful property, Gilbert, when I was little more than a schoolgirl. I dare say that was long before you were even thought of. Oh, this is splendid.’ And so on, until they reached the cox, a brash little Parvenu with the voice of a ringmaster: about him there was nothing to say except to exchange an inferior joke.
The boys were marched off and the party returned to the ballroom. They began on the buffet. Still the rain beat down, thundered down. Some masters were rubbing their noses and sniffling in reaction to the flowers strewn about. Lightning flickered overhead. But inside all was warm and well. Festus, flushed with pleasure for the simply perfect gathering, his jowls shaking like puddings, began to play, with Parsons as his page-turner. Festus even indulged in a slap of his assistant’s hand when Parsons skipped a page. Parsons’s lips drew back over his teeth, and he rubbed his head with his free hand.
‘The school’s ready, sir,’ reported The Whipper, bending again at Capon’s side. ‘All on parade.’
‘No, we can’t possibly go out yet. It’s too wet. It’s storming, isn’t it? And we’ve only now begun our lunch. How about a song, Val?’
Val, a vegetarian, looked up from his salad. ‘Oh no, headmaster, I couldn’t.’
‘Yes, Val, you must,’ cried Mistress Capon, coming up quickly to press the claim. ‘You know you must. Your voice is simply gorgeous, you know I think that. I’m in love with your voice, we all are. You simply must oblige us.’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t want –’
‘Just one song,’ pleaded Mistress Capon, ‘please, Val, oh please.’
‘Well –’
‘Oh Val, you are too modest,’ said Capon, taking Val’s wrist and leading him to Festus. The little pianist waited, smiling with his watery and lashless eyes. Parsons had long held the appropriate page open and ready. Val put down his plate, and took up a pose of readiness by the piano. Festus played a few introductory bars of ‘The Keel Row’, paused, exchanged a glance with Val, and off they trotted. Mistress Capon stood throughout without moving a muscle, hand to her throat, her heavily lidded eyes almost shut. Afterwards Festus had to wipe his face with his handkerchief, it had all gone so well, better than he had dared hope. Val too was unusually radiant, beaming like a schoolboy, accepting congratulations.
‘Wonderful, wonderful!’ clapped Capon. ‘Bravo! Now, the boys have been assembled for some time. Do we wish to see them? Or is it too wet and cold?’
No, Mistress Capon would love to venture out and freshen up. And so would Maud. The boys would be so disappointed if no one came to look at them.
The masters and ladies moved across the balcony and down the steps with coats on and umbrellas up. The clouds had fallen to the earth. Water standing on the lawns was continually rippling, pocked by fresh, heavy drops. The surrounding classrooms were barely visible. It seemed to Gregory the world was breaking down into big wet blocks, an
d starting to float apart: but then, he was feverish.
They gathered on the last set of steps, looking down on the rows of boys while making jocular remarks. The boys’ armour streamed with water, the water gushing in spouts from their knees and ankles.
Beyond the last serried rank, barely above the trees, Gregory watched a dull brown sphere bobbing along. ‘That damn contraption again!’ Parsons growled. ‘Lucky the boys can’t see.’
Gregory, however, in imagining all this from the balloon, felt a little restored.
‘Don’t they look splendid?’ the headmaster cried to Mistress Capon. ‘You want to inspect them? Yes? Good.’ They began descending the steps under a pink parasol. Through the noise of the rain and the obscure atmosphere, however, something was evidently happening, something potentially large, something growing, something that even the frantically braying and scurrying Whipper could not contain. It became apparent, quickly apparent, that no command or baton could halt this growing thing – the sides of the parade were splitting open; the boys were breaking ranks upon the far left flank, and hiving off, down the clay bank, down the asphalt path that ran with rain. And the weight of their departing was pulling other boys after them. ‘Stop, stop!’ bellowed The Whipper, then Val, then other masters. Mistress Capon and Maud began screaming. Still the boys pulled away, broke off like foam from a flooding river’s edge. All of those to the left had run off now, then those in the middle began, and finally the right ranks were crumbling, streaming away in a long tail. Now even some masters were jogging after them, for the news was reaching everyone through the storm and the din, ‘Mace House is slipping! Mace is slipping down the bank, into the creek!’
The entire school went rushing down the slope, a thousand grey ball bearings pulling some scum, down the slippery red slopes towards the creek, clattering onto the still incomplete bridge, the masters mixed up amongst the boys.
Following at the rear, Gregory heard the water long before he saw it. The creek, roaring like a jet, was now a foaming river, a river pushing impatiently at the sides of the new metallic bridge; the great volume of it rushed beneath in downward bearing plaits and spirals. A horse went down, going around and around like a cork, teeth already cadaverous. Then it was sucked under and gone, followed by trees, planks, even the pink parasol – all descending in circles. It was the colour of the creek, however, that impressed Gregory most – that frothing red, so turbulent and oxygenated.