by William Lane
Later, in the misty shower block, as the older boys dried themselves, banana and plum genitals lolling, David saw the smaller boys shivering as the last of the warm water turned cold. Then boys slated for punishment were directed into the cold showers, their blue skin goosebumping on corrugated ribs, their retreating genitalia curling up into their body cavities.
David was shown to Oscar Newbold’s bed.
At lights out yet another fracas erupted, this time in the dormitory. Large objects were being pelted against the windows. A glass pane broke, a wooden shutter clattered to the flagstones below. The lights came back on. It was discovered books had been hurled at the house – the rejected books of 5A English, in fact, and they lay by the dozen, splayed on the floor and the path below, their spines torn.
After the clean-up David listened to the creek. It rushed not so far below, unbounded, gleeful. In the morning he went to a window of the dormitory, looking down from the second storey onto the courtyard. A pond silently overflowed in the horseshoe-shaped space. Little black things leapt about the path, which was dark with moss. Green slime grew over the opposite wing of the building, the slime reaching down in festoons. Some carcasses from the hunt were still hanging under the eaves. In the dormitory behind him, pasty maids in blue worked quietly, changing sheets, sweeping and mopping the floor, eyes averted.
Leaving Dartmoor in a kind of daze – he had hardly slept – David walked some way to the parade ground before realising he had left his books and clothes in the house. It would make him late for parade, but he turned back. Many older boys had begun skipping parade, anyway, in the last few weeks. Climbing alone towards the empty boarding house, it seemed everything was warping, stretched tight and yellow as if wrapped in a sheet of cellophane. Midway up the steps he remembered something from the night before: the boarding house had been subjected to an incredible howling from without, a scrabbling and scratching, a slithering upon its sides. David had thought he was dreaming, until he heard the boys about him whimpering, and saw them hiding under their blankets. The assault had ceased abruptly, to the sound of the wind.
Reaching the top of a long flight of steps in the lawn, squelching along towards Dartmoor, he found himself watching, then somehow immersed in, a scene taking place on an adjacent field. A mixed mob of boys had gathered in the drizzle, some running, some cheering. David saw horses being driven up and down a makeshift run, to the great excitement of the mob. Two screaming maids were running in the same compound. The horses were being driven at them by long switches. Boys were leaping up on the fence to get closer to the action, to bear down their switches on the backs of horses and women. David looked down, and walked quickly to the boarding house. He gathered his books, bag and armour, and walked away, eyes down. Yet he could not help seeing a young woman standing off under the trees, holding her arms across her pudding breasts, sobbing in the rain, while a friend tried to piece her clothes back together.
Auditions for the school play were being held that morning. Upset, David almost forgot to turn up. Then he found a surprisingly large number of boys waiting to perform, and he came close to walking away. But when he was on stage, with words flowing from his memory, for a moment even the cavernous school hall seemed illuminated.
Gregory sat at the foot of the stage with a notebook on his knee, one hand tucked inside his jacket. He called back David after dismissing the other boys.
‘Have you acted before, David?’
‘Yes, a little, at my last school.’
They stood in the aisle running up one side of the hall.
‘Have you read the whole play?’ Gregory spoke quickly, precisely, still excited by the audition.
David had.
‘You have the part,’ said Gregory.
Then they talked about the themes of the play – the sins of the fathers, the duty to resist wrongdoing.
Gregory looked up at the roof. ‘Did you hear something?’
The foil horse quietly circled above.
‘I thought – never mind. Where were we? There it is again!’
They looked up again. The horse was definitely ringing, or singing, in high, discordant tones.
Then something fell to the floor not far from them. Something metallic – a bolt, or a ball bearing. They heard it run under the rows of seats, tinkling down to the stage. The horse kept gently turning. David thought he spotted a piece of fishing line, or plastic twine, hanging slack from one of the hooves, barely visible from so far below.
Rain began falling again. They had to raise their voices to be heard, until they gave up talking, and watched the rain pass diagonally along the glass panels in the walls. Outside a voice drew near, calling, ‘Gregory! Gregory!’
A black figure appeared in the closest window, and pressed against the glass. ‘There’s a person,’ said David. Water ran in broad spurts around the man.
‘Val!’
Val stood looking in at them. Then he rapped on the pane with his umbrella.
‘Coming, Val! Coming!’
‘I didn’t know you were going ahead with the play,’ said Val, striding through the downpour towards the staffroom. Gregory had to jog every fourth or fifth step to keep up.
‘I put up a notice some weeks ago.’
‘Really? I didn’t think anybody read the notice board any more. You should consult more widely about these things.’
‘Val –’
‘Oh, I’m not complaining, young Gregory. I’m impressed by your get-up-and-go. I just like to be kept in the picture. I was thinking I might be able to help. I like drama.’
‘Of course you could help! What would you like to do?’
‘Have you found your lead?’
‘Yes, David.’
They began climbing the staffroom steps, two at a time.
‘Don’t set your heart on David.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s part of my team. His time with you will be strictly limited.’
Gregory halted on the steps.
‘Oh don’t sulk young man, don’t sulk.’
12
The helicopter appeared some mornings later, a low and glinting mechanical wasp, black in the silvery light. It first rose up behind the ridge where the cars passed. Then it came forward, shadowing the road past Gregory’s lodgings, nosing further and further into the school grounds. It lingered awhile above the school hall, before shifting sideways to peer down at the eastern houses. The boys by this stage were standing agape in little clusters, some threatening the machine with lances and maces. The helicopter crossed the creek and buzzed the western houses. Then it advanced over the stables and fields, low and inquisitive.
The rotors woke Gregory, who had slept through two alarm clocks, blithely incorporating their bells into his dreams. He hastily dressed, then rushed up the path towards the staffroom. The helicopter was still about: Gregory saw it buzzing Capon’s long black car as it turned into the parking lot behind the administration block. Alighting with The Whipper’s aid, the headmaster went bounding up the flight of steps, holding up the hem of his purple cape. Once he paused, to shake his little fist at the machine above.
Gregory watched the helicopter hover over the horse yards. The horses were running in large circles. Suddenly some found a way out of the yard, and began streaming up the bank and over the fields, heading for the trees, leaving only the old white mule that never moved but remained with hanging head. Distant boys, who should have been on parade, broke from cover to pursue the horses.
In the staffroom, Gregory was surprised to find most of the masters gathered around the plaster-of-Paris diorama that occupied a large part of the room. Only now did he realise that it was a model of the celebrated charge of the Light Brigade. The men moved painted soldiers and horses. Mr Parsons stood by the magazine table reading a tatty publication, one hand on his crotch. His double, Gribble, came up to the table from the other side. Only Val, Cobblefield and Capon, hunched in conference near the door, seemed concerned
by the helicopter.
The headmaster was definitely rattled. ‘How can we be rid of the thing?’ he was whispering irritably to Val, ‘what should we do?’
‘Do nothing.’
‘We must be able to stop it – surely we can stop it – who could it be?’
‘Shoot it!’ exclaimed Cobblefield. ‘Shoot it out of the sky. It’s on our property.’
‘The sky, at least, is not ours,’ remarked Val.
‘Is it about to land?’ asked Capon.
‘Of course not,’ said Val. ‘Let it hover. It can’t do any harm.’
‘Are you talking about the helicopter?’ asked Parsons, coming over to them, revealing his large square teeth with his grimace, or grin. ‘What does the number on its side signify?’
‘Is it the traffic helicopter?’
‘Traffic helicopter? What’s that?’
Gregory was about to mention the horses breaking out. He decided to stay quiet.
‘But what is it doing, Val?’ asked Capon.
‘Taking photos, I expect.’
Capon, Cobblefield and Parsons exclaimed.
‘This is what it’s all about,’ said Val, suddenly flourishing a newspaper from under his arm. ‘This is why we are being photographed.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Capon.
Val slapped the paper, and laid it on a table before them. ‘Read!’
High Price for Hanky Panky Horse Play
The reputation of an expensive and prestigious private boys’ school is under question today. More reports are coming to light of abuse taking place within the school’s boarding houses. According to one boy, a former pupil of the school, boys are assaulted repeatedly. He claims assaults are of a physical, mental and sexual nature. The school’s headmaster, Canon Capon, was unavailable for comment.
‘This – this is hogwash!’ cried Capon. ‘This is Newbold’s doing!’
‘I’d sue them for this, Capon,’ Cobblefield blustered, ‘I’d be ringing Black right now, Capon. Get the best legal team in the country onto it.’
‘Wait,’ said Val.
Capon bent towards Val.
‘Who’s going to believe Oscar Newbold? We can say he’s a disgruntled boy who’s simply being mischievous and ungrateful, which is the truth. Why even acknowledge the report? Remain unavailable for comment, that’s my advice. And ignore the helicopter. It can’t hover forever. Think of the petrol.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s my thinking exactly,’ said Capon. And he looked about at the others to see if they agreed as well.
‘It will all pass over,’ said Val. ‘Who reads this paper anyway?’
‘But they can’t be allowed to write this sort of claptrap!’ cried Cobblefield. ‘How dare they?’
Some of the masters, playing games or drinking tea, looked up irritably at Cobblefield’s outburst.
‘Calm down, Cobblefield,’ said Val. ‘Believe me, the whole affair will blow over. I’ve had some dealings with the press, you don’t fuel their fires. They want us to get hot-headed and make a scene, believe me. No. Emphasise to the boys once again, Capon –’
‘Yes?’
‘– that they are not to talk to the press on pain of expulsion; emphasise they are not to talk to anyone, anyone, not even their families – about what is our business alone. And you’ll find the story will blow over. And tell them to stop running after the helicopter.’
‘I think you’re right, Val,’ said Capon, mopping his face with his silk handkerchief. ‘You do have a way of putting things in their place. That helicopter quite unsettled me. Mistress Capon was the first to see it. She was leaning out our window smelling the roses, and suddenly, out of nowhere, there it was! “Darling, do come and look at this, it’s most curious”, she said to me. I was trying my new shoehorn and couldn’t make out what was happening at first. But now I see it all quite clearly. Is it still there, Parsons? Oh, wretched thing. Just when you think it’s gone, it keeps popping up.’
‘Damn Newbold,’ growled Cobblefield. ‘Wait until I get my hands on him.’
‘What a day I’ll be having,’ sighed Capon. ‘Well, we’ll just have to hold firm. Chins up. Oh, where are the boys, Mr Whipper?’
The Whipper had been standing at attention in the doorway for some time.
‘Assembled at ease, sir!’ he reported, ramrod.
‘Bless them. Well, that’s something. They haven’t scattered. Carry on as normal, be good lads, that will be my message. Carry on as normal. Yes. That’s all I need say. That’ll be the gist of it. Right – to assembly. You can bring them to attention, Mr Whipper.’
‘Sir!’ bawled The Whipper, who saluted, clicking his heels.
The first boys to march into the hall that morning discovered a jumbled wreckage, sprawled over several rows of seats. The gigantic sculpture lay forked, splayed in a tangle of metal sheets and wiring. One metal hoof the size of a garbage can did still dangle in the air, halfway to the ceiling. Long sinews reached down to slumped hindquarters. The boys first exclaimed in wonder; then began laughing, then cheering, then jeering. They pressed, pranced around the pyramid, jostling to get closer, to find recognisable pieces. ‘Where’s the head, where’s the head?’ they cried. The masters were slow to realise what was happening, and then could not prevent the stampede to view, to touch, to meddle with the mess. The boys, as one unit with a single intent, descended upon the ruin and began tearing it apart – shards of metal, sheets of aluminium, coils of wire – torn apart by whatever hands could snatch. The boys roughly removed the dismantled pieces, flinging them in a heap on the slushy ground on the hall’s permanently shaded side. At first the masters tried picking off dominant individuals and haranguing them. Their mood soon changed, however. After all, the boys were cleaning up. The likes of Cobblefield and Parsons were soon ostensibly directing the operation, and Capon was nodding with enthusiasm from the parade ground, where he stood with Val and viewed the growing mound of debris. He had never liked the sculpture, truth be told, he remarked to those about. As it was cleared away it was discovered that only a few of the seats beneath had been crushed – the horse was surprisingly light, and had completely shattered upon falling, or had possibly fallen piece by piece, through the night. Some boys were recalling mysterious thuds and twangs.
Thank God no one had been hurt, said Mr C.
‘Well done, boys!’ cried Capon. ‘Wonderful clean-up operation. There’s a leg! Heave-ho!’
Even as Capon and Val stood there in a little patch of sun, however, a further blow was struck. News reached them of the breakout from the stables. It was Val who seized the moment, calling upon all Dartmoor boys and declaring that they would recapture the horses. He then summoned all those riders from the eastern houses to ride with his boys … and Val it was who suggested that the western boys should form a long line to sweep through the copse where the escaped horses had fled, and drive them into the gully behind the sports sheds, where they could be mustered back to the yards. This was accomplished. Then a further task awaited the boys. Without any break for lunch, the entire school was broken into small bands and apportioned a stretch of perimeter fence line to inspect, report upon, and repair.
It was afternoon by the time this was completed. There was a great deal of talk about the fallen horse, and what it might mean. Some also mentioned that a number of first-formers and turtles were missing – taking advantage of the morning’s chaos to escape, some said.
That day’s assembly was held in the middle of the afternoon. Festus played a funeral march to calm the boys as they took their seats in the suddenly open and airy hall. Here and there a gap showed along the lines where a seat had been knocked down by the sculpture’s plunge.
‘We’re holding together wonderfully well, wonderfully well,’ Capon reassured them all in his opening address. He told the boys to ignore the helicopter should it return and not to answer questions from any outsiders, ‘be they press, police, or parents’. Then the first fifteen were paraded on stage, and the cheers and
whistles were painful to endure. Passions had been aroused. Once a measure of calm was restored, Cobblefield made a plea on behalf of the stone fund that was so heartfelt the microphone shook, and some plaster fell from the roof. He spoke at length about the project, and the boys clapped at regular intervals. Cobblefield knew the history of every stone in that school. Then it was Mr C’s turn. He launched into a blazing sermon on committing oneself to God’s Word, and gave a final reminder to pay up for confirmation camp. The camp wouldn’t be all prayer and study, he added unexpectedly, oh no, the price included horse riding – yes, horse riding, archery, abseiling, mountain climbing, rifle practice and kayaking. Some boys clapped.
Val did not like it. He began telling off Mr C as the masters wandered back to the staffroom; there were no classes that day.
‘The fact you need bells and whistles to get them in says a lot about you and your camp,’ said Val. ‘And you can keep your hands off my boys.’
‘“Your boys”? And who would they be?’
‘You know who.’
‘David? Thomas?’
‘David’s one of them. Don’t you go corrupting him with your religious rubbish. You proselytise to David and you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed you’re very fond of David,’ said Mr C. ‘Bishop Gray’s your dearest favourite, I dare say.’
‘I don’t have favourites. I recognise excellence.’
Mr C walked away. Gregory tried to slip past Val, but Val caught him by the wrist, and indicated the disappearing figure of the minister. ‘I’ve just been talking to that Rasputin. He’s full of rubbish. Don’t you think?’