The Horses

by William Lane

  More masters had abruptly tendered resignations. It only added to the generally dispiriting atmosphere which rose like a miasma through the eternal rain. Then Chrome, the assistant headmaster, departed without giving reasons. Wiley was promptly appointed in his place. Wiley at least had become a steadying hand, always at Capon’s side, with his familiar stony face, its subtle marbled striations. He had really come into his own following the Lance crisis, and seemed to have gathered the backing of a significant bloc of those masters who repeatedly proclaimed they ‘just wanted things to return to normal’ – the Cobblefields, the Parsons, the Pikes – now by far the dominant sort on the staff, dominant by mere numbers. Of the last two staff members hastily employed, one closely resembled Cobblefield, the other Pike.

  David had been staying on, giving the place another go, mostly for the play, which now entirely occupied his thoughts. He attended one of Mr C’s talks, which took place in a shed where the school sheep huddled, but he had to admit – after a burst of enthusiasm for the Gospel of St John – that he preferred acting. On stage he filled with that light he had first recognised in The Other’s art books.

  One dull morning, a new boy named Ben Benson arrived on the parade ground, having been delivered to Oldenburgh house the night before. Ben had a squint and a hunched back, and slobbered. Worst of all, he wore a permanent heartfelt grin. Peter introduced him to David.

  ‘I was just telling Ben he can’t be so friendly,’ said Peter, ‘he’s been saying hello to everyone we meet.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Oh, I can’t help it,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘It gets me out of trouble, you know.’

  David and Peter exchanged a glance – another glance.

  ‘Oh, don’t you two worry about me,’ said Ben, picking up on something, ‘I can look after myself.’ He wiped his mouth again. He drooled most when he spoke. A band of Mace boys passed with their aggressive, bow-legged gait, hands thrust deep into the front of their pants, jaws clenched. Ben smiled, even waved at them. ‘I’ve always wanted to come here,’ he continued. ‘I love horses. Gee, there’s a lot of them, aren’t there? And the armour looks fantastic. Dad had a special suit made for me – you know, for my back. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be okay.’

  And for a time it was true. At first hardness seemed to melt before Ben Benson. Hackles fell. Tongues paused. Some eastern suburbs boys, who already knew Ben from parties in their part of the world, humoured him, briefly entertained adopting him as a kind of zany mascot. Ben freely fraternised with younger boys, boys from other houses, boys from across the creek, and even attempted to mix with the most taciturn, hardbitten Rurals. These boys were enraged at his suite of deformities, it turned their faces red, but for some reason they kept it all bottled down, at least for the first few days. For a while Ben was even regarded as a Christ-like figure by some of the Christians, who were rapt by his simplicity and goodness. But when they questioned Ben, it was apparent he lacked any rigorous theology. He simply displayed a generalised goodwill: yes, he was just very good at being good.

  One wet-as-usual Friday morning Ben was accompanying Peter and David to class. It was about a week after his arrival, and the habitual expression on his face had begun to alter; he was cheered, however, when he spotted someone up on the roof, and he stood looking up with an open mouth. David and Peter followed his gaze.

  Donald, completely drenched, had managed to clamber onto the roof of the staffroom. There he stood, very straight and streaming, declaiming,

  ‘“We are the hollow men

  We are the stuffed men

  … Alas!”’

  ‘It’s that Davison,’ muttered one master to a second, ‘that Donald Davison. Unpredictable lad. Georgie Davison’s nephew.’

  ‘Oh, Georgie Davison … mmm,’ said the second master. The first master lifted his bearded throat to the rain and bawled, ‘Davison, down! Down, Davison!’

  ‘Is he a poet?’ asked Ben.

  Donald would not come down. He had put on a lot of weight recently, probably already resembling his father, or grandfather, or some seedy disgraced uncle, perhaps the Georgie Davison muttered about. Now he was sitting hunched like a big bat on the tiles, yelling another poem through the rain. The Whipper threatened him, Wiley berated him. Eventually Val sweet-talked him down, and promptly turned him over to The Whipper.

  Due to this episode the boys were late for the next class. Mr Tonsil, however, a retired teacher dusted off to fill the breaches opening up in the teaching staff, did not seem to mind. ‘Oh, there you all are,’ he said mildly, as the boys trickled in at last, talking loudly about ‘Davo’s meltdown’. Tonsil was kindly, and had at first wanted the boys to address him by his first name, Wallace, or even Wally. A directive from Wiley’s office reminded Wallace Tonsil of his place. Tonsil taught – exuded, lived, breathed – history. He smelt historical. He was rumoured to be distantly related to the royal family, ‘eighty-ninth in line to the throne, in fact’. Perhaps that was how he had got the job. Tonsil’s classes were circumlocutory in the extreme, more picaresque narratives than lessons. His wanderings were punctuated by long, ill-timed pauses while he stood gazing out the window mid-sentence. Tonsil was obsessed by ‘fault lines’. ‘When Varus and his three legions were cut down in the German forest – and Augustus was suddenly resigned to the Rhine being the frontier of Rome’s empire – that was a fault line,’ he would say, ‘Augustus gave up all thought of expansion into deeper Europe – this became a fault line. A fault line between the civilised and the barbaric, between the Mediterranean world and the forest world … and the rest of history falls either side of this, this …’

  ‘Fault line!’ the boys cheered.

  ‘Yes, fault line. A fault line as significant as the Alps or the Himalayas, or indeed the oceans …’ Tonsil would trail off, staring out the window, lost in history, then abruptly resume. ‘Europe is crossed with these fault lines. The Trent and the Severn in Britain are two such fault lines; then there is the breaking away of the eastern provinces of the Roman empire, producing the fault line between East and West, Asia and Europe – what was I saying?’ And on through history he rambled.

  Today Tonsil was extrapolating on the forest–steppe fault line. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. The first horsemen were despised by the ancient civilisations – by ancient Greece and early Rome. Those early horsemen were perceived as being inferior in everything except the waging of war, as being savages who had happened upon superior weapons … yes …’

  Tonsil paused. He was a World War II veteran, and would freely weep at the mention of a war. His subject being history, the chances of a dry-eyed Tonsil lesson were not good. Boys kept coming to his lessons, because he actually cried. ‘That’s the thing about the horse,’ croaked Tonsil, battling on, ‘the horseman gets a great deal of return for a comparatively small outlay. You probably all know Cortés conquered all of Mexico with a mere sixteen horses – or was it twenty-six – I’m sure I’ve talked about it … yes … where was I? Yes, the old world–new world fault line was smashed by the horse … but where were we? Oh yes. Sixty-seven BC. The Roman Empire was falling apart, torn by civil war, by the stresses inherent in the empire. Caesar was hailed as the strong man who could hold the empire together. But he moved too fast, effected too much change too quickly, took too much naked power into his own hands, and offended the Senate, the traditional seat of power. So the Senate murdered him. Yes. For the good of the Senate, they murdered him. Then came Augustus, who cunningly kept the Senate on side, while, in a hidden way, retained close to absolute power.’

  David watched boys being marched in the rain, up and down a path under the window.

  ‘Roman society, traumatised by civil war and the crisis of accession, had been changing too fast. After Caesar’s murder, the entire society spontaneously retrograded, and took up with fervour what it believed it once had been. Attempted to retrieve what it had lost. The society, in effect, put a freeze upon itself, and looked backwards for direction –’

&
nbsp; ‘This place is like that,’ blurted David.

  ‘Oh? Which one of you said that?’ asked Tonsil, peering into the class. ‘How do you mean?’

  But David could not say. He blushed.

  ‘I’ll have to think about that,’ said Tonsil. ‘Now, what was I saying about horses earlier? I can’t recall. Any questions about horses?’

  Ben put up his hand. ‘Don’t horses pull God’s chariot?’

  The boys roared. Ben looked about in fright.

  ‘I don’t know about God, my boy,’ said Tonsil. ‘I’m a history teacher.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought this was a church school.’

  Now Tonsil laughed.

  ‘You’re a funny one, Ben. I remember your father, Benson, we used to knock about together … I’m so sorry he lost his leg in that Lancaster … it’s terrible boys, terrible, when the Lancasters come in to land after a raid and they get the hoses ready to flush out the tail gunner’s turret … that’s where they’d put the new boys … in the tail gun … dreadful place to die, sitting in a glass box up in the clouds … your age, some of them …’ Tonsil wiped his cheek, searched his pocket, and the class was quiet, for what was real. ‘But where were we?’

  After the lesson, as David was walking with Ben between classes, a large rider approached on a piebald horse, followed by three smaller riders on ponies. Without warning or preamble the leader struck Ben on the back with a mace. ‘Take that, retard!’ yelled the rider, behind his dark, moulded, ceremonial helmet. Ben’s shirt, stretched over his hump, split open. A pink line emerged down Ben’s back, like a turtle David had once seen on a wet road, its shell popped open along the pressure point of its spine.

  ‘Don’t try to get up, Ben! He’s broken your back.’

  ‘No, no,’ gasped Ben, struggling to is feet, ‘those are my scars.’

  ‘Scars?’

  ‘Yes, close the shirt, please, can you? I’ve had multiple operations on my back. He’s only ripped my shirt. It’s not too bad.’ Ben hobbled away, one hand behind his back trying to hold together the parting of his shirt. ‘You don’t need to walk with me, David. You don’t have to look after me.’

  David could see little boys scampering into distant trees, flushed out from some hiding place by the horsemen.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Ben, as David suddenly peeled away.

  He was going to the headmaster’s office.

  20

  Had David made an appointment, asked Capon’s secretary? ‘Then you’ll have to wait,’ she told him, ‘he’s busy.’ David said he would wait. ‘Shouldn’t you be at marching practice?’ asked the woman, unsuccessfully trying to telephone through to the headmaster. ‘He is very busy.’

  David waited for a long time. Bells rang, distant cheers broke upon the windows. Finally the office door opened and a happy-looking salesman walked out carrying what could have been carpet samples. An equally happy Capon followed, perusing a catalogue. ‘Yes, I do think we’ll be going for the Tuscany over the Sienna, Donna. Although of course I await – oh, hello!’ he said, startled to see David sitting by a pot plant. ‘Here for someone?’

  ‘You, sir.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ said the secretary, without taking her eyes from her typing.

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, it’s unconventional. Inconvenient. One usually makes an appointment. Have you come to see the portraits? The paintings will be finally framed any day now, I’m expecting them tomorrow.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No. And no appointment, eh? Mmm. Shouldn’t you be in class? Is it urgent?’

  ‘It’s – it’s –’

  ‘I suppose I’ve got a minute before lunch. Come in. I’ve just been talking to the man about laying some new carpet in my office. Do you like the colour we’ve decided upon? Tuscany Twilight it’s called. Now, what can I do for you?’

  The headmaster stood looking at the catalogue.

  ‘I only wanted to tell you I’ve decided I’m leaving, sir.’

  ‘Leaving who? Leaving what?’

  ‘I’ve decided to leave the school.’

  Capon retreated behind his desk. He sat. Frowning, he picked up the telephone. ‘Hello – Donna? – call Val – no, call Wiley – then call Val – and Mr C. Quickly.’

  He put down the telephone.

  ‘Now,’ he said, eyeing David cautiously, sizing him up for the first time, and placing the paperweight between them, ‘You were saying you wanted to leave?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Listen lad, boys don’t just leave.’

  ‘I’m grateful for the scholarship and everything, sir. I’m still going to leave.’

  ‘Oh, now I know who you are. Hold your horses! You can’t simply ride off into the sunset, as it were. You’re in the first fifteen, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where will you go?’

  ‘The public school I was at previously. I’ve made enquiries, sir, a little while ago. You needn’t worry. They’ll take me back.’

  ‘Oh. I – is there something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t feel I fit in here.’

  ‘But you’re in the first fifteen. You’ve made friends – haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it a financial issue?’

  ‘No, sir. Grandma’s bought … the helmet.’

  ‘Mr Val will be devastated. Devastated. I know he pinned high hopes on you, young man. Said you were a born lock.’

  ‘Breakaway, sir.’

  ‘In either case, it’ll be a blow. He won’t let you go, you know.’

  Wiley arrived. Capon grimly explained the situation. Wiley looked David up and down. ‘Someone put you up to this?’ he grunted.

  ‘No, sir, it was my decision.’

  ‘You’re not even paying full fees, and you’ve got the gall to tell us you want to leave.’

  ‘I don’t mean to offend, sir.’

  ‘We are doing you a favour, boy, a big favour, a bigger favour than any other boy lucky enough to be here. You’ve been shown special trust. So what on earth makes you think you’re leaving?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Don’t play games, boy.’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell you. Each friend I have made at this school – and other people here – have been hurt before my eyes, sir. And no one lifted a finger. That’s why I’m leaving.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Wiley. ‘You haven’t had a hard time, have you?’

  ‘I’m able to look after myself.’

  ‘You don’t seem to realise,’ said Capon, ‘that going to a school such as ours sets you up for the rest of your life. I shouldn’t think a poor boy such as you could afford to squander such an opportunity. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, young man.’

  ‘You can lead a horse to water,’ said Wiley, shaking his dark heavy head, the disproportionate head of a wooden doll.

  ‘Call in Val,’ said Capon.

  ‘Must we?’ said Wiley.

  ‘Val might be able to get to the bottom of all this. It was Val’s idea to recruit him, after all.’

  ‘Oh yes – yes, so it was.’ Wiley began to smile. ‘Good idea. I’ll show him in.’

  ‘I don’t want to speak to Mr Val,’ said David.

  ‘You may not want to, but you’re going to,’ said Capon. ‘You owe him an explanation.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wiley. ‘I look forward to hearing Val’s view on this, Mr Capon. Looks like he backed the wrong horse!’

  Val was already waiting outside the office. Wiley summoned him in.

  ‘This young man, Val,’ Wiley said, expansively for him, ‘your protégé, informs us he wishes to turn his back on all we’ve given him.’

  ‘Does he now,’ said Val, walking around David. He looked at the two masters, then back at David.

  Capon again explained the situation, as if David was not present. ‘First such scenario we’ve had, I think,
Val. The boys in the firsts will be thrown. Oh, he can’t leave,’ cried Capon petulantly, stamping his foot under his desk, ‘it’s not done!’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘Mr C’s been at you, has he, David?’ asked Val.

  ‘No. I decided for myself.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. The minister put you up to this, didn’t he?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But why, David?’ asked Val. ‘Up until now you’ve been doing very well for yourself. You’re in the first fifteen, so I trust no one’s bullying you. So what on earth could be your problem?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, sir. I can’t stand by and be so helpless. So I want to leave.’

  ‘“Stand by and be so helpless”,’ repeated Val. ‘Hmm.’

  Wiley became speculative. ‘That play he’s involved in – is that where he gets these notions? Some Greek idea, is it?’

  ‘It’s not the play, Mr Wiley,’ said David. ‘I don’t fit in here. I don’t like it here.’

  ‘Well, we’re not changing the school for you, young man, that’s for sure!’ snorted Wiley.

  ‘Of course I don’t expect this place to change. It’s probably been like this forever.’

  ‘That much is true!’ Wiley laughed.

  ‘You’ve got everything here, young Donald, everything – splendid facilities, the horses, opportunities!’ cried Capon.

  ‘David,’ said David.

  ‘It’s no use,’ muttered Val. ‘Let him go. You’ve made me look very foolish indeed, David. If you want to destroy the chance I gave you, so be it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ sighed Wiley, ‘it’s horses for courses. I’m sure there are many other boys out there willing to take his place. Someone who pays their way. No more scholarships, Val, I should think.’

  ‘May I go?’ asked David, staring at the floor.

  ‘You shut up,’ growled Wiley. ‘You go when you’re told to go.’

  ‘I would like to say goodbye to Mr Gregory.’