by William Lane
Back at his lodgings, Val began packing. But he could not think straight, he needed to clear his mind, needed to sit. He sat. Instantly he was aware of the clock, then the rain on the roof. He rose, sank at his piano, played. But he could scarcely complete a phrase. He found his hand hanging above the keyboard, and no direction in mind to guide it.
The knock on the door was soft, smothered by the rain. He found at his door a young man with bright eyes in an open, fresh face.
‘Who on earth –’
‘It’s me, sir.’
‘David? David! Come in, come in, I didn’t recognise you out of uniform. What a vision you are! Thank you so much for coming, oh, you’ve made my night –’
‘I only wanted to say –’
‘No, come in, come in. How wonderful to see you. But what are you doing here so late? Are you staying at Dartmoor? Good, I’m happy for you to –’
‘No, no, I’m not staying. I only went back to the house to say goodbye to Peter and some of the boys, and we got talking, and – well, anyway, I was on my way home, and I saw your light on. I won’t have a chance to speak to you again, sir.’
‘Ah – so you are leaving – I was going to say “leaving us”, but things have changed, David. Oh, I won’t burden you with that. But come in.’
After a pause, David crossed the threshold.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘I won’t stay. I only wanted to say thank you, Mr Val, for giving me the chance you did. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I know you went out of your way to help me. I know I haven’t been playing so well the last few games. I’ve been distracted, and I hope my leaving won’t upset the team in any way. I mean – it’s not likely to. No one’s irreplaceable, you taught us that.’
Val quietly closed the door.
‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, that’s all,’ repeated David.
‘To be frank, I can’t help thinking you’ve made the right decision.’
David looked up, surprised.
‘Yes. You’re like me, David. From the wrong side of the tracks. The likes of us have to work twice as hard and achieve twice as much to find a place amongst these people. They don’t like outsiders here, do they? Perhaps I underestimated the power of that. I thought I could change things. But there are aspects of this place I haven’t understood, David. Well, I suppose you have to be born to it to really understand these people, eh? And things have gone badly for me here. You’ve found me at rather a low ebb. Oh, there’s strife in this school, that’s for sure. The seeds of trouble sown by that Mr C are now choking up everything. And the other masters – the Cobblefields, the Boyles, the Pikes, the Wileys, the Parsons – they’re so self-satisfied and smug about their little nests they won’t raise a finger until it’s too late. They won’t recognise the world that will crash down one day upon their little cubbyhole. I’d love to see their faces on that day! They can’t act to save themselves. I’m sorry, David, this really doesn’t concern you. But it breaks my heart, it really does – the potential of this place – the resources, the money, the raw material of the boys, the boys – future leaders! What a waste! Instead of excellence, we have here a triumph of mediocrity. That’s what it is, a triumph of complacency. Is this what our future amounts to, what I see here today, in this place? For these people rule us –’
‘Sir –’
‘Yes, you are right to leave, David, I believe you are right. You have my blessing, young man, and I apologise for the way I have spoken to you recently. Perhaps you’ve seen more than all of us. Your instinct told you to jump ship, did it?’
‘It wasn’t like that. I’m not jumping ship –’
‘And there I was trying to inject new blood into the place – you, for instance, young David – inject raw talent. And they repay me by slurring my character! Thwarted at every turn, I was. If they weren’t such clods I’d call them ungrateful. No, they are ungrateful. You know, a man stands or falls according to the ideas he honours. I honour excellence. I won’t abandon that idea, it’s been a beacon for me all my life. That’s why I’m leaving. Because this place is no place for those who love excellence. And you – you saw that too, David. You, who have such talents within you. And you do, my boy. Talent, that’s what you have, and I –’
‘Mr Val, it’s rather late. The last bus home leaves soon.’
‘I’ll walk you to the bus stop. We can talk on the way.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, sir.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m sorry. Before I go, I should tell you something else, Mr Val.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve made me think about things.’
‘Yes – what things? You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing secret. I only wanted to say you made me think about what I really want. And who I am.’
‘Well, perhaps I’ve managed to do a little of a teacher’s job after all. That would delight me.’
‘You’ve made me think about higher things too. The spiritual world, for instance.’
‘Of all things! That’s the last thing I’d have you think about. But if that is what … but why swallow that rubbish, David? That doesn’t really interest you, does it?’
‘I was interested.’
Val threw up his hands. ‘What’s going on in this school? It’s as if some madness has descended on everyone. Is it catchy?’ And Val laughed, a strange gabbling never heard about the school.
‘I’m not interested like that,’ said David, ‘I’m not a Christian.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘It’s not my thing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, boy! No, you’re much too sensible, you know your mind too well. You’re too strong. That’s what I like about you. What a waste it would have been if you’d succumbed to that swill.’
‘I’ve been thinking about who I really am, what I really want to do, and I wouldn’t have found out unless I’d come to this school, unless you’d given me that chance.’
‘And what have you found out?’
‘I’m an actor.’
‘Oh! That’s but one thing you are, boy. Listen, stay a little longer, David. I am really very happy to see you.’ He wanted to touch the boy, his palms kept hovering over him. ‘Now, from tonight try not to see me as the master, or yourself as the pupil. Let’s start afresh. Let’s be equals – and we can be, our circumstances have been so altered, and I’m beginning to think it’s all for the best. Have a drink with me.’
Val hastily crossed the room, and poured two glasses of lemonade, spilling some.
‘I must go, Mr Val.’
‘I can drive you home, David. No, don’t worry about the time. You’re strong, you’re so strong. It’s wonderful to see, so heartening. I feel I’ve had some success here.’
He pressed the drink into David’s hand.
‘You know, David, I’m not lying when I say you’re one of the most talented young men I’ve ever come across. All you need is the inner discipline to harness it, use it. Don’t waste it.’
‘Mr Val –’
‘You’ve got everything, young man. Please, please don’t waste it. I couldn’t bear it. I honour excellence. I don’t think you realise what an impact you’ve had on the school in the short time you’ve been here. The boys always talk about you in the fondest way – and so do the masters. They’re all rather in awe of you. I was going to make you captain of the team. That ease you have – it’s a wonderful thing. A rare thing. I’d like to help you develop it, whatever our circumstances might be –’
‘I should go.’
‘Boys like Bishop Gray and Thomas Butter-Finch are talented boys in their own way. But they’re really not a patch on you, David.’
‘Please, sir – please don’t.’
Val paused, staring at the boy. ‘No, don’t go yet,’ he said in a faster, lower voice. ‘Don’t go yet. I heard you’ve begun to learn the piano? Please play mine.’
David glanc
ed across the room at the black instrument.
‘Go on, help yourself. It’s a lovely piano. And I’ve built up a rather fine collection of music over the years, if I do say so myself. You can borrow some if you want. Go on. Please, help yourself –’
‘I won’t play, sir.’
At that David smiled fixedly, unable to move or speak further.
‘No,’ Val said stonily. ‘No. Very well. Go.’
Before David could turn to leave, however, Val fleetingly, slyly, passed his hand over the boy’s face, like a blind man.
What was different about that night, what had changed? Val wondered. He woke, and remembered the boy had gone, and that he had been sacked. He had been humiliated, crushed, so many times those last few weeks … but what was it outside of him that had changed? That was it. The rain had stopped. He looked out his window. The moon was revealed. Everything black glittered. Then Val remembered he had been woken by the sound of boots trampling and hooves galloping. He heard cries. Something big was going on. He hastily dressed, throwing his black gown over his clothes, and strode outside. A band of boys, glittering in armour, raced down the path. He could not help following, sometimes breaking into a jog. He was jostled along down the road that led towards the creek. Groups of armed boys frequently overtook him, brandishing pikes and swords, silent with intent, focused and nervous. It seemed to Val that he was driven along with them. Several times he slithered on the path. Frogs were plopping underfoot. The little amphibians were everywhere, on and off the path, popping up in the grass and bouncing at the bases of the trees. Once he stopped long enough to look up and see the sky flecked with bats and other night creatures. He paused then, thinking he could hear water gathering behind him; he had the absurd thought it was a wave driving him down the hill. But upon listening he relocated the sound – the water was before him – it was the creek he could hear. He now noticed a large formation of boys had assembled on the bank above the oval, a black mass moving over the open area, while, from further away, another phalanx moved to cut them off; he could just make out the dark crimson of this second group. Between them the horse engraving on the hill gleamed in new moonlight, more crisply delineated than ever. Even the black line of trees seemed to be on the move, thought Val. He hurried on, it was impossible to remain still for long, as another detachment of boys passed him.
Now he could hear the sound of metal on metal. It sliced through the broad, deep roar of the creek. He trotted down a dark, overgrown stretch of the path, where the frogs were especially thick and vociferous, then emerged again into the moonlight. Below, but not nearly as far below as it should have been, the hugely engorged creek rushed. And the boys, thick upon the tops of both banks, massed against one another, striking one another. Val presumed this was a battle between the reds and the blacks – but now in the moonlight all was silver, silver moving over a rinsed, gelatin landscape. The two banks appeared as mirror images, equally restive. The moon clearly delineated the helmeted heads of the boys in collections of bright baubles. They moved in smooth units, smaller groups moving in contrary directions to the main body, producing a woven effect. Above the formations on foot ran lines of luminous cavalry. Cries of pain and alarm pierced the babble.
Then Val saw that the water had overwhelmed the bridge; this structure now lolled in the flood, attached only to one bank, curling repeatedly like a tail in the current. Some boys attempting to cross were being swept away. The water – higher than he had ever seen or dreamt it might rise – occasionally snatched a body from the edge of the battle, or even a flanking party, and carried it off. High on the far bank, he saw the spreading sticks and boards of another house crumble into the water, and beyond it yet another house dissolved like cake to catch in the trees. He couldn’t see the other buildings; perhaps they had already slithered down the slopes.
‘Oh, the stones!’ cried a voice close by, ‘who ever would have thought it, the stones! Val, is that you? The stones are being lost!’
‘I couldn’t care less about your wretched stones, Cobblefield!’ yelled Val, pushing past the master who ran towards him.
Val strode down the path towards the bridge, intentions unclear. Water seemed to be rising in spirals out of the mud, while plants and rocks were sucked back into the earth. The boys closest to him were being beaten back by youths howling under banners. Those falling were trampled. Isolated horsemen struggled to keep their mounts in the mire.
Then out of the ranks a figure came staggering, lighter and paler than the others. It was Mr C, making towards the water. Could the minister not see he was heading into the creek? Val followed him. Yes, something was wrong with the minister. He had been hit across the face. He was clutching his eye. He shone with some liquid, and he was howling, demented with pain, apparently. Was he looking for something? The bridge perhaps? Or the person who had done this to him? Or the water itself? Val was seized with a desire that nothing he briefly mustered within could dampen; enraged, he flew at his foe, knocked him to the mud, and fell full on him, hands about his throat. The minister responded with his own bestial lunge, upsetting Val and pinning him in the mud. As Val pummelled at the surprisingly heavy, white body, he saw in the corner of his eye that they were surrounded by enormous bones – great curving ribs protruding from the mud, and long lines of box-sized vertebrae. He and his tormentor were now close to the water’s edge, he could tell, the earth below them was no more than slime – then they were in the water, and it swallowed them. Off they flew through the new element, joined in a downward, free-flowing motion, rolling one over the other. Objects bumped them, stabbed them. Sticks stripped them. Once Val managed to raise his head above the water, glimpsing a monochrome landscape, glittering chemically, a negative print of an emergent landscape.
Rising to gulp in air, he saw flames lighting the sky above the western bank, and knew somehow that the stables were on fire. Then he was under again, with a final, fixed image of the ghostly hundreds arrayed on the banks. Suddenly he had a belly full of water, and lungs emptied of air, yet still the figure in his arms would not release him. Was he going to lose? He could not lose! His hands had long found his assailant’s throat, and squeezed tight. Why, then, was he not winning? Then it dully occurred to Val that his throat too was being constricted, he too was being held. Whoever would have thought Mr C would grip so strongly, and for so long? Even as he thought this, his throat was pressed tighter, as if by fresh hands. Then the darkness about became darkness within, and he was severed, in a series of quick stages, from his thoughts, his purpose.
The minister had very nearly let go, he was about to, had to – when Val’s hands were wrenched from his neck. He was thrown against something impassable. His first thought was that the thing had rushed forward to hit him, to hurt him, and he struggled to beat it. Then he realised he had been snared against a log still half on the bank – while Val had been swept on. His fingers climbed, almost of themselves, up the slippery sides of wood. He raised his head. He was stayed: he breathed.
24
Early the next morning Gregory woke knowing the sun shone. He got out of bed singing, his limbs, his mind, his spirit unencumbered. His hand was moving, he could use it as before. The fever had departed, leaving him fully in his body for perhaps the first time since his first days at this place.
Yet what strange noises he had heard during the night! Screams, galloping, clashing steel. How weirdly quiet were the school grounds now. He drew back his curtain. The sky was the softest blue, unruffled. He opened the window. Each tree was an island jubilant with insects. A bee haze lifted the grass. Spring had arrived overnight. He had forgotten spring.
Outside, the ground remained sodden underfoot, and gently steamed. He detected a faint, distinct bog smell, a tang.
Perhaps he had slept more than one night? Perhaps it was already Monday, or even later in the week, and he should be at work? He glanced at the distant school buildings. No, too quiet for that. And not a soul about. No marching boys, no practising footballe
rs. Strange. The entire grounds seemed scoured and freshly scrubbed, and it was hard to settle one’s eyes on anything – as everything was revealed as itself, painfully itself.
He walked towards the water, whistling a tune from his childhood, sensing that the creek had reached its highest point during the night. Soon he was in open grass, the insect din receding. He had been growing aware of that boggy smell again, sharp in his nostrils. The edge of a cloud crossed the sun. Then he came upon silted detritus, spread far from the banks. Some of it was nature’s refuse – trees, branches, rocks, snagged sticks and clumps of grass, a bright scatter of drowned parrots and what looked like a bat – and some of it human: clothes, hats, runs of fences, a disarticulated suit of armour, splayed lumpy books. One upright chair.
The lightness with which he had woken began receding in a series of short backward stabs. The day darkened. Everywhere about him the grass was beaten down in the direction of the flow, and he grew steadily more alarmed as he picked his way into the wasteland, following where the water had gushed. He could see the creek now, muted, chastened, still high and fast, yet obviously much diminished.
Voices reached him from upstream, men’s voices. A line of police and other uniformed officials paced slowly and deliberately into view on both banks, the line looking down.
Gregory peered downstream. There, in a small stripped tree, perhaps a defoliated magnolia, black plastic bags had been caught. They rustled with the day’s first breeze. The outline of the tree was not entirely coherent to him. Then he saw he was looking at a big animal caught in the branches. A horse? Gregory began walking towards it. He halted. A man was in the tree, an inverted man, arms akimbo. A drowned man. For a moment he was alone with his discovery, as he would always be alone with it.
‘Here! Here!’ he yelled, beckoning the always approaching line, as if celerity would help, ‘over here, for God’s sake! Help!’