by H. S. Cross
After The Fall, Emily and Captain Cahill had come. (Hadn’t they?) They came to the Tower and took him home. There was medicine that made him sleepy, and he spent the holidays with his arm wrapped like a mummy. He was in the Tower now, but his sisters didn’t know of this disaster (did they?) and neither did his father. With luck, he would be better before the hols, and none of them would have to find out. He couldn’t bear to spend another hols like the one after The Fall: his sisters talking constantly around him and about him, talking of his arm, his appetite, his sanity; his father impartial and consolatory, a man who no longer demanded the truth or detected its opposite.
* * *
Morgan had never seen his father cry, but at the funeral there had been a moment of horror when “For All the Saints” began and his father’s eyes filled. Morgan sent off a desperate prayer that his father would not succumb. The man’s eyes briefly overflowed, but his father didn’t weep, not then, not at the grave, not across the long day. But that night, when Morgan thought they were clear of the risk, when he was due to return to school, that night he had woken with hunger pangs. On his way to the kitchen, he’d passed his father’s study and heard a sound that paralyzed him: his father’s sobbing, fierce, animal-like, grotesque. Morgan had run back to his bedroom, hunger chased. In the morning, he had been unable to look his father in the eye.
Morgan had a reputation at school for not blubbing. He had not blubbed from homesickness, not after the Fourth Form’s raids, not even from Accounting. Surviving his mother’s death and funeral without tears had been the final test, and he had passed it.
Back at the Academy after the funeral, he could feel himself weakening. He’d always endured discomfort by thinking of his mother, how she’d cup his cheeks—my brave one, a stór—but now thought of her unmanned him. When he returned after three days away, he expected Silk to fault him for missing fagging duty, but Silk said nothing beyond grumbling that Fletcher had been forced to make the tea, and that it had been foul. For a moment Silk looked at Morgan with something like pity, a look that made Morgan afraid he’d offer condolences. But Silk turned to Fletcher and spoke as if Morgan weren’t there:
—He’s in a funk, Fletch. Not himself at all.
—He’s getting lazy, that’s what.
—Fletch. Have you no heart? Wilberforce has been through a terrible ordeal.
Fletcher spat into the fire.
—Have you ever suffered such a thing? Silk asked.
—I’ve suffered you.
—Don’t be facetious, Fletch. ’Tain’t Christian.
Morgan continued to prepare their tea, hoping Fletcher would divert Silk to other topics.
—What we need to do, Silk said, is take young Wilberforce’s mind off his troubles. Don’t we?
—If it’d get us toast without the char.
Silk made a show of thinking:
—I believe I know the perfect diversion!
—Touch your toes and count these out? Fletcher offered.
But Silk was hauling Morgan to his feet.
—Don’t be hard, Fletch. He has a broken heart.
—I weep for him.
—Luckily, said Silk, I’ve got a remedy.
Silk lifted Morgan’s pullover until it imprisoned his hands and head. Then Silk hauled him to the carpet, straddled him, and removed the pullover, pinning his hands at his side.
—A remedy, Silk crooned, guaranteed to cure complaints of the heart.
The thrill of captivity, the exquisite horror of being helpless to escape until the worst had passed. Morgan’s blood pumped as it always did, dread transposed into an attractive and familiar key. Silk tightened the grip of his knees and applied a single finger to the center of Morgan’s chest:
—Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you can …
So little pressure, but such pain—as if his chest would crack!
—Feeling better yet, young Wilberforce?
Then harder—
—See, Fletch, he’s perking up already.
Morgan yelled and kicked, but Silk held him.
—Then put it in the oven for Fletchy and me!
Silk pressed down on Morgan’s mouth until it hurt, too. Fletcher wedged a chair under the doorknob and removed Morgan’s shoes and socks.
—Can’t have you disturbing people, Silk said, thrusting a sock into Morgan’s mouth.
Morgan breathed heavily through his nose. Sweat trickled down his neck.
—Silk—
—Shut up, Fletch. It’s doing him the world of good. Color’s come back to his cheeks. Besides which, I’ve never seen him blub.
—Yet, Fletcher said.
—Point taken.
Morgan steeled himself. If they thought they could make him cry, they were mistaken. He’d hadn’t yet; he wouldn’t now. And if a sudden fatigue swept across him, like despair but more exhausting, he ignored it. Silk would let him up in a minute, certainly sorer, but it would pass.
—Right, Silk said, the game is called Baker’s Dozen.
A chill, despite sweat.
—That was number one.
What piercing … breathtaking … Could Bradley break his chest so easily, with a finger? He could no longer move, and the air—infrequent, searing—no longer mere pain delivered by Bradley’s hand, but a heart-stopping agony, the hand of death on his very chest—he yelled through the sock and sucked air with his last … would he travel in a moment to the place where she was? A brief surrender was all it required. So small a sacrifice to feel her hand—
—As fast as you can …
To depart the world, to fall backwards into her arms …
—Pat it …
Never to see Longmere again. Never see Veronica, Emily, Flora. No Grindalythe Woods from the study window. Never again his father’s embrace, bringing forgiveness. No more Accounting. Even the sting of the cane, no more. All this in exchange for release. His coin to her domain. She would want him. She would welcome him. Was that in fact the purpose of these tests, to draw him to her—
—Roll it … Hold still.
Come unto me all ye who travail and are heavy laden. Come to me, who made you, who waits to embrace you at the end of this last, long day.
—The game is Baker’s Dozen, and that was number two.
Again racking—come here—roaring—a stór—blow—broken!—within his chest or his skull he never knew, but with this breaking, the flood. From every bone, every muscle, tears so long refused now rushed, and with them a love—a great and terrible love—for every good and wicked thing.
—That’ll do.
Mouth unstopped. Air. Like oceans but sharper.
—What’d you do that for, Fletch?
—Let him up.
Pain, breath, attachment to this world; a furious grip that refused to let go, refused to depart when called—
—He’s done, Silk.
—But I haven’t even—
—He’s blubbing. That’s it.
Through tears, a swimming vision of his tormentors, Bradley and Fletcher, so wicked and so human.
—You’re no fun at all.
Lightness now as if he would fly! Breath like a racing wave, and horror—
—Don’t worry, Fletch, we’ll improve him. He’ll take the whole doz before long.
He had refused her. His own mother, alone in death, had held out her hand to him, and he refused. He was no longer the person he had been. Something alien, grotesque, this new self. Over her he had chosen the world and its wretchedness.
* * *
Was he awake and trying to sleep, or asleep and trying to wake? If he could wrestle his way back, he could order his thoughts and do something … about whatever lurked beyond the curtain. His elbow might never straighten properly, S-K might never look at him with anything but scorn, Mr. Grieves might no longer trust him, Silk might never … but Silk was gone, not quite as she was gone, but gone from his ken. None of it could be put back, and who cared anymore? He w
as seventeen years old. He cared nothing for the opinions of his Headmaster, his history master, or his father. As for his mother, at least she would never have to know his father as he was now, a widower in London, drained of zest. Whatever skulked beyond the curtain could sod off, as far as he was concerned. He, Morgan Wilberforce, was seventeen years old—as previously discussed!—and subject to no one. He may have bashed himself about at rugby that afternoon or whenever it had been, but he was in control of himself now. He was not primed to dive down any staircases, to break any more bones or any more anything.
Whatever lurked in the shadows could perk up its ears and listen: The life of Morgan Wilberforce did not require breaking. It was buggered already. If the shadow wished amusement, it could sod off somewhere pristine, somewhere people still cared, somewhere worth busting. There was no amusement to be had at St. Stephen’s Academy on this day in March 1926. The Academy was an entirely undiverting institution, languishing since the War, full of unremarkable people doing things of no import. He, Morgan Wilberforce, was no scholar, no wit, and no very remarkable athlete. He mattered nothing to anyone. He had outgrown preposterous notions of mattering. There was no fun, in short, to be had in their domain, so yon skulker-in-the-shadow could just take itself off where it had come from. St. Stephen’s Academy and Morgan himself were too unexceptional for evil to bother with them.
3
John Grieves disliked social occasions. There were benefits to being an undermaster with digs in Fridaythorpe rather than living within the walls of the Academy, such as the space, however brief, to think his thoughts undisturbed. In the minus column, his rooms were expensive to heat and required a quarter of an hour’s bicycle ride twice a day in rain, sleet, snow, or occasionally sunshine. Also in the minus column, he had no private place at the Academy itself to confer with boys, except his classroom. The other masters thought him either put-upon or tragically acquiescent to the Headmaster’s miserly ways, but he defended his arrangement to any who would, after seven years, listen: He would not have it another way. He cherished his autonomy in Fridaythorpe and his social horizons in the village. This last was not quite true, but it sounded plausible. But now, this Friday in March, for the satisfaction of a rugby wager, he was due to entertain Lockett-Egan.
John made it a rule not to socialize with his colleagues outside the gates of the Academy, but he made an exception for the Eagle, who had some years previous established a pattern of fortnightly fellowship at the Cross Keys, the only watering hole within fifteen miles of the Academy and John’s refectory-cum-study in Fridaythorpe. They knew him there. He never had to place an order. When he walked in, tea would be brought to him, and food of some description. Over the years, they had learned the outline of his private life, but they did not intrude with conversation unless he initiated it. Masters from the Academy frequented the Keys Sunday afternoons; at these times, John confined himself to his rooms across the road. He justified his aloofness with the label teetotaler. In time, the explanation had become unquestioned fact, making sense of everything.
Tonight as the Eagle shouldered his way from the bar, John tried to look congenial, but all he could think of was the Eagle’s alarming confession on the sidelines of the rugby pitch that afternoon.
—What’s wrong? the Eagle asked him.
—Pocklington, John said. You can’t take it.
—Finger off the trigger. I haven’t even sat down.
The Eagle removed his overcoat, took a seat, and raised his glass; John raised his tea mug.
—How many more days in this godforsaken term? the Eagle asked.
—Fourteen.
—Any chance you’d abandon your Quaker ways and kill me now?
John grimaced.
—That’s right, the Eagle replied, I forgot you’re a saint. One who wouldn’t have felt my entirely unchristian satisfaction hearing Clem’s bookcases collapse this evening.
So that was the commotion during Prep. When Clement supervised the Third, little of the evening was devoted to preparation and much to mischief. John found Clement more aggravating than he wanted to. Clem was in his eighties, a gentle soul who didn’t bully and didn’t persecute, but his lessons and his House were disasters. John had no idea how the Eagle tolerated working under him. Of course he’d be tempted by offers from other schools.
—Any notion who was behind it? John asked.
—Too many notions.
—The Third are sowing their oats.
—The Third are feral beasts, as previously discussed.
They had discussed the Third Form ad nauseam, and there was no question—between the two of them or within the Senior Common Room as a whole—that this year’s Third were a thoroughly bad crop. John often felt the school was on the verge of anarchy.
—We’re all at the end of our tether, John said. But that’s no reason to let Pocklington poach you.
The Eagle’s neck colored:
—It’s more that I submitted my credentials and they offered me a post.
—You—but—how could you? John exclaimed.
He realized at once this was the wrong thing to say.
—Just what sort of post is it?
—Housemaster.
John’s heart sank. The Eagle had been waiting years to become a Housemaster at the Academy, laboring as undermaster in Clement’s since before the War.
—I suppose congratulations are in order, John said.
It sounded grudging.
—So you see my dilemma, the Eagle said.
—What dilemma?
Now he was sounding bitter. It was no way to treat a friend.
—Burton.
—What business is it of his?
Of course Burton-Lee would interfere. He was loyal to the Headmaster and had been at the Academy more than thirty years. John detested him on almost every ground, but if Burton could dissuade the Eagle from leaving …
—The thing is, Burton’s had an offer himself, the Eagle said.
—What! From where?
—Some place in Dorset.
—What place?
—And he’s thinking of taking it.
—But—but he can’t! You can’t! This simply makes no sense.
John’s neck cramped. He could think of nothing to say, nothing to protest the monstrous notion of Burton and the Eagle both abandoning the Academy. The Eagle drank his pint in pained silence, and John realized the notion made every kind of sense. He collapsed into a sulk:
—Wilberforce wrecked his shoulder.
—Oh, yes?
—Partial dislocation, Matron said.
—Didn’t he break his arm last year? the Eagle asked.
—Three years ago.
John remembered everything—curse of the historian—but, honestly, how could the Eagle have got to the point of confusing last year with three years ago? It required a perverse ignorance of time.
—And that was no accident, John told him.
—I thought he fell down some stairs.
—That’s what everyone said, but obviously it wasn’t true.
—It wasn’t?
The Eagle sat forward, curiosity piqued.
—Of course not. Bradley was responsible.
—Bradley pushed Wilberforce down the stairs?
—Forget the stairs, John said impatiently. It happened in Bradley’s study.
The Eagle goggled behind his thick spectacles:
—But you never told me this. Are you saying Bradley deliberately broke Wilberforce’s arm and ribs and whatever else?
—Perhaps not deliberately, John admitted, but he did it. It was all to do with the digging debacle and—
—You mean your archaeology project?
—Yes—
—When they dug up Gallowhill’s skull—
—It wasn’t his skull.
—I know you always suspected Wilberforce, but was there ever proof?
—Bradley found proof, obviously.
The Eagle removed his spectacles a
nd wiped them, as he always did when considering a thorny proposition:
—Back up, Grievous. Are you saying Bradley beat Wilberforce senseless because he found proof of the Gallowhill business?
—It’s the only explanation, John said. Number one, Wilberforce helped me dig the archaeology pit and so had opportunity to plant the skull. Number two, Gallowhill meant the world to Bradley. Number three, on the very same day that we’re told Hazlehurst’s JCR have dealt with the matter, we hear that Wilberforce is in the Tower, having fallen down a flight of stairs. So. I ask you.
The Eagle peered into his empty glass.
—That’s a serious allegation. Did you discuss it with S-K?
—What do you think? John asked. But by that time Wilberforce had gone home, so S-K put it off until the next term, and then there was the blowup with Wilberforce refusing confirmation.
—That! I still can’t believe he had the nerve to thwart S-K. I wouldn’t.
—But isn’t that precisely what you’re doing with Pocklington? John argued.
The Eagle bristled:
—Refusing confirmation and resigning are entirely different matters.
—What makes you think the Head at Pocklington will be any less tyrannical?
—Nothing, the Eagle replied, but it will be a novel tyranny. And I’ll have a House.
John felt desperate:
—With you and Burton gone, who’ll help me stop the Third turning into … something that will make Bradley and Co. look like choirboys?