Mr Campion's Fault

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Religion, Miss,’ said Roderick quietly. ‘There’s a quite a lot of it in Denby Ash – the church, the Methodist chapels and tabernacles, the Mission – and we also have a vicar as our physics master, so Bertie – Mr Browne – was sure that someone was bound to be offended by a play where somebody conjured up the Devil and traded his soul for earthly knowledge and the sins of the flesh.’

  ‘Not to mention the sins of Helen of Troy – the face that launched a thousand whatsists,’ Banville mugged lasciviously, getting in to character.

  ‘Oh, grow up, you great clot!’ snapped Roderick, waving a fist at his co-star.

  ‘“Oh, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps”,’ Perdita declaimed loudly, only to be met with a surprised and surprisingly vacant set of young faces. ‘“I shall be the angel hovering over your head ready to pour a vial of precious grace into your soul …”’

  She paused, knowing from bitter experience that she had lost her audience. ‘I suppose that bit’s been cut as well,’ she sighed. ‘Never mind; I’ll go through what’s left of the text over the weekend and we’ll have a proper run through on Monday. Faustus really is a very Christian morality play, you know, though that’s not all it is, of course. I hadn’t anticipated this much bowdlerization.’

  In front of her Mephistophilis, assuming a double-entendre, let out a high-pitched giggle but every other young face remained as calmly blank as a mill pond.

  ‘You have heard of Thomas Bowdler, haven’t you? Early-nineteenth-century chap who edited the plays of Shakespeare, taking out all the naughty bits and since then anything that has been expurgated has been “bowdlerized”. Normally it involves getting rid of anything people find a bit rude.’

  Perdita was pleased to see a questioning hand rose from the front desks, though instantly suspicious when she focussed and saw it belonged to Mephistophilis. ‘Yes?’ she said carefully.

  ‘Did they try and do this boulder thing with that nudey show in London last year, Miss?’

  ‘Do you mean Hair?’ Perdita realized she had their full attention.

  ‘That had more to with theatre censorship and the abolition of the Lord Chamberlain’s office, I think, but speaking personally …’ Now her audience was spellbound and, as one, leaning forward in their seats. ‘I have never appeared on stage in the …’

  Perdita extended her comic timing for as long as she dared, even though this was never going to be her toughest audience.

  ‘… West End, so I really I can’t comment.’

  A classroom of youth, as one, deflated around her.

  ‘Now can we get back to my earlier question, please? I’m still not clear exactly whose religious feelings are we likely to upset with our performance of Christopher Marlowe’s classic and highly respected tragical history.’

  A new hand rose unsteadily. It belonged to an angelic boy with blond curls who looked no more than twelve years old and had a face which, in a previous age, could have advertised Pears soap. Perdita nodded permission for the cherub to speak.

  ‘I’m Lucifer, Miss,’ the cherub sang sweetly.

  ‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ Perdita encouraged.

  ‘His name’s Philip Watson,’ said Mephistophilis helpfully.

  Lucifer glared at Mephistophilis briefly, in a most un-angelic way, before continuing.

  ‘They are all a bit bell, book and candle around here, Miss. The vicar, Old Twiggy, doesn’t approve of any summoning up the Devil or spirits and things, and all the Methodist ministers and lay preachers don’t like the idea of seeing the deadly sins on stage, especially not Lust – which was the first to go. In fact, some of them are opposed to the whole idea of theatre and plays. Mrs Cawthorne is a staunch Methodist, which is why she won’t allow Mr Cawthorne to have anything to do with the production, even though he’s the music master. The Reverend Stan – that’s what we call him – who’s our physics teacher and supposed to be a man of science has to disapprove of the show because he still wears the dog collar. We’ve only got the Denby Ash brass band doing the music because Trotsky is an atheist and he likes upsetting the churches.’

  ‘And just who is Trotsky?’ asked Perdita. She quickly added: ‘Your brass band one, not the famous one.’

  ‘Arthur Exley, Miss,’ said Watson. ‘He’s bandmaster for Denby Ash and also a militant hothead in the miners’ union.’

  Perdita was sure that was a phrase young Watson had picked up from his parents at the breakfast table, possibly as Watson pére read from the editorial of the Yorkshire Post.

  ‘Hence the nickname “Trotsky”?’

  Watson, and several of the other boys, nodded in agreement.

  ‘So, to sum up, apart from the late Mr Browne – and, of course, his sister – and, as far as I can gather, a left wing, musical trade unionist, there are very few people in Denby Ash who approve of our show?’

  ‘Even the local witch has come out against it,’ said Mephistophilis with a certain amount of glee.

  ‘Ivy Neal is not a witch!’ snapped Dr Faustus, gripping the edges of the desk which constrained him. ‘She’s just an eccentric old gypsy lady.’

  ‘Well, I bet you daren’t go down Pinfold Lane after dark!’

  ‘That’s enough of that, Banville,’ Perdita said sternly, remembering that she had authority and should be asserting it.

  ‘Mind you,’ Banville continued with relish, ‘you ought to be familiar with ghoulies and ghosties by now, Braithwaite. After all, you’re the one who lives in a haunted house.’

  Rupert had dismissed the joking suggestions from his family that he invest in thermal underwear for his expedition to Yorkshire and now, in the middle of Ash Grange’s rugby field with a shiny referee’s whistle bouncing from a cord around his neck and wearing a threadbare purple tracksuit and football boots too big for his feet despite two pairs of socks, he was beginning to wish he had taken the advice seriously.

  The temperature was probably not below freezing point and the wind certainly not gale force, but the light rain which had fallen all day seemed – out here, exposed on the playing field – to have the texture of icy needles pricking at his skin. As it would never do for the games master to be seen standing there shivering with only the metal whistle between his lips keeping his teeth from chattering, Rupert decided it was best to keep moving – as much for his circulation as well as his pride – and joined in enthusiastically with ‘circuit training’ which consisted of running circuits of the field at varying speed in order to ‘warm up’, an instruction which the boys under his command greeted with a communal and instinctive groan. Their competitiveness soon became clear, however, as one by one they lapped their new coach with relish.

  Warmer, but out of breath, Rupert suggested practising scrums – a quick head count assuring him that he had more than enough bodies on the pitch – and then line-outs as ‘set plays’ were important. When the boys looked at him in bemusement, he explained that he had picked up the term whilst at Harvard and observing that strange illegitimate offspring of rugby, American Football. If he had suddenly announced the abolition of all homework or the free distribution of passes to the BBC’s Lime Grove Studios for the recording of Top of the Pops, he could not have gained more instant respect.

  The rest of his first training session could easily have been filled with a question-and-answer session on the topic “What’s it like in America, sir?” but one of the fitter, clearly dominant boys suggested that they followed Bertram Browne’s training regime and split into teams for a seven-a-side game. As the boy making the suggestion not only did so politely and turned out to be Andrew Ramsden, the captain of the school’s under-sixteen team, Rupert agreed and accepted the role of nominal referee, interfering in the game as little as possible but sprinting in bursts just long enough to keep his circulation moving.

  As the rugby players seemed to know what they were doing and had no real need of a referee, coach or games master, Rupert took the opportunity to get his bearings in the local geography.

&n
bsp; The playing fields of Ash Grange School occupied an elevated position overlooking Denby Wood, whilst they in turn were overlooked by the large black spoil heap of Grange Ash colliery which rose on the other side of the Huddersfield road like an extinct Vesuvius. In the distance, through the stinging drizzle, Rupert could make out the Meccano-like winding towers of two other collieries, both of which seemed to be in working order judging by the constant stream of black-dusted lorries trundling from their direction and straining up the hill through the village.

  From his vantage point Rupert reckoned he had a view over Denby Ash which could only be rivalled from the top of the Grange Ash muck stack. His eyes followed the descent of the single road sleeved, or so it appeared to him, by a long, continuous terrace of redbrick houses, each one with a chimney pluming dark grey smoke until he was sure he could make out the tower of the church they had passed on their way into the village the day before.

  He shook raindrops from his fringe and realized that the afternoon was waning quickly. Did dusk fall rapidly in these northern latitudes, or was that the tropics? Perhaps he should ask a geography teacher, even one as anti-social and grumpy as Wing Commander Bland. The memory of his encounter with the inhabitants of the ‘Dragons’ Den’ suddenly reminded him that he was now supposed to be a teacher himself and that he had over a dozen increasingly muddy boys in his charge.

  Fortunately the boys on the rugby field were clearly capable of managing without adult supervision and were following the instructions being bellowed by the boy Ramsden with the authority of one of Cromwell’s field commanders. And following them quite well judging by the applause of the spectators – spectators of which Rupert had been totally unaware until that moment.

  Admittedly there were only two spectators, standing at either end of the pitch as far apart as physically possible so they could hardly constitute a crowd. The more vocal of the two, given to shouting clipped instructions such as ‘Swerve!’ ‘Pass it!’ and ‘Get into ’im!’ was a squat, pepper pot of a man wearing a thick donkey jacket with leather shoulder pads, dark trousers tucked into wellington boots and a brown flat cap with its peak pulled over his eyes to deflect the shards of icy rain which Rupert, his teeth chattering, was now sure were falling horizontally.

  Jogging across the field as much to keep warm as to have any effect on the game in progress, Rupert paused at the shoulder of a mud-spattered boy down on one knee retying a wayward bootlace. ‘Who is that chap over there?’

  ‘That’s Rufus, sir,’ the boy answered wearily. ‘Rufus Harrop, the groundsman. He’s always mithering about the way we cut up his field.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better go and introduce myself,’ Rupert said to the crown of the boy’s head, for the boy was concentrating intently on de-knotting his rogue lace.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if he swears at you, sir,’ the boy advised without looking up. ‘He’s got a tongue the colour of a dolly blue, or so me Mum says.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  Making a mental note to ask Perdita for translation advice, Rupert loped across the pitch towards the flat-capped figure that seemed to shrink down into his coat as a tortoise would retract into its shell as he approached.

  Rupert did not blame him, for had their positions been reversed he knew he would have shrunk from the gangling figure in a soaking tracksuit and mud-encrusted boots which flapped ever closer as if doing a Rag Week impersonation of Joyce Grenfell.

  ‘Hello there. You must be Mr Harrop.’

  The flat-capped head tilted upwards just enough to show a grey face displaying badly shaved white stubble, a wide nose that had clearly been broken at least once and small, piggy eyes set into dark sockets.

  ‘No must abaht it, but Harrop I am,’ said the smaller man, ‘an’ you’ll be t’new fella replacing Mr Browne.’

  Rupert strained an ear in an attempt to tune in to the low, quiet voice which had the timbre of slow-moving gravel.

  ‘Only temporarily, until the end of term, and then there will be a new master starting after Christmas.’

  ‘That’ll be a relief, then. Summ’on else can see t’arrangements.’

  ‘Arrangements?’ Rupert enquired, latching on to words that he understood clearly.

  ‘Fick-sures.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Games – proper uns – versus other schools,’ said the grizzled groundsman with a blatant tone of despair.

  ‘Oh, fixtures … er … yes, I do believe we have some. My name’s Campion, by the way.’

  ‘’Course it is – I was told as much by t’eadmaster. Any road, I ’ave to tell yer that coach’ll be ’ere at nine sharp a week tomorrer to take team to Kwegs.’

  Rupert glanced around in dumb desperation but help came there none. All the boys in his charge had found renewed enthusiasm for their wet and muddy practice game and every youthful eye was making sure it did not catch his. Even the only other spectator – a man with his hands deep into the pockets of a gabardine raincoat and a green trilby on his head – seemed to have floated conveniently out of range and was now leaning a shoulder against one leg of the whitewashed H goal post at the other end of the field.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Rupert began apologetically, ‘but I’m not exactly following you …’

  ‘Well, yer wouldn’t, would yer, you bein’ a toff from down south, yer mawngy bugger,’ growled the gnomic figure under the cap.

  Wrong-footed by this unprovoked aggression, if that indeed was what it was, Rupert recalled his father once suggesting that the Campion family motto really should be Numquam scienter contumeliam – or ‘Never Knowingly Insulted’ if he had remembered his Latin correctly (which he doubted). For his current situation, it seemed a good philosophy to adopt.

  ‘You’re absolutely correct to assume I am from points south of here,’ he said graciously, ‘and therefore in need of as much help and guidance as your charity will allow, but please remember to use small, slow words.’

  The gaunt, weathered face tilted upwards from under the peak of the flat cap and Harrop’s bullet-hole eyes regarded Rupert with the unblinking stare which in Yorkshire passed for curiosity. And then the granite face fissured into a crack of a smile, or perhaps a smirk.

  ‘Aye, well then,’ said Rufus Harrop, as if about to announce the state opening of something, ‘it’s like I said. Coach is booked for nine sharp next Saturday morning.’

  ‘Coach?’ said Rupert vaguely.

  ‘Coach – charabanc – bus,’ Harrop said slowly, ‘to take t’team to Kwegs for t’match.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be southern, but what are Kwegs?’

  ‘Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar School – Q-E-G-S – in Wakefield.’ Harrop sighed loudly as if in relief at having got the words out.

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Rupert exclaimed, a penny having finally dropped. ‘We have an away game – a fixture.’

  ‘What I said, weren’t it?’

  ‘You probably did,’ Rupert admitted. ‘And I have to take the boys to Wakefield, do I?’

  ‘Not all of them, just the First XV and any of ’em that’s daft enough to say they’ll run the lines. Any road, bus driver’ll know where to go and the boys’ll know what they’re doing, even if you don’t. That’s all I ’ad to say. Tha’d better get them into the showers and off home – it’ll be dark before long. It gets dark quicker up here, tha knows.’

  Rupert wanted to agree, having felt distinctly in the dark for some time already, but before he could say anything the small man turned on his heels and stomped away, leaving Rupert to decipher the initials ‘NCB’ in large white letters on the back of his donkey jacket.

  ‘Don’t worry about Rufus Harrop – he’s got a full bag of chips on his shoulder. Takes against anyone he thinks is posh or votes Conservative or comes from south of Cudworth.’

  Rupert had blown two shrill blasts on his whistle, calling a halt to the practice game, and ordered the boys to get showered and changed at the double. It was as he trudged after the column o
f boys trotting towards the brick pavilion (rugby in winter, cricket in summer), that the spectator in the green trilby strode over the mangled, muddy grass and engaged him in conversation.

  ‘Then I’m probably thrice damned in his eyes, though I’m not awfully sure where Cudworth is,’ admitted Rupert.

  ‘I wouldn’t lose sleep over that. My name’s Ramsden, by the way. That was my boy out there in the ruck – the one doing all the shouting.’

  Rupert wiped his hand across the chest of his tracksuit top before shaking the one offered.

  ‘Andrew Ramsden? He’s my captain, I think.’

  ‘Well, he was Mr Browne’s pick,’ said the proud father, ‘and the team’s done well enough this term.’

  ‘Then I’m certainly not going to change a winning formula,’ said Rupert firmly. ‘In any case, I’m only a stopgap until the end of term, so if Andrew can put up with me I’ll be more than happy to put up with him.’

  ‘So you’ll be doing just the two games? Pocklington at home and then QEGS?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Rupert with more certainty than he felt. ‘That would be Queen Elizabeth’s in Wakefield … wouldn’t it?’ He became aware that Andrew’s proud dad was now looking at him with curiosity mixed with sympathy.

  ‘That’s right, that’s the last fixture of term. Tomorrow Pocklington sends a team here and all you have to worry about there is putting on a sandwich lunch for the visitors; the match itself shouldn’t be a problem.’ Ramsden paused in his briefing. ‘Unlike the one in Wakefield, when QEGS will give us a real run for our money. Could be a tough game.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’ Rupert grinned. ‘Do you get to the matches?’

  ‘Not as often as I’d like.’

  ‘Policeman’s lot and all that?’

  The policeman in question raised an official eyebrow. ‘There are no secrets in Denby Ash, are there? I suppose you got an earful from Rufus Harrop about me. Round here they like bobbies about as much as they like southerners.’