R. Delderfield & R. F. Delderfield

by To Serve Them All My Days

  In the dusk he saw the man smile as he stroked his thinking post.

  ‘How? Well, certainly not as a matter of hammering information into boys. That was the general idea when I was young, before Arnold’s ideas had time to flower. He was an insufferable prig, of course, and most of his disciples were worse, but they were moving in the right direction. The important thing is to adapt their theme to the twentieth century, before the commercials move in and take over. I don’t really regard myself as a schoolmaster, or not any longer. I’ve changed direction myself a good deal since I took charge here, particularly so in the last few years. I suppose I see myself as a kind of potter at the wheel but then, that’s priggish too, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Not the way you mean it.’

  ‘Ah, but how do I mean it, precisely? It isn’t easy to put these things on paper, or even convince yourself satisfactorily. Parents send their sons to a place like this for specific reasons. The main one is to get an education that will enable them to survive, I suppose. But once they settle in many other processes go to work. They learn a little tolerance, I hope, and how to see a joke against themselves, and how to stand on their own feet. But, above all, the knack of co operating. I’m not too insistent on scholarship. Scholars are dull dogs for the most part. When I was a boy here there were no organised games to speak of. We crammed and then mooched about, devising ways of avoiding punishment, and tormenting one another out of sheer boredom.’

  ‘Isn’t that what everyone’s engaged in now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But there’s a well-defined end product, thank God.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘A second chance. You’re a history man, so let me ask you a question. Granted my thinking post is three hundred years old, what was happening when it was a foot high?’

  ‘The Civil War was brewing.’

  ‘Precisely. And something very practical emerged from that. Parliamentary democracy for one thing. Two steps up, and one and a half down. That’s my view of history. British history, at all events.’

  ‘But we’ve fallen down a long flight since 1914, haven’t we?’

  ‘We’ve taken a tumble certainly, but that’s because we were too damned cocky in the first years of the new century. I daresay we’ll learn from it. Dammit, we have to unless all those youngsters were the victims of an obscene practical joke, and I can’t let myself believe that they were. As I say, I saw seventy-two of them grow up, and there weren’t many fools among them. And no cowards, either, not in the true sense of the word.’

  The man’s optimism was working on him like a drug. His staying power, the strength and simplicity of his faith, was something the men out there had lost long ago, as long ago as Neuve Chapelle and Loos. But a flicker of doubt remained. He said, ‘As to learning from it, I take it you mean internationally? Out there everyone below the rank of field officer has had a bellyful of patriotism.’

  ‘Ah, patriotism,’ Herries said, affably, and although the dusk now shrouded them completely, David divined a twinkle in the eyes. ‘Don’t forget Edith Cavell, Powlett-Jones. “Patriotism is not enough”… She could have amplified that, poor soul. Patriotism is a first step, I’d say. On the road to civic maturity that is. You had three years out there. I still believe in a Divine Purpose. You survived for a purpose, I imagine. To help head other survivors in the right direction, maybe.’

  Nipper Shawe was swinging his bell again. For prep probably, and its clamour terminated Herries’s reverie. ‘Come, we’ll look in on Big School and introduce you. It’ll break the ice for man and beast. Then dinner. Ellie has shepherd’s pie, with gooseberry fool to follow. We have fruit cages behind that copse and Ellie is a fanatical bottler.’

  They moved down the slight incline towards the scatter of lights and at the end of the path David barked his shin on the fender of the horse-roller. ‘Curse that chain-gang,’ Herries said, genially, ‘I’ll have Masterson’s press-gang move it in the morning. Masterson is down for Dartmouth in September. He’s a natural leader of the press-gang.’

  Two

  * * *

  1

  NEVER IN THE PAST OR INDEED IN THE YEARS AHEAD WAS he so sharply aware of that heightened sense of time that accompanies the process of self-discovery; of new faces, new experiences, new dimensions of space, shape, texture, colour and relationship that lifted him out of limbo and set his feet squarely upon virgin ground.

  There was that farcical incident the first day he took the Lower Fourth, that final refuge of extravagant humorists, who regarded any new tutor, especially an inexperienced one, as legitimate prey, a blind and bumbling bear, to be baited and tested for sharpness of tooth and claw. From the first he saw the various groupings of the boys in terms of sections in a muster of infantry, halfway through his front-line service, a time when the ranks of any sizeable unit included battle-tried veterans, work-shy barrackroom lawyers and any number of nervous eighteen-year-olds, fresh from school and recruit centre, all eager to show their mettle.

  The scale began in the Second Form, composed entirely of first and second termers, ticking off the days as they adjusted to the pangs of homesickness. One looked for no trouble at all with these. All that was necessary was to slip into the role of jovial uncle, or brother separated by a wide age gap, and jolly them along, spicing the lesson with a few old chestnuts and injecting the spice of romance into pages of the text-books where all the tedious milestones of British history were marked in heavy, marginal print, a row of cromlechs tracing a road across a waterless desert.

  In the Lower, Middle and Upper Third sights had to be adjusted. Here were the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds, who had played themselves in and were now in the process of separating into four streams, streams that he came to think of as the anxious-to-learners, the occasional-triers, the professional time-passers and the practical jokers, bent on making a reputation for themselves.

  It was in the Fourth Forms that trouble really began. The Fourth Forms were the school watershed, boys of fifteen and above, with two or three years of rough and tumble behind them and no immediate responsibilities ahead, a majority of skrimshankers who reminded him of the crafty, time-serving men, whose experience earned them stripes one day that were taken away the next. And of the three Fourth Forms the Lower Fourth was the toughest, perhaps because the Cambridge examinations would be that much nearer after removes to the Middle and Upper Fourth were achieved, and pressures were applied by parents reacting to end-of-term reports.

  At all events, his first crisis came on his second morning at Bamfylde, when he introduced himself to some thirty blank-faced fifteen-year-olds in Big School, used as a formroom for the Lower Fourth during the day and as a communal prep room for the whole of the Middle School in the evenings.

  It was a difficult room to overlook. The space between the rostrum and the first row of desks was unusually wide, so that he had a sense of being detached from the class in a way that did not happen elsewhere. The ceiling was high and arched and the three Gothic windows gave a clear view of the forecourt and east drive, an open invitation to idlers to concentrate on comings and goings out there rather than on the blackboard or the rostrum.

  Boyer, a well-grown, rather saturnine boy with dark hair and high cheekbones, occupied a desk in the back row and even before the incident David marked him down as a jester. He had humorous, heavy-lidded eyes, grey, watchful and mocking. From the moment of making his first appearance, however, David was struck by the unusual passivity of the class. They sat very sedately, attentively awaiting his opening gambits, so that he was well launched on a survey of Elizabeth’s foreign policy when there was a sudden stir at the back of the room. A glance, centring on Boyer, warned him he was in trouble, serious trouble if he let it get out of hand, for Boyer had turned very pale, blinking his humorous eyes rapidly as his limbs twitched and jerked, setting all the inkpots in the communal desk leaping in their sockets. Before David could make even the briefest assessment of the situation the mouth began
to twitch in sympathy so that one had the distinct impression that Boyer was in the grip of some form of palpitation or spasm that would bring him, in a matter of seconds, to a point of prostration. David stood up and made a single step towards the edge of the rostrum but at once a forest of hands shot up and reassuring advice was shouted at him from all directions.

  ‘It’s all right, sir!’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir!’

  ‘Only one of Boyer’s fits, sir…!’

  ‘Shall I take him to Matron, sir?’ And then, calmly stated above the chorus by Dobson, Boyer’s right-hand neighbour, ‘It happens about once a week, sir! Fresh air always brings him round, sir. Shall I open the window and loosen his collar, sir?’

  It was Dobson’s unceremonious handling of the boy that alerted him for, as he bent over Boyer to loosen his tie, he overplayed his hand by tightening it. Boyer, choking on the knot, came to for a fleeting second, long enough to push his outstretched hand into Dobson’s face with such force that Dobson reeled across the aisle until stopped by the water pipes. At the same time concern seemed to ebb from the boys crowding round and some of them began to titter, establishing beyond doubt that Boyer’s performance was very much appreciated.

  He took a chance then. He had nothing but instinct to tell him that Boyer’s seizure was a well-rehearsed trick on the part of the Lower Fourth to relieve the tedium of an hour devoted to De Silva, Walsingham and the Dutch. He roared, at the top of his voice, ‘Silence! Places!’ and the command at least had the effect of dispersing the crowd about Boyer’s desk, giving him his first real chance to weigh the probabilities. Then Dobson rallied but again, a mere amateur alongside Boyer, he overplayed, saying, in an aggrieved voice, ‘I was only trying to help, sir…!’ and that did it. Colour returned to Boyer’s face and he sat upright, blinking and looking confused, a traveller who has awakened in a train to discover he has passed his station. And in a sense he had for David descending from the rostrum, and moving down the centre aisle, scented victory in the hush that fell in the class as he said, quietly but menacingly, ‘Stand up, Boyer! You too, Dobson!’, and both boys raised themselves, looking, David thought, surprised and vaguely apprehensive. He said, in the same level tone, ‘Quite a performance! But it needs working on, Boyer! You’re not bad but your partner is a terrible ham,’ and the astonished laugh, heavier and more sustained than the obligatory response to a master’s quip, set the seal on his triumph. He paused then, savouring it and wondering if either Boyer or Dobson would have the nerve to carry the bluff a stage further. When they did not he said, mildly, ‘It’s only fair to warn you I’m familiar with all forms of hysteria. In fact, I’m an expert, having spent the last seven months in shell-shock wards.’

  It was well below the belt. He was aware of that but he didn’t care. It was a crossroads in his life, and victory was essential. In the uneasy silence that followed he weighed his words carefully, finally opting for a middle course, halfway between outrage and appeal, but choosing irony as the weapon best suited to the occasion.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘Boyer being happily restored to full health, suppose I begin by being frank? This is my second day here but I’ll add to that. It’s also my second day in the teaching profession – teaching in school, that is, for I’ve been engaged, among other things, in teaching recruits how to deal with the Opposition. Think about that, because the Opposition, from here on, is you. Right, sit down, both of you, and let’s have a show of hands. How many of you were in on Boyer’s little relapse?’

  Four hands were raised. Then eight and finally two more, near the front. Their readiness to admit complicity touched him. He said, easily, ‘Well, that’s honest at all events. Boyer took the risks alone, so I don’t really see why he should be expected to carry all the bacon home. Everyone concerned, including Boyer and his male nurse, can copy out the chapter we were doing and bring it to me at morning break tomorrow. You deserve far worse, of course, but they tell me every dog is allowed one bite.’

  The murmur told him all he wanted to know but Boyer still had a surprise for him. He stood up again, red in the face but resolute. ‘My… er… apologies, sir… It was only… a… well… sir… a…’

  ‘A tryout?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. None of us knew, sir. About the hospital, I mean.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’ He lowered himself on the edge of the desk for a moment. At any minute he knew that his hands would begin to shake and the prospect terrified him. He said, carefully, ‘You’ve no exams this term, have you?’ and Youings, a studious-looking boy in the front row, said, ‘No, sir, not this term,’ and made it sound as if he regretted it.

  ‘Has anyone here ever tried teaching you more up-to-date history? The basic causes of the present war, for instance?’

  ‘A little, sir,’ from Youings, who continued, ‘Germany’s commercial jealousy, and need for overseas markets, sir?’ but then, to his surprise, Dobson’s hand shot up and he said, in response to a nod, ‘Kaiser Bill’s trying to rule the world, isn’t he, sir?’

  ‘According to the Daily Mail he is. Any other ideas?’

  In their collective concentration he sensed a desperate eagerness to appease. Letherett, a red-headed boy, reminded the class of the assassination of the Austrian Archduke at Sarajevo. Gibson seemed to think it was all a bid on the part of Germany for naval supremacy. Hoxton was more subtle, stating categorically that Germany had gone to war in the belief that Britain would stand aside and let her occupy France. They were still having their say when the bell went and they seemed genuinely interested in his assessments of their answers. He said, by way of valediction, ‘We’ll continue the inquest on Friday if my reading of the timetable is correct. Class dismissed,’ and he gathered up his books and left without a backward glance.

  It was different again with the Classical Fifth but perhaps not so different from his point of view, for here again he deliberately pushed himself out on a limb.

  The Classical Fifth were beyond the skylarking stage. Some of them, a sizeable minority he would say, were genuinely interested in the subject, and he was luckier here, for they were preparing for summer exam questions on the late nineteenth century, as far as the death of Queen Victoria. It was easy to introduce them to the same theme, and be sure of their attention. He took the same line, stating the basic causes of the war and inviting questions. Foster Major’s question gave him his cue; Foster Major, six feet tall, and already sprouting golden hairs on his upper lip. He asked, eagerly, ‘How much longer will it take us to beat the Hun, sir?’

  ‘We can’t beat him now, Foster!’

  The murmur that greeted this heresy dismayed him so he added, quickly, ‘Not in the real sense, not in the way we might have done if the Gallipoli show had been a success.’ He waited for that to sink in, then said, ‘Now we’ve no alternative but to crush him and don’t fool yourselves into believing that that is a final answer. It’ll buy us time but that’s about all. Jerry is bled white, but then, so are we. I don’t know what you fellows think of the Americans but I’ll tell you what the chaps think of them over there. Our one chance of avoiding a stalemate.’

  They digested this. He could sense incredulity doing battle with other, less complicated reactions. Indignation, possibly, something that ran counter to everything they had been told over the years by men fighting the war from Fleet Street. Finally Gosse, a languid, smartly dressed boy, whose heavy horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a slightly aesthetic look, raised his hand. ‘Are you saying, sir, that we couldn’t beat the Hun without the Yanks – without the Americans, sir?’

  ‘I’m saying it would take us another two to three years, and that’s only another way of saying there wouldn’t be a victory. The object of war, as the men over there see it, is to preserve our way of life. That’s what they’ve been told and that’s what they believe, those of them that still believe in anything except each other. In three years there would be nothing worth preserving. One other thing, Gosse. Over there nobody uses th
e term “Hun” any more. I stopped using it at a place called St. Quentin. Two Germans carried me in a blanket across four hundred yards of open ground under a box barrage. If they hadn’t I wouldn’t be here arguing the toss with you.’

  But Gosse, a diehard if ever there was one, stuck to his point.

  ‘I take it they were prisoners, sir?’

  ‘Yes, they were. But shell-splinters aren’t particular where they find a billet. They risked their lives to save mine.’

  ‘But in 1914 they burned Louvain, sir.’

  ‘Yes, they did. But I like to think they’ve learned since then. We’ve all learned something, or should have. If we haven’t, getting on for a hundred chaps who occupied those desks of yours a few years ago died in a circus, not a war.’

  He hadn’t meant to say as much as this but later he was glad. For two reasons, separated by a few hours. In the first place, when the bell sounded marking the end of morning classes, they crowded round him, asking all kinds of questions, a few baffled and even hostile, but every one of them prompted by a burning curiosity. Then, as dusk was setting in, and he was closeted in what Herries called Mount Olympus – the ground-floor lavatory in the head’s house with its opaque window opening on to the covered part of the quad – he overheard Gosse and two other Fifth Formers discussing him. Dispassionately, as though they already accepted him as a queer fish. He made haste to get out then but before he could escape he heard one boy say, ‘All right, he’s a Bolshie. But what he says makes sense to me, Starchy!’

  He was getting to grips with the Bamfylde obsession for nicknames. There were two Gosse boys at the school. The elder, a beefy extrovert, was called ‘Archibald’, so it followed that he should be labelled ‘Archy’ and his elegant brother ‘Starchy’. Starchy Gosse was a pedant but fair-minded, it seemed, for he said, mildly, ‘It depends on how long he’s been out there,’ and the third boy asked, ‘Why, Starchy?’