R. Delderfield & R. F. Delderfield

by To Serve Them All My Days

  ‘Thirty pounds to you, and I’d ask thirty-five to anyone who wasn’t up at skuel. Try her, there’s petrol in the tank.’

  He said, taking his seat behind the wheel, ‘I’ve never been sold on three-wheelers. They’re so easily overset,’ but Marty denied this, declaring that it only held good when there were two wheels at the front. ‘Tiz like a triangle, you see,’ he went on. ‘Knock un from the apex an’ ‘er lifts an’ stays put. But youm out looking for trouble. How much traffic do ‘ee pass tween yer an’ skuel?’

  He drove down to the quay and back, finding the car handled very easily, so that he thought, ‘Beth would get more use out of this than a watch. I could teach her to drive on the level stretch outside the cottage in a day or two…’ and after a little bargaining he dragged Marty down to twenty-seven pounds ten, and drove back to Bamfylde in high spirits.

  Beth, exasperated with her efforts to adapt the cottage curtains to the tall windows of Havelock’s, was delighted. In the first flush of enthusiasm he coaxed her out into the drive and gave her her first lesson, finding that she was a quick learner once she had mastered the gears. ‘At least we’ll be mobile,’ he said, congratulating her, ‘and not dependent on bikes. You can pack the twins into the dickey seat, drop them off at school, and then do your shopping in Challacombe. I made it home in twenty minutes and she took Quarry Hill like a bird. I’ll give her a good going over when I get time.’

  But he was short on time just then. Overnight, it seemed, the school was full of boys again, swapping holiday yarns, and Beth was preparing for the first of her new boys’ teas in Havelock’s, and there were a thousand things to attend to as he began his first full term as housemaster, with a complement of eighty boys, including four first-termers.

  And then, just as he was getting into his stride, the Winterbourne divorce had to blow up out of a clear sky, and all his nervous energy was directed towards ensuring that Winterbourne survived what promised to be an extremely unpleasant term and an experience that could, if it wasn’t carefully handled, scar a sensitive boy’s mind.

  2

  The news of Viola Winterbourne’s divorce reached the school via the Sunday papers, about a fortnight before half-term.

  Everybody knew the celebrated Viola Winterbourne, a popular musical comedy actress, currently starring in Under My Balcony in the West End. She had, in fact, shown herself at Bamfylde from time to time, queening it over all the other visitors on Sports Day and Speech Days, for Winterbourne (nicknamed “Spats” on account of sartorial elegance) was in his second year, and currently in the Lower Fourth.

  David had met her, and not been over-impressed, seeing her as a gossipy, vapid woman, obsessed by her own elegance and popularity, and much given to stage chit-chat that always headed listeners back to Viola Winterbourne’s career. He had to admit, however, that she was a very dashing woman and a handsome one too, in yards of flowered silk and a close-fitting cloche hat, that emphasised the good bone-structure of her face and brought a sparkle into her cornflower-blue eyes. She was regarded as the principal showpiece at Bamfylde functions, whenever she bothered to attend one, and usually succeeded in relegating most other mothers to the status of peasants. He did not know much about the relationship of mother and son but guessed that Winterbourne, a neat, self-contained boy of fourteen, was embarrassed by her style and scintillating personality. Mothers had to be extremely judicious whenever they appeared at school, striking an exact balance between elegance and frumpishness. Many boys preferred their parents to keep their distance or, if they did come, to remain in the background. Cookson’s father, a war profiteer, owned a Rolls-Royce, but Cookson saw to it, after one visit, that he left it at home when he called to take his son out for the day and arrived in a sedate Austin. At the other end of the scale was Gilroy, whose father, a Challacombe grocer, sometimes showed up on Sports Day wearing a large, cloth cap, vintage 1903, and pepper and salt knicker bockers, garments that made Gilroy blush for shame, especially as Gilroy père was an excitable little man, prone to rush from behind the ropes and thump his son on the back whenever he won a race.

  David was aware that young Winterbourne, a member of his house, was a target for the wags of Middle School, and this was understandable, for Viola Winterbourne was more likely to be in the news than out of it. She had been seen dancing with the Prince of Wales at a nightclub. She wrote chic fashion articles, almost certainly ghosted, in women’s magazines. She had campaigned for her Conservative candidate and kissed electors in public. She was always ready to pronounce upon any subject, from the Black Bottom and birth-control, to survival after death. Ordinarily a well-conducted boy, Winterbourne had been known to hit out at those who made jovial references to his mother, and there had been rumours of a stand-up fight between Winterbourne and Curtiss, after the latter had pasted a picture of Viola in a bathing suit inside his desk, along with a page torn from London Life, featuring the Folies Bergere star, Josephine Baker.

  Hints of the approaching divorce bothered David a little, though not seriously. Divorces, nowadays, were common enough, and almost everyday occurrences among stage-folk. Winterbourne would just have to ride it out, like anyone else with a personal problem. But then the unexpected happened. News came, via the midweek papers, that Viola Winterbourne’s divorce promised to be a particularly spicy affair, and David at once took steps to prevent the more sensational papers from being circulated that week. This was not too difficult to achieve. The papers were always late, anyway, and were distributed, one to a class, by the school bursar. On Sundays, when no train stopped at Bamfylde Bridge Halt, no papers were delivered. David went so far as to take Boyer into his confidence, telling him to keep an eye on what the Middle School were discussing over the weekend. There was always a chance that a boy on day leave, or a servant returning from a Sunday off in Challacombe, would introduce a popular paper into the school. There was not much to be feared from Upper School, where a majority would be likely to exercise tact, or indeed from Lower School, where papers like the News of the World were not in great demand, but instinct told him boys of the Fourth and Lower Fifth Forms were alerted as to the possibility of a Sunday spread and would keep a sharp lookout for reports of proceedings.

  To be on his guard David arranged with one of the domestics to get a copy of the News of the World from Challacombe and a single glance at its contents dismayed him. On an inside page was a headline reading ‘ “Farmyard Morals!” Scathing Comment by Divorce Judge,‘ and below it ‘Musical Comedy Star Cited in Divorce Proceedings’.

  The report itself spared nobody’s blushes. It was before the passing of the Domestic Proceedings Act, limiting what could be printed concerning cases of this kind, and Viola’s private life was hung on the line, the story of her involvement with Victor Manners-Smith, her co-star, being told in detail. There was mention of champagne parties in Paris, and nude bathing parties in the villa of an impresario at Cannes. Even passages from her wildly indiscreet letters were quoted, one describing her feelings about the correspondent the first time she got into bed with him. Her husband, whom David had never met, had been granted a decree nisi, with costs amounting to over two thousand pounds.

  He said, after Beth had read the story, ‘We’ve got to keep this from circulating somehow. That kid’s life won’t be worth living if this is bandied around Big School.’

  Boyer came to him after the dormitory bell had gone and said that no Sunday papers had been passed around Middle School and that Winterbourne, whom he had been watching closely, seemed to be taking the scandal in his stride. ‘I even had a word with him before prep,’ Boyer said, ‘and he seems to have himself well in hand. I didn’t mention the divorce, of course, but told him he was picked for wicket-keeper in the house match on Wednesday. That seemed to cheer him up no end. Anything else I can do, sir?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ David told him. ‘but keep your eye open for Sunday papers in tomorrow’s distribution. I’ll warn the bursar and if any show up whip ‘em out of circ
ulation,’ and he left it at that, more or less satisfied that his strategy had succeeded.

  It had not, apparently. At precisely six-forty on Monday, about an hour before rising bell when he and Beth were still in bed, there was an urgent rapping on the door and Beth shook him by the shoulder, struggling into her dressing gown. He said, sleepily, ‘Who the devil would that be at this hour? Get rid of him, whoever he is,’ and he rolled out of bed yawning and pulled the curtains aside, looking down on the empty quad as Beth crossed to the door calling, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Powlett-Jones, Boyer. I’d like to speak to the housemaster at once, ma’am!’

  David said, briefly, ‘Go into the bathroom,’ and he threw open the door to find Boyer on the threshold looking distraught.

  ‘I’m sorry about the time, sir, but you had to know as soon as possible. Winterbourne’s gone, sir. I don’t think his bed was slept in, although it was rumpled a bit. I was up early to do an hour’s cramming for the exam and I noticed he’d gone. He must have slipped down the fire escape in the night. Do you imagine he’s run off to his father, sir?’

  ‘I can check on that, his father’s on the phone. That’s the likeliest bet, but he wouldn’t be able to get a train to Taunton on Sunday night, would he?’

  ‘There’s the milk train from Challacombe, sir. It stops at all the halts to pick up churns. That’s about three-thirty a.m. If he hopped it he could be in Taunton by five and catch the fast to London. I’ve looked at the timetable, sir. There’s one gets into Paddington at nine-ten.’

  He thought, ‘Thank God for Boyer… I was right about him after all…!’ and said, ‘Did you think to look in his locker?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s difficult to be sure but I think he’s taken sweater, slacks and stinkers. His two suits are there.’

  ‘Why the devil should he run away in plimsolls?’

  ‘He might have planned on covering the distance between here and the next halt, at Crosshayes, sir. I would, knowing I’d be recognised and stopped by Walrus Tapscott down at the station. No one would question him buying a ticket at Crosshayes.’

  ‘Thank you, Boyer,’ David said. ‘Keep it as quiet as possible. He won’t be missed for a bit. Everyone will assume he went out early for a training run. I’ll tell the head and do some phoning. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Boyer said gravely and withdrew as Beth emerged from the bathroom. ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘He can’t have gone far, can he? And if he goes home to his father there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’

  ‘In that case, no, but it’s something we’ve got to check at once.’ He threw on some clothes and went down into the quad and across to Herries’s house. Ellie, he knew, was an early riser, and he found her making tea in the kitchen. She said anxiously, ‘I’ll fetch Algy. You can find Mr Winterbourne’s telephone number in his address book. It’s in the top, right-hand drawer in the study desk.’

  He got through to Winterbourne Senior with surprising speed. The Winterbourne house seemed to be a high-powered menage, with any number of lackeys about, even at this hour. ‘Spats’ had not shown up but his father did not seem ruffled by his son’s disappearance in the middle of the night.

  ‘Probably taken it into his head to go off somewhere he had fun in the holidays,’ he said, as though Spats had been a man in his mid-twenties, with a particularly independent disposition. ‘Impulsive kid, always was. Haven’t you noticed that?’

  ‘No,’ said David, grimly, ‘I can’t say that I have,’ taking a dislike to the flat, impersonal voice. ‘To be perfectly frank, Mr Winterbourne, I’ve got the impression he’s very upset about the publicity Mrs Winterbourne’s been getting.’

  This seemed to jolt him a little but not much. He said, carefully, ‘Really? Surprised to hear that. She’s made headlines of one sort or another all his life.’

  Herries bustled in, buttoning his trousers, and David offered him the receiver. The head said, in whisper, ‘You deal with it, P.J. The boy’s not arrived, has he?’ and when David shook his head he frowned. It was not often that Algy Herries frowned and his face seemed to resent it.

  ‘Are you still on the line?’ enquired the bored clubman’s voice.

  ‘Yes, Mr Winterbourne. The headmaster and myself think it almost certain he’ll come to you. Have you any idea where else he might go? To a relative, maybe?’

  ‘I’ll put my mind to it.’

  ‘Will you phone us at once if he does show up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Meantime we’ll check the railway stations this end. Someone must have seen him. Can I get you on this number any time?’

  ‘No. Ring City 7404 after nine-thirty. My secretary will put you through. I’ll leave instructions if I’m in conference.’

  ‘Very well.’

  There seemed nothing more to say so he jotted down the number and rang off, saying, ‘He’s a cool customer, isn’t he?’ and Herries grunted, ‘So would you be if your income was twenty thousand a year plus. I’ve never been able to decide what made a chap like Winterbourne send his boy here. Couldn’t trust his wife at Eton or Harrow, I wouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand Winterbourne’s problem,’ David said. ‘That chap might have been discussing a lost dog.’

  ‘Spats is a bit of a lost dog, P.J., and so would I be if I was his age, and had his home life. Do you know what I think? I don’t think he’ll go that far. He’ll just hang around. Bamfylde has been more a home to him than anywhere else, I wager.’

  ‘Then why should he leave it?’

  ‘To think things out, maybe. And let the dust settle.’

  ‘Where does that leave us, sir?’

  ‘Under an obligation to go through the motions of the lost, stolen or strayed drill. Get Boyer and four or five of the sharpest seniors in Havelock’s. I’ll check the stations.’

  ‘Couldn’t we enlist all the prefects, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Herries said, calmly. ‘It’s your first term as housemaster. You don’t want kindly patronage from all your colleagues at this stage, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Thank you, sir,’ and he went back to Havelock’s where Beth was brewing coffee, having first sent for Boyer and four seniors of his choice. They joined him before he had finished his first cup. Boyer said, doubtfully, ‘We’ve… er… got a clue, sir. Not where he is but why he cleared off.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It came from Johnson Major, sir. He was out with his people yesterday and… well, he’ll tell you himself, sir.’ He went to the top of the stairs and bawled Johnson’s name and a moment later the boy sidled in, looking, David thought, shifty and ill at ease. He said, at a nod from Boyer, ‘If Spats… er… Winterbourne has gone off, sir I might be the reason but I thought I was doing the right thing, sir. I mean, well, sir, he’s a good sport, and I didn’t want anyone to spring it on him. With that kind of stuff in the papers it was bound to get around sooner or later, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Johnson?’

  Johnson swallowed. ‘I… er… I saw the paper in the lounge of the Hopgood Arms, in Challacombe yesterday. I didn’t want my people to see me reading it, and start asking questions, so I slipped it in my jacket and took it away.’

  ‘You’re saying you showed it to Winterbourne?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I took him on one side after prep and I waited around while he read it. He asked if he could keep the paper and I said he could. After all, it wasn’t mine, sir.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘He was sick, sir.’

  ‘Sick? You mean really sick?’

  ‘Yes, sir, there and then, behind the bandroom. I told him to go to matron, sir, and he promised he would, but he made me swear on the Bible not to let on to anyone. I wouldn’t have, if Boyer hadn’t explained.’

  ‘No one else knows, sir.’ This from Boyer, who looked a little sick himself. ‘This is the first Dob
son and the others have heard about it. Does it mean anything?’

  ‘I think it does.’ He pondered a moment and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wretched Johnson eyeing him. He said, ‘Look here, Johnson, nobody holds this against you. I’m not sure you did the right thing but who the devil knows what the right thing is under these circumstances? Clear off now and don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ and Johnson shot away, relieved to be out of it so cheaply.

  Herries appeared with one of his half-inch ordnance maps and once again David had a fleeting trench memory, this time of an old, grey-haired brigadier, mounting a company-strength raid on the Boche line. He said, calmly, ‘I’ve mapped out the likely routes. He didn’t get the train at Bamfylde Bridge and he didn’t get it at Crosshayes. Before we start half a dozen hares we’ll check the locals. I’ll drive over to the Crosshayes area myself and call in one or two of the farms. You take that three-wheeler of yours, P.J. and do the same as far as the Barrows. You others take the routes I’ve marked and check with any moorman you meet, but make it casual. Don’t let them see we’re much concerned, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’ll rendezvous at midday under the Clump and pool what news we have. Hold on, you can’t comb Exmoor on empty stomachs. Go and get breakfast first. I’ve told Priddis to serve you before the multitude descends.’

  They went out and Herries said, ‘I didn’t tell ‘em to keep mum, did I?’

  ‘You didn’t have to, sir,’ and he recounted what Johnson had told them. Herries said, ‘Poor little toad. It’s young to have to stand up to that kind of fire, but my guess is he’ll do it somehow.’

  ‘He’s not likely to…’

  ‘Do anything silly? Not a chance. Winterbourne isn’t the hysterical type. Could that gel of yours spare me a cup of that coffee?’

  ‘Of course,’ and he fidgeted while Herries sipped the coffee Beth handed him. Over the rim of his cup Herries’s sharp eyes caught the movement. ‘It’s all happened before,’ he said, ‘and it’ll happen again. The important thing is to tread softly, my boy.’