The first time David became aware of this relationship was one evening when he looked in to say goodnight, and found her sitting up in her dressing gown, sketching. She was hard at work on a crayon sketch of old Hodge’s pony, the one selected for her first riding lessons in their cottage days. The background of the drawing was recognisably Hodge’s broken-down stables, on the eastern shoulder of Stone Cross Hill, and he exclaimed, ‘Hi, where did you learn to draw as well as that? In hospital?’
No, she told him, shading industriously, Winterbourne had taught her one wet afternoon, when a house match was cancelled and he called in search of David.
‘I always thought Spats buried his talents. He’s very good at it but I got the impression he thinks it’s something a boy shouldn’t do at a place like this.’
‘I think that’s silly,’ Grace said, ‘for he ought to be proud of it. I would be, if I was a genius like him.’
‘Well, he’s got a genius for teaching,’ David said, and later sought out Winterbourne, thanking him for giving the child a new interest, for time hung heavily on her hands when everyone was in class. Winterbourne said, unexpectedly, ‘But she’s got a gift, sir. I saw that at once. She sees all the stronger lines in her head, before she starts scribbling, the way all kids do. Er… could I make a suggestion, sir?’
‘Of course.’
‘Get her a really good box of paints, an old easel, and some of this paper, sir. She’ll never be bored then and she’ll teach herself far more than I could teach her.’ He produced a roll of stiff cartridge paper from his desk and David noted that its sticker bore the name of a Challacombe stationer. ‘It comes in largish blocks, sir, but be sure and get Marker to sell you a professional watercolourist’s outfit. Don’t tell him it’s for a little girl or he’ll fob you off with rubbish.’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ David said. ‘How much would such an outfit cost, together with the paper?’
‘Oh, around fifty bob, sir.’
‘Well, here’s three pounds. When you go into Challacombe, for the match on Saturday, buy it for me. If there’s an easel small enough for her to cope with order that too. Would you do that?’
‘I’d like to sir.’ And then, shyly, looking over David’s shoulder in that self-contained way David had noticed the day he got to know the boy out on the moor, ‘She seems bonnie enough now, sir. Will she… grow out of that limp?’
‘I rather doubt it, Spats. It’ll certainly become less pronounced but it’ll always show.’
‘Does she mind it all that much, sir?’
Did she? He had no idea as yet but he imagined she might come to mind it as time went on, and she mixed with other girls at school. ‘I just can’t say, Spats. She’s intelligent enough to learn to live with it. More than that who can tell?’
Winterbourne said, ‘Would you mind if I spent a bit of time working with her when she gets her kit? You can’t teach anyone painting, sir, but well… I thinks she’s a real tonic, and that’s a fact! I mean, most kids that something as bad as that had happened to would be floored, wouldn’t they? Or the smart ones would start trading on it.’
Not for the first time he found Winterbourne an uncomfortably perceptive boy but it was clear that Grace had struck some chord in him. On the following Saturday evening he appeared with an impressive-looking paint-box, ten blocks of paper and an easel. ‘I’ve paid for the easel, sir, and I’d like very much to make her a present of it. I left the blackboard behind. She’ll see more than enough blackboards round here, won’t she, sir?’
It was the first time that he had ever heard Winterbourne make the smallest joke, so he let him pay the extra and give Grace another lesson before prep. He thought, seeing their heads draw together over the paper, ‘She’s got her mother’s way with men. I wonder how her sister would have turned out? Would she have been a contrast, in spite of them being twins?’ It was odd, his memories of Beth were sharp and clear but he was finding it difficult to remember anything distinctive about the child who had died with her. Somehow he had never seen them as two people, not since the moment Stratton-Forbes had panted up to the long-jump pit, shouting news of their arrival and qualifying on the spot for the nickname, ‘Nun’. And thinking of Stratton-Forbes, David made a decision he had been putting off for days, the choice of a head house prefect to replace Boyer.
Stratton-Forbes was no longer the smallest boy in the school. He was now the fattest; a droll, cumbersome figure with all that flesh, and the squint they had never been able to correct. He was nearly eighteen now, and the most promising Latin scholar Bamfylde had ever had, according to Barnaby. The classics master used him as a junior master in the Second and Third Forms whenever he could be spared from his effortless studies. But despite his reputation as a swot, despite his flabbiness and malevolent squint, Nun was well-liked, enjoying that gratuitous popularity often granted a butt. Far too overweight for any active game, he had brought his impressive powers of concentration to bear on musketry, down at the long range, and had twice captained Bamfylde’s team at Bisley. The squint, that had so worried his parents when he first arrived at Bamfylde, did not inhibit him as a marksman. Discarding unnecessary glasses he practised shooting with the single-minded fanaticism he brought to the classics and was soon the pride and joy of his fellow enthusiasts. For all that David hesitated to appoint him Boyer’s successor. Popular or not, he was still a butt, even with Lower School boys, and a job of that kind sometimes demanded a strong hand.
He took his problem to Howarth, an acknowledged expert in these fields, who decreed that the appointment be made without delay. ‘A boy as self-disciplined as that will suit your book admirably,’ he said. ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Anything Stratton-Forbes sets his hand to he accomplishes and the same will apply to any responsibility he’s given. He’ll keep far better order than Boyer, you see if he doesn’t! Besides, I hear he’s staying on for extra cramming, and that’ll save you the trouble of replacing him next year.’
David took his advice and Stratton-Forbes was appointed head of the house, proving his worth at once, for he came to David within the week with a problem that a less conscientious boy would have shelved.
It concerned the perennial nuisance of bed-wetters in the Junior dormitory, where Havelock’s had two, Lowther Minor and Grindling. Persistent bed-wetters were not uncommon and all the usual expedients were resorted to, but with the pair berthed side by side at the far end of the dormitory the problem was seemingly aggravated.
Stratton-Forbes appeared in David’s study one night looking more than usually serious. Not being given to finesse he went straight to the point. ‘It’s about Lowther Minor and Grindling, sir. I think something will have to be done before one of the others writes home on the subject.’
‘Why on earth should they do that?’ asked David, innocently, and Nun said, without a flicker of a smile, ‘They are calling the space between their beds the Hellishponk, sir!’ and David, turning away, muttered, ‘Ask a damn silly question…’ But there was nothing funny about it to the boys concerned, as he well knew, ‘Tell them to come and have a talk with me in the morning,’ he said. ‘Lowther before morning school, Grindling immediately after, but Nun…’
‘Sir?’
‘Let ‘em know in advance I’m taking the medical approach. I don’t want either of them upset. Do you think you could manage that?’
‘Well, in a way I already have, sir. I read it up, and then asked around a bit.’
‘You read it up? Bed-wetting? Where?’
‘There’s a book in the library that goes into it very fully, sir. I don’t know how it got there and it isn’t catalogued, but it’s there, sir. It’s in my study now.’
He looked at Stratton-Forbes with reverence. ‘Drop it in on your way to bed, will you? What conclusions did you reach, if any?’
‘Well, sir, it’s generally recognised now as a psychological problem. In most cases, that is. There were quite a few words I had to look up in a medical encyclopaedia, but I d
ecided that both our cases come under the heading of emotional stress, sir.’
‘They do?’
‘Yes, sir. In Lowther’s case it’s the old story of divorced parents, but in Grindling’s case it’s pure funk, sir, this being his first term. I daresay we could iron them out in time but it might be as well to check up with Dr Willoughby first, wouldn’t you say, sir?’
‘It would indeed, Nun, and I’m uncommonly obliged to you for the research. On second thoughts, don’t mention the matter to either of them. I’ll read that book myself, and check up with the doctor in case we go off on a wrong tack.’
‘Yes, sir,’ and Stratton-Forbes left, with the polite unconcern of a gardener who had been discussing early tomatoes with an attentive but ill-informed employer.
He read the book and had a long telephone conversation with Willoughby on the subject, after which he sent for Lowther’s elder brother, currently one of the bloods in the Upper Fifth. Lowther Major, vice-captain of the Bamfylde First Fifteen, was aggrieved when David broached the subject. He said, dismally, ‘The kid’s been that way for long enough, sir. It’s a frightful bore, isn’t it? I mean, it lets a fellow down, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I didn’t bring you in here to cry on my shoulder, Lowther. What’s behind it? When did it start?’
‘When? Well, about the time the pater took himself off, sir. The kid was about ten then.’
‘Can’t you be more explicit? I don’t want to pry into family matters but it’s very important to your brother. If we can do anything to help it might save him a lot of grief.’
‘Well, sir, he was closer to pater than me. They were both a bit – well, highbrow, sir. My Governor is nuts on Shakespeare and that kind of stuff. He used to take the kid to the theatre a lot.’
He implied, somehow, that father and brother had conspired to go to the devil in consort. ‘Then the pater got a job abroad and breezed off to Canada and the kid started brooding. Mater seemed to think that coming here early would take him out of it.’
It struck him then, by no means for the first time, how damnably unfair life could be, how effortlessly cheerful oafs like Lowther Major could coast along when weaker, more sensitive vessels were caught up in cross-currents and thrown about like matchboxes. He said, ‘Look, Lowther, you ought to help out in this. That kid needs encouragement and you’re the best one to give it. I’ll do what I can, and so will Stratton-Forbes, but you’ve got to back us up, do you understand?’
Lowther Major blinked, ‘Well…yes, sir, but how exactly? I mean – well – he’s seen doctors before and we all assumed it was just a leaking tap – a weak bladder, sir.’
‘Dammit, boy, it’s very little to do with his bladder! Once he gets over the shock of being separated from the one person in life who meant anything to him, he’ll stop wetting his bed. You can take my word for it. And Doc Willoughby’s. In the meantime look out for him, spend time with him if necessary and that’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir,’ and Lowther Major left, about as puzzled as he could be.
Grindling was something else again. David had him in after Willoughby, on the excuse of a routine chest examination, had had a talk with the boy.
‘What did the doctor have to say, Grindling? You’re not going into a decline, are you?’
‘He said I’ve got an above-average expansion, sir. He had me go up the ropes in the gym and I did it in nine seconds.’
‘Nine seconds, eh? That’s very lively. Keen on gym?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What else are you good at?’
The boy hesitated. ‘I like playing the piano, sir. I’ve started with Mr Gibbs, but it’s difficult to practise properly here. I mean, there’s generally a queue for the music rooms, and you don’t get time off as it’s an extra subject.’
‘Oh, I think we could fix that if you’re really keen, Grindling. Would you like me to have a word with Mr Gibbs?’
The boy relaxed a little. His head went up and his mouth, pressed in a nervous, downward curve, straightened out. ‘I’d like that very much, sir.’
‘Then take it as done. How’s your voice? Can you sing?’
‘A little, sir. My father…’ and he stopped, his crestfallen expression returning.
‘Well, what about your father?’
‘He’s a pro… professional, sir. He’s singing baritone, in an opera company touring South Africa, sir.’
‘How would you like a tryout for this year’s opera? We’re doing Pinafore again.’
The boy hesitated. ‘I’m still treble, sir.’
‘Half the chorus is treble. The head likes to rope in everyone he can get for the girls. It’s a lot of fun, believe me.’
‘Very well, sir.’
He forced himself to come to the point. ‘Look here, Grindling. I know you’re finding it a bit difficult to settle but there’s nothing odd about that. Most first-termers do. Did myself, for that matter, but it soon wears off, once you start taking part in things. As to that bed-wetting business, the important thing is to stop worrying about it. A lot of kids your age go through that stage, for one reason or another and you’ll shake it off in no time, providing you don’t see it as – well, put it like this – as a permanent handicap you’re lumbered with, like a wooden leg. Do you follow me?’
‘I… I’m not sure, sir.’
‘Well, think it over and if you have any other problems, go to Stratton-Forbes about them. That’s what he’s there for. And if he can’t sort ‘em out, I can.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ and Grindling slipped out, glad to be gone no doubt but very relieved, David thought, judging by the way he tackled the stairs and dived across the quad to scrutinise the day’s parcel list. The campaign must have had some effect for around about half-term Stratton-Forbes reported a great improvement in both cases, even though, from then on, the far end of the junior dormitory was stuck with the name, ‘Hellishponk’.
2
The new boys’ tea, presided over by Grace, was a tremendous success, reminding David a little of a stylised gavotte, with everyone present on their dignity. His own thirtieth birthday fell on St. Luke’s Day, so Grace decided to combine tea and party in one event, and decorated the cake baked for him by Ellie Herries with thirty candles.
She went about her preparations so seriously that David, fearing an anticlimax, summoned all the new boys an hour or so in advance and laid his cards on the table.
‘Now, listen here, you chaps. This tea is an old custom at Havelock’s, but it’s very special this year and I’ll tell you why. My daughter, Grace, just out of hospital, remembers her mother giving these teas, and although she’s only six, and you might find it all a bit solemn, you’ll have to play along, you understand?’
Bristow, boldest of the new boys, spoke for all of them. ‘How do you mean, sir? Help her pour out?’
‘No, by George! Quite the reverse. Let her do the pouring. And all the passing round. That’s her job as hostess. Just keep the conversation going and don’t laugh, whatever you do. If she thinks any of you find it funny she’ll be very upset and I don’t want her upset. She’s been through a very rotten time.’ He hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. ‘Do any of you here know what happened a year or so ago?’
Most of them looked blank but Bristow spoke up again. ‘I do, sir. There was a motor-smash on Quarry Hill and Mrs Powlett-Jones was killed, sir.’
‘My wife and Grace’s little sister. Grace was badly knocked about but she pulled through.’
They stared at him with embarrassed sympathy. Then Grindling said, with an effort, ‘Er… just leave it to us, sir.’
And he did, to such good effect that, ever afterwards, he had a particularly soft spot for the Michaelmas intake of 1926. Grace sat at the head of the table and poured, looking like a tiny grandmother entertaining a flock of grandchildren on their very best behaviour, but then, Bristow, already qualifying for the role of Second Form humorist, made everybody laugh describing an adventure he had in Boulo
gne that summer, when he had lost his way and talked French to a gendarme. Then Grindling played ‘Autumn Ride’ on the upright piano Mrs Ferguson had left behind, and made them laugh again by declaring that the piano needed tuning, and Grace limped around the circle with a bowl of crystallised fruits and everyone seemed genuinely reluctant to leave when the prep bell went. Bristow, he noted with approval, bowed from the waist in Grace’s direction, and thanked her very politely on everyone’s behalf, and they all went off with a slice of his cake wrapped in paper napkins.
‘That was absolutely splendid!’ he said, as soon as the door had closed on them. ‘You did it just as well as your mother. I’m only sorry Winterbourne wasn’t here to see it,’ and she replied, mildly, ‘Oh, he would have felt silly among boys that age.’ She said it as if Winterbourne would soon be up here celebrating his own thirtieth birthday.
So the days sped along, to half-term and onward to the Michaelmas climax, the opera, staged in Big Hall two days before break-up. A rather sad occasion this, for it was Algy Herries’s last. ‘Twenty-three in a row!’ he crowed, as they were wedging him into his First Lord’s uniform. ‘That’s a run, if you like! Only D’Oyly Carte can equal that and this role is my second favourite. I’ve always had a weakness for Ko-Ko.’
David, sitting in as understudy for Rapper Gibbs at dress-rehearsal, had a surprise in store for him, however. At the given moment in marched four marines, sent to their stations downstage by a piping command of a midshipman, and it was as well he wasn’t accompanying at the time for, from under the band of the flat white cap, peeped Grace’s dark curls and the try-it-on-the-dog audience cheered, presumably all in on the secret. Young Masters, it seems, cast as the midshipman, had gone down with a feverish cold, and Algy, taking Helen Arscott into his confidence, had coached Grace to take his place. She had no words to learn, other than the command, and among all those white bell-bottomed trousers her limp did not show. But David had a bad moment, remembering Beth as Buttercup, in 1921, and it took him a minute or two to recover. It was reckoned a great joke to play on a member of the staff and Algy, apologising afterwards, said, ‘I daresay it gave you a jolt but it tickled her no end and the audience too, as you noticed. She’s a great favourite, they tell me.’
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