For it was now common knowledge that there was a possibility of Algy being succeeded by the housemaster of Outram’s or Havelock’s and, to a degree, the tension spread downwards as far as the Lower Fifth, where Collier, a barrister’s son with a penchant for colourful metaphors, said, ‘This bloody place is like Pompeii this term. Everyone is waiting around for the lid to blow off. Even Algy’s lost some of his bounce. He’s trotting around looking as if he might run into the Press Gang behind the piggeries.’
The Governors seemed to take an interminable time to come to a decision, and it was Howarth who, for all his air of detachment, was invariably the best informed of the staff, who advanced sound reasons for the delay. He told David one evening, when they were taking their constitutional round the cricket-field, ‘There’s something of a deadlock, I understand. Short list of six, and you and Carter both on it. Of the other four only two are in the running. A man from Repton, and the former head of a school in Cape Town, who retired and settled over here last year. They’re both highly qualified, both around the fifty mark. Actually, I believe everybody’s waiting for Sir Rufus Creighton to show up.’
David had heard a good deal about Sir Rufus Creighton but had never met him. He was an ex-Indian judge, a County Councillor and notable educationalist, who owed his seat on the Board to Bamfylde’s status as a direct grant school. Having taken it into his head to go on a world cruise, none of the other Governors felt disposed to make the appointment without his guidance. On Howarth’s advice, David stayed clear of his sponsor, Brigadier Cooper. ‘Won’t do to compromise him,’ he said. ‘He’s tamed tribesmen on the North-West Frontier and knows more than you and I about in-fighting.’
And so, for David, time stood still. May passed, and half of June, long, sunny days that ordinarily he would have enjoyed but in the circumstances, and for the first time since settling here, seemed flat and stale. Apart from one letter in reply to his four Julia had not written and was incommunicado, for her trip to the States had materialised and she was living a life of rapid movement up and down the eastern seaboard. He read and re-read her letter until he knew it by heart. It was breezy and friendly but gave no hint that she had changed her mind, or was likely to, only that she was finding America an exciting, stimulating place, that parts of New England reminded her of Devon, and that she had resorted to remote hypnotism of the Bamfylde Governors in order to influence their choice of candidate. She was likely to be home in early August if everything went according to plan. She addressed him as ‘Dearest Davy’, and concluded ‘All my love to you, dear’. He recalled then that the odd letter from Beth had always been starred with crosses, schoolgirl fashion, but there were no crosses here and the impersonality of the letter bothered him a little. At a deeper level, however, he did not devote a great deal of thought to Julia. The looming possibility of triumph or failure absorbed most of his nervous energy.
And then, catching him off guard after weeks of suspense, the summons came. All short-listed candidates were to be interviewed on the following morning by a specially convened meeting of the Governors in the school library, that had done duty for a Board Room ever since it was built in the first years of Herries’s reign. Both he and Carter were spared the embarrassment of a waiting period, in the company of the other four applicants, who were interviewed swiftly, one after the other, the last of them during morning coffee break. The two local men were asked to present themselves at eleven-thirty a.m., when the others had been taken to the head’s house for refreshment. On the way across the quad, David caught a glimpse of two of them, a tall, slightly stooping man, some twenty years his senior, with a high-domed head and thick, greying hair, and a much younger man with quick, nervous movements, who looked as though he was convinced he had missed the boat, for he scowled at the Founder’s statue as though he entertained the same feelings for it as Skidmore. David thought, ‘One down and one to go, but I don’t like the look of that beetling chap. The old place is in for a shake-up if they settle on him…’ But then, surprisingly, Carter touched his elbow, betraying his own extreme nervousness by saying, ‘I say, Powlett-Jones, this is a bit of an ordeal, isn’t it? I mean, being quizzed by the whole bunch of them on our own ground. I’ve got the most appalling indigestion, damn it!’ The brief encounter did a little to resuscitate his own confidence as they went up the steps together and took two of six empty chairs ranged along the wall of the duty-librarian’s office, reminding him of a row of chairs in a dentist’s waiting-room, a dentist who wasn’t doing so well.
He said, gritting his teeth, ‘Well, good luck, Carter. Don’t let ‘em rattle you!’ and Carter, blinking nervously, made his first and only joke in David’s presence, saying, ‘When I get in there I know just how I shall feel. Like that smug little brute in the picture, “When Did You Last See Your Father?” ‘
There was no chance to cap Carter’s joke. The head’s part-time secretary, Miss Rowlandson, from the Old Rectory in the village, appeared and said, in a hushed voice, ‘You now, Mr Carter…!’ and Carter rose, straightening his tie, smoothing his wet-rust hair and lurching towards the door like a felon summoned by the hangman.
It seemed very strange sitting there alone, in a room that was as familiar as his own bedroom. His thoughts ranged back nine years, to the days he had first poked his head into the library, finding it a hotchpotch of books, most of them tattered legacies from Old Boys and including, surprisingly, a full set of G. A. Henty’s. He tried to concentrate on something inconsequential, the gable end of the roof where Havelock’s met Outram’s, the perch where the Kassava brothers had taken refuge on the night of the fire. It seemed a very long time ago, an incident in his childhood, like the day he came home from school to be told that his father and two brothers had died in the pit, or that bright summer dawn on July 1st, 1916, when he had waited, mouth parched and heart hammering, for the second hand of his watch to move up to zero-hour. But then he tried to think of something more cheerful, selecting Julia Darbyshire at random – Julia Darbyshire, stark naked in the faint glow of the street lamp the night they became lovers in her flat, and this focal point was more rewarding, for at least it stopped him trying to make sense of the indistinct murmur beyond the door. He thought, gloomily, ‘I wouldn’t give a damn if she had been here, or even accessible. I could have put through a trunk call tonight and laughed it off, but the only one handy to serve as a buffer is old Carter. Queer him being so nervous, and coming out with that joke. Not such a bad joke, either. Howarth will swear I’ve made it up when I tell him… By God, they need some new linoleum in here – this is shredding away… hasn’t been renewed since Queen Victoria died… What the devil am I yawning about? Haven’t yammered like that since I was in a dugout under bombardment…’ and then, his nerves taut as trip wires, ‘I was an absolute bloody fool to let Howarth talk me into this, curse him! He made sure he kept well clear of it himself. Damned if I can recall having been more embarrassed in my life…’ But he was more resilient than he realised. A moment later his thoughts took a new turn; ‘To hell with them all, boyo, Julia included! If I miss out, as I’m certain to, I’ll drift, and give the new man a sporting chance… Grace is settled here and so am I in normal circumstances… Wouldn’t care to start all over again, and lose touch with young Cooper, Chad Boyer, Skidmore, the Kassavas, Briarley, Keith Blades and all the others… I already feel as if I’d attained my century. What you need right now, Davy, is a good stiff gin, so damned if you don’t go looking for Howarth the minute we’re finished in here…’
And then the door opened and Carter came out, so red in the face that he looked almost apoplectic, but before he could say a word Miss Rowlandson appeared again and said, in the same empty-church voice, ‘Mr Powlett-Jones?’ and he tried to grin at Carter and slipped past him across the threshold.
Two
* * *
1
HE REMEMBERED READING SOMEWHERE THAT A MAN AWAITING a verdict on a capital charge could assess his chances the moment a jury returned to t
he court. If they looked at him he was acquitted. If they avoided his eyes he was guilty.
There must be something in it, he decided, for the same applied here. His known sponsors, Brigadier Cooper, and his two converts, Birley, the Challacombe grocer, and Newsom, another Old Boy, glanced up and smiled. The brigadier might be said to have winked. About half the remaining fourteen kept their eyes on the blotters, Carter’s backers no doubt, but the chairman, a little brown nut of a man, looked at him quite impersonally when inviting him to take a seat.
There was a little shuffling and throat-clearing and then Sir Rufus took him gently through a formal application check – full name, age, degree, and so on, until David began to wonder whether the whole thing was rigged, either in favour of Carter or one of the other candidates, and that his presence here was no more than a polite ritual. Then Sir Rufus asked him about his war service, what regiment he had served in, and where, and what part of the line he was occupying when he was buried by a mortar shell. He answered briefly, almost impatiently, until the brigadier said, ‘You were awarded the M.C., Powlett-Jones. Would you care to tell us about it?’
‘I’d prefer not, Brigadier Cooper. You were out there, and you know how many chaps earned decorations and didn’t get them,’ and Brigadier Cooper twinkled again, implying that this was a perfectly satisfactory answer and one he had expected.
Newsom, an apple-cheeked man in his fifties, said, vaguely, ‘You’ve… er… been happy here, Mr Powlett-Jones? Apart from that dreadful business on Quarry Hill, of course,’ and then chewed his moustache, as though he regretted raising the matter.
‘Very happy,’ David said, ‘and that’s mainly why I applied. I realise there are men senior to me, of course, but I made sure none of them wanted the post before I filed an application.’
This seemed to nonplus them a little but the brigadier rallied and mentioned the fire, addressing his colleagues as though David wasn’t present.
‘Dam’ fine show he put up on that occasion,’ he said. ‘Been a shambles if he hadn’t been up to the mark,’ and he glared around as though others were denying the fact.
There was an awkward pause then until Sir Rufus said, ‘I understand you took an external degree while serving on the staff, Mr Powlett-Jones. Wouldn’t it have been more satisfactory to take advantage of the shortened University course for ex-officers?’
‘Possibly, sir. But it would have meant a two-year break with Bamfylde. I was married then, with two children to support, and would have had to chance getting back here.’ He wondered if this was the real reason and decided it was not. ‘The fact is, Sir Rufus, Bamfylde was rehabilitating me at the time. I wanted to take full advantage of it.’
The qualified answer interested the little man. He screwed up his face so that eyes and mouth were all but lost in a maze of wrinkles. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that a little?’
‘Sharp as a damned needle, he is,’ David thought, checked for a moment, but then he said, deliberately, ‘I was in very bad shape when I came here, in 1918. The hospital specialist decided a job would be the best therapy. I didn’t take him seriously at the time. I did later, as soon as I’d met Mr and Mrs Herries, and made friends with some of the staff.’
‘Weren’t the boys something of a strain in the circumstances?’
‘No,’ he flashed out. ‘No! …Not once I’d let them see I wasn’t to be fooled around with. I got the measure of them in less than a week.’
There was another awkward silence. Still nobody else spoke, and the interview seemed likely to resolve itself into a wary dialogue between himself and the little Indian judge. Sir Rufus said, carefully, ‘To sum up, Mr Powlett-Jones, what, in your view, is the most essential factor of a school like Bamfylde?’ and David heard himself say, ‘I can answer that straight out. A happy atmosphere. If that’s there everything else falls into place.’
That, at least, resulted in a shift of glances of the committed and neutral groups. Fourteen pairs of eyes moved as one to his level, then half of them were lowered to the doodle-starred blotters on the table.
Sir Rufus said, quietly, ‘Thank you, Mr Powlett-Jones. That’s all, I think, unless any other member of the Governing Body would like to ask a question.’ There were no questions and after a lapse of a few seconds he got up, bowed towards the chair and walked out.
Back in the little lobby he found he was sweating freely. He said, aloud, ‘By God, I need that drink!’ and went in search of Howarth and his decanter.
Hoskins, whom he thought of as Grace’s dancing professional, came up to the living-room a few minutes after lunch and David, brooding in his study with the door open, heard Grace’s squeal of delight as he said, ‘New one here, real hot number, Tuppence! You must have heard it on the wireless but this is the first recording to reach the Outback!’
‘Put it on! Put it on, Sax,’ he heard ‘Tuppence’ exclaim but Hoskins, briefed in these casual visits, said, ‘I’ll have to ask your father first. Is he around?’
‘I’m in here,’ David called. ‘Play the damned thing. I shan’t get any peace if you don’t,’ and Hoskins called back, ‘Thank you, sir! Just the one side,’ and in a moment later the half-familiar rhythm of ”Bye, ‘Bye, Blackbird’ grinding out of the portable, followed by the thuds and squeals that invariably accompanied a ‘lesson’ in the latest ballroom craze.
It was not by any means soothing music but it helped and he found himself humming the lively refrain.
…So, make my bed and light the light,
I’ll be home, late tonight,
Blackbird, ‘bye, ‘bye!
There was a small oval mirror immediately above the desk and David watched his own grin, thinking, ‘Do I really give a damn whether they turn me down or not? What the hell does it matter on what terms I stay? I belong here. Grace belongs here. Beth and Joan are still around somewhere, and so are all the names on that war memorial outside…’ and then he heard the gramophone needle screech to an abrupt half and Hoskins say, ‘I’m sorry, sir, just trying out a new one. Yes, he’s in the study…’ and after that whispering and the sound of the door closing on Tuppence and her instructor.
Algy’s white head showed round the door. He looked like an elderly, pink-eyed rabbit, tufted and slightly scared, as he said, ‘They’re through, P.J. I volunteered to come up with the news.’ He came in, shut the door, and stood with his back against it.
‘Well?’
‘It’s… er… good and bad, though I shouldn’t say it, not to someone with his hat in the ring. I wouldn’t either, if I hadn’t started packing and that lets me out. You and Carter broke exactly even. No one would budge an inch. That’s why they’ve been closeted up there for nearly three hours. Haven’t even lunched. Scared someone would get at them, no doubt.’
‘Who is it, then?’
‘Neither of you. Sir Rufus gave his casting vote for Alcock. He wouldn’t have, or so he hinted, but for the long-term risk of having either of you serving under the other, and he has a point there. Suppose you or Carter had got it, and the other had decided to soldier on? It wouldn’t have worked, would it? School would have been split down the middle in no time at all. As it is, you’re both level pegs under a new man, with impressive qualifications. He’ll have to lean equally on the pair of you.’
He felt no real pang of disappointment. Rather relief that Carter had not succeeded in pipping him. He had not exchanged a word with Alcock, the bowed, beetling man from Cape Town, so he could form no opinion how he was likely to set about following an institution like Algy Herries. ‘Better the devil you know…’ they said, but it wasn’t true in this case. Carter would have made a shambles of Algy’s carefully erected edifice and as things had turned out Carter wasn’t getting the chance to monkey with the place. That was a gain, he supposed, and his mind raced ahead to a point when, conceivably, today’s ordeal might be repeated, for somehow he couldn’t see himself leaving Bamfylde now.
He said, ‘How old is Alcock, sir?’ and Herries said,
‘Fifty-three. Late for it, I’d say. He could stay seven or twelve years, depending how he feels, or how well off he is. I think he’s pretty well fixed for cash and will likely put his feet up at sixty. There’s one other thing. Nothing to do with today’s business.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘For Heaven’s sake call me “Algy” to my face from here on. I’ve always has a very soft spot for you, P.J. So has Ellie.’
David turned away, looking down on to the forecourt through the window he had last seen Beth drive off in the three-wheeler, and had raised his hand in response to Grace’s wave. He said, at length, ‘I’ll never have another friend like you, Algy. That goes for most of us here, I imagine,’ but Herries said, fruitily, ‘Oh, come now, old sport, don’t talk as if I was tucked away at Stone Cross, with Ferguson and Cordwainer. I’m only in the next parish but one, and I’ll be over here at least once a month, I promise you.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that,’ And then, ‘What sort of chap is he, Algy?’
‘Alcock? Difficult to say. An activist, judged on his record. He could have done much better than Bamfylde if he’d been ten years younger. Very quiet. No nonsense about him. Not much sense of humour, either, and that’ll hinder him unless he develops one. However, we might have done worse. As for you, I’ll risk offence by telling you something no one else would, not even Howarth. I admire your pluck for trying but you weren’t ready for it. It would have been a gamble, and Bamfylde isn’t something I’d care to stake in a lottery, even with the dice loaded in my favour. Can you take that, David?’
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