R. Delderfield & R. F. Delderfield

by To Serve Them All My Days

  He thought, ‘I wish to God she was here now, to hold my hand. This time tomorrow it’ll be over, one way or the other, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. If they come down on Alcock’s side it’s curtains for me, as far as Bamfylde is concerned. And if they don’t it can only mean an indefinite period of “passed to you, Stoic”, and “passed to you, Powlett-Jones…” Do I really want that? Won’t it rob us all of what dignity we’ve got left?’

  The owl hooted again and he got up to put the fireguard over the grate. Fire was an ever-present hazard here. If he stayed on he would find a way to bully the Governors into installing a fire-escape in every house, but would he ever have his way in decisions of that kind? He doubted it. He doubted it very much. He carried his whisky glass into the kitchen, washed it and went to bed.

  It was like a playback of his vigil here more than four years ago, when he had sat waiting for his interview on the outside chance they would select him in preference to Carter, or the man who would be asked to submit a full report on him, perhaps within minutes of his own dismissal. It was a repeat performance, played to a mildly hostile house, so that he felt slightly sick and had recourse, for the second time since breakfast, to the brand of indigestion tablets Carter had always carried about. He was not too familiar with the men closeted behind that door. He could count on Briggy, of course, and his two Old Boy allies, whereas Alderman Blunt, still throwing his weight about as a Governor, would surely see this as a second chance of getting his revenge for the bust-up about the War Memorial business all that time ago. Of the others he barely knew them by sight, had never spoken to two of the latest additions. All he could count on, apart from Cooper’s championship, was Sir Rufus Creighton’s neutrality, until the full facts were before him.

  They seemed to enjoy keeping him on tenterhooks in this dusty little lobby, one of the few school backwaters Alcock’s spring-cleaning mania had by-passed. He had sat here, biting his finger nails and sucking his indigestion tablets, for twenty minutes now, and Miss Rowlandson, the head’s secretary, had still not appeared. Down in the quad the bell rang for luncheon parade and the familiar buzz and scuffle of assembly reached him, a sound inseparable from any gathering down there. Then he heard Heffling’s raucous voice calling them to attention – ‘Paraaaaaade-shun! Leeeeeft-turn! Dissssss-miss!’ – and another clatter of shoes on gravel and stone, and after that a heavy silence that lasted another five minutes. The library door opened and Miss Rowlandson bobbed out – ‘Mr Powlett-Jones?’ He got up stiffly, flexing his fingers, a surge of devil-may-care fatalism routing his extreme nervousness and went in, anticipating the Chairman’s wordless offer of a chair.

  They were ranged in their familiar horseshoe and again they reminded him of Roundhead inquisitors in that picture Carter had mentioned – ‘When Did You Last See Your Father?’ He avoided the brigadier’s eye, knowing it would be too sympathetic. Somebody coughed. Someone else rustled papers. Sir Rufus Creighton sat in the Chairman’s seat, looking like a Venetian Doge in a fifteenth-century Italian painting, small, compact, infinitely old and wrinkled, but terrifyingly alert. He said, impersonally, ‘We have considered all your correspondence, Mr Powlett-Jones. At two earlier meetings, and again this morning. You will agree, I think, that this is a somewhat unpleasant business for everyone. Yourself included.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Rufus. But it seemed to me I owed it to the Governors and myself to put my case last term. I had a choice of doing that or letting things drift until… well, until something occurred that might reflect on the school as a whole.’

  ‘What kind of occurrence did you envisage, Mr Powlett-Jones?’

  ‘An open quarrel, with everybody taking sides. With respect, it’s not uncommon in a school crisis, sir.’

  ‘Do you wish to express your view of the headmaster’s policy as a whole? That isn’t usual, of course, but it seemed to me criticism was implicit in your original letter to me. Whatever is said here will be said in confidence.’

  ‘No, Sir Rufus, that isn’t my right, and I’m sorry if I implied it in my letter. I’m sure I did not intend to. I wrote on a purely personal basis.’

  ‘Regarding your alleged attempt to influence the boys politically?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That mainly, but also a statement he made alleging disloyalty, and willful non-co-operation on my part.’

  ‘Come now, you won’t deny that you have challenged his decisions on a number of occasions?’

  ‘Yes, I have, but I challenged them in the capacity of a housemaster. I’ve put forward strong views, as I think any housemaster is entitled to do, particularly as regards his own boys. Nothing more than that.’

  There was a moment’s silence. He could sense the Warrior’s approval of his answers so far. Then Blunt said, ‘Mr Chairman, I’d like a word. Do I have your permission?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right.’ He faced David squarely. ‘It doesn’t do to have a headmaster and a housemaster hammering away at one another. You won’t deny that, Powlett-Jones?’

  ‘No, Alderman Blunt, I won’t because I can’t. But it hasn’t been a case of “hammering away at one another”, as you say. We’ve had disagreements, as I’ve already admitted, but in private, with no other person present. And I’ve kept my own counsel about them.’

  ‘Not always. Carter told me…’

  Sir Rufus lifted his hand and David saw it as a beautifully judged gesture. ‘I’m sorry, Alderman, no hearsay, evidence, please. Mr Carter is not present and not available.’

  ‘I think I know what Alderman Blunt is referring to, sir, and I don’t mind it being raised. Carter asked me to plead for him, when one of his boys was threatened with expulsion. I did what he asked, and several of the staff joined the appeal. Later on, when one of my boys was sent home, I naturally sought advice from Carter as to what I should do.’

  ‘On a point of order,’ said Brigadier Cooper. ‘All this is past history and irrelevant.’

  ‘I agree,’ Sir Rufus said, ‘and tried to indicate as much.’ He turned to David. In his brown, freckled hand was the breakdown of examination results Algy Herries had advised him to submit. ‘We’ve been over these figures,’ he said. ‘Personally, I think they do you credit, Mr Powlett-Jones.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  ‘There is nothing you would like to add, then?’

  ‘No, sir, except perhaps that the last time we had a private talk the headmaster as good as asked me to resign.’

  ‘How do you mean, “as good as”? Did he or didn’t he?’ This from Blunt, in a tone of voice that suggested he considered himself on losing ground.

  ‘It was a broad hint. Mr Alcock said I “might like to think about it”. I told him it was out of the question.’

  ‘You still feel that way?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m very attached to the school. I always have been, from the first week I arrived here, in 1918.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Powlett-Jones.’

  It was dismissal. He rose, without catching anyone’s eye, but Sir Rufus Creighton’s husky voice stopped him as he reached for the doorknob.

  ‘No need to wait about, Mr Powlett-Jones. We shall be writing an official answer to your letter, of course.’

  He went out. The last of the indigestion tablets had left a sour taste in his mouth. He thought, ‘And what the devil am I supposed to deduce from all that, I wonder?’ and although he reminded himself of Sir Rufus’s comment on the examination results, he still felt baffled and irritated. In a way the long-awaited confrontation had been an anti-climax.

  It remained so for the rest of the day, and on into the night. No one rang and all the others somewhat pointedly he thought, left him to himself, perhaps out of courtesy. In the meantime, however, it was impossible to settle to anything. He tried proof-reading the final edition of the printer’s proofs of ‘The Royal Tigress’, but the prose seemed turgid, the slow build-up to the first battle at St. Albans dull and diffuse.

  At eleven he tried to get throu
gh to Chris but there was no reply. With the election looming she would almost surely be out canvassing, or addressing a meeting in the outback of the constituency. He said, aloud, ‘This won’t do! Must think things through properly,’ and he made a tremendous effort to project his mind into the library, where Sir Rufus and the others had presumably quizzed Alcock shortly after they had quizzed him. Did they sympathise with Alcock for having a near-mutinous housemaster on his hands? Did they wave those examination results under his nose, and tell him to stop behaving like a stuffy, overweening ass? Had the matter of his public appearance on a political platform been raised? He had no means of knowing the answer to these questions and was on the point of giving them up, and going to bed, when the door opened and Grace glided in, wearing her blue woollen dressing gown. ‘It’s Towser, Daddy,’ she said, frowning with the effort of concentration, as he remembered her mother had been given to doing, ‘He’s snoring in a funny way and I don’t think he’s well. Will you look at him?’

  It was a relief to have one’s mind switched to a practical issue, so he followed her into the kitchen, where Towser slept in a laundry basket beside the stove. ‘He woke me up twice,’ Grace said, and when he knelt beside the basket he saw at once that the grizzled old dog was in a bad way. His breath was laboured, and every few moments he tried, unsuccessfully to shift his position. He offered the dog a drink but he could not raise his head to the bowl. He said, ‘Towser’s getting on, Grace. Only last night I reckoned his age as twelve. That’s old for a dog.’

  ‘Eighty-four,’ she said, and knelt, stroking Towser’s head. ‘Is he dying, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. He might be. All I can do is to try and get him to take a Bob Martin’s and get the vet over first thing in the morning. You’d best go to bed now, my love.’

  ‘Couldn’t I make tea and watch him? I don’t feel a bit sleepy. Besides, I couldn’t sleep with him snorting like that.’

  ‘I could shift him to the study.’

  ‘I’d sooner watch him, Daddy. Honestly. I mean, he’s a very special dog, isn’t he? You think so yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Very well then, for a little while. It’s Saturday tomorrow, and you can sleep on. Make a cup for me while you’re at it. We’ll have it in here.’

  She skipped over to the gas-stove and put the kettle on. He watched her absently, thinking how much she meant to him, and what a permanent reminder she was of Beth and her twin sister. Their relationship was very close on this account, and he wondered, fleetingly, how she would react to the prospect of a stepmother. Then, reminding himself of Christine’s husband, and the complex situation they were in at the moment, he thought, ‘No sense in bothering about that yet. She’ll be in her mid-teens before we get around to marrying, and then it won’t matter so much.’ The kettle began to steam and she made the tea, deftly, the way she did most things. They were sipping their second cup when they heard the discreet knock on the outer door.

  He glanced up at the kitchen clock and it told him it wanted a few minutes to midnight. ‘Who the devil can that be at this time of night? Probably Matron, about one of the boys in the sick-bay.’

  ‘There aren’t any in the sick-bay,’ Grace said. ‘Vesey, the last one, went out today.’

  ‘I’ll go and see. Meantime, get that pill from the medicine chest and see if Towser will take it hidden in a bit of cake.’

  He went out across the living-room to the landing door and opened it. Old Rigby, the head’s butler, was standing there, looking like a stage butler in a bad play. Old and shuffling but very dignified.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Sorry to knock you up at this time of night, but I saw the study light from the forecourt and I’m puzzled, sir. It’s the headmaster, and I… er… wondered if you could advise me.’

  ‘About what, Rigby?’

  ‘Well, sir, you know he’s such a regular about turning in. I’ve never known him stay up a minute after ten-thirty, no matter what, but he’s still in his study, the door’s locked, and he won’t answer when I knock. I was turning in myself but saw his light under the door. It struck me he was working late and might like another of his hot lemon drinks. He has one about nine every night but he didn’t ring for it tonight, and that’s strange too, come to think on it. I knocked several times but he didn’t answer, so I went round and tried to peep through the window but the curtains are drawn tight, sir.’

  ‘He obviously doesn’t want to be disturbed, Rigby.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, sir, but it struck me that… well, he might have been taken bad, sir. I mean, I’ve never known that door locked since Mr Bull’s time, sir.’

  On the face of it, David decided, it was very odd. Bull had preceded Herries, and Rigby had been Bull’s butler more than thirty years ago. He said, ‘I’ll gladly come down and knock myself, Rigby, if that’s what you’d like.’

  ‘I would, sir, if it’s not too much trouble. I’d sleep easier if you did.’

  He followed Rigby down to the quad and turned in through the head’s door. Light was still showing under the threshold. He knocked three times and when there was no response he called, ‘Headmaster? It’s me, Powlett-Jones,’ but there was no reply. He said, ‘I think you must be right, Rigby. Have you got a duplicate key to this door?’

  ‘No, sir, but I can open it. With your permission, sir.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The way I’ve opened many doors about the place in my time, sir. Mr Bull was a rare locker-up. Sometimes he turned a key here and there, then went out the front door or quad door and closed ‘em on a spring. One moment, sir.’ He went to his pantry, re-emerging with a square sheet of zinc that he used on his stove. Slipping the zinc under the study floor he took a button-hook from the drawer of the hallstand and inserted it in the large, old-fashioned keyhole. There was a sharp metallic sound from the other side of the door as the key fell on to the zinc. Rigby drew it out, modestly triumphant.

  David said, thoughtfully, ‘Listen here, Rigby… I happen to know the headmaster has had a particularly trying day. If he’s dropped off in there he’ll be very embarrassed being disturbed in this way. Take yourself off, and let me deal with this. I’ll explain that you were anxious about him.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ and Rigby shuffled off, gratefully it seemed to David, although he couldn’t be sure. Rigby’s long service at Bamfylde had brought him into close contact with so many eccentrics that he probably found nothing unusual about Alcock’s frigid manner. He opened the door quietly and peeped in. The desk light was burning and Alcock was, as he had suspected, inert in his swivel chair, legs fully extended, head thrown back, mouth half-open. David coughed twice but Alcock did not stir. He moved forward and prodded his forearm and Alcock slumped sideways and would have fallen if David had not grabbed him by the hand and shoulder. The hand was chillingly cold. He realised then that the man was dead.

  His first impulse was to shout for Rigby but then, as he braced himself to ease the body back in the chair, his glance fell on a sheet of paper on the desk, an unfinished letter addressed to the Chairman of the Governing Body, and beginning, ‘Dear Sir Rufus…’ At the same time, his eye travelling rapidly down the few lines of closely written handwriting, his own name jumped at him, and instinct inclined him to steady Alcock with his right hand and lift the sheet of paper with his left. He acted purely on impulse, aware that, before the place erupted, it was very necessary that he should know what was written on that paper. He read, still holding Alcock firmly with his right hand, one completed paragraph and another half finished. Alcock had written,

  Touching the private conversation we had, following my full statement to the Governing Body this a.m., I can only deduce from it that a majority of the Governors, headed by yourself, see fit to regard my submissions concerning Mr Powlett-Jones as irrelevant, and prompted by my personal dislike of him.

  I made what I consider to be a frank and full assessment of the facts, and made them entirely without prejudice. You have since explained to m
e your reasons for ruling the substance of that statement out of order. That, of course, is your privilege, and I bow to it. At the same time it makes my position here untenable and I hereby proffer my…

  He had been unable, it appeared, to write the word ‘resignation’. Something, choking rage, an excess of bile, or even an interruption wholly unconnected with what he was doing, had broken the smooth flow of words and he had died here in his chair. Of what, only a medical man could determine. Awkwardly he pushed the letter into his jacket pocket and called aloud for Rigby, at the same time stooping to lift Alcock bodily from the chair.

  It required considerable effort, but once the burden was adjusted he weighed surprisingly little for someone approaching six feet. Rigby appeared almost at once and David heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Unconscious, sir?’

  ‘He’s dead, Rigby. He’s been dead two hours, probably longer. Hold the door and switch on the landing light. Then get through to Dr Willoughby and if he doesn’t answer keep ringing.’

  ‘Yes, sir… at once. But… what was it, sir? A sudden illness or…’ He left the sentence unfinished, but David understood what had prompted it. Rigby’s unswerving loyalty to the school reached all the way back to Bull’s time, when he had arrived here as a kitchen servant in the last years of Victoria’s reign. He said, quietly, ‘It was almost certainly a heart attack, but I can’t be sure.’ Then, ‘I’ve had more experience in this field than most people, Rigby. There’s no question of it being anything but illness.’

  The old chap dodged in front of him and switched on the landing light, then back again to address himself to the telephone. David knew his way about the house as well as Rigby and went slowly up the curving stone staircase to the front bedroom that Algy had shared with Ellie for twenty-three years. It was not quite as Spartan as the study or parlour. Over the single cot was a reproduction of Botticelli’s Venus Rising From the Sea, an improbable picture, he thought, to occupy pride of place in the bedroom of a man of Alcock’s temperament. On the facing wall was an enlarged photograph of Alcock’s educational college in Cape Town, and framed in silver on the dressing-table was a studio portrait of a jaundiced-looking woman about forty, wearing an evening gown fashionable just before the war. He noticed all this as he crossed the room and laid Alcock on the bed, straightening his limbs and closing the jaws and eyes. As he did this he had a sharp memory of trying to perform the same office for Nick Austin, who had died on the wire opposite Delville Wood. But in Nick’s case it had proved impossible. He had been out there a day and a night.