R. Delderfield & R. F. Delderfield

by To Serve Them All My Days

  Old Mark Trescott appeared with the felon in tow towards tea-bell, presenting evidence of the theft, one bar of Mackintosh’s toffee, value twopence, and the shopkeeper was threatening to prosecute. ‘Tidden offen I ketch one red-‘anded, as I did this jackdaw,’ he told David, while Crispin stood staring down at the carpet, and when David begged him not to go to these lengths over a bar of toffee, he growled, ‘Ah, tiz easy for you to talk, Headmaster, you don’t have to make a livin’ up there. Tuppence iz tuppence in my book.’

  David had been at Bamfylde long enough to know the real source of Trescott’s resentment. Until the new tuckshop had opened in 1924, his confectionery counter had been one of his main sources of income, but latterly his takings had dwindled. Here was a splendid opportunity to drive what he would see as a straightforward peasant bargain. ‘I’ll teel ‘ee what,’ he went on, a shade too eagerly, ‘I won’t press charges if you drop the hint to the bursar’s missus to give over stockin’ Mackintosh’s. I don’t want to zeem ‘ardfaced, but toffee was my best line bevore she took it on.’

  ‘You really think I could persuade her to do that, Trescott?’

  ‘Why not? Youm the Ade up yer, bain ‘ee?’

  ‘Well,’ David said, eyeing Crispin, ‘let me propose a slightly different bargain. I won’t report you to the police at Challacombe for trying to blackmail me, providing you accept the price of the goods here and now. How’s that?’

  Crispin looked up quickly, perhaps not wanting to miss Trescott’s outraged expression as he roared, ‘Tiz bluffan’ you know it! I got a witness to ‘im pinching that toffee but you abben got one to this bit of a tork we’m ‘aving.’

  ‘Indeed I have. Crispin’s a witness, aren’t you, Crispin? And how do you know he didn’t mean to pay, before you scared him half to death by pouncing on him? Good God, man – a twopenny bar of toffee – you’d be laughed out of court in three minutes. He’s got a good character here and I’d say so.’

  There was a silence. Out in the quad the tea-bell rang. It always seemed to, David thought, at moments of crisis. Finally Trescott said, ‘You know and he knows, he ‘ad no bliddy intention o’ paying.’ Then, ‘You’ll give ‘im a damn good thrashing, I hope?’

  ‘He’ll get precisely what he deserves, Mr Trescott, and thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.’

  With a long, resentful look at Crispin, Trescott withdrew, and David waited until he heard the door in Big School passage slam before saying, ‘Why, Crispin? You don’t get much pocket-money but twopence – it’s absolutely ridiculous! You see that now, I suppose?’ but Crispin resumed his study of the carpet.

  ‘You’ve stolen small things before? From Trescott’s, from the tuckshop, the lockers?’

  That found its mark. His head came up. ‘No, sir. Never!’

  ‘Then there must be a reason, possibly a good one and I’d like to hear it. I’ve got to hear it, Crispin.’

  He said, carefully, ‘You wouldn’t understand, sir.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Nobody would.’

  ‘You leave that to me, Crispin. Sit down and think it over. We’ve got all evening if necessary, but you don’t leave here until I know, understand?’

  About a minute passed. ‘I suppose it was because of Towers, sir.’

  ‘Towers was with you? He suggested you took it?’

  ‘Good Lord, no, sir!’ He sounded even more outraged than Trescott. ‘Towers wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

  ‘Then how does Towers come into it?’

  ‘He doesn’t, sir, he doesn’t know a thing about it. I meant to give it to him, that’s all.’

  ‘Sit down, Crispin, and let’s get this straight. You say Towers doesn’t come into it, yet you admit stealing it for him? You hadn’t the price of it on you?’

  ‘Yes, I had, sir.’

  ‘You had? Do you often give Towers things?’

  ‘Every Wednesday.’

  ‘Why every Wednesday?’

  ‘Wednesday’s pocket-money day, sir.’

  ‘Towers is a close friend of yours?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you’d like him to be?’

  He didn’t answer this. Neither did he accept the invitation to sit down. David said, ‘When you buy him things, how does he react?’

  Crispin took his time. Finally he said, doggedly, ‘He doesn’t want me. He’s got chaps like Coxe and Nesbitt. I bought him a pot of Mrs Redcliffe’s baked beans last Wednesday but he sent it back.’

  It was one of the most complex cases he had ever handled and he thought longingly of Algy’s vast store of experience. There was little to go on here save instinct, but instinct told him to tread with excessive caution.

  ‘Listen, Crispin. I’m guessing and you aren’t helping very much. Whatever’s said here won’t get around, it’ll be between you and me, understand? I don’t intend punishing you, either. What I said to Trescott was said to get rid of him. You’re in bad trouble, sure enough, but it’s not on account of that bar of toffee. Your people are a long way off. India, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When did you last see them?’

  ‘I saw my mother last year, sir, just before she went out. I haven’t seen my father in three years.’

  ‘Well, then, meantime I’m your father. That’s how it has to be with most Sunsetters. Not perfect, but a lot better than nothing. Now tell me if I’ve got this right. You want Towers to accept you on the same terms as he accepts Coxe and Nesbitt, but he won’t, so you buy him things. But that isn’t working, so you go to the village and steal a bar of toffee from Trescott’s counter. Can I assume you had already spent all your pocket money on that jar of beans?’

  ‘No, sir, the beans were only fourpence. I had twopence left over.’

  ‘Then why the devil didn’t you pay Trescott for the toffee?’

  ‘Something Towers said, sir.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said you don’t buy friends with beans or cream horns. Me and Towers – well – it just wouldn’t work, sir.’

  ‘But after that you deliberately stole the toffee for him.’

  Crispin’s lip quivered and his teeth clamped over his lip. ‘I’m sorry, Crispin, but if I’m to help I’ve got to know to understand. Maybe you find it difficult to explain, but try, boy, for God’s sake, try!’

  ‘It was doing something, sir.’

  ‘Doing something? You mean, proving something?’

  ‘In a way, sir.’

  ‘To yourself or to Towers?’

  ‘To both of us. If Trescott hadn’t seen me I was going to tell Towers I’d pinched it.’

  ‘But you told me Towers wouldn’t do a thing like that himself. Wouldn’t he be even more inclined to turn you down when he knew you were a thief?’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? I mean, he’d have thought about it, wouldn’t he? You see… I can’t do anything, sir. Towers knows it and everybody knows it. I’m no good at anything. I never have been.’

  The terrible poignancy of it assailed him. On one side Towers, a popular boy, strutting round with any number of friends to choose from, a boy with a father owning a big sports business in the Midlands, who drove up here in an Alvis and took his son and his son’s cronies out for the day. And on the other side of the wire, looking in, Crispin; friendless, rejected and aware, every minute of the day, of his own inadequacy. There was no ready solution. It would need, he would say, a good deal of sober reflection, a careful weighing of every factor. He said, ‘Well, that’s all for now, Crispin, and I’m glad you brought yourself to tell me. Go and have your tea and don’t say anything about this to anyone, not even Towers. And don’t worry about Trescott either. He won’t do a thing, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went out, dragging his feet, and through the window giving on the quad David watched him, noting that he did not go through the arch towards Big Hall but across the quad towards the one-storey build
ings that comprised the tuck-house, armoury, stables and coke-hole. He thought, ‘Let him mull it over tea-less if he wants to, he won’t have an appetite to speak of,’ and rang for Rigby to order tea in his study, wishing that it was Friday, when Grace would be home. It was a problem he might, conceivably, have discussed with her. A twelve-year-old might be likely to approach it with more detachment than an adult.

  He was crossing the quad an hour later when he saw Manners, a Sixth Former, emerge from the northern arch at a run. Seeing David, he changed direction rapidly, doubled round the Founder’s statue and rushed up, gasping, ‘Better come, sir… that kid Crispin… down in the coke-hole, blue in the face…!’ and spun round, rushing back through the arch with David at his heels.

  They jumped the three steps into the coke-hole together. The low-powered naked bulb did not do much to light up the windowless interior but what light there was touched Crispin’s right hand, flung out towards the squat boiler, as though to ward off the reek that filled the cellar. He was slumped on a coke-container and a glance showed him that Manners had cause for alarm. Crispin’s face was purple, and his teeth were bared in a kind of snarl. David gathered him up and ran back up the steps where a long gust of the north-easterly wind caught them, strong enough to make him reel. He shouted, ‘After me, Manners… into the Third Form…’ and ran past the entrance of Outram’s, turning right at the foot of the slate steps that led up to what had once been Julia Darbyshire’s quarters. The Third Form fire was dead and it was cold in here, with the sash cord of an open window rotating in the draught. He laid Crispin flat on the desk, tore away collar and tie, and began massaging his chest, throwing all his weight into the exercise as Manners said, distractedly, ‘Is he… is he dead, sir? He’s my fag. I was looking for him going to clout him… one of the kids said he’d seen him go into the coke-hole after tea…’

  ‘He would have been dead in another ten minutes… get matron here… tell her one of the boys is sick but don’t tell anyone else. Wait around until he’s in sickbay and report back to me.’

  ‘I’m taking prep, sir.’

  ‘Find a stand-in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He ran off but before he had reached the far end of the room Crispin vomited, turning face downwards, gripping the edge of the desk and retching violently. David continued to work on his back. He knew little or nothing about artificial respiration, but applied his strength as common sense dictated and it appeared to work. Crispin, having emptied his stomach, drew several long, shuddering breaths and sat up as Ma Kruger sailed in demanding to know what had happened. He told her briefly that Crispin had gone into the coke-hole to warm himself and had been overcome by the fumes. ‘That place is out of bounds from now on,’ he said. ‘It’s a marvel something like this didn’t happen long ago. Put him straight into sick bay. Is there anyone else there?’

  ‘No, Headmaster. The last flu case went out yesterday. Can he walk?’

  ‘I can walk,’ Crispin said, thickly, and proved it by sliding off the desk and steadying himself on the nearest blackboard peg.

  ‘You had a close shave, Crispin. He’s had nothing to eat since lunch, Matron. Get him some soup, if he can keep it down, but get him to bed first.’

  ‘I know my job,’ said Mrs Gorman, tartly, and he remembered, too late, that Ma Kruger could be very touchy if her methods were called into question.

  He said nothing of his suspicions to Manners when the senior reported. In his own mind there was little doubt but that Crispin had gone there deliberately, seeking not warmth but oblivion, and the nearness of their escape made him catch his breath. He thought, ‘I didn’t handle it right, I should have offered the kid tea and gone to work on him straightaway – anything but let him mooch off like that, with his packload of misery…’ but Manners helped without knowing it, saying, ‘He’s a frightful weed, sir, one of the worst we’ve ever had. He does everything you tell him but no more, if you follow me, sir. He’s just the kind who would sit there like a kipper and wait to get cooked.’ He paused and it crossed David’s mind that Manners might be wondering if his own approach to Crispin had not contributed to his fag’s wretchedness. A moment later this was confirmed as he added, ‘I… er… I did try talking to him straight, sir. Early in the term I told him to pull his socks up and try harder at games. Would you like me to have another go at him, sir?’

  ‘No,’ David said, definitely, ‘just try putting yourself in his place once in a while. He’s cut off from his people, and hasn’t the knack of making friends. Not everybody has, you know.’

  It was no use telling Manners to hold his tongue about the incident. It would be all over the school by now, and even if it wasn’t it would leak as soon as he put the coke-hole out of bounds.

  He went over to the library and browsed about looking for a book that might help to take Crispin out of himself. He found a copy of Williamson’s Tarka the Otter, slipped it in his pocket and went up the slate staircase to matron’s room. Crispin, she said, in her quaint hospital phrase, was ‘comfortable’. The vomiting had probably prevented unpleasant after-effects, although he might have a bad headache for a day or so. He had taken soup, and kept it down, and later a cup of tea and a purgative. Ma Kruger was a great believer in purgatives and, crafty as some of her patients were, few found means to avoid swallowing them.

  He said, ‘I’ll pop in and have a word with him. He wanted a book,’ and left her to her darning, going through into the sick bay built the year after the fire.

  Crispin was sitting up in bed looking at nothing. He said, as soon as David pulled a chair up, ‘I meant it to happen, sir. They say if you sit there long enough you pass out.’

  ‘Never mind all that, Crispin. It’s time you and I put all our cards on the table. We’ve got to scrape a hole for you somewhere, and if you don’t feel like co-operating try and see it from my point of view. What sort of headmaster would I be if I let boys get so depressed that they did what you did today? And don’t kid yourself that your case is an isolated one. I’ve been at Bamfylde fourteen years, and there’s always a few who can’t settle in. You don’t sing, I suppose?’

  ‘No, sir’ Mercifully he seemed to find the question amusing. ‘I sound like a stick on railings, so Mr Renshaw-Smith says.’

  ‘And there’s no one game you like more than another?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  ‘You’re not bad at English subjects. Maths aside, you’ve always had pretty good reports.’

  ‘That doesn’t get you far at a place like this, sir.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ He thought hard. ‘There must be something you can do that nobody else can. There always is, Crispin. The key to getting by at a place like Bamfylde is to find that something, and build on it. It doesn’t matter a jot what it is, so long as you’re better at it than the next chap. Can you think of anything? Anything at all?’

  ‘I play the handbells, sir.’

  ‘Handbells?’

  ‘I’ve got a set, sir. My uncle left them to me when he died. He used to go around playing them at charity concerts, and… well… I got interested, so he taught me. They aren’t as easy as they look, sir.’

  ‘I’ll wager they aren’t. Where are they now?’

  ‘In my box in the Sunsetters’ store, sir.’

  ‘You’ve never had them out since you came here?’

  ‘No, sir. It seemed… well… a bit cissy, sir.’

  ‘Cissy my foot! It’s a very old English craft, and very few people can play them as they should be played. You can ring out recognisable tunes?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I can do all the carols.’

  ‘The carols? Well, that’s promising. We’ve got a carol service the night after the opera and that could be a star turn. Have you got the nerve to stand up on the stage in Big Hall and play, in front of the whole school?’

  ‘I’d need to practise, sir. It’s a long time since I had them out.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you what you do. You bring them ove
r to my house after prep tomorrow night. Only my daughter and I will be there and you can practise all you like. Then we’ll make sure you get star billing at the carol service, a surprise item on the programme that not even Mr Renshaw-Smith knows about in advance. Will you do that?’

  ‘Are you sure they won’t laugh, sir?’

  ‘At carols? Expertly played on old English handbells? You can take it from me they wouldn’t. Everyone will be pestering you for a go at them, you see if I’m not right. How do you feel now?’

  ‘Still muzzy, sir.’

  ‘Then get some sleep. Matron says you’ll have nothing worse than a headache in the morning. You needn’t come in. Take it easy over the weekend. Good night, then.’

  ‘Good night, sir.’

  He went out, feeling a good deal more hopeful than he went in and thinking, ‘A purgative can’t do him much harm but a big hand up on that stage will do him untold good.’

  He went down and out into the quad, standing a moment with the wind whipping his gown and sniffing the air for snow. It was time it fell, having been threatening for two days now. From the direction of Big Hall he could hear a solo – Frobisher, playing the Grand Inquisitor in Algy’s revival of The Gondoliers, and singing ‘There Lived a King’, one of Beth’s favourites. A soft burst of laughter came from the lighted windows of the Outram senior dorm, then Vinnicombe’s bellow at a skylarker making the most of the few minutes before lights out. He thought, ‘God knows, we get problems, but taken all round we seem to cope with ‘em better than the politicians.’

  He hunched his gown and turned in through Big Hall arch to look in on rehearsals.

  3

  The thought returned to him often during the last fortnight of term. An island in the torrent; a small bastion of refuge, where some kind of order still prevailed, where most things worked fairly well, where there was fellowship of a kind missing since Algy’s day, a time when the outside world had seemed to steady before shooting off course again. Now, as Yeats might have said, ‘all was changed, changed utterly’ out there beyond school bounds. The old doctrine of Free Trade, bulwark of the Empire for so long, discarded, alienating Philip Snowden, the one man of genius left in the Cabinet. Hunger-marchers proliferating. De Valera, arch-enemy of the old-style British, of which Bamfylde, like it or not, remained a symbol, triumphing at the Irish polls. World conferences that resolved nothing. Mosleyites confronting the militant Left on streets where, only a few years ago, a General Strike had been staged without a casualty. And it was worse still overseas. France, her President shot down, was in turmoil. The Japanese were making nonsense of The League of Nations covenant. And all about them was a confusion of tongues, a bankruptcy of policies. But at Bamfylde, in that final month of 1932, things were more hopeful. Algy’s Gondoliers played to thunderous applause, and Crispin, darting up and down his trestle table in Big Hall, won the status symbol of Bamfylde with his handbell rendering of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, for thereafter he was known as ‘Ringer’ and with a nickname integration was achieved.