“How can I run away?” shouted Philip to Mariana. “If I run away Papa will bring me back and beat me and Mama will be put in prison for disobeying the judge! How can I run away?”
“They wouldn’t put Mama in prison,” said Marcus, white to the lips. “They wouldn’t do that.”
“They would! She told me! ‘You have, to go with Papa,’ she said to me, ‘because if I keep you they’ll put me in prison for disobeying the judge. I’m not allowed to keep you any more,’ she said, and she cried and cried so that I could hardly hear what she said—”
“She didn’t cry when she said goodbye to me,” said Mariana. “ ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she said, ‘I’ll miss you so much.’ Phooey! She couldn’t have cared less. She was quite content to say goodbye to me when she thought she was getting you in exchange. She didn’t deceive me! I knew!”
“She was probably thinking good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Oh! You horrid beastly boy!”
“Mariana, don’t, don’t …” said Marcus in agony, but he was too late. Mariana had smacked Philip resoundingly across the cheek, and he, springing to his feet, shoved her away so violently that she fell against the wall and burst into tears.
“Honestly!” said William for the third time. “Where on earth were you brought up, Philip? Did no one ever tell you not to strike a girl?”
“Don’t cry, Mariana,” said Marcus, dreadfully upset. “Please. I can’t bear it. Don’t cry.”
Mariana sobbed, heart-broken, into a dainty lace handkerchief.
“Look here,” said William to Philip, “I think you’d better apologize. I think—”
“Who cares what you think!” yelled Philip, scarlet with rage. “Who are you anyway? Who do you think you are, giving me orders, telling me what to do—”
My mother walked into the room.
We all turned to face her. Mariana stopped sobbing and allowed Marcus to help her to her feet. There was a silence.
“Dear me,” said my mother tranquilly. “Your dinners will all be quite cold! I did at least think you’d be too hungry to quarrel with one another while you were eating. William and Adrian, sit down and finish up your food, if you please, and I don’t want anything left over on the side of the plate. Now, Mariana, dear, what’s the matter? What happened?”
“Nothing,” said Marcus before Mariana could speak. “Nothing at all. We’re quite all right, thank you, Mrs. Parrish.”
“Are you all right, Mariana?”
Mariana blew her nose and cast a sidelong glance at Marcus. “Yes, Aunt Rose.”
“Good. Now sit down and finish your meal. I’ve brought another jug of milk in case anyone would like some more. Would you like some more, Philip?”
Philip walked out of the room without a word.
“Mama,” I said in a wave of fury, “Mama, Philip was to blame. Philip hit Mariana and she—”
“Adrian,” said Mama very strongly, “I do not want to hear anyone telling tales about anyone else. Marcus and Mariana have not complained about Philip. If you were not involved in the disagreement which they had then you have no business to complain either.”
Some dark emotion too violent to be analyzed made me lay down my knife and fork and push back my chair. “I’m going to bed.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mama. “I expect you’re tired after your journey. I’ll come up and say good night to you in a quarter of an hour.”
I stumbled upstairs, trembling with rage, and found with surprise that Philip also was getting undressed for bed. We did not speak. I went to the bathroom, washed, came back and read a few pages of my book as I lay on my bed and waited for Mama.
She came five minutes later. Philip was already in bed with his eyes closed.
“Have you been to the bathroom, darling? Did you wash behind your ears?”
“Naturally,” I said in a cold voice.
She smiled, and suddenly I clung to her and pressed my face against her breast.
She kissed me. “Don’t forget your prayers.”
I began my usual recitation of the Lord’s Prayer with the appropriate appendices. “… and-God-bless-Mama-and-Papa-and-William-and-all-the-poor-and-suffering-Amen,” I ended, and stole a glance at Philip’s inert form as I rose from my knees and slipped into bed.
“Good night, darling.” She kissed me again and tucked me in. “Sleep well.”
“Good night, Mama.”
She went over to the other bed. “Good night, Philip,” she said and kissed him too on the cheek.
He said nothing. He was pretending to be asleep but I knew he wasn’t. She tucked him in and straightened the covers. Presently she blew out the light and left, closing the door behind her.
There was a long silence.
“Are you a heathen?” I said boldly into the dark. “Don’t you say prayers?”
No answer.
“I think you’re a heathen,” I said. “I think you were brought up a heathen and your mother’s a witch.”
“And I think,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “that you’re a bastard and your mother’s a slut.”
I did not even hesitate. I tore back the blankets and shot across the room like a bullet from a gun.
He was waiting for me.
We met head on in a savage fight.
Unfortunately he had the advantage. He was bigger than I was, tougher and stronger. As my strength began to ebb I began to be frightened.
“Pax!” I gasped, fighting for breath. “Pax!”
But Philip did not abide by the traditional schoolboy conventions of warfare. He went on fighting. I was about to humiliate myself by opening the door and running away when there were footsteps in the passage and the next moment Papa walked into the room to discover us both on the floor punching each other.
Light from the corridor streamed into the room. Papa gave an exclamation, picked us up by the scruff of our necks and shook us sharply.
“What’s all this?” He let us go and lit the gas. “I was just coming to say good night to you both,” he said curtly. “I thought you were both supposed to be in bed, not scrabbling around on the ground like a couple of guttersnipes. Who was responsible for this?”
“He was,” said Philip and I together and stared at each other in rage.
“Liar!” yelled Philip. “You started it! You insulted me!”
“You insulted me worse!”
“Not till you insulted me!”
“Be quiet!” said Papa in such a strong voice that we both jumped. He turned to me. “Was it you who called the first insult?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now, listen to me, Adrian, and listen very carefully. I’m not going to tolerate this sort of behavior. The next time I find you picking a quarrel like that you’ll get a thrashing. I’m going to have peace and order under this roof, and I’m not going to stand any sort of nonsense from any of you if you try and fight whenever you think my back is turned. You’ll behave properly, and if you don’t behave you’ll get beaten.” He swung around on Philip. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I suggest you take this as a last warning and pull yourself together before I get out my cane. You’ll be civil to your brothers and civil to your sisters and civil to Aunt Rose. And you’ll speak when you’re spoken to and remember your manners. I’ve had enough of your rudeness and I don’t intend to let it go unpunished any longer.”
“Yes, sir,” said Philip flatly.
“Now get into bed, both of you, and go to sleep. I’ll be looking in here again later tonight with my cane, and if I find either of you awake you’ll be in trouble.”
He waited. We got into bed without a word. I closed my eyes very tightly so that the tears should not escape.
When we were both settled he extinguished the light, went out into the corridor and closed the door. He did not even say good night. He walked off down the corridor to the stairs, and I was left alone in the dark room with a boy I despised.
We did not speak to each other, but we did not sleep either. I lay crying soundlessly for a while, but when my tears had stopped I stole a glance at him. My eyes were accustomed to the dark and the curtains were not quite closed, so I could see him. He had his eyes open and was watching the pattern the moonlight made on the ceiling.
I wondered bleakly what he was thinking about.
The next morning I made an effort to atone for the wrong I had done in causing the fight.
“Would you like to play with my trains?” I said sullenly as we dressed.
He looked at me. His light eyes were cold with scorn. ‘Thank you,” he said, the two words a mockery of politeness, “but I’m much too old to play with trains.”
After that there was no going back. We were bitter enemies and were to remain enemies for more than twenty years to come.
TWO
Richard had a robust dislike for Geoffrey.
—The Conquering Family,
THOMAS COSTAIN
[Geoffrey] proceeded to show he had the makings of good fighter.
—Henry II,
JOHN T. APPLEBY
AS THE HOLIDAYS PASSED we began to settle down slowly. I was hurt when William spent so much time with Marcus, but since Marcus enjoyed riding and fishing better than I did I could not blame William for becoming friends with him. Besides, Marcus was only two years younger than William and therefore more of a contemporary for William than I was. Mariana showed no interest in their outdoor pursuits but liked to sew or look at Mama’s London magazines for ladies. She and Mama would go into Oxford together occasionally to the shops; Mama would help her with her sewing and supervise her piano practice. The younger girls I seldom saw. Edith the nursemaid looked after the fat baby Elizabeth, and although Jeanne occasionally followed Hugh when he went upstairs to play with my trains she would spend most of her time in the nursery. Hugh and I became cordial toward each other, but I did not like the way he still remained friends with Philip while assiduously cultivating my good will.
“You’ll have to choose between us,” I said, not trusting this ambivalent relationship which defied classification. “You can’t be friends with both him and me.”
“Why not?” said Hugh innocently, and I found to my irritation that it was very hard to give him an adequate reply.
So Hugh went on playing with my trains and borrowing my books but whenever I was occupied elsewhere he would be running after Philip and ignoring my existence. Right from the beginning I was aware of his cunning ability to face both ways.
Philip and I went on fighting, of course. Sometimes Papa interrupted our fights and sometimes he did not, but when he did discover us fighting we were both beaten and he would be very angry indeed. William kept telling me to leave Philip well alone but I seemed completely unable to follow his advice no matter how hard I tried to do so. Part of the trouble, I think, was that Philip and I were so close to each other in age. If he had been either much younger or much older than I we would not have seen each other so often, but as it was we were constantly getting in each other’s way and our personalities grated on each other remorselessly.
In the end I was almost relieved to return to school for the summer term. I had had more than enough of Philip trying to requisition my favorite tree, Philip digging a hole (he called it a mine) beyond the stream and muddying the pool where I sailed my boats, Philip saying Allengate was a pretty poor sort of place compared to Cornwall and the Cornish Tin Coast. I had grown very tired of hearing about Cornwall and had soon made up my mind that I would never go there under any circumstances. However, as Mama pointed out to me, since Cornwall had been their home it was only natural that all the Castallacks and not merely Philip should talk about it nostalgically from time to time.
Once a week they would hear news of Cornwall when their mother’s letter arrived; Papa would read the letter aloud to them after breakfast on the morning of its arrival although William and I, of course, did not stay to hear what was said. Then every Sunday after church they would all settle down to write their individual letters back to her, and Mariana would yawn and say, “What a bore! What on earth shall I say?” and Jeanne would bring her crayons and draw a picture of a house and a sun and a tree; Philip would fill one page with blunt pencil marks and Hugh would write, “Dear Mama: I hope you are well. I am well. There is no news here, I regret to say. Love from Hugh.” Only Marcus would write the sort of letter I would have written to my mother. He would fill two pages of paper with his large, generous handwriting and would always conclude by saying, “We all miss you very much and are longing to see you again soon. With much love from your devoted son, Marcus.”
I used to join these writing sessions to write to my best friend at school, and occasionally I would wander around the table and surreptitiously peep over their shoulders to see what they had written.
Toward the end of August their weekly letter from Cornwall did not arrive. Instead there was a letter addressed to Papa, and all the Castallacks at once thought their mother had written to him to suggest an occasion when she could see her children again.
“Perhaps Papa’s given her permission to come here,” said Marcus, looking hungrily at the letter as it lay waiting for Papa at the breakfast table. “I know she’s not officially allowed to see us boys, but if Papa consented it wouldn’t matter about the judge and the order. And Papa hasn’t actually said that he’ll never let us see her. He’s only said that we can’t see her ‘for a while.’ Do you suppose ‘a while’ could mean seven months? It’s seven months since I last saw her in Cornwall. Perhaps he’s even going to allow us to go down to Cornwall to visit her!”
“How boring,” said Mariana. “That awful tedious journey to Penzance! I don’t think I shall go.
“I shall,” said Hugh.
“I shall,” echoed little Jeanne.
We all looked at Philip. He did not speak. His eyes burned like blue flames in his tense white face.
Papa opened the letter as soon as he came into the room. He was expressionless. We all watched him avidly, and when Mama came into the room I saw she was watching him too. On finishing the letter he glanced across at her.
She said, “Is it—”
“Yes,” he said. He folded the letter neatly and put it away in his wallet. He said nothing else.
“Dear me,” said Mama absent-mindedly. ”I’ve just remembered I must speak to Edith about something. Excuse me.”
“Papa,” faltered Marcus as she left the room, “is—is Mama coming for a visit? Are we going to see her?”
He looked up, surprised. I could almost feel the Castallacks holding their breath.
“Good gracious, no,” he said casually. ”Your mother is much too preoccupied at the moment for visits. She’s just had another baby.”
There was an absolute silence. Nobody spoke.
“Another boy,” said Papa. “A brother for you all.”
We all stared at him. I was curiously aware of William laying down his knife and fork.
Papa poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Another baby?” said little Jeanne, pleased. “That’s nice! Does Elizabeth know yet?”
“No, not yet.” He smiled at her. “Do you want to go and tell her the news?”
“Oh yes! May I, Papa? May I tell her?”
“Of course you can. I’ll come with you. Hugh, do you want to come and tell Elizabeth with us?”
“Not especially, thank you, Papa,” said Hugh politely.
“Finch,” said Papa to the parlormaid who entered the room as he was leaving it, “I’ll be back in five minutes. Don’t serve my eggs and bacon till I return.”
“No, sir.” She followed him out of the room after collecting a pile of dirty plates from the sideboard. The door closed. We were alone.
We looked at one another.
“How odd,” said Marcus. He looked at William and began to blush. “I don’t understand that at all.”
“Why not?” said Hugh, greatly interested. He alr
eady had a precociously prurient interest in the facts of life.
“I don’t understand it either,” said William flatly. “I didn’t realize he was still on good terms with your mother last year.”
“If you ask me,” said Mariana, “I think it’s in bad taste to have a baby at that age. She’s too old for that sort of thing. And another boy! As if I hadn’t enough brothers!”
“I can’t think how it could have happened,” said Marcus, still blushing. “He’s hardly seen her lately. I didn’t think he visited Penmarric at all last year once the Easter holidays were over.”
“Well,” I began, anxious to demonstrate my worldly knowledge, “it’s quite plain what must have happened. He must have seen her nine months ago. Now let me see. Nine months ago would take us to—”
Philip pushed back his chair. His face was so ashen that it seemed greenish in color. Without a word he ran out of the room and we heard his footsteps rushing across the hall.
“Where’s he gone?” said Hugh, startled.
Far away the door of the downstairs cloakroom banged shut noisily.
“November,” said Marcus. “How odd. I thought that was when they quarreled.”
“Oh really, Marcus, what does it matter?” said Mariana impatiently. “The wretched baby’s been born and that’s all there is to it. I wonder if it’ll be sent to Allengate.”
“Yes,” said Marcus, “but I still don’t understand—”
“Mariana’s right,” said William. “It doesn’t matter now. What the hell. I don’t care.” He got up clumsily from the table. “I don’t feel like breakfast. I’m going riding.”
He went out of the room. Marcus and Mariana began to argue about whether the baby would be sent to Allengate or not. I toyed with a lump of scrambled egg, then pushed back my chair and ran after William.
He was saddling his horse.
“William—”
“Shut up,” said William. “Don’t talk to me.”
“William, please!” I began to feel a wave of panic edge unpleasantly down my spine. “I don’t think I quite understand and I want to know. Does it mean that at Brighton—”
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