by A. J. Cronin
‘Home, James,’ I murmured to myself, ‘and don’t spare the horses.’ But he had tried.
The sun was now setting over the distant hills of Dumbarton, lighting the rooftops and furnishing my empty room with a magic splendour. As I gazed into the rosy glow of the sunset I wondered what the future held for Desmonde … and for me.
Chapter Four
Desmonde, who never seemed to overtax himself with work, was naturally clever, and, due to his father, he had the incomparable advantage of three languages. Completely fluent in French and Spanish he could even converse, though more slowly, in Latin. Almost apologetically he explained to me how his father of an evening would take him for a stroll in Phoenix Park, stating firmly at the outset the language in which their converse must be conducted. To relapse into English was an offence, not punishable, but frowned upon by his accomplished parent, a scholar who was often called upon to arrange and catalogue the libraries of great houses in Europe.
As we came into our final school year it was a foregone conclusion that Desmonde would take all the language prizes while I, by intensive study, might succeed in mathematics, science and, with luck, English. It was already settled that Desmonde would go on to the Seminary at Torrijos, in Spain, while I would try for the Marshall Scholarship, sole passport to Winton University and a medical career.
My chances of scholarship were impaired by the fact that our football team was having an unprecedented run of success in the competition for the Scottish Schools’ Shield. This coveted trophy had never been won by St Ignatius and as we came through to the quarter finals, leaving a trail of vanquished schools behind, Fr Jaeger, who had made me captain of the team the year before, was beside himself with ardour and excitement. Every other evening long training sessions were held in the gymnasium and before every game I had a detailed briefing in Jaeger’s study.
‘I think we might just do it, Alec.’ Unable to be still, he pranced up and down the little study. ‘We are a young, a very young team, but keen, yes, keen. And we have you, Alec, taking the ball forward. Now remember …’
Desmonde came with me to all the matches, returning jubilant to our customary Saturday luncheon at Overton Crescent, where he delighted my mother by exaggerated reports of my prowess.
Now that his admission to the Seminary was settled he was amusing himself, and the school, in his own fashion. He had first ascertained the date of Fr Beauchamp’s birthday by consulting Who’s Who, and as the day drew near, he composed and typed a marvellous letter purporting to come from the Mother Superior of the adjacent Convent School, a venerable old lady who rarely exposed herself to public view.
The letter, widely circulated amongst the school, ran as follows:
‘My dear, very dear Fr Beauchamp.
If I had courage I would address you by your delightful name of Harold, for I must now confess that I have long cherished a deep and passionate reverence for you. Yes, I watch you often, from my window, striding down the causeway, a noble, magnificent, corpulent figure, and with beating heart I long to have known you when we were both younger. When you had just left Eton, laden with honours, and I was a simple maiden, student at the nearby Borstal Reformatory. What joys might have then been in store for us. Alas, Heaven willed otherwise. But now, cloistered though I am, I may, purely and without sin, declare my secret passion. And in celebration of your auspicious name day I venture to send you a birthday cake. Intuition, or perhaps rumour, tells me that, despite the rigorous diet of your Order, you enjoy and are permitted to indulge yourself excessively in sweetmeats.
Heaven bless you, my darling. I pray for you always – a solace to my love. Yours adoringly, Claribel.’
Roars of laughter greeted this masterpiece as it was passed from hand to hand and thereafter enclosed with a huge chocolate cake in a beribboned box.
This box was then secretly conveyed to the jolly, stumpy schoolgirl whom Desmond had inveigled into the plot. It was she who had actually provided the sheet of Convent notepaper on which the letter was typed, and she who on the appointed day rang the College doorbell and personally presented the gift to Beauchamp. Almost the entire school saw the box delivered and all awaited the outcome with ill-repressed anticipation.
All day long there was no reaction, but at five o’clock, when the school had assembled for evening prayers, Beauchamp made his appearance to conduct the service. Before he began, almost absently, he said:
‘Fitzgerald, would you oblige me by standing up?’
Gracefully, Desmonde obeyed.
‘You are Desmonde Fitzgerald.’
‘I have always been led to believe so, sir. If I am in error perhaps you will correct me.’
‘Enough! Fitzgerald, do you consider me “corpulent”?’
‘Corpulent, sir? That is a word, sir, which comprises a variety of meanings, from a gross obesity to a benign and graceful embonpoint, eminently becoming to a prelate of your dignity and stature.’
‘Ah! I assume you know, or at least know of, the venerable Mother Superior of our neighbouring Convent School?’
‘Who does not, sir?’
‘Would you ever, for a moment, believe that she had passed her early life in a Borstal Reformatory?’
‘Sir, you yourself must be aware that many of our greatest saints, eventually models of piety and devotion, were in their early years reprobates and malefactors, which did not prevent their ultimate canonisation. Thus, should our Reverend Mother have been by chance to Borstal, would you wish deliberately to cast the first stone?’
A ripple ran through the school. We were all enjoying this immensely.
‘Enough, Desmonde!’ From the mildness of Beauchamp’s tone it seemed almost as if he were himself enjoying the exchanges. ‘Enough, sir. Borstal or not, would you consider it possible that this venerable and saintly lady would conceive a secret passion for any man?’
‘I would consider it eminently possible, sir!’
‘What!’
‘The word passion, sir, like your corpulence,’ here the school did indeed laugh outright, ‘has many meanings. There is the passion, sir, that you might feel if, God forbid, I should ever annoy you. I would then return to my beloved mother in tears, exclaiming brokenly: “Darling Mother, dear Father Beauchamp, our beloved Prefect of Studies, was in a raging passion with me!”’ Desmonde had to pause until he could be heard. We were all in hysterics. ‘Then, sir, there is that very frequent use of the word when a charming woman might say casually to her friend, as she came from her garden proudly bearing a trug loaded with blooms: “I have a passion for roses, darling.” Or again, a hen-pecked husband might say to his wife: “You have a passion for clothes, confound you. Just look at this milliner’s bill …” Then, again …’
‘Enough, Desmonde.’ We were getting out of control. Beauchamp held up his hand. ‘Tell me, did you write that birthday letter that came with the birthday cake?’
‘Sir, that is a leading question. Even in a court of law I would be given time to reflect and consider and if necessary to consult my legal advisers …’ Desmonde broke off suddenly. He sensed that enough amusement had been extracted from the situation, and that to go further would spoil the admirable effect he had created. So he bowed his head and said simply: ‘I did send the cake, sir. And I did compose the letter. It was all done in fun, sir. If it annoyed you, I am sorry and I will accept my punishment. And I am sure every one of us, who had a part in this silly joke, is equally contrite. I only hope that you enjoyed the cake.’
There was a long silence. One might have heard a pin drop. Then Beauchamp spoke.
‘Desmonde, I predict, without the slightest hesitation and complete assurance, that if you do not fall by the wayside, you will end your days as a Cardinal in the inner circle of the Vatican. You have the exact quality of diplomatic equivocation which is highly regarded in that august body. However, you are a pupil under my authority who must be punished. So your punishment will be this.’ He held us breathless for a long moment. ‘Next time
, send me a cherry cake. I prefer it to chocolate.’
It was a master stroke. Beauchamp knew how to handle boys. We rose in a body and, led by Desmonde, cheered him to the echo.
With the vacation drawing near the school was now in high good humour. We had just won our semi-final match against Allan Glens, a famous Scottish school with a strong team we had greatly feared. And how well and with what pleasure do I remember the game, played on the ground of the famous Celtic Club, in perfect weather, a sunny late afternoon, the cropped green turf, lawn smooth, so suited to our passing game, every member of the team in top form, the joy of victory and the cheers that greeted us as we streamed into the pavilion where Fr Jaeger threw his arms round me in a triumphant hug.
Our greatest hurdle cleared, we were now in the final where our opponents would be a little known team from a small elementary school and, with good reason, it was generally acknowledged that the Shield would at last be ours. I was in high favour; even Fr Beauchamp, not precisely a sporting man, would beam me a radiant smile as we passed in the corridor.
All our examinations were now over, the results already on the notice board. As anticipated, Desmonde had done superlatively well, taking half of the prizes, while I, a modest plodder, took the other half. However, also on the board was a communiqué from the university, briefly indicating, but with immense joy to myself, and to my dear mother, that I had won the Marshall Bursary. Finally on the board was the annual invitation to the boys of the Upper Sixth, inviting them to the Convent Dance given by the senior girls under the supervision of Mother Superior. This was an established custom between the two schools, doubtless to arrange a meeting between Catholic boys and girls of good education and high morals which might prove salutary, or even fruitful, now that they must face the liberty and temptations of unsheltered life. Naturally, we all regarded it as an immense joke.
The day of the momentous final was now upon us, the match fixed for five o’clock at Hampden Park, the famous international ground, and, for a schoolboys’ event, the crowd was exceptionally large. Even now it pains me to write of the event, of which the memory has so often recurred to sting me. We began in great style, swinging the ball about with precision and complete confidence, and for seven minutes we were obviously the masters, almost scoring twice. Then the incident occurred.
Our left back, a boy of no more than fifteen years, had the habit of running, even of walking, with his arms akimbo and in this fashion he tackled one of the opposing forwards. His elbow barely touched the other boy who, alas, slipped and fell. Instantly the whistle of the referee sounded. A penalty!
The kick was taken, a goal was scored, and immediately our young team went to pieces. Then the rain began, drenching us in heavy sheets, driven into our faces by gusts of wind, a pitiless downfall that persisted through the second half into a premature early darkness, almost a black-out with the pitch markings and the ball barely discernible. It was of course equally bad for our opponents, but they had their goal. The seconds were ticking away. In the last minutes of the game, the ball came to me on the touchline, outside the penalty area. I took one desperate blinding shot at the enemy goal. It was a good effort, sailing hard and true for the top corner of the net, when a fierce gust caught and diverted the ball, which struck the junction of the bar and the post, sailed high in the air, and went over.
Instantly the final whistle sounded, we were beaten, one to nothing. In the pavilion poor Fr Jaeger, ash grey from strain and suspense, immediately quelled our curses against the referee.
‘You did your best, boys. We were handicapped by the storm and,’ he added bitterly, ‘by the fact that you were wearing green jerseys. Now hurry and change, our bus is waiting.’
I could not face the dinner that had been arranged for us. I hid myself in one of the wash rooms, emerging only when the rumble of the bus had died. Then I took my bag and went out into the rain, faced with a long walk to the tram stop and a longer bumpy journey home.
Suddenly in the darkness a hand was on my shoulder.
‘I’ve a taxi waiting, dear Alec. I managed to get it through the gates. Give me your bag. I won’t say a word about the game and I’ll get you safely home.’
He led me to the cab, and into it. This was Desmonde, Desmonde at his best. Thankfully I lay back, utterly spent, and closed my eyes.
After we had cleared the gates and were on our way Desmonde whispered:
‘Are you asleep, Alec?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘I’m not going to talk about the match, Alec, but I’d like you to know that I prayed like mad all the time and when your shot just missed being a goal I nearly died.’
‘I’m glad you survived.’
He was silent for some minutes, then:
‘I’m leaving for Torrijos, for the Seminary, the day after tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘Yes. Mother is terribly upset. She’ll come with me to Madrid, then I may not see her till I’m ordained.’
‘That’s very severe.’
‘Yes, I understand they’re formidably strict.’
Again silence, then leaning towards me he murmured:
‘You know I love you, Alec.’
‘Like is the imperative word, Desmonde.’
‘Well, then I like you immensely and I want you to promise to keep in touch with me. There’s no ban on letters out there so I mean to write you often. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all, and I’ll reply, when I’m not tied up with Quain’s anatomy.’
‘Thank you, thank you, dear Alec.’
So the pact was made. And that is why I may continue this narrative with absolute accuracy despite the fact that we were often apart for many years.
The taxi drew up. We were now outside my home.
‘Thank you sincerely, Desmonde, for being so decent. It would have taken me more than an hour.’
I gave him my hand. I have a vague idea that he tried to kiss me on the cheek as I got out of the cab, but it was not successful.
‘Good-night, Desmonde, and thank you again.’
‘Good-night, my dear Alec.’
Chapter Five
I slept late next morning, from sheer exhaustion, and had to forgo my usual run in the park. Although the school prize-giving was not until late afternoon, my mother had taken the whole day off from work. She brought me my breakfast in bed, a special treat, and on the tray, in addition to my porridge, there was hot buttered toast and a plate of bacon and egg. Not a word did she speak of the game although I read in her face maternal compassion tempered by a determined brightness.
She sat with me while I cleared the tray, then:
‘I have a surprise for you, dear.’ And from the hall she brought a flat cardboard box, took off the lid and exposed a new, extremely good looking dark blue suit.
I gazed, enraptured, amazed.
‘How did you get it?’
‘Never mind, dear. You know that you must have a decent suit for the university. Hurry and try it on.’
‘How did you get it?’ I repeated, seriously.
‘Well … you know that silly old silver brooch …’
‘The one with the ring of pearls.’
‘I didn’t want it, I was tired of it, a useless old thing … I sold it … to a decent little Jew who knows me in my district.’
‘You loved that brooch. You said it was your mother’s.’
She looked at me in silence, then:
‘Please don’t make a fuss, dear. You had to have a suit for the prizegiving, and especially for the dance afterwards.’
‘I don’t want to go to the dance. I’ll hate it.’
‘You must, you must … you never have any amusement or social life.’ She added: ‘I had a letter about you this morning, delivered by one of the College servants. From Father Jaeger.’
‘Do let me see it.’
‘Certainly not. It’s my letter and I shall prize it. Besides, I don’t want you to get a swelled head.’
> She paused, while we confronted each other on the verge of laughter.
‘He did mention that he hoped you weren’t laid out, as you didn’t turn up for dinner. And if you’ve time he’d like you to come up and see him, before he goes off on Monday.’
‘He’s going away?’
‘So it appears.’
I pondered, puzzled. At least I would have the answer tonight.
‘Do try the suit, dear.’
I got up, horribly stiff, and got into my cold bath with some difficulty. A clean white shirt and a new light blue tie had been set out beside the suit. I dressed with care, enjoying myself for inspection, fully aware that I had not been as well turned out for at least five years.
My dear little mother looked me up and down, walked slowly round me, then looked again. No burst of admiration, no superlatives, no lovey-dovey ‘oh, my darling’, but it was pleasant to read her eyes as she embraced me and said, quietly:
‘It is a perfect fit. Now you look yourself.’
All that day I lazed around, easing my bruises, and getting in the way of my mother, but at five o’clock we were both seated in the school hall where most of the boys were already present with their parents and friends. Desmonde was much in evidence but, as he explained, his mother, busy with arrangements for their departure, was enforcedly absent. However, it was he who started the proceedings by leading us into the school song, the new version composed by Fr Roberts. The effect was rather spoiled by the noise of latecomers looking for seats and dragging chairs, and almost at once Fr Beauchamp appeared on the platform. After a short prayer, when everyone stood, he read an account of the, school’s progress during the past year, then began to distribute the prizes. Parents of sons so rewarded beamed, others less fortunate did not conceal their chagrin. A woman behind us was heard to remark rancorously to her neighbour:
‘Oor Wullie was fifth in Religious Knowledge. Whet wey did he no’ get a prize.’