Broken Voices (Kindle Single) (2 page)

The College
was, and for all I know still is, a world apart with its own laws and customs.
Every evening at 7 p.m., the great gates were closed, and the place turned in
on itself for the night. Its boundaries were those of the mediaeval monastery,
as were many of its buildings where the Cathedral dignitaries lived and where
the houses and classrooms of the school were.

Mr Ratcliffe
lived at one end of what had been the Sacrist’s Lodging. He was a bachelor who
had taught at the school for many years and who now lived in semi-retirement in
a grace-and-favour house granted to him by the Dean and Chapter. He was still
active, though he must have been in his early seventies, and regularly attended
school functions and sometimes took classes when masters were away or ill.
Unlike many of his former colleagues on the staff he was not a clergyman.

‘It is most
kind of Mr Ratcliffe to invite you to stay,’ Mr Treadwell told me on my way
over. ‘You must try not to disturb him too much.’

‘How long will
I be there, sir?’

‘It depends on
your aunt’s health. I’ve asked her doctor to write to Mr Ratcliffe and he will
pass on the news to you. If she’s well enough, she may want you home after
Christmas.’ He must have seen my face for he hurried on, ‘But I advise you not
to raise your hopes too high. Pneumonia is a very serious illness. Very serious
indeed.’

‘Will
she...will she die?’

‘God willing,
no. But pneumonia can be fatal. You must pray for her.’

The Sacrist’s
Lodging had been built against the northern boundary wall of the monastery.
Most of the doors and windows faced inwards. If you looked out you saw the
Cathedral blocking out the earth and sky.

Mr Ratcliffe
answered Mr Treadwell’s knock. He was a tall man, quite bald apart from two
tufts of white hair above his ears. He generally wore knickerbockers and a
tweed jacket, stiff with age, with leather elbow patches.

He was very brisk
and businesslike on that first meeting — I felt that my plight deserved a
little more sympathy than he gave it. He showed me over the house, with Mr
Treadwell hovering behind us and making the occasional clucking sound designed
to express approval and gratitude.

The tour didn’t
take long. Downstairs, at the front, there was a sitting room dominated by a
grand piano which occupied almost half the floor space. The air was stuffy with
pipe smoke, which filled the air with a fine, blue-grey fog. There were books
everywhere. They were shelved in the orthodox manner along the walls. They
stood in piles under the piano and on the piano. They lined the mantelpiece and
colonized the shadowy corners.

A tortoiseshell
cat was asleep on one of the chairs. It opened one eye, looked at us, and shut
it again.

‘That’s
Mordred,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, looking directly at me for the first time. ‘I’d be
careful with him if I were you.’

‘Mordred?’ Mr
Treadwell said. ‘An unusual name for a cat.’

‘In
Le Morte d’Arthur
,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, ‘Mordred betrays his
uncle the King. Not a nice man. I regret to say that Mordred is not nice
either, hence the name.’

 ‘In that case,
I’m surprised you keep him.’

‘I’ve had him
since he was very young. I must make the best of him now, just as he must make
the best of me.’

Apart from the
sitting room, the other rooms downstairs were a kitchen and dining room, dark
little rooms with small windows, heavily barred, overlooking the bustle of the
High Street.

‘One washes
here,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, gesturing towards the kitchen sink. ‘I am afraid
there’s no bathroom. The lavatory is outside in the yard. If I need a bath, my
neighbours kindly let me use theirs. I have had a word with them, and they have
no objection to extending their hospitality to you. Of course, I try not to
trouble them very often if I can possibly help it.’

‘Splendid!’ Mr
Treadwell said.

Upstairs there
were only two rooms. The door of the one at the front remained closed —‘My
bedroom,’ Mr Ratcliffe explained, with an odd, apologetic twitch of his face.

The one at the
back was mine. Like the kitchen and dining room below, it overlooked the High
Street. It was low-ceilinged with two beds and a quantity of dark furniture
designed for less cramped quarters. The window was small and barred, like the
ones downstairs. It faced north and let in very little daylight. The air
smelled damp.

Mr Treadwell
poked his head into the gloom. ‘Splendid,’ he said, ‘Splendid.’ He withdrew and
clattered downstairs.

‘I — er — I
hope you’ll be comfortable.’ Mr Ratcliffe glanced round the room. ‘Mrs Thing
made up the bed on the left. She must have thought you would be more
comfortable there.’

‘Who’s Mrs
Thing, sir?’ I asked, and my voice emerged as a loud croak.

‘The woman who
does — she comes in three times a week to clean. And so on.’ He frowned, as if
trying to recall what she did do. ‘I stay out of her way myself.’

‘Is she really
called Mrs Thing?’

Mr Ratcliffe
appeared to give the matter serious consideration. ‘Well, no. Or not that I
know of. But I can never remember her name. Indeed, I cannot be sure that I
ever knew it. So I call her Mrs Thing instead.’

We went back
downstairs. Mr Treadwell was waiting in the hall and frowning at his watch.

‘I haven’t
mentioned your meals,’ he said. ‘Mr Ratcliffe makes his own arrangements. But
you will find bread and milk in the kitchen, I understand.’

‘And tea,’ Mr
Ratcliffe put in. ‘And butter and jam. Help yourself.’

‘That’s very
kind of you, Mr Ratcliffe.’ Treadwell turned back to me. ‘You will take your
lunch and tea at Mr Veal’s house. You know where that is? Beside the Porta.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The
Porta was the great gateway at the far end of the College. Mr Veal was the head
verger of the Cathedral, a tyrant who waged an endless war against the boys of
the King’s School.

‘I am sure Mrs
Veal will look after you.’ Mr Treadwell retreated towards the door. ‘It only
remains for me to wish you both a very happy Christmas. Goodbye — I must rush.’

With that, Mr
Treadwell was gone. The door slammed behind him. I never saw him again, as it
happens, a circumstance I do not regret. Not in itself.

Mr Ratcliffe
led the way into the sitting room, saying over his shoulder, ‘A train, no
doubt. They wait for no man, do they?’

I followed him
into the room and stared about me. I dare say I looked a little forlorn.

‘You could read
a book, I suppose,’ he suggested. ‘That’s what I generally do. Or perhaps you
would like to unpack. You mustn’t mind me — just as you please.’

I was standing
near the chair on which Mordred lay. The first I knew of this was when I felt
an acute pain on the back of my left hand. I cried out. When I looked down, the
cat had folded its forelegs and was staring up at me with amber eyes, flecked
with green. There were two spots of blood on my hand. I sucked them away.

‘Mordred!’ Mr
Ratcliffe said. ‘I do apologize.’

Freedom is an unsatisfactory thing. I
had longed for the end of term, to the end of the chafing restrictions of
school. But when I had freedom I did not know what to do with it.

Mr Ratcliffe
set no boundaries whatsoever on my conduct. In this he was perhaps wiser than I
realized at the time. But he made it clear — wordlessly, and with the utmost
courtesy — that he and Mordred had their own lives, their own routines, and
that he did not wish me to disturb them if at all possible.

On that first
day, I went into the town during the afternoon. During term time, we boys were
not allowed to leave the College except when specifically authorized — to walk
to the playing field, for example, or to visit the home of the dayboy, or to go
to one of the few shops that the school authorities had licensed us to
patronize. We were allowed to go shopping only on Saturday afternoons, and only
in pairs.

So — to ramble
the streets at will on Christmas Eve, to go into shops on a whim: it should
have been glorious. Instead it was cold and boring. The hurrying people making
last-minute purchases emphasized my own isolation. Everywhere I looked there
were signs of excitement, of anticipation, of secular pleasures to come. I had
a strong suspicion that Mr Ratcliffe would not celebrate Christmas at all,
except perhaps by going to church more often than usual.

I tried to buy
a packet of cigarettes in a tobacconist’s, but the man knew I was at the King’s
School by my cap and refused to serve me. I had a cup of tea and an iced bun in
a café, where mothers and daughters stared at me with, I thought, both
curiosity and pity.

In the end
there was nothing for it but to go back to the College, to Mr Ratcliffe’s. At
the Sacrist’s Lodging, his door was unlocked. I hung up my coat and cap and
went into the sitting room.

Mr Ratcliffe
wasn’t there. But a boy was sitting in Mordred’s chair, with Mordred on his
lap. He had a long thin head, and his ears stood out from his skull. His front
teeth were prominent, and slightly crooked.

The cat was
purring. They both looked at me.

‘Hello,’ said
the boy. ‘I’m Faraday.’

That was the start of my acquaintance
with Faraday. It’s strange that such a brief relationship should have had such
a profound effect on both of us. He was very thin — all skin and bone — but
there was nothing remarkable in that. The school food was appalling and few of
us grew fat on it. Some people called him ‘Rabbit’ because of his teeth.

The front door
opened. Mr Ratcliffe came into the house. ‘Ah — there you are. I see you’ve met
Faraday. But perhaps you two are already friends?’

I shook my
head. Faraday continued stroking the cat.

‘As you see, he
has already established a friendship with Mordred. How long it will last is
another matter.’ Mr Ratcliffe sat down and began to ream his pipe. ‘Mrs Thing
is making up the other bed.’

‘He’s staying
here?’ I said. ‘But—’

‘I’m not in the
choir anymore,’ Faraday interrupted. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

I noticed two
things: that Faraday’s face had gone very red, and that his voice started on a
high pitch but descended rapidly into a croak.

‘Yes,’ Mr
Ratcliffe said, tapping his pipe on the hearth to remove the last of the
dottle. ‘Poor chap. Faraday’s voice has broken. Pity it should happen just
before Christmas, but there it is. Dr Atkinson decided it would be better not
to take a chance: so here he is.’

Even then I
knew there must be more to it than this. The brisk jollity of Mr Ratcliffe’s
voice told me that, and so did Faraday’s face. Even if Faraday’s voice had
reached the point where it could not be trusted, they could have let him stay
with them, let him walk with the choir on Christmas morning with his badge of
honour around his neck.

Faraday looked
up. ‘They chucked me out,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair.’

At the time I pitied only myself. Now I
realize that all of us in that little house deserved pity for one reason or
another.

Faraday’s voice
had betrayed him. His greatest ally had become the traitor within. He had lost
not just his place in the choir but also his sense of who he was. Mr Ratcliffe
must have loathed the necessity to share his house with two boys, disturbing
his quiet routines and upsetting his cat. It didn’t occur to me until much
later that he was probably very poor. He must have received some money from the
school for housing us. Perhaps he had felt in no position to refuse. After all,
he was old and alone; he lived a grace-and-favour life in a grace-and-favour
house.

Faraday and I
went to the verger’s house at six in the evening, where Mrs Veal gave us Welsh
rarebit, blancmange and a glass of milk. We ate in the Veals’ parlour, a stiff
little room smelling of polish and soot. On the mantelpiece was a mynah bird,
stuffed and attached to a twig, encased in a glass dome.

On that
occasion we saw only Mrs Veal, apart from near the end of the meal when Mr Veal
came in from the Cathedral, still in his verger’s cassock; he wished us good
evening in a gruff voice and opened the door of a wall cupboard. I glimpsed two
rows of hooks within, holding keys of various sizes.

‘Enjoy your
supper,’ he told us, and went into the kitchen, where we heard him talking to
his wife.

Faraday rose
from his chair, crossed the room to the cupboard and opened the door.

‘Dozens of
keys,’ he whispered. ‘And all with labels. It’s the keys for everywhere.’

I pretended not
to be interested. ‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘Or he’ll catch you.’

That night I heard Faraday crying.

I remember in
my first term at school I would lie in bed, listening for other boys crying and
stuffing my handkerchief in my own mouth in an attempt to muffle my own tears.
There were about twenty of us huddled under thin blankets in a high-ceilinged
dormitory, the windows wide open winter or summer. Sometimes one of the older
boys would round on one of the weeping children.

‘Bloody
blubber,’ he would whisper, and the rest of us would repeat the words over and
over again, like an incantation, lest we be accused of blubbing as well. Little
savages.

But that had
been years ago. I wasn’t a kid anymore and nor was Faraday.

‘Faraday?’ I
murmured.

There was
instant silence.

‘Are you
crying?’

‘I’ve got a
cold.’

It was the
usual excuse, transparently false.

‘What is it?’ I
said. And waited.

‘Everything.
Bloody everything.’

We lay there
without speaking. The room was not quite dark — the curtains were thin and the
light from a High Street lamp leaked into the room.

‘But it’s my
bloody voice really,’ he went on. ‘Everything would have been all right if it
hadn’t been for that.’