Wilberforce (29 page)

His ferocity silenced them. Morgan passed Nathan his third pint as the news sank in. Upright Nathan, logical Nathan: in protest against injustice and out of loyalty to Morgan, he had leaked the story and photograph to the
Mail
, betraying the Academy and bringing down S-K.

—What were you planning if you didn't come back? Laurie asked at last.

Nathan glowered.

—They were quarreling over it. Father knew someone at Giggleswick, but she said we couldn't afford it.

Morgan's father had never discussed money with him or before him. The subject was unsavory.

—Colossal bore, her on about fees and him about cesspools. But then your letter came.

—It changed his mind? Morgan asked.

—No, Nathan said. But he telephoned your pater, and when he put the phone down, he came in and told us we were going back. So here we are.

Laurie had a thousand questions, but as far as Nathan was concerned, the conversation was finished. They settled the bill and trudged back to the woods. Nathan was dragging, having polished off five pints to their two, but they pressed on to make call-over. At the fallen tree near the tunnel entrance, they stopped to catch their breath.

—There's only one part you haven't told us, Morgan said through stitches, and that is what Alex has to do with anything.

Nathan tried to be sick, but failed.

—He got what he wanted, Morgan continued. You both came back. So what's this resolution not to speak of him?

Nathan spat heavily. A chill cut through the spring afternoon.

—Tell me it isn't true, Morgan begged.

Nathan bent over, hands on knees.

—Oh, sodding hell! Morgan complained.

—What? Laurie demanded.

—Alex knows, doesn't he? He knows about the
Mail
and he knows about the photograph. Little beast has JP right under his thumb.

—Hell's bells, Laurie said as the full enormity dawned on him.

Morgan felt the strength leave his limbs. Laurie cursed with every word in his vocabulary. Nathan finally achieved his ambition and vomited.

*   *   *

—Wilberforce, a word?

Mr. Grieves assaulted him on the way out of tea. Morgan cast about for rescue, but Nathan and Laurie had gone ahead. He had so far avoided direct encounter with the man and hoped he might pass the entire term without speaking to him. If Grieves said anything—one single word—about last term, Morgan would abandon him where he stood. And if he intended to set upon him with pity, Morgan would cut him to the bone.
I don't intend to discuss it, sir, at this time or any other.
That he would deliver frostily. Why the devil had he ever—ever!—said to the man the things he suspected he had said? Never mind! If he prevented Grieves from speaking of it, if he firmly blocked any vulgar stabs at intimacy, if he presented Grieves the face of cynical youth, then he would never have to mind.

—You weren't at batting practice this afternoon, Grieves declared. Why?

A brief but tactically disastrous moment passed while Morgan absorbed the salvo.

—I certainly was, Morgan retorted. Ask our DC.

—Oh, I did, Grieves replied. Unfortunately, his clipboard didn't bear any resemblance to what I saw on the upper pitch.

—I wasn't on the upper pitch, obviously.

—No, and you weren't on the other pitches either.

—You seem to have had quite a bit of free time, Morgan said acidly.

—As a matter of fact, I had no end of free time.

Morgan scowled. Rather than lose his temper, Grieves lounged against the arch.

—Have it your own way. The point is you weren't batting when you should have been, so you can bring me this—

He fished a newspaper cutting from his breast pocket.

—copied over six times by break tomorrow morning.

—What? Morgan balked.

—You heard me.

—But—you're not—it's none of your—

—Let's take that as read, shall we? Grieves said coolly. Like it or not, I've taken an interest in your cricket, and unless you pull yourself together, you'll find yourself victim to these little injustices on a regular basis.

—But—

—If you've any complaints, take them to the Headmaster pro tem. Otherwise, lines, my desk, break.

Grieves folded the cutting into Morgan's jacket pocket and gave his good arm a clap.

—And you can mind your tongue. Masters in this school are still addressed as sir, whether you like what they have to say or not.

Morgan's ears burned.

—Good night, Wilberforce.

And the man left him there, alone in the pointless archway, outmaneuvered—trounced.

*   *   *

—What the hell is that? Laurie demanded at Prep.

Morgan had sparred with a punching bag in the gym rather than complain to his friends about Grieves's monstrous injustice. He couldn't face Nathan's outrage or Laurie's scrutiny. Now he had no choice.

—The most putrid pool of putridness ever published.

Laurie read over his shoulder:

—Everything, small and great, from Summer Time to the aseptic method of surgery, has been fiercely opposed and ridiculed in the period of its innovation.
Why are you copying this swill?

—The spite of Grievous, J.

—What, lines?

—I'm not discussing it.

Miraculously, they accepted his word. Laurie retreated to the window seat with a book. Nathan occupied himself repairing their wireless aerial. Morgan sat at the table and began to copy the protracted article.
Within recent memory, lawn tennis has been thought effeminate and selfish.
He'd never thought it any such thing. He'd thoroughly enjoyed it at Longmere every summer. As a matter of fact, lawn tennis had been the occasion for his first seduction of a girl. At least, Nathan had said that it counted as seduction even though he had only kissed her and touched the front of her dress. He was getting hard at the thought of it even though the Rosemary Romance was years ago, an Easter in many respects like the one he'd just passed: handicapped, imprisoned, agitated beyond measure.

The passage moved from lawn tennis to the game of cricket, declaring it
the source of that spirit of unselfish team-work which has undoubtedly made England what it is.
Did Grieves believe this excrement? The clipping went on to recount cricket's humble beginnings as
a coarse and dangerous pastime which men of breeding ought at all costs to avoid
; to describe a number of spectacular injuries sustained by players over the years; and to extol the puke-worthy
refiner's fire
that was an afternoon of overs spent in defense of wickets and pursuit of runs. It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to copy the thing out once. His hand was sore.

A knock at the study door interrupted their labors. Alex let himself in without waiting for permission.

—Bugger off, Laurie commanded.

—That, Alex said.

—What? Nathan replied.

—I need it.

Nathan lurched to his feet, snatched a book from the shelf, and bundled his brother into the corridor, closing the door behind them.

Laurie, slack-jawed, turned to Morgan:

—Tell me that isn't what it looks like.

—How much d'you think he's giving him?

Before they could say any more, Nathan returned, replaced the book, and resumed the wireless:

—I'm not discussing it.

Morgan flushed with outrage:

—If he's blackmailing you, you ought to tell your pater. It isn't right.

—I said I'm not discussing it!

Laurie fled behind his book. Morgan exhaled aggravation and embarked on the second copy of Grieves's abominable clipping.

*   *   *

Morgan Wilberforce delivered his imposition, though with such naked contempt that John felt he'd miscalculated. He accepted the lines, and as Wilberforce waited, John opened a fresh exercise book he had taken care to procure that morning. Uncapping his fountain pen, he wrote the date at the top of the first page and extended the book to Wilberforce:

—Sign.

Wilberforce was too shocked to comment. He took John's pen as if it might bite him and wrote his name below the date. John capped the pen, blotted the page, smoothed out the clipping, and unscrewed a pot of paste. He wasn't handy and had never kept a photo album, but he took his time and behaved, as the minutes of break ticked by, as if nothing could be more soothing or satisfactory than applying adhesive to the back of a clipping and pressing said newsprint into an exercise book beneath Wilberforce's sloppy signature. Despite a deliberate iciness, Wilberforce fidgeted, absorbed and horrified by John's actions.

By the grace of God, John managed to affix the article and to close the paste pot without spilling anything, tearing anything, or getting anything unpleasant on his clothing. He placed the exercise book in the drawer of his desk conspicuously beside the attendance ledger. This accomplished, he tore up Wilberforce's unexamined lines and deposited them in the wastepaper basket.

—That will do, John said with forced cheer, off you go.

He could not recall a more murderous expression. His hands were still shaking when he poured his coffee in the SCR. None of his colleagues had mentioned the business, so presumably word had not got round. Not that it was significant! It was a workaday episode of school discipline. There was no reason for anyone to think about it for a single second.

Had he won the encounter, or had he gone overboard as he seemed to do so much of the time? Wilberforce would probably deign to appear at batting practice that afternoon, but would he tolerate John's talking to him? And what if he didn't turn up? Would John be able to enforce such a penalty twice? He'd hoped that the theatrics with the exercise book—signifying who knew what?—might impress his will on the boy in some intangible fashion. He knew what Burton-Lee would say:
Never threaten what you aren't prepared to deliver. Make sure every gesture is crystal clear. If ever you allow ambiguity to stand, ensure that serves your aims. Never engage in slovenly discipline; it's worse than no discipline at all.
But Burton wasn't there, not mentally and not, John noticed as he scanned the SCR, physically. He had no intention of discussing Wilberforce with Burton, but unfortunately he did need to discuss something else with the Headmaster as soon as possible: his lodgings, and the awkward fact that his landlady had raised the rent on his rooms in his absence. He'd procrastinated for a fortnight, and now the rent was due. Managing Wilberforce seemed like a float down the river compared to confronting his nemesis-cum-employer on a matter of finance. Still, what can't be helped … He sidled up to the Eagle, who was locked in tense dialogue with REN.

—Either of you know where I might find our esteemed Headmaster pro tem?

A severe expression seized the Eagle's face. John cursed himself for his graceless style of interruption.

—He's occupied, REN announced flintily.

John left them before the Eagle decided never to speak to him again. The coffee was watery, the conversation in the room hushed. It occurred to him to wonder whether something unpleasant was afoot. Finding Clement asleep on the chesterfield, John took the coffeepot to Hazlehurst and refilled the man's cup, his best stab at an overture.

—Good chap, Hazlehurst murmured, clutching his forehead.

John forcefully ignored the condescension, which was no different from usual, and sat down beside his colleague.

—Bit of a morning?

—Infernal hay fever, Hazlehurst moaned.

—I meant Burton.

Hazlehurst moaned again.

—That. It's not cricket, is it?

—Isn't it?

Hazlehurst feebly sipped his coffee.

—Board sending those swine in with their accountancy flunkies, harassing us when the term's not a fortnight old.

John felt he had to feign understanding to get a full report:

—It's a bit much.

—And how was Burton supposed to know? If S-K's records didn't mention it, precisely how was he to guess we owed Stoakes … what was it?

—Four hundred, the Eagle said.

—Four thousand, REN corrected.

—I'm sure it wasn't as much as that.

John still wasn't following, but he was fairly sure Stoakes was the name of the Academy's coal supplier. And if S-K owed Stoakes money, whom else might he have owed?

John felt a wave of pity for Burton, followed by a crest of joy that he himself had not been saddled with any serious responsibility within the school.

—It's absolutely none of their affair, Hazlehurst declared. And I'll tell you one thing!

—Yes?

—If a single one of those
trade
unionists tries to poke his red snout into
my
House, I'll make sure he feels the jaws of the crocodile!

John murmured appreciatively, dizzied by his colleague's array of metaphor. He had never been fond of accountancy, and he felt thankful yet again that his responsibilities as undermaster included no such drudgery. The only numbers he needed to keep straight were the balance between his wages and his expenditures, which comprised the limited food items purchased outside the school, coins for his gas meter, any hot baths beyond once a week; stamps, stationery, books; birthday and Christmas gifts for the aunts and for Meg, Cordelia, and Owain; repairs as necessary to his bicycle; train fare to Saffron Walden and to the aunts as well for Christmas; that was about it. The tin in his rooms served perfectly well for collecting his funds and distributing them as needed. If he couldn't escape the unpleasantness of money, what perks remained to his profession?

The bell summoned them back to lessons, and although the skies promised fine cricket, the fact that he had not confronted Burton at break meant that he'd have to pursue the man after lunch. And given the intrusion of the Board's accountants, or whoever they were, Burton was even less likely to take John's raised rent in good humor. His stomach soured.