Wilberforce (34 page)

—They're here! Burton announced at the door of the SCR. Chop-chop!

John drained his coffee and went down to greet the first cab.

*   *   *

It was going to be a historic Patron's Day. Hermes willing, Eros willing, his carefully laid plans would at last come to fruition. The Headmaster pro tem had announced that he would continue S-K's tradition of a nature walk in the evening, and he had asked REN to join them and provide scientific commentary. Morgan resented the Flea for every one of his novel intrusions into their time, but Morgan's curses ceased at this revelation. From seven o'clock until quarter to ten, the school would be occupied on a loosely patrolled nature walk, or back at the Academy under the eyes of somnolent prefects. Meantime, Polly had connived to have the evening free by fabricating an invitation to the home of a willing friend in Thixendale. She had not protested Morgan's suggestion of
l'amour complet
; in fact, she'd agreed more quickly than Morgan had dared hope. Her conditions had been simply that the event must take place off premises of the Keys and at a time of her choosing.

The only remaining obstacle had been the location.

Having watched Morgan concoct and reject any number of ideas, Droit finally revealed the obvious solution. Morgan had protested vehemently at first. Under no circumstances did he, Morgan Wilberforce, intend to return to McKay's barn. For one, it was hazardous and possibly collapsed by now. For two, Polly had once expressed disapproval of the business there. And for three, it was … what could he call it? A graveyard?

Droit appeared to think Morgan feeble.

Morgan was anything but feeble, but he was not prepared to complete his conquest of Polly on the selfsame ground where—did he really have to spell it out in words?

Droit was the last who required things spelled out in words, images, or insinuations, but that did not change the fact that Morgan's fears were the only thing standing between him and
l'amour complet
.

They'd exchanged testy words on the topic before Morgan had agreed to return to the godforsaken barn during a half holiday just to prove to Droit that he wasn't afraid.

During the reconnoiter, his stomach and limbs may have imitated those of a silly girl, but Morgan insisted that it was impossible by the laws of natural science for the past and the present to occupy the same place. Having glimpsed the fallen rafter inside the otherwise enduring structure, he determined not to dwell on the unpleasant.

And as it happened, the barn had a second enclosure, one accessible by a smaller door he'd never noticed before. It would be possible to tidy the smaller area, to make it hospitable, to lay it with rugs, to enter it with Polly (to enter Polly within it, ho-ho—yes, thank you!), and to enjoy her company there all without glimpsing or trespassing upon the other side of the barn.

As much as Droit objected to words like
trespassing
—superstitious and subservient—he nevertheless praised Morgan's plan for its practicality. And anyhow, Droit reasoned, wouldn't it be the ultimate triumph to achieve
l'amour complet
on that site, transforming defeat into victory and expunging the unpleasantness for all time?

Morgan could not argue with Droit's logic even though he knew what the other one would think. That boy never needed to speak. He worked on Morgan's nerves with glances and every sinister trick there was. Even bloody Grieves had never troweled on the sadness and regret that boy perpetrated regularly. Morgan had informed the twerp that his conjurer's trick of inducing irrational emotion had quite lost its power. He had outstayed his welcome, and if he wanted to look at Morgan and suggest that having Polly in the barn would never be an act of redemption for—Morgan refused to entertain such thoughts. The whole affair was getting baroque, and the only answer was to do as Grieves commanded them and concentrate on facts.

Patron's Day had arrived. Cabs were crunching across the gravel, and soon the glorious day would begin. Excellent food would be accompanied by diverting cricket. His father was unable to come this year—Morgan was too relieved to ask why—which left him delightfully free of responsibility. After a lavish luncheon and an excellent tea, he would rendezvous with Polly in their nutting bower. There, on the longest evening of the year, he and Polly would abandon themselves to every pleasurable thing,
l'amour complet
would be achieved, and life would change its course for good. Those, in short, were the facts.

Downstairs, the morning post had arrived in the pigeonholes, bringing him an envelope addressed in unfamiliar hand. Its thickness encouraged him to open it immediately.

And already the day was superlative! For here was his grandmother writing him from the wilds of Dartmoor on a day that wasn't his birthday. Here she was extolling his frankness (his failure of imagination) in asking simply for money when he needed it. Here she was replying warmly, confidentially, and materially with a banknote worth more than the pocket money he would receive for the rest of term. The fact that his wagering service was doing nicely did nothing to lessen her unmerited generosity. He was flush! He could now afford to give Polly something special that evening. He would be able to keep Nathan in pints for the rest of the term. Things were turning to good in every sphere. He could even afford to place a second wager in the book Colin had made on the Old Boys match. Nathan had voiced dire warnings about betting within the gates, but Morgan had explained that (a) Patron's Day was an exception, (b) the risk was mainly Colin's, and (c) if they didn't have anything riding on the match, they'd die of boredom watching it. At least half the school agreed, so Morgan had leaned on Nathan to analyze Colin's line. Morgan had originally put a crown on the First XI despite heavy odds on, but now that he had cash to spare, he decided to place a long bet on the Old Boys. He caught Nathan coming down from the dorm and suggested as much. Rather than balk, Nathan lowered his voice:

—You heard Barlow, then?

—What about him?

—Shooting cats half the night, and it didn't sound like nerves.

—Hell's Piss?

Colin's reserve brew was indeed the likely culprit, in Nathan's expert opinion. Morgan grimaced at the memory of the one time he had indulged; punishment had followed crime more swiftly than any JCR justice.

—At any rate, Nathan concluded, Barlow's stuck in the Tower for the next twenty-four hours, so there goes the best bat on the First XI.

Despite his contempt for Barlow's House captaincy, Morgan couldn't deny that without him, the First XI would be compromised, which made a bet on the opposition rather less long.

—It's a bit much for Colin to fix a match he's booking himself, Morgan said.

—He didn't.

—Are you trying to tell me Barlow half killed himself with Hell's Piss and Colin didn't give it to him?

—Correct.

Nathan terminated the conversation by stalking off down the corridor. Morgan could only conclude that Alex was responsible—for this and any other dog tricks at the Academy—in a way he'd grown tired of contemplating. This meant Alex had real money on the Old Boys, and this, combined with Barlow's affliction, meant that the Old Boys had an actual chance of winning.

Morgan caught up with Nathan:

—Let's put ten bob on the Old Boys before Colin moves the line.

—Leave me out of it, Nathan said. And anyway, you're skint.

Morgan handed over the morning's missive, whose contents cheered Nathan considerably.

—Your grandmother is the most brilliant old pet! What's this?

Nathan extracted a second page from the envelope, which Morgan had forgotten in his excitement over the money and the wager. On one side was his grandmother's hand:
I found this in the drawer with the photograph album. I believe your father wrote it when you started school? In any case, it belongs with you.

Morgan had no memory of his father's having written him anything when he started prep school. Clearly his grandmother was confused. Or his father had never sent it.

Boyo, you asked me to write down the rules of cricket “in a good way and leaving nothing out.” I'm sure your masters will teach you the bylaws, but here are a few things you won't find in books.

Always play for your side and not for yourself.

Never dispute an umpire's decision. When the umpire raises his finger, you are out.

Never risk your wicket with a flashy stroke. Remember that running four or six singles is just as valuable as hitting a boundary.

Never blame bad luck. Be a man and admit it was a bad stroke.

He tried to put it away, but Nathan protested:

—My father never wrote me anything like this.

—Count yourself lucky.

Morgan buried the letter in his pocket, tracked down Colin, and, in a flush of enthusiasm, put a guinea on the Old Boys.

*   *   *

John felt like a whirligig and it wasn't even nine o'clock. He'd already greeted a score of Old Boys and could remember none of their names, unless he'd taught them. Amongst those, he'd seen Frick major, Fletcher, and Bradley, all as unsavory as ever, though they professed themselves ready and willing to play for the Old Boys. By the end of breakfast, John had confirmed twenty-seven for the OB side. Tradition dictated that all Old Boys who could physically hold a bat or catch a ball would alternate. The tradition of filling out the side with masters had not come about because of insufficient numbers but because it was bad for morale when the Old Boys lost catastrophically. John had hoped he might avoid actually playing, but the absence of a strong bowler meant he would likely have to lend an arm at some point. He prayed that the day might pass quickly.

On the way into chapel, he was accosted by Andrewes, Burton's Captain of Games and Captain of the First XI.

—Sir, a word. Urgently?

John surrendered:

—What is it, Andrewes?

—It's Barlow, sir. He's retching up his guts in the Tower.

John's heart gladdened at the prospect of a diminished First XI.

—Here to concede the match? he asked with what he hoped was joviality.

—I've got to send someone in for him, Andrewes said, but I don't know who. It should be from Hazlehurst's, but …

—Yes? John prompted.

—Barlow's good, sir. We need the best possible substitute.

—And you want my opinion?

—The Head said I was to ask you and choose whomever you recommend, sir.

John realized that he was feeling what would commonly be called a conflict of interest, though evidently Burton did not see it that way. Evidently, Burton thought him capable of recommending a substitution even if it meant his own side would suffer. John cursed the Headmaster (pro tem) for his insight and reviewed the roster of Hazlehurst's Upper School.

—There's Wilberforce.

—He's in the Fifth, sir. We need someone special.

—Wilberforce is special.

—I've never noticed him.

—You will after today. Everyone will.

—How, sir? If you don't mind my asking.

—Can't explain, John replied. Must run. You asked my advice, and there it is. Otherwise, good luck to you and may the better side win.

He dashed off for chapel, leaving Andrewes looking as though he'd swallowed something he had expected to taste much sweeter.

*   *   *

Morgan didn't believe it was true until he saw it with his own eyes: Silk Bradley, alive in the quad.

He was dressed fashionably, but he seemed less elegant than before. His hair was longer, his face wider. He was shorter. Morgan recoiled into the House.

—No, you don't, Laurie said. Don't give him the satisfaction.

His elbow imprisoned by Laurie, Morgan was marched across the quad to where Bradley stood smoking.

Ghosts might walk, but they could not reach inside his chest and interfere with his heart. His heart belonged to him, and although it might stutter, it would not stop pumping his blood. It had no choice. Its nature was to seize and release until the end. Silk Bradley had not stopped it before, and this avatar could not stop it now.

The avatar noticed him at once.

—You still here? it said.

Morgan's tongue lay heavy in his mouth. Laurie brazenly produced two cigarettes, lit them in broad daylight, and passed one to Morgan. A grin broke across Bradley's jaw.

—I heard they turfed you out, Dicky.

That name, on that lip, burned sharper than the first draw of Laurie's roll-your-own, almost as sharp as that first time.
You've never smoked before, have you?
Was it possible to burn to death in the courtyard of an English school?

Bradley stared at him.
Don't suck too deep
.

Simply not possible for anything to continue.

But Bradley continued to stare. Morgan continued to smoke.
Take it easy. Do you want to be sick?
The impossible continued.

—You three playing this afternoon? Laurie asked.

Abruptly Morgan became aware of Bradley's companions, whom he recognized as Frick major and Fletcher. Fletcher sneered in the old way:

—Seeing as you boys put bets on the XI, we've no choice but to take your money.

—Think you can lead the Old Boys to their first victory? Laurie taunted.

Fletcher consulted Frick major:

—Who did you say was on the XI? Andrewes minor, Radcliffe minor, Barking Barlow, who else?

Colin's brother waved his cigarette dismissively:

—Some other little boys.

—Are you playing? Laurie asked Bradley.

Bradley stubbed out his cigarette but didn't answer.

—Wilberforce put a guinea on the OBs, Laurie told them.

The grin returned to Bradley's face and brightened his eyes like—