Wilberforce (35 page)

—If you thrash the XI, Laurie said, he'll be a rich man.

Bradley caught his gaze and held it as he used to. Under his skin, blood.

—Wilberforce!

A call from across the quad. Laurie snatched the cigarette from Morgan's hand and trampled it underfoot with his own. Fletcher and Frick major pulled Bradley away.

—Behave yourselves, boys, Fletcher sneered.

Morgan instructed his lungs to pump, stabs or no, heat or no.

—Wilberforce! the voice called again.

—It's Andrewes, Laurie hissed.

Breathless, dumb, Morgan floated through the crowd, propelled by Laurie to the threshold of the cloisters.

*   *   *

Chapel having convened, John stopped writing down the names of Old Boys who'd greeted him and announced their intention to play for the side. Belatedly he realized it didn't matter. Those who wished to play would turn up at the pavilion, and he would arrange them as he could. Patron's Day always produced an atmosphere of chaos, but he reminded himself that captaining the Old Boys offered a certain protection from it. While his colleagues had to greet parents, charm patrons, organize tours, and give chats on sundry topics, he was freed to the simple demands of cricket. His only tasks were to develop a camaraderie with the men on his side, to choose a position for each man that did not tax his abilities, to flatter their play, and to bowl as savagely as possible to limit the damage the First XI would inflict on age and wisdom. He knew he'd get the best play from his side in the hour and a half before luncheon. The wine carafe would diminish the OBs just as the meal would revive the First XI. After lunch, he knew, his right arm would be the only thing standing between the Old Boys and humiliation.

Why did this match always come down to him? And why had Burton found it necessary to corner him on the way into chapel and tell him in ponderous tones that it was essential everything proceed smoothly today and that “everything” hung in the balance?

The chapel was fuller than John remembered seeing it. Some boys had been sent upstairs to the gallery. John wondered how Burton had drawn such a crowd. Had he sent personal invitations? Or had parents and Old Boys merely flocked to Yorkshire to see what had become of the school S-K had abandoned, the institution so floridly savaged in the
Mail
that Easter, a place now led by a man who until late April had spent his career teaching Latin and Greek? John's eyes couldn't penetrate the crowds, and his head couldn't stand the strain. He tried to think of soothing things.

*   *   *

Morgan's stomach hurt after chapel. The pang that had seized him in the quad had grown, not lessened, at Andrewes's lunatic command.

Nathan's parents had already arrived, and Laurie's grandmother was due momentarily, so Morgan trudged down to the changing room alone. In minutes, the day had turned sinister. Not only had a specter appeared without warning inside the very fabric of the present, but it had looked at him, spoken to him, and shown that it knew him as it used to.

He didn't care what Bradley thought of him. Bradley hadn't set eyes on him in three years and hadn't spoken since the last night of his reign.

That night, Bradley had offered him a drink. Morgan had refused. They sat opposite one another in that study, a room so charged that Morgan had wondered whether he'd be able to keep breathing. Silk had looked at him in a way Morgan had not understood and still didn't understand. He had been preparing a curse when Silk produced a book, red leather, worn.

—Here, Silk said.

—I don't want anything from you.

—Do what you like with it, then.

Silk had dropped the book on the table and gone to gaze out the window into the humid night. Without even checking to see if Morgan was listening, Silk had begun telling him the story of the poacher's tunnel: how in the first generation of the school, there had been a boy called Hermes, who had pioneered every prank there was; how one great night, Hermes had penetrated the heart of Grindalythe Woods and there found its keeper, a creature who put Goliath to shame; how Hermes had won from him the secret of the poacher's tunnel and secured perpetual safe conduct through the woods for himself and his heirs; how Hermes had passed the secret to his fag, inaugurating generation after generation of custodians for the tunnel, each inducted by his fagmaster, each sworn to silence and sworn to exact an oath of secrecy from any he brought through the tunnel, each bound to pass the secret on to his own fag when he left the school. No exceptions had ever been made, Silk told him. No one had ever passed the duty to a friend. Silk was the seventh guardian, and Morgan would shortly become the eighth.

Silk had sliced his own palm with a penknife and then passed the blade to Morgan with blood still on it. In that moment, they became equals; whatever permissions Morgan had or hadn't given for the many acts of that brutally long year, in that moment his compliance became assent. He took Silk's knife and cut himself, releasing his own blood and touching his palm to Silk's, absorbing Silk's responsibility into himself. Silk's blood had not been shed for the whole world or even for any good purpose, but it flowed freely. There had been no vow, no cant or repetition. Silk had only held their wet hands together, as if with pressure he could change blood with Morgan. He'd looked into Morgan's eyes, and Morgan had not looked away.

When Morgan recollected the scene, he imagined any number of things he might have said or done. But the living truth had included none of them. In the real study on the real night, Morgan had accepted Silk's knife and touched it to the fleshy mound of his palm. He flinched even now to remember the slash, deeper than necessary. Later, Silk had wrapped Morgan's hand with a handkerchief tight enough to hurt. This accomplished, Silk had cast a final look across the study. Silk did not touch him again; he merely sighed with the sorrow of seven guardians and said:

—Goodbye, Dicky. Goodbye and …

Morgan had stared out the window. Silk opened the door. Floorboards creaked, the door closed. He never finished his sentence. He'd left Morgan alone in the study, hand bleeding and the mantle of Hermes uneasy upon him.

*   *   *

The changing room was empty—except for the other one, who straddled the bench in front of Morgan's pegs, dressed untidily for play. Droit did not deign to appear. Droit was surely disgusted by Morgan's failure to refuse Andrewes, failure of nerve, will, wherewithal.

—I suppose you think it's a beastly honor, Morgan told the boy, but I stand to make a significant sum—significant!—if the Old Boys win.

His companion passed him Barlow's blazer. Morgan began to undress:

—And now, through no fault of my own, I've been press-ganged to play against them. It's rank.

—The only thing rank is your garbling, Droit said.

He stood in the doorway and struck a match against his heel.

—My objections are entirely monetary, Morgan told him.

—I'll bet.

Droit lit a cigarette. Morgan bent to untie his shoes.

—Don't get worked up, Droit said. It's easy enough to avoid the old adder.

—I don't need—

—Just prove yourself incapable of fielding, and Andrewes will put you so far down the order that you'll never have to bat.

Morgan stepped out of his trousers:

—If I do that, the XI will tear me limb from limb—

—Mm, yes, please.

—The Flea will have me on the rack before the day is through—

—Better and better.

—And then they'll turf me out for good.

—Ha
ha
.

Droit took one of Barlow's shoes for an ashtray:

—If you don't want to dodge out of it, just say so, and all the better. That bastard Bradley needs staring down. Thinks he can swan in here, get his buggy eyes round you, rattle you—

Morgan pulled his cricket shirt over his head, muffling the sound for a moment.

—Only reason he's here, Droit continued, is for the consummate thrill of it, the old poof.

—He isn't.

Morgan did up his flannels and put his tie around his waist. The other one fetched him Barlow's cap. Droit looked from one to the other.

—I've had it with this milksop attitude, Droit spat. When it comes to the wall, you always defend him.

—I don't!

—Like that time over the basins, when he came down on you three days in a row. He knew it wasn't your fault, but still it was
touch your toes
, three the first day—

—I know—

—Three the next—

—I
know
—

—And then—

—I remember!

The other one stood by the partition, looking as Morgan had felt after the last harrowing eight, shaking, hardly breathing, then Bradley's hand on the back of his neck, fingers reaching into his hairline, consoling and forgiving him, almost—
if it happens again, expect the same
—goading him to sort out whoever had sabotaged the basins he was supposed to have—

—Don't be
daft
, Droit implored. He knew Fletcher was behind it—

—He didn't—

—He
knew
, but he fancied making you suffer, and now he's here to do it again.

Morgan felt queasy.

—You can't give in, Droit insisted. There's only one response, and that is to stand under his nose and show you don't care.

He offered a hip flask:

—Or you could tell the lot of them to morris off, and go elope with Polly.

The other one offered him a comb. Morgan kicked the bench out of his way:

—Just shut up, both of you.

*   *   *

The sun was darting in and out of the clouds. The Old Boys had been at bat nearly two hours, but Hermes willing, they'd be dismissed shortly. Morgan had spent the time in distant fielding positions, reminding himself about Polly. This evening, this very evening, in a few short hours, love would conquer all. Nothing, not Andrewes, not apparitions,
nothing
would interfere. He would not funk it.

He'd caught out one Old Boy, a codger who'd scored three runs through charity. Andrewes had done the lion's share of bowling and had managed an elegant game, allowing the OBs enough runs to keep their morale up, but not so many that the XI would have to work very hard after lunch. As it happened, Morgan had no chance to prove himself one way or another. He might have dropped the catch, but that would scarcely have made a difference since at that point the man was spent; for all Morgan knew, he'd saved him from a heart attack. As for batting, Andrewes had revealed the order, and Morgan would bat at number nine. The best batsmen, going in first, would score the bulk of the runs while the OBs were recovering from lunch. By the time they got to the middle of the order, the match would be decided.

Now the last OB was coming in, and Andrewes was moving them to a defensive field, with Morgan at long off. Nothing would disturb him there at the edge of the south ditch, not even the last two batsmen, viz, Fletcher and the one who didn't deserve thinking about. Not that Morgan was afraid to think about him. In fact, it was a pleasure to think of Bradley and to recall that he had been a mediocre batsman in his day.

—Do those stretches while you've got the time.

Morgan stirred but no one was there. He concluded that it had been a trick of sound, like the whispering gallery in St. Paul's, making some faraway utterance sound as though it had come from the ditch at his back. He glanced around, but the ditch was empty.

Except now someone was climbing out of it—the other one,
again
at a pointless moment, his hands and shoes muddy, his flannels hopelessly grass stained.

—Talking now, are we? Morgan said tartly.

The boy did not reply. Morgan decided to ignore the intruder and concentrate on the pitch, where Bradley was scoring. Bradley—he was still not afraid to name him—had in his day been wicketkeeper for Hazlehurst's XI. He'd been adept at catching balls, but his prowess as batsman had waxed and waned with the moon. Today it looked as though the moon was … whatever it had to be for Bradley to bat well.

The Old Boys had ninety-one. The XI would easily do better than that. There was simply no way he would have to bat, so it was no use—

—Grievesy's got a stinging right arm, the other one said.

Morgan turned on him:

—You'd love to see that, wouldn't you?

Grieves bowling fast, Bradley keeping wicket, Morgan trapped between them.

The boy nodded at a ball headed their way. Morgan moved for it, but it sailed over his head and beyond the ditch, a boundary. Smatters of distant applause reached him. He scrambled down the ditch to fetch the ball, but once he'd thrown it back and negotiated the ditch again, his shoes and flannels were a disaster. He would have to change before lunch.

Morgan's companion took hold of his left arm and helped him stretch it behind his back:

—Grievesy's hounded you all term about your form. He made you do those exercises—

—He didn't make me do anything.

—He found you the rubber tubing so you could do them properly. And he was terrifically withering about your badminton.

—As I said, he loathes me.

—But after he frumped off your badminton, you and Pearl went back to playing Tower Fives, and look what that's done for your stroke.

Morgan pulled away, but the other one refused to let go, tugging his arm until the joint felt it would crack—

—What's the idea—

And did.

—Ow!

—Better, said the brat.

Morgan rubbed his shoulder but found that it rotated freely. The boy smiled. Morgan tightened his jaw, and his fists:

—I am
this
close to going off you.

A cascade of applause drew his attention back to the pitch. Andrewes stood jubilant, his arms in the air; Bradley was walking away, his wicket demolished.