‘Steve!’ His name coming hissing through the hedge startled him so much that he jumped off the kerb and into the road. He stared at the thick hawthorn hedge, and his name, called again and accompanied by a suppressed laugh, made his face light up and his eyes sparkle, and he dived across the pavement and bobbed this way and that to see through the dense growth.
‘I know it’s you, Dennis. Is Jimmie there?’
‘Aye, I’m here.’
‘Come on out.’
‘No, you come in.’
‘How?’
‘Further down, there’s a hole at the bottom. You needn’t go down to the gate…just a bit further along.’
Stephen ran down the hedge until Dennis’ voice called, ‘Here, man. Down here,’ and, crouching down, he lay on the grass verge and was immediately pulled into the field.
‘We saw you comin’,’ said Jimmie, ‘and we dodged in here.’
‘Where you going?’ asked Stephen. ‘Aren’t you going to school?’
Pat’s sons looked at each other. There was a year difference in their ages, but they were so alike as to be often mistaken for twins, being very like their young uncles at an earlier age.
‘We’ve got a holiday,’ said Dennis, ‘haven’t we, Jimmie?’
Jimmie nodded.
‘Holiday? We haven’t. What for?’
‘Oh…well…’ Again they looked at each other then burst out laughing, and Dennis said, ‘We’ll tell you if you don’t split.’
‘No…honest, I won’t.’ Stephen shook his head, his eyes wide.
‘We’re playing the nick.’
Stephen knew what playing the nick was; Dennis and Jimmie often played the nick…and they continued to live. Imagine anyone playing the nick in their school and Mr Newman finding out. Stephen could see death, instantaneous, descending on the culprit.
‘D’you know whose field this is?’ he asked.
‘No, and we don’t care.’ They laughed again. ‘But over there there’s a wood. It’s grand. Nobody knows about it but us. And it’s crammed full of blackers.’
‘Blackers?’
‘Blackberries, yer dafty…whoppers. As big as that—’ Dennis made a circle with his first finger and thumb that would have encompassed a golf ball.
‘And there’s a hole that stinks,’ said Jimmie.
‘Like a poke of divils,’ added Dennis.
‘And there’s big trees with nests in them. Nothing in the nests though. We climbed fifteen last Thursday.’
Stephen’s eyes sparkled in genuine admiration. His cousins always evoked admiration in him, and he longed in his innermost heart to be like them. It didn’t matter which one, his admiration was shared equally between them. His eyes still sparkled as he said dolefully, ‘I wish I could come.’
‘Come on then.’
‘But I’m going to school.’
‘Give it the slip.’
‘You mean…play the nick?’
The last words were whispered and Stephen’s finely arched eyebrows slowly rose towards his hair. The vista of escape, which held such delights, was here close at hand…trees with nests, holes with smells, and blackberries and by indulging in these delights he could escape Mr Newman’s lesson. And by Monday, he, Mr Newman, would likely have forgotten about the sums. Or, anyway, he’d have time to have another go at them over the weekend. He might even be able to take them to his Auntie Ann’s, whereas when he asked his mother…His mind closed down on this avenue of thought and swung eagerly back to the proffered joy of the moment. Its acceptance was already decided in his mind.
‘But what’ll I say?’ he asked.
‘Oh, say your ma was bad,’ said Dennis.
‘No, she’s never bad,’ said Jimmie, with emphasis on the she, ‘and she goes to school to meet him.’
The boys surveyed each other thoughtfully, and Stephen burst out, ‘But not today…it’s Friday.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dennis. ‘But the ma excuse has worn thin, they don’t believe it. What about having toothache?’
‘But I never have, all my teeth are good.’
‘Well, you could say…No, I tell you what,’ cried Jimmie. ‘Say you had nightmares and slept in.’
‘I do have nightmares.’
‘Well, then’—the boys beamed at him, great innocent beams; it was as if his statement had draped their scheme in a white veil of truth—‘what we waiting for? Come on.’ They both touched him on the arm before turning and running across the field.
Stephen hesitated for one second, then he too ran, jumping and leaping in their wake, over the hillocks towards the wood.
It was nearing eleven o’clock when Mr Rankine closed the front door of his cottage and set out on his journey to school. His breath came in short wheezing gasps, and he told himself he was a fool, and he consigned Mr Maitland Byrnes to where he considered was his proper dwelling place. Ringing him up to tell him Steele was away with hay fever, and he’d be obliged if as soon as possible…! Asthma, to Mr Maitland Byrnes, was merely an excuse for mornings in bed.
He walked slowly to the end of the lane, through a gateless opening and past a board nailed to a post and bearing the words ‘This Wood is Private Property, Keep Out!’ And within a few minutes he was lost to view in the belt of trees.
Ah! He tried to sigh a deep sigh of satisfaction, but the effort was checked by his breathing, and he stood for a moment looking up at the naked trunks and the bushy-headed tops of a group of pine trees. What he should do was to stay here, right here, and sit beneath these trees all day…sleep under them and inhale the balm of their scent, and damn Mr Maitland Byrnes. Why did he stick him, anyway? Him and his tinpot college! Oh! He made a gesture of futility to the trees, and with a final nod towards them walked on.
He had been walking for five minutes when he heard the noise, a noise that only boys could make…barbarous sounds of glee and joy and bravado; and although it meant leaving the path and tackling the wooded incline to the right of him to observe them, he did so, because he loved boys, but mostly he loved the sound of them at play. He knew where these boys were; they were in the stream that leapt down the little valley. Only last week he had sat and dabbled his feet in that stream. Wouldn’t Mr Maitland Byrnes have been shocked at such loose behaviour on the part of his English master? Again, damn Mr Maitland Byrnes!
He closed his eyes for a moment when he reached the summit of the hill, and when he opened them there were the boys, framed as if in a picture. They were naked, and one boy was lying on the bed of the stream that was not much wider than his own body, and he was pretending, in about six inches of water, to be swimming strongly, while the other two were splashing each other with scooped handfuls of water that sprayed like jewels over them. The little stream was full of shadows and sunbeams, mixing with each other as if stirred by a giant hand. The shadows and the sunbeams dappled the boys, and the scene brought a feeling of envy to the man as he watched. He stood perfectly still, until the smallest boy moved into a patch of sunlight, when he took a step forward and exclaimed aloud.
Whether in some way the boys sensed they were being watched or they heard the strange voice even above their own noise, they stopped their play, and the two who had been sparring stood still for a moment. And then they knew something had stopped their fun, for a voice came to them from the top of the bank.
‘Taggart!’ it said.
Stephen’s head jerked upwards so quickly that the back of his neck made a cracking sound.
‘Come here.’
Stephen stepped out of the stream and grabbed at his shirt; and as he walked towards the master he pulled it crazily over his head.
‘What’s this, Taggart?’
‘Please, sir.’ Stephen stared up into the long, straight face of the little man. ‘Please, sir.’
‘Yes?’
Stephen’s head swung in all directions on his shoulders. It swung round and he looked down the bank to where Dennis and Jimmie were staring up at him and at the same time tr
ying to scramble into their clothes; it swung down to the bottom of his shirt, and he looked at his wet bare legs; then it swung back to the master’s face, and his eyes, although he was not aware of it, were full of pleading.
‘Go and put your things on.’
He scurried down the bank again, and Jimmie, with his eyes still on the man on top of the bank, asked out of the corner of his mouth, ‘What’s up? Who’s he?’
‘Master,’ whispered Stephen.
‘Come here, you two.’
‘Us?’ the boys both asked at once.
‘Yes…you.’
They left Stephen and scrambled up the bank, and when they reached the man they were in no way intimidated, for, besides fearing no-one, they found they were nearly as big as this chap.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is Jimmie,’ said Dennis, pointing to his brother. ‘And that’s Dennis,’ said Jimmie.
‘Stop trying to be funny,’ said the master. ‘Jimmie and Dennis what?’
‘Taggart.’
‘Taggart?’
‘Yes. He’s our cousin.’ They nodded to where Stephen was now coming up the bank.
‘Your cousin? Well, well.’
They both laughed at the little man…he was funny, he wheezed when he talked, and he seemed to spit his words out.
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m nearly fourteen,’ said Dennis. ‘And he’s nearly thirteen.’ He pointed at Jimmie.
‘Why aren’t you at school?’
They looked at each other, their eyes smiling quizzically.
‘We’re playing the nick,’ said Jimmie with slightly bowed head and raised eyes as if he was imparting a joke and wondering just how it was going to be received.
Something passed over the little man’s face, like a ripple. His wheezing became louder. Then he asked, ‘Do you do this often?’
Again they looked at each other, and Dennis nodded, while Jimmie said, ‘On fine days.’
‘And what excuse do you give?’
Here they laughed out. ‘None now, the teacher just canes us. And once,’ prompted Jimmie, ‘we were really sick through tinned herring, and we still got the cane.’
‘Splendid,’ said the little man. ‘How many do you get?’
‘Four…sometimes six.’
‘Which is your school?’
‘St Agnes’.’
‘Well’—the little man seemed to grow bigger before their eyes—‘if you are not in St Agnes’ within half an hour, when I shall phone your teacher, I’ll ask him to give you ten. Do you understand?…Off now!’ His voice swelled—it seemed bigger than himself.
With just one quick glance at Stephen the boys were off, running through the trees, pushing at each other as they went, their very heels saying, ‘We’re going but we’re not scared.’
‘Now, Taggart, are we ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was a distinct quiver in Stephen’s voice. He wouldn’t have felt like this, he was telling himself, if Mr Newman had caught him…not this sorry feeling, anyway. But now Mr Rankine would no longer call him out to the front to do things on the board, or speak to him nicely, or cuff his head.
‘It’s a beautiful morning, Taggart.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you like woods and trees, Taggart?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stephen tripped over a rut in the path as he spoke, and Mr Rankine’s hand stopped him from measuring his length on the ground. ‘There you are,’ he said, steadying Stephen, his hand still on his shoulder. ‘Now tell me. Why did you play the…join your cousins this morning? Because it was a nice morning, eh, and you wanted to play in the wood?’
Stephen did not immediately answer…Mr Rankine didn’t sound really mad at him. Although his voice was stiff, he still seemed the master a fellow could tell things to right out. So he said, ‘Yes, a bit, sir. But I didn’t want to go to school because…well, I hadn’t got my homework done, sir.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Rankine wheezed once or twice. ‘Did you try to do it?’
‘Oh yes, sir, for a long time…even when I was in bed.’
‘Let me have a look at your work.’
Stephen fumbled in his satchel and proffered the homework book. And Mr Rankine looked at it as he walked slowly on…ten sums for one evening. God! That was Newman all over…never missing the smallest chance to vent his spleen against life…Of course it was life that had twisted Newman, not Newman himself who had done so. No, the big, fat leech couldn’t be expected to see ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.’ Was ever a school made up of such teachers? Maitland Byrnes, with his ego vying with space in its endlessness; Newman with his ulcer, and his frustrations, and his middle-class rancour. Once he had thought, Poor Newman, but not now, not since he learned that his main outlet was the goading of boys, mostly ones like young Taggart here who came from working-class people, whom Maitland Byrnes was being forced more and more to take into his college…College! A third-rate educational establishment staffed by men who had failed. Yes, that was the truth of it…men only fit to give out ersatz education, including himself. But at least he was human. Whatever damage his own upbringing had wrought it had not smothered his humanity.
He looked down on Stephen. When he first saw and heard the boy’s mother, his own had been brought vividly back to mind, and he remembered wondering whether Taggart, too, would develop asthma. And he had watched the boy as one follows the development of a specimen, feeling something of a prophet when he saw Taggart’s head jerking to the side, and he had waited for the twitching of the shoulders to follow. And it came—he could remember when he himself twitched—and he decided he would keep an eye on the boy, and, if possible, prevent the development of the scourge from which he himself was suffering now.
He had often looked back to his own schooldays and thought that the understanding and a little personal attention of even one teacher might have been enough to counteract the destroying influence of his mother…It might. On the other hand, it might not—his present philosophy added the cynical touch.
‘Let’s sit down here and see what we can do about these, eh?’ He tapped the book and walked towards the shade of a tree, and Stephen, his mouth gaping with relief followed him, and sat down at his knee, his legs curled under him.
‘Now what have we…? Well, if we do it this way.’ The pencil moved slowly until the answer was reached. ‘There now…you do the next one.’
After various licks at his pencil, Stephen, to his great delight, brought off the sum.
‘There. That’s all there is to it.’
After the last sum had been completed and Mr Rankine had deftly altered three of the others, he said briskly, ‘Well, now, no more loitering, or else we’ll both get it. Come on.’
Almost gaily, they walked through the wood, and it wasn’t until they neared the school that Stephen was brought sharply down to earth by the question, ‘And what excuse are you going to give Mr Newman for being absent?’
Stephen looked up at the master, and the choice between toothache, his mother being ill, and him having had a nightmare was instantly dismissed from his mind. It was funny, but although Mr Rankine was only a small man, not even as big as his father, he made you think of big things…like doing brave things. He could see Mr Rankine, if he had played truant, marching into Mr Newman and saying, ‘I’ve played truant.’ So, with a tilt of his chin, he said, ‘I’ll tell him the truth, sir.’
The statement brought Mr Rankine to a halt…Good Lord! For any boy to tell this kind of truth to Newman would only have disastrous results for the teller…but much more so when he was Taggart.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘Don’t be such a fool,’ but the boy’s face was bright with heroism. And he walked on again, saying, ‘Mm…mm. You know you’ll be caned?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The tone was bright, as if the prospect of the cane was even pleasing.
Well, it was impossible to tell the boy to give Newma
n any excuse but the true one. Whatever the boy said he would get a lashing, both with the cane and the tongue. The latter, he knew, many boys dreaded more than the former.
They reached the drive leading to the schoolhouse and as they approached the main door Mr Rankine, after a number of wheezing coughs, said, ‘Should you find yourself stuck at any time, Taggart, come along to me.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir.’
He coughed again. ‘I often take a walk on the top playing field during break. You understand?’
Inside the glass door he stopped and smiled down at the boy, and Stephen, his heart full of admiration for this man, who, at the moment, appeared like a god to him, smiled back and tried to put all he felt in once again saying, ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’
As Mr Rankine’s hand brought him a cuff alongside the ear he turned and ran along the corridor, his body buoyant with gratitude and courage. Perhaps if his momentary feeling of courage had not been so great his fear would have lent him caution and the disastrous incident would never have happened. But he almost flung himself into the classroom, and not until Mr Newman turned his opaque eyes from the blackboard and let them rest on him did his courage recede; and then only a little, for the import of Mr Rankine’s words shone like a beacon before him. Even when, without a word, Mr Newman turned his attention to the blackboard again and left him standing foolishly, the object of rows of curious and excited eyes, even then his courage was high, and he was fully aware, like everyone else, that this seeming ignoring of himself forebode dire results.
The example was finished with a wide sweep of Mr Newman’s arm across the board, and he stepped on to the dais and seated himself at his desk. The air of the classroom was still, the bodies of the boys were still, there was no movement other than of their eyes, which travelled backwards and forwards from the boy, in whom dwelt some part of themselves, to the great black-cloaked deity who had the power to rain on each one of them terror, terror that affected their bladders to such an extent that the agonies never came singly.
Maggie Rowan Page 23
