by Doug MacLeod
One of the students, an oaf called Seymour, removes the straw boater from Charlie’s head and throws it to the stair. Charlie stoops to pick it up before it is trampled. Seymour laughs. While Charlie retrieves his hat, I snatch the boater from Seymour’s head, then give it an expert toss so that it flies across the courtyard. It lands atop the statue of our founder, William Curlew. Putting silly hats on William Curlew is a crime that attracts the highest punishment our school can offer – and some of these punishments are so horrific that you would be excused for thinking Wishall Grammar a Catholic school. Seymour has his name inside his boater, as is the rule. He curses me then runs to the statue to remove the hat before it is spied by one of the masters.
Mr Atkins surveys his class of thirty boys, little knowing that I am aware of his appalling teaching method and nurse a burning resentment towards him. Formerly I found him merely insufferable. Now I find him utterly loathsome. Before setting us our quadratic equations, he makes an unkind comment about Charlie’s hair.
‘I see that Master Callow has been careless with brushing his hair. Clearly he does not believe that any effort should be made on our account.’
Charlie’s hair is ruffled because Seymour snatched away his hat. If Seymour had an ounce of good in him, he would let Mr Atkins know that Charlie’s dishevelled hair is not because he is a subversive, but merely the victim of stupid hijinks. However, Seymour, like almost every other boy in the class, is terrified of speaking out.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says Charlie.
Fortunately, Charlie is not whipped for bad hair management. Instead he is given a fierce look, as is the rubbish bin on the other side of the room, since Mr Atkins’ glass eye has chosen to roam once again.
The quadratic equations are not difficult, and both Charlie and I manage to solve them well before the end of the class. I have no further work to do. In a moment of distraction, I look out of the window into the schoolyard. What I see chills me to the bone. I let out an involuntary gasp, though it is not loud enough to attract the attention of Mr Atkins. Charlie hears it. He too looks out of the window and sees what has unsettled me.
It is the lunatic from Piper’s Heath. The woman has somehow traced me to the school. She is aware that I see her, and seems pleased by the fact. Once again she lifts her multicoloured cape to reveal the grotesque tattoo on her near-naked body. This is too much for Charlie and he lets out a shriek of terror.
Mr Atkins turns slowly to face us.
‘Callow, did you emit an unholy cry?’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says Charlie. ‘I was alarmed.’
‘And what alarmed you, Callow?’ Mr Atkins asks, warming to his favourite entertainment. ‘Did you find the quadratic equations too frightening? Were you perhaps terrified by a complex coefficient, delicate creature that you are?’
‘No, sir,’ says Charlie, dreading what must come.
‘Then please tell the class. I’m sure we would all like to hear. What unnerved you so?’
The stupider boys anticipate where this is heading; their excitement is palpable.
‘I saw something,’ stammers Charlie.
‘Did you, indeed? Is it something in this classroom?’
‘No sir. It was outside.’
‘Speak up!’ orders Mr Atkins.
‘It was something outside, sir. I was looking out of the window.’
Mr Atkins struts about, playing to his audience. I cannot bear to see my friend being tormented like this.
‘I see,’ Mr Atkins says grandly. ‘You were looking out of the window.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And why were you not completing the task you were set?’
Charlie is tongue-tied. He does not say that he completed the task long ago, that it wasn’t a challenging one for him.
‘Let me guess,’ says Mr Atkins. ‘You saw something out of the window that is far more interesting than your schoolwork.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Tell us what it was, Callow. Tell us what made you disrupt the class. Was it a pigeon? I can see how a pigeon would be much more interesting than mathematics. Do come out the front and tell us what you saw.’
I stand. ‘I saw it too, sir. And I would very much like to tell you what Charlie Callow and I saw, since you are so keen to know.’
‘Bless my soul!’ Mr Atkins is delighted. ‘Master Timewell has once again sought to enlighten us. Please, Master Timewell, tell us mere mortals why you felt it so important to disrupt the class.’
As I walk to the front, I glance out of the window. There is no sign of the woman.
‘Thank you for this opportunity,’ I tell Mr Atkins. Then I address the boys. ‘Perhaps before I tell you what Charles Callow and I saw, it is necessary to place it into context.’
‘An excellent idea,’ smiles Mr Atkins, his glass eye now making an inspection of the ceiling. ‘We have nothing better to do than listen to the learned Master Timewell.’
‘I’m not proud to admit it,’ I announce, ‘but last night I was once again involved in the attempted removal of a corpse from the graveyard at St Martin’s.’
‘This is becoming a habit, Master Timewell. Were you digging up another relative?’
‘No, this young lady was not a member of my family. Anyway, as we went about our task –’
‘We?’ Mr Atkins queries.
‘I was in the company of the body-snatcher that I mentioned before, Mr Atkins. As we were going about our task, we were assailed by two men. My colleague managed to evade his assailant by climbing into a tomb. I was not so fortunate. I was placed in a double armlock, the pain of which is impossible to describe. My only chance of escape was to force my tormenter onto a sharpened stake, which successfully punctured his face, though I couldn’t say which part. I suspect it might have been the eye.’
Mr Atkins, with his unfortunate optical handicap, seems to believe I am making a veiled reference to him. He can no longer maintain the illusion of magnanimity. He now exudes hatred.
‘I made my escape to Piper’s Heath, where I awoke to find myself confronted by a woman of most curious aspect. She had a long, colourful cloak, which she opened to reveal an elaborate tattoo of the devil adorning her near-naked front. Fortunately, my body-snatcher colleague overwhelmed her, as I fear she intended to eat me. You will therefore understand my alarm when I looked out of the window not five minutes ago to see the very same woman standing in the schoolyard, revealing her devil-inscribed nakedness to me. I apologise once again if I have bored you.’
The boys are silent. Mr Atkins walks to the window and gazes out. He returns to confront me.
‘You’ll find this extraordinary,’ he says, ‘but I see no such woman in the schoolyard.’
‘Yes, I noticed that she had made herself scarce. But she was most definitely there.’
Charlie stands. He looks Mr Atkins clearly in his good eye. To my delight, Charlie speaks with conviction.
‘Thomas Timewell is right, sir. That is exactly what I saw.’
‘Sit down!’ screams Mr Atkins. ‘Timewell, you are the most disgusting fantasist and you have polluted the minds of your fellows with this filth.’
‘I have told the truth, sir.’
‘Bend over, Timewell.’
I expected a thrashing, of course. Though even I had not anticipated the intensity of Mr Atkins’ violence on me. The whippings hurt as never before. I remain silent.
Chastised for telling the truth, I return to my desk. I notice that the students who were keen to see some brutality look almost disgusted. Mr Atkins’ ferocity has repelled them. It is excruciating to sit; nonetheless, I feel proud of the boys.
‘Now, Master Callow. It is your turn.’
Mr Atkins is breathless but eager to continue the humiliation.
Charlie walks solemnly to the front of the class. He bends over and Mr Atkins whips him, feverishly.
After twelve lashes, Mr Atkins looks content with his work, but also exhausted. His face is red and he
pants heavily. If he seeks the approval of his students he is disappointed. For the first time, thirty boys regard him with disdain.
‘Now,’ says Mr Atkins, grabbing a corner of his desk for support, ‘I think we may return to the afternoon’s lesson, unless there are any objections from Masters Timewell and Callow.’
I stand. ‘I have an objection, Mr Atkins.’
Mr Atkins, still short of breath, glares at me.
‘What is your objection, Master Timewell?’ he asks in a whisper.
‘I don’t think you punished me severely enough.’
There is near silence. I can hear the breathing of the boys, the gasp of Mr Atkins.
‘Not severely enough, Master Timewell?’
‘I think you could have done a better job. The whipping was substandard.’
Mr Atkins looks around in amazement. He wants the support of his boys. He wants them to hate me as much he does.
‘Then we must do something about it,’ he says. ‘Master Timewell, please come to the front. I hope my next beating meets with your approval.’
I walk to the front of the class, ready for a second whipping. As I walk by Mr Atkins I can smell the exertion on him. He is sweating heavily.
‘I have an idea,’ Mr Atkins says. ‘Since I have been unable to give Timewell a whipping that meets with his approval, perhaps I could prevail upon a member of the class to take my place.’ He holds out the whip. ‘Which one of you strong, loyal boys will rise to the task? A show of hands.’
No hands go up. Mr Atkins is aghast. He looks at his boys, shocked. He waits for a full minute but there is not a single volunteer.
‘Then the task is mine,’ says Mr Atkins, a slight quiver in his voice. ‘Make no mistake, Timewell, I am prepared to make amends for the shoddiness of my previous whipping.’
I bend over. I hear Mr Atkins step back, then run up to administer the blow. I am so overwhelmed by the miracle that has occurred that I barely feel it. Mr Atkins’ ingenious method of disciplining a class of boys has made him thirty enemies, not just the one he normally torments.
He whips me four more times then stops. I have received a mere five lashes. Something has happened.
I face Mr Atkins. He has dropped the whip. He looks around as though the world is suddenly a new and terrifying place. He opens his mouth but no words come out. Finally, he clutches his chest and collapses.
The class is silent.
All that can be heard is the sound of a glass eye rolling across the floor.
I kneel and take Mr Atkins’ pulse. The boys watch in fascination.
I give them the ultimate diagnosis.
‘Mr Atkins has died.’
After a moment of silence, there is scattered applause.
CHAPTER 11
On my return from school I am surprised to see Mother on the door stoop. She is putting on her best gloves.
‘Mellors was here with a note,’ Mother says. ‘Your brother John has sent for you.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I do not know. He said it was a matter of colossal urgency. We will walk there together.’
‘Did John send for you as well?’
‘No, but I require fresh air. I ordered Mrs Dunwoody to paint the kitchen this afternoon and now the house has an unpleasant smell. I rebuked her for it.’
‘May I go inside and change out of my ridiculous school uniform?’
‘No, you may not. We must depart at once.’
‘May I at least remove my boater and leave it on the step?’
‘I think that will be all right. Though if Mrs Dunwoody steps on it I will have to report her to the authorities.’
I walk with Mother past the identical houses of The Beaufort Estate. It is a curious sensation. I have never seen my mother take any form of exercise, save for the occasional toss of a quoit. She has invented a game where Mrs Dunwoody holds out her arms and Mother throws quoits at her. She scolds Mrs Dunwoody every time a quoit fails to land on one of her arms.
‘How was your afternoon at school?’ Mother asks. ‘I hope you are academically improved.’
‘I was whipped again,’ I say.
Mother shakes her head. ‘These beatings are becoming monotonous. I must speak with the master responsible.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr Atkins is dead.’
‘Oh Thomas, I know you never liked the man. You didn’t kill him, did you?’
‘No, Mother.’
‘I’d be most upset if you killed him.’
‘Well, I didn’t. I promise. He died of natural causes.’
‘Dutch quinsy?’
‘There’s a lot of it about.’
A thought is preying on Mother’s mind.
‘Thomas, you are sixteen,’ she says.
‘This is true.’
‘By the age of sixteen, most young men will have received certain instruction from their fathers.’
‘What manner of instruction, Mother?’
‘They will have been told the facts of life. Since you do not have a father, the task of telling you these facts must fall to another. I consulted my older brother, your Uncle Tarquin, but he said he would not do it. I thought he was being churlish until he informed me that he doesn’t actually know the facts of life. And so, it is with great regret that I must tell them to you myself.’
‘Not if it upsets you, Mother.’
An attractive young woman promenades towards us, and smiles as she passes. I am mortified to be dressed in my striped school uniform and therefore look as though I have been wallpapered.
‘Did you see that young lady give you a look?’ Mother asks.
‘I did.’
‘I notice she was not wearing gloves. I fear she has loose morals. Be wary of women like that.’
‘I believe you were going to tell me the facts of life.’
‘They are these. You may recall, as a young child, you were attacked by a goose in a public garden. You cried.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Do not be ashamed. You were three and the goose was large. You were wading happily in a shallow ornamental lake at the time. There were some geese, quite pretty creatures. What you didn’t realise was that two of the geese were in the act of procreation. Geese mate on the water, you see, but as a three-year-old you were not to know that. Their honking amused you so you ventured close to them. Furious at being interrupted, one of the geese (I imagine it was the male but I am no naturalist) swam after you and pecked at you fiercely, its massive wings flapping and causing the water to spray up. I called for help but when none came I sat peacefully and watched. After half an hour or so of being pecked by the goose, you emerged, crying, from the lake. I dearly wanted to hold you in my arms but there was algae on you, so I patted you once firmly yet maternally on the head. You asked me why the goose had assaulted you. I replied it was because the geese were busy making baby geese and did not appreciate your intrusion. An inquisitive child, you asked how the baby geese were made. I said that the mother and father geese do a brief water ballet, then, nine years later, the baby geese emerge fully-formed from the mouth of the female when she yawns. Do you recall that?’
‘Everything except for the crying.’
‘I lied, as I’m sure you realise. Baby geese – goslings – come from eggs that emerge from the female. This happens after the male has impregnated the female via that part of the goose where a cook might insert an orange. It is exactly the same with humans and nothing to be ashamed of. I hope this talk has been of some benefit.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’
John’s home, Bradford Manor, is a magnificently ornamental and hideous house in the very best part of Wishall. It has two storeys and fourteen rooms. Once the home of my great great-grandfather, who made his money by investing in The Honourable East India Company, Bradford Manor has been passed down through the generations of our family. Grandfather James never liked the place and rarely visited, preferring to live in modest lodgings close to the hos
pital. He did, however, keep the staff employed, even though the house was effectively unoccupied. Grandfather did not have the heart to release the nine members of staff and so, for ten years, he continued to pay them to render their services to one another. They are gone now, of course. John has taken the master bedroom, and set up his office in the vestibule. He has only one servant, Mellors, who is coolly efficient.
When Mother and I visit, we find John posing for his portrait. Though he is fourteen, he wears a gentleman’s suit and tie. The artist is painting him most accurately. John looks like Thomas Gainsborough’s Blue Boy dressed as a businessman, which is precisely what he is. From an early age, John has exhibited a frightening talent for high finance. ‘I must pause for a moment,’ John informs the artist. ‘Please fix up the nose.’
The portraitist has rendered John’s nose correctly. It is aqualine, rather like Mother’s. Given that John is adopted, it is curious that their profiles should look so alike. John does not appreciate his nose.
‘What sort of nose would sir like?’ the artist enquires.
‘I think … an Oliver Cromwell. Only without the warts.’
‘An excellent choice, sir.’
John leaves the artist to his business then dutifully embraces Mother.
‘Mama, this is a delightful surprise.’
Mother studies the room, with its Regency stripe wallpaper and mantelpiece of gilt and ormolu. ‘Are you absolutely sure you’re happy here, John? You wouldn’t like to come back home and live with us?’
‘I am perfectly settled here, Mother.’
‘What do you do for nourishment?’
‘Mellors makes a very good brown Windsor soup.’ ‘One cannot live on brown Windsor soup alone. I will get Mrs Dunwoody to bring you food. I will make sure it is not Scottish and therefore edible.’
‘The mansion suits me, Mother. It serves as a fine headquarters for my business operations. And a person of my distinction must be prepared to entertain financiers and dignitaries.’
