by H. S. Cross
—I can’t go to Dr. Sebastian and simply tell him you were walking, John said. Surely you can see.
—Will we be disposed?
The boy looked to him for the first time, oddly trusting.
—It depends.
Then looked away. Fear was easy to see, up close.
—You can trust me, Thomas. I’m your Housemaster. I’m—I don’t want to see you disposed.
Fear, and now something else. Resentment? Distrust? A captured soldier who’d never speak, no matter the torture.
—Nothing? You’re breaking my heart!
The boy stayed mute, but his eyelids began to droop, his head to nod. Incredible, here, fighting sleep.
* * *
Ear tugged to make him stand and follow. Pulled down the corridor, shoved inside a bright and freezing room. Door locked, bed, mattress, table, blanket, he made a tent against the cold, the kind he’d make those times when he’d hide inside the window seat, making Morgan look for him. He’d almost spoken the truth before Grieves. The urge had come physically upon him, but— You weren’t at McKay’s barn, were you? Grieves said he wanted the truth, but he didn’t want that truth. Then it was finger-ear-neck, hating him as they all did when they saw what he really was. Have mercy upon us miserable …
Riding, T. G. it had said on his trunk, tuckbox, mattress. Dorm empty around him, his mother’s scent replaced by laundered sheets. No longer Gray but Riding, T. G., like a sequel to Dr. Riding with a G tacked on, G for Gray, for Grieves, for grievous, green, griffon, grove, gravel, grammar, grandiloquence, ginger-haired boy in the door of the dorm, stick and ball in his cheek.
—There you are! Where have you been?
—Sorry?
Stick plucked out, a lurid green lump:
—Name, grasshopper. Chop-chop.
—Gray.
—Name, not color. What’s this?
Label, brown.
—That’s me. Riding. Thomas Gray—
—God in heaven. Are you honest?
—Yes.
—Rhetorical. Where are you from?
Rhetorical? A stinging—
—Oh!
—Shut up, that wasn’t—shut up.
—Why’d you—
—Have you never had a clip round the ear? God in heaven.
Where did he come from? What was his father?
—Physician. Was.
—Dead?
Yes, dead, except he didn’t like that word.
—Sorry. Look, sorry. When?
Five months, one week, six days.
—Bugger me.
Stick to other cheek and from a pocket, wristwatch. Ginger head mounted the bed, folded mattress, king of—
—Listen to me, grasshopper—
—Why do you keep calling—
—I am going to be your crammer, and you are going to swot harder than you’ve ever swotted in your life, understand?
Not at all.
—If you don’t, you won’t last a day. Repeat after me, I know nothing. My mind is empty. You’re ten years old? Are you insane?
—Eleven next—
—Shut up. You know nothing. Your mind is empty. Which prepper?
Words?
—Before here.
Oh, school. Witchell’s Gate at the end of the lane.
—Are you honest?
He was honest, and since he was eight, his father had taught him, laboratory, study, enough Latin to read the dispensary.
—The Flea is going to crucify you.
But he knew things, lots of things!
—Listen, grasshopper, people spend years at prepper specifically training for public school. This isn’t your Witchell’s Gate Jam and Jerusalem.
Words!
—Can you fight?
He was good at gin rummy.
—God in heaven. You’ll have to learn to swear. Repeat: Bloody.
—Bloody.
—Bugger.
—Bugger.
—Sod.
— … Sod.
—Wank … Say it!
Said.
—Sod off, you bloody wank.
He was to say it like he meant it. With vitriol. That meant contempt.
—I know what it means.
Another blow.
—If you blub, I’ll thump you black and blue.
Air in, tears in, in-in—
—Better.
* * *
There was Fox, their old corgi, lying on the bed, except he wasn’t dead, not even old, just rub my tummy and jump to the floor. She’d even let them play ball in the parlor because he wasn’t ill, wasn’t dead, was back to his self, tracking mud indoors to sit at your—
* * *
—Never blub. Never peach. Never be caught alone with another chap.
—What if you happen to be somewhere, and another chap happens to be there, too?
—Never mind. Burton-Lee’s House are good at?
—Rugby—rugger.
—The Eagle’s are good at?
—Jokes.
—Henri’s?
—French letters.
—Don’t unknot your tie.
Faster next morning. Jacket here, not there. Waistcoat like this. Laundry there Thursdays.
—What do you think you’re doing? Pajamas over pants?
—But I always—ow!
—Strip off.
In front of…?
—God in heaven, it’s come from the convent.
Everything off, hand in front of—
—Don’t. And you can’t blush.
Can’t help it.
—You can stay like that until you’ve pulled yourself together.
Naked, both of them, washroom, changing room, dorm.
—Don’t look at people. Not unless you mean it.
—Mean what?
—Never mind.
He’d get a Keeper, who’d teach him everything.
—You?
—Please God, no. You’ll get me whacked here to Christmas.
In a fortnight the fag test—the who, the what, the where, words used and not used, rules, customs, notions. But until tomorrow, crammer:
—Never?
Blub, peach, blush, look.
—Where were you at prep?
—America.
—Where in America?
—Alabammy.
—Liar.
—Sod off!
—Better.
* * *
His old father, lying on the bed, not ill, not dead, back from where he’d been, wearing his suit and reading The Lancet. Back for days, or was it weeks? He needed to see him for a serious talk. He was sorry, so sorry, if he’d only hear him say it. You’re back, and surely, surely … He would be the son he wanted, the son he knew, he hadn’t meant the things he’d said that awful day, he’d do anything, anything, half a chance, quarter—
* * *
—Bring me another. Please?
Wilberforce M., window seat, moon. Ale bottle opened, made to drink it.
—I suppose we’ll have to sort you out.
Dressing gown off. Underneath nothing, all.
—The moon shines bright, and on such a night, from yonder window above the earth, Wilberforce, methinks, stands full of mirth, waiting at last the lustrous birth, of thee, thou ravished bride of—
Arm grabbed, twisted tight.
—You’ll thank me. Gets it out of the way. Lets you know what to expect.
Eyes, look, sleep has things, grant this day we fall into nothing, ride away, devil in chase, nameplate—look—marshes!
—Across vale, across fen, over crag, over ben …
Come back!
—Like a wave on the sea you come riding to me, riding over the moors …
Home? Dorm? Room.
—Like a hawk, like a tern, like the falcon’s return …
Recalled to light. To rumbling, tumbrils? Feet to floor, window thrown open, voice in his throat:
—People are sleeping!
; Crash mechanical. Mess on the ground. Flagstones, person. Wheels?
—What’s the matter with you?
Voice from below, under his window, voice of a girl shouting:
—You almost gave me a heart attack!
Awake, not asleep. Her stockings, black, torn at the knee.
—You can’t simply go round shouting out windows!
Navy frock, plaits, wheels on her feet.
—Well? she said.
—Sorry.
—I certainly hope so! This pavement is full of weeds. Couldn’t have more if you cultivated them.
Crab-like, standing, wheels clicking.
—Oh, my flowers!
Scattered yellow and white. Wobbling, she gathered them:
—What are you doing there?
—Sorry?
—Hanging out the window. Everyone else is at lessons.
His body returned to him, stiff, drugged, thirsty. And desperate need of a—
—I’ve botched it, she said. Shall we try again?
Arm reached up, daffodil palms:
—Cordelia Light.
Warm, sticky, gripping as if she could wrench off his fingers.
—Riding.
—Skating.
—I mean me. That’s my name.
—Is that what they call you? What’s your proper name?
He was called so many things.
—It’s Riding. Thomas Gray Riding.
Hand finally unclenched. He had dirt on his palms, under nails, and … blood?
—Pleased to meet you, Thomas Gray.
Whose blood?
—Why aren’t you at lessons?
His kingdom for some water. Or at least a chamber pot.
—I’ve botched it again, she said. Cancel transmission.
—Aye aye.
When she grinned, you saw her teeth, crooked beneath her eyes. Laughter and zeal and chaos and juice.
—I like you, she said. You’re funny.
There was a chamber pot, right under the bed, but he couldn’t while she …
—Why yes the lady said as he interrupted her stroll I have only just arrived.
—Yes?
—Come in last night on the Orient Express. We’re bound for Paris, of course.
—So says the popular intelligence.
Eyes, teeth, heart-slaying grin:
—You can say more! I knew it.
—More?
—More than yes, no, and sorry.
—It is rumored.
—The swain licked his pencil and applied it to his tablet. Shorthand was beyond him, but—
—Tell us, Miss…?
—Light. That’s L-I accent aigu-O-H-T.
—Hungarian?
—Irish. Her mother was English and her father was Irish, but he already knew that.
—It explained everything.
—How could he perceive so much about her when they’d met only moments before?
—The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.
—Marry me! she said.
She had the kind of laughter that made him want to cry. Girls were supposed to be wet, but she looked as though she could win a hare and hounds, a scrap in the courtyard, or any game of cards you’d care to play.
—I smelled summer this morning. Did you? Like the sea.
He didn’t, but he’d try later. He wouldn’t smell it, she confided, because of those clouds. Cold weather was headed their way, the mistral, borasco, williwaw.
—German Bight, Humber.
—West backing four or five.
—Increasing six at times.
He wasn’t the sort to play along, or the sort people looked at with eyeteeth like that.
—Miss Líoht, our readers are burning to know.
He needed her to leave and he needed her to stay.
—You are the first to attempt a female journey to these parts.
—If not me, then who?
—Indeed. But can you tell our readers why these wilds? Wherefore these tribes?
—These tribes! When I was but a girl, my godfather—you know him of course?
—His name is legendary.
—My legendary godfather, returned from his expeditions, would tell of these tribes, his conquests, his close shaves.
—What a knee to learn from, Miss Líoht!
—So you see why I was compelled to make the trek, to search out Uncle John in the wild.
—Uncle John?
—My godfather. I told you.
—You didn’t.
—He’s a teacher here, in these wilds.
Things so good could never be real.
—A Housemaster.
Honest trifles to win us to our harm.
—John Grieves.
This was what happens to ones as bad as he.
—Are you going to be sick?
—He’s my Housemaster.
The teeth, the smile, the dagger.
—Oh, do you mean it? I’m so envious I could pinch you. What’s he like?
Words were harlots, gone when you’d paid them.
—It’s so queer to see him wearing a gown and ordering people about. Last night on the train he was funny, like himself. But this morning I haven’t seen him properly at all. He’s been dashing about like a rabbit over those boys.
—Boys?
—From last night. Meetings, wires, bolting here, ringing there.
—What’s going to happen?
—Oh, they’ll sack ’em, obviously, though Uncle John has the idea he can save them. That’s what he’s been doing all day. He didn’t even come to lunch!
—What do you mean, obviously?
—They must have done something terribly wicked. Everyone’s furious.
—It wasn’t wicked!
—Pardon?
—They didn’t do anything!
—Wait—
—They only took a walk!
—Are you one of them?
—No.
—Don’t lie. You are!
—I …
—Your friend’s frightfully ill, you know, raving like a lunatic. He could have died on your walk. Goodbye, Thomas Gray.
—Wait!
Wheels rumbling, flowers pumping fist, a thousand cuts left behind.
* * *
—It isn’t like that, John protested.
—But surely you can see, Jamie said.
Jamie lit into the sandwiches, but John couldn’t eat even though he’d missed both breakfast and lunch.
—I gave Riding plenty of chances to confide, and he maintains they were taking a walk.
—They’d no business taking a walk, Jamie said.
—Of course not, but—
—We can’t have boys taking walks, day or night.
—They aren’t that way.
—And how am I supposed to take it when only this week they were out at McKay’s barn?
—They went to help.
—I’m sure.
—We’ve got to be rational, John told him. Factual. Some juniors were caught at that barn. Now duly punished. Mainwaring and Riding have been caught being idiots. The affairs have nothing to do with one another, and neither has anything to do with that other godforsaken—
—That isn’t Burton’s view.
—Damn Burton! Is he Headmaster or are you?
—Or the Board’s.
—What on earth has this got to do with them?
—John. Don’t be naive.
* * *
Mrs. Firth brought him sandwiches and let him use the toilet, not the regular one but some bathroom down the corridor. The door separating the corridor from the House was brown, not green baize, but it nevertheless marked the frontier between private and public. No boys went beyond it any more than they penetrated Soviet Russia, yet here he was on the other side. Wilberforce had told him of a room called the Chamber of Death. They put you there before disposing you, he said. N
o one had been disposed from their House in Gray’s time, but Wilberforce said it happened regularly in Dr. Sebastian’s first term, during the Great Clear-Out. If you were in trouble, you went to lessons until summoned. If you were ill, you went to the Tower and they brought your prep to you. The Chamber of Death meant quarantine absolute. Here in the room, no paper, no books. Games were over, and still no one came.
* * *
—Word’s got round, John admitted. The Remove were all a-twitter last lesson.
—It’s inevitable, Jamie said. But I’ve managed to put out the fire with the Board.
—How?
—Riding’s uncle, chums with Overall.
—With the Chairman of the Board? Why didn’t I know this?
—Didn’t you? It’s how we wound up with Riding in the first place.
—And you didn’t see fit to mention it this morning?
—Lewis found the letter in a file. I take back everything I’ve ever said about his fanatical methods.
—He’s a miracle on two wheels.
—John, whatever you do, don’t take this tone with Burton.
—I’m not taking a tone. This is a matter of House discipline. If Burton insists on being present even though it’s nothing to do with his House, even though Riding and Mainwaring aren’t even in the Upper School, then—
—Yes, thank you. And another thing.
—What?
—However this mess ends, I’m going to have to deal firmly with them. And with Mainwaring in his current state, I thought to rusticate them for the rest of term.
—I wouldn’t object.
—But I’ve been doing some telephoning—
—Oh God, the Colonel.
—Still in Palestine. I spoke to Mrs. Mainwaring.
—Small mercies.
—But I haven’t been able to raise a soul at the home of Riding’s mother.
—She’s traveling. Letter here somewhere.
John was used to being reproached by his basket of correspondence, but it was embarrassing to negotiate it in front of Jamie, and as someone pounded his door.
—Come!
Door nudged, but not by Mrs. Firth or a prefect.
—It’s five o’clock, Uncle John. You said—
—Won’t be a moment, darling.
—Is this the illustrious goddaughter?
John abandoned his basket and stepped into the breech:
—Headmaster, may I present Cordelia Líoht. Cordelia, Dr. Sebastian.
