Grievous

by H. S. Cross

  The vial rolled out from the quilt. He slipped it into his pocket and went downstairs.

  She was dancing with her father, her head resting against his chest, hair pulled back with a red ribbon. Owain looked dashing, far better than John in his evening suit, and he could dance, rocking her gently and stepping into a turn. Stars fading but I linger on, dear … John was at the bottom of the stairs, but he couldn’t bear to interrupt, not when she looked so happy, as happy as a girl could be, in the arms of her father, French shoes on her feet.

  —You look smart.

  Meg’s voice at his elbow, her scent not what he knew, but something complicated and floral.

  —Miss Drayton?

  She took his hand, and they danced in the corridor, and even though he couldn’t dance, they fit together, beat by beat.

  —May I? said Owain, stepping in beside them. Mrs. Líoht?

  Her smile stabbed worse than the orchestra’s strings. She was happy in the arms of her husband.

  But his goddaughter was tugging him back to the parlor, arranging his hands at her shoulder and waist, steering him around like the turntable, like the years. And then the orchestra was sighing, and her arms encircled him, her face against the front of his jacket inhaling the dust of a wasted life, fatal and acute.

  * * *

  The Travellers Club inspired awe, and John supposed it was meant to. Merewether was waiting in the cocktail bar, looking even crisper and more native than he’d seemed wandering Marlborough’s corridors in June.

  —Grieves!

  He took John’s hand and leaned into his ear:

  —I was afraid you wouldn’t come.

  —Why?

  Merewether pressed his lips together, as he used to at the preposterous but lovable aspects of school life.

  —What can I get you? I’ve people for you to meet.

  John realized it would be gauche to refuse a drink at a club.

  —Scotch, isn’t it? Merewether said.

  In some ways, Merewether was like the Marlborough boy John remembered, the one who’d run the House with him, employing more charm and discretion than any Head Boy John had known before or since. In other regards, Merewether was a stranger, one who nevertheless fêted John around the club as a man of note, a man they all would want to know despite his schoolmaster’s shoes and provincial suit.

  He’d eaten already, but it seemed a meal was planned. They sat in the dining room with three other men, intimates of Merewether—Pursey, Hamilton, and Swann—or was it Purdey, Hamlin, and Swann? John had lost track during the introductions, and he couldn’t ask now. Despite the fact that Merewether treated everyone there as a friend, John thought there was something different about these three, the Three Swans as he came to think of them. It was as if Merewether were hosting a party with him as the guest of honor and them as fellow hosts, even though they’d never met him before.

  The Three Swans had been in Egypt with Merewether during the war, and before that had been at Winchester and Charterhouse, or was it Westminster and Charterhouse? One of them had known Jamie at Oxford, but otherwise there appeared no clear connection between them and John. Their looks and their talk, peppered as it was with references to everything à la mode, made them seem younger than Merewether, but John also thought they must be older since two held posts of some influence in government, and Swann himself was something to do with art, or so John supposed given his references to the Museum. John thought Merewether was with the Foreign Office, but now he couldn’t recall where he’d heard that, or even if he’d heard it.

  After dinner they retired to the smoking room, where brandy was ordered and cigarettes produced.

  —What is it your people are seeing tonight? Merewether inquired.

  John told him. Swan One poured scorn upon the play:

  —Invalid lady takes up with poet. Papa forbids. I ask you.

  —Not our sort of thing, Swan Two agreed.

  —Now Salome, that would be the ticket.

  —It’s being staged? John asked.

  —Opening night, my dear!

  —But not for the family, perhaps.

  Merewether passed the cigarette case, and John vowed to take a double run at the next opportunity. The cigarettes were opening his veins, his blood was flowing more freely, the brandy like a warm remembrance, but he wouldn’t have more than this glass.

  —Well, Grievous, what do you think? Merewether asked.

  John smiled. Merewether and the Swans smiled back. John wondered if something had been decided. He fished out his watch.

  —It’s early, Merewether said. We aren’t letting you go that easily.

  John wasn’t sure if it was the brandy or something else, but he felt content. He accepted a second cigarette as they launched into a debate about the relative demerits of the Soviets and the Germans. The Germans were schemers, according to Swan One. They’d no more secured relief for reparations than they’d turned around and given the Soviets discounted credits. John couldn’t follow beyond the general, but their discourse made a change from the ill-informed bloviating he was forced to endure in the SCR. Swan Two thought the Soviets were worse. They accepted German loans knowing full well they could never repay them, and meantime they sat on the jolly side of what John inferred was a significant trade imbalance with England, taking full advantage of the fracas with the gold standard and favoring the Germans because they could barter with them like Arabs rather than pay cash like decent people.

  —But if the Soviets skin the Germans, then won’t the Germans skin us? John asked.

  —You see, Merewether said, I told you he’d suit us.

  The Swans nodded and tapped their cigarettes. Were they moving in unison, or had his mind drifted off? Something was eluding him. He had to make an effort. This was something to do with Merewether’s group. The Swans were the group, surely? Had anything explicit been said? He hoped he wasn’t making a reckless inference. Certainly the Swans were clever, and between them appeared to have information on every topic under the sun, but the group itself, had Merewether said what it was about? John wondered what a more clever man would do in his place. Merewether had called himself a confirmed bachelor, but was it possible that the Swans, clearly so eligible, could be unmarried?

  —I can’t imagine how a widowed old schoolmaster could have anything to offer, he said.

  There was a commotion at the far end of the room. Merewether and the Swans seemed not to notice it.

  —We don’t mind widowers, said Swan One.

  The other two sucked their cigarettes as if someone had uttered a pleasantry.

  —I think we might do something with you, Merewether said, schoolmaster and all.

  The brouhaha grew louder, drowning conversation.

  —Oh, for pity’s sake! Merewether exclaimed. Excuse me.

  He got up from the table and approached the quarreling group:

  —Colonel Mainwaring, good evening, sir.

  The ruckus ebbed as Merewether engaged the man who had been doing most of the shouting.

  —Dreary old bore, said Swan One.

  —Club only puts up with him, Swan Two explained, because he was right about Suez when no one else was.

  John’s mouth was dry.

  —What did you say his name was?

  They told him. The repetition didn’t make it any better.

  —His son, John stammered. In my House at St. Stephen’s, until this Easter.

  —Yes, said Swan Two as if he knew it already.

  But Swan One was opening a panel in the wall and whisking them through it to a corridor.

  —Billiards? Swann asked.

  John asked for the cloakroom, his neck an ambush of tigers. The cloakroom servant refused to leave his side even when he’d accepted the proffered towel. He feigned dizziness.

  —Please, could you fetch Merewether?

  Door shut, vial, tongue, sun, blood utopia …

  * * *

  Coffee, black, at the club, at the club at
the club at the station. Cordelia’s head in his arms, hearty thanks from his mouth, Meg’s cheek cool and hot then gone to their own train. He had to sit down on his case and close his eyes, heart in every point, descent of woodpeckers.

  —You haven’t any idea what we’ve been talking about, have you? Merewether had asked.

  They’d walked alone out to the street where Merewether had fetched a cab. John didn’t know what he’d said in reply, but it had made Merewether laugh:

  —It’s what comes of too many clever people in close quarters.

  —A shrewdness of apes?

  —Oh, Grievous!

  John opened his eyes. A figure that looked like Meg was weaving towards him. Sweet dreams hmm-hmm-hmm-humm-you …

  Merewether had held on to his hand after he’d got in the cab:

  —If you leave Sebastian’s place, be in touch, won’t you? You can join us. Do something for the country.

  Mischief of mice.

  —No one understands. Practically no one.

  —No?

  Merewether had glanced at the driver, who ignored them.

  —One can’t fight the old wars again, or make the new ones vanish by wishing them away.

  Deceit of lapwings.

  —It will be amusing.

  Sweet dreams … It was Meg, really, after all. She was waving. He stood:

  —I thought your train was going.

  —It is, she gasped. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye properly.

  She took his hand, both of them.

  —You know, don’t you, darling, you’re my oldest, my best—

  His mouth was on hers and it was soft, pressing, open, all the longed-for, impossible—tongue, teeth—

  —Darling, she said.

  She put her lips back on his, and it was real, flocking around him like the feathers in the war, love become act, wish become true, rescue as never—never to now.

  38

  Halton knew strange forces were afoot. First Flight and now the latest, Not Far to Castle Noire. The day after Michaelmas, Audsley had pinned an announcement to the study door, and the page had quickly filled with names of hopefuls. There wasn’t room for his, but Audsley had summoned him at break, as if everything had been long ago decided and he, Halton, were only pretending not to know it. His part would be larger than before, with more lines to learn. Master Shadow was a conjurer, an acrobat, a thief without peer. He wasn’t sure about the acrobatics, but Audsley promised to teach him. Audsley himself would play the lead role, a knight called Valarious. The plot concerned the quest of said Valarious to rescue his brother, the Elf Rider (played by Riding), from the evil clutches of Perspicacious (Crighton). The Turtle would be playing a girl (ha), Kahrid of Langstephen, while Moss would portray a rival magician called Flash. Everyone else on the list was given brief roles or else thinking parts, Audsley’s term for people who walked on and said nothing. The main rehearsals continued as before in study number six, and every morning before breakfast, Audsley took him through exercises in the gym. Already he could walk on his hands and turn three kinds of cartwheel.

  The new play was more dramatic, and rehearsals had teeth. When, in his long speech (two pages!) he denounced Moss’s character—Who was this Flash? This magician soi-disant (that meant so-called), this fraud who trafficked in electricity? He stole sparks from their fire. He was vulgar, his name too short. Master Shadow had never heard of him!—when he recited this tirade, Moss colored with true emotion. It was better than eating a whole cake. Everything in the study made him hungry, the decoration, the smell, the pink glow when Audsley put the lantern over the bulb, and even though something scratched his throat and made him sneeze—perhaps dust from the great number of books Audsley and Riding had borrowed from the library—still he craved it. Even as he languished in extra-tu Monday afternoon, laboring hopelessly under Burton-Lee’s hand, his true self was turning somersaults, fingers restless for the next lock to pick.

  —If you don’t apply yourself, Halton, you’ll become a regular fixture here.

  —Laubadamar, sir?

  Clip round the ear.

  —Lau … lau … ba … I mean da … ba … mur?

  Gibberish, surely?

  —Continue.

  Deep in the uncharted passages of Castle Noire, the party confronted traps and guards. Swordplay, backflips, spells sung and chanted, they worked their way through the servants of Perspicacious, the most intelligent and evil man in the land.

  —What are we going to do with you, Halton?

  If only the letters would keep to their place. If only Flash could stick them still.

  —Do you think you’re the only one?

  —Sir?

  —To find things difficult the way you do?

  If only time would skip to the evening, to rehearsal, that hardening, mouthwatering—

  —Empty your pockets.

  —Sir?

  —You heard me.

  Nothing contraband, thank God, just the usual stores and supplies. The Flea sifted through it, pausing only over the tin of Nigroids for Throat and Voice, which he opened and sniffed.

  —How many of these vile confections have you eaten today, boy?

  —Today, sir?

  The glare.

  —Not more than half a tin, sir.

  The Flea poured them into the bin.

  —Oh, sir …

  —Since your Housemaster appears to have strayed from the hearth, young Halton, it appears that a docket issued this evening would benefit no one.

  —Yes, sir. I mean …

  He wasn’t sure he could stand another earnest jaw from Grieves.

  —It appears, then, that we have no choice. You shall have to pop by my study instead of his, this evening after tea, and we shall have to see if we can find a way to enhance your concentration, one way or another.

  —Yes, sir.

  —Fewer sweets, more sleep, I think.

  * * *

  They were developing terrible habits during their Housemaster’s absence. Moss knew it couldn’t continue, but if for the moment rehearsals happened to stretch past lights-out, and if they afterwards lingered over Audsley’s game of Definitions, and if Mac slept like death, well, where was the harm?

  —Thou detestable maw! Audsley groaned as Riding swept the round for the fourth time running. Thou womb of death!

  There might be little hope of getting into Audsley’s trousers, but the Billingsgate that flowed from his mouth was consolation enough.

  —Riding’s almost as infernal as Grieves, Audsley said, but he shan’t prevail.

  Moss announced bed, but Audsley brandished his pencil at Riding:

  —Draw thy tool. My naked weapon is out!

  Crighton snuffed the candle, and Moss retreated to their study for a fortifying nip, enough to calm seas and the ships upon them.

  —Leave some for me, Crighton said, closing the door.

  Moss surrendered the flask and sighed.

  —Everyone’s turnable, Crighton said. Eventually.

  He meant it consolingly, but it only stirred the embers. They’d been discussing it for weeks, could Audsley be turned? In Moss’s experience most boys could, but Audsley met temptation as one who never hungered.

  —I don’t think he even wanks.

  —Bollocks, Crighton said. Everyone wanks.

  Audsley broke so many laws of nature, why not this? He seemed to care for nothing truly beyond his enormous ideas. Ordinary things—washing, eating, even sleeping—he seemed to perform with only a fraction of himself until he could return to rehearsal, a term Audsley used to encompass anything that served the play. Even now, back in the dormitory, Audsley sprang from bed:

  —You won’t forget to talk to Grieves tomorrow?

  —Please.

  —You’re sure he won’t say no?

  —Go to bed.

  —It’s the only place that will hold everyone and—

  —If you’re not in bed in ten seconds, you’re getting a doc
ket.

  The only thing better than hearing Audsley swear was pulling rank and then watching his reaction:

  —You are a fishmonger.

  * * *

  John tore through the exercise books as the night express churned north. He hadn’t taken any drops since the club. He didn’t need them. Perhaps he’d never need them again. He was learning something surprising enough to change the color of air: mercy hurt, and the breaking didn’t stop with the chains. It was real between them, unmistakably and radically; everything else would change without his help.

  A calm had come upon him, and a deep vitality. Here he was charging through the countryside at speeds unknown, and with him this procession of humanity and their luggage. And the mail. The blessed night mail! In what other country could one post a letter on the Monday and have it delivered a hundred miles away the next morning? The world was awash with sensational activity. He could spare a thought for it because the other thing was taking care of itself. Here was The Times, left on the seat by the previous passenger. It simply teemed with activity: marriages, deaths, situations wanted, bungalows for rent, automobiles of 1932; cycling results, boxing results, rugby football club and school (Dulwich beat Merchant Taylors’ by a goal and a try to nothing); cinema news, literature news, opera news, theater news (Salome at the Savoy, The Good Companions at His Majesty’s, Jane Eyre at the Kingsway); airmail schedules, shipping schedules, national radio schedules; Ovaltine Builds-up Brain, Nerve, and Body; and Sanatogen. Sanatogen! Three months ago I started taking Sanatogen on the advice of my doctor. My system had been undermined by years of neurotic strain and mental debility and I could not expect miracles to happen. But a miracle did happen, and in a few short weeks I found myself acquiring a new sense of well-being. Now after three months of regular treatment of Sanatogen I am reborn. Sanatogen has instilled new life into me. It is amazing. Where, God, could Sanatogen be found? And Jaeger, not for his eyes, surely, but nevertheless printed here beside discussions of MacDonald’s Cabinet. The new line is touchingly dependent on the lingerie beneath. The little more and one is a bundle; the little less and one is a void. Jaeger, with superhuman cunning, contrives to blend firmness and flexibility in the most diplomatic way in these austere little two-piece sets. The most sustaining and secretive vest that will not gatecrash the frankest décolletage. The underscoring made the paragraph a gem. Tiny panties that furl the hips and waist in the most etherealising sheaf, yet remain utterly plastic and benevolent. Seriously, though, how could they print such things in a family newspaper? But here was Selby, and so to Driffield and then Sledmere and Fimber, where he’d find Fardley, who would convey him to the gates of his home, where he had his own rooms and space enough besides; where he could bring her; where no one, not even Jamie, could make him deny what he knew. He was needed there and wanted, and now as the light came into the sky, his boys would be rising, intent on the day, eager, hungry, waiting for him to show them the way through this godforsaken mess of living to the future that waited, just beyond the crest, for them to seize, to mold, to possess.