by H. S. Cross
He groaned as if in agreement and took out his mother’s letter to show he had better things to do than think about that girl. The letter was shorter than usual, and its style … It only took half a minute to read. She put Vandals to shame.
The queue began to move as he fought to absorb the ambush, delivered in public with everyone’s eyes upon him. She had sold their home, sold his home. She had contrived the removal behind his back. He would never see Swan Cottage again. They would spend Christmas in let rooms, near Peter’s or near the Academy—she was sure of any number of things, but she couldn’t be sure of that!—somewhere desolate and godforsaken.
—Riding?
—What?
Halton stood before him with his face:
—Grievous wants you in his study.
—It’s lunch, idiot.
—He says now.
He was going to punch someone before the day was out because this howling insanity could not continue. Now, on top of everything, he was going to be late to lunch. All right, he couldn’t eat, but it was the principle of the thing.
Inside the study, Grieves wore a peculiar expression. He gazed as if waiting for Gray to speak, as if waiting for him to … She couldn’t have told about the outing they planned, about—God, really!
—Something the matter, Riding?
He’d told her everything, the tunnel, the heirs of Hermes. Admit nothing.
—You sent for me, sir.
—So I did. You’ve got an exeat.
—I beg your pardon, sir?
He was expecting no one … but he hadn’t expected Peter last time.
—Until bedtime.
—Bedtime, sir?
—You heard me.
He couldn’t go on exeat, not today.
—Sir …
Grieves handed him a chit and appraised his uniform:
—You’ll have to go as you are.
—But, sir—
—Wash your hands, change your shoes, be at the gates in five minutes.
—Five minutes?
Not even enough time to—
—Sir!
—Four minutes, chop-chop, and wear your coat.
He left perilously close to tears and in the changing room let out a stream of curses. Decent people announced visits in advance. They were both of them vandals, Peter and the woman who carried on like a whore. He stormed across the quad, thrust his chit at Fardles, and approached the car, ready to denounce—but the car wasn’t Peter’s. He’d never seen it before in his life. The door opened without his touching it. At the wheel a face—unknown, known:
—Get in, boyo. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.
47
Morgan Wilberforce gripped the steering wheel with one hand and stretched across the seat with the other. He looked the same, only thicker. His mouth still suppressed a grin, his finger still wore the signet ring with the Wilberforce crest, and the air around him smelled the same, Taylors of Old Bond Street, mixed now with petrol fumes.
—Riding! Moss called from the quad.
—Come on, before we’re ambushed.
Gray dove across the seat, the car lurched, and they took off down the lane, swerving to avoid holes and animals. Morgan drove like he played cricket, no-holds-barred. As they approached the Wetwang road, Morgan shifted, something shrieked and fell into place, and the car yanked forward with a sharp burning smell. The hedgerows whipped by, and before Gray could put together a question, they had skidded to a stop in front of the Cross Keys.
—Lunch, Morgan announced. I’m ravenous.
The former Keeper unfolded himself from the motorcar and slammed the door. Gray stayed where he was as Morgan rounded the car, opened the passenger door, and leaned against the frame:
—Aren’t you coming?
His teeth rubbed against one another. Morgan sighed, took a silver case from his pocket, and lit a cigarette:
—Why not?
Exacting and frank, the voice struck him as it always had.
—I’m not going anywhere until someone tells me what the hell is going on!
Morgan took a drag and blew into the wind.
—You’ll have to forgive me, boyo. It was all rather unexpected. I suppose I got carried away.
He offered the case to Gray, who refused.
—Oh, boyo, if you could see yourself. Daggers!
Morgan held the cigarette between his lips—
—Come on—
Reached into the car, took hold of his arm.
—I’ll tell you whatever you want, but inside. It’s colder out here than the devil’s cock.
And Gray was standing on the pavement with the distinct impression of having been hoiked.
Inside, the barmaid made a fuss over Morgan, and the entire room seemed to think itself entitled to an explanation of his movements over the last three years. Gray stood disregarded, vexation and curiosity sparring within him. Morgan Wilberforce was not as tall as he’d been, but the voice was the same. So were the glances and the clearing of his throat, as if it were nothing to swoop in like the Fates, drag him off in a motorcar, and speak to him like no time had passed.
When the food arrived, Morgan exchanged glances with the barmaid, and she shooed the others away and gave them a table near the fire.
—How’ve you been keeping, pet? she asked Gray. And where’s your friend?
—Been here with friends, has he? Morgan asked.
—Bonny one. Yorkshire lad.
—He wasn’t!
—Shut up and eat, Morgan said.
—Gill he were called, weren’t he?
—Were he, Polly?
—Right chatty thing he were, too. Almost as canny as you.
She gave Morgan a playful slap, and he pulled a long face:
—You haven’t forgotten me, have you, Poll?
—How could we, pet? Been reading about you in paper.
The man behind the bar watched them as he pulled a pint. This was Our Robert, it emerged. She recounted the wedding last year. Her father was glad for the help on account of his lumbago. They never reckoned to see Morgan again after he went foreign, but here he was turned up like a penny.
Morgan shimmied out of his overcoat, revealing a black band on his sleeve:
—Buried Aunt Millie this morning.
Polly clapped a hand to her face and then to his cheek. She was sorry. She called him flower.
—She had a good run, Morgan said. Whole family come up the Minster.
Polly declared he’d need another pint and retreated to the bar to fetch it. Gray cast about for something to say. The pie had burned the roof of his mouth, and the ale made his stomach turn in remembrance of the last time.
—Sorry about your aunt, he managed.
Morgan broke open his own pie:
—Never knew her. Only time I ever saw her was at my mother’s funeral.
Gray let the food cool on his fork. He remembered Morgan having told him once about his mother, and he remembered being shocked that Morgan had also lost a parent. Now he was embarrassed for having believed that no one else could have suffered as he did.
—Besides, Morgan continued, Uncle Bertie lent me his car.
Gray didn’t think it quite the favor Morgan supposed. Between the drafts, the gear box, and Morgan’s driving, Gray thought Morgan was lucky to have made it from York in one piece.
—It was all a bit of a lark, Morgan said. We’d just got back from the churchyard and people were starting to arrive. Hundreds of sisters, girl cousins, great aunts and all their friends, circling, hawk-like, but then Uncle Bertie called me outside, gave me the key, and told me to bugger off.
—You’re missing the reception?
—Isn’t it brilliant? I swear I’ll pray for Uncle Bertie tonight. So you see, boyo, it was all a bit …
Morgan grinned.
—But why me? Gray blurted. Why on earth would you come and see me?
—Oh, I think you know the answer to that. You’re the one with
the brains, after all.
Morgan ate without further comment. Picking the burnt pie from the dish, Gray could feel the room growing dimmer and more distant, as if he might awake somewhere else without ever having to finish this scene. He might wake to a second chance: morning, lessons, and escape to the woods with the girl before Morgan could snatch him. Except his mother’s letter would eventually arrive, and even if he never opened it, he could not escape its sword because the house had already been sold, Swan Cottage already dead. And the worst part, the most infuriating, was that if there had ever been anyone who would take his side against her madness, it was Morgan.
—Drink up, boyo. It’s cold outside.
The second round had arrived, but he’d hardly touched the first. When he tried again to drink, the smell made him gag.
—On second thought, don’t. We can’t have that stomach of yours.
—It isn’t that.
—I know what it is, Morgan said. Bring us a lemonade, would you Poll? Don’t worry, boyo. It’s happened to the best of us.
The tone of Morgan’s voice was destroying his—not here, not for this.
—Now, Morgan said, who’s this friend, the one that got you so frightfully pissed?
Breathing in and in, wrist shaking, eyes would fail soon if he didn’t—
—Fine!
He clacked down his fork. Morgan blinked.
—You want the truth? You can take it and go to hell.
The truth was he’d come to the Keys only once before, last month with his studymate, Gill. He’d never come before because he’d never wanted to, and as for Morgan’s parting word—that the Keys was the point of the poacher’s tunnel—he, Gray, begged to differ. He was not a slave, and he did as he pleased. His monologue gathered steam, as if it had been written expressly for this moment. Morgan sat silent as he strew before him everything there was to say about Gill, about Flight, and about Gill’s senseless downfall and disposing.
—Not sure that’s such a tragedy, Morgan said at last, not when he planned it.
—He did no such thing!
Morgan chuckled:
—Of course he did. Come on, boyo, try. This is Guilford Audsley from The Messenger?
—Yes.
—On the bicycle?
—Yes.
—The same Guilford Audsley who’s opening in Hamlet next week at the Shaftsbury?
—He … what?
—I’ve got tickets, Morgan said. Thought after their Ophelia got burned to a crisp, it would be canceled, but replacements apparently were found. Still want to tell me he didn’t get disposed on purpose?
He’d finished pie, parkin, and lemonade, but now he felt the hungry fear and the thirsty weakness that came with knowing Morgan had him in his sights. When he’d told the saffron-haired girl about Guilford, she had shown only polite interest, but now Morgan was listening as if every word mattered, spurring him to tell more, Castle Noire, Moss and Crighton costumed before the school, Halton turned acrobat and composer.
—The Halton who sang on Patron’s Day?
Morgan’s posture had changed, and Gray recognized the figure arrived before him: the hunter he used to know, Nimrod at your service.
—Just goes to show, boyo, the truth is more cockeyed than the pages of literature.
Gray demanded explanation, but of course, Morgan refused to give it. Nimrod never revealed his paths, and as they left the warmth of the Keys, Gray felt a deeper warmth he had all but forgotten, that uneasy knowledge that there was nothing Morgan did not know, or could not learn given time.
After some tinkering under the bonnet of the motorcar, Morgan gunned the engine and proposed a walk around Flamborough Head:
—Should make it if she holds water.
What Morgan proposes, God disposes, Moss used to say, and in any case it was too late to protest now. Morgan was driving as if they were being chased, scraping the hedgerows and nearly colliding with a cart. Just outside Bridlington, the engine began to smoke, and Morgan had to turn off the engine and coast down to the shore. There the lamps were being lit, the surf was pounding, and the wind was whipping off the sea.
—Come on, Morgan said. Let’s go down to the pier at least.
The sand stung their faces and blew into their ears. For the last stretch they sprinted before turning up towards the road.
—Don’t know why you insisted on that, Morgan said. It’s colder than …
—Shackleton’s arse?
Morgan clamped his head in an elbow, chaffing his face against his coat.
—Still a foul mouth, I see. What are we going to do with you, boyo?
They blew into the tea shop, and while they awaited their order, the talk returned to the poacher’s tunnel, and from there Morgan lured it back to Trevor and the barn.
—I hear they tore it down, Morgan said. And I hear it’s your fault.
—Where the hell did you hear that?
Morgan cuffed him round the ear.
—Watch your language in company, boyo. And as you know, I have my sources.
A ruddy matron set a tray on the table. Morgan poured the tea, placed a scone on Gray’s plate, and gave him the look he’d craved for so long: Come on, boyo, you can tell it to me.
There was little excuse to fight it, here in an empty tearoom, and soon the story of the barn was coming out, their first visit through their last. Morgan listened, the wry set of his mouth unchanging until Gray got to the night, Pearce, and Trevor’s fall, at which point Morgan stopped chewing. Like Valarious in the sinking marshes, Gray realized he had said too much.
—Don’t think you’re stopping there, boyo. Spill it.
The barn was ancient history. He couldn’t get into more trouble than he already had, surely.
—You won’t tell Grieves, will you?
—No bargains, boyo. Talk!
When Nimrod bade you speak, you spoke, but if he omitted certain details about the box, about the girl he’d met through a window, about what happened in Grieves’s study, still it made a good story, one Morgan seemed to regard philosophically, emptying the teapot and stretching his legs beneath the table.
—So, Morgan concluded, that’s two of your friends got the sack.
He wouldn’t have put it that way. And Trevor hadn’t been expelled, that he knew.
—You’ve been giving Mr. Grieves trouble, haven’t you?
—Me?
—Oh, save it for someone a bit more credulous, boyo.
The thrill of a hunter who could see through any ruse.
—He looks, I must say, something the worse for wear, does old Grievous.
—That isn’t my fault.
—Isn’t it?
—Someone was ill in his family. He was worried about her a long time, and he left the Cad almost every weekend this term, but now she’s dead after all, and his goddaughter is here, staying in the House, and—and he whacked two chaps this week!
—Grievous don’t whack.
—Oh, yes, he bloody does! He’s gone do-lally all on his own, and it’s nothing whatever to do with me!
Morgan looked stunned. He dipped a finger into the sugar and sucked it, gazing at the next table as if it held a map of trails loved by the hart. Finally, he drained his cup and cleared his throat.
—Back up, boyo, to the part about the goddaughter.
—What about her?
Morgan leaned back and looked at him in the way that had always made him laugh. The laughter, he knew, gave everything away. Morgan knew it, too:
—Oh, boyo. This is going to be good.
The thing with the hunter was he chased you where he would, and before you knew it, you were lost in the marsh. Gray began with her letters, and though the details, which in some cases he could recite verbatim, drew Morgan off for a time, before he knew it, they were back at the chair loft, where at least—he made this decision, when he had a breath to think—he admitted only to talking. Morgan didn’t press him, and he escaped down the path of his mother’s expl
oits, her romantic aspirations, her maneuvers with property, her vile temper, her overweening irrationality.
—I despise her!
—Watch it, boyo.
—I do!
Morgan shifted, and that keen, hawkish air swept in, the same that had dragged him first across the threshold he feared. Study number six, undergoing the rebuke, the bands had slipped—You aren’t my father! A fatal pause, decision. Morgan picked up the gauntlet—Be that as it may, I’m the closest thing you’ve got. Ear seized, across that knee—Sometimes I find, boyo, this serves better than the rest. Hand on the back of his neck—Hold still. Tears at school were utterly banned, but Morgan let him, behind the door of study number six. They came as though they’d been stored years against the drought and now, with the lightest of touches, released. Afterwards Morgan would escort him back to the slumbering dorm, hang up his dressing gown, and sit on the edge of the bed until he fell asleep.
But those days were in the past, just as unreachable as anything dead, and if he meant to keep his sanity, he had to stop responding to this ghost across the table—all right, not a ghost, but what else to call a person who abided, who made you speak the way you used to when it mattered, but who would be gone again in the morning?
—This is a hobby for you, I suppose, extorting confessions.
—It’s no hobby, Morgan said.
—Then why don’t you say something instead of sitting there like the cat that ate the songbird?
Morgan smiled:
—I was only thinking how much you’ve grown.
—Spare me.
—You’re in the Lower Sixth, you can talk without stuttering—
—I never stuttered—
—and you’ve got plucky enough to do things most of the Cad could never dream of.
Morgan paused to let him feel the praise.
—Of course, being you, you’ve taken it overboard and run headfirst for every tearaway scheme.
—I haven’t!
—McKay’s barn, clandestine theatricals, and now this girl?
—Just what is your point?
Morgan looked as though he were about to say something but then changed his mind. Gray decamped to the toilets, where he turned on the tap and put his face into the ice water. The day had been a swindle. His afternoon with the girl had been ruined, and in exchange he’d allowed himself to be worked on by Morgan Wilberforce, for no reason known to God or man.
