Young bloods r-1

by Simon Scarrow

  His first impression of the austere setting was that it looked like a prison, and his heart ached with longing for his home and his family. The feeling swelled inside him as O'Shea unloaded his meagre trunk of clothing, books and other belongings and turned the carriage back towards the gate. Then O'Shea was gone and the sound of the wheels on gravel quickly faded away. Arthur stood alone before the main entrance. All was still, but not quite silent. From somewhere within the abbey a chorus of voices conjugated a Latin verb.

  'New boy!' a voice called out.

  Arthur turned and saw a lad not much older than himself crossing the courtyard from a side building. He had a thick crop of dark hair and a robust build. Arthur swallowed nervously. 'Me, sir?'

  The boy stopped and looked round the courtyard with elaborate concentration. 'It appears there is no other to whom I might address my remarks.You idiot.'

  Arthur opened his mouth to protest, lost his nerve and blushed instead. The other boy laughed.

  'Never mind.You must be Wesley.'

  'Y-yes, sir.'

  'I'm not "sir". My name's Crosbie. Richard Crosbie. I've been told to look out for you. Here, let me help you with the trunk.'

  They took hold of the straps at either end of the trunk and lifted it with some effort.

  'This way,' Richard grunted. They heaved the chest across the courtyard, through a stone arch into a cloister beyond. A small flight of stairs led up from the far end into a low-ceilinged dormitory.

  'This is your bed.' The older boy set the trunk down in front of a plain bed that seemed surprisingly wide to Arthur. 'You're sharing it with Piers Westlake. The near side is yours.Your trunk goes underneath.'

  Arthur gazed at the bed. 'Shared beds?'

  'Of course. This ain't a palace. It's a school.'

  'Are all schools like this?' Arthur asked quietly.

  'How should I know?' Richard shrugged. 'I've never been anywhere else. The housemaster wants to see you now. I'll show you the way. Come.'

  He led Arthur to a short, dim corridor that ended in a thick studded oak door.

  'There,' Richard said quietly. 'Just knock. He's expecting you.'

  'What's he like?' Arthur whispered.

  'Old Harcourt?' Richard stifled a grin. 'He eats new boys for breakfast. I'll see you later, if you live.'

  Richard turned and hurried away, leaving the young boy standing in front of the big door. He felt his hand trembling as he raised it towards the dark wood.Then he paused, afraid and alone. For a moment he felt the urge to turn and run. Then his resolve stiffened a little and he leaned forward and rapped twice on the door.

  'Enter!'

  Arthur took a deep breath to steady his nerves, lifted the latch and pushed the door open a small way, squeezing round its thick edge. Beyond was a large room lit by light from a window high up on one wall.The fireplace was bare and the floor had no coverings on its worn flagstones. The room was dominated by a huge desk, and behind it, sitting on a high-backed chair, was a large figure in a cassock. His face was broad and ruddy, and dark eyes peered out at the newcomer from beneath bristling eyebrows.

  'You're Wesley?'

  Arthur nodded.

  'Speak up, young man!'

  'Yes, sir. I'm Arthur Wesley.'

  'That's better.' Father Harcourt nodded. He looked the boy up and down and did not show any sign of approval, before he turned his attention to a letter lying open on his desk. 'It seems that your parents are concerned about your lack of academic progress. Well, we shall soon set that right. Do you do anything well, young Wesley?'

  'Please, sir. I can read music. I'm learning the violin.'

  'Really? Well, that's nice. But no use to you here. This is a school, boy, not a concert hall. Kindly bend your efforts to learning what we will attempt to teach you in the coming years.'

  'Years?' Arthur replied bleakly.

  Father Harcourt smiled coldly. 'Of course. How long do you imagine it takes to bring boys like you to an acceptable level of competence in all the basic subjects?'

  Arthur had no idea, and could not even begin to guess, so he shrugged instead.

  'The answer depends on how diligently you apply yourself to your studies, young Wesley. Work hard, be obedient and you will do well. Failure to do so will result in a thrashing. Understand?'

  Arthur shuddered and nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

  'Those are the most important rules here. The others you will pick up soon enough. Now you must go and wait in the main hall. It will be lunch soon. You'll be joining the class of Mr O'Hare. I'll be along directly to point you out to him. Now off you go.'

  Arthur nodded and turned for the door.

  'Young man!'

  Arthur turned back with a start and saw Father Harcourt wagging a finger at him. 'When a member of staff gives you an instruction, you will reply "Yes, sir" in future. Or face the consequences.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'That's better. Now go.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The first days at the abbey were the hardest in Arthur's life. At first none of the other boys would speak to him except Richard Crosbie, but even then the older boy seemed to delight in giving him inaccurate information about the school and its rules, and very quickly Arthur grew to trust no one, and withdrew into quiet solitude as a means of staying out of trouble and not attracting the attention of those boys with a penchant for bullying. But, as the new boy, he was the prime object of their attention and fell victim to all manner of tricks and spiteful behaviour.

  Each day they rose at first light.The boys washed in cold water drawn from the abbey's wells, and then dressed for the day. All meals were served in the hall and featured a steady diet of porridge, broth, salted meat and boiled vegetables, served with a hunk of bread. Meals were eaten in silence, and the teachers slowly patrolled the hall with short lengths of willow, ready to swish them down on any boy who spoke, or infringed any rules of precedence and propriety in the manner in which they took their places, or went up to collect their food.

  Lessons were held in cells leading off the cloistered quadrangle, twenty boys to a room, seated on bare benches as they leaned across well-worn tabletops and struggled with dictation, basic maths, reading exercises and the rudiments of Latin and Greek. Failure to master tasks set by the teachers was rewarded with slashes of the willow canes across the back of the legs or the palm of the hand. At first Arthur cried out, but then received an extra three blows for not controlling his pain. He learned quickly to clench his teeth hard and stare over the shoulder of the teacher at a spot on the far wall, concentrating on containing the agony. Despite such incentives to excel at the tasks set for him, Arthur resolutely remained an average student, struggling with every subject. Misery piled upon misery and his longing to return home steadily became more intense, passing from mere homesickness into a kind of dark despair that this harsh and cruel life would never end.

  On Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons, the boys were allowed out of the abbey's grounds and Arthur made straight for the bridge across the Boyne and explored the ruins of Trim Castle. Often small parties of boys would play at medieval knights, slashing away at each other with makeshift swords and spears, pulling back their blows at the last moment so as not to inflict hurt, but in their mind's eye hacking their enemies limb from limb. When such contests began, Arthur quietly withdrew from the fray and watched from the shelter of a moss-covered wall or crumbling archway. It was not just the prospect of pain that caused him to withdraw, it was the wildness in the expressions of his peers, the relish of violence in their faces. It frightened him when he saw how easily play crossed over an ill-defined boundary into naked aggression.

  Towards the end of his first term, a package arrived from home. It contained a violin in a finely decorated case, and a brief note from his father.

  My dear Arthur,

  Since you demonstrated such a flair for the instrument at home it would be a great shame not to persist with your lessons. I am sending you the violin I was given at your age. I
t may be a little on the large size for you at the moment, but won't be for long! I have made enquiries and have found a suitable music teacher close to Trim – a Mr Buckleby – and have arranged with Father Harcourt that you might attend a private lesson in Trim once a week. I look forward to hearing of your progress when you return to Dangan.

  Your loving father

  PS. Please take great care of the violin.

  So every Saturday, Arthur quitted the abbey and walked into Trim, outsize violin case tucked under his arm. Mr Buckleby lived in a stone cottage with a slate-tiled roof on the edge of town. Arthur found the place readily enough on his first visit and, steeling himself, he lifted the iron door knocker and thudded it home. Almost at once the door was wrenched open so suddenly that Arthur took half a step back in fright.

  A huge man in a brown suit filled the entrance. His stockings, once white, were now a misshapen grey and drooped over the top of the pinchbeck buckles on his scuffed shoes. A powdered wig rested at an angle above his wrinkled jowls. He wore spectacles, behind which dark brown eyes scrutinised the young boy.

  'I saw you coming up the path, young man.What can I do for you?'

  'Good day, sir,' Arthur said quietly. 'I'm looking for a Mr Buckleby.'

  'Dr Silas Buckleby, at your service.You must be young Wesley, Garrett's boy. Come in, come in.'

  He stood aside and Arthur squeezed past into a small hall.The space was lined with stacks of music, bound and loose, and musical instruments in various states of repair were propped up against the walls. Motes of dust twinkled in the broad shaft of light entering from the door, and abruptly disappeared as Dr Buckleby slammed it shut and turned round, gesturing to a door at the rear of the hall.

  'Through there, sir. We must begin at once!'

  He brushed past and pushed the far door open, beckoning Arthur inside. The room behind the hall was in sharp contrast to the hall. It was almost bare, save for a single chair and two music stands. A leaded window looked out over a small overgrown garden and faded tapestries hung over the other three walls.They depicted scenes based on ancient myths and Arthur's gaze was riveted to the details of a bacchanalian scene. Dr Buckleby's keen eyes noted the boy's expression.

  'The hangings are for acoustic purposes only. Try to ignore them.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I find that the quality of some of my students is such that I am obliged to deaden the screams of their tormented instruments as far as possible, else I should go mad.' He smiled as he slumped his ponderous form down on the chair, which creaked in protest. 'Now then, young Arthur, do you know who I am?'

  'No, sir.' Arthur bit his lip. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

  Dr Buckleby wave his hand. 'No matter. Let me tell you. I am the man who taught your father to play the violin. A great talent he has. And gone on to great things. I hear that he is Professor of Music at Trinity.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well then, we must ensure that the family tradition is maintained.' He held out his hands.'Now let me see what you can do with that instrument of yours!'

  Having already been introduced to the violin by his father Arthur quickly proved to be an excellent student with a natural talent. For his part, Dr Buckleby was a fine teacher, who coaxed the best out of the sensitive child with a firm and friendly manner. Soon, there was nothing Arthur looked forward to more than his weekly lessons in Trim.

  In contrast, school life became almost unendurable, with its scant comforts and harsh disciplines. As autumn gave way to winter, the cold stone walls of the abbey were clammy every morning, and icy blasts of wind found their way through every gap in the windows and doorframes. Curled up beneath his shared blankets, Arthur shivered through each night, and rose wearily to endure day after day of learning by rote. And while his command of maths was tolerable he continued to show no aptitude for the Classics, much to the frustration, and then growing anger, of his teachers. The more he struggled, and was punished for his lack of progress, the more miserable and introverted he became, so that eventually even Dr Buckleby commented on it.

  'Arthur, your mind's wandering.You played the last section as if you were handling a weaving loom.'

  'I'm sorry, sir,' he mumbled.

  Dr Buckleby saw that the little boy's lip was trembling, and he leaned forward and gently took the violin and bow from him. 'Tell me what ails you, child.'

  For a moment Arthur was silent.

  'I – I hate school. I want to go home.'

  'We all hate school at times, boy. Even I did. It's part of growing up. It's what trains us to cope with later hardships.'

  'But I can't bear it!' Arthur looked up defiantly. 'Sometimes I… I just want to die.'

  'Nonsense! Why would anyone want that?' Dr Buckleby smiled. 'It's hard, but you will get used to it, I promise.'

  'But I won't. I'm no good at it,' Arthur sniffed.'I've no friends. I'm no good at sports. And I'm not clever, like my brothers. I'm just not clever,' he concluded miserably. 'It's not fair.'

  'Arthur, we all learn at our own rate. Some skills merely take more time, and application. Some things we learn faster than others. Take your ability with the violin, for example.You're like your father. It's a rare gift you have. Take satisfaction in it.'

  Arthur looked up at him. 'But it is merely an instrument. It is of no account in the world.'

  Dr Buckleby frowned and Arthur at once realised he had caused great offence. He felt ashamed that he might have hurt the feelings of this man who lived for music. It was tempting to surrender to the muse, to devote himself to music. In time he would win some recognition for his ability. But where would that lead? Would the reward be to end up in a small cottage in some provincial town earning his keep from teaching the sons of local worthies? It frightened Arthur. He wanted more from life.

  Dr Buckleby sighed. 'Is it so terrible a thing to have a gift for music? To be a master of the art that, above all others, distinguishes us from common beasts?'

  Arthur stared at him, heart heavy with sorrow, weighed down by the intolerable burden of an honest nature. He swallowed.'No, sir. It is not a terrible thing. It is, as you say, a gift.'

  'There! You see, all is not lost. Far from it. Come now, let us return to our practice. In years to come men will toast the great Arthur Wesley – maestro!'

  Arthur forced himself to smile. Perhaps Dr Buckleby was right. Perhaps destiny had marked him out for such a career. Perhaps he should accept this. One day he would win some renown for his music.

  In his heart of hearts he dreaded that this might be true.

  Chapter 11

  At Christmas, the Wesley family were reunited at Dangan. Anne was busy arranging the social calendar for the holiday. Besides the big party to be held in the hall for all the minor landlords and their families about the estate, there was the usual round of castles and manors of relatives and friends to be visited. Food and drink had to be ordered in, guest rooms to be dusted down and prepared, clothes to be selected and packed into trunks, and temporary staff to be taken on for the holiday period. Inevitably, due to the shortage of English servants, the temporary staff would be drawn from the Irish community. The prospect of having their sullen coarse features hurrying around Dangan caused Anne some heartache. Their brogue was almost incomprehensible, their posture poor and she regarded them as little better than beasts of burden.

  While she anxiously made her plans at her bureau she could hear Garrett in the music room at work composing a piece for the small concert he had insisted on arranging for the big party. Every so often a brief snatch of melody would issue from the fortepiano, then there would be dark mutterings or an exclamation of surprise, the faint rasp of quill on paper, then another turn at the keys.This, Anne knew, could go on for days at a time, and not for the first time she wished that her husband was not quite so gifted in his musical talents. Now, if he had only become a writer, that would have been far less of an imposition on the family. After all, the costs of being a writer were limited to pen and paper. A composer – as he had
liked to style himself since taking that chair at Trinity – spent an inordinate amount of money on instruments, not to mention having to subsidise all the concerts he put on to air his new compositions. If only Garrett could make money from his talents, she considered. But he never would. Music was his first love in life, his true mistress, and he would go on spoiling her until he died. Or as long as the family's fortune lasted.

  The family's finances, like those of many other fine households in Ireland, were strained at present.While the income from land remained steady, the high rents, arrears and evictions were causing considerable unrest across the land. Several land agents had been murdered in the last month and the first ripple of landowners was quitting the island for the greater security of England. So land prices were falling. Worse still, Anne reflected, the trouble brewing in the American colonies was shaking the confidence of the London financial markets. Garrett had received some worrying letters from the family's banker in the capital, warning him that the combined income of the Wesley investments had fallen sharply and Anne knew that she must trim her household budget to suit. It was all too frustrating. Between the troublesome Irish peasants and those disloyal fools in the colonies, they would ruin the fortunes of their betters. Anne frowned. What right had they to do that? To jeopardise her future, and that of her innocent children?

  Thought of which drew her attention to the faint shouts and laughter drifting up from the hall. Since it was cold and wet outside she had given the children permission to play there. The breakfast table had been dragged to one side, a net set up and the children were busy playing battledore. It should keep them busy for a few hours at least, she sighed, returning to her plans as the rain pattered against the window.