In the Time of Greenbloom

by Gabriel Fielding

  That was how he came to take the asparagus and why he was quite determined to go on taking anything that might come his way during the remainder of the term. He was not quite sure why he had begun stealing; until ‘the Moors’ it had not been one of his particular temptations; but latterly he had experienced an increasing and consuming greed for ‘things’ of all sorts: food sweets penknives and pens, anything old or new, useful or serviceable; and of course for money too!

  In his uneasy nights he reasoned that if you climbed a tree and took an apple that did not belong to you, you were risking a dog, a shouting farmer, or a slip in haste. Nobody, he felt, really owned anything except themselves; the body they stood up in, the voice they shouted with, the thoughts and words they made. In the beginning man had lived in caves and went out from them and took what he could at the risk of his life. He took fish from infested rivers, fruit from snake-hung trees and flesh from animals armoured with fangs and claws. If he got what he took, well and good, he had made something real to himself which before had been unreal in that it was merely a desirable part of a shadowy and hostile environment. If, on the other hand, man did not get what he wanted then he himself became unieal, he died—and became a part of the vacancy in which he lived.

  Stretching out of himself to appropriate the asparagus in the darkness of the cloisters yesterday evening he had been fishing naked in the silence. He had succeeded; and if now the waters were disturbed, if faces mouthed or looked things or threatened or hated it did not in the least matter; it was only to be expected and was, when you understood it fully, quite without significance.

  If after what had happened Mother and Father had wanted him to behave differently, to respond differently, then they should never have sent him on to Beowulf’s in the first place. Perhaps all things considered it had not been entirely their fault, it had probably been more the fault of that fool of a doctor with his talk of ‘normality’ of ‘not making a case of the boy’, of ‘letting him face up to things and resume the ordinary progress of his education’. But they should not have listened to him; they should have consulted David or old Father O’Brien in Newcastle.

  As he himself saw it, the one good thing which might have come from so much blackness and horror would have been an escape from the Beowulf’s process, the evasion of the Public School days about which he had heard and read so much in contemporary novels. He had always hated the idea of those four years which, like Michael Geoffrey and David before him, he would be expected to endure; and though he had said nothing to either Mother or Father, he had longed if possible, from the time he had reached the end of his years at the Abbey, to dodge them; but neither Mother nor Father had apparently had the time or the wit to see it, and humbly and dumbly he had acquiesced in their expectation of his starting at the School as soon as the Inquest was over.

  And now, he thought, as he looked at the calendar beside him on his desk, here he was on the morning of half-term, and with forty-two more days to get through before he returned home for the Easter holidays. For the others, halfterm was something of an event, and half-term Saturday a date marked on their calendars with gay scarlet ink; but for him it was no more than the top of a hill from which he was able to see, if he cared to look, only the farther hills and valleys of the school-year stretching ahead into the remote distance. Only one consideration afforded him any comfort as he sat there at the pre-breakfast ‘prep’: the thought that for the next forty-eight hours, everyone would be too busy to think about or notice him, and that consequently the asparagus might be forgotten at least until Monday. Before banishing the remembrance of the theft from his mind, he accepted with painless despair the certainty that by this time next week they would all be interested in more recent thefts.

  No one would be coming down to see him during the next forty-eight hours; he would have to take what slight pleasure he could in the infinitesimal slackening of school discipline, in his secret and malicious speculations about the parents and relatives of the more fortunate majority, and in the slightly more enjoyable meals. For breakfast this morning, he was sure, it would be sausages in the plural instead of in the singular; this afternoon there would be a school match followed by a fairly festive tea, and this evening a long coldly sentimental sermon from the Prebendary, ‘Oily Albert’. There might, he supposed, be a letter from Mother or Father later in the day, though he very much doubted it, as unlike other parents they seemed to have no cognisance whatsoever of school-dates and were as uninterested as he was himself in all the feast days and fast days by means of which successive Boards had tried to give Beowulf’s an Etonian flavour in the space of only sixty years.

  There might possibly be a message or a card from Michael at St John’s to say that he would take him out for tea tomorrow; but that too was unlikely if only because Michael had promised it. Like John himself, Michael resented obligations most particularly when they were self-imposed, and would have been far keener to give his young brother a treat were he not committed to it by an earlier promise.

  He opened a book hurriedly and reached for his pencil as someone walked over to his desk; it was ‘Myrtle’ Franks, one of the house prefects.

  “Blaydon?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr Rudmose would like to see you in his study after breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  Desks opened and closed and ‘Myrtle’, both hands in both pockets, the permitted swagger of the house prefect, strode magnificently down the length of the day-room and out through the door at its far end. Good Lord! Prep was over and he had done nothing, nothing but think; and now Rudmose wanted him. Could it be the asparagus, he wondered, already? Could it be the asparagus? Had they discovered him so soon?

  He put away his books and slamming the lid of his desk made his way alone across the quadrangle to breakfast. How easily they fell into twos and threes. How well they knew their places, sizes, each others faces. How faultlessly organised it was; as neatly disposed as an ant’s nest; little tiny maggots in one room, slightly bigger and more adolescent maggots in another, and smooth prefectorial cocoons in a third. But who was he? And what did he represent in the total activity of the nest? He did not know. But he longed for one of them, or two of them, to drop easily into step beside him and begin one of those wholesome deadly conversations of which they never grew tired. He wondered if there were nothing he could do to take them in, to make them see him as he wished to be seen; unexceptionable, fresh faced, and normal. Somewhere there must be something wrong, something not altogether connected with the Moors. Johnson’s father, he remembered, had exhibited himself in a barrel at Blackpool the year before he himself had arrived at Beowulf’s; and Johnson was still one of the most popular prefects in the school. Onions’s mother had jumped from the fourth-floor window of an unsavoury hotel half a mile from the Marble Arch, yet Onions had dozens of friends. What was it then which made them all hurry past him, talk back carefully and briefly when he spoke to them, or become absent-mindedly engrossed in whatever they were doing or not doing when he approached? And how long would it last?

  In the roar and clatter of the Dining-Hall he ate the sausages with relish, ekeing them out with six slices of margarine-and-bread and afterwards legged it back to the day-room collected his books for the morning’s work and knocked on the door of Mr Rudmose’s study.

  The housemaster opened it almost immediately.

  “Good morning B-Blaydon,” he said with his quick stammer.

  “Good morning sir.”

  “Come in.”

  He followed him across the carpet to the wide fireplace gaping beneath its cluttered mantel: photographs of Old Boys, not so old boys, and young boys, the multitudinous accessories of the Georgian pipe-smoker, three spill-stocked Worcester vases and an empty crucifix; and waited despondently while Mr Rudmose took up his position in front of his past. In a moment he had to meet the grey unsated eyes piercing out across the ruin of the cheeks and the pursed lips. The face, it occurred to him again, looked
as though it had been sucked in the mouth of some young and dreadful experience, sucked and rejected before its lineament had quite dissolved. He had disliked it from the moment of their first interview six months ago, and looking into it now, he realised that the most painful distortion of which it was capable was that of the smile; the smile of a quite unutterable despair pathetically sweetened by a desire to please and to be loved.

  “Well J-Joseph?” The pet name hung on the air.

  With an effort he smiled back, and it was as though he had blown into a dying bonfire, a wisp of smoke wrinkled the nostrils and spread in a little blaze to the eyes. Inside himself, horrified by the swiftness of the response, he shrank back from its warmth.

  “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been getting on this term, Joseph?”

  “Have you sir?”

  “Still the dreamer, Joseph?”

  “Yes sir, rather bad dreams I’m afraid.”

  “Poor Joseph!” Once again the smile bared the teeth. “Remember the d-dream of the sheaves, and take heart!”

  “Yes sir, I will,” he replied hopelessly, wondering who was ever going to bow down to him. “Did you want me sir?”

  “I did Joseph, I did! I have some g-gnews, a letter from your brother Michael reached my breakfast-table this morning asking my permission to take you out this afternoon and requesting a late pass for the evening.”

  “Oh.” He eyed the card which Rudmose had extracted from the envelope on the mantelpiece. He was quite unexcited; it was better than nothing, but there was never anything comfortable or cosy about afternoons with Mick, he lacked something that the rest of the family had in superabundance, a quality of reassurance, of a warm vitality that could shut the door on the world and make one glow intimately and safely within its ambience.

  Pretending to a livelier pleasure than he felt, he managed an eager smile. “Will I be able to go sir?”

  “My d-dear Joseph! Of course you will.” He slithered about on the greasy pole of his impediment speaking in little rushes, hesitating, swaying, all but losing his balance and then with astonishing agility recovering himself and rushing on again.

  “But you know, Joseph, I don’t think my dear friend that you think, and I m-must say I entirely ag-gree with you, that one afternoon, one s-small break in the c-louds will quite solve our problem for us.”

  “No sir.” He was right; but how strange and terrible that understanding and the love it must presuppose should come from this quarter.

  “No-no indeed! You have wisdom Joseph, you realise that a change portends do you not?” He paused, smiling horribly, and then without waiting for an answer patted him tenderly on the back, allowing his cold hand to rest on the nape of his neck.

  “To pursue the metaphor, Biblical and appropriate from myself to your father’s son, it is time you got out of your dry w-well, abandoned your coat of m-many colours, and left your brethren to their fate. If the dream of the sheaves is to come true Joseph, I think you would be better served elsewhere and from his letter, I think that opinion seems already to be shared by your elder brother M-Michael too.”

  How cold is his hand, he thought; cold and heavy, clutching at warmth. The weight of it seemed to smother his thoughts and he was quite unable to reply. People should never touch one another without warning, it was very dangerous. He imagined himself a piece of seaweed in the grip of some cold and hungry crustacean, a lobster or a crab.

  “Well Joseph?”

  “Do you mean that you think I ought to leave Beowulf’s, sir?”

  “My d-dear boy, did I say that? Did I even m-minimally imply such a thing? You must not be so impetuous.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I thought that was what you meant. What did you mean sir?”

  “I m-meant Joseph that at a later date it might be as well to consider going elsewhere. B-but that is not at all the same thing as l-leaving the school, in the middle of the term I mean.”

  “But that’s just what I thought you meant, sir.”

  “But we must be circumspect, we must become accustomed to the idea and discuss it, b-before we even think of making it a fact.”

  “Yes sir.” What did he mean? Next year? At the end of this term, sometime or never? “When did you think I ought to leave sir?”

  “Certainly not before the end of term, Joseph. That might look as though you were fleeing or we were pushing; remember that it is only the wicked who ‘flee when no man pursueth but the righteous’ and that I am your friend, Joseph; you may not have admitted it to yourself yet, though I think you welcome it, but I do want to do what is best for you.”

  “Yes sir.” If only he would remove his hand. “Would you mind telling me why you think I ought to leave sir?”

  The hand gave a little wriggle, a dying convulsion.

  “Why, for your own s-sake Joseph of course! not for ours, you must never imagine even in your deepest dreams that we would wish you to go er—into Egypt!” He paused, the hand was removed and all at once with a lightning change its owner became the Reverend Rudmose again, the housemaster who did not like the headmaster and who was therefore determined to be faultless in the discharge of a difficult commission. “I want you to know, Joseph, that I have already written to your parents and told them that we think it would be better for you if you were to start your schooling anew in some other and m-more fortunate establishment; and I think, though even the wisest of us may be mistaken, that they too feel n-now that it was perhaps a mistake to let you return here, to start here, so soon after—after—”

  “After the Moors, sir?”

  “Yes Joseph, after the M-moors.”

  “All right sir.”

  For the first time he was able to smile brightly and sincerely into the haggard face so near his own. In his imagination his trunk and tuck-box were already packed and he was on the train for home; the horror was over. Inside him, gaiety limbered up like an athlete on a frosty field.

  “And can I go out with my brother this afternoon, sir?”

  “After the necessary formalities, the usual interview with the P-P-P—”

  “The Prebendary, sir?” He knew that Rudmose loathed the headmaster and that there must be a long delay in the pronunciation of the bizarre and hated title.

  “Yes, the P-P—, the Headmaster! You could talk all this over with your brother Michael, could you not? And then perhaps when I have had your father’s reply I could tell you about my g-good friend Mr Victor of Worthing.”

  “Mr Victor?”

  “Yes Joseph; an euphonious name! A name instinct with g-good omens for the future. He is a c-coach, a crammer, an am-am-m-m-anuensis, and a very able one who would, were he given the chance, soon make the d-dream of the sheaves a reality. I have already mentioned him to your father and advised him how greatly you might profit from his tutelage. He has served Beowulf’s very well in the past, and more than that, he is a p-personal and unusual friend of my own.” He hesitated and his face assumed the unmistakable air of greed which precedes a confidence. “I wonder if your father or mother have ever told you about the R-Remnant, Joseph?”

  “The Remnant, sir? I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “I must refer you to your Bible! Like m-most things of real importance you will find it there. The L-Latter Days, Joseph! the Return of the decimated portion of the Chosen Race to the fold! Wars and r-rumours of wars, signs in the heavens and I might add, s-signs in Worthing!” He grinned delightedly, and waited.

  John tried to look intelligent. “It sounds like Revelations, sir, and I’ve never been able to understand them.”

  “Revelation in the singular perhaps, Joseph. But you must search the pages of the Old Testament if you are to d-discover my reference.”

  “Yes sir.” He longed to escape to the celebration of his thoughts but felt that a little more kindness and politeness was demanded of him.

  “What has it got to do with Mr Victor sir?” he asked eagerly.

  “A strange man Joseph, an unusual man in whom East a
nd West have found their c-consummation! Mr Victor is a Jew, but a Jew with a d-difference. He is a Christian Jew, a keen Churchman and a friend of Canterbury. It is rare indeed for one of these to re-enter his religion by way of the Reform. Today, Joseph, all roads do not lead to R-Rome!” he ended triumphantly.

  “No sir.”

  “It is my hope that in the not-too-distant future you will make more than the acquaintance of this very dear friend; that he will be able to take over the guardianship of those r-rich dreams in which I know you indulge.”

  “Thank you sir.” He moved and by his movement succeeded in changing the direction of the conversation. “He sounds very interesting sir. By the way, what time have I to be back tonight?”

  “T-ten o’clock. The Porter closes the gate at that hour and we do not want our young friend to have to k-knock like Macduff at the door of the castle—and, J-Joseph!”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Remember, no c-colleges!”

  “No sir.”

  “B-boys are not allowed in the colleges!” He smiled again for the last time, a slow strangled smile.

  “R-remember P-Potiphar’s wife and do not go into a college, Joseph.”

  “No sir.”

  He closed the door briskly behind him.

  Michael took him to the Carpenter’s Arms, a small pub somewhere behind Carfax where he said he was occasionally in the habit of having a game of darts or shove-ha’penny with the ‘real Oxfordians’. “One should get everything out of one’s time at a university,” he said, “and learn to be a good mixer. You’ll like the Carpenter’s John, it’s an honest little place! Although I rarely go there, I like to feel it’s there in an emergency, if you know what I mean; and of course the beer’s very sound. Just the place for a family talk.”