In the Time of Greenbloom

by Gabriel Fielding

  “I am sure—very soon I shall be leaving England. I am going back to Vy’enna. I am going to get married.”

  She walked on and leaned her back against the white rail of the racecourse.

  “Married?” he called out. “Who to? To Greenbloom?”

  From where he stood he saw the quick secrecy of her smile as she answered:

  “No. Not to Greenbloom—to a friend of his.”

  “But—” he said.

  Behind them they heard the braying of a motor horn; they turned simultaneously and faced the group of trees which received the end of the narrow white road. In a few moments a very old Citroen came rolling out of the shadows kicking up the dust as it bounced along over the flints. When it drew nearer they saw that Greenbloom was driving and that the caretaker was sitting beside him singing happily.

  John hurried over to Rachel as the car drew up.

  “Ah, merveilleux!” said Rachel. “How lovely to ride in a Citroen again! with this we shall soon be in Paris.”

  From his place beside Greenbloom the caretaker favoured her with a splintering smile and then burst once more into song:

  “Eau pray de ma blahndie,

  Kale Fé Bongh … Fé Bongh …”

  he sang. He stopped suddenly and putting an arm round Greenbloom said “aise tarte mi leur French. Arme chantan’ French sang.”

  Greenbloom ignored him. “We are not going to Paris,” he said thickly. “Get in everyone. We are going to collect petrol in the village and then we are leaving by air.”

  “But mon cher! It is so beautiful here.” Rachel climbed under the rails and leaned in through the window of the Citroen. “John has not seen anything yet; he has not even seen Le Tour Eiffel.”

  “He will see it later. Tomorrow he will see the Tower of Beni Hassan in Rabat. I have decided to move on South to the Desert. There is no time to be lost; we have telegrams to dispatch and there is much to be done before we take off.” They got in silently and Greenbloom turned the car. John whispered to Rachel:

  “Where is Rabat?”

  Greenbloom turned round, “Rabat is in French Morocco,” he said curtly. “No distance at all from Paris. We shall fly South, refuel at Cannes, and cross the Mediterranean this evening.”

  He put his foot down on the accelerator and the Citroen swept away with them into the cold shadows underlying the throng of the trees.

  5

  Rooker’s Close

  No movement but will make its havoc

  In the moted air. Have you watched the stir

  Of dust behind you on the stair, the hassock

  Yield its quota to your prayer?

  Rooker’s Close

  “What I can’ unnerstan’,” sang Cledwyn Jones in his Rhondda English, “iz why the old man iz censorin’ all the letters this past faëw weeks. Humphrey takes them up to his study before breakfast an’ he brings them down and hands them out purs’nally; he never ewsed to do it, well what for’s he doin’ it now?”

  Across the table Stuart winked at John. “It’s a mystery, ‘Cardiff’ old boy! he’s probably got on to your police record in South Wales; agree, Bowden?”

  “Yes,” said John, remembering his new name just in time. If only Stuart weren’t so invincibly ‘Haileybury’ with his confounded surnames. Across the top of his coffee cup Cledwyn’s little Welsh face was watching him closely.

  “Well I think you may be right there, Jimmy, but I’m bettin’ it’s not me he’s on to. I’ll swear it’s somethin’ to do with John here.”

  “Why?” asked John casually, watching the waitress at the far table.

  Cledwyn looked cunning and it suited him, “Something Humphrey said, that’s why.”

  “Oh Humphrey!” said Stuart. “Humphrey, the Homo Henchman, what did he say?”

  “I ask him what wass the idea an’ he squeezed my arm—”

  “Big thrill—”

  “’Ee squeezed my arm and said, ‘Ask Mr Bowden, sir; Mr Bowden should know’.”

  “Horrible hints!” Stuart drawled. “The plot thickens! Mystery at Rooker’s Close among Mr Ikey Victor’s strictly public-school, strictly arseward—that is to say backward—Young Gentlemen.” He blew out a cheekful of Turkish cigarette smoke. “Trouble with Jones is that he’s always looking for intrigue an’ dirty goin’s on in the woodshed, isn’t he, Bowden?”

  “He’s Welsh,” said John, trying to look disinterested. He gestured at the waitress, “I wouldn’t mind a date with her, would you? Haven’t seen that one before, wonder where Flora is.”

  “The usual,” said Stuart, “she suffers terrible, poor gal.”

  But Jones was not to be deflected; chewing his square fingers, a habit which enraged John, he continued to observe him carefully.

  “Beginnin’ of term,” he went on, taking advantage of a corner of skin on his thumb, “there wass a policeman in with the ol’ man, an’ ever since ’e’s been censorin’ our letters and what Cledwyn wants to know is why. ’E hass no right to do it. He even censors Peter’s from the Bank, so there must be something funny goin’ on.”

  “Rot!” said John. “It’s only the Special Constable racket. He likes to keep in with the Police, all Jews do, and with Victor it’s part of his English pose like his interest in cricket and the ‘Trench-Fever’ nonsense every time he gets a stomach ache.”

  “Shake!” said Stuart. “Still, he must have been somewhere near the front line at some time or another or he wouldn’t have got a wound stripe.”

  “Probably an explosion in the Lats,” said John. “Well behind the lines. I only ever met one Jew who would have fought in a war—”

  “And that was Greenbloom!” said Stuart. “Don’t tell us, we know.”

  John reached out for a biscuit.

  “If you’d met him—” he began.

  “Hey! steady on with the biscuits, you’ve taken the last.”

  “It’s O.K., I’ll order some more! ’S’one way of getting introjuiced.” Jones got to his feet and sidled over to the waitress. They saw the jaunty smile, the over-brilliantined hair, almost the cock of a little tail.

  Stuart looked at John.

  “Not strictly Public School, Bowden,” he said, “but I suppose one must learn to mix.”

  “He’s all right,” said John, “he can’t help being Welsh.”

  “I bet they’ve got plenty of money.”

  “Must have, or he wouldn’t be here. Old Nosy sticks the fees up every term. Still, he gets results.”

  “Does he, Hell! I very much doubt if he’ll ever get me through. I’ve failed the School Cert three times already and this is my last shot. If I get ploughed this time the Governor is threatening me with a job in a bank like dear little pansy Peter.”

  “How awful!”

  Stuart’s face twisted. “God! He is a wet.”

  “Poor Devil!”

  “There but for the Grace of God—! Bowden old boy, you’ve only got to lose your father, have nice blue eyes and flaxen curley-wurls and get landed into Rooker’s Close at the age of twelve by your doting mummy and you’re there for life with a brand new ikey mo for a daddy!”

  “Not me! I’d have walked out years ago.”

  “That’s what you think! But suppose your dead daddy had settled money on you, bonds and bills of sale,” Stuart gestured with his hands, “and supposing he’d made old Stinkbomb a trustee and that Mummy had ever such great faith in a fine converted churchman like Mr Gilbert Victor, what then?” He looked up as Jones resumed his place. “We’re talking about Peter,” he said.

  “Man, he’s pretty! but he serves for Father Delaura Sundays and that lets you out. If it weren’t for Peter you’d all be running round the Altar with bells and candles every Sunday in the term.”

  “Personally I like my Christianity in small doses,” said Stuart, “and not mixed up with bed-time kisses from the old man.”

  “It’s a funny set-up when yew come to think of it,” said Jones.

  “Unhealthy!” said Stu
art. “Worse than a public-school. Mind you, I think it’s only fatherly affection gawn wrawng; but all the same, if the old—started trying to buss me evewy night after I’d said my pwayers I’d let him have it right in the—”

  They were both a little shocked by the coldness of his tone, the venom which distorted his dark-eyed face; but it was a pleasurable shock like an execution.

  “What about Humphrey?” suggested John.

  “God knows! He’s obviously a homo: signet rings, belted overcoats, face-lotions and pointed shoes, and he’s in the old man’s confidence. My governor’d bust an artery if he knew the half of it; but I don’t tell him.” He glanced at his watch, “Talking of which, what about this afternoon, Jones? Are you game?”

  “Effery time! Effery time, man!” Jones patted his pocket and it jingled. “’Ear that? That’s for the petrol and there’s enough over for whateffa blows up at the tea-dance.”

  Stuart turned to John. “What about you?”

  “No thanks, I’m not risking it. One of these days you’ll both get nabbed.”

  “In Worthing, perhaps! He’s got choir-boys dog-collars and Church workers planted all over the town, to-say nothing of dear Humphrey’s Saturday afternoon off from his so-called buttling; but Brighton’s as safe as houses.”

  “What exactly are you going to do when you get there?”

  “The usual: pick up a couple of women at a tea-dance, spend as little as possible on ’em and then run ’em up on to the Downs. Come on, join us and share expenses!”

  “Not likely! What’s your excuse this time?”

  “The Match! Mr Leveson-Gower’s Gentlemen v. The County. All we’ve got to do is to buy an evening paper and memorise close-of-play scores. It’s a cinch?”

  John shook his head.

  “Yellow! That’s what ’ee iz,” said Jones.

  “You’re dead right—I am. Victor’s been watching me like a cat lately—” He realised his mistake a little too late. Jones had started to chew his thumb again and the narrow eyes were on him.

  “Juss what I said! an’ it’s something to do with the letters.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” groaned Stuart turning his back on him. “We must get organised. What are you going to do, Bowden?”

  “I’m going down on to the beach to bathe.”

  “Oh, the leg-show! Time you grew up old boy; never get anywhere just looking.”

  John dissembled. “It’s better than nothing; besides, I’m making progress. One of ’em smiled at me three times last Saturday.”

  “What’s the good of that? We’ll be paying for more than smiles, won’t we Jones?”

  “You certainly will when the old man catches you,” said John.

  “Bull!” said Stuart. “You’re the one he’ll catch. Instead of drooling about on the beach with your tongue hanging out, you want to go in and win.”

  “There’s something in that; but until I feel a little less fatherly interest radiating in my direction I’m playing safe.”

  “What did I tell you?” said Jones. “Bowden is yellow an’ I’m bettin’ it’s for a good reason.” They pocketed the last of the biscuits, paid the bill and sidled out into Montague Street.

  A vigorous breeze was blowing from the Front and as they passed the side streets they could just see the bright blue bar of the sea over the promenade wall and the small silhouettes of walkers bath-chairs and kiosks against the sky-line. “Half an hour till lunch,” said Stuart. “Just time to get Mavis to put on a few records in Marks and Spencer’s and then fill up the Sphinx for the afternoon’s frolic.”

  Later, they drove back along the wind-swept Front, down Grand Avenue with its exotic fir trees, and turned left into Mill Road. They parked the car in front of the yellow plate:

  GILBERT VICTOR, M.A., L.C.P.

  PRIVATE TUITION

  and walked up the short drive to the house.

  In the conservatory, its mildewed vine covered as always in the summer with bunches of minute green grapes, they met St Clair on his way out. They neither liked St Clair nor disliked him; he was all right, but only just. For one thing he was an R.C., and that, as Stuart put it, was ’unhealthy’; in addition, and this had more to do with their attitude, he was resident in the town—a Worthingtonian.

  He lived with his malarial mother in a flat somewhere between Mill Street and the Western Promenade, no one quite knew where. His father was in Malaya in the Consular Service and the breakdown in his mother’s health had meant the end of his education at Beaumont College and his subsequent arrival at Rooker’s Close during the preceding term. He was thus in two senses cut off from them, and rightly or wrongly they felt that he disapproved of them and that consequently he was not to be trusted. There was a certain smugness about him which angered them: though he never talked women or smut he never betrayed evident disapproval when they did so themselves, and though at such times his silence was not ostentatious they could not help noticing that he never troubled to laugh at their jokes. Religion was the only subject on which he could be drawn; and for this reason because he seemed to enjoy arguments about Henry the Eighth and the Inquisition, because he seemed always to be vastly amused by the fact that Mr Victor encouraged them to serve at the Altar of St Jude’s, they seldom gave him the satisfaction of discussing the pros and cons of Roman Catholicism.

  But today, warm from their recent conversation about the plans for the afternoon and quick to the suspicion that for all they knew St Clair might himself constitute one of the hidden threats to their safety, they were all disposed to challenge him. The sight of him; his pink serene face, the neat wad of books under his arm and the hint they gave of orderliness and domesticity within the ambience of the town which was at once their delight and their enemy, enraged them. Instantly, at Stuart’s first words to him, they were united by a quiet antipathy.

  “Going, dear boy?”

  “I am; why?” St Clair’s smile was vexatiously certain.

  “Are you sure you’ve got everything, now Patrick?”

  “Quite certain thanks.”

  “The Aeneid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Monday’s Maths?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last year’s papers?”

  “Everything, thank you very much.”

  Stuart paused; St Clair’s good humour was patent.

  “And St Clair—?”

  “Yes Stuart?”

  “Have you been to your Confession? Have you cleaned the slate, dear boy, so that you can make a fresh start on Monday with all the lovely little sins that it’s such fun to commit?”

  “I have.”

  “Good! How very convenient.”

  “Yes,” said St Clair, “it is. But you’ve no idea how I envy you, Stuart. You won’t forget to say a little prayer for me tomorrow will you? The Old Man tells me you’re assisting at the Seven o’clock in the morning.”

  “Am I? Hell! That’s dear Peter’s privilege.”

  “Oh no Stuart! Not according to my information. Peter has been promoted to the little heresy that takes place at eleven o’clock with vestments and incense as laid down in the fortieth article of the New Faith and recently defined by an Archbishop of Canterbury.” He smiled happily. “So you won’t forget me, will you Stuart? You’ll look so beautiful at that hour and I know that you will mean well despite your invincible ignorance.”

  “Only lend me a Rosary, St Clair, and I’ll play with my little beads all through the service.” He sniffed the air. “But come, we mustn’t keep you from your devotions or the Pope might feel a draught. Tell me, St Clair, what are we being given for lunch today?”

  “League of Nations pudding, I should imagine. Isn’t that the usual fare on a Saturday?”

  “No doubt, no doubt. Well don’t forget now, make a good confession!”

  “I shall, Stuart.”

  He turned and they saw him mount his bicycle outside the conservatory and disappear round the red-brick wall which separated Rooker’s Close from
the road.

  “I wonder if he was joking,” said Stuart. “If he wasn’t I’m going to put a stop to this somehow. Trouble is that with a dog-collar in the family it’s so damn’ difficult to approach my governor; though what on earth good he thinks all this serving nonsense is going to do me, I can’t think. Haileybury made me decide to bring up my children to be free-thinkers if I’m unlucky enough to have any; a few more terms in this place and I’ll make damn’ certain they’ll grow up into happy little atheists.”

  “Well ’ou should tackle the Old Man, isn’t it?” said Jones. “Tell ’im you won’t do it.”

  “Don’t be a fool! If I were to cut up rough over this he would cancel his permission for me to run the Sphinx. I had a big enough job wangling it in the first place; practically had to pretend that I thought I might be getting a Vocation.” He lowered his voice. “The old boy’s conscience is the root of it all; I’m sure he’s having to take it out in his religion. If he had any sense he’d go the whole hog and become an R.C.; then he could have it both ways at once: run the Boy Scouts and make his confession once a week instead of once a year to that ciss Delaura—Hed sympathise. I can’t understand these spikes, they get the worst of both worlds.”

  “Listen to ’im,” Jones snickered. “Why don’ you tell ’im? He’d love it! Tell him you got doubts man! an’ that you can’t go on serving till you got rid of ’em?”

  “It’s all very well for him, isn’t it Bowden? Why the Hell didn’t we have the sense to say that we were Welsh Methodists or Plymouth Brethren the moment we arrived? Then we could have avoided all this religiosity. I’m going to tackle dear Peter about this—it’s all he’s good for and he’s let us down.”

  They heard Humphrey beating the gong for lunch and hurried upstairs to the bathroom.

  “Keep it light at lunch!” Stuart whispered as they made their way to the dining-room. “Bags of interest in the Brighton Cricket.”

  Humphrey opened the door for them and stood to one side as they passed him. As always at this time of the day he had on his black uniform and his ‘servant-face’; he smelled faintly of silver polish.