In the Time of Greenbloom

by Gabriel Fielding

  At the far end of the table Mr Gilbert Victor sat squarely over the dish-cover; and beside him, very upright, his blue tie bearing out the blueness of his eyes, sat Peter. In some scarcely definable way he contrived to enlarge the authority of Mr Victor; they were, the moment they saw him, made more sensible of their lateness, of their failure to conform to all that Mr Victor expected of them.

  They took their places silently and Mr Victor stood up.

  “Oh Lord bless this food to our use and ourselves to Thy service.”

  Jones and Peter joined him in making the sign of the cross; so much for his Welsh Methodism, thought John as he compromised with a wave of one hand and noticed that Stuart ignored the ritual entirely.

  Mr Victor smiled automatically at Humphrey and the dish-cover was removed to reveal the Saturday silverside and its surrounding suet dumplings.

  Mr Victor’s bristling eyebrows drew closer together as he sharpened the carving knife and began to carve.

  “Water please!” Stuart nudged John who looked over at Peter apologetically.

  “Water please, Probitt.”

  Peter passed the carafe and the glasses were filled. Plates of silverside began to arrive in front of them and they helped themselves to cabbage and mashed potato. Suddenly Stuart spoke again:

  “Good morning at the Bank, Probitt?”

  Peter glanced at Mr Victor who did not look up and then smiled his most open smile.

  “Splendid, thanks.”

  Mr Victor patted his hand.

  “Peter is going to play tennis this afternoon,” he announced.

  They made approving noises and Mr Victor glanced down the table sharply.

  “Rooker’s Close is to be represented at the Club courts this afternoon. I wonder what are the plans of Haileybury, Beowulf’s and Cardiff?”

  “We rather thought of the Cricket, sir, didn’t we Jones?” said Stuart.

  “Yes sir, thought it would be a very good match sir, we did,” sang Jones.

  “At Brighton?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mr Victor frowned. “A very long way to go surely; and a long way to return?”

  “We have the Sphinx, sir.” Stuart was disarming and they laughed carefully.

  “I rather fancied there might be a lady in the case, Haileybury.”

  “Oh no, sir.”

  “I had even supposed that you might, this Saturday as last, want my permission to accompany her on her travels?” Not looking for any reply, eating with a sudden raw gusto, they waited; but Mr Victor ate on for a few moments leaving them in suspense as they chewed busily at the red beef and white cabbage.

  At last he spoke.

  “Are all three of you proposing to—watch the cricket?” he asked with a fractional hesitation.

  “No sir.” John watched the expert manipulation of Mr Victor’s knife and fork.

  “What then are Beowulf’s intentions?”

  “I thought I might have a bathe sir.”

  “In Brighton?” The question was very quick.

  “Why no sir.”

  “‘Why no sir.’” With a side smile at Peter Mr Victor mimicked his satisfaction. “Why not sir? May I ask?”

  “Because I prefer to bathe here in Worthing sir.”

  “Because perhaps you do not trust the lady with the four wheels, Bowden?”

  “No sir, not that; but I like the Worthing beach.”

  “He likes the Worthing beach,” said Mr Victor in a tone which suggested malice and charity at the same time. “Very commendable! So, my dear Beowulf’s, do I; and so I know does Peter, though I think we prefer it in the winter when it is not quite so crowded, don’t we Peter?”

  “I think it is preferable, sir.”

  Mr Victor wiped his lips on his table napkin and attempted to conceal a small belch as he did so.

  “I am sorry that Peter will be unaccompanied on the courts this afternoon. But Saturday, after all, is Saturday, and as long as we remember that it precedes Sunday we shall come to no harm—what time are you proposing to return from Brighton, Stuart? You know our rules here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  What guts he had, thought John. He looked as insolently innocent as he did when in church.

  “Then you will of course be back for the evening meal at eight o’clock?”

  “Of course sir, as long as the Sphinx doesn’t let us down.”

  “That, naturally, is ‘enigmatical’!” punned Mr Victor without waiting for Peter’s laugh. “I shall look forward to your account of the afternoon’s innings. No doubt, between you, you will regale us all with it during the meal?”

  “We shall watch like hawks sir, won’t we Jones?”

  Jones of course was common; his coarse acneiform skin was giving him away. He was as red as the piece of silverside he was eating.

  “Closer than ’awks!”

  “It will then be unnecessary,” went on Mr Victor smoothly, “for any of us to go to the expense of buying an evening newspaper.”

  Once again they turned their attention to the salty food on their plates; but their silence did not discomfort Mr Victor; it was what he was accustomed to achieving. John thought of him as a snake who expected his rabbits to remain still.

  “And after the account of the Match we must retire in good time for the Morning Service. I rather hoped that you, Stuart, would be able to assist Father Delaura at the Seven o’clock? Peter is fortunate enough to be assisting at the Sung Eucharist at eleven.” He repeated the little belch into the napkin and over its white folds the sweet green eyes were directed at his victim. “I take it that you will not refuse?”

  There was no doubt of it, his sudden flush as he replied made Stuart look even more handsome. “No sir.”

  Mr Victor rang the bell for Humphrey and they ate their way through the League of Nations pudding to the accompaniment of slightly warmer conversation.

  Afterwards, Mr Victor stuffed his pipe with Player’s No Name tobacco and stood by the mantelpiece with his short arm resting across Peter’s shoulders. They swayed gently together for a few moments like passengers on a ship; and then Mr Victor’s arm dropped a little wearily to his side. He puffed out a gout of tobacco smoke and his black eyebrows drew together over the caverns which now concealed his eyes in the darker part of the room. He crooked his finger at John.

  “In a few moments, Bowden, I would like to have a word with you in my Study.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “If you are sure you can spare the time?” He paused so that the question might not seem purely rhetorical. “I would like to see you in ten minutes—in the Study.”

  “All right sir.”

  With a last pat at Peter’s buttocks Mr Victor made for the door.

  Humphrey, of course, was there on the other side of it waiting to open it for him. Leaving a trail of tobacco smoke behind him they heard him patter across the hall to his ground-floor sanctum.

  They looked at one another.

  “What’s the idea, Probitt?” asked Stuart as soon as the door closed.

  “What idea?” Peter smiled defensively. His blue eyes flicked over to Humphrey and back as he busied himself with the crumb tray.

  “Letting me in for the Seven o’clock, of course; I’ve done it six times this term already.”

  “You’d better ask the Governor, hadn’t he Humphrey? It’s not my fault if Father Delaura wants me to do the Eleven.”

  “Duw!’e’s in a black mood,” said Jones. “’Oos been bitin’ him, Humphrey? You’d know, isn’t it?”

  Humphrey, whose bent back had been all attention to every nuance of their conversation, straightened himself and faced them. “I don’t know Mr Jones; if you’d been ’ere longer you’d ’ave bin used to ’im, wouldn’t ’e Mr Peter?”

  “I’ve been ’ere äyeteen months, man! an’ I know enough to know there’s trouble with ’im. Someone’s been scanterlisin’, that’s what. Whass ’ee been ’earing about Brighton, eh? Whass he meanin’? Duw anwyl! Anyon
e’d think as we weren’t going to the Cricket the way he carried on all through the beef and puddin’.”

  “Where else would he be expecting you to go, sir?” The question was for Jones but the glance that accompanied it was directed at Peter. “What else could they do in Brighton on a Saturday, Mr Peter?”

  “Exactly,” said Peter yawning pleasantly. “Stuart and Jones should not worry so much. Anyone would think they had uneasy consciences, wouldn’t they Humphrey?”

  “They might indeed sir,” said Humphrey with an exchange of smiles. “After all, there was the Regatta last Saturday, the Concourg D’Elleganse the Saturday before than, and there’s the Cricket, this; and they were all in Brighton. It’s a long way to go to do nothing; there must be some attraction.”

  “What yew meannne?” Jones’s coarse little face reddened. “We did see the Regatta and we did see the Car Parade—”

  “Oh shut up Jones,” Stuart said quickly. “They’re only pulling your leg, they know damn’ well we saw them, and it’s none of their business if we didn’t.”

  “Mr Bowden’s goin’ on the beach,” said Humphrey suddenly leaning and smiling into John’s face and squeezing his forearm gently.

  Peter made for the door and paused.

  “Don’t forget the Governor’s request, Bowden: I think he meant it,” he said.

  “I don’t need you to tell me that,” said John.

  “Trouble!” said Jones as soon as he had gone. “An’ Peter knows what it’s all about. Told you there was trouble this morning. It’s the letters, it’s all connected with the letters, that’s what!”

  “What letters is those, Mr Jones?” asked Humphrey.

  “No letters,” Stuart intervened coldly. “If you’ve finished in here, Humphrey, we won’t keep you.”

  “I’ve quite finished, thank you Mr Stuart. I’ve got to get finished in the Pantry yet and if I’m to catch the bus in time I’ll have to look slippy. I’m planning a nice quiet afternoon with my friend”—he paused to gain the maximum effect—“watchin’ the Cricket at Brighton.”

  He whisked the cloth off the table, folded it over his arm and left them alone.

  “There you are!” said John. “They’re on to it, all the lot of them. Cledwyn’s quite right, someone’s been talking; you’ve been seen. It may be nine-tenths guess work on the Old Man’s part, on the other hand it may be nine-tenths certainty and if you take my tip you’ll watch the Cricket this afternoon till your eyes bulge.” They turned to him, searching for words; but he could not wait.

  “I must go,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m just wondering what the old pig’s got up his sleeve for me.”

  “Let us take a stroll in the garden,” said Mr Victor as soon as John entered the Study. “The antirrhinums are doing very well this year; so far neither rust nor moth hath corrupted them.”

  “No sir.”

  “You remember the quotation, of course.”

  “No sir—I mean yes sir.”

  Mr Victor smiled. “He who hesitates is lost, Bowden; always remember that.”

  He opened the french windows and they stepped out into the walled garden. They made their way in silence across the grass to the gap between the yew hedges; and in the sombre enclosed space where clumps of antirrhinums surrounded a central rose-bed they sat down on the white seat.

  Mr Victor stretched his short arm along the back of it, pulled at his pipe and subjected John to a long meditative stare.

  “Though the very walls have ears,” he said, “I think there is less possibility of our being overheard out here than in my Study.”

  “Sir?”

  “You may smoke if you wish, Blaydon.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  He did not blink at the use of his own name, though after so many months of being ‘Bowden’ it sounded strange to him. Gratefully he accepted a South African cigarette from the proffered case; he hated this particular brand but the gesture was conciliatory and therefore a good omen.

  “About the letters, Blaydon; no doubt you realise why I have been forced to take over the delivery of all letters in recent weeks? You really must ask your intimate friends to be more careful in addressing their envelopes and to remember our circumstances here. In the past fortnight no less than three letters have arrived addressed to the pupil named Blaydon, and with the possibility of renewed publicity that name is still likely to be fresh in people’s minds.”

  “Yes sir, I’m sorry about it. The trouble is that I can never be quite sure who’s going to decide to write to me and unless my father remembers to change the envelopes or include them in his own letters, there’s always a chance of a slip.”

  “In addition, as you may or may not know a Sergeant of Police called on me the other day.”

  “Did he, sir?”

  “You are surprised?”

  “I didn’t know they were still interested, sir.”

  “The Police are always interested in an unsolved murder and in a case as tragic and brutal as that in which you had the misfortune to be involved, you may be sure that their interest will continue until they are sure either of the identity of the culprit or else of his death. The Police never forget, Blaydon. That is a terrible thought, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.” Facing the dark yews across the brilliance of the rose-bed, it was a terrible thought. He spoke quickly. “What did he want, sir?”

  “The Sergeant was anxious to refresh his memory on certain points in the record of your evidence at the Inquest nearly two years ago. I told him I was not prepared to give consent to an interview until I knew the attitude of your parents.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Fortunately, I was able to discover that what I had suspected from the first was true; I am not a Special Constable for nothing! The Sergeant’s interest proved to be personal rather than official; he is an ambitious young man out for further promotion, and after I had reminded him of my acquaintance with his Superintendent, I found it comparatively easy to deal with him.”

  “Yes sir.” He wondered how long he would have to continue to sit there saying ‘yes sir’ and ’no sir’, at regular intervals. He was longing to escape to the beach and the gay people who knew nothing of Mr Victor, the Moors, or the Police.

  “But that is not why I wished to talk to you this afternoon, Blaydon—not directly. No less than your temporary change of name, your time at Rooker’s Close was intended not only to spare you the discomfort associated with that dreadful case, but to help you to resume your normal role in life and to strengthen your Faith.”

  “I see sir.”

  This was not Gilbert Victor, or Gilbert Stein, or whatever his real name had been before he changed it; this smooth patter was a language and a disguise which he had assumed as easily as in other circumstances he would have talked German or acted the part of a Sussex squire. As tragedians or clowns the Jews were the greatest actors humanity had ever produced, he thought; even Greenbloom—

  “I have noticed of late Blaydon that you are tending to spend all or nearly all of your spare time by yourself?”

  Mr Victor’s arm was removed from behind him, it swept past his ear and came to rest on his thigh. Through his deep-set mournful eyes its owner gazed into his face.

  “You see, John, I understand you, I see into you as I see into all my young men. I had the idea of you from the very first, even before you ever reached Rooker’s Close, before you came hesitantly in your new grey flannels into my Study on that first day of the Easter Term.” The fingers on his thigh fell with a soft emphasis. “Poor Rudmose’s earlier letters had been very informative and I kept them all most carefully; he too—and I know that he rests in peace—understood you perhaps better than you know, and I think it was largely the tone of those letters of his which persuaded me to take you in the first place.”

  “He was very kind to me sir.”

  He must remember to pray for Rudmose sometime; it was always so much more satisfactory praying for people who were quite
definitely dead; one felt that it could not possibly do any harm to one’s Faith because if it were without effect at least one never knew it. And if anyone needed prayers it was a suicide. He thought of Rudmose waiting there on that last night for the London Express to thunder over his thin neck on the railway running parallel to the canal.

  “I know he was, John; but sometimes I wonder if you appreciate kindness. There are certain emotions, moods, unusual temperaments which only very few people understand. Some people appear to themselves to be doomed to loneliness from the time of their adolescence, and in their attempt to evade it they may suffer terribly. You may be just such a person, John; you may be! but there again who is to say how much of the Prince of Denmark’s singularity was due to his father’s death and how much to the heredity his mother conferred on him from the womb?” He broke off and his hand was suddenly removed to his pipe.

  “All is not well with you Blaydon, all is not well, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  Was all well with Rudmose? he wondered; with Peter? with Mr Victor himself or with anyone alive or dead?

  Mr Victor got up with surprising swiftness as though the garden-seat had suddenly become too hot for him.

  “This evening John, I want you to go to your confession. Do you understand me?”

  “I don’t think I do, sir.”

  Mr Victor leaned forward and took his arm.

  “We will circle the roses,” he said. “To move in a circle is very elemental; it is very soothing. Never forget that the Universe itself was set by its Maker to travel in circles.”

  John got up and side by side at a gently increasing pace they began to move round the rose-bed.

  “Until now, I have not cared to ask you to serve at St Jude’s like many other past and present Anglo-Catholic resident-pupils. But I really think that the time has now come for you to get into the way of it again; your father told me in one of his letters that you used to serve fairly regularly between the ages of twelve and fourteen?”

  “Have you heard from my father recently then, sir?”

  “Naturally, or I would not have suggested this to you. First I want you to make your Confession, John. We must be spiritually purged before we presume to assist at the High Altar. Father Delaura, although he does not insist on preliminary confession, does I know prefer his servers to avail themselves of the Sacrament at frequent intervals.”