Your loving son,
TONY
P.S. This is completly original.
P.S. No. 2. We have our boxing match on March 23rd. I hope you are coming. Centurio dixit me meliorem esse quam ultimus terminus. yooδβίέ.
‘It’s a lovely Valentine,’ said Adrian, while Laura’s eyes shone with pride. ‘But the classics never were my strong point. Can you expound?’
‘Well, thank God I’m uneducated, but I think centurio must mean the school sergeant, who takes the boxing.’
‘But why should the sergeant say Tony is better than last term? It doesn’t seem a reasonable comparison. Oh, I see, he means Tony is better than last term.’
‘Yes, better than last term,’ said Laura, wondering why men were so dense. ‘And I could do the last bit,’ she added, with modest pride, ‘because he has written it before. I once thought I’d learn some Greek to help the boys with their homework, but not being able to master the alphabet, I gave it up, and it was just as well, because whatever I helped the boys with, we always lost our tempers. Well, goodbye, Adrian, and thank you for lunch. Before I began being a female author, I always thought one’s publisher gave one a lot of free meals, but lunch twice a year is about the most I get out of you, and then I have to ask for it. Oh, Adrian, what was that book you gave Sibyl that she didn’t read?’
‘The Testament of Beauty.’
‘You poor fish,’ said Laura, compassionately. ‘And a special binding, I’ll be bound. Well, well, I hope that your love she will refuse, till the conversion of the Jews, if that’s your idea of courting. When I was young it was the Sonnets from the Portuguese, but those were dashing days …’
A few days later, Anne Todd sent up a parcel of typescript for Laura, with a letter enclosed.
Dear Mrs Morland,
I am sending you pp. 120–157. I think you will find them correct. I would have sent them sooner, but Mother was pretty ill last week. Dr Ford was here every day and was angelic to Mother. I don’t know whether to want her to live or die. She does love being alive, but those heart attacks are no joke, and she is much weaker. When she is dead I shall have no real reason for being alive myself, except your work, but I dare say I’ll go on running the Institute. I suppose Stoker told you about her triumph at the Folk Dance evening. She came to curse and remained to dance for a solid hour, but in her coat and hat, to show she wasn’t really taking part. She brought the house down, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Brown at the garage asked her to walk out with him.
I haven’t seen much of the Knoxes. Sibyl looks very fresh and appealing – results of the tender passion, I suppose. Tell Mr Coates he needn’t worry about rivals. The Incubus appears to be making a deader set than ever at Mr Knox, but at the same time she doesn’t lose sight of Sibyl, and keeps her at home when she can. Whether as chaperon, or to prevent Sibyl attaching any other likely young man, I don’t know. Mr Knox seems a bit restless. He has come in here several times lately, and is a great success with Mother, who perks up like anything and flirts violently with him. He wants me to help him over his Queen Elizabeth, but I think I’d better keep out of it, or the Incubus might murder me. Mr Knox has a touching belief that anyone who knows about modern clothes must know about ancient clothes, but I’m afraid I can’t help him with ruffs and farthingales. But I should like to have seen Queen Elizabeth’s wardrobe all the same. Dr Ford doesn’t quite approve of Mr Knox coming so often, but I don’t see how it matters. It is much better for Mother to enjoy herself than to be shut up with me always.
I shall be sending the next instalment early next week. How are American sales?
Yours,
ANNE
Laura was glad that George Knox should cheer up old Mrs Todd, and quite agreed with Anne that it was better for the old lady to be amused. Rather interfering of Dr Ford, she thought, but quickly forgot about it in her preparations for attending Tony’s boxing match, for which she was to drive down to lunch with the Birketts.
Lunch at the headmaster’s house was a flurried affair, as Bill Birkett was to be referee, and Edward was in and out of the room with messages from the sergeant all the time. Also, Wesendonck had chosen that morning to climb on to the back wall of the fives court, which was strictly forbidden, and there dance a war-dance to a crowd of admiring friends, till he fell off and had a sprained ankle and various bruises; while young Johnson, the owner of the hair fixative, had gone down with influenza, so that all the rounds had to be rearranged.
After lunch Amy took Laura over to the school hall. A few front benches were reserved for masters and favoured guests. The rest of the hall was packed with parents, boys stood up on the back benches, and the gallery was so full that Laura expected to see bodies being squeezed out between the bars, like toothpaste. Behind the ring was a huddled mass of little boys in white vests and shorts, their blazers or jerseys slung about their shoulders in a devil-maycare way.
‘We’ve had an awful time,’ said Amy, ‘getting them clean. Matron, like a fool, made them wash their knees before lunch, so of course after sitting still for half an hour they were filthy again. You know how boys are.’
‘I believe,’ said Laura, ‘that every human boy is born with a bag of dirt inside him, and until it has all exuded, they can never be clean. There’s no other way of accounting for it, because you can wash them all over and shut them up in an empty room, or even put them to bed, and ten minutes afterwards they’ll be black. Some have a bigger bag than others, and my family seems to be peculiarly favoured.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. John was always fairly clean; Gerald was filthy, though. Is he still exploring?’
‘How clever of you to get it right this time, Amy. Yes, he is still in Mexico, and his Americans want him to go back to New York with them and help to write a book. I might get over and see him in the autumn if American sales do well. Oh, hush; Bill is going to roar.’
The headmaster now uttered his famous bark, and the whole gathering calmed down into whispering silence, while two shrimplike figures entered the ring. A master, Mr Ferris as a matter of fact, then dived under the ropes that marked off a square in the middle of the hall, and began to speak, but the high excited voices of little boys drowned his speaking with shrieking and squeaking. The headmaster half-rose to his feet and gave one horrible look round. The twitterings subsided, and Mr Ferris concluded, ‘… on my right is Swift-Hetherington, J. W., on my left Fairweather, A. L.’ He then made a courteous gesture to each side, repeating, ‘Right, Swift-Hetherington, left, Fairweather,’ and ducked out under the ropes. Another master hit the boarding-house gong, saying ‘Seconds out of the ring’, and there advanced to the centre of the open space Swift-Hetherington and Fairweather.
Swift-Hetherington wore a red sash, Fairweather a blue sash. They were in the class under four stone, and Swift-Hetherington may have turned the scales at three stone twelve as against Fairweather’s three stone eleven, and possibly their united ages may have reached fifteen years. Their white socks were neatly rolled down over their gym shoes, and their boxing gloves were ridiculously large at the end of their little arms, which looked about as strong as boiled macaroni. There is something very touching to the sentimental mind about the weak and strong points of little boys. So many of them have sturdy footballing legs and manly chests, but when you come to their arms and necks, they are still in the nursery. The size of a little boy’s collar, viewed dispassionately with a tape-measure, is heartbreakingly and unbelievably small.
After a manly handshake the combatants set to in earnest, dabbing at each other’s pink face with flapping arms, and dancing about on tiptoe in the best tradition of the fancy. In the excitement of being in the ring, all the sergeant’s teaching gradually went for nothing, and Swift-Hetherington adopted a flail-like swing which rarely landed anywhere, while Fairweather, in his frenzy, used a downward clawing motion which occasionally brushed Swift-Hetherington’s chest. Both were breathing heavily, and looked deeply relieved when the gong sounded. They fled back
to their corners, where they tasted real glory, lolling majestically, arms outspread on the ropes and feet dangling well off the ground, while their seconds, elderly gentlemen of twelve and thirteen, flicked them sympathetically with towels, and sponged their faces and tongues.
‘The sponging part used to worry me,’ said Amy to Laura, ‘but now I rather approve of it, because when you have seen the same pail of water being used for thirty different tongues in one afternoon, you realise that it is quite unnecessary ever to take precautions against infectious diseases again. What is the use of disinfectant gargles against influenza when this sort of thing goes on?’
‘One couldn’t put disinfectant in the pail, I suppose?’ asked Laura.
‘No, love, you couldn’t. First, sergeant wouldn’t allow it; secondly, it would be against all our school traditions. Anyway, no one has ever been the worse, and if the water gets too full of blood, Edward sometimes brings a fresh pail.’
While Laura was pondering this, the second round began. The backers began to cheer, waving their arms and legs frantically through the bars of the gallery, and were barked into silence. Swift-Hetherington was doing his best, but his lower lip was trembling ominously, his eyes beginning to fill, and his flapping arms becoming wilder and wilder. Laura clutched Amy, remembering the many boxing matches at which she had been obliged to see one or other of her boys in similar plight. But just as it was becoming unbearable the headmaster jumped up, saying, ‘That’s enough,’ and gave the victory to Fairweather. Swift-Hetherington had spirit enough to shake hands, and then fairly broke down with mortification. The admirable Edward took charge of the tearful warrior, kneeling beside him in a corner, mopping his tears and cheering him up.
‘Thank heaven for Edward,’ said Laura. ‘And thank heaven for Bill stopping the boxing.’
‘I don’t know if real referees are like that,’ said Amy. ‘Probably not. But Bill won’t let them go on if they get tearful. He says it only spoils their nerve for next time. It certainly worked with your Dick. The poor child used to break my heart with his miserable face when he began, and then he turned into one of our best boxers.’
‘Yes, it used to be pretty awful watching him box. I don’t know how one can bear to do it. But he was always terribly keen, even if he did cry, and when boys haven’t got a father, you feel you ought perhaps to let them do bloodthirsty things to make up for it.’
‘Dear idiot,’ said Amy affectionately. ‘But you were very brave. Poor Mrs Watson, one of our house-masters’ wives, simply can’t bear it, though Watson is a terribly good fighter, and she always leaves the hall when his round comes on, and hides in a classroom with her face to the wall till it is over. You’ll see her presently.’
Gradually the weights rose from four to six stone, and the macaroni arms became stronger, and the blows harder, and one young gentleman actually bled. To Laura’s secret relief both Tony and his opponent got through without blood or tears, and though Tony was defeated, it was an honourable defeat. When once this sickening moment was over, Laura was able to give her attention to the scene more peacefully. Tony being safely disposed of, the real interest of the afternoon to her lay in the three sergeants who were present. Two of them had come over from the upper school to judge. The first was the present instructor, a broad-shouldered, light-treading, handsome man, who reminded Laura of Trooper George in Bleak House. He sat like a rock all the afternoon, his legs a little apart, a hand on each knee, only moving his eyes from fighter to fighter. Opposite him was the ex-instructor of the upper school, once a great army boxer, lovingly known to masters and boys as Benny. His sight was no longer good, and he peered through thick glasses at the shrimplike figures on the floor, occasionally turning round to explain a point to some of the little boys near him, which made them go pink with pride and pleasure.
As for Mason, the lower school sergeant, he was rapt away into another world. His eyes were glued to every movement of his pupils, his loosely clenched fists followed every movement of their gloves, while his lips moved silently with the instructions and warnings he was panting to give.
‘I really believe,’ said Amy to Laura, ‘that if Mason’s house were burned down, and firecrackers fastened to his jersey, he wouldn’t notice it in the least, so long as the boxing was going on. Once, when your Dick and a boy called Jones were in the finals—’
But what happened to Dick and Jones remains unsung, for Laura’s attention was distracted by a slight scuffle in the audience, just behind her. Amy turned round.
‘Oh, that’s Mrs Watson,’ said she, rather proud of her exhibit. ‘She has shut herself up in Mr Ferris’s form-room and she won’t come out till Watson’s fight is over. Edward always goes to tell her. And now, look! Mr Watson is leaving the judges’ table, though I don’t think it is so much a fear of seeing his infant gored, as his delicate feelings, which make him morbid about giving a decision for or against his own offspring. When you see young Watson you’ll realise how funny it is, because he adores boxing, and is never –happier than with the gloves on. How two such rabbit-hearted parents produced a child who is a glutton for fighting, I can’t imagine.’
Indeed, young Watson, who stepped modestly but assuredly into the ring at this moment, was the last person about whom even a parent could ever, one would think, be anxious. He danced at his opponent with the joy of battle in his eye, drove him round the ring, placed scientific blows in the right place, and appeared positively to enjoy the trickle of blood which was running down his own face. Mason wore a transfigured expression which may possibly have been approached by St John on Patmos, and almost embraced Watson as he left the field of victory. Edward was seen worming his way through the crowd to Mr Ferris’s classroom. Mrs Watson emerged, pale but happy. Mr Watson resumed his seat at the judges’ table, and the entertainment proceeded.
Laura only had time for a few words with Tony, as she had to get back to town. He received her congratulations with marked want of interest, and was obviously bursting with something he wanted to say.
‘Oh, Mother, do you think I could possibly have old Donkey down in the holidays?’
‘Wesendonck?’
‘Yes. Oh, could I, Mother? He has lots of lines and a methylated spirit engine, and we could have a huge railway in the garden. Oh, Mother, could he come? He’s quite a decent chap, and he knows a chap who has a fifteen-inchgauge railway with trucks that you can sit in. Oh, Mother, can he?’
‘I should think he might, Tony. Do I write to Mrs Wesendonck?’
‘Yes, please. Oh, Mother, wouldn’t it be lovely if we could have a ten-inch-gauge railway in the garden, and I could take all Sibyl’s dogs for rides, Mother.’
Kissing her monomaniac son, Laura hurried away to say goodbye to Amy.
‘Come again in the holidays, Amy,’ she said, ‘and bring Bill if he’ll come. I wish I could manage the girls too, but there it is.’
Amy promised for herself, and more vaguely for Bill.
‘How is the Incubus?’ she asked, as Laura got into her car.
‘Going strong.’
‘What did you say her name was?’ called Amy, as Laura started the car.
‘Miss Grey,’ shouted Laura.
Amy went back into the school, and talked to hundreds of dull parents who all looked exactly alike, and congratulated Mason on his pupils’ prowess, and soothed matron who was agitated beyond measure by the number of white shorts and singlets which were covered with dirt and gore, and visited Wesendonck’s ankle, and inquired after young Johnson’s influenza, and thanked Edward for helping, and told the maids how nicely everything had gone, and cheered Bill through the cold supper which was the inevitable aftermath of a school festivity, and wrote to Rose and Geraldine who were abroad somewhere living with a family to learn the language, and did a few other odd jobs which are part of the unpaid work of a headmaster’s wife. But all the time she was thinking a thought at the back of her head, and wondering if she should tell Laura about it. It might only worry Laura even more, a
nd besides there was just the chance that she was wrong in her thought, though putting two and two together it seemed impossible that she should be. Anyway, it was usually better to let things simmer down: difficulties often solved themselves if you let them alone. But the thought was there, and might be left to itself till the Easter holidays. Then if Laura, or that nice Knox girl, needed help, why there it would be.
9
Embarrassing Afternoon
A few days later Laura was walking in the Park, looking at the riders in the Row. A large party came trotting up from the Kensington Gardens end, obviously from a riding school. Laura was fascinated by the riding-master, one of the gigolos of the haute école so to speak, darkly handsome, with a touch of the sombrero in his hat and a suggestion of the plains of the Argentine about his slim, supple figure. Rather D. H. Lawrence-ish, thought Laura vaguely. The sort of person that would turn into a half-caste Indian, full of black, primal, secret something-or-other, and subjugate his mate. But it seemed improbable that he would be able to exercise his powers in Rotten Row, and his voice, raised as he threw a criticism back to a pupil, was so healthily Cockney that the lure of the he-man vanished. So Laura turned away, and as she did so bumped into something which said:
‘Why, Mrs Morland!’
Laura, summoning her wandering wits, saw Miss Grey before her.
‘Oh, how do you do?’ she said, pulling her mind back from pueblos, or haciendas, or whatever they were, where strong, slightly half-witted, primitive men were darkly breathing in the tidal earth-force, and seemed from their description to be all loins and hair, and only had to raise a finger to have women all over the place in swarms, panting for the deep, secret affinity of their pulsating, animal – in the higher and more refined sense of the word – bodies.
High Rising (VMC) Page 13
