by Julian Gloag
“Uncle Trevor says to tell you that he is praying for you.”
Jordan imagined Trevor kneeling in the little chapel off the vast hall of the rectory. It was a miserable room, smelling of unpolished parquet and stale air. The frosted window was not designed to be opened. And next door was the lavatory, so that Trevor’s meditations would sometimes be interrupted by the gurgle and sigh of flushing water.
“Are they coming up for the trial?” he asked.
“Yes. They’re very set on it. I tried …”
“I saw Geoffrey Bartlett yesterday.”
“I know. Tom—Tom told me.” Her voice was low. The murmur from the other visitors’ boxes hung over them.
Jordan looked at the thin face of his wife. Time, he thought, must hang heavy on her hands without him to take care of. There was nothing in the world he wanted of her. Except—He nerved himself to the question which he so hated having to ask.
“How’s Georgia?” His voice quivered.
“Oh, she’s blooming. I’ve never seen her so well.”
“I’m glad. She doesn’t miss …?”
Willy leaned forward and her voice rose high again. “Of course she misses you terribly, Jordan. She misses your stories. I’m absolutely rotten at them. It seems you’ve done every animal I try—and a hundred times better.”
“She doesn’t miss kindergarten?”
“Not yet. She’s very busy exploring the Shorts’ house at the moment. Norah takes her round the garden every morning, and she’s learning the names of the flowers. She’d never do that with me. But she’s very good at it. She can’t understand why flowers don’t walk. She kept asking that, and Tom made the mistake of telling her that there were some, oh, South American varieties, I think, that did walk, and—”
“Tom said that?”
“Oh, yes. He’s a mine of odd information. So Georgia got it into her head that …”
He listened to her, trying to see or sense Georgia in her words, her face. But there was nothing. Suddenly he could stand it no longer. “Willy!”
“Yes, darling?”
“I’ve got to go now. I’ve got—to see the M.O.”
“Is there anything wrong, Jordan?”
“No no. I see him every day. It’s time now.”
“Very well.” She smiled hesitantly. “I’ll come at about the same time tomorrow, shall I?”
Already he had stood up. “If you want to. I mean, yes. Yes, that would be nice.”
“Goodbye then, and do take care of yourself.”
He nodded. He was unspeakably grateful for the wire mesh that prevented their touching or kissing. “Goodbye, Willy.”
He turned away and a prison officer was waiting for him.
14
“Well, my dear,” Aunt Mary said when the doctor diagnosed the “growing pains” as chicken pox, “that means you’ll miss the Easter service.”
Jordan spoke the penitential words, “I am sorry, Aunt Mary.”
“No hot cross buns for him, I think, doctor?”
“Oh, I don’t fancy a hot cross bun would do him any harm,” the doctor murmured. Opposition to Aunt Mary was generally murmured.
“Well, we’ll see,” Aunt Mary said, examining the doctor with her protuberant eyes. “I’ll show you out.”
When they left, Jordan lay very still, propped up on two pillows. He looked around the room without moving his head, which might tire him. Anyone who’s ill tires easily. And he was ill, with a real illness. Chicken pox—he wondered if it was the same pox they used to have in the old days. “I’ve got the pox,” he said aloud.
But now that he really was ill, he didn’t feel in the least ill. Perhaps it would come later. His headache was gone. He just felt light and hot. Very hot. When he rubbed his feet together, they slid stickily, foot on foot. He was in a sweat.
In Harrison Ainsworth they were always getting the “sweating sickness.” Perhaps he had that.
Sweating sickness would be even better than the pox. He always admired boys at school who sweated. Jordan could run about all afternoon on the field or, on wet afternoons, sprint up and down the eighty-nine steps of Old School twenty times—twenty up and twenty down—without raising a bead of sweat.
He stared at “The Light of the World” and wondered whether Christ had ever had sweating sickness—or the pox. He called him “Christ” in his own mind, although at Sibley it had to be “Jesus” in conversation. But Christian names were embarrassing. Initials were alright; indeed they could be prized possessions. J. J. Maddox was rather feeble. The one Jordan envied most was A. H. T. de St. G. Simple-Carfax. It had everything, including a de and a St. J. Christ was pretty feeble too.
Jordan slipped easily into his favourite pastime of inventing heroes illustrious with honours. He had got as far as Admiral of the Fleet Sir Lionel Leslie Anthony George Patrick Bassington-Bassington-de Lancey, K.G., Bart., G.C.B., G.C.S.I., K.C.M.G., K.B.E., C.V.O., D.S.C., and was trying to decide whether or not to slip in a D.S.O.—or a C.H. perhaps?—when there was a knock on his bedroom door.
“Come in,” he said. The knock was so small and shy he was sure it would be Mr. Mansard.
But it was the new maid.
“Hello,” said Annie.
“Hello.”
She held a duster in her hand. “What have you got?”
“Pox,” Jordan said. “And you’d better go away or you’ll get it too.”
“What sort of pox?”
“Hen pox,” said Jordan, reluctantly relinquishing a fraction of his superiority. Although she was almost a year older than he, she would never go away to school, despite the fact that she was supposed to be “clever.” She wasn’t a proper maid, really; she was only to come in the holidays, when Istoke Grammar School was closed.
“You mean chicken pox. I’ve had it.”
“You can always get it again.”
She looked at him consideringly. “Well, I don’t mind.”
He thought of various witty replies to this unexpected remark, but rejected them all. Although she was a girl, he guessed she was not likely to be a complete bore. She actually looked more like a boy—small, with a small face and ears like a pixy—except that she already had breasts. He blushed and was immediately annoyed with himself—after all, breasts was used in the Bible.
“You can come in if you like,” he said.
She closed the door and came closer to the bed. “You look white,” she said, “except for the spots.”
“I’m getting more all the time.”
“In the end you’ll be just one big spot.”
He laughed. “Out, damned spot!”
“That’s Macbeth.” She smiled at him. “We did it last term.”
“So did we.”
“What’s your school like?”
“Alright. What’s yours like?”
“It’s too far to walk.”
“Well, haven’t you got a bike?”
“No. Besides, Istoke’s too far to cycle every day. I have to take the bus.”
“Not cycle—bike.”
“Bike then.”
“Why don’t you ask for one for your birthday?”
“Dad couldn’t afford it.”
“Oh,” Jordan said, “that’s hard luck.” But he felt it was inadequate. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down?”
“Where?”
“On my bed, of course.”
“I should be dusting, really. Would you like me to dust?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Miss Freeman’ll be up here any minute.”
“Oh, Aunt Mary will be gardening by now.”
Annie looked round for dust. “She likes to know what I’m doing.”
“Same here,” said Jordan.
“Well, I better be off.”
But she didn’t move. Jordan rather liked her being there. He wondered if she would be bringing up his lunch.
“You really are ill, aren’t you?” said Annie.
“Yes.”
“But that’s your ration.”
“It doesn’t matter. I get a bit extra usually. Emerald doesn’t like sweet things, so I sometimes get some of her ration.”
“Thank you very much,” said Jordan. He picked up the bar and held it. He smiled at her.
Annie blushed.
“Who’s Emerald? Is that the girl who sits in the back of the post office?”
“Yes, she’s my sister.’
“She’s a bit … funny, isn’t she?”
“She’s a mongoloid,” Annie said seriously.
“Oh,” said Jordan. He was sure she’d got it wrong.
“Well, I better really be going now.”
“Alright. And thanks for the chocolate. It’s super of you.”
“Would you like me to come and see you tomorrow?” Annie asked shyly.
“Yes,” said Jordan.
And after that Annie came every day until he got up and was allowed downstairs. In exchange for the chocolate he gave her several of the apples Uncle Colin had sent.
He also ate one of the apples every day himself, not because he particularly liked apples but because it was decent of Uncle Colin to send them and rather nasty of Aunt Mary to look down her nose at them. Just because they didn’t come out of the rectory orchard didn’t mean they were no good. In fact, they were rather better than the crabby little things which appeared on the dining-room table at the end of every meal. Besides, they were his apples.
Uncle John approved of them. “Sensible man, Colin.” Sitting on the end of the bed, he took one bite of an apple and put it down on the blanket. He ate no more of it. “Much better than all these flowers.” He waved his hand at the narrow vase of daffodils. “Can’t stand flowers in the bedroom,” he said with a momentary vehemence which seemed immediately to exhaust him. His shoulders fell inward and he stared out of the window. His hands rested open, palms up, on his thighs.
It was hard to talk to Uncle John now. He would catch a stray phrase, like a quick glimpse of a kite behind the trees, and hold it and repeat it, then lose it and go back to silence and staring.
Suddenly his hands were active. He took out his pipe and blew it and tapped it and put it in his mouth. Then he opened his tobacco pouch, felt in it, shook it and, energy gone, let it lie empty on the bed.
Uncle John puffed at his empty pipe. In the last year the faint blond stain of nicotine had completely vanished from his moustache, leaving the clipped hairs silvery white. “Supposed to go down to the village with Mary and get some tobacco. Yesterday. Yesterday. Slipped my mind. Just an excuse, of course. Mary needs an escort—don’t want to get her alarmed though. That would never do. Dangerous place, the village, these days.” He laughed abruptly, then took the pipe from his mouth and rubbed the bowl with the heel of his palm. A gentle massaging. “When I was C.O., used to have a car—a Humber, with a flag on it. A pennon. Beige seats and a carpet on the floor. Need a carpet in a car, you know.” He laughed once more.
He looked at Jordan and away again. “Sorry I haven’t popped in to see you before. Busy, you know. These days.”
“Are you working on a puzzle?”
John frowned. “Staff work. Lot of planning. Command’s not easy. What d’you do with an O.C. who takes his boots off and lets his dog lick his bare feet during company office, eh? Good man, though. And these damn forms, yards of ‘em.” He sighed. “Oh, I’m busy alright.”
Jordan had not entered the attic workroom since that terrible first day of the summer holidays last year. He refused to think about that. He had been up many times since and had stood outside and listened to Uncle John’s military step going backwards and forwards and the occasional mutter and the quick, barking cough and then silence until the marching began again. And every time he had gone away without knocking on the workroom door, as he had promised himself, this time, surely he would, this time.
Sometimes Uncle John would make a hurried sortie downstairs or even into the garden. If Jordan saw him on these ventures, the old man would usually turn away or rush past muttering, “Busy, busy, sorry,” or “There’s a war on, you know,” and run upstairs as though his life depended on it. He was not allowed outside the rectory grounds unless accompanied by Aunt Mary or Uncle Trevor. But often he would stand guard at the rectory gates in the morning, waiting for the postman or, most recently, for Annie. He would salute her, Annie said, as she came into the drive and then walk her to the kitchen door. He never said a word, except at the end, when he’d salute and say, “Think you’ll be alright now.” And then he would march away humming.
“Given up smoking for Lent,” said John abruptly. But he had not smoked for longer than that. He’d taken to leaving his burning pipe anywhere that came to hand and tapping out a loaded and lighted bowl onto the floor. Eventually tobacco had been taken away and the old soldier had been forbidden fire.
“Magnificent campaign, you know, Jordan.” He hit his palm smartly with the bowl of the pipe. “A stroke of genius—living off the wilderness like that. No logistical problem, you see.”
“Tell me a battle, Uncle John,” Jordan said impulsively.
“A battle, Jordan?” John brightened and turned his head to look steadily at his nephew. “Haven’t done that for a long time, have we?” He was suddenly his old self. “What would you like?”
“Waterloo.”
“Ah, Waterloo.” He beamed. “Know what the Duke called it? ‘A pounding match.’ Everyone made mistakes. Remarkable. Wellington had almost a quarter of his troops fifteen miles up the road. Napoleon did the same with Grouchy.” He paused. “Eighteenth of June. Miserable day. Sun didn’t come out till the last hour of daylight. Everything dark with smoke—confused. Lot of the ground was nothing but a quagmire from the rain the night before. Troops tired, hungry. Muddy. No gleaming brasses or pipe clay that day.” He was gazing out of the window again. “Nine days of it. Pinned out there in the open. Down to ten per cent battalion strength. War is not a pretty business, Waidlaw, but this … When will it end?” He stopped.
“What happened, Uncle John?” asked Jordan after a few moments.
“Eh? Happened?” He blinked his eyes furiously. “Aha! Yes. A pounding match!” He thumped his pipe into his fist. “A damned pounding match. Where the Grenadiers got their name. Waterloo …” He shook his head slowly. “Waterloo,” he murmured again. He couldn’t manage it though.
“Uncle?”
“Ummm?”
“Don’t you want to finish your apple?”
“My apple. Yes.” He picked it up and put it in his pocket. Hastily, as if they might be taken from him, he tucked away his pipe and tobacco pouch. “Got to get back now. HQ needs me.” He stood up.
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?”
“Afraid not.” He strode to the door and turned. For a moment he smiled. Then, “There’s a war on, you know.” And he was gone.
Jordan got up and went to the window. It was a sunny, windy April day. Not like Waterloo.
He wanted to get out—go for a long ride, by himself. He could ride all the way to Istoke Park and climb the Domesday Oak. He was tired of being ill. If only he were back at school—the thought startled him and he turned from the window. He hated school.
He went slowly back to his bed and climbed in. Perhaps when he was better Uncle Colin would ask him up to London for a few days. “Fat chance,” he said.
He closed his eyes and thought of Sir Lionel Bassington-Bassington-de Lancey. But he was bored.
He wished Annie would come.
He jumped out of bed and put his head out of the door to see if she was in the passage.
“Hello, my boy. Just off to the—ah?” Uncle Trevor always called the lavatory the ah.
“No thank you,” said Jordan. “I just came back.” Nowadays he treated Uncle Trev
or with the same careful civility that was given to Mr. Prideaux, his housemaster at school.
“Well, can I come in then?”
Jordan got back into bed and Uncle Trevor perched himself on the end.
“How are you feeling?”
“Alright, thank you.”
“That’s splendid. So glad you’re feeling better.” He glanced at the plate of apples and said, as he had every day, “Apple a day keeps the doctor away.”
As things had stood since last summer, silence could be rebuked as “sulking.” So Jordan said conversationally, “I expect it won’t be long before you’ll be getting the figs.”
“Oh, dear me, no. Not until August, my boy. You should remember that. But I suppose you have so much to fill your head at school, uh, it’s difficult to remember our little concerns at Sibley.” He smiled. “But that’s quite natural. We’re going to have a splendid crop this year—if the blackbirds don’t get there first. We’ll have to bring the airgun out soon, won’t we?”
Jordan nodded. All summer the airgun reposed on the dining-room window sill, to be periodically fired at the fig tree to scare away any bird that might have got in under the netting. Firing at random into the tree, Jordan had once accidentally killed a blackbird, which had fallen in a great flurry of rustling leaves. Uncle John, whose bedroom was directly above the tree and who waged a summerlong battle with the fig leaves which grew to cut out his light, had leaned out of his window and shouted, “Good shot!” Uncle Trevor had delivered a short lecture on the birds of the air being creatures of Jesus too. Even defence of the beloved fig tree did not require killing. Jordan had told no one that it was a fluke.
The rector cleared his throat. “Your report came this morning. You seem to be getting along quite well. But I think the Latin could do with a little improving, couldn’t it?”
“Could it?”
“You were only twelfth, you know, my boy. I think perhaps if you and I sat down together for an hour every day, we might advance the cause a little, eh?”
