The Loom of Youth

by Alec Waugh

  “Ruddy-doodle went to town

  In his little suit of brown,

  As he could not find his purse

  He cried aloud, ‘Oh, where’s my nurse?”’

  Like the famous quatrain The Purple Cow, this poem immediately achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.

  “Ah, Rudd,” he said, “I believe this is meant for you.”

  Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red.

  “Who wrote this?”

  Proudly the author claimed his work.

  “Well—er—let me see,” said Rudd: “it is er—gross impertinence. Come and see me after breakfast tomorrow.”

  The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray recommenced his wanderings.

  That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects’ meeting to discuss the affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and that a prefects’ beating was the recognised punishment for such an offence. Gordon protested vehemently.

  “But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn’t to be head of the House. And, by the way, we haven’t heard this masterpiece of satire read out yet.”

  “I don’t think there’s any need,” said Rudd.

  “Well, I think there is,” said Gordon. “I am not going to see a kid beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!”

  With many blushes Rudd read it out.

  “Ah, jolly suitable, too,” said Foster. “What you want is a nurse. Good lord, man, can’t you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious, isn’t it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine example to the rest of the House, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” stammered Rudd, “I don’t pretend to be a strong prefect.”

  “You certainly aren’t,” said Foster.

  “That’s beside the point,” said Rudd. “I have been cheeked by Stockbrew, and I am a prefect. The punishment for that is a prefects’ beating. There’ll be a pre.’s meeting here tomorrow at eight, and if you have anything to grouse about, go to the Chief.”

  He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama.

  “I don’t think we’ll go to Chief,” said Gordon, “he would be utterly fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be made an ass of by Rudd. Think what fools we shall look trotting about on Rudd’s apron strings like policemen after a cook.”

  “Well, what can we do?” said Davenport.

  “Do? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We have got to give this lad a pre.’s beating. There’s no way out of it. We have got to. But if we let the House know about this, a crowd will collect; Rudd will go first and make two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in rotation. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with laughter; it will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look a most sanguinary ass.”

  “I see,” said Foster. “Hat’s off to the man with the brain.”

  “But is it quite the game?” suggested Davenport, a stickler for etiquette.

  “Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? In this world, unfortunately, two blacks invariably make a white.”

  “I suppose it’s all right,” said Davenport.

  No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon usually got their own way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon went to tell Morgan the glad tidings. The news was all round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was generally regarded as a priceless fool; it was sure to be good sport.

  Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at Rudd’s study. He was terribly overcome at the sight of so formidable a gathering. He wished he had padded. No one had told him of what was to happen. It would have spoilt the situation.

  The prefects sat in chairs round the room; Rudd, terribly nervous, was perched on the table. He delivered as short a lecture as possible on the sacredness of the prefectorial dignity and the insignificance of the day-room frequenter.

  In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stockbrew led, Rudd followed, cane in hand. It was all very impressive. Round the V. A green runs a stone path; a good many people were clustered there; there were faces in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the right; even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left.

  “Quite an audience for this degrading business,” sighed Foster.

  “‘Butchered to make a Roman holiday,’” said Davenport, who loved a stale quotation. Stockbrew bent over the chain that ran round two sides of the green. Rudd delivered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred uncomfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont reading a poem by Mrs Browning on “the great God Pan” and how cruel it was to “make a poet out of a man!” He saw her meaning now. Then the farce began.

  Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim’s coat, stepped back as if preparing a brutal assault, and then flicked him twice. A roar of laughter broke from all sides. Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet.

  Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then the rest of the prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking with laughter.

  Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. Such dignity as he had ever had, had been taken from him. Everyone had seen his ignominy.

  The next time he took hall a pandemonium broke out such as never had been heard before. A game of cricket was played with a tennis ball and a Liddell and Scott; Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided to clinch his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked straight in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no notice of Rudd whatever.

  “Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down here. I heard it right across the courts. The Chief might hear it easily. You have got to shut up. If I hear any more noise I shall give every man two hundred lines; so shut up.”

  There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had ceased to count in House politics. To all intents and purposes Gordon was head of the House, and the House regarded him as such. Rudd was generally known as the “nominal head.” Gordon had got his power, and for the next six weeks he decided to enjoy it to the full. On the cricket field, although not quite keeping to the promise or the luck of May, he did well enough to make the batting cup quite certain. There was now no fear of any defeat clouding his last days. He had ceased to worry himself with analysing his emotions. He let himself enjoy the hour of happiness while he still had it, and did not trouble to question himself how long it would last. He had passed through the time of blind depression during the Easter term when he had seen hope after hope go down: he had come through somehow. It did not matter with what inward searchings of heart. Outwardly he had been a success. Now his outward triumph was even more pronounced. As a few weeks before he had been too prone to look at the inward to the total exclusion of the outward aspect of things, now he began to consider only the things that seem. It was the swing of the pendulum. It remained for him to find the media via.

  * * * * *

  The last days of June and the early weeks of July passed calmly. In the mornings he lounged in his study, reading novels, or talking to Morgan. The afternoons went by like a cavalcade, with the white figures on the cricket ground, the drowsy atmosphere of the pavilion, the shadows lengthening across the ground. Then the evenings came, with Morcombe sitting in his study getting helped in his work, or talking about books and people and ideas. The House matches began. A-K senior had an average side, but no one expected them to do very much, and it was a surprise when, by beating Christy’s and Claremont’s, they qualified to meet an exceptionally strong Buller’s side in the final. Foster and Gordon looked forward to their last match at Fernhurst with the cheerful knowledge that they had no chance of winning, and that therefore they had nothing to fear of disappointment. It would be a jolly friendly game to finish up with. The days raced past so quickly that it came as a shock to Gordon to discover that his last week, with its examinations and threatening form lists, had really come.

  “I sha
ll be sorry to leave, you know,” he said to Foster. “I am not at all looking forward to the army.”

  “Last Christmas I would have given anything to get out of this place,” Foster answered. “But now, my Lord; I wish I was coming back. We’ve had a good time this term.”

  The first three days of that last week it rained incessantly. The Senior final was postponed till the Thursday. Examinations took their desultory course. Gordon had often in the past slacked in exams, but never had he treated them in quite the same indifferent way as he did this term. He had no intention of spoiling his last days by working. Every morning the Sixth went in for a three hours’ paper, at nine-thirty. Before eleven Gordon had always shown up his papers, and strolled out of the room to read Paradise Lost in his study. In the afternoon he usually managed to toss off the two hours’ exam, in three quarters of an hour.

  He was “finishing in style.” On Thursday the rain stopped at last, and the Senior final began.

  “Foster,” said Gordon, as the two walked down to the field, “I believe ours is one of the very worst sides that ever got into the final. There are two Firsts, you and I. Collins was tried for the Colts two years ago. There are eight others.”

  “Oh, you forget Bray, a fine, free bat with an unorthodox style. But. . . I believe he made fourteen on a House game the other day.”

  “Yes, that is a recommendation, of course, but somehow I don’t think we shall win.”

  “Win!” echoed Foster. “We shall be lucky if we avoid an innings defeat.”

  And this supposition proved still more likely when half-an-hour later the House, having won the toss, had lost three wickets for as many runs. Jack Whitaker, now captain of Buller’s, had gone on to bowl first from the end nearest the National Schools. In his first over he clean bowled Gordon, and in the next he got Foster leg before, and Bradford caught in the slips.

  “I foresee,” said Collins, “that we shall spend most of this game fielding. A poor way of occupying our last few days.”

  “That’s where I score,” said Gordon; “the wicket-keeper has no running to do, and, besides, I rather enjoy a game in which there is nothing to lose, no anxiety or anything. It is a peaceful end to a turgid career . . . Oh, well hit!”

  Bray had just lifted a length ball off the middle stump over short-leg’s head.

  “That’s the sort of cricket I like,” said Gordon; “a splendid contempt for all laws and regulations. Heavens! there he goes again!”

  A lucky snick flew over the slips to the boundary.

  “This is something like,” said Foster, and prepared to enjoy himself.

  And certainly Bray’s cricket was entertaining. He treated every ball the same; he stepped straight down the pitch with his left foot, raised his bat in the direction of point and then, as the ball was bowled, he pivoted himself violently on his left foot and, going through a complete half-circle, finished, facing the wicket-keeper, with both feet outside the crease, but his bat well over the line. The chief attraction of this gymnastic feat was the unexpectedness of it all. No one knew where the ball would go if it was hit. Once when he timed his shot a little late he caught the ball just as it was passing him and drove it flying past the wicket-keeper’s head to where long-stop would have been. The fielding side was always glad to see Bray’s back, and it usually did not have to wait long. But today he bore a charmed life. He was missed at point once, twice he gave a chance of being stumped, the ball shaved his wickets times innumerable. But nearly every other ball he managed to hit somewhere. In the pavilion the School House rocked with laughter.

  At the other end Davenham poked about scoring singles here and there. The score crept up. Amid cheers in which laughter was blended, the fifty went up. Then Bray, in a particularly gallant effort to steer a ball well outside the off stump round to short-leg, hit, all three wickets flying out of the ground. It was a suitable end to an unusual innings.

  He received a royal welcome in the pavilion.

  “Bray, my son,” said Gordon, “you are a sportsman. Come to the tuck-shop and have a drink. Nellie, mix this gentleman an ice and a lemonade, and put it down to my account. Thank you. Ah, there’s Collins. Good luck, Collins; keep your head.”

  Two minutes later Collins returned to the pavilion with a downcast face.

  “The damned thing broke,” he said, as if he considered breaks illegal in House matches.

  The rest of the side played in the usual light-hearted School House spirit. There were some fine hits made, and some scandalous ones, too. It was like a cinematograph show. Everyone slammed about; the Buller’s men missed catches galore. Davenport was missed four times in making fourteen. Somehow the score reached respectable heights. Byes helped considerably. The final score was one hundred and twenty.

  “And now,” said Collins, “we have got to field for two hours today. Tomorrow is not a half, so we shall have to field all the time; we sha’n’t get a knock till after roll on Saturday. Five hours’ fielding. Damn!”

  “And it will do you a lot of good, too,” said Foster. “Are you all ready, House? Come on then.”

  A-K Senior filed out into the field. A loud cheer rose from the crowd. The House was amazingly partisan. Whether a House side is losing by an innings or winning by two hundred runs, it is always sure of the same reception when it goes on to the field from its own men. The light had grown rather bad and Foster began bowling with the trees at his back, so as to hide his delivery. At the other end Bradford was to bowl.

  The start was sensational.

  Buller’s sent in Crampin and Mitchell first, two hefty footballers, with strong wrists and no science, who had run up some big scores in the preliminary rounds.

  Foster ran up to bowl. Crampin had a terrific swipe. The ball turned from the bat. The bat only just touched it.

  “How’s that?” roared Gordon.

  The finger went up. A ripple of clapping ran along the side of the ground.

  “You stick to that,” said Collins, “and we shall get them out by tomorrow night.”

  “Dry up,” said Gordon ironically. “Can’t you see we are going to win? . . . Man in!”

  Jack Whitaker came in. He was far and away the most stylish bat in the school, and had scored a lot of runs during the season. He faced the bowling confidently; he had played Foster a hundred times at the nets, and knew his tricks well. He played through the over with ease. The last ball he placed in front of short-leg for a single.

  Bradford went on to bowl. He was a House match class of bowler. No idea of length, or direction, only an indefatigable energy and considerable pace. His first ball was a long hop wide on the off. Whitaker banged it past point for four.

  The next ball was a full pitch to leg. Collins had to run about a hundred yards to rescue it from the road. Bradford looked fierce. He took a longer run than usual, rushed up to the wicket, and plunged the ball in with all his force. A howl of untuneful applause rose from under the trees. The ball not only happened to be straight, but was also a yorker. Whitaker’s middle stump fell flat.

  There are times when a panic seizes the very best side, and for the next hour and a half the House had the pleasant experience of watching an unusually strong Buller side rabbit out before a very moderate attack. Buller’s side contained four First and two Second Eleven colours, to say nothing of three Colts caps. And yet by six o’clock the whole team was dismissed for eighty-three. There was nothing to account for the rot. Foster and Bradford bowled unchanged. Bradford took six of the wickets, four clean bowled. It was incomprehensible.

  “I can’t understand it,” said Gordon at tea. “Bradford was bowling the most utter drivel half the time, I would have given anything to have been batting. And you were not bowling at your best, you know, Foster.”

  “I am well aware of that; but, heavens! it was sheer joy. Look at old Collins, down there, beaming at the thought of not having to field tomorrow.”

  “It’s all right,” mumbled Collins from a huge cup of tea.

 
“By Jove! wouldn’t it be gorgeous if we could win this match, and finish up by beating the Buller crowd at their own game?” said Gordon. “Damn it all, I don’t see why we shouldn’t. What we have done once we can do again. They are a better side, I know, but we’ll have a damned good shot at winning.”

  Of course Buller’s laughed at the whole thing.

  “It’s really rather funny,” they said. “But, of course, we are in absolutely no danger of losing. We couldn’t wreck like that again; and, what’s more, we shouldn’t let an ass like Bray make so many runs again. We are quite safe!”

  The School House kept quiet. They were not going to shout their hopes all over the school. It would look so bad if they got thoroughly beaten in the end. But in the studies and dormitories that night there was only one thought in all those minds—that victory was possible.

  The next day it rained the whole time. The courts were flooded with water, the branches dripped with a tired languor. Gordon polished off two exams with masterly speed, and returned to his study.

  Saturday morning broke grey and wet. It rained spasmodically till mid-day, and then cleared up. With a sigh of relief Gordon walked up the big schoolroom to show up the last piece of work that he would do at Fernhurst. For a last composition it was hardly creditable. A long paper on the OEdipus Tyrannus was finished in under an hour. But Gordon had ceased to care for academic distinctions. As he closed the door of the big school, and went out into the cloisters, he realised that a certain stage of his journey was over and done with for ever.

  By lunch-time all signs of rain had cleared off, and the sun shone down on an absolutely sodden ground. Runs would be very hard to get. A lead of thirty-seven meant a lot on such a wicket. An atmosphere of nervous expectation overhung the House. Everyone was glad when the meal was over.