Pleasure and a Calling

by Phil Hogan

  But now the scene in front of me was changing. The tennis players had stopped for a drink, and one of them had flopped on to the grass, red-faced and panting. Mr Stamp immediately leapt to his feet. ‘I say …’ he shouted. ‘I say … Perhaps I could take Thomson’s place.’

  The boys looked at one another and politely mustered the will to match Mr Stamp’s enthusiasm for the idea. Only then did I see that Mr Stamp was actually wearing tennis shoes – that, clearly, he had come prepared for precisely this moment. And now he pulled off his jacket and threw it excitedly over the chair before jogging stiffly off to join the boys.

  Sod Miss Stiles. The moment Mr Stamp had his back to me on court, his brown, balding pate catching the afternoon light, I sauntered towards the court, paused by his chair, waited until he tossed a yellow ball in the air to serve … then fished his keys right out of his pocket.

  I hurried to Winter House. There was barely a soul around. After tea, boys would be in their dorms or watching TV or out practising sport. I unlocked the door to Mr Stamp’s rooms and locked it behind me. The interior was very different to our own rooms – older and darker and woodier. There was a sitting area with an armchair, and a kitchenette, and I could see a study with a desk and books. It was no problem to find Marrineau’s letter. Mr Stamp’s shabby school jacket was on a hanger in his neat bedroom. The envelope was in the pocket, presumably untouched. I took out the yellow sheet inside and quickly read it.

  ‘Dear David’, it began in rounded, girlish handwriting, his name crowned by floating hearts pierced by arrows. It spoke of a night out at the cinema and of ‘giving me a ride on your bike’ and ‘the lovely time we had!!’ There were more exclamatory endearments and references to friends and schoolwork, then it concluded, ‘I do hope you can come Friday! Sarah x x x’. Also in the envelope (it had been hand-delivered, I now noticed) was an invitation to Sarah’s eighteenth-birthday party. Ha. Now I saw Marrineau’s dilemma. The party was that night. The address was a country hotel some miles out of town and underneath was an illustration of how to get there. At the bottom of the invitation it said (and here must have been the killer torment for poor Marrineau): ‘Admission Strictly By Invitation Only’.

  I quickly replaced the letter in the envelope, and the envelope in Mr Stamp’s pocket. The invitation I put in my own. Obviously this was the moment to flee with my treasure. But how could I, with Mr Stamp’s cosy life at my mercy – his tobacco-smelling wardrobe, his drawer of Argyll socks, his desk piled with exercise books, biscuits in a tin? A framed wedding photograph stood on his chest – an unmistakably younger Mr Stamp arm in arm with a taller woman carrying flowers. They looked so happy. Was she now dead? In another country? With another man? These ghosts of old circumstances cried out to my nosiness, but I had no time. I rifled through Mr Stamp’s briefcase, which contained homework for marking, two small oranges, several textbooks and his rolled-up map, taped at both ends. There was also a ball made out of rubber bands that he would bounce gently on his desk when he was pondering a problem in class. In his study drawer, beneath letters and bills, a tube of confiscated wine gums (I’ll take those, I thought), a cigarette lighter and two or three holiday postcards, I found a snapshot of a grinning boy in PE kit. He couldn’t have been older than nine. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then when I looked more closely I realized it was Marrineau. How extraordinary! Why would he keep a picture of Marrineau? But of course – everyone loved Marrineau. Even Mr Stamp, childless and alone. How especially disappointed he must have been to have to confiscate Marrineau’s letter. I considered taking the picture, but closed the drawer and took the rubber-band ball instead. I emerged from Winter House. I was elated but congratulated myself on my composure. It wasn’t until I was out in the breeze that I felt the sweat steaming off me.

  At the tennis court, Mr Stamp was standing in his shirt sleeves with his arms folded, watching the play now from the grass verge at the side. Two other boys had joined them and were hitting balls on the second court. I walked briskly past Mr Stamp’s chair, dropping his key on the grass beside his newspaper, as if it had fallen out of his jacket. But this time, he saw me. ‘Heming!’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing there, boy? Come here!’

  My legs, I confess, turned to jelly. I took my time, steadying the rubber-band ball in my blazer pocket while I walked towards him.

  He squinted at me impatiently. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must run along to the Servery for me and have the ladies send someone out with a jug of lemonade or squash for my young friends here. On my account. Could you do that?’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ I said. ‘Right away. Lemonade, sir.’

  He looked at me and blinked uncertainly. It was impossible for a small, imperious man like Mr Stamp to know if you were mocking him or doing as you were told. I hurried up the grass verge and away, my heart pounding.

  I gave his order at the Servery. In the far corner, at the only occupied table, Marrineau and his friends were watching me. Marrineau was leaning back in his chair. They looked at me with the lazy regard of jungle predators appraising a distant film crew. Far from looking away, I returned their stares, moving my gaze from one glowering face to the next until I was staring into Marrineau’s belligerent eyes. I had his invitation in my pocket. I had done what he would not have dared. And now? Only two hours earlier it would have been enough to abseil into his room and tape the invitation to his wash-basin mirror – reward enough just to think of his astonishment when he returned. But I had also imagined a scenario like this, in which I strode boldly into their midst with the words, ‘Hold off your dogs, Marrineau. I think I may have something to interest you …’

  What did I want? To be one of his dogs too – to track him at heel, to sniff his hand, look into his face, await a kind word or gesture?

  One of the four suddenly kicked the chair away in front of him and I stepped back hurriedly. I was off, as they knew I would be. No one followed, or even laughed, but I ran to my room. I was exhilarated. I felt something had happened to me, some change, and that the momentum was suddenly with me to push this day as far as it would go, with whatever means I had and however long it took. Did I have it in mind to be Marrineau? Who can say. But at seven o’clock, as I stood in front of the mirror in my admittedly unfashionable sports jacket, checked shirt and black school trousers, I had a taste of how that might feel.

  I took an unlocked cycle from the sheds and pedalled the three miles or so out to the hotel. Here I left the bike in a corner of the car park and stood aside to watch the guests arriving. Some were being dropped off by a parent, some in groups, arriving in taxis. Music thrummed from upstairs. It occurred to me that Marrineau might turn up anyway, but there was no sign of him. I waited another half-hour then showed my invitation to the bouncer on the door and went up into the noise. Everybody seemed to be dressed in cool clothes. Some boys, already half drunk, were dancing. The girls wore heavy black eye make-up and short, figure-hugging dresses and socks up to their thighs. I headed for the girl at the centre of attention. She was pleasant-looking and her blonde hair was piled up on top with wispy bits falling at the sides.

  I touched her arm. ‘Are you Sarah?’

  She looked at me blankly. ‘Yes …’

  ‘I have a message from Marrineau. I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to make it tonight.’

  ‘David? He promised he’d come.’

  ‘I’m afraid he has rugby tomorrow. I’m here instead.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she sighed.

  I pretended to look a little hurt.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, laughing. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I’m not meant to be an exact replacement.’

  She looked around. ‘Do you know anyone here?’

  ‘Only you.’ I stuck my hand out. ‘I’m William.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled, shaking it exaggeratedly. ‘Very formal.’

  I smiled back at her. I do have a good smile. And I should say I am by no means physically repellent, having wha
t my aunt (who was often to be spied upon reading film or fashion magazines in an idle moment) would call ‘regular’ or ‘pleasing’ features.

  ‘Do you play rugby, William?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’m more of an indoors sort of person.’

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ she said. ‘Have a beer.’

  ‘Do they have orange juice?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She smiled at me again, uncertain. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘Am I?’ I smiled back.

  Her friends came to drag her away for a dance. I took a glass of juice from a tray at the bar and mingled a little. It wasn’t my kind of thing but I was interested to be there. It was amazing, I thought, how much people were prepared to tell a complete stranger after one or two drinks. All I had to do was ask someone how they knew Sarah, and in no time I had half a biography – how she liked drama and owned a horse and was a day girl at school, and that she had a twin brother called Robin who had gone to university a year early. All kinds of things. One boy, perhaps hoping for a little reciprocation, tried to sell me some Ecstasy. I told him, rather cleverly, no, thanks, I’d had enough for one day.

  I picked up a second drink and wandered out to the landing, then took the lift up to the next floor. When the doors opened I found myself facing an open store room stacked with linen and spare pillows. I popped in to check it out. It was warm and white and fragrance-fresh. I stayed just long enough to rest my cheek on a pile of towels. When I came out there was a maid in the corridor, but she had her back to me and was just disappearing into a guest room. I skipped away to the lift doors and pretended to wait. She came out a few moments later and moved along to the next door, which she unlocked with a cardkey attached to her waistband. I watched her as she worked along the corridor, marking her schedule. She didn’t go in every room and I noticed she didn’t lock the doors when she came out, just let them swing shut behind her with a heavy click. But they were locked all right, I found when she’d gone.

  I continued to scout around. On the next floor I saw a trolley parked outside one of the rooms. The door was open and there was a man up a stepladder. I said hello and pointed with my drink towards the ceiling and asked what he was doing. He told me, in a friendly foreign accent, he was replacing a bulb. I peered into the room. No bags or clothes in sight. It smelled of air-freshener but also just very slightly of the man.

  ‘Are you a guest, sir?’ he asked, glancing at my drink.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m just along the way there.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled and came down from the ladder and went into the bathroom. He’d propped the door open with his trolley wheel. What was needed, I saw, was something that would just stop the door fully closing, so that the man would think it had locked when it hadn’t. A bit of cardboard? A tissue? Ah! I dug in my trouser pocket and found the wine gums from Mr Stamp’s drawer. They were perfect, being both small and not too easily squashed. I bent down and wedged a couple at the bottom of the door frame. Now I just had to distract the man at the right moment.

  I waited just a little further down the corridor for him to come out. Five or six minutes passed before he emerged. He yanked his trolley out of the way and the door started to close …

  I bellowed down the corridor – ‘Hello! Hello!’ – just when the man might have expected to hear that final click of the door swinging shut, the everyday seal on a job done. He actually looked alarmed.

  ‘Sorry, could you give me a hand? I seem to have locked myself out of my room.’ I tried to look just slightly drunk.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. You have locked inside the key?’

  ‘Yes, my key, inside.’

  ‘You must speak with Reception, please.’

  ‘Of course, of course. That’s exactly what I’ll do.’

  He was relieved to see the back of me. I took the lift back down to the party. It was noisier now, with throbbing music and plenty of real drunks, mostly of my age, with their arms in the air. The dance floor was packed. I put my empty glass on the bar and joined the throng. Two girls latched on to me at either side and had me copy what they were doing.

  But now Sarah swam into view holding a cocktail.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I said.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ she said.

  ‘I just had to slip out to my room,’ I said.

  ‘You’re staying here? At the hotel?’

  ‘It seemed easier,’ I said.

  ‘What – and your school’s OK about that?’

  ‘Strictly speaking? Probably not.’

  ‘Woo, hoo,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you full of surprises?’

  ‘And you?’

  Reader, she never left my side (except for a quick call to her parents to make her excuses). In the quiet of the downstairs lounge, we talked about Romeo and Juliet (our favourite Shakespeare) while she smoked cigarettes, and she almost cried when I told her about the pony I’d had that collapsed and died when I was eight. And imagine our astonishment, in the early hours, during our post-coital whisperings in room 313 of the Pike Rhydding Hotel (the wine gums had worked a treat), when we discovered that we were both twins, she with a brother and I a sister.

  ‘Oh God, what’s her name?’ she asked, sitting up, moonlit and naked like a scene from a film.

  ‘Isobel,’ I said, stroking her arm. ‘To tell you the truth, I think my parents have always liked her more than me. She was always the brainy one.’

  ‘Oh God …’ Sarah said again.

  Yes, it was as if we were made for each other.

  I don’t remember pedalling back to school. My mind whirred with forebodings. Things were going too well. I imagined my room ransacked and the headmaster and board of governors waiting to confront me with my spiral notebooks and assiduously detailed records of fellow pupils and scrapbooks of their family snaps and greetings cards, not to mention Mr Stamp’s ball of rubber bands and the souvenir Chinese soup spoon from my visit to Uncle Richard’s lady friend’s flat years earlier. But no. All looked normal for a Saturday morning, with perhaps a little more animation among the boys, some kitted out for the inter-house sevens to be played throughout the day. I walked on air to the dining room. Breakfast was almost over but there was bacon left and some watery scrambled eggs and toast. I was fabulously hungry. I had the place to myself, but had barely applied the brown sauce when I felt my arms grabbed from behind and was aware of Marrineau’s looming presence in house rugby colours, the studs of his boots scraping on the tiled floor. Did he even mention Sarah? He didn’t need to. There was a punitive and sudden quality in this that spoke it. Everything was a blur. I was aware of some painful roughing-up and swearing and a chair going over, and I suppose I must have pulled free somehow because the next thing I knew there was screaming and commotion and grown-ups running, and at the centre, like a rearing, dancing horse, was an injured Marrineau holding his face, roaring displeasure at the heavens.

  And so the luck ran out. There was hell to pay, as Aunt Lillian was fond of saying – notably in the demand from Marrineau’s rich and influential parents and their lawyer that I be instantly withdrawn from school. It was either him or me. In return, they agreed not to involve the police. In fact, of course, it would suit no one to have me up in court on an assault charge – not me, certainly not the school, certainly not invincible Marrineau, whose reputation as a Goliath of cool would suffer the glare of public display. But I responded to all enquiries with an enigmatic smile that transported me back to room 313. In the immediate storm of events I felt strangely out of myself, as if I was looking down on this tiny hullabaloo from a celestial height. I was banished to my room while the adults argued it out via faxes and phone calls.

  That should have been that. But there was one last thing I had to do. And it was surprisingly easy. There was no guard on my door. This wasn’t Soviet Russia. And with Marrineau not yet back from A&E and the story of my infamy not yet fully broadcast, there was nothing to stop me simply walking out of the house and across the playing fi
elds – the pitches busy now with thudding tackles and cheering boys – and straight into the first-team changing room. No one challenged me. Marrineau’s black tracksuit, with its yellow captain’s stripe, was not hard to find. His keys, along with a few coins, were in one of his trainers, under the seat. I guessed Marrineau would come straight back to the tournament, and I was right. I watched from beneath the trees as he eventually arrived like a returning war hero to the cheers of his supporters, a bandage and sticking plaster across his face, his eye bloodshot. Now I saw that he was negotiating with Mr Frith, head of games. He couldn’t play, it seemed, but he could referee. He pulled on an official’s bib and swung a whistle on a ribbon while he talked. Mr Frith assigned him two teams of Minors and he ran off with them. The smaller ones struggled to keep up. How proud they would be to be refereed by Marrineau. His supporters watched him go, uncertain whether to follow and be obliged, like him, to stand among the Minors, or save their roars for the Majors of Hooke and Bentham. He was on his own.

  With Marrineau pinned down by the nonsense of rugby, I walked calmly to his room. And what satisfaction to turn the key in that lock, to push open that forbidden door, to breathe the stale odours of that sacred place as if they were pure mountain air. There were things to see and appreciate. From all surfaces came the dull gleam of sporting trophies. On the wall were framed certificates, and a photograph of Marrineau shaking hands with a sporting personality. In a drawer I found the tan crocodile-skin shaving kit he deployed with such nonchalance in ablutions, drawing the razor smoothly through his enviable stubble with that natural grace only athletes have. I lay on his bed, leafing through a rugby programme, several years old, for a match between South Africa and the British Lions. I tried to feel its value to him. I prised open the staples and removed the double-page photograph at the centre – a final school souvenir. The last thing I found, hidden carelessly under the bed, was the chess set. I clicked it open to find a label taped under the lid inscribed with the name of its rightful owner – it belonged to one of the boys from the chess club. I guessed that Marrineau had taken it from the boy in some act of spite or bullying and simply kept it. I vowed to return it.