William Trevor
THE OLD BOYS
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Trevor was born in Mitchelstown, Co. Cork, in 1928, the son of a bank official, and spent his childhood in provincial Ireland. He studied at Trinity College, Dublin. Working first as a sculptor and teacher, then as an advertising copywriter, he published his first novel in 1958.
His subsequent novels won numerous prizes, including the Hawthornden Prize, the Heinemann Fiction Prize and the Yorkshire Post Book of the Year Award. He was a three-times winner of the Whitbread Book of the Year Award, for The Children of Dynmouth (1976), Fools of Fortune (1983) and Felicia’s Journey (1994), and was also shortlisted four times for the Booker Prize. His last novel was Love and Summer (2009).
Trevor was also an acclaimed writer of short stories. His complete output was collected into two hardcover volumes by Viking Penguin in 2009. In 1999 he was awarded the prestigious David Cohen Prize for a lifetime’s literary achievement, and in 2002 he was knighted for his services to literature. William Trevor died in 2016.
To Jane
1
The meeting was late in starting because Mr Turtle had trouble with the lift. Having arrived successfully at Gladstone House, he entered the lift, struck the button marked 5 and ascended. On the way he began to think, and his train of thought led him into the past and absorbed him. At the fifth floor Mr Turtle still thought; and when the lift was summoned from below he descended with it. A man in overalls opened the doors at the basement and Mr Turtle got out. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said to the man. ‘Room three-o-five,’ he said to himself; but all he could find was an enormous lavatory and a furnace-room. The concrete passages did not seem right to Mr Turtle, nor did the gloomy green and cream walls, the bare electric light bulbs and the smell of Jeyes’ Fluid. ‘I say,’ Mr Turtle said to a woman who was mopping the floor, ‘can you tell me where three-o-five is?’ The woman didn’t hear him. He repeated the question and she stared at him with suspicion.
‘Three-o-five? Do you want Mr Morgan?’
‘I think I’m a little lost actually. Actually I want room three-o-five.’ The woman didn’t know what Mr Turtle meant by room three-o-five. Her province was the basement.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, mopping round Mr Turtle’s feet. ‘I don’t know no room three-o-five.’
‘I’ll be late. I’m due at a meeting.’
‘They didn’t tell me about no meeting. You won’t find no meeting in the basement, mister.’
Mr Turtle registered surprise.
‘Is this the basement? I pressed the button for the fifth floor.’
So he went back to the lift, and when eventually he entered room three-o-five he was conscious of an angry glance or two: they didn’t like one to be late. Mr Turtle began to make his excuses, retailing his conversation with the woman in the basement. Sir George Ponders, who was in the Chair, cut him off. The others nodded and shuffled. Mr Jaraby smiled.
The meeting was a routine one. The committee of the Old Boys’ Association met a couple of times a year to discuss this and that and to survey the implementation of past proposals. The men around the table were of an age: somewhere between seventy and seventy-five. They served on the committee for two years, but one of them would be elected by the committee itself as next session’s President. Thus there was a perpetual link. Part of the etiquette of the Association was that committee members were of the same generation and had been at the School at the same time. Another part was that there was never a committee of younger men; one’s chance to serve came late in life.
Through the warm afternoon the voices droned in room three-o-five, agreeing and arguing. One man slept and snored, and was hastily woken. He blinked, jerking his limbs in confusion, protesting at the interruption and denying that he had fallen into a nap. They spoke of what they had been convened to speak about, interlacing business with reminiscence. ‘Remember the day Burdeyon lost his monkey?’ remarked Mr Sole. He smiled, his head to one side; speaking of the Headmaster of their day, an eccentric who had kept unusual pets. ‘It had fleas,’ Mr Cridley said. ‘Burdeyon was a bit of an ass.’ But Mr Jaraby, who had admired authority in his time, disagreed. A brief argument was pursued before Sir George called the meeting to order. Mr Swabey-Boyns, who had himself been responsible for the temporary disappearance of the monkey, voiced no comment.
The men’s hands were spread before them on the table: hands with swollen veins, thin hands like pieces of stick, hands with shakes in them. One man’s played with a pencil stub; another’s drummed the hard surface without rhythm.
In deference to the heat the windows were open to their fullest extent, and a small fan buzzed and swivelled in a corner. There was a noise of traffic in the room, and the smell of dry city air. Mr Turtle remembered the powdery roads of Gloucestershire in his childhood, a long time ago now. He remembered travelling in a dog-cart, slowly, through a day like this one. From Moreton to Evenlode, to Adlestrop and Daylesford. He and Topham minor stopping off to buy sherbet in Chipping Norton. And showing Topham the Slaughters and the Swells.
‘No doubt we shall all meet soon again,’ said Sir George Ponders. ‘O.B. Day at the School at the end of the month. But I would remind you that when next we meet officially, at our final Dinner in September, we shall be voting for next year’s President. As you know, Jaraby has been proposed.’
Mr Jaraby glanced quickly from face to face. Ponders. Sole. Cridley. Swabey-Boyns. Sanctuary. Turtle. Nox. Unless one of them produced a reason against it, he would automatically be elected. He caught Mr Nox’s eye and felt a little jump in his stomach.
‘I find it oppressive in here,’ said Mr Swabey-Boyns. ‘Have we reached the end of business?’
They took their leave of one another, shaking hands and murmuring.
On the way home Mr Jaraby bought two pounds of beetroot. He had remembered to bring his string bag, folded neatly in his pocket. As he watched the girl transferring the vegetable from the weighing-machine to his bag he thought about Mr Turtle. The man had been fifteen minutes late and had then attempted to waste further time by breaking into some story about a washerwoman. Really, the old fellow was beyond it. It was remarkable how some aged more rapidly than others: Turtle had been his junior at school, he was probably two years younger. He questioned the price of the beetroot and, as he always did, offered the girl less money than she demanded.
‘I am delighted to hear it,’ said Mrs Jaraby, in reply to some statement of her husband’s about the meeting.
Mr Jaraby poured himself tea, moving his teeth about with his tongue. Food was wedged somewhere. When he had released it he said:
‘You are not. You say you are delighted but in fact you take no interest in the matter at all.’
Mrs Jaraby watched her husband’s cat stalking a bird in the garden. The room they sat in smelt of the cat. Its hairs clung to the cushions. The surface of a small table had been savaged by its claws.
‘I was being civil,’ said Mrs Jaraby.
‘Turtle cam
e in late. He kept us cooling our heels. He claimed to have been in the company of a charwoman.’
‘Well, well.’ She believed he kept the cat only because she disliked it. Once a week he cooked fish for it in the kitchen, and she was forced on that day to leave the house and go to a cinema.
‘He seems twice his years. And I thought was looking remarkably unhealthy. He has a dicky heart, poor fellow.’
‘Which one seemed twice his years? It is something I would like to see. He would be a hundred and forty.’
‘Be careful now: you are deliberately provoking me.’
‘I am merely curious. How does this ancient look? Is he withered like a dead leaf, crooked and crackling?’
‘You are picking up my remarks and trying to make a nonsense out of them. Are you unwell that you behave in this way? Don’t say we are going to have illness in the house.’
‘I am less well than I would be if the cat were not here. Your Monmouth has just disembowelled a bird on the lawn.’
‘Ha, ha. So now you claim illness because we keep a pet. Are you psychic that you know what happens on the lawn?’
‘A normal pet I might welcome. But a cat the size of a tiger I draw the line at. I know what happens on the lawn because I can observe the lawn through the window from where I sit.’
‘My dear woman, you are too clever by half. I have said it before and I can only repeat it.’ Mr Jaraby took a long draught of tea and leaned back in his armchair, pleased that once again he had established the truth of his wife’s contrariness.
In the garden the cat fluffed through the sticky feathers, seeking a last mouthful. The late evening sun cooled the glow of antirrhinums and delphiniums, and bronzed the stones of the tiny rockery. The cat strode to the centre of the grass, its body slung high on black rods of legs, its huge furry tail extended in line with its back. A rat had once leapt at its left eye and bitten it from its head: there remained only a dark shell, a gap like a cave, with a hint of redness about it.
Mr Jaraby closed his eyes. He did not see how his election as President could now be vetoed. He felt agreeably warm, snug within his body. ‘I want you to be Head of the House,’ Dowse had said, and Jaraby had watched a dribble of saliva slip down a crevice at the side of his mouth. He had never forgotten that dribble of saliva, perhaps because the moment was an emotional one and details were important. Then, too, he had felt agreeably warm, as though the flow of pride heated his blood. Dowse had been old then, the droop of his head between his shoulders more noticeable every day. But in his time, in his prime, he had been the Housemaster of the century. In canvas shoes he had kicked a rugby ball over the bar from the half-way line. Some boy had once protested that Dowse had a privileged position; that he, the boy, could not retaliate to Dowse’s thrashing; that the relationship between master and boy was no relationship at all, since the master ordered and the boy obeyed. So Dowse, having thrashed him once and listened, thrashed him again, in fair fight with the gloves on, with all the House as audience. Ever since his day the House had been known as Dowse’s; few people remembered that once it had been otherwise. ‘I want you, Jaraby, because you are the best man I have.’ And Jaraby had remained with him in his room, listening carefully, drinking a glass of mild beer; while Dowse explained to him how to go about a beating. Jaraby felt privileged, for Dowse could still beat like no one else. He had that reputation, and had in the past proved it to Jaraby himself.
‘When Dowse died,’ said Mr Jaraby, ‘I cried.’
Mrs Jaraby, who had taken up her knitting, said nothing.
‘It was my last day but one. I had been Head of his House, I had served him well. And then, in all the excitements, in all the comings and goings, the trunks being fetched from the attics and packed, the books returned, the cupboards cleared, I heard of his death. The Headmaster told me himself, since my position demanded that I be the first boy to hear. He summoned me and darkened the room by pulling the curtains. I remember it was a clear day in July. The sun scorched through the study windows and I remember being blinded for a moment when the curtains cut it away.’
‘Death is a subject one can go on about –’
‘Go on about? I am not going on about it. I am not being morbid. I am simply sharing with you the passing of a man who influenced me.’
‘I do not mean that. I mean that death begets death. You have told me before of your Housemaster’s death. Indeed, as I recall, you did so at our first meeting. No, I was just thinking that death is in the air.’
‘My God, what do you mean by that?’
Mrs Jaraby was a thin, angular woman, very tall and of a faded prettiness. She possessed no philosophy of life and considered her use in the world to be slight. She had grown sharp through living for forty years with her husband. With another man, she often thought, she might well have run to fat.
‘I mean nothing sensational, only what the words more or less state. We have reached the dying age. You speak of your friend Mr Turtle who is closer, you imply, to death than he is to life; whose heart does not stand up to the years. You take it all for granted. Your cat marauds and murders, yet you do not bother; for death is second nature to you.’
‘Why, good God, is death second nature to me?’
‘One gets more used to death as death approaches.’
‘You are talking a lot of foolish poppycock.’
‘Poppycock is foolish as it is. There is no need to embellish the word. I am saying what runs through my mind, as you do.’
‘You are picking up my words again. I was perfectly happy when I entered this room. I had met old friends and passed an agreeable afternoon. Yet thoughtlessly you sought to disturb me. You talk of a murder in our garden when only a humble cat follows the dictates of his nature. The cat must find his prey, you know.’
‘Your cat is fed and cared for. He is not some wild jungle beast and should not behave as such. I sometimes think that Monmouth is not the usual domestic thing and might interest people at a zoo. Have you thought of trying the animal at a zoo?’
‘I fear for your sanity. You are a stupid woman and recently you have developed this insolence. Most of what you say makes little sense.’
‘A moment ago you called me too clever by half. I was simply trying to make communication, to stimulate a conversation. Is there any harm in that?’
‘You have not answered my challenge. I said you deliberately made me unhappy and nervous. I wished only to remind you of the death of Dowse, and yet no sooner had I spoken than you turned his passing into evidence of universal decay and death. Half the time I do not understand a word you say.’
‘We are seventy-two, you must remember that. Communication is now an effort. It is not the easy thing that younger people know.’
‘You sit there knitting and going on. You say you see my cat become a monster in the garden. We are in the English suburbs, foolish lady; half a world away from Africa. You say this and that and anything that suddenly occurs to you. Does it not also occur to you that your idleness will mean dinner is an hour or so late? I bought two pounds of beetroot. It awaits your attention on the kitchen table.’
‘Dinner is cold and shall not be late. You may have it now if you wish. And why could I not have bought the beetroot? I am capable.’
Mr Jaraby laughed. ‘I beg to contradict that. You are not capable of handling the purchase of this particular vegetable. Now, let me tell you. You will not for instance order that a beet be split before your eyes to prove its quality. You will not see that the split beet comes from the same basket as the beets they give you. You are not interested in food. You will eat anything.’
‘On the contrary. I will not eat tripe. Or calf’s head. Or roe from a herring. Or blancmange. Or rice as a pudding. Or that powdered coffee you bring into the house –’
‘You have had no hard times. I learnt as a boy to eat all that was put before me.’
‘I have had no hard times. Nor have you. You have led a sheltered life. You are more finicky than I over
food.’
Mr Jaraby’s head drooped, for he wished to sleep. There was silence in the room for a moment. Then Mrs Jaraby said:
‘It is time that Basil was back with us.’
Mr Jaraby slept. His head rolled on to his chest, his arms hung listless over the sides of his armchair. His wife poked him with a knitting-needle.
‘I said it was time Basil was back with us.’
Mr Jaraby blew his nose and passed his handkerchief over his face to conceal his anger. He roared incomprehensibly. Then he said:
‘I will not hear the name in this house. Nor will I see the man. Nor shall I tolerate him anywhere near me.’
‘He needs our care.’
‘He needs no such thing. He is wicked, ungrateful and intolerable.’
‘You must come round to the idea. You cannot escape so easily.’
‘I must do nothing. I am not obliged to come round to any idea. I have other matters on my mind, and shall see to them immediately.’ He rose and crossed to his bureau. He opened it and slung down the top with some violence. He had seen it in Nox’s eyes that Nox would make a fight of it. He could count on the others, but somewhere in his mind there was a pricking fear that Nox would not let him easily win.
‘I dusted Basil’s room today,’ Mrs Jaraby said. ‘It is comfortable and ready.’
She picked up the tea-tray and left the room.
2
On the morning of 20 September 1907, George Nox, then thirteen, stood in the study of the man who was about to become his Housemaster: H. L. Dowse, one-time reserve for a Welsh international rugby team, now of advanced years. Nox – for when he had stepped on to the train at Euston he lost all other identity – had heard before of H. L. Dowse. At his prep school the stories of Dowse’s prowess on the sport fields had been widely quoted; as had his scathing tongue and the kind of stories that Dowse would tell you if he knew and liked you well. Nox had not quite known what to expect. He had thought of a younger man, because most of what he had heard about H. L. Dowse was concerned with the vigour of youth, or at least the prime of life. Yet the man who spoke to him now was bent and seemed almost a cripple. His back was narrow and hunched, his mouth had slipped far back into his face: beneath the greying, heavy moustache it seemed lipless and half sewn up. The voice was small and harsh, as though it travelled a long way, losing impetus on the way. ‘You are Nox,’ said this voice, and the deep dark eyes scanned a list to confirm the fact. ‘Well, Nox, you are to begin a new life. You will spend here days that you will cherish all your life. You will look back on them with affection and, I trust, pride. I myself have not forgotten my schooldays. They were spent at this school too, so even at this early stage we have that much in common. Have you questions?’
The Old Boys Page 1
