The Old Boys

by William Trevor

  Nox shook his head, but Mr Dowse insisted on hearing his voice.

  ‘No, sir,’ Nox said.

  ‘You know why you are here, Nox?’

  Nox paused in his reply. He had learnt already that it was not a good thing to know too much; though an equally poor impression was created by total ignorance.

  ‘I am here to learn, sir.’

  ‘Not only that, Nox. You might learn anywhere. You might explore the mind of Horace and Virgil in the seclusion of your home. You might be taught the laws of trigonometry by a man who daily visited you. No, Nox, you are here for more than learning. You will absorb knowledge, certainly. At least I hope you will: we cannot send you into the world an ignoramus.’ At this Mr Dowse cackled with laughter that was not reflected in his face. He sniffed, and twitched his moustache this way and that. He was silent: Nox thought the peroration was over. He wondered about slipping away and leaving Mr Dowse to his many tasks. He shifted his feet and the Housemaster looked up sharply.

  ‘What is the matter, boy?’ Nox thought he looked like some animal he had seen in an encyclopedia, and tried for a moment to establish its name in his mind.

  ‘Nothing is the matter, sir.’

  ‘Then do not display impatience. You are treating me to a discourtesy. Do you understand the meaning of that word?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, good. When you leave this school that word shall never be allied with your name. Are you pleased by what I say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are about to receive, Nox, the finest form of education in the world. You will learn to live in harmony with your fellows, to give and to take in equal proportions. You will recognize superiority in others and bow to it. You will discover your place, your size, the extent of your self. You follow me? You will find that our school is the world in miniature; and your days here are a rehearsal for your time in that world. You are a privileged person to be allowed such a rehearsal. It means that when you leave here you leave with the advantage of knowing what lies beyond. You must make the most of your advantage. You must apply to the world the laws that apply to this school. You must abide by those rules; and you must see to it that others do the same. In life you will be one of the ones who lead the way; it is expected of you and you must fail neither yourself nor the School. So you see there is more to it all than mere mathematics and Latin. You will learn to take punishment and maybe in time distribute it. You will learn to win and to lose, to smile on misfortune with the same equanimity as you smile on triumph. The goodness that is in you will be carried to the surface and fanned to a flame, the evil will be faced fairly and squarely: you will recognize it and make your peace with it. We shall display the chinks in your armour and you will learn how best to defend yourself. When you are my age, Nox, I hope you will look back and know that we have made a good job of you. That is perhaps a facetious way of putting it, but remember that a touch of humour here and there is not out of place.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I would warn you against many things. I would warn you against playing the buffoon. I would warn you against furtive, underhand ways. Steer a straight course, know what you desire, speak up and look people in the face. Never abuse your body, it leads to madness. You know of what I speak?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Be direct, Nox. If you know, say so. If you do not, seek information.’

  ‘I know what you mean, sir.’

  ‘If already you have developed the habit, you will promise me to break it. It is the only promise I wish to extract from you. On all other matters there is mutual trust between us.’

  ‘I promise, sir.’

  ‘Good boy. Stand straight, head high, shoulders back. What are your games?’

  ‘I am not good at games, sir.’

  ‘That, you know, is not for you to say. We shall discover in our time what games you are good at. Did you play on a team at your preparatory school? Which games do you prefer?’

  ‘I was not on a team, sir. I’m afraid, sir, I like no games at all.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Nox. That does not sound good. And I do not quite believe it: there was one game surely that above all the others you enjoyed?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You are trying me a little, you know. I have other boys to see, much to do. Did you never enjoy an afternoon’s cricket?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why did you not?’

  ‘I think I was bored, sir.’

  ‘So ball and bat bored you. Are they in some way beneath your contempt? Have you some notion in your head that you are cut out for better things? What are your hobbies?’

  ‘Reading, sir. And stamps.’

  ‘Indoor hobbies, Nox. You note that these are indoor activities? God has given us fresh air. He does not intend us to ignore it. Develop a healthy interest in some outdoor sport. I shall watch your progress. I see you as scrum-half for the School.’

  Nox was a little frightened. He knew it was extremely unlikely that he would play scrum-half for the School or anywhere else. And the words it leads to madness had distressed and alarmed him.

  ‘I shall place you in the care of the Head of the House. He is a fine, decent person and has your interest at heart as I have. He and his prefects are your masters. They demand and shall receive obedience. You understand me, boy?’ The voice was suddenly stern, and Nox nodded, answering that he understood. Mr Dowse pressed a bell and sent a maid to fetch the boy he spoke of.

  When he entered, Nox was immediately impressed by his size. He was bigger than Mr Dowse, with a square fleshy jaw, recently shaved, and short dark hair like bristles all over his head. He stood with his legs apart and his arms hanging loosely by his sides, and Nox was reminded of the Physical Instructor at his prep school.

  ‘Come to my room,’ this boy said when they were outside the Housemaster’s study. They walked in silence through the strange passages, Nox a little behind his senior to accord him the respect that Mr Dowse had said was his due. The passages were panelled in smoky wood, which displayed in a long continuous line a series of photographs of teams.

  ‘I am Head of the House,’ the tall boy said when they were in his room. ‘My name is Jaraby. This is where I live. You will fag for me with the other new boys in the House. All new boys fag for the Head of the House to begin with. It is so that I can keep an eye on you. Please report here at six sharp.’

  Every day Nox blacked Jaraby’s boots, tidied his books and helped to wash up the dishes from which Jaraby had eaten. At the end of the period, when the new fags were allocated to new masters, Jaraby kept Nox on as his own particular servant. It was not that he had taken a fancy to him; it was that he had not yet trained him to his satisfaction.

  ‘You are slack, idle, slapdash and irresponsible,’ Jaraby said. ‘You shall remain with me until such time as you have mended your ways.’

  Jaraby, who was a stickler for detail and discipline, was determined that Nox should do what was required of him; quietly, contentedly, and with the minimum of nonsense.

  At nights in the long cold dormitory, anonymous beneath his blankets, Nox wept before he slept, and when he awoke his face was stiff with the dried salt of his tears.

  Nox did not see much of his Housemaster. Twice a day he appeared in Chapel, his face jolting in time to the hymns; and occasionally, with Jaraby on one side of him and another prefect on the other, he would walk, muffled against the weather, away from the School and into the country. Nox wondered if his turn would ever come to accompany Mr Dowse on these rambles and, if so, what topics of conversation would be explored. Rumour had it that the Housemaster’s companions reported to him their suspicions of junior boys abusing their bodies, and discussed how best to prove the facts and penalize the offenders. Laughingly, these junior boys repeated the grisly story that Mr Dowse had once castrated a lad in his study. New boys, green from their prep schools, believed it.

  Despite Mr Dowse’s prognostications, Nox did
not shine at games. Jaraby put him down as a second-row forward in rugby practices, but his slightness of build was little help in the scrums and he often found himself, cradling his head in terror, beneath a collapsed formation of heavy limbs and flaying boots. He had a horror of the muddy ellipsoid and avoided it as best he could. Once, finding it unexpectedly in his hands, he started to run in the specified direction but was promptly brought down and the ball sank deep into his stomach, winding him and in fact cracking a rib.

  ‘You are not much on the rugger field,’ Jaraby said. ‘Men in this House are expected to do a little better.’ Jaraby’s small eyes bored into his, and Nox felt himself accused of a crime. Jaraby was sitting idle at his table, playing with the nib of a pen. It was, Nox felt, a dangerous moment.

  ‘I am off rugger at present. I broke a rib.’

  ‘Why did you do that? You cannot expect just to break a rib and then be excused your games. This looks like slyness to me.’

  ‘I broke it playing rugger. I fell on the ball.’

  ‘You fell on the ball! Heavens, man, you are not expected to stumble about like a grandfather on the field.’

  ‘I was tackled. I was running for the line.’

  Jaraby threw down the nib and made a beckoning gesture with his head. When Nox approached he seized him by a scrap of hair on the nape of his neck. He looked at the squirming form with distaste.

  ‘Make no mistake, Nox, I am up to your tricks. You are off games, you say. You cannot lend your illustrious presence to the rugby football field. Right. But at least you can go on a run. A broken rib will hardly prevent you from taking this mild form of cross-country exercise, eh? Come, Nox: remember, you know best. Well?’

  ‘I’d better ask Matron, Jaraby.’

  ‘Ask Matron! And write home to Mother while you’re at it. Yes or no, Nox – it is your decision. Ask our Housemaster, he will tell you you must learn to take decisions. Shall I send you to ask Mr Dowse? It is no trouble, Nox; I shall be pleased to help you.’

  ‘I will go on the run, Jaraby.’

  ‘Two-thirty, tomorrow. Sharp.’

  During his first months as Jaraby’s fag Nox learnt to accept his fate with philosophy. Other boys were fags for less exacting prefects; and quite often happy, if dubious, relationships were formed. It was recognized that Nox had been unlucky; for somehow the prickly Jaraby seemed uninterested in relationships for their own sake, and certainly did not consider that his small, grubby fag was worthy of more attention than the efficient running of his study warranted. In Nox’s new life Jaraby was everywhere. It was not the mere fact of receiving a gamma for a piece of English prose that distressed Nox; it was what Jaraby would say to him when Jaraby got to know about it. For somehow Jaraby always did seem to get to know. He knew everything that went on in the House and everything that concerned the boys who belonged to it. What Nox did, on the games field or in class, was inevitably ‘not good enough’. Now and again in Chapel Nox felt the peering eyes of Jaraby upon him; and as he later collected mugs and plates for washing, Jaraby might question him about the effort he put into his singing. ‘You must open your mouth wider, young Nox. When you sing you should display your lower teeth.’ And Jaraby remembered that. He remembered telling Nox about showing his lower teeth and recalled the image of his fag standing on the hearth-rug, rolling down his lower lip to show what he could do. Weeks later Jaraby suddenly said: ‘Well, Nox, are you practising your singing? Have you made progress? Let’s see now – give us a verse of Hills of the North.’ Shame and awkwardness made Nox feel light in the head. He couldn’t sing at all. His treble voice was just an absurd quaver. His face reddened and he clutched at the first straw he thought of. ‘I don’t know the words, Jaraby.’ But he knew it was too late; he knew that Jaraby had made a discovery that was easy to exploit. He took from him the hymn-book, and, glancing at the faces of Jaraby and his friends, he saw that their current expressions were neither kind nor unkind. In some odd way he felt it was their very neutrality that brought on the mounting tears behind his eyes. He thought they would be pleased if he succeeded, but he knew he would fail. ‘Hills of the North, rejoice; river and mountain-spring, hark to the advent voice –’ Jaraby held up a hand. ‘You must show your lower teeth, man. Mouth open, lip well down. That’s it. Try again.’ But his voice was ridiculous now, with his face twisted like that, and they all laughed and then forgot he was there. On occasions like this, Nox even in the midst of his misery was aware that this was Jaraby’s way of fulfilling his position: Nox was in his care, he was determined that Nox should eventually pass out of it a better person. Jaraby was doing his duty. Had Nox turned round on him and said: ‘You are injuring me,’ he would have thought that Nox was mad.

  Cross-country running was dreaded by everyone. There were ditches full of cold, dirty water to negotiate. There was heavy mud that one had to scrape from time to time off the bottoms of one’s shoes. And there was a time limit. If one dawdled and did not turn up where one should be at the prescribed hour, the prefects who waited there, ticking off names, would have gone. They came and went by road, on bicycles. If they left with names unticked on their lists it was assumed that the boys they belonged to had not taken part in the run at all. To have tramped and panted over five miles of uninviting countryside and then failed to arrive meant six strokes later that evening. The time limit was the most heart-breaking thing about the run.

  Out of thirty or so boys who were listed there were nearly always two or three who didn’t even start. They preferred to spend the afternoon reading in the lavatory and to take their punishment in time. They knew, in any case, that it was beyond the strength of their bodies to cover the ground in the allotted time. Nox was not one of these. He had failed before, but once or twice he had succeeded: he reckoned he stood a fifty-fifty chance. As he crossed the last ditch he could see Jaraby and two others standing at the top of the hill by the final stile. The pale afternoon sun glinted on the metal of their bicycles. Their laughter and voices carried easily in the clear air.

  ‘Hurry, hurry,’ one of the boys in front of him said to his companion. ‘There’s someone horrible behind us.’ He said it because Nox was a new boy and a junior, an unknown quantity, unproved and mysterious. But Nox took the words at the value they stood for, and wondered why he should seem horrible to anyone.

  Jaraby and his friends carried umbrellas, with which they struck the buttocks of the runners as they crossed the stile. Nox felt the sharp sting on his legs, and paused for a moment to catch his breath. He looked down the hill, across the ploughed land he had covered, and saw in the distance a couple of straggling wretches who had long since given up and were probably already crying in anger at the prospect of punishment. The senior boys mounted their bicycles, and Jaraby flung him his umbrella to carry. He nodded as he did so and said, surprisingly: ‘Well done, Nox.’ In the cold, darkening afternoon as he ran back to the school, Nox felt happy.

  That night in bed Nox knew that there was something the matter with him. There was a pain in his chest just above the broken rib, and he guessed that in some way he had injured it. The next day the doctor explained that the rib had punctured his lung, and ordered him immediately to the sanatorium.

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone on that run,’ Mr Dowse said, staring at him in the narrow iron bed. ‘You were off games, Nox. Categorically so, Matron says. Yet you disobeyed her order. Now, Nox, I wish to hear why.’

  ‘I did not think, sir –’

  ‘No, you did not think. You did not think that you might do yourself a mischief. Are you so devoted to cross-country running? It surprises me that you are. For Jaraby says your performance is mediocre.’

  ‘Jaraby was pleased, sir. I reached the stile in time. Jaraby was anxious that I should have exercise and fresh air. He thought it bad for me to hang about –’

  ‘Hang about? Stiles? Why are you talking to me about stiles?’

  ‘I am expl—’

  ‘I know nothing of such things. If you had a complain
t about Matron’s decision you should have said so at the time, not go running to Jaraby for favours.’

  Nox said nothing, and was carried away for a moment or two in an examination of Mr Dowse’s mouth. He had never seen so slight a mouth on a human face before.

  ‘Well, well?’ snapped Mr Dowse.

  ‘Well, sir –’

  ‘Nox, it strikes me you do not understand much of what I say. It grieves me that you show so little initiative. I have much to do, much to see to. I cannot spend all my time with one recalcitrant boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Mr Dowse sighed and began to walk away. He glanced without interest at the other boys in the room. Then he returned to Nox’s bed. ‘You are not abusing yourself, boy?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  It was the first time since their initial meeting that Mr Dowse had conversed with him. He had a feeling that his stock was not high with the man, and hoped that with Jaraby it had risen since the day of the run, even though Jaraby had reported that his cross-country performances were mediocre.

  ‘Nox, I want to see you.’ Nox, on his way back to the School from the sanatorium, carried his belongings tied together, as tradition demanded, in his rug.

  ‘You have been blabbing to Dowse.’ Jaraby was frowning, his eyes lost in folds of flesh. He pointed a finger at Nox’s chest and Nox knew that the accusation was important. ‘Contradict me,’ Jaraby went on, ‘if I am wrong. The facts I have are that you stated I countermanded Matron’s orders and put you down for a run. That is not true, now is it? You went voluntarily. You took the decision in this room yourself. Do you recall our conversation, Nox?’