by Phillip Rock
“I can’t tell you. I can’t!”
Charles stood up and walked around his desk. He regretted his height, towering over the cringing boy. He lowered his voice to a gentle murmur in compensation.
“I can understand how difficult it must be for you to confide in a headmaster. But then you don’t know very much about us, do you? You must have heard something though, or you wouldn’t have come here.”
“There’s no … caning here,” he whispered.
“That’s correct. No corporal punishment at all. But that’s only part of the story. This is a school run, to a very great extent, by the pupils themselves through various elected committees. The highest committee is the governing body, or soviet. They wish to talk to you, Ramsay. If you hold any hope of attending Burgate House in the future, I would advise you to answer all of their questions with the utmost candor. Lying, even half truth, is simply not tolerated here. Do you understand?”
“I … I think so, sir.”
“And that’s not my ruling. The soviet sets all standards for admission and expulsion.” He reached down and touched the boy on the head, the thick brown hair still damp from the bath. “Come along now, they’re waiting for you.”
The high drama attending the arrival of Derek Ramsay had effectively destroyed the school routine for the rest of the day. When Charles went into the common room he found most of the teachers sitting about in varied attitudes of leisure.
“I say,” Simpson remarked, lowering his newspaper, “they’re taking rather a long time.”
“I imagine they have a good deal to talk about,” Charles said. “You know how some of these runaways are. Can’t get two words out of them at first and then one can’t shut them up once they get started.”
“Poor little blighter.”
Charles glanced at his wristwatch. “Been nearly two hours.”
Simpson glanced at his own. “Almost time for tea. They’ll break in a minute or two. No fools, the soviet.”
He was correct. There was the sound of footsteps hurrying along the corridor and then an elfin face peered around the doorpost, that of a girl elected to be one of the soviet messengers.
“Please, Mr. Greville, sir, but the soviet would like to see you in chambers.”
“Thank you, Valerie. I’ll be right up.”
The girl ran off and Charles could hear her footsteps clattering up the stairs to the first-floor landing as he followed slowly, dreading the tale he was certain to hear.
The seven members comprising the soviet were elected each term by the entire school from pupils in the upper sixth form. It was composed this term of five boys and two girls, ranging in age from sixteen to eighteen and in background from the son of a fish shop owner in Ramsgate to the granddaughter of a viceroy. A small, sunny room that had once been a nursery had been turned into the soviet’s council chamber. It contained a few pieces of furniture, although the council, by tradition, conducted its business seated or sprawled on a threadbare Oriental carpet which was believed—falsely—to have belonged to Lenin during his exile in Switzerland.
The council began to get to its feet as Charles entered the room, but he waved them down again. Young Ramsay, he noted, was sprawled among them amid a scattering of toffee wrappers. The soviet knew how to make someone feel at home.
“Conclusion reached, I take it.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the boys said. “We’ve delegated Jameson as spokesman and we’re all in agreement.”
“Good. Tea’s about ready. Why don’t you take Ramsay down while I talk with Kevin in private.”
Kevin Jameson, a tall, gangly boy of seventeen, closed the door after the others were gone. Charles sat in the least battered of the few chairs.
“Any trouble getting him to talk?”
“A bit, sir. In a blue funk the first half hour. Then he opened up to us. Nasty story, I must say.”
“I can imagine.”
“A classic case of the wrong boy at the wrong school. I have a cousin who went to Archdean. He enjoyed the school immensely, won all sorts of colors and prizes … captained the eleven … led them over Harrow at Lord’s three years ago. That sort of thing. He was the type, you see. A perfect fit. This little fellow simply rubbed Archdean the wrong way from the start. Overweight, sloppy dresser … clumsy, hopeless at games … untidy. A complete twerp. And homesick. He was terribly, chronically homesick. Blubbered half the night in the dorm and then, most disgusting of all to his house prefects, began wetting his bed. Their cure for that was to thrash him every morning in his wet pajamas. Only made the situation worse, needless to say. After a few weeks of being thrashed all the time he ran away. His grandfather brought him back. From what we can gather, his parents died years ago. He lives with his grandfather and some old biddy of a housekeeper … ex-nanny I suppose. Anyway, he was returned to the school. Running away was the worst possible crime he could commit. An insult to the entire school. He became a target for everyone’s scorn and abuse. Life became a living hell and he finally responded to it the only way he knew how—by running away again.”
“Probably to be sent back again had he gone home.”
Jameson nodded vigorously. “Oh, no doubt of that, sir. It seems that the old gentleman went there … and his father—that is, young Ramsay’s father. The must-keep-up-the-tradition nonsense. I faced the same sort of thing when my father packed me off to St. Gregory’s in a burst of Catholic fervor which I thought rather odd for a man with two divorces and contemplating a third. Fortunately he came to his senses after my first term and allowed me to come here. I have the feeling that this chap’s granddad won’t be as accommodating.”
“Probably not.” He stood up and slowly paced the room. “If he were permitted to come here would the soviet accept him?”
“I believe so, sir. He’s not without faults. Bit of a glutton and chews his fingernails to the quick. Bed pisser and all that. But those are anxiety symptoms, aren’t they? Placed in a more tranquil atmosphere I’m certain he’d be quite changed. I mean to say, if I knew I’d be bummed with a bloody stick for pissing my mattress, I’d never stop bloody pissing.”
“Not so much of the bloody, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Charles gazed thoughtfully at the wallpaper. A child’s room. Rabbits in eighteenth-century costumes dancing a quadrille. “One thrashing too many and he ran away.”
“More to it than that, sir. Meaning no disrespect to the little chap, but he does have an uncommonly fat rump. Absorb any number of blows I should think. The bruises are certainly vile, though I doubt if he was ever given more than the customary six of the best. What sent him rushing off was a caning in front of his entire house following sentencing by a kangaroo court.”
“I thought that sort of nonsense was outlawed these days.”
“I’m sure it is in any decent school. It was certainly forbidden at St. Gregory’s but still occurred from time to time. I imagine the same holds true at Archdean. Houses are run by the sixth form, prefects, and societies. They know how to form a court without attracting the attention of the housemaster. This particular one was held at midnight, in cloisters, the lower forms’ study room. Ramsay was dragged out of bed to attend it. It was a frightening and humiliating experience and we feel certain he told us the truth.”
“There’s truth enough in a black-and-blue backside.”
“Indeed there is, sir. He ran away the next morning before breakfast. That was three days ago.”
“How on earth did he manage to get here?”
“He’d read about us in one of the tabloids and had been to Abingdon before. He had enough pocket money for a railroad ticket. Got here in a few hours … then lost his nerve. He hid in that old shack at the bottom of the orchard for two days. Lived off apples and a few buns he’d bought in the High Street with the last of his money.”
“Resourceful chap.”
“Yes. And he’s only twelve. A bit young for Archdean, but he was academically advanc
ed at prep school. I’d say that’s about everything. May I go and have my tea now?”
“Yes, Jameson. And thank you.”
Charles could visualize the scene as he walked to his study. The rough midnight justice of boys. All in pajamas and robes. Silent … filing down the dark corridors from the dorms under the watchful eyes of the prefects, their canes of office tucked under their arms. The court assembled in some candlelit hall. Judge and jury at a long table … the house captains, monitors, prefects, fag masters and bloods—the hierarchy of the sixth form. The oldest, biggest boys. The best of the athletes and scholars seated in judgment on Ramsay, D., the fat, untidy bed wetter whose appearance and behavior were giving the house a bad name. The court, by its actions and punishment, making clear that they did not appreciate Dirt-ee Ram-see as a member of their ancient and honorable house, or even of their school.
The headmaster of Archdean was cool but correct over the telephone. Ramsay, D.? He was well aware that the boy had run away, but unlike the previous time had not returned to his home in Wimbledon. The police had been notified. What on earth was he doing at Burgate? Caned and bullied? Certainly not bullied. Such behavior was forbidden at Archdean. As for having been caned, that was hardly surprising. A proper thrashing could work wonders on lazy boys with no sense of self-discipline. He would inform Ramsay’s grandfather instanter. He would be relieved that the boy had been found—and a good day to you, sir.
IF MR. RAMSAY was relieved by his grandson’s reappearance he did not mention it to Charles over the telephone. That Derek had appeared at Burgate House School was a puzzlement. “Extraordinary. Most extraordinary.” He could not have sounded more bemused had the lad turned up in a brothel. “I will drive down. You can expect me around eight this evening.” He did not say thank you, but did offer to reimburse the school for any expense incurred.
“Ramsay’s grandfather will pick him up at eight,” Charles said as he entered the common room. Simpson was there, reading a newspaper over a glass of sherry, and Marian Halliday was placing the day’s sketches in a leather portfolio. Simpson only grunted, swallowed half the contents of his glass, and reimmersed himself in the sporting section of the Times.
“He fell asleep immediately after tea,” Marian said. “Complete, but contented exhaustion. I don’t think he’ll wet the bed here.”
“I would doubt it.”
“Eight, did you say? I shan’t go home then. I would like a word or two with the man.”
Her Irish was up, Charles noticed. The green eyes had a hard glint to them and there were high spots of flame on her usually fair cheeks.
“I can manage quite well, Mrs. Halliday, thank you all the same.”
Her eyes mirrored some doubt. “I would like to point out to him that the hitting of a small boy with a stick, many times, can hardly be expected to improve his body or his mind. I would also like to mention that I think the custom is barbaric … and sadistic.”
“It is also, I’m sorry to say, a firmly ingrained custom in English schools.”
She stood rigidly before him. Anger made her nostrils flare. “Do you intend to say nothing? Just hand the boy over?”
“I certainly intend to hand the boy over. What other choice do I have? But I shall talk to the man … give him my opinion of schools such as Archdean.”
“Fat lot of good that will do!”
“It’s the best that can be done, I’m afraid.” He lightly touched her arm. “Your outrage is admirable, but serves no purpose whatsoever. My advice is to go home and let me handle the matter—whether it does a fat lot of good or not.”
“Oh, very well.” She plucked the portfolio of drawings from a table. “But I shall stop off at the local first and have a very stiff gin!”
Simpson peered over his newspaper as she stalked from the room. “Spirited young woman, isn’t she?”
“She’s right, you know.”
“Yes. But I doubt if the elder Ramsay will see it quite that way. A pity there aren’t more Scorcher O’Haras in the country. She was telling me about her brother … when he was sent to a public school at thirteen. Seems the first day he was there he got in wrong … gabbing in class or something. The master hit him a tremendous blow across the hand with a metal-tipped ruler. Young Scorcher didn’t like that at all. He reared back and socked the fellow from Wealdstone to Watford. Made him think twice about hitting anyone in the future, I would imagine.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did.” Through the windows he could see Marian Halliday walking with long-legged fury past the rose garden toward the back of the building where her car was parked. “I have a feeling the sister would have done the same.”
T. C. Ramsay, Esq., arrived at eight fifteen in the back of a chauffeur-driven Daimler. The elderly man fitted the appearance Charles had imagined from hearing his voice—large, heavyset, with a jowly face and a ruddy complexion. John Bull in a business suit.
“Charles Greville, headmaster here.”
“T. C. Ramsay.” His handshake was perfunctory. He glanced at the imposing hall. “A larger place than I expected.”
“It is large, yes. A private house at one time.” Charles closed the massive front door. “I’m sorry we didn’t find your grandson sooner, Mr. Ramsay. It would have spared you a couple of days of worry.”
“I had the police out looking, but I had no dire thoughts. I assumed he was simply dawdling somewhere … afraid to come home and face me. Oh, well, it all comes out in the wash, I suppose. Where is he?”
“Upstairs asleep. He was exhausted and we put him to bed after tea.”
The man cleared his throat loudly. “Yes … well … I’ll take the lad off your hands. It’s a fair drive back to Wimbledon.”
“I think we should have a talk first.”
“Do you?” His surprise was evident.
“There are some things I think you should know.”
T. C. Ramsay studied Charles for a moment, taking him in with a banker’s stare. “Very well. I can spare a few minutes. I would like Derek to be awake and dressed, however.”
“Of course.” He looked up the broad, curved stairs. “One of you chaps down, please.”
There was a scuffling sound on the first-floor landing and then Manderson, still smarting over accusations that he had used undue force in tackling the runaway in the orchard, came barreling down the stairs several strides in front of his competitors.
“Only one,” Charles said sternly. “Manderson will do nicely, thank you.” A mob of boys froze on the stairs. “Manderson, this is Mr. Ramsay, Derek’s grandfather.”
The boy smoothed his hair and tugged at this shirt almost in one gesture. “My pleasure, I’m sure … sir.”
T. C. Ramsay only grunted.
“Find Matron, will you,” Charles said. “Help her get young Ramsay up and dressed.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Greville, sir … right away.” He was off and running, clattering up the stairs.
“Eager fellow.”
“We stress service here.” Charles motioned toward one of the corridors leading off the hall. “Please come into my study, Mr. Ramsay.”
He had no intention of taking a seat. He stood stolid in the room, large hands clasped behind his back.
“So you’re Charles Greville … the Viscount Amberley. I had the pleasure of knowing your father at Westminster when I was M. P. for Chaterham before the war. And this is what you do, is it? Run this place?”
“This … school, yes.”
“Your concept of a school is not the same as my own.”
“Possibly not. But a school it is.”
“More like a haven for misfits, if you ask me. I’ve read a good deal about Burgate House and have not liked one thing I’ve read. It’s not my intention to be insulting, sir, but I’m a blunt man who speaks his mind.”
“Jolly good for you. I find that refreshing in this day and age. Would you care for a sherry? Some of my father’s private stock from Jerez.”
The elderly man wavere
d, then gave in. “Perhaps a small glass.”
“You know,” Charles said as he poured the wine, “your grandson also read about us. It induced him to come here.”
“The schoolboy’s paradise, or so I hear.”
“Hardly that, but not being flogged is heaven enough for some boys.”
“I daresay.” He scowled at the sherry glass when Charles handed it to him. “There’s a purpose to caning. It’s not simply blind, willful punishment. You know that, Greville. Where did you go? Eton? Harrow?”
“Eton.”
“They caned at Eton, I daresay, as strongly as they did at Archdean. God knows I had my backside striped more than once in lower house. It’s part of the ritual one goes through. It makes for obedient boys. Diligent boys. It is the making of men.” He took a sip of the sherry, savored it on the tongue, and took another. “My son Thomas had many a thrashing. He was thirteen when I sent him to Archdean, the spring of nineteen eight. Discipline was ferocious in those days and a lad had to measure up if he wanted to keep any skin on his bottom. Tom measured up. He became, in time, captain of his house and captain of the school fifteen. Colors in footer and cricket as well. A fine, all-round boy. The custom today is to either sneer at discipline or wring one’s hands over it. But, by God, it helped produce a breed I doubt we shall ever see again in England. Men who believed in duty and had obedience bred into their very bones. How else can one account for it, sir? The gallantry and self-sacrifice of those young men, those public-school boys, during the war? My own Tom … winning the V.C. at Zeebrugge … leading his men along the mole toward the German guns. Dying on his feet, but running on without a murmur until he dropped. Archdean produced that type of man, as did Eton, Wellington, Rugby—all the fine old schools. I want my grandson to measure up to that tradition. I don’t need you to tell me that he’s been caned, or even that he’s been bullied. I’m quite sure that he has been, and will continue to be until he jolly well learns what’s expected of him.”
