by H. S. Cross
The Eagle sighed and then went to the bar for another round. He returned with a second mug of tea for John.
—Grieves, he said, you can’t blame yourself for Bradley.
—I don’t.
—If Bradley really did all that to Wilberforce, it wasn’t your fault, no matter how incandescent you were about the skull business.
—I know it wasn’t my fault.
—You don’t know it. And you don’t know that Wilberforce was behind the skull. Take some advice for once and let the grudge go.
—Grudge? John balked. Grudge against whom?
—Against Wilberforce, against Bradley, against yourself.
—You’re a fine one to talk. You’re bolting—
—Possibly, the Eagle said. But the point you’re missing is Wilberforce.
—What about him?
—That tackle today was pointless and destructive. He’s going off the rails, and you’re the only person he respects.
—Me? Wilberforce doesn’t respect—
—Of course it’s possible I’m imagining the whole thing, the Eagle concluded. In which case there’s nothing to worry about.
John’s mouth soured. He set his tea aside.
—Do yourself a favor, the Eagle counseled. Cast a glance across Positions Vacant. You’re young, clever, healthy, and decent. You could have a future of your own if you weren’t so afraid of it.
* * *
The Eagle’s remarks re Morgan Wilberforce were almost as disturbing as his news of impending defections from the SCR. He had foisted his Wilberforce theory on John without a sliver of evidence, but once John had regained the quiet of his little rooms, he was able to see that the Eagle’s claims were ludicrous. Wilberforce was as slothful and indifferent in John’s lessons as in any other. They had no outside rapport since the Gallowhill business, and if the Eagle thought they did, it was only because his myopia (literal and figurative) caused him to conflate the years. The span between 1923 and 1926 might not seem to the Eagle the enormous era it was to boys growing into whiskers, but it was nevertheless a long time. It was long enough for boys to change unrecognizably, to stretch many inches, to come out in spots, to outgrow several pairs of trousers, to lose their voices and then regain them octaves lower, and to acquire the general narcolepsy of late adolescence. In short, the years between St. Stephen’s Third and Fifth Forms were more revolutionary to the person than the Bolsheviks had been to Russia (stretching it perhaps, but never mind!); thus there was no reason for the Eagle to imagine that Morgan Wilberforce retained even a memory of whatever respect he once had for John, which was in any case questionable!
4
Matron released him from the Tower Sunday evening after immobilizing his left arm in bandages and a sling. It was possible, she said, that he’d damaged more than his shoulder, but as the holidays would begin in less than a fortnight, he could wait and see his father’s physician in Harley Street rather than inconvenience the surgeon. Morgan had little time for the medical profession, which tended to disagree in its opinions and restrict him in his activities. Indeed, Matron repeated her injunction against all Games, especially rugby, but she declared that nothing should prevent him completing his prep that night or any other. Morgan left the ward more vexed than he’d ever before felt upon escaping captivity.
He emerged from the Tower into the empty quad. The House windows glowed, laughter leaked from some raucous study, and puddles lurked in darkness, threatening to tip him arse over elbow onto the cobblestones. He felt feeble, and cold. Alone and half disarmed, he sensed in the quad something sinister, akin to the thing that had attended him in the Tower. But the Tower was already in the past. He was dressed and breathing ordinary air. He did not believe in ridiculous things.
Footsteps announced Colin slipping out of the gatehouse. Seeing Morgan, he flinched but recovered directly:
—Ah, young Wilberforce. Back from the grave?
—Reports of my death—
—Exaggerated, it would seem.
Colin crammed a bulky item into his jacket. It was an open secret that Colin and his studymate operated a distillery in their study, one allowed to prosper because they provided liberal samples to the prefects of the JCR.
—Supplies? Morgan asked.
—Nose out, Wilber. What’d you do to the wing anyhow?
—Nothing much. Should be back on form for the Fleas next week.
—Don’t be funny.
—Matron isn’t in charge of the XV, Morgan declared.
Colin exhaled derisively and headed toward the cloisters.
—What’s that supposed to mean? Morgan said.
—Talk to Barlow.
—I will not talk to Barlow.
Their so-called Captain of Games was the most unworthy specimen to have held the post in the history of the school. Morgan spoke with him as little as possible, and when he did, most of his energy went to stopping himself saying inflammatory things.
—Spill it, Morgan said, before I get interested in your supplies.
Colin sighed:
—Barlow’s put Darke in for you.
Darke was in the Fifth, a part of their circle but no friend of Morgan’s. Morgan and Nathan were the only Fifth Formers on Hazlehurst’s XV, and only just appointed. Of course, Darke would have been waiting to usurp Morgan’s place.
—Barlow can bloody well take Darke out again. I’m playing.
—You might want to keep that to yourself, Colin told him. People are already saying you’ve gone off your dot.
—Does Spaulding say that?
—What’s it to you what Spaulding says?
They turned into the cloisters, a ghost of a grin on Colin’s mouth.
—Look, Morgan said, sod off.
The grin materialized:
—Here is me, sodding off. Off I sod. Enjoy your chat with Barlow.
With that, Colin exited to the classrooms, leaving Morgan alone beside the chapel. His heart pounded beneath the sling. He was supposed to be returning to ordinary life, not dealing with snags ninety seconds after escaping the Tower. People said all sorts of things about him, but normally they did not impugn his sanity. Presumably they questioned his tackle of Spaulding, which might have been quixotic, depending on one’s point of view. He’d own quixotic. He’d even own reckless. But off his dot? Luckily, such an attitude could be vanquished as soon as he played again; unluckily, that would involve shouting sense into Barlow, sod him.
And if Barlow’s idiocy weren’t snag enough, there was Colin, the central telephone exchange of the Academy. What he said, everyone said. The unwarranted smirk advertised Colin’s doubt: that Morgan’s tackle was perhaps not a failed act of heroism but rather a disordered attempt to throw himself at Spaulding. Throw himself literally and publicly at a boy from another House and year, a boy who possibly didn’t even know Morgan’s name before the tackle (though he did now!). This snag—unfair and untrue—needed unsnagging before it went any further. He swore and went after Colin.
In the lower corridor, Colin was ducking into the Fifth’s empty form room. It hurt too much to jog—spite and malice—and by the time Morgan got there, Colin was disappearing into the cupboard. Morgan navigated the unlit room without falling over but found, upon reaching the cupboard, that it was empty, the object of some conjurer’s trick. He felt along the shelves until a panel at the back gave way to his touch, admitting him to the chemistry lab.
—You, too? Colin complained.
Morgan peered into the dim classroom. Colin was gripping one of the tables as if preparing for mortal combat. Across from him stood Alex Pearl, Nathan’s younger brother and the bane of Morgan’s existence. How many snags could snag up in five short minutes?
—As you’re here, Colin said to Morgan, you can remind this item where it belongs.
Alex, who belonged anywhere but the chemistry lab, turned to Morgan, wearing that smirk that always drove him—one snag at a time. Morgan crossed his free arm over the sling. It hurt.
>
—What brings you here? he demanded.
—Your resurrected body, Alex quipped.
One snag—three—however many—concentrate. The day before the Spaulding Smashup, Morgan, Nathan, and Laurie had discovered that Alex was experimenting with gunpowder. Even for the most-caned boy in the Third, this struck them as too much. The three of them had hauled Alex upstairs to a boxroom and set to work. After a string of lies, Alex had admitted stealing and dismantling a box of old shells and repackaging the powder in pellets. They’d had to draw blood before Alex revealed where he’d hidden them. Nathan had gone to dispose of the pellets while Morgan and Laurie had completed the course of moral suasion on his younger brother, at the end of which Alex had promised to reform. His presence in the chemistry lab made it clear that his vow had been empty. Morgan boxed him against the table:
—You belong in Prep.
—So do you, Alex retorted.
He looked Morgan directly in the eye as he’d done when they were dealing with him over the gunpowder. Laurie had held him down, and Morgan had applied a persuasion they’d once known. Alex had never dropped his gaze but had watched Morgan while he did it, letting Morgan see that he felt it, that he saw Morgan seeing him, that he knew Morgan knew himself how it felt, that he knew exactly what Morgan was doing, even as it hurt him, even as it brought him—steel-hearted Alex—to tears.
—Bugger off, Pearl, on the double! Colin barked.
Alex made to leave, but Morgan stepped across his path:
—Not so fast. Empty your pockets.
Alex sighed theatrically:
—Your titanic self-importance notwithstanding, Wilberforce—
—Got a vocabulary now? Do as you’re told.
Alex twisted away, but not before Colin could seize him from behind. Morgan rifled his pockets, confiscated a packet of cigarettes, but found nothing explosive.
—Prep, Morgan commanded. And not another word if you want these back.
He held up the cigarettes. Alex eyed them longingly, but Colin booted the boy into the corridor. One snag, at least, could go to the back of the queue.
—I thought you were sorting that little beast out, Colin said.
Morgan rubbed his shoulder through the bandages, feeling cold again and hamstrung. Even Colin could see that Morgan was the only thing standing between Alex and chaos. Alex ran circles around his fagmaster, Kilby, their slow-witted, concrete-minded Prefect of Hall. Alex didn’t even heed Nathan or Laurie anymore. He only heeded Morgan, and only when Morgan made him. How would he make him with one working arm? Just now, Alex had let him win—
Back of the queue. Everything would be handled in turn, and next in turn was people: what they were saying about him and why they were saying it.
—Has Spaulding said anything about the match? Morgan asked.
Colin closed the drawer where he had been rummaging and slipped something into his pocket.
—Not to me. Should he have?
—How do I know?
—Just what happened during that tackle? Colin asked.
—I knocked him down. That’s all I remember. Brick wall of a brute thumped my lights out.
Morgan was a sportsman. He was not off his dot. Colin led him back through the cupboard.
—For no strategic purpose, Colin mused, you throw yourself at Spaulding. In the process you knock yourself out cold and bugger your arm so you can’t play the rest of term.
—I can play—
—And now, Colin continued, minutes after escaping Matron’s clutches, you come and cross-question me about Spaulding and what he thinks of you.
Colin snaked through the darkened form room; Morgan barked his shin on a desk.
—Whatever it is, Colin said, I’d put it out of mind. Spaulding’s only got eyes for Rees.
—Rees! Morgan spluttered.
—I know, completely absurd as well as impossible, but I have it from a reliable source.
—Your source is having you on!
—Possible, Colin admitted, but given that it’s Larkspur, unlikely.
The snags were overrunning any notion of a queue. If Spaulding fancied anyone, it could never be Rees. Rees wasn’t even in the Sixth. He was in the Fifth, like Morgan. Furthermore, Rees was the most loathsome item in the form, if not the whole Upper School.
They were due to play Spaulding again next week. This time Spaulding would know who he was. Barlow could not drop him from the XV. End of story.
* * *
Morgan kicked open the study door and found Nathan tinkering with their wireless.
—He lives!
—I’ve just come from Barlow, Morgan announced.
Nathan grinned:
—Uplifting?
At least Nathan was glad to see him, unlike Alex, whose every glance was a minefield. When Alex was younger, before his face had narrowed and lost most of its freckles, Morgan had thought the brothers looked nothing alike. He and Nathan used to pretend Alex was a foundling abandoned by gnomes. Now that Alex was almost fourteen, Morgan saw the same stab in each brother’s glances, the same electricity in their grins. The only difference was that Nathan had no guile whereas Alex had nothing but.
Nathan cleared a space for him on the window seat and looked to him eagerly for news. Whatever snags might come, at least he still had this—this home in their study, Laurie and Nathan forever on his side, Nathan’s smile, open and frank, never thinking him off his dot. Morgan slumped down and propped his arm on a pillow. Everything seemed suddenly to hurt.
—Not only is Barlow out of his tiny mind, Morgan complained, but he’s dooming us to failure the rest of term.
Nathan commiserated: Their Captain of Games was a tyrant and a half-wit. Never had Games sunk to a more pitiful state. Indeed, without Morgan, Hazlehurst’s XV would have little chance of beating even Clement’s, let alone REN’s or Burton-Lee’s, but given Barlow’s mental and strategic defects as well as his obstinacy, more tragic even than Creon’s, Nathan concluded there was nothing to do but bow to cruel fate.
—What if the Head insisted?
—S-K won’t take sides in House rugger, Nathan said.
—But if he leaned on Hazlehurst, he could take sides!
—You’re funny. When’s the last time Twiggy lifted a finger for anything besides his bottle?
Morgan’s zeal leaked away. There was no point discussing it since he and Nathan agreed perfectly: Their Housemaster put himself out for nothing and nobody. He left every detail to the prefectorial discretion of the Junior Common Room, which could most generously be described as incompetent and slothful.
Nathan resumed the wireless and finally picked up a signal, admitting a scratchy drama to their study. Morgan’s head began to throb along with his shoulder. Nathan had taken out his camera and was now squinting at him through the viewfinder. The first summer Morgan had spent with the Pearls, Nathan had scrambled along the Annaside waterline, snapping his Brownie with the restless energy he applied to everything; if forced to sit immobile on the window seat as Nathan darted up and down the study, Morgan felt he might indeed go off his dot. Matron had told him to return for a dose of aspirin before bed, but that wasn’t for ages.
—If you won’t do something about Barlow, I will, Morgan announced.
Nathan clicked the camera. Morgan hauled himself off the window seat and quit the study.
* * *
Why did the shadow linger even after he’d escaped the Tower? Surely whatever he’d imagined in the wake of injury was fantastical at best, delusional at worst, none of it relevant to ordinary life. In ordinary life, even the passionate contests of rugby football ended predictably, at least for his side. Why else would he have charged at Spaulding so suicidally except for boredom, sheer mortal boredom provoking a quixotic gesture one Friday afternoon in Lent?
He couldn’t dwell on the unedifying. The fact was that he’d improved dramatically in two days, and with a good night’s sleep he ought to be ready to play, or at least to run and p
ass with one hand. He needed only to get himself back on the XV before their next match against Burton-Lee’s. Nathan was perhaps too sensible to think of a solution, but Laurie would be able to concoct one. If he could get back on the XV, he could take exercise, regain his equilibrium, and then when they played the Fleas again, he could show Spaulding what was what.
He found Laurie at the back of the library, cradling an oversize volume in his lap.
—Snails! Laurie cried. You don’t have to sneak up on a chap.
—Guilty conscience?
—Always. You look heaps better. How’s it feel?
Morgan sat down on the floor opposite his studymate:
—I need your mind a minute.
—Not sure you want it in its present state, but proceed.
Morgan explained the rugby dilemma. Laurie nodded as Morgan ran through all the arguments Barlow had rejected. When he finished, Laurie continued to nod:
—Why exactly do you have to play even though you nearly killed yourself two days ago?
—If I don’t, we’ll lose!
Laurie pondered this last remark, still nodding.
—Well? Morgan demanded.
—You won’t like it.
Morgan kicked him.
—It’s perfectly simple, Laurie said. Devote yourself to undermining the confidence of the other teams.
—How?
—Mental warfare.
—But what about our XV?
—You can forget that, Laurie said. You aren’t playing, obviously.
—But, Morgan spluttered, I’m better, lots better.
Laurie looked at him, and the truth settled. His shoulder was aching steadily even now, and mental warfare, whatever that entailed, was the best he could hope for. He hated ordinary life. He hated ordinary everything.
Laurie glanced over Morgan’s shoulder with something like impatience. The library was empty except for a couple of swots laughing at the other end of the room.
—Am I keeping you from something? Morgan asked.
Laurie’s fingers tightened around the book.
—What’ve you got?
—Nothing, Laurie said.
