by H. S. Cross
The engine choked off, and Fardley got out from behind the wheel. From the backseat emerged Pearl minor, looking as though he’d been run over by a lorry.
—Pearl, what on earth happened? John gasped. Just what’s going on here?
Fardley was driving them to the surgery, obviously.
—We’re looking for Wilberforce, Kilby announced. You haven’t seen him, have you, sir?
—Wilberforce? Why should I have seen him?
—The Head’s asked to see him right away, Kilby said. I couldn’t find him at the Academy, and he isn’t on the list for the Ramble.
Fardley began to examine John’s bicycle.
—What’s this to do with Pearl minor? John asked.
—Pearl says he knows where we can find Wilberforce, Kilby said. That’s where we’re headed now.
—And where might that be?
Dread in his chest.
—McKay’s barn, sir.
John breathed to gather his wits. Did Kilby mean to say that they were not headed to the surgery but were rather en route to McKay’s barn with the embattled Pearl minor as guide? That was more or less what Kilby did mean to say, but he assured Mr. Grieves that if he had any choice in the matter, he would be doing neither. John reminded both boys that McKay’s barn was out-of-bounds for irrefutable reasons, both practical and ethical. Kilby was well aware of the fact, but what could he do when the Headmaster demanded Kilby bring him, posthaste, a boy who required fetching from that very locale?
—What would Wilberforce be doing at McKay’s barn? John demanded.
—That’s what I want to know, Kilby said, but this one won’t say a word.
—But, John struggled, you still haven’t said what’s happened to you, Pearl.
Pearl minor looked fixedly at the ground with an expression somewhere between disgust and rage:
—I had an accident.
—I should say you did, John retorted. In any case it’s patently clear that you’ve come from McKay’s barn yourself, so you may stay with the motorcar now.
—But—
—And help Mr. Fardley fit my bicycle into the boot. Kilby, with me.
Wearing his good shoes, his best trousers, his silk dress socks, and his dinner jacket, John led the way up the track to the godforsaken barn.
* * *
He thought as he climbed the slope that there was something altogether too dramatic about his visits to Farmer McKay’s dilapidated property. His first time three months ago he had already relegated to a different age, and indeed it was. Under no circumstances, including these, did he intend to review that March afternoon, and yet it was hard to imagine that the current evening could end in anything but awkwardness, if not outright disaster. Could someone else have died? More to the point, why in the name of St. Stephen the Martyr did Morgan Wilberforce have to involve himself in every dire happening in the East Riding of Yorkshire? Even more to the point, why had the fates conspired to intersect his bicycle with the search party and thus entrap him in this unpleasant ordeal?
But—and the idea cheered John instantly—given Pearl minor’s character, it was possible that Wilberforce was nowhere near the barn. John couldn’t fathom Pearl’s tactic, but the salient point, which Kilby seemed not to have considered, was that something violent had befallen Pearl minor, and his priorities must lie in revenge. Unquestionably, Pearl was not aiding Kilby out of altruism, not when his injuries appeared largely untreated. The boy belonged in the Tower.
John’s heart quickened at the realization that Pearl minor had likely injured himself at McKay’s barn. The barn was structurally unsound, a literal death trap. Obviously that was what had happened, and Pearl refused to admit it because he knew that Burton-Lee would break multiple blood vessels just contemplating his crime. Whatever happened, John would secure Pearl an interview with the Headmaster as soon as possible. Burton was equal to the challenge, and when it came to McKay’s barn, he would not release his prey until he had learned everything there was to know.
—Why did Burton-Lee want Wilberforce? John asked Kilby.
—He didn’t say, sir.
—Congratulations?
Kilby shrugged:
—Won’t be congratulations when we’re through if Wilberforce really is at the barn.
—Do you think Pearl minor could be telling the truth?
—Anything’s possible, sir, but why make it up? Oh, and he says we’ll find Wilberforce in some inner chamber.
—I beg your pardon?
—I don’t know, sir. Here we are.
The barn stood solitary and exhausted at the top of the slope, as if one thorough wind might blow it down. John sent up a silent prayer—for the soul of the departed, for the sight of an utterly empty barn.
Kilby dragged the door open. Light bled through the slats in the walls, stirring motes and dust, like something suffused with the Holy Ghost. The large beam lay where it had fallen three months before. No other signs of disaster remained. They heard nothing.
—Wilberforce? Kilby called.
No answer. John scanned the area for something akin to Pearl minor’s inner chamber. It was a leg-pull, clearly. A colossal waste of time, purpose yet to be—
—There, sir.
Kilby pointed to some panels in the wall, one askew.
—Wilberforce?
—Just a minute, a voice said.
Something rustled behind the panel. John held on to the door for support.
He ought to think of something to say. He ought to secure the site tactically, issue preemptive commands that would assist the unfolding of … whatever was about to unfold. The panel shifted. A blond head poked through, dragging behind it the gangly frame of Morgan Wilberforce. His shirt was unbuttoned, his braces hung down to his knees, he carried a jacket in his hand. Seeing John, he froze.
Kilby was making noise. Wilberforce said nothing. John said nothing.
—Who else is in there? Kilby demanded.
Wilberforce jolted to action, blocking the panel. Kilby told him to move.
—Just a minute, Wilberforce said.
—Is there another way out of there?
An involuntary glance from Wilberforce answered the question.
—Kilby, John said, go and wait outside the other entrance. Whoever it is can finish dressing. We’ll wait.
Wilberforce cast his gaze to the floor, his face and ears scarlet. John tried to think of what to say. The dust tickled his throat. He coughed.
—Sir …
Wilberforce still stared at the ground, his voice nearly a whisper:
—Please, sir …
—Get dressed, John said.
He ought to say more than that. He ought to unleash a savage telling off. He ought to seize this overgrown boy and shake him until he dissolved into tears. Instead his own eyes stung, and his lungs ached watching Morgan Wilberforce button his shirt and tuck it into his trousers.
—Sir!
Kilby burst back into the barn, hauling the other suspect roughly. John turned to see who it was. He tried to speak but couldn’t.
—You let go of her! Wilberforce shouted. Or—
—You’ll what?
Wilberforce dashed across the barn and hurled himself at Kilby. Polly burst into tears. John didn’t know whether to come to her rescue or to interpose himself between Kilby and Wilberforce. In the end he did neither. Polly recoiled when John came near her; Kilby and Wilberforce separated themselves.
—Right! John heard himself shouting. Back to the motorcar, all of you!
They looked to him as children in the presence of a commanding adult. Taking advantage of their submission, he led the way out of the barn and down the track. Polly strode past him, followed by Wilberforce. John caught him by the elbow:
—Leave her be.
Wilberforce struggled to free himself, but John yanked him aside and told Kilby to go ahead. When Wilberforce continued to resist, John dealt him a cuff to the ear.
—Before we go down there, Jo
hn said, you are going to tell me exactly what happened.
Wilberforce set his face in an expression of stubborn defiance. John felt his temper rise:
—If you hurt one hair on her head, I’ll make sure you are exceedingly sorry.
—I love her! Wilberforce exclaimed.
—Why was she in tears just now?
Wilberforce inhaled with a hiss.
—What d’you expect when that brute Kilby crashed in and manhandled her like some—
—What were the two of you doing?
Again, the defiant jaw.
—You were in a state of undress, John persisted. I assume you’d done the same to her?
—I didn’t do anything to her!
—Wilberforce, you are dripping fault from every pore. She’s a child. She—
—She wanted it! She said she did. More than once!
—Wilberforce, are you—
—I did everything she said. It isn’t my fault if—
—Just what did you do to that girl?
—It’s got to hurt at first, but then it doesn’t. It isn’t as though I—
John’s fist was connecting with something hard and soft, a crack, and then blood was splashing out of that nose and onto John’s hand. Wilberforce stumbled, his hand flew to his face, and he sat suddenly on the ground. Then John was yanking him up and shoving him down the track. He found a handkerchief in a pocket and thrust it at Wilberforce, who pressed it against his flowing nose. John concentrated on the acid snake that was writhing frantically inside him. He swallowed against it, but as the motorcar came into view, he gave the boy a final shove and then bent over to let the snake out. It came, scalding sour, dragging with it everything John had eaten.
Down at the gate, Polly was tending to Wilberforce. John stormed between them and put Polly in the front seat. Wilberforce tried to get in beside her, but Kilby intervened:
—You, in back.
Wilberforce sneered but stopped short upon seeing the passenger in the backseat. Pearl minor glared malevolently at him. Wilberforce looked as though he’d seen a phantom, his previously flushed face draining of color. John no longer needed to ask questions. Pearl minor had clearly acquired his injuries in Wilberforce’s company, if not at his hands. John’s head began to ache.
They drove back in silence. John had no second handkerchief to offer Polly, but Kilby had and did. Polly stared stonily out the windscreen. John had told Fardley to take them back to the Academy. He would send Kilby in with Wilberforce and Pearl and then take Polly home. He’d try to explain somehow to her father, though now that he considered it, what would he say to the man? What had Wilberforce confessed? A shooting light radiated across the windscreen, mirroring the pain inside John’s head. The car hit a rut, and John’s head hit the ceiling. The light continued to pulse at the edges of his vision in time with the stabbing behind his eyes.
—Sir, Kilby said, leaning forward and touching John’s shoulder, can you take Wilberforce to Burton-Lee while I see this one to the Tower?
—I don’t need the Tower, Pearl minor growled.
—Shut up, Kilby snapped.
—Shut up, yourself.
John raised his voice and told Pearl minor that would do. He told Kilby he would deal with Wilberforce and asked Fardley to see Polly home. He would explain everything to her father later. Tonight perhaps, or tomorrow. He would deliver Wilberforce to the Headmaster and then raid his classroom for headache tablets.
* * *
After they had piled, or rather limped, out of the motorcar, John got a better look at the damage. He addressed himself to Kilby:
—Escort Wilberforce to the washroom. Wait, and then bring him to me in the cloisters.
Then, before any of them could comment, he ducked his head back into the motorcar:
—I’ll come by later, he told Polly.
A look of horror crossed her face and she started speaking, though not in any way that made sense to him. He told Fardley where to deliver her, and the motorcar roared away. John turned to Pearl minor.
—Good night, sir, Pearl minor began.
John seized him by the collar and dragged him inside the Tower. At the bottom of the stairs, John surveyed him. Bruises were coming up around both eyes. Several cuts on his cheek required attention. The abnormal shape of his nose explained the gore insufficiently wiped from his face.
—If I ask who did this, John said, I don’t suppose you’ll tell me.
Pearl minor replied with steely silence. John took the boy’s head and examined it quickly for lumps and gashes. None, thankfully. The nose, however … he steadied Pearl minor’s head and positioned his hand against the boy’s nose.
—Deep breath.
A snap. The boy yelped. John released him.
—That’s better, John said.
Pearl minor was gasping in surprise and pain, but breathing itself seemed a trial. John took his shoulder and probed his rib cage. The boy yelped again.
—Please, sir, can’t I go?
—You can go to Matron. That’s one broken rib, at least.
The boy’s face darkened with frustration and something like resentment. John started to leave, but then turned back and snatched Pearl’s wrists. They were bruised, but the boy’s hands showed no sign of trauma.
—Why didn’t you fight back?
John kept his voice neutral, as if he were only inquiring into a choice of vocabulary for a composition. Pearl stared stubbornly at the floor. John released his wrists but blocked his escape.
—Why would a boy who took a thrashing like this not defend himself? John asked aloud. He might have been too afraid. But then, a boy who had the nerve to lie to S-K about the events I believe they call the Fags’ Rebellion—
Pearl minor glanced up despite himself.
—That is not a boy who lacks courage.
He searched Pearl’s face, imagining himself in the boy’s place.
—Unless he held you down?
The boy replied with a fierce scowl, and John blanched. Whatever would drive Wilberforce to such savagery?
—You interfered with what he had planned, didn’t you?
—Wilberforce told you?
John crossed his arms.
—Wilberforce didn’t tell me. You did, just now.
Pearl minor looked at him with a mixture of horror, humiliation, and utter disorientation. John capitalized:
—Matron, now. Any detours and I’ll hear of it. Go.
Miraculously, Pearl went.
* * *
The day could not get any worse. His head was still tormenting him, and he wanted more than anything to go rest in his classroom. Instead, he marched himself to the cloisters. A group of boys who’d stayed back from the Ramble were lounging there. Not seeing Wilberforce or Kilby, John barged into the washroom, where Wilberforce was drying his face. The blood had stopped. Aside from the redness on his cheek, no one would guess what had happened outside the barn.
—Kilby, I’ll take over from here, thank you.
—Sir, I think I ought to—
—You’ve done a capital job, Kilby. Good night.
With that, John strode from the washroom, Wilberforce in tow.
Wilberforce let John drag him to Burton-Lee’s House. John realized that he ought to have taken a moment to smarten himself up, but it was too late now. He knew he ought to say something to Wilberforce, something important and morally astringent, but they’d arrived at Burton’s door. This was going to be unpleasant.
John reminded himself that since no one was poised to expire, the evening could not actually get worse. It would get worse for Wilberforce, but John and Wilberforce were not the same person, and in the last analysis—the first analysis!—Wilberforce deserved everything headed his way, up to and including expulsion.
He released the boy’s arm. Wilberforce straightened his jacket and the tie he had produced whilst in the washroom. His hands shook. John’s chest hurt. Would expulsion really be necessary? He knocked.
Of course it was necessary. This boy had done appalling things. So appalling, John could not even connect them with the trembling boy beside him. He took a breath. Wilberforce took a breath. No one was dying. Things couldn’t get worse. They stepped into the study.
* * *
Things got worse.
Burton greeted them jovially:
—Ah, there you are, Wilberforce. The Ramble’s returned?
Wilberforce stood like an animal in the headlamps of an oncoming motorcar. Burton gave John one of his smiles designed to convey the maximum courtesy with the minimum warmth.
—Here you are, Grieves.
His tone made it clear John was intruding. Several of the gray gentlemen from the Board were still with him.
—I was delivering Wilberforce to you, John said.
Burton smiled again, puzzled, polite.
—Thank you.
He turned warmly to Wilberforce:
—And here is the hero of our XI. One or two people have been asking to make your acquaintance, young man.
As Burton drew an unwilling Wilberforce into the room, John saw that not only had things got worse, they had got much worse than he could have imagined. Bad and worse were mere words, but standing before the window, glass in hand, smiling curiously across the room was the person, the one John refused to think of, the dyed-in-the-wool catastrophe that now engulfed him.
—Stinging right arm you’ve got, said a gray man.
John struggled to recall which one he was. Chairman of the Board, or had that been another? They’d been introduced, so John couldn’t possibly ask for a name now. Was it something to do with coveralls?
—Are you as much of a sergeant major in the form room as on the pitch? the man continued.
The other men chuckled. John sensed there had been a misunderstanding. An ice pick was boring into his skull.
—If that’s everything, John said to Burton, I’ll leave you.
—Don’t be silly. What will you drink?
He could feel himself starting to panic. The room was hot and he couldn’t breathe. Burton drew him aside.
—Are you quite all right?
—No. I mean of course, but not exactly. Something’s happened.
