by H. S. Cross
Mr. Fairclough met him in the motorcar. Morgan was glad for the darkness so Mr. Fairclough might not see his face. The car crunched up the drive, and his heart lurched at the sight of a light in the Bishop’s study.
—Old boy’s sat up, Mr. Fairclough murmured.
Facing the guillotine couldn’t actually be worse.
—You must have given him quite a fright.
Morgan’s head swirled. He was used to things not making sense, but now they had begun to refuse sense in an entirely more perverse way.
* * *
The Bishop met them in the hallway. Mr. Fairclough abandoned Morgan and drove away in his motorcar. Morgan steeled himself to be ordered to the study, but the man lit into him as soon as the front door closed.
—How dare you? How dare you?
Morgan wanted to ask how the Bishop had found out about William, but he couldn’t summon the nerve.
—Cat got your tongue?
—I … I didn’t think it through.
—I suppose you didn’t think through drinking six inches of my whiskey, either.
Morgan hung his head.
—And what about that outrageous stunt of yours at the museum?
—I wasn’t thinking at all, sir.
—You aren’t getting off that easily. When, I’d like to know, did Casanova reappear?
Was that antonomasia?
—I saw no sign of him last night, the Bishop said, although it’s possible you were a bit off form. Were you?
Morgan shrugged.
—What happened at that prize-giving?
—Nothing, sir.
—You had to say goodbye to those boys, didn’t you?
—So what?
—I understand they were very fond of you.
—I thought that was supposed to be a good thing.
—It’s a very good thing, until you have to leave them.
—I’m not sentimental, sir.
—I expect one or two of them were.
Morgan shrugged again, wishing they could get back to William or the whiskey.
—So you abandoned those boys—
—It wasn’t my fault!
—No one said it was—and returned here where … of course. I’ve been quite slow on the uptake.
Morgan looked daggers.
—You returned here and were upended by the news that you were to travel home the next morning.
—It was a logical time to leave, Morgan said. The term was over. I’d stayed past long enough.
The Bishop uncrossed his arms in astonishment.
—Surely you didn’t think I was sending you away?
—You said Mrs. Hallows would sort out my things.
—Oh, for mercy’s sake, the Bishop said to the ceiling.
—In any case, it’s a good thing you didn’t have time to send them on, since I’m back on your hands until my father has got over his monumental loathing for me.
—You thought … I can see what you must have thought. Oh, Morgan.
His eyes pricked. He clenched his fists:
—I don’t see what was so wrong with William anyway. He’s my age. I asked him. It was just two chaps mucking about.
He tossed his hat onto the table and made for the cloakroom. The Bishop blocked his way:
—We aren’t finished.
—You can shout all you like! Morgan cried. You can quote Bible things at me—
He tried to push past, but the Bishop seized his wrist.
—but you can’t—
Sharp, crushing—Morgan gasped in pain. The Bishop released him and exhaled with deliberate slowness.
—I’ve made a mistake, the Bishop said. I’ve had you in my household three weeks. I’ve treated you as I treat my own children, but I haven’t treated you as my child.
Waves crashing towards the frightened breath in his lungs.
—That will change as of now.
Morgan, panicked, looked for the nearest means of egress.
—Go upstairs, wash your face, clean your teeth, change into your pajamas, and wait for me in your room.
Morgan quaked.
—Go.
* * *
The boy was there already. He, at least, wasn’t afraid of the little room. He made no comment, but when Morgan returned from the bathroom, he was standing on Morgan’s bed, shooting pebbles at the wastepaper basket with the aid of a catapult.
—Don’t fight, he said. Hurts more if you fight.
Morgan’s chest seized up. He sat down. He felt naked.
* * *
The Bishop drew the straight-backed chair to face him. Morgan drew his feet onto the bed.
—Nothing you can say will make me think badly of it, Morgan told him. It was decent. He’s decent.
—It’s called gross indecency, I think you’ll find, and it carries a prison term.
—I thought you were broad-minded.
—Morgan Wilberforce!
The Bishop’s face was pale, his voice rough enough to scrape:
—Whether or not I am broad-minded, as you call it, has no bearing on the perilousness of your actions yesterday evening.
Morgan set his jaw.
—You are both exceedingly lucky not to be in custody of the police.
His skin, as if swarmed by wasps.
—I don’t see how—
—Under a footbridge, Morgan?
The whole swarm heavy upon him.
—I would be letting you down, the Bishop said, if I failed to censure your behaving this way. It is exceedingly dangerous.
—I’m not afraid.
—Of course not! the Bishop retorted. But did you ever bother to consider William? What did you imagine would become of a groundsman with little education, few skills, and a family dependent on him for support if he were discovered to have mucked about, as you put it, with a member of a bishop’s household?
—He …
Wasps in his breath.
—You didn’t …
The Bishop’s stare, a stream of stings.
—But it wasn’t William’s fault. He—you can’t sack him.
—I’ve no choice but to sack him!
Venom, blood.
—As for fornication, the Bishop continued, you know my views.
Wasps in eyes.
—The abuse of that gift has costs, Morgan, and refusing to believe it will not make the injuries disappear.
Morgan consulted the ceiling.
—But beyond that, beyond your recklessness with regard to the law and your selfishness with regard to William—
Morgan cast his gaze to the floor.
—it’s plain you’ve never given a thought to how your actions affect me.
—If you don’t like losing your gardener, don’t sack him, Morgan muttered.
—Watch your tone. You aren’t too old for a slippering, young man.
Morgan had never felt more appalled in his life. He drew his knees to his chest. The Bishop lowered his voice:
—I am a bishop with the care and oversee of a large diocese. I and those I employ, from archdeacons to vergers to gardeners, all must remain beyond reproach. Otherwise I will have failed the flock I’ve sworn to serve.
The Bishop’s voice continued uneven, salt upon sting:
—How do you imagine it felt having to speak to William of this? Having to dismiss without reference a young man I’ve known, whose family I’ve known …
—Please, sir, it’s all my fault!
—Your fault is yours, his faults are his, and mine are my own. We shall all have to answer.
Nothing was too severe for him now. He wished the Bishop had a rack to strap him to, until he changed into a better person.
* * *
The Bishop made him kneel and say his prayers.
—I don’t care if you consider yourself a Mohammedan, the Bishop said in answer to his expression. No child of mine is going to bed without saying his prayers.
Prayers included not only the Our Father, but al
so the confession and various intercessions offered by the Bishop. The sting continued, enduring and unendurable. Afterwards, the Bishop waited while he got into bed.
—I am persuaded, he said, that neither death, nor life, nor things present, nor things to come, shall be able to separate us.
With that, the man put out the lamp and left him in darkness.
* * *
He was barreling across the pitch, fifty yards no-man’s-land, Spaulding in sights, plug in mains—but the ground was falling away and they had him, bound and dragged. Plains, passes, hot, cold, heights, depths: citadel. They stashed him in the moat, cold water to his chest, rising oily—throat, chin, ears. They laughed and shouted words he didn’t know, until arrived a young Captain of the Guard, sharp of suit, glint of sword. He lit a cigarette and put it between Morgan’s lips.
—Don’t worry, he said. No one hates you.
Morgan spat out the cigarette:
—You can’t keep me here!
The Captain of the Guard gave a signal and they hoisted him out of the water and lay him dripping on the flagstones.
—But no one’s keeping you, he said. You came to us, Dicky.
* * *
Gasp, stiff, sore, dark.
When he was too afraid to come to her room, she always answered his call. She would bring him a glass of water and something from her bedside table. When he stopped crying, she would speak of what they would do tomorrow, and the things they had to look forward to.
If he needed her hard enough and called even harder, couldn’t she come, just for a moment, here where no one would see? He’d whisper in her ear—they said I’d come to them—and when she’d heard, it wouldn’t be true anymore; it would be absurd and taste of barley sweets and her cool hands. What was the cry that could make her, make her—
56
Mrs. Hallows woke him from dead sleep.
—Up you get, she boomed. Bath’s drawn. Prayers in half an hour. St. Luke’s.
He rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of her words.
—Chop-chop.
* * *
—Sir, Morgan said upon entering the red room downstairs, there’s something I need to say.
No one’s keeping you. You came to—
—What I have to say, sir …
The Bishop paused in his arrangements. Morgan tried to get his footing.
—Sir, you know how I feel about religion. I’m afraid I can’t go in for all this praying.
The Bishop turned to him:
—Do you have prayers at school?
—Yes, sir, but—
—Morning or evening?
—Both, sir, but they aren’t—
—And did you stage conscientious objection at St. Stephen’s?
—No, sir—
—Then I see no obstacle to your joining Morning Prayer here. Before, when I was proceeding in error, I reasoned that you were in desperate need of sleep and that you required delicate handling. Thus, I did not press the point.
—Thank you, sir.
—But now that I’ve determined to treat you as my child, I expect your presence at quarter past seven daily, except Sundays, when we shall depart for the cathedral at half past nine sharp.
—But, sir—
The Bishop moved abruptly near:
—It is the way things operate in this family. I can only say how sorry I am it took me so long to cotton on.
The Bishop did not explain what he had cottoned on to. Instead, Mrs. Hallows entered with Maryanne, the Bishop indicated where Morgan ought to sit, and together they began to say Morning Prayer.
Morgan tried to focus on what was being said and read, but all he could think of was William, so glaringly absent, sacked because of Morgan’s selfishness. When would the ruthless business end? He’d been careening from one error to the next since … at least since he tackled Spaulding. Back in the Tower after knocking himself out, he had sensed a shadow beyond the curtain and knew it wanted to savage everything. Did he not determine to thwart it? And did he not fail absolutely? Had the thing distracted him? Stalled him off? Or had Morgan enlisted it—refusing to believe won’t make it untrue—was he sunk to his neck in it, deeper than he’d realized, deeper than he could stand to know?
* * *
Breakfast, silent, searing. He could scarcely swallow his porridge.
—Sir, I can’t bear it.
—I think you can, said the Bishop.
Morgan poked at his bowl.
—And we aren’t going anywhere, the Bishop said, until you’ve finished that.
—I’m not hungry, sir.
—It is a moral duty to maintain one’s health and one’s strength. I won’t have you shirking because a proper sense of remorse is making you uncomfortable.
The word uncomfortable didn’t cover anything. If this was what the Bishop meant by treating him as his child, Morgan thought he’d prefer the orphanage. He forced down the porridge. The Bishop ate beside him, silent, holding him as if by the scruff of the neck.
Yet, holding him.
* * *
—I know you’re angry, sir, Morgan said as they reached the study, but—
—I’m troubled, Morgan, and I’m most painfully let down.
Panic rising, neck, chin—
—Please, sir, send me away instead of William.
The Bishop pushed him into the usual chair, and then, rather than sitting himself, the man began to pace.
—I don’t see how you can sack him, Morgan continued, and have me back in your house.
Not to mention treat him as …
—There was a reason I asked you not to flirt with my staff. It’s why you mustn’t flirt with anyone’s staff.
The Bishop came to stand at the corner of the desk.
—Your position and William’s are different, and your actions carry different consequences. You’ve very little notion of your privileges. I intend to see that you learn to take them seriously.
Dread again—had he no reserves?—stinging eyes, snipping breath.
—But what if I never…? What if I can’t?
—You can.
Morgan swallowed.
—I also mean for you to try harder with your studies next term. You’ve a perfectly good mind, but if you don’t make an effort, you’re going to grow up muddled and ignorant.
—I’m nowhere near the bottom of the class, sir.
The Bishop raised his eyebrows. Morgan dried up.
—My point is that you ought, if you weren’t so accustomed to muddle, to acknowledge that your errors with William turned upon the sin of disobedience.
That?
—Sir, if I’d known why you didn’t want me to do it, I wouldn’t have!
—But you didn’t know, did you? There’s a world of things you don’t know.
—Obviously!
The Bishop began to pace again.
—Do you trust me, Morgan?
—Yes, sir.
—To what extent?
—To every extent.
—Then why, the Bishop reeled on him, did you not trust me enough to obey me?
* * *
He knew nothing, understood less. Every thought cast him back to the cold fear of the moat. He couldn’t put things right with William. He couldn’t put anything right.
—You ought to whack me from here to Christmas, sir.
His voice without strength.
—I deserve it. I’m vile. If you only knew the truth—
The Bishop turned:
—There is no health in us. That is the truth.
The words echoed from before, that voice like the hands in the garden.
—There’s a reason we say that prayer every day. It isn’t theater.
The man came to sit beside him.
—And it’s why we ask forgiveness.
Except he didn’t deserve it.
—None of us deserves it, the Bishop said, but we’ve been commanded to ask for it, and to accept it.
He re
ached for Morgan’s chin.
—Just you concentrate on getting that through your head. Or should I say heart?
His heart rose up in fear—or was it protest?
—As for your punishment, I’m not prepared to consider it when distressed, as I presently am. So you can just be patient.
A flicker.
—But for now, perhaps you’d indulge me?
—Anything, sir.
—And tell me about that prize-giving.
* * *
He tried not to fight, but the truth was so abysmal.
—Then he started acting like an octopus and saying not to go.
The Bishop continued raking over the horrific afternoon, returning like the worst kind of bully to the moments that most made Morgan want to pull out all his teeth. He spared him nothing, not a single admission of a solitary discomfort. When the Bishop finally allowed a silence to develop, Morgan felt as though he’d been thrown down three flights of stairs.
—Distress is not merely something to suppress or flee from, Morgan. It can also constitute a … nudge.
Morgan scowled.
—You liked helping those boys, didn’t you? You liked them. You felt wretched having to leave them. Perhaps you even felt you were abandoning them?
Something blocked his throat.
—How cruel to have to face Twist, whom I always pegged as a favorite of yours—am I wrong?—to have to face his unfettered grief.
—Don’t try to tell me there’s any point to grief, sir.
—There is in this case.
—What, a nudge? By whom? For what?
—You do some work for a change.
Morgan wriggled his shoulders.
—All I know is that pottering about with them was the only time I haven’t been appallingly unhappy in a long while.
—Good.
—So it isn’t fair to have it end.
—And yet it has to end because you have to go back to St. Stephen’s, don’t you?
—Exactly.
—And yet, you’ve discovered you’re rather good at that type of thing. You rather like it.
—So what!
—So, my dear boy, you are very shortly headed back to a school which is in great disarray and which contains many boys in need of rather similar attention. Are you not?
57
Being treated as the Bishop’s child was every bit the ordeal he feared. Whatever imperiousness the Bishop had once displayed vanished before this new overbearing. Before, Morgan realized in retrospect, the Bishop had taken care to acquire and retain his explicit consent; now, that was swept away before a superior authority. The Bishop did not ask Morgan’s consent because he was treating him as a son, with every permission fathers enjoyed. He demanded Morgan’s presence at prayers (which Morgan disliked, even as he felt calmed), he instituted a bedtime (hateful, healthful), arranged a program of regular exercise (respite in the day), he assigned reading (discussed each evening), labor (removing tree stumps from the edge of the property), and letter writing (a fixed rotation through his father and sisters). The Bishop dictated Morgan’s every activity, even down to which rooms he was to use for his reading and writing. Despite the variety of pursuits, Morgan felt under arrest.
