Gentlemen and Players
Page 14
He offered me tea in a St. Oswald’s mug, and some dubious-looking chocolate digestives from a tin on the mantelpiece. I noticed that he looks smaller at home.
“How’s Anderton-Pullitt?” Apparently he’d been asking the same question every ten minutes at the hospital, even after the boy was out of danger. “Did they find out what happened?”
I shook my head. “I’m sure no one blames you, Mr. Straitley.”
“That isn’t the point.”
And it wasn’t; the pictures on the walls said as much, with their double rows of young faces; I wondered whether Leon might be among them somewhere. What would I do if I saw his face now, in Straitley’s house? And what would I do if I saw myself beside him, cap crammed over my eyes, blazer buttoned tightly over my secondhand shirt?
“Misfortune comes in groups of three,” said Straitley, reaching for a biscuit, then changing his mind. “First Fallow, now Anderton-Pullitt—I’m waiting to see what the next one will be.”
I smiled. “I had no idea you were superstitious, sir.”
“Superstitious? It comes with the territory.” He took the biscuit after all, and dipped it in his tea. “You can’t work at St. Oswald’s for as long as I have without believing in signs and portents and—”
“Ghosts?” I suggested slyly.
He did not return my smile. “Of course,” he said. “The bloody place is full of them.” I wondered for a moment if he was thinking of my father. Or Leon. For a moment, I wondered if I was one myself.
4
It was during the summer preceding my thirteenth birthday when John Snyde began—slowly and inconspicuously—to unravel. Small things at first, barely noticeable within the greater picture of my life, where Leon loomed large and everything else was reduced to a series of vague constructions on a far and hazy horizon. But as July waxed and the end of term came closer, his temper, always a presence, became a constant.
Most of all, I remember his anger. That summer, it seemed, my father was always in a rage. At me; at the school; at the mysterious graffiti artists who spray-painted the side of the Games Pavilion. At the junior boys who called out at him as he rode the big lawn mower. At the two older boys who had ridden it that time, and who had caused him to receive an official reprimand. At the neighbors’ dogs, who left small unwanted presents on the cricket lawn, which he had to remove using a rolled-up plastic bag and a paper tissue. At the government; at the landlord of the pub; at the people who moved over to the other side of the pavement to avoid him as he came home, mumbling to himself, from the supermarket.
One Monday morning only a few days from the end of term, he caught a first-year boy searching under the counter in the Porter’s Lodge. Ostensibly for a lost bag, but John Snyde knew better than to believe that story. The boy’s intentions were clear from his face—theft, vandalism, or some other means to disgrace John Snyde—already the boy had discovered the small bottle of Irish whiskey hidden underneath a pile of old newspapers, and his small eyes gleamed with malice and satisfaction. So thought my father; and, recognizing one of his young tormentors—a monkey-faced boy with an insolent manner—he set out to teach him a lesson.
Oh, I don’t suppose he really hurt him. His loyalty to St. Oswald’s was bitter but true; and although by now he loathed many of the individuals—the Bursar, the Head, and especially the boys—the institution itself still commanded his respect. But the boy tried to bluster; told my father You can’t touch me; demanded to be let out of the lodge; and finally, in a voice that drilled into my father’s head (Sunday night had been a late one, and this time, it showed) squalled, Let me out, let me out let me out let me out—until his cries alerted Dr. Tidy in the nearby Bursar’s office, and he came running.
By this time the monkey-faced boy—Matthews, he was called—was crying. John Snyde was a big man, intimidating even when he was not enraged, and that day he had been very, very angry. Tidy saw my father’s bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing; saw the boy’s tearful face and the wet patch spreading across his gray uniform trousers, and drew the inevitable conclusion. It was the last straw; John Snyde was summoned to the Headmaster’s office that very morning, with Pat Bishop present (to ensure the fairness of the proceedings), and given a second, final warning.
The Old Head would not have done it. My father was convinced of that. Shakeshafte knew the pressures of working within a school; he would have known how to defuse the situation without causing a scene. But the new man was from the state sector; versed in political correctness and toytown activism. Besides, he was a weakling beneath his stern exterior, and this opportunity to establish himself as a strong, decisive leader (and at no professional risk) was too good to miss.
There would be an enquiry, he said. For the moment Snyde was to continue his duties, reporting every day to the Bursar for instructions, but was to have no contact at all with the boys. Any further incidents—the word was uttered with the prissy self-satisfaction of the churchgoing teetotaler—would result in immediate dismissal.
My father remained certain that Bishop was on his side. Good old Bishop, he said; wasted in that office job; should have been Head. Of course, my father would have liked him; that big, bluff man with the rugby-player’s nose and the proletarian tastes. But Bishop’s loyalties were to St. Oswald’s; much as he might sympathize with my father’s grievances, I knew that when it came to a choice, the school had all his allegiance.
Still, he said, the holidays would give my father time to sort himself out. He’d been drinking too much, that he knew; he’d let himself go. But he was a good man at heart; he’d given loyal service to the school for nearly five years; he could get through this.
A typical Bishop phrase, that; you can get through this. He talks to the boys in the same soldierly way, like a rugby coach rallying the team. His conversation, like my father’s, was riddled with clichés—You can get through this. Take it like a man. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
It was a language my father loved and understood, and for a time it rallied him. For Bishop’s sake, he cut down on his drinking. He had his hair cut and dressed with greater care. Conscious of the accusation of having let himself go, as Bishop put it, he even began to work out in the evenings, doing press-ups in front of the TV while I read a book and dreamed he was not my father.
Then, the holidays came, and the pressures on him diminished. His duties were equally reduced; there were no boys to make life unbearable for him; he mowed the lawns unhindered and patrolled the grounds alone, keeping a sharp watch out for spray-paint artists or stray dogs.
At these times I could believe my father was almost happy; keys in one hand, a can of light ale in the other, he roamed his little empire secure in the knowledge that he had a place there—that of a small but necessary cog in a glorious machine. Bishop had said as much; therefore it must be true.
As for myself, I had other preoccupations. I gave Leon three clear days after the end of term before phoning him to arrange a meeting; he was friendly but in no hurry and told me that he and his mother had some people coming to stay, and that he was expected to entertain them. That came as a blow, after everything I had so carefully planned; but I accepted it without complaint, knowing as I did that the best way to deal with Leon’s occasional perverseness was to ignore it and to let him have his way.
“Are these people friends of your mother’s?” I inquired, more to keep him talking than for information.
“Yeah. The Tynans and their kid. It’s a bit of a drag, but Charlie and I have to rally round. You know, pass the cucumber sandwiches, pour the sherry, and all that.” He sounded regretful, but I couldn’t shake the idea that he was smiling.
“Kid?” I said, with visions of a clever, cheery schoolboy who would eclipse me completely in Leon’s eyes.
“Hm. Francesca. Little fat girl, mad about ponies. Good job Charlie’s here; otherwise I’d probably have to look after her as well.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t help sounding a little mournful.
That rattled me. Of course, I couldn’t refuse to give Leon my phone number. But the thought that my father might answer his call filled me with anxiety. “Hey, I’ll probably see you,” I said. “No big deal.”
And so I waited. I was at the same time anxious and bored beyond belief: torn between the desire to wait by the phone in case Leon called, and the equally strong compulsion to ride my bicycle out by his house in the hope of “accidentally” meeting him. I had no other friends: reading made me impatient; I couldn’t even listen to my records because they made me think of Leon. It was a beautiful summer, the kind of summer that only exists in memory and certain books, hot and blue-green and filled with bees and murmurings, but for me it might as well have been raining every day. Without Leon there was no pleasure in it; I lurked in corners; I stole from shops out of sheer spite.
After a while, my father noticed. His good intentions had brought about a new, temporary alertness, and he began to make comments on my listlessness and quick temper. Growing pains, he called it, and recommended exercise and fresh air.
Certainly, I was growing; I would be thirteen in August, and I had entered a development spurt. I remained, as always, skinny and bird-boned, but I was aware that even so, my St. Oswald’s uniform had grown rather tight, especially the blazer (I’d need to get another before long); and that my trousers left fully two inches of ankle showing.
A week passed, then most of another. I could feel the holidays slipping by and could do nothing about it. Had Leon gone away? Passing his house on my new bike, I’d seen an open screen door leading to the patio; heard laughter and voices on the warm air, though I could not tell how many they were, nor whether my friend’s voice was among them.
I wondered what the visitors were like. A banker, he’d said, and some kind of high-powered secretary, like Leon’s mother. Professional people, who ate cucumber sandwiches and took drinks on the veranda. The kind of people John and Sharon Snyde would never be, no matter how much money they had. The kind of parents I would have wanted for myself.
The thought obsessed me; I began to visualize the Tynans—he in a light linen jacket, she in a white summer dress—with Mrs. Mitchell standing by with a jug of Pimm’s and a tray of tall glasses, and Leon and his sister, Charlie, sitting on the grass, all of them gilded with the light and with something more—the something that made them different from myself, the something I had glimpsed for the first time at St. Oswald’s, the day I crossed the line.
That line. It loomed ahead of me once more, taunting me once more with its proximity. Now I could almost see it, the golden line that set me apart from everything I desired. What more must I do? Hadn’t I spent the last three months in the court of my enemies, like a stray wolf that joins the hunting hounds to steal their food in secret? Why then that sense of isolation? Why hadn’t Leon called?
Could it be that he somehow sensed my otherness and was ashamed to be seen in my company? Hiding in the gatehouse, afraid to come out in case I was seen, I was half convinced of it. There was something cheap about me—a scent, perhaps, a polyester shine—that had alerted him. I had not been good enough; he had spotted me. It was driving me mad; I needed to know; and that Sunday I dressed carefully and rode my bike over to Leon’s house.
It was a bold move. I had never actually been to Leon’s house before—riding past it didn’t count—and I found that my hands were shaking a little as I opened the gate and walked down the long drive toward the porch. It was a big, double-fronted, Edwardian house with lawns to the front and side and a wooded back garden with a summer house and a walled orchard.
Old money, as my father would have said with envy and contempt; but to me it was the world I’d read about in books; it was Swallows and Amazons and the Famous Five; it was lemonade on the lawn; it was boarding school; it was picnics by the seaside and a jolly cook who made scones, and an elegant mother reclining on a sofa, and a pipe-smoking father who was always right, always benevolent, though rarely at home. I was not yet thirteen and already I felt desperately old, as if childhood had somehow been denied me—that childhood, at least; the one I deserved.
I knocked; I could hear voices coming from behind the house. Leon’s mother, saying something about Mrs. Thatcher and the Unions, a man’s voice—The only way to do it is to—and the muted chink of someone pouring from a jug filled with ice cubes. Then, Leon’s voice, sounding very close, saying, “Vae, anything but politics, please. Anyone want a lemon-vodka ice?”
“Yeah!” That was Charlie, Leon’s sister.
Then, another voice, a girl’s, low and well modulated. “Sure. Okay.”
That must be Francesca. It had sounded rather a silly name to me when Leon had told me over the phone, but suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore. I edged away from the door toward the side of the house—if anyone saw me I would tell them I had knocked but had received no reply—and peered around the edge of the building.
It was much as I had imagined it. There was a veranda behind the house, shaded by a large tree that cast a mosaic of light and shade over the tables and chairs that had been placed underneath. Mrs. Mitchell was there, blond and pretty in jeans and a clean white shirt, which made her look very young; then Mrs. Tynan, in sandals and a cool linen dress; then there was Charlotte, sitting on a homemade swing, and facing me, in his jeans and battered sneakers and his faded Stranglers T-shirt, was Leon.
He’d grown, I thought. In three weeks his features had sharpened, his body lengthened, and his hair, which had already been borderline in terms of St. Oswald’s regulations, now fell across his eyes. Out of uniform he might have been anyone; he looked like any other boy from my own school but for that shine; the patina that comes from a lifetime of living in a house like this, of learning Latin with Quaz in the Bell Tower, of eating smoked-salmon blinis and lemon-vodka ice instead of half a lager and fish and chips, and never having to lock your bedroom door on Saturday nights.
A wave of love and longing overwhelmed me; not just for Leon, but for everything he stood for. It was so powerful, so mystically adult in its intensity, that for a moment I barely noticed the girl at his side, Francesca, the fat little pony girl of whom he’d seemed so contemptuous on the phone. Then I saw her, and for a time stood watching, forgetting even to hide in my amazement and dismay.
Fat little pony girl she might once have been. But now—there were no words to describe her. All comparisons failed. My own experience of what constituted desirability was limited to such examples as Pepsi, the women in my father’s magazines, and the likes of Tracey Delacey. I couldn’t see it myself—but then again I wouldn’t, would I?
I thought of Pepsi and her false nails and perpetual smell of hair spray; of gum-chewing Tracey, with her blotchy legs and sullen face; and of the magazine women, coy but somehow carnivorous, opened up like something on a pathologist’s slab. I thought of my mother, and Cinnabar.
This girl was a different race entirely. Fourteen, maybe fifteen; slim; tawny. The embodiment of shine; hair tied carelessly back in a ponytail; long, sleek legs beneath khaki shorts. A small gold cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. Dancer’s feet kicked out at an angle; dappled face in the summer green. This was why Leon hadn’t called; it was this girl; this beautiful girl.
“Hey! Hey, Pinchbeck!”
My God, he’d seen me. I considered making a run for it; but Leon was already coming toward me, puzzled but not annoyed, with the girl a few steps behind him. My chest felt tight; my heart shrunk to the size of a nut. I tried a smile; it felt like a mask. “Hello, Leon,” I said. “Hello, Mrs. Mitchell. I was just passing by.”
Imagine, if you can, that terrible afternoon. I wanted to go home, but Leon would not allow it; instead I endured two hours of utter wretchedness on the back lawn, drinking lemonade that soured my stomach while Leon’s mother asked me questions about my family and Mr. Tynan slapped me repeatedly on the shoulder and specu
lated on all the mischief Leon and I got up to at school.
It was torture. My head ached; my stomach churned, and throughout all of it I was obliged to smile and be polite and reply to questions whilst Leon and his girl—there was no doubt now that she was his girl—lounged and whispered to each other in the shade, Leon’s brown hand laid almost casually over Francesca’s tawny one, his gray eyes filled with summer and with her.
I don’t know what I said in answer to their questions. I remember Leon’s mother being especially, agonizingly kind: she went out of her way to include me; asked me about my hobbies, my holidays, my thoughts. I replied almost at random, with an animal’s instinct to stay hidden, and I must have passed scrutiny, although Charlotte watched me in a silence I might have found suspicious if my mind had not been wholly taken up with my own suffering.
Finally, Mrs. Mitchell must have noticed something, because she looked at me closely and observed that I was looking rather pale.
“Headache,” I said, trying to smile, while behind her Leon played with a long strand of Francesca’s honey-mink hair. “I get them sometimes,” I improvised desperately. “Better go home and lie down for a while.”
Leon’s mother was reluctant to let me go. She suggested that I lie down in Leon’s room; offered to get me an aspirin; overwhelmed me with kindness so that I was almost reduced to tears. She must have seen something in my face then, because she smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “All right, then, Julian, dear,” she said. “Go home and lie down. Perhaps that’s best, after all.”