by Alec Waugh
‘What,’ he said, ‘would I find to do in England?’
On his father’s death he would have a seat in the House of Lords. He would have duties and responsibilities as a landlord, but waiting for a father to die was no life for a man in his middle forties. Moveover he could not make Charminster his base as long as Eileen was still there, and he was reluctant to turn her out until he had to. The problem of Whisder was insoluble.
The doctors had found no organic defect. They were convinced that his trouble was emotional. Psychiatrists had done their best without success. He seemed well enough. He enjoyed his meals. He took wine in moderation. He played golf. He read novels and the newspaper. He was reasonably good company. But he was afflicted with a basic apathy. He discussed politics but without commitment. He did not appear to care.
‘I wonder,’ Raymond once remarked, ‘if he makes love to Eileen.’
‘That’s something that I’d like to know.’
‘You couldn’t ask her?’
‘I suppose I could; I don’t know that she’d resent it. But somehow I prefer not to know.’
‘Poor Eileen.’
It was easy to see why Raymond preferred to stay on in Dominica.
Myself, I was still seeing quite a little of his family. Timothy Alexander was my godson, and I appreciated the opportunity this gave me of watching a boy become a man. I enjoyed going down to Eton, taking him out to lunch and giving him a pound note at the end. I watched him at Lord’s at the April cricket classes. The pros there were convinced that he showed real promise. I was not surprised when he got into the eleven at the age of seventeen; he did not have a chance in the big match as it rained the whole of the first day, but next year he would be captain. He would be the first Peronne to lead an Eton eleven past the white seats in the Pavilion. Raymond would be over for that. He had promised to arrange for a coach. How proud the old man would be. The future could not have been more roseate, and it was at that very moment when so many dawns were breaking for so many people, that the calamity occurred which as a corollary brought me an answer to the problem that had perplexed Judy, Eileen, Susan and no doubt many others.
Shortly after Christmas 1950 I set out for what had become for me a routine trip to the West Indies. As I was travelling by a French ship that made a call at Roseau, I decided to start there. I invited myself for a ten-day visit.
Raymond was there to meet me.
‘Would it be convenient for you to stay a little longer?’ That was the first thing he asked me.
‘If it isn’t,’ he went on, ‘if you’ve only a limited time and need professionally to spend a week in St Lucia, could you go across there in a couple of days, and then come back?’
‘I’m not limited by time. I can go to St Lucia later.’
‘That’s fine. I’d be particularly grateful if you could stay on. I want you to be here the week after next.’
‘Why?’
Timothy Alexander’s coming over. I’d like you to be here when he is.’
Timothy Alexander in mid-January; with the new half starting? ‘How on earth has that come about?’ I asked.
‘I’ll explain when we get back,’ he said.
The ship had anchored at half-past ten. It was after midnight when we got back to Overdale.
‘You ate on board, didn’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you won’t be hungry. I’ve got some sandwiches in the icebox. While I’m fixing you a drink, you can read this letter. It’ll put you in the picture.’
It was headed Wharrcliffe House, Eton College, Windsor, Berks. It was written in the small letter-by-letter caligraphy of a man who has learnt Greek.
‘Dear Mr Peronne: This is a difficult letter for me to write. It will be a sad one for you to read. I am asking you to remove your son from my house. I have discovered that he has been engaged in sexual activities with a fifteen-year-old boy in another house. We take now a less stringent attitude in such matters than the authorities did when you and I were school-boys. It is rare to expel a boy for a first offence, and your son’s conduct up to now has been excellent. He has worked hard and he has played hard. He has been an influence for good in the house and in the school. It is for these very reasons that I have in his case to take disciplinary action. He is a member of “Pop”; next summer, he would have been captain of the eleven. He is, in fact, a school hero, and we cannot have as a school hero a boy who has been involved in a serious scandal. He has, in fact, to pay the price of his own achievements.
‘I learned about this matter a few days before the end of the half; on that account there is no question of “expulsion”. He will just not come back next term. Apart from the fact that he will by this be robbed of the prizes which he had earned by his previous achievements, it will not make a great deal of difference to his future. He has his certificates, and he can go up to New College in October. Oxford will not be informed of this scandal. There may be rumours. But the fact that you yourself live out of England will be an excuse for his staying abroad for the next few weeks. Or perhaps you will prefer him to take his military service right away. There is a lot to be said for that. It is unsettling to have the prospect of it overhang a university career. You yourself will make whatever decisions may seem appropriate. I wish your boy the very best of luck. I am most sorry that this has happened. I am confident that a successful career awaits him.’
I handed the letter back to Raymond. ‘Well, what do you make of it?’ he asked.
‘It’s bad luck, isn’t it?’
‘It’s cruel luck for the old man. He had so looked forward to having someone of his own name an Eton captain. That’s one reason for letting the boy take his military service. He’ll understand military necessity.’
‘It’s one of the few things that he is capable of understanding. Anything that’s in the present, that’s to say. Most of the past is as clear as ever.’
‘You’ve seen him since I have. Is he very confused now ?’
‘He mixes things up,’ I told him. ‘He confuses Michael and Adrian already. Now he’ll mix up Timothy Alexander with the other two.’
‘I suppose he’ll mix up Korea with the Somme and the Battle of the Bulge.’
‘That’s more or less how it is.’
We laughed at that. It seemed easier to speculate on a very old man’s senility than on the very present problems of a very young one.
‘The boy’s coming out here soon,’ said Raymond. ‘That’s why I’m so glad that you’ll be here. You’ll know what to say better than I shall.’
‘I question that.’
‘I don’t. To me the whole thing’s incomprehensible.’
‘What thing?’
‘This business of boys and boys. It’s never come into my life, any time, not even at school.’
‘You’re an exception.’
‘Am I? I suppose I am.’
‘Not many of us had such an obliging aunt.’
It was the first time that I had ever mentioned her to him. As I had told Susan and Eileen, and Myra earlier, Raymond was not one of those men who discuss their experiences with women. ‘That aunt,’ he said. He paused. ‘Do you know that she’s still alive? Why shouldn’t she be, after all? She’s only in her sixties. I saw her a few years ago at a cousin’s wedding. The first time I had seen her for over twenty years. I must say she looked pretty good. She’s kept her figure. She is trim and neat. There was still a glint in her eye. I bet she still gets into her share of mischief. In fact, she as good as told me that she did. She was a grass widow when I met her. It was in the war. Her husband was in Egypt; with a territorial battalion. A very cushy war for him. She had no qualms about deceiving him. She’s been a widow now for several years. We had a real gossip at the wedding. I felt so in tune with her. We sat together with our champagne and let the party follow its own momentum. I asked why she hadn’t remarried. “Because I don’t want to marry a widower older than myself. A man who is older than myself is too old for
me. I’ve always liked quite young men.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she said that.
‘“Then why not marry one?” I asked.
‘“I’d feel ridiculous. So would he. Besides, I wouldn’t want to marry the kind of young man who’d want to marry me. There’d be something phoney about him. I have much more fun playing it the way I do. I’d made up my mind about you when you were twelve. I enjoyed those two years of waiting. Perhaps you did, too?” What a twinkle there was in her eyes when she said that. We’d never referred to it before. But I had a suspicion that one day we would.’
I had, as I sat there on the verandah, with the rich tropic night about us, a suspicion that Raymond was at least in the mood to tell me about that past. He only needed, I felt, the least encouragement. ‘How did it begin?’ I asked. ‘Tell me about those two years of waiting.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll never guess how it began. It started with her whipping me.’
‘Whipping you ?’
‘Don’t look so surprised. You know about flagellation, don’t you?’
‘In theory.’
‘You know how it’s linked with sex, particularly with youthful sex: Haven’t you noticed that the school stories we used to read as boys, that’s to say when we were between ten and thirteen, had luscious descriptions of boys being caned? Nearly every school story had a scene or two of that. A schoolboy’s pornography.’
I had indeed noticed it. My own preparatory school, that had been started in the year I went there and that had only ten boys in my first year and only forty when I left, was completely innocent. We knew how babies were born but we did not appreciate the nature of paternity. We evolved between ourselves a ritual routine of flagellation. We belaboured our bared sterns with hairbrushes and knotted bootlaces. We got a thrill out of our courage in accepting pain, as Indian braves did, but we also got, without recognising it for what it was, a sexual kick. I remember in the changing room when we were discussing beatings, one of us pointing to his own manifest emblem of excitement with the remark, ‘It’s funny that I always get like this when I talk about beatings.’
I recounted this incident. Raymond nodded. ‘That’s how it was, in our different way, with us.’
‘I used to stay with my uncle in the holidays. In wartime it was the only change of scenery that I could get. My aunt was living in the house. She had no home of her own, with her husband at the war. We were thrown into each other’s company a lot. She was fun and sympathetic. We played tennis and golf, and in the evenings chess together. She was very interested in everything that interested me. She looked at my stamp collection. She asked me about the books I liked. She read me poetry. She introduced me to a number of poets that I had missed … the silver poets … Landor, Coventry Patsmore, Swinburne. We became very confidential. She asked me if I got caned at school. “Yes,” I said, “every now and then.” ’
In retrospect I recall his confession as the dialogue of a film script.
‘“What with?” she asked.
‘“A cane.”
‘“Where?”
‘“On the place appointed.”
‘“Where’s that?”
‘“As a matter of fact when the headmaster beats me, it’s just below the place appointed.”
‘“On the leg?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Here?”
‘“No, a litde lower.”
‘“Here?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“That’s funny.”
‘“Why?”
‘“It’s better higher up.”
‘“Better?”
‘“It’s where it should be, isn’t it?”
‘“I suppose so.”
‘“And do you take off your clothes for it?”
‘“We let down our trousers.”
‘“Doesn’t that leave weals ?”
‘“It makes scars.”
‘“Does it make you bleed?”
‘“Not quite.”
‘“How long do the scars stay?”
‘“Three weeks.”
‘“When were you caned last?”
‘“About a month ago.”
‘“So it’s no good asking you to show your scars?”
‘“I’m afraid not.”
‘“Afraid?”
‘“Well …”
‘“Would you like to have scars to show me?”
‘I did not answer.
‘“I believe you wish you had,” she said. The talk excited me in a funny way.
‘“You do wish you had, don’t you ? Next time you come down, the very first day you’re here, I shall ask if you have any scars to show me.”
‘As it happened, next term I was caned tens days before the end of term. The following day there was a letter from my father. “The question arises whether it would be better if you went to your uncle’s at the start of the holidays or at the end. It’s a question of the train fare. One has to remember war economies. You don’t want to cover the same ground twice: which would you prefer?”
‘I wrote back. “I’d like to go to my uncle’s first. I always want to spend the very last day of the holidays at home.”
‘That was the explanation that I gave my father. And he, I knew, was touched, but that was not my real reason. I wanted to arrive at my uncle’s house with unfaded weals.
‘My aunt met me at the station. Was there or did I fancy that there was a look of interrogation in her eyes? I found myself blushing. She smiled. It was a conspiratorial smile. My heart began to pound. That evening when she came up to say goodnight, the same smile flickered in her eyes. She stood beside my bed. She said, “Haven’t you anything to show me?”
‘I could not speak. I was as hypnotised as a rabbit is supposed to be by a snake. “I think you have,” she said. “You have, haven’t you?”
‘I could barely bring out the “Yes”.
‘“I thought you had. Turn over on your face.” She pulled back the blankets; she put her hand under me and undid the knot of my pyjamas; she drew down my pyjamas. “Oh yes, I see you have.”
‘She drew a hand over my legs. “This must have hurt,” she said. “I’ve brought you up some ointment.”
‘She had a small tube in her handbag. She squeezed it over the scars, then very gently massaged them. The ointment was very cool. Her fingers were very soft. She moved up slowly over my legs, upwards towards my waist; lingering over my haunches. Her fingers sent a thrill along my senses. “I wonder why he beats you there,” she said. “This is where he should beat you.”
‘Later, a long while later, she was to tell me why. “He was afraid that he might excite you if he whipped the place appointed. He wanted to give you pain, not pleasure.”
‘On that first evening, she sat beside me on the bed, slowly stroking me with her soft finger tips. “This is where he should whip you. This is where I shall whip you if I have to; and I may have to one day if you’re not good. I’m rather sure that I shall have to one day … like this.” She raised her hand and brought it down hard; very hard. She let her hand rest where it had struck. Then slowly once again her fingers began to stroke me. “How often do you get whipped at school?”
‘“Every other week or so.”
‘“That is what you need then. And in the holidays you’re not getting it at all. That’s bad for you. Your headmaster wouldn’t do it unless it were good for you. Yes, I shall have to whip you; I shall, shan’t I, Raymond?”
‘“Yes.”
‘“Say that I’ll have to; say, “Auntie, if I’m not good you’ll have to whip me.” I said it. It excited me to say it.
‘She talked about whipping quite a lot. “What’ll I whip you with?” she said. “I haven’t got a cane. I’ll have to use a birch. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll use a birch. We’ll have to make one.”
‘Next day when we were walking in the coppice, she said, “Let’s get the twigs now for that birch. You choose them. It’s for you, remember.” And we chose the twigs t
ogether. “No, that’s no good,” she’d say. “They have to be flexible and springy. They mustn’t be too heavy. They’ve got to sting, remember, not to hurt, to cut, not bruise.” We collected about a dozen twigs. “That’ll make a very good birch,” she said. When we got back to the house, she took the twigs up into my room and hid them in a drawer under my shirts. That evening she brought up some ribbons. “We’ll make a pretty birch of it,” she said. And she tied up the twigs. She swished it through the air. “This’ll do,” she said. “Now I’ll have to use this on you, just one stroke, so that you’ll see what you’re going to get if you’re not good. Down with those pyjamas now. Yes, that’s right. Now how do they whip you at school ?”
‘“We bend across a desk.”
‘“We haven’t a desk here. You’ll have to lie on the bed or across my knees. I think on the bed. Yes, that’s the way, and I’ll put a pillow under you. Yes, that’s it now,” It was quite a hard blow. It hurt. Yet the pain was followed by an agreeable glow; she laid her hand on me; then stroked me gently. “It’ll be harder another time and it won’t be just one stroke.”
‘As her fingers stroked me, I found myself getting excited. I didn’t know what it meant. I was afraid she’d notice. Yet I hoped she would.
‘“Now you know what you’ll get, when you deserve it … only a lot more strokes.”
‘“How many?”
‘“It depends on what you’ve done. Not less then six.”
‘Three days later I did deserve it; or at least appeared to. I overslept and was late for breakfast. My aunt called me every morning. She said she had called me that morning. I have often wondered since whether she really did. At any rate, when I came downstairs she was sitting at the foot of the table with a mocking, meaning smile upon her face. My uncle had already taken The Times to his study.
‘“You know what this means,” she said.
‘“How many?” I asked.
‘“I’ll tell you at lunch.”
‘She made no reference to the matter during the morning. -It was just like any other morning. We played a couple of sets of tennis. She read some poetry. Just like any other morning, except that there was this undercurrent of excitement. I was nervous, yet I was expectant.
