Chapter Three. Being a gentleman.
It seemed to Christopher that Colonel Horton, the headmaster of Marlo, was already quite aware of the situation with his brother. Mr Shipway and Mr Whitestone had brought him from the playing fields and stood him against the wall outside the headmaster’s office. Mr Shipway had rammed his shoulders forcefully against the cold white plasterwork with a painful thud, and ordered him to “Stand to attention and don’t move!” When Mr Shipway had knocked on the headmaster's door and entered, Christopher had heard the school's leader exclaim at the sound of his name. It was as if the old man had been expecting to see him imminently anyway, under quite different circumstances. However, no matter what the truth of his brother’s fate was, the grim face in front of him now showed no sympathy.
He stood before the headmaster’s large oak desk. It was bare but for a bible, a black ink pen on a stand, and a pile of blank writing paper, lightly bound with black ribbon.
“Sir, I heard a scream,” Mr Shipway began. “I turned from where I was on top field and saw Flyte on top of Daniel Corbyne, beating him about the head quite ferociously. Of course, I got over there as soon as I was able, by which time Michael Stone, who was nearby, had pulled Flyte off.
“Flyte was still struggling to get at Corbyne. In fact it was only after we had forced him off of the field and a good way to here that he started to calm down.”
“I see.” The headmaster nodded, “And Corbyne?”
“Scratches all over his face, Headmaster. Quite a lot of blood drawn.” Mr Shipway paused and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And it looks like his left hand has been bitten, Sir. Quite badly.”
The headmaster looked at Christopher for a very long time, saying nothing, rubbing his grey moustache. Finally, he turned and walked to the tall narrow window and looked out into the snowy morning.
“Thank you. You may return to your duties,” he murmured without turning back.
Mr Shipway hurried to the door, opened it and went through. Mr Whitestone flashed Christopher an unsure smile and followed. The door shut behind them with a click.
Christopher tried to stay at attention. He was in for it. That was for sure. The Headmaster was a veteran of a number of military campaigns. He didn’t tolerate even the hint of undisciplined behaviour.
“A gentleman doesn’t scratch another gentleman,” the headmaster finally said, voice shaking with anger. He spun away from the window and walked to his desk, leaning on it with both hands and looming toward Christopher. “A gentleman doesn’t bite another gentleman!”
Christopher looked to the floor, heart pounding. The headmaster’s stare made his cheeks burn with shame. His eyes stung with the beginning of tears. He clenched his teeth together and concentrated on remaining absolutely still.
“Well? Explain yourself.”
Christopher didn’t move a muscle. Hundreds of thoughts flew through his head. His brother’s situation, his mother, what he should say first. Suddenly in his mind he saw Corbyne’s face as a hand he knew was his own scratched down a cheek, drawing blood and eliciting a scream that raised the heads of masters and boys a pitch away. The thought made him feel suddenly sick. He swallowed hard at the pool of saliva that blossomed on his tongue.
“Look at me, Flyte!” The headmaster’s voice had raised a notch now. It was only a matter of time before he lost control. “Say something, boy.”
Christopher looked up. The headmaster’s face was thunder.
“I.. I..” Christopher struggled, “I don’t remember.” The words came out more as a sob.
The headmaster moved around the desk in a flash. Somehow his cane, light and thin, with a permanent kink from so many uses, was in his hand.
The cane flew down onto the backs of his bare legs with a sharp thwack. A red hot line of pain exploded across his flesh, then spread out like a ripple of boiling water. There was no time to recover before the next blow. The headmaster brought the cane down again and again. Finally, after the sixth blow he stepped back, breathing heavily. Christopher fell forward against the desk, sobbing and gasping.
For long, agonizing minutes he was unaware of anything other than the intense burning on the backs of his legs. Slowly though, he began to gather his thoughts. The pain began to ebb away. Finally, he was able to stand and look up.
The headmaster had resumed his place by the window, looking out onto the quadrangle below. He didn’t turn, but somehow knew Christopher's attention was back with him.
“Four of our old boys died in the last two weeks. Four officers,” he said in a tired voice. “All leading their men against the Hun. All doing what they trained to do. Four. Doesn’t that seem like a lot?”
He came back to his desk, sitting heavily in the high backed chair behind it. The dull winter light from the window cast grey shadows over his face.
From a drawer he lifted a newspaper. “Your brother has had an episode whilst on duty, Flyte. He was in the middle of a battle and suddenly tried to get his men to retreat, even though no order had been given. I know no more than what was printed here, but that is enough.
“To any matter, he is being sent home. The influence of your father, no doubt.”
“Corbyne told me, Headmaster,” Christopher said finally. The pain in his legs made his voice high and broken. “Then he told me my brother would be dead soon, like my mother.”
“Corbyne is a blunt boy, Flyte.” the headmaster said. “But not wholly inaccurate. Besides, that does not excuse your behaviour. As far as I am concerned, these two matters are unrelated. The behaviour of a gentleman must remain constant, no matter what the adversity.”
He lowered the paper, dropping it back into a drawer. “Go to your dorm and remain there until I send for you. There will be no lunch or supper for you today. You are forbidden to talk to other boys.”
Christopher limped to the door, trying hard not to show the fresh throb of agony each step caused. He pushed through and quietly shut the door behind him. Only then did he finally buckle, his hands reaching to rub at the hot bruised meat of his legs.
The headmaster stood and watched Christopher limp slowly across the quadrangle from his window. In the covered bridge that linked the library to the Old Building, a group of boys also watched, pointing and talking with animated gestures, until one of them noticed the headmaster. They melted away in a second. He sighed. There was no illusion then; the pupils of Marlo School knew that one of their ex-boys was branded a coward and a lunatic.
The boy finished his painful journey across the quad then disappeared off down beyond a long hedge of holly bushes. The headmaster sighed. The boy couldn’t stay here, it simply wouldn’t do. Not only would he prove a distraction to the other pupils, he would undermine the reputation of the school.
There was still a week before the start of the Christmas holidays and that was simply too long. The boy needed to be gone as soon as was possible.
Pulling on his gown, then reaching for his pipe and matches, the headmaster opened the door to his study. He walked the length of the corridor, down to three dull grey stone stairs and outside. As he walked across the cobbles, he struck a match, pausing for a second to light his pipe. He suddenly jerked his head up toward the bridge to see if any pupils were again staring out. None were so foolhardy. Satisfied in his authority and feeling a little better, he strode through an arch wide enough to fit a carriage and out into the grounds of the school.
The main telephone in Marlo was in the school secretaries’ offices. The headmaster hated their insistent ringing and refused to have one in his office. The offices were in a small whitewashed building that had originally been the gatehouse before the School acquired more land and moved its borders outward.
The building was divided into two rooms. One was a functional reception with light blue painted walls. It was dominated by a large painting of the school’s founder. A long wooden bar ran
its width. A secretary would be standing behind it from seven thirty in the morning until seven at night every day that there were pupils in the school, bar Sundays.
The second room was smaller. It was crammed with three desks, four filing cabinets, and the remainder of the secretaries. This room tended to be a little too frivolous for the headmaster’s tastes. He was uncomfortable with the company of so many women in one place. As their work was exemplary, however, he had no reason to complain. The telephone was there on the largest of the desks.
The secretaries predictably went into a flurry at the unusual sight of the headmaster at their door. He greeted them, ignoring their flapping, and curtly explained his needs. Within a few moments Mrs Clayton, the senior secretary, found a telephone number for the Flyte household and was reciting it to the operator.
“Just connecting us now, Headmaster.” Mrs Clayton smiled and nodded. She glanced at the other girls with her eyebrows raised. They understood immediately and bustled out of the room to leave her and the headmaster in privacy.
“Hello?” Mrs Clayton returned her attention to the phone. “Hello. I have Colonel Horton, headmaster at Marlo here to talk to…” She glanced down at the small card in her hand, “To Mr E. Welstone.” Then she nodded and lifted the phone toward him.
He took it, glancing its black stem with distaste. “Thank you Mrs Clayton.” She hovered for a moment at the door until he glanced at her and she scurried out to join the other secretaries.
He put the receiver to his ear and lifted the phone to his mouth. “Hello?”
“Mr Horton?”
The well-spoken voice at the other end of the phone had a syrupy quality that the headmaster took an immediate dislike to. “It’s Colonel Horton, but Headmaster will do. This is Mr Welstone?”
“Indeed, Headmaster.” Welstone’s voice showed no hint of remorse at the mistake. In fact, the headmaster could almost detect a pleasure at the slight in the sickly-sweet tone. “This is he.”
“Mr Welstone, you must excuse my ignorance.” The headmaster ignored his feelings of revulsion at the voice. Not a voice, he wagered, that had seen any military service. “I am calling regarding Christopher Flyte. I'd hoped to talk to a member of his family.”
“Ah. Alas, there is no such member to talk to, Headmaster,” Welstone said. “I am the family lawyer. I look after all the family affairs whilst General Flyte is at the front, including the well-being of the boy.”
“I see.” The headmaster understood now. The simpering creature on the other end of the line was used to dealing with his own kind. Lawyers were men of too many words, all deals and bargains. For them an outcome was the only important thing, rather than how it was achieved. The headmaster had very little time for lawyers. No wonder Flyte had so easily attacked Corbyne, with this sort of moral example. “Well, there has been an incident here, Welstone. The boy has attacked another in the most ungentlemanly of fashions, with very little provocation.”
“How awful.” Welstone sounded like he couldn’t be less interested. “The other boy is hurt?”
“Nothing he cannot bear,” the headmaster replied. “He’s one of our full backs.”
“A full back? Yet little Christopher attacked him? That sounds quite brave to me, Headmaster. Not ungentlemanly at all.”
The headmaster resisted the urge to ask the man at the other end how he would know. “Well Mr Welstone, I am afraid the methods that he used were inappropriate, not to mention the idea of two Marlo boys fighting at all. However, that is of no matter. I am telephoning to tell you that I will be sending the boy home early, on the Monday morning train in fact.”
Welstone’s voice finally took on some interest. “Oh no, Headmaster, I am afraid that won’t do at all. We have had some trouble with Christopher’s elder brother. There is no possibility of you asking to send Christopher home early. We’ve far too much to do. In fact, I had been considering having him stay at Marlo throughout the holidays.”
“Mr Welstone.” The headmaster controlled his temper. Later he would write letters of condolence to the families of the dead. That was so much more important than negotiating with Flyte's guardian. “I am quite informed on Lieutenant Flyte. However, it remains that Christopher Flyte today attacked a boy in a manner unbefitting of a Marlo pupil. The alleged conduct of his brother simply adds to the problem. Boys here can read newspapers, Mr Welstone. Boys here can talk. At this time, Marlo does not require a Flyte boy at the school.
“Christopher will be placed on the train. You will expect him to be home on Monday evening and that is the end of the matter. I suggest that you make plans to have him educated locally until this trouble with his brother is over. These are very important times, Mr Welstone. We all have our duty.”
Welstone didn’t speak. The headmaster waited calmly. He took a pull on his pipe, letting the smoke escape out from the side of his mouth in small puffs. He had looked down the barrel of a Boer rifle and lived to tell the tale. He would not allow the lawyer of a family of cowards stop him from keeping the reputation of Marlo intact.
“Very well, Headmaster.” Welstone’s voice had lost its syrupy edge now. “I’ll have a man wait at the station. Good day to you.”
The headmaster smiled and took another pull from his pipe.
Edwin Welstone slammed down the telephone receiver and pushed back on General Robert Flyte’s favourite study chair. He lifted his feet up onto General Flyte’s seventeenth-century teak desk and swore. He gripped the handles of the chair tightly, waiting for his irritation to subside. Having Christopher home early was a damn inconvenience.
Welstone was quite young for a lawyer in his position, only twenty-nine, but he dressed and acted far older. Wispy streaks of unusually blonde hair framed a face with small, mean eyes and a high, upward pointing nose that made him look as though he was turning it up at everything. Perhaps to compensate, he constantly hunched his shoulders and bent his head forward when with clients to look up at them with a fixed smile on his face. It made him look like some kind of rodent.
He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the ledger on the desk. The detailed plans of all the Flyte investments were contained within. He sighed, but sat back up straight again and pulled the ledger towards him.
Robert Flyte had employed him just after his wife's death and then simply left. His explanation was that he did not want his two boys to see him upset, but Welstone didn't believe people did things for others. No, the general wanted to deal with his grief without distraction. That suited Welstone fine. Slowly, he had taken more control of the finances, of course making sure the general knew he was “happy to help shoulder the burden”.
If he happened to run into the boys in those first few months, he would always stop and exchange a moment with Freddie. He’d pretend interest in the conversation for the least possible amount of time he could get away with. He hardly spoke to Christopher at all. Once Freddie had joined the army, he had convinced the general he would be a far more help if he took up permanent residence at Fox Grange. Then he found Christopher even easier to ignore.
He nodded to himself. The boy's coming home, an inconvenience, yes, but it should not be a problem. Most of the staff had been fired —he claimed it was a money saving decision to the general— so the boy had almost no friends here. He'd stay out of his way most of the time, Welstone was sure.
Before he could resume concentration properly, he heard the click of footsteps in the hallway. He glanced up. The replacement housekeeper he had employed only a few days before stood at the door.
“Brodie.” His voice was harsh now, with none of the simpering tones he reserved for his clients and those he needed something from.
Molly Brodie looked at him. “Yes Mr Welstone?”
“On Monday, Christopher Flyte will be home. Make sure his room is prepared,” he said, then looked back down at the ledger in front of him.
“Yes Mr Welstone,” Brodie replied, her voice emotionless.
If Welstone had looked up again at that moment, he might have seen Molly Brodie’s eyes light up in her plain face, her thin lips parted in anticipation. However, he was a man obsessed with his own plans and rarely observed things in others, no matter how clever and cunning he thought himself.
He paid no more attention as she walked to the small table, where he had taken his cup of coffee earlier, and picked up the tray. Perhaps if he had observed any of that, then there would have been a chance he’d have noticed her glance out of the window. There she locked eyes with a shabbily dressed man, who skulked outside by the bushes. A man who, despite the cold, wore a dirty white shirt, soaking wet, and open all the way to his navel.
What he could not have noticed was the understanding that passed between Molly Brodie and the man. That had no outward sign.
It was only when she said “Tomorrow,” that he looked up once again.
“Yes, yes. Tomorrow.” He said impatiently. The woman was facing the window. “And when you’re speaking to me, Brodie, please have the common decency to face me.”
She turned back. “I'm sorry, Mr Welstone. Will there be anything else?”
Welstone waved the back of his hand at her. “No. You may go.”
As she walked away from the window, a sudden movement out in the bushes caught his eye. He glanced across, but now there was nothing. He rubbed at his eyes, wondering how long he had been sitting there, staring at the ledger. A good many hours, he was sure. He shrugged and bent his head to the figures again.
Christopher learned about his fate the following morning. His evening had been cold and lonely. The other boys, quite aware that he was not to be spoken to, had avoided going anywhere near him, instead congregating in the junior common room at the far end of the sparse dormitory.
At lights out, Swann had clambered up onto his bunk above Christopher’s, whispering “Chin up, Flyte”. He flashed him a secret smile of sympathy.
That had been Christopher’s only communication with another soul. He closed his eyes, ignoring the pain of hunger and the heat from his legs, and forced himself to sleep.
On Sunday, as the other boys filed into the school chapel to take their places on the hard uncomfortable pews, Mr Whitestone walked him back to the headmaster’s office.
The headmaster was dressed in his best suit, as he always did for service, with his master’s robe on top. Instead of his usual purple school tie, he had chosen a black tie. On his arm he was pulling on a black armband of mourning.
“Flyte,” he said, not looking up, “I have spoken with your guardian, Welstone. We have agreed that you should return home to Alton. You will take the morning train tomorrow.”
He glanced up, the armband now pulled into place. “After service today, you will return to your dormitory and pack. The staff will move them to the car. Then you will go to a room in the kitchen staff quarters. You will stay there until you leave. You will take your meals there today. You will continue to refrain from speaking with any other pupils. Only speak to staff when they speak to you. Is that clear?”
Christopher nodded, taking in the new development.
“Is that clear?” The headmaster raised his voice a little and stared directly at Christopher.
“Yes, Headmaster,” Christopher replied quickly, dropping his eyes to avoid meeting the gaze that bore into him.
“Very well.” The headmaster nodded to Mr Whitestone, “Take him to the gallery. He can take part in service from there.”
The gallery had traditionally been the place where any boy in trouble attended the Sunday service. It was a small, high chamber, in the gloom above the main chapel. Its balcony gave a view of the altar and the first couple of pews, whilst hiding the rest from sight underneath it. A boy placed here could watch the service with little chance of distracting other pupils. A single pew was nailed to the floor, most of its length covered in thick dust. In two places, the backsides of previous occupants had brushed the wood clean.
Christopher sat in one of the clean spaces. He leaned forward to rest his arms on the rail that ran along the balcony’s edge. It creaked dubiously. A small could of dust dislodged and floated down towards the nave. The chaplain, who stood just before the altar with an open bible in his hands, looked up sharply. Christopher shrank back, pressing his spine against the back of the pew. He was in enough trouble without disrupting the morning reading. The chaplain looked back down at his bible and cleared his throat. “This morning’s reading is from Ephesians Six.”
Christopher wasn’t yet sure about this latest turn of events. He certainly wouldn’t miss the atmosphere of Marlo, which would likely only become more unfriendly. Plus, being at home would be the best place to find out about Freddie. However, the unpleasant prospect of sharing the house with Mr Welstone was something he was not looking forward to. Since the horrid little man had moved in permanently the house felt very little like home.
From below, the chapel organ played a note. Christopher glanced down and saw the front rows of pupils standing, hymn books open and held high. He looked about but there was no book in the gallery.
The pupils began to sing. It was “Jerusalem”. He knew most of the words. In the past few months, this hymn had been sung more and more. Its words were rousing and patriotic. It stirred boy’s hearts and minds to understand what duty was. It told them God would support them unflinchingly if they carried out that duty. The boys below sung it out with the gusto they understood was expected.
Christopher stayed quiet, though. Singing the stirring words would just make him feel guilty. Corbyne was down there somewhere, his face covered in cuts, scratches, and a bite mark on his hand. Signs for everyone that Christopher had not done his duty.
He looked down at the chaplain to see if he was being watched. The man had his head buried in his own hymn book. Satisfied that he wouldn't be noticed, Christopher sat down quietly to listen to the rest of the hymn with his head in his hands.
The Boy In Winter's Grasp Page 3
