Читать книгу The Killer and the Slain - Hugh Walpole - Страница 5

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I met for the first time James Oliphant Tunstall on my very first day at the Seaborne Grammar School. (This was in 1913.) I was a boy of ten years of age and, of course, dreadfully shy and nervous at this, my first day at school. I remember it as though it were yesterday, and indeed because it was the hour of my first meeting James Tunstall, it may be said to be the most important day of my life.

During the morning nothing much occurred. I was placed with several other new boys in a class some way up the school. We were the bright new boys and James Tunstall was not among them. He was in a lower form. I remember very well the master of my form--Oxley was his name--for he had a passionate love for literature and was the first human being to make Chaucer and Shakespeare, and even Milton, understandable to me. He was a long, thin man with a long, thin nose, and a habit of sniffing as though an unpleasant odour were somewhere lurking. But how he adored Shakespeare!

We were let out for recreation at midday and it was in the playground on that sharp September morning that I first saw James Tunstall. Anyone would have noticed him before the other new boys, just as in later life he was always the first to be recognized anywhere. He was exactly my height but even then filled out sturdily and broadly. Whereas I was sallow-complexioned he was rosy and brown in colour, with rounded cheeks. Even then his eyebrows were thick above his bright sparkling eyes.

He was always laughing, joking, calling out, on the move. As a small boy (he was the same age as myself, born in the same month) he was friendly to all the world. I suppose, to use modern rather cheap terms, you would say he was an extrovert. I was an introvert. But there was more in it than that. He used his breeziness and heartiness to cover his secret designs. Even then, at ten years of age, he was plotting how he could use everybody and everything to his own advantage. He was helped, of course, by the fact that he never had any morals whatever.

When I first saw him he was standing in the middle of the stone yard telling some story to a group of other boys, and although he was only a new boy, he had already fascinated them and they were laughing and joking with him as though he had been at the school for years. I didn't want to approach the group but I had to. Even at that very first moment he fascinated me and even at that very first moment I hated him.

He said again and again, in after years, that he had always liked me--even at that first encounter. And I think, in a strange sort of way, that was true--liked me and patronized me.

Now if there is one thing stronger in me than another it is my hatred of being patronized. Patronage of one human being by another seems to me despicable. It is true, I suppose, that the patronizer does not sometimes know that he is patronizing. That makes it worse, for it argues a secret arrogance and conceit, an arrogance of the soul.

In any case, from the first Tunstall patronized and mocked me. This does not mean that he was not pleasant to me. He, as he laughingly said afterwards, from the very first took me under his wing. He called me 'Jacko,' a name that naturally revolted me. 'You know, Jacko,' he said to me many years later, 'I'll never forget how you looked that first morning at the old school--with your anxiety and politeness and helplessness. You were the most tempting object for anyone to rag, and where you'd have been if I hadn't protected you I can't imagine.'

Protect me in a sort of way he did, but for me in a very shaming kind of way. He was popular, of course; I was not so much unpopular as negative and colourless. When a boy twisted my arm or kicked my behind Tunstall would come up, laughing, and say: 'Stop that. Jacko's under my protection. Didn't you know?' And because he was strong and stoutly built, and everyone liked him, people did let me alone. But the other boys caught up the horrid name, Jacko, from him. How I detested it! It was as though I were a monkey.

I very soon discovered that Tunstall was up to every kind of trick and broke all the rules, but he was popular with the masters as well as with the boys, and he had, then as later, an open, hearty, smiling manner. He was always in good spirits and had great ingenuity in the carrying-out of his secret plans. He was lazy and I often did his work for him. It wasn't as though I were frightened of him exactly, and yet I can see now that there was some sort of secret fear mixed in my feelings about him. Not so much fear, perhaps, as a consciousness of some bond between us. He felt that as well as I.

I have mentioned the word fear. I will admit at once that I am not brave and have never been so. One of the first things to exasperate me in Tunstall was his apparent fearlessness. It seemed that he was afraid of nothing, but I am not really sure that this was so. There was, I fancy, a lot of false bravado mixed up with it.

But I must get on, for I have much to tell--how much I didn't properly perceive when I began.

One summer term at the Grammar School an episode occurred which I fancy affected all my after life--and it changed my nervous dislike of Tunstall into positive hatred. I have spoken already of my sensitiveness to any sort of personal exposure. This was always with me a kind of spiritual passion.

On a certain day in the week the town salt-water baths were reserved for our school. They were formed from part of the sea, but the actual bathing-pool was enclosed in an especial pavilion. We boys undressed all together in a long kind of reserved corridor. I was extremely sensitive of undressing before others, and while most of the boys were quite careless about the matter and ran about the place naked, I was always careful to slip on my bathing-trunks before taking off my shirt.

One afternoon a number of boys, including Tunstall, were undressing near me when someone mocked me and called me rude names. Then they all teased me. I was standing with only my shirt on when, quite unexpectedly, Tunstall whipped my shirt off, snatched my bathing-trunks away from me, and then pranced round me laughing and gesticulating. The others joined in and formed a ring round me while I stood, trembling all over, my hands folded in front of me. My folded hands annoyed them and they pulled them away, and I don't know what would have happened had not a master been seen approaching. Then, laughing and shouting, they jumped into the water.

It will be difficult for many people to understand the deep and lasting effect that this trivial little incident had upon my character. These things cannot be explained even now when Freud and Jung have done so much to reveal us to ourselves. I felt as though I had been deeply and publicly shamed, and my original shyness and reticence were doubly reinforced.

The affair was, however, made worse for me by what followed. As, after our bath, we walked up to the school, Tunstall joined me. He was in radiant health and spirits. He put his arm round me and drew me close to him. I remember our little conversation as though it had occurred this morning!

'Look here, Jacko!' he said. 'You mustn't mind things so much. Why, I thought you were going to blub! It was only a bit of fun.'

I hated his touch, the pressure of his fingers against my neck. However, I pretended not to care. 'I didn't mind,' I said, 'only I thought it was a silly sort of thing to do.'

'Yes, you did mind. You know you did. You mustn't mind anything. I don't. If chaps see you mind they'll only do it all the more.'

'I don't see why I can't be left alone,' I said.

'So you will be if you don't care. I was only ragging. I am awfully fond of you, you know. I am really.'

'That's all right,' I said sheepishly. Then he ran off laughing, without a care in the world.

Even then I was writing. The only thing I wanted to be in the world was a writer. Oddly enough Tunstall had an artistic side to him. His father was, I should imagine, a ne'er-do-well. He betted on horses and was always involved in wild-cat schemes to make money. They lived in a little house outside the town, overlooking the sea. His mother was a gentle-faced woman who had, I expect, a pretty hard life. Tunstall could draw like anything. He was always amusing the boys by drawing things for them and often the drawings were bawdy. They seemed to us miraculously clever, although even then I thought there was a certain cheapness and commonness in them. But he showed me one day some water-colours of the sea and coast that seemed to me lovely. It was on that day that most unfortunately I told him about my writing, and under pressure I showed him one or two things.

He professed to like them greatly--especially one, a rather fantastic sort of fairy-story as I remember it. But he did say he wished that they had been a bit more 'spicy.' 'Later on, when you're selling things to the papers, put in bits about girls' legs and that sort of thing. That's what sells. After all, it is what men are always thinking of--"a bit of skirt."'

I remember the phrase 'a bit of skirt' with a very especial horror--it seemed the lowest, most common denominator to which the world could possibly be put.

I suspected then that I had been a fool to show him my writing--very soon I discovered the kind of fool that I had been! Soon everybody was teasing me 'to show my writing.' But I found that I had no need to do so, for Tunstall had informed them fully of the nature of it and especially of the fairy-story, which contained a character called King Dodderer. This became my nickname. How I hated him then! I did have at least the pluck of facing him with it. Trembling with rage I charged him with betraying my confidence.

'You swore you wouldn't tell anybody'--feeling almost a frenzy at the sight of his round cheeks, his rather coarse but thick dark hair and eyebrows, his rounded but strong and sturdy body. Our conversation was something like this:

'I didn't know you'd mind. Honest, Jacko, I didn't.'

'Of course you knew I'd mind.'

'Honest, I didn't. And why should you? I've told everybody they're awfully good.'

'You haven't. You've made everybody laugh at them.'

'Oh, they tease a bit! What does it matter? You are a funny chap. You should be like me, bold as brass and not giving a damn for anybody.'

'Before I'd be like you I'd drown myself,' I answered hotly.

Then he put his hand on my arm, holding it tightly. It was a way that he had. He would stand quite close to me, holding my arm, looking into my face with his bright, bold, sparkling eyes, and I felt as though he absorbed me, took me right inside himself, inside his hateful self, and kept me there a prisoner.

'You know, Jacko, I do like you, although you're such a goup. I think you really like me too, although you're a bit afraid of me. I like that as well.'

'I hate you! I hate you!' I cried, breaking away from him.

Then, of course, we grew older. We both left the school when we were sixteen, I to join my father at the shop, he to go into some sort of business in London.

There are other things I remember about the two of us at that school. There was one other thing I never forgave him for. At last I made a friend, the only friend I did make at that place. He was a boy called Marillier, a tall handsome boy, popular with everyone. For some reason or other he took a great fancy to me. I was astonished when I found it was so. He was clever and read books. His great ambition was that one day he should be a publisher. 'Then I shall publish your books and we'll both make a lot of money.' He was a really charming boy, sensitive and understanding, and, after a while, I poured out my heart to him. He seemed to understand all my reserve and silence and reticence. We went for long walks along the cliffs and bathed in the coves. He made me very happy. I worshipped him and would have done anything for him. Strangely enough Tunstall was jealous of this friendship.

'You like him more than you do me, don't you?'

'Of course I do,' I answered. 'I don't like you a little bit. I never have.'

'Oh yes you do,' he answered. 'I mean more to you than Marillier does. You can't get away from me. You think you can, but you can't.'

Then Marillier began to be a little less intimate with me. He wasn't as frank and easy with me. I taxed him with it and he denied it, but I knew it was true. I was easily hurt and brooded over things. I was sure that Tunstall had said something to Marillier about me. I taxed him with that and we had a quarrel. All our intimacy was spoilt. Perhaps if I had been another kind of person I would have broken down the barrier between us, but I was too shy, and our friendship was ruined.

Tunstall said one day:

'You don't see as much of Marillier as you did, Jacko.'

'You've put him against me.'

'Well, what if I have? I'm the only friend you're going to have here.'

'I'm not your friend! I'm not your friend!'

But he only laughed and teased me with his smile, as though he knew everything about me and could make me do as he wished. Other little things I can remember.

There was some sort of an examination and I helped Tunstall with his paper. This was afterwards discovered and we were both punished, but Tunstall, because he was a favourite, was let off lightly, and I, because none of the masters, save only Oxley, liked me, was severely handled.

I brooded long over this unfairness.

There was a master called Harrison, a big, fat, rosy man, rather an example physically of what Tunstall might be when he became a man. Their resemblance was, I think, more than physical. Their natures were of the same kind.

Harrison disliked me very much, and it happened that for a whole year Tunstall and I were both in his form. He seemed to understand the relationship of Tunstall and myself, and fostered its disagreeableness in every way. He had a complete understanding with Tunstall and their eyes would meet and they would smile.

Harrison had a trick of jingling his keys and money in his trouser-pocket which for some reason or other disgusted me. The backs of his hands were covered with dark black hairs, and sometimes, when the weather was warm, he would take off his coat and turn up his shirt-sleeves. His thick strong arms were covered with hair, and this also revolted me.

I was, for the latter part of that year, at the top of the form and the cleverest boy in it, but he would catch me out in a fault whenever he could and would summon me in front of him, before the class. Then he would hold my arm as Tunstall sometimes did and stare at me, smiling contemptuously. I knew that Tunstall, behind my back, was watching with delight, and I felt as though I was held, a prisoner, between these two and that they were, in concert, shaming me.

Harrison had affairs with girls in the town, and at last was involved in some scandal and was dismissed from the school, but I think that he continued to see Tunstall.

During most of these school years the Great War of 1914-18 was, of course, raging and, although we boys had little actually to do with it, I don't doubt but that it affected all our nerves and that the weak nutrition of the last years of the War was bad for our health.

In 1919 both Tunstall and I left.