Читать книгу Captains of Harley - Hylton Cleaver - Страница 3

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A wiry, grave-faced youngster sat in the corner of the railway carriage watching a stupid parent saying good-bye to a stupid boy.

He was glad that nobody had come to see him off, for he had now the satisfaction of knowing that his own father was a father more worth having than any other he had seen yet. Also he could look upon the pitiable scene now being enacted before him from the standpoint of one who at least could be trusted to get into the right carriage without leaping out by the other door to see if it were really labelled “Harley” on both sides. This fat boy had done that, and afterwards he had sat down very heavily on a packet of sandwiches and was unaware of it. The boy in the corner wondered if they would be sticking to him when he stood up. As for the parent of the fat boy, he stood outside looking nervously towards the engine, and his raincoat, which was unbuttoned, blew this way and that in the breeze; once it had somewhat foolishly knocked some buns off a push-cart. He wore a hat poised far forward over his nose, and he had flat feet.

Whilst the boy in the corner sat watching with thoughtful eyes, the man broke suddenly into a rapid clog dance and beckoned to his son. Above the rat-a-tat of his feet upon the platform could be heard his voice plaintively upraised:

“Arthur! Arthur! Come here! Jump out as quickly as you possibly can. I have something to say to you.”

Arthur took just one glad leap into the open, landing upon his father’s foot. Then, clapping his ear against his father’s lips, he listened with a coy interest to his urgent whispers, until he was suddenly gripped by the elbow and spun upon his heel.

“Get in at once, my boy, get in at once!” his parent was commanding. “At once, I say. The train is about to go. Get in quickly... quickly.”

Arthur fell in head-first, and arrived limply half on the seat and half on the floor. Then he slowly clawed his way on to the cushions and subsided. But now once again there sounded that terrible parent’s staccato voice. The unhappy boy was hooked by the arm with an umbrella.

“It is not going yet after all,” he was told. “Come out again. Come out for a moment. I have something to say to you.”

The wiry boy in the corner began to feel sorry for Arthur: he was perspiring so very freely. However, there followed confidence after confidence until, finally and for the last time, the father threw his son bodily into the carriage like a sack of potatoes.

The blast of a whistle had reached his expectant ears.

“Get in! Get in!” he was crying. “For goodness’ sake do get in! What a foolish boy you are. You will certainly miss the train. Be sure to write. Good-bye... good-bye... good-bye!”

Then the train was really moving out of the station at last. Numberless boys in Harley caps were scrambling into carriages, and as the little man with the goatee beard gave one final wave of his glove to his departing son, two young men cannoned into him from behind, and his hat flew violently forwards and outwards, causing him to make a somewhat ludicrous exit from the boy in the corner’s field of view. Next the foremost of his assailants had sprung for the carriage door and they had tumbled in.

One of the two seemed a little embarrassed at the diversion they had caused, and sat down modestly in a corner. The other wiped his forehead, and then turned and beheld Arthur with both interest and delight.

The portly Arthur was sitting stiffly upright and staring at his ticket with wide protuberant eyes, the while he trembled like unto one smitten with ague. He looked up at the boy in the corner and gaped. He tried to speak. Words failed him. At last a low moan escaped his lips.

“My ticket! My ticket! Father has taken it away with him and he—” he paused and collected himself for a bellow of despair—“he has given me his own return ticket to Ealing!”

The boy in the corner looked at him as if one might have expected something like this would have occurred after all that palaver, and the brief silence that followed his sensational news was only broken by a peculiar grunt that would not be stifled. Then up spoke one of the late arrivals. Both were evidently boys of some seniority and wore bowler hats. The one who spoke now had a lean and humorous countenance lit by strangely bright eyes.

“Nick,” said he to his companion, “look out of the window. Do you see anyone coming?”

The young gentleman addressed as Nick was beaming thoughtfully as if to himself, and he did not at once obey.

“I will look myself,” said the other, rising impatiently and leaning far out. “Yes, I can see a cloud of dust. Right in the middle of it there is the figure of a man bounding along the road at such a break-neck speed that his feet are scarcely touching the ground at all. It appears,” he added, turning to Arthur, “to be your sportsmanlike father.” He coughed. “His chances of catching us are somewhat small, of course. The train is now going at full speed. Your father is certainly making a very fine effort indeed... his movements are not unlike those of a good-class cat... but he will, I fear, be outdistanced by the puff-puff. Your father——”

The fat boy could stand this no longer. He pushed his head fiercely out of the window under the other’s arm.

“Where?” he demanded. “Where’s my father?” He looked harder still. “Why,” said he, “we’re only just out of the station. There’s no cloud of dust at all.”

“No,” confessed the other. “Now that I come to look with my other eye I must admit that I do not see it so clearly myself. Still there might have been. It is a pretty picture to conjure up—your father absolutely running himself to a standstill to get back his ticket to Ealing.”

After this there was silence for a little while. The bright-eyed youth resumed his seat and appeared to be thinking things over. He threw his bowler on to the rack and passed a hand thoughtfully over his hair.

At last he leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees, and faced Arthur.

Then he inclined his head sideways towards his fair-haired comrade.

“That robust-looking fellow over there is known as Terence Nicholson,” said he, weighing his words. “He has been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven, and now he’s in the Rugger side, so be careful what you say. His brother’s called ‘Old Nick,’ and he’s a master at school. Very likely you’ll see him walking along the footboards on his hands if you look outside. My own name,” he paused, in order to give added emphasis to the noble word, “is Rouse.”

He did not care to introduce himself as the probable captain of Rugby football during the coming term, for Rouse was not conceited about the things that he could do. Oddly enough he was only conceited about the things that he could not.

“A beak called Mould,” he announced, “once told me when I was construing Latin that I had a very inventive brain.” He tapped his forehead significantly. “He was entirely correct. You see in me a man who thinks for exercise rather than for profit, and it will comfort you to know that I have already devised a way of escape for you in your astounding dilemma. I ask myself: ‘Now how is this poor misguided creature ever going to pass through the iron barriers of Harley with only a silly little ticket to Ealing in his hand?’ And the answer is this: ‘I will ask him to give that ticket to me.’”

The fat boy reached out a trembling hand and gave over his ticket somewhat fearfully.

Rouse took it and solemnly tore it into a hundred pieces. The fat boy screamed.

“Oh, you’ve spoilt it!”

“Certainly,” admitted Rouse, “it is a trifle bent. But why? Because now nobody knows whether it is a ticket to Harley or the Federated Malay States. Will they, however, suppose that you would be such an ass as to buy a ticket to Ealing when you intended proceeding to Harley? I think not. You have to give up your ticket at the other end, and you’ll give it up, that’s all. It will be in pieces, but there’s no law against that. The warden at the gate will say: ‘Hi, here you! What’s this?’ and you’ll say: ‘That, sir, is my ticket,’ and you’ll pour it generously into his open hands. He’ll never know. He’ll think it’s a practical joke, scowl at you, and pass you through with the toe of his boot.”

There was an awed silence. Rouse was well satisfied with the effect of his words. Suddenly however there spoke up Terence Nicholson from his corner. It was the first time that he had been able to get a word in and he spoke modestly.

“Yes,” said he, “that’s all very well; only the ticket to Harley is green and his ticket to Ealing’s red. That’s all.”

There came a silence of several moments, whilst those present considered this point with new interest, and at last Terence shook his head regretfully.

“There’s always something wrong with your schemes,” said he. “You don’t grow any older. You don’t improve a bit.”

And thereupon there came a rush of air and a roar and the train had entered a tunnel. The light spluttered hopefully for a moment and then died a natural death. They were plunged into darkness.

At last the melancholy voice of Rouse was again uplifted in a sonorous protest that came heavily through the darkness as if in pleading:

“Well, you’re always very clever at picking holes,” said he. “In common with the rest of Harley’s populace you cherish that silly notion that except for a certain knack in playing footer I am one of the most useless and incapable creatures ever built. Let me hear you make a suggestion, my lad.”

“Well, if you ask me,” said Terence, “I should say, let him tell the truth.”

Rouse cleared his throat.

“Well, I think you may be right. It’ll be difficult for anyone to believe that poor boy capable of practising deceit. In fact one may say that he looks strongly like a boy who could be depended upon to forget his ticket.”

The train came suddenly into daylight again and Rouse stopped abruptly.

The fat boy was weeping.

Rouse stared at him for a moment, then looked askance at Terence, and finally he turned a sternly prefectorial eye upon the boy in the corner who had hitherto somewhat escaped his notice. The boy looked back at him a little uncertainly with a half smile. He was not at all sure whether it was good form to laugh at a boy who was crying. Rouse gave him no hint. He just looked: and presently the other blinked at him apologetically. Actually Rouse was deciding, as he afterwards told Terence, what a peculiarly good-looking kid he was.

“What’s your name?” said he at last.

“Carr,” said the boy in the corner.

“And which house are you going to?”

“Mr Morley’s, I think.”

“Over that house,” said Rouse, “I weave my spell. Also Friend Nicholson there. We were in that house when an arch-idiot named Mould ruled over our form, and at one time I must confess we appeared to be sinking. Yet, as we came up for the third time, so to speak, he was removed, and we survived. You’ll find Morley all right.” He turned to Arthur a little awkwardly. “Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” said he courteously, “but to which house are you being admitted?”

The fat boy did not raise his head. He simply continued to weep, and at last there broke from his lips these sad words: “I want my t-t-ticket.”

Rouse fumbled in his pocket and at last produced a small piece of chalk.

“Here you are,” said he. “Draw yourself one on the wall.”

From that time onward the conversation was maintained solely by the expectant captain of Rugby football. Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, but he had a great deal. Terence Nicholson sat in his corner with the reminiscent smile of the man one may notice in the stalls of any theatre—the man who has seen the show twice before but who is enjoying it all none the less for that.

Bobbie Carr listened with deep and genuine interest, but he said nothing. He was too hypnotised. His large eyes followed Rouse’s every movement and never wavered.

Arthur merely swayed backwards and forwards in his seat, and sometimes when the train stopped with a jerk he was jolted forward on to the knees of the boy in the corner, over whom he hung with sagging head; then when the train started again was bumped back so that he cracked his skull against the wall of the compartment, but he seemed not to care.

At last they reached Harley.

As soon as they had alighted the large figure of a man suddenly appeared from nowhere and loomed over them. The man was dressed exceedingly well and exceedingly comfortably in Harris tweeds. He wore a soft hat and a club tie, and his large feet were enclosed in large brogue shoes. Even his pipe was large. His hand reached out and rested upon Terence’s shoulder. Finally he looked at Rouse.

“As for you,” said he, “it’s no use you saying you’re not there, because I can see your ears flapping behind that grin.”

The gentleman addressed endeavoured to keep a straight face, whilst from the near locality Arthur was to be heard lamenting his ill-fortune and crying aloud for advice.

For the last year or so Terence had been doing his best to overtake Toby in point of size, but he was still a trifle overshadowed by his brother’s large form, and he stood beside him modestly, as if pleased to claim a certain reflected glory. He could never see any reason for self-conceit in the fact that he had been three years in the Harley Cricket Eleven and one year in the First Fifteen. The only thing he was really proud about was the fact that Toby was his brother.

“There’s rather bad news,” said Toby at last. “I’m afraid you’ll be very sorry.”

They looked at him inquiringly.

“The Grey Man has been very ill,” said he, puffing slowly at his pipe, “and he’s not coming back. We’ve got a new Head.”

The boy who had sat in the corner was standing hesitantly behind them, and he was amazed to find Rouse struck dumb. For Rouse just stood and looked first at Toby and then at Terence, and it was a long time before he spoke.

Terence asked quietly: “Who’s coming instead of him then?”

And Toby answered: “He’s a man called Roe. That’s all I can tell you.”

And then the pair of them seemed to consider the news with a fresh gravity, until at last Rouse shook his head sadly and said:

“I loved that man, you know.”

Coming from one who throughout the journey had seemed to be merely a rather superior sort of clown, this statement took Bobbie Carr by surprise. He stood there beside his bag, watching with wide eyes, waiting for more. But little more came. Rouse was a young man who could never make up his mind to grow up, and with the Grey Man he had never had to don any hypocritical cloak of stiff severity just because he was becoming one of the oldest boys at Harley, and he had got along very well indeed. Perhaps it was going to be different now. He picked up his bag and moved slowly away beside Terence, whilst Toby watched them go slowly and sadly along the platform towards the barrier, and as Bobbie followed after them he saw Rouse shake his head solemnly and heard him say:

“It’s a bad business. A bad business. Except for Toby, he was about the only master who’ll ever understand me, Terence, my lad.”

And when he knew them better Bobbie came to realise that it was only in moments of considerable gravity that Rouse ever called his friend by his proper Christian name.

At the barrier Rouse turned. He seemed suddenly to have remembered the fat boy. At last he observed him making his way flat-footedly and in extreme distress along the platform, and he beckoned.

Arthur increased his speed and came up alongside, breathing heavily and with his mouth open. Rouse looked at him gravely. All the heart seemed to have gone out of him. He drew the ticket-collector’s attention to the fat boy indifferently.

“This boy,” said he, “has come without his ticket. Will you chronicle the incident in your annals?”

The collector looked at him resentfully. In four years Rouse had never yet passed his barrier without saying something to him which he could not for the life of him understand.

“Will you,” continued Rouse, “record his history in your black book?”

The man turned patiently to the fat boy.

“You come without your ticket. How did you do that?”

“He found it easy,” observed Rouse in a hollow voice.

“What’s your name?”

Arthur trembled before the glare of the man in uniform, and stuttered out the simple answer: “Coppin.”

“What will he do?” he inquired of Rouse as soon as they were clear of the station.

“He will communicate with the Headmaster,” answered Rouse, “and you will never be allowed to travel by train again.”

And then he lapsed into silence. At last Terence turned to look at him, and Rouse glanced up and sighed.

“I shall miss the Grey Man,” said he. “The school won’t seem the same.”