Читать книгу Years of Plenty - Ivor John Carnegie Brown - Страница 6

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Elfrey was one of the numerous public schools brought into existence by the sudden growth of the middle class during the nineteenth century. Consequently it had neither money nor traditions. The lack of the former was a severe handicap and could only result in the scandalous underpayment of the masters and the abominable necessity of sending round the hat, which of course returned half empty, whenever the school needed a new building or playing-field. The absence of the latter was more wholesome. Everyone had a hearty contempt for Eton and Harrow and Winchester and considered that the fuss made about them was ridiculous. "We could have damped the lot at cricket last summer" was the general opinion, and it may have been correct, so great had Fermor been. How far this attitude was based on mere jealousy, and how far it represented a sound distrust of top-hats, side, and antiquated customs, it would be difficult to decide. As a result of their abhorrence for tradition, Elfrey had no organised system of fagging, and each house had established its own regime.

At Berney's any prefect or member of the Sixth could, theoretically, command the services of anyone who had not a study; but this right was little used, and it was generally felt that too great assumption on the part of a Sixth would lead to unpopularity.

Prefects, however, as opposed to Sixths, were accustomed to take unto themselves a small boy and give him the use of their study on the condition that he dusted it, cleaned their cups and plates, and made himself generally useful. Although this office received the derogatory title of 'being study-slut,' it was, on the whole, rather sought after, as only the more attractive and popular members of the workroom were chosen for the position.

Martin was therefore considerably surprised when one of the prefects, called Leopard, adopted him in the fourth week of term. Leopard was a genuine Olympian. He had played with distinction in the historic Elfreyan eleven of last summer: he was school sports champion: he had played rackets for Elfrey at Queen's Club: and now he was being tried as wing three-quarter in the rugger team. By specialising in science he had scraped into a Sixth, and he was intending to continue his athletic, if not his scientific, career at Cambridge. This ambition, however, necessitated the study of Greek, and the study of Greek necessitated for a scientist laborious days. Leopard had discovered that Martin was in the Lower Fifth and could write Greek prose without howlers. He seemed also to be quite an attractive individual, and neither law nor custom forbade the acquisition of a second menial. So Martin became, to his own great satisfaction, the junior study-slut of Leopard.

Pearson, his senior in that office, naturally attempted to make him do all the work of tidying, but Leopard put an end to that, and it was soon understood that Martin's function was the composition of correct Greek prose. This he fulfilled efficiently and Leopard, who had recently been harried by his instructor in Greek in a way quite revolting to his dignity and self-respect, found life at once more easy and more honourable. He became very intimate with Martin and would talk to him at great length in a patronising but amusing way: he would even allow Martin to rag him and call him by his nickname, Spots.

Inevitably Martin worshipped Spots. The study became to him a temple, a very awful and a sacred place. On its walls were scores of photographs, signed pictures of school bloods past and present, photographs of elevens, photographs of fifteens, photographs of the Racket Pair, and photographs of a girl, who was usually on horseback. These last were carefully framed and signed in round, sprawling letters, 'Kiddie.' Martin, as he gazed upon them, began to form conceptions of the perfect life. There was a bookcase, too, with a fine collection of shilling novels whose paper covers bore lurid pictures of Life and Love. In spite of a certain monotony of theme and a devastating dullness in its elaboration, Spots seemed to derive considerable pleasure from those works, which he always read while Martin was doing his Greek prose. Martin was kept too busy to do much reading, but he appreciated the pictures on the covers and was impressed by the dark-eyed women in red who accepted on divans the passionate kisses of blond young men in faultless evening dress. The room also contained some old swords (bought from a predecessor), a number of rackets, a bag of golf-clubs, and a fine array of cushions with humorous designs. The culinary outfit and china were complete to the verge of opulence. The Leopard's Den, as the study was commonly called, had achieved a certain reputation for magnificence, a reputation in which Martin gloried. He even enjoyed the dusting and cleaning and despised Pearson for his laziness and lack of proper pride. But it was not mere priggishness that animated him.

Meanwhile Mrs Berney had not forgotten his possibilities, and it was arranged that he should attend her poetry circle which met after prayers on Saturday evenings. It was composed mainly of older boys, and two of them were vast intellectuals in the Upper Sixth, so that Martin felt very awed at the prospect of reading Keats amid such company. One of them was actually the school poet and had lately worked off in The Elfreyan the emotions evoked by a summer holiday in the Lakes:

"The flaming bracken fires the breast

Of bosky Borrowdale,

Down swoops the sun in a riot of red

Behind Scawfell to a watery bed,

And the moon hath clomb o'er Skiddaw's head,

So perfect and so pale."

Martin, who had also been in the Lakes, thought this rather good and much better than Wordsworth. He was still a Tennysonian and connected poetry with the lavish use of alliteration and words like 'clomb' and 'bosky.' The thought that on the next Saturday evening he was to read in the company of such an one was as terrifying as it was inspiring. But it was not yet to be.

Leopard's one fault was, in Martin's opinion, his tendency to sulk: his career had been so uniformly successful that he was easily piqued by a reverse. Once or twice before Martin had thought it expedient to slip away quietly when he saw Spots looking black, but on this particular Saturday Fate fought against him. Leopard was dropped from the school fifteen for the match against Oxford A. It was admitted that once Leopard had the ball in his hands no one on earth could catch him, but it was rumoured that his defence was weak: it was always the way with these running-track sprinters; they couldn't tackle. So the captain had taken notice of a mere child of sixteen, called Raikes, who played "back" for his house and could tumble anybody over.

Oxford brought down a strong team, but they only won by sixteen points to eleven: and Raikes not only scored two excellent tries, but marked with unerring certainty the notable Rhodes scholar who had made history in South African Rugby. It was on the lips of all that Spots was in the soup or the apple-cart (the popularity of the rival metaphors was evenly balanced), and sporting members of Raikes' house were laying ten to one that their hero would be 'capped' within a month. Spots had watched the match dismally from the touch-line and he did not take it at all well. When he came back to Berney's his angry soul cried out for tea: and he found that all his cups were dirty. It was Pearson's duty to clean the cups, and Pearson was in 'sicker' with influenza. Martin had been told to do Pearson's work for the next few days, but he had not realised what Pearson really did and he had forgotten about the cups. Moreover, after watching the match, he had gone off to the tuck-shop to eat ham and chocolate: so Leopard shouted for him in vain, and then, spurning the proffered aid of sycophantic aliens, he furiously washed his own cups and made his own tea. An angry man does not lightly reject an excuse for wrath, and Spots thoroughly enjoyed the nursing of his grievance.

On his way back from the tuck-shop Martin borrowed a copy of Keats from the school library: then he settled down at his desk in the workroom and began to look through the Odes to see if there were any words that he could not pronounce. The meeting of the poetry circle was formidably near and the old fear of being shown up was vigorously attacking him.

Suddenly Caruth came up and said: "Spots wants you."

So he put away the book and went up to the study. He saw at once that Spots was in the blackest of moods.

"Why the blazes didn't you wash the cups?" he said. "I told you to do Pearson's work."

Martin trembled. "I forgot," he said. "I couldn't think of all the things Pearson did."

"I should have thought that the washing of cups might have struck you as a fairly obvious thing to do."

"Yes; I'm sorry."

"The fact of the matter is, you're getting a bit above yourself. Just because you're clever you think you're everyone. Now you're too good to wash cups."

"It wasn't that really, Leopard. I forgot."

"Well you damned well mustn't forget. You're too good to keep awake. That's just as bad. Now get out, you little beast, and come to me after prayers."

Martin went back to his Keats in misery. He could guess what was in store for him, but he could not be certain, because Spots might have recovered from his wrath by the appointed time and then he might treat the matter as a joke. But if Spots didn't recover ... well, then he would be swiped. Martin had never been caned at his private school and this would be his first experience; he wondered how much it would hurt. Then fear came surging over him, not the dread of anything definite, but the hideous fear of the unknown. He was not so much afraid that he would be hurt as that he would show that he had been hurt: that was the deadly, the unpardonable, sin. He wished to heaven he had been swiped before so that he might know his own capacity for endurance. Keats became intolerable. House tea was a long-drawn agony. Discussion centred on the match and the brilliant play of Raikes.

"What did old Spots want?" asked Caruth. "He seemed to be in the deuce of a hair."

"Only about cleaning cups," said Martin gloomily.

"Thank the Lord I'm not a study-slut. Was he very ratty?"

"Oh, not very. Flannery, you hog, pass the bread."

The conversation had at any cost to be changed, and Martin was pleased when the general attention was directed to the colossal hoggishness of Flannery, who was mixing jam, sardines, and potted meat.

As time went on the agony of suspense grew like an avalanche, carrying all before it. Martin did practically no work during prep. Impossible to linger over algebra or the Bacchæ when Spots and his cups obsessed the mind. It was not the injustice of being victimised for a slip of the memory when Pearson was in sicker, but the possibility of being shown up as a coward that tortured him most. He knew that other boys were swiped with some frequency and managed to pretend that they did not mind. But it might turn out that he was not so tough as other boys. Besides Spots had the wrist of a racket player and was renowned for his powers of castigation. And then there was the poetry circle. If the worst happened, he would have to cut that and explain afterwards. What on earth could he say? The thought was too horrid for consideration.

After prep and supper Mr Berney used to read prayers, while the boys knelt down and thought about any odd subject that came to mind. They were not, as a house, particularly irreligious, but it is astonishingly easy to acquire the habit of saying 'Amen' at the right place and repeating the Lord's Prayer without being aware of your actions. But to-night Martin was conscious of all that was said and did not open his lips. As he gazed in silence at the backs of the wooden benches he began to feel physically sick.

After prayers the house dispersed to talk, or finish work, or go to bed. Martin hurried to Leopard's study. There he waited for five age-long minutes: he felt that a hundred swipings would be better than this delay. The study seemed a vast blur of photographs, all dim and misty except one: that was a large picture of Kiddie, the equestrienne, who beamed on him from close at hand, gripping her riding-switch. Kiddie became the only object in the room. The smile and the switch fascinated him. They were symbolic, they were abominable. At this same Kiddie he had often gazed in rapturous worship, wondering whether Leopard was the more blessed for knowing her or she for knowing him. God, how he loathed her now.

At last Leopard arrived. The clouds had not lifted. He had just overheard Moore remarking to a friend that, as a three-quarter, Raikes was worth a dozen of Spots.

"Oh, you," he said quietly. "Just go to the prefects' common-room."

Martin turned and went out. His fate was settled. He felt, as he walked down the long passage listening to the tread of Leopard behind him, as though all his internal organs were falling into his feet.

When they reached the common-room Leopard turned up the light and locked the door. Then he took a cane from a cupboard in the corner and made Martin bend over with his head under the table. Leopard had suffered during the evening, for the almost certain loss of a rugger cap on which he had counted was a terrible blow to his pride and his ambitions. He was angry, desperately angry, and his only desire was to express his anger in action. The fact that he was fond of Martin only added piquancy to the situation. The maximum punishment that a house prefect could inflict was eight strokes. He did not stop short of his maximum.

After the first three strokes Martin felt as though nothing could prevent him crying out: then a blessed numbness seemed to come over him and he remained silent and motionless. Afterwards he had to climb on to the table and put out the light. Then he went upstairs to his cubicle: he was not in the mood for poetry. On such occasions rumour has swift wings, and when he reached the dormitory the news had magically been spread abroad.

Voices cried: "How many?"

"Eight."

"Did it hurt?"

"No, not much." He lied, for he had learned the tradition.

There were murmurs of: "Bad luck," "Old Spots is the limit," "Just because he got the chuck for not tackling."

And then Neave remarked in the midst of a silence: "If we get nailed funking a collar we get swiped. But if Spots gets nailed, then he swipes someone else. That's justice."

The expressions of genuine sympathy were very comforting to Martin. Though now the numbness was wearing off and the reality of his pain came home to him, he was happier than he had been for days. He had opened another door: he was getting on with his task of finding things out. Not only was the cruel suspense finished for ever, but he had learned his own capacities: he could stick it like the others. And to have the regard, the compassion, of one so great as Neave! He had suffered, he still suffered, but who would not suffer to become a martyr? He began to realise, as he pulled the bed-clothes over him, that Spots had not been the minister of a fortune sheerly malignant.