Читать книгу Housemaster - Major General John Hay Beith - Страница 4

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“ALL over! You can remove yourself now.” Mr. Donkin restored the cane to its residence in the locked cupboard below the study window. The very young gentleman addressed, Master Bimbo Faringdon, was at the moment occupying two chairs simultaneously. These were set back to back in the middle of the study, and Bimbo was kneeling on a Liddell and Scott laid upon the one with his head well down upon the seat of the second, his slender form thus presenting the maximum surface for chastisement.

Upon hearing his housemaster’s words, Bimbo gave a resolute gulp, straightened himself painfully, and descended from his lexicographical perch. The Moke had only given him a quick five, but the Moke was an experienced and conscientious performer over any distance.

“Did it hurt?” enquired Mr. Donkin, his back still turned. He possessed more tact than his House gave him credit for.

“Yes, sir,” replied Bimbo, applying clandestine massage.

“I meant it to. Otherwise we should both have been wasting our time. Shouldn’t we—hey?”

“Yes, sir.” One seldom says no on these occasions.

“I rejoice that we are in such complete agreement.” Mr. Donkin ceased to gaze out of the study window, and turned abruptly upon his pupil. He was a stocky, clean-shaven man of something over fifty, with greying hair, a good chin, and bright blue eyes. He habitually boomed at boys, and the boys always knew, from the timbre of the boom, the exact state of their housemaster’s intentions for the moment. Roughly speaking, the louder the boom the safer the situation.

“And now for heaven’s sake don’t get sent up to me again. Do you think I enjoy beating people?”

Bimbo was feeling a little better now.

“Some of the fellows think you do, sir.”

Mr. Donkin gazed down upon the small, freckled, deferential, impudent face before him.

“Oh, they do, do they? You have my authority to correct that impression.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And try to cultivate just a little common sense in yourself. When the Laws of the Medes and Persians say categorically that every boy caught trespassing in Culver’s Coppice will be caned, what do you want to go trespassing in Culver’s Coppice for—hey? And when you trespass, what do you want to go and get caught for?”

Bimbo’s classical education at this period—he was not quite fourteen—had not proceeded far enough for him to know what a rhetorical question is, but his instinct informed him that no answer was expected to this one. So, having by this time almost ceased to tingle, and being of an incorrigibly chatty disposition, he took up the conversational opening just afforded him.

“We seem to be getting rather a lot of new Medes and Persians these days, sir, don’t you think?”

“Meaning——?”

“All these new rules, sir, about——”

“Boy,” enquired Mr. Donkin in a voice of thunder, “are you trying to lure me into joining you in a vote of censure on the Headmaster?”

“Oh no, sir!”

“Then get out! Beat it, vamoose, scram—or whatever the current vulgarism is! Go and examine your disgusting stripes before a mirror! Do you do that?”

“Usually, sir.”

“So did I. Out!”

“Yes, sir.” Bimbo was by this time at the green baize door which led to the boys’ side of the house.

“And come to breakfast on Sunday!”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bimbo slid from sight—he was one of those people with the curious habit of opening a door only just wide enough to permit of entrance or exit—and joined the other fifty-three assorted Bimbos who constituted the Red House of Marbledown School.

His Housemaster glanced at the clock. It was the kind of clock which few public-school masters escape—a miniature mausoleum of mottled marble, built on the lines of the Parthenon and furnished with the Westminster chimes. (Generally it has Olim Meminisse Juvabit graven upon its pediment like an epitaph, and a brass plate upon its base, beginning Presented to —— Esq., M.A.). Mr. Donkin had incurred this one some seven years ago, upon the occasion of his retirement from the Presidency of the Marbledown School Rowing Club and twenty-five years of active coaching of the School Eight. Under that tutelage the Eight had seven times won the Town Cup at the local regatta, and had once—Io Triumphe! wrested the Ladies Plate at Henley from a Cambridge College crew almost a stone a man heavier than itself.

The presentation had come as a complete surprise to its recipient; and instead of thanking the donors in words of sentimental gratitude and modest self-depreciation, he had devoted ten full minutes to a blistering condemnation of testimonials in general and conscripted contributions in particular. However, he had accepted the clock, which at the moment registered twenty minutes to ten.

This reminded him that his appointment with Bimbo Faringdon had deprived him of his after-breakfast pipe. He repaired the omission, and then, puffing contentedly, restored the two chairs to less suggestive positions and the Liddell and Scott to the top shelf.

After that he looked round his study.

It was a square comfortable room, of the type usually described as having a lived-in look. That is to say, there were too many pictures on the walls—mostly groups of young gentlemen with bare knees and severe expressions—too many books on the table, and too many loose papers lying about everywhere. Just below the picture-rail upon the wall opposite the fireplace hung an oar with a light blue blade, emblazoned with certain arms in scarlet and gold and inscribed with nine names. The first name on the list read:—Bow, C. Donkin; 10 st. 10. C. Donkin weighed more than that now.

Upon the Globe-Wernicke bookshelves which lined most of the room to a height of six feet or so were displayed an incongruous variety of what are politely called objets d’art—mainly the gifts of ex-pupils now engaged in bearing the white man’s burden in distant parts of the globe and resolute in sending home undesired mementoes of the fact. There was a pair of lacquered Japanese vases; there was a little brown Buddha; there was an elephant’s tusk, and a bronze statuette of the Winged Victory. There were also numerous silver cups and mugs, memorials of a strenuous youth, and photographs of boys everywhere.

In the very centre of the mantelpiece stood a photograph in an old-fashioned silver frame, the photograph of a girl of twenty, a girl with a little retroussé nose and a laughing mouth and considerably more hair than girls allow themselves in these days—such a girl as you might have seen, in a white frock and a tulle picture-hat, gracing a punt during any pre-War Commem. or May Week. Mr. Donkin’s eyes came to rest upon this.

“Good morning, dear,” he said—almost formally. Then he sat down at his desk, and opened a portfolio marked ‘Reports.’ At least he had begun to do so when his eyes fell upon The Times newspaper, lying upon the corner of the desk and alluringly open at the Cross-word Puzzle—that standing menace to all pedagogic resolution. He laid the portfolio down again, and extended a furtive hand towards the demoralising periodical.

“I’ll just do One Across,” he muttered. “Then not a thing till after prayers to-night! Let me see.... Izaak Walton, in the eyes of his devotees, is a bird—nine letters. That ought to be easy. Something about fishing. What bird fishes? Cormorant—that’s nine letters. Still, I don’t see where Izaak comes in.”

The telephone on Mr. Donkin’s desk rang. He answered it mechanically.

“Yes? Sanatorium? Yes. Good morning, Doctor. Maturin minor? Yes, how is he? H’m! Not so good. I’ll look in and see him in about half an hour, without fail.”

He hung up, and concentrated again on Izaak. But this time there was a knock on the green-baize door. It proved to be Travers, head boy of the House, asking for permission to administer a Prefects’ beating to one Hicks major, a notorious freebooter of the Middle School and a thorn in the side of the weaker vessels of the Prefects’ Room.

“What has he done?”

“He egged on some smaller fellows to rag Elmsley’s study last night, sir, when Elmsley was out for extra coaching at the Brown House.”

(Elmsley was the junior prefect, and new to his job.)

“You’re sure of your facts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good boy, that,” said Mr. Donkin to himself as the door closed. “He went for Goat Hicks himself, and not for the small fry. What a rare thing moral courage is! ‘Fry?’ Fish again! Could it be ‘flyfisher’? No, flyfishers aren’t birds. Come in!”

There was a single loud bang on the mahogany door which led to Mr. Donkin’s side of the house, and Mr. Beamish entered. Simultaneously Mr. Donkin thrust aside The Times and turned virtuously to the Reports.

“Morning, Victor,” he said.

“Morning, Donkin.” Victor Beamish was a well-set-up young man in his late twenties, and was Mr. Donkin’s House Tutor, or House-dog. He was also Games Master at Marbledown, and a demi-god in the eyes of such persons as Bimbo Faringdon.

“I want you to come down to the river this afternoon, and have a look at the Eight,” he announced.

“I thought you brooked no interference in that quarter.”

“Oh, I don’t mind your advice. Of course one needn’t take it.”

“I apologise for overlooking the fact. What’s the trouble?”

“That blasted young fool Stroke is worrying me. He doesn’t seem to be able to work up to anything faster than about thirty-two. I’m beginning to think he’s not strong enough for the job.”

“What does he weigh?”

“Nine stone eight. If he’s to be turfed out it must be done at once. The Regatta’s only three weeks away.”

“He’s got a lovely swing, and the crew follow him nicely. You might try shaving his blade; that would help him to get through quicker. It’ll do Flossie Nightingale no harm at all to work a bit harder at Six: he’s a lazy young devil.”

“The Town Cup’s in the bag for us if we can get him right,” continued the single-minded Beamish. “When can you come?”

“I can’t manage this afternoon. Look at these pestilential things.”

“Reports? I’ve done mine long ago.”

“All right; don’t be superior about it: form masters get them first. But this new idea of half-term Reports at all—who wants them? Doesn’t the end-of-term report cast sufficient gloom over the British breakfast table as it is? Why bung in a lemon at half-time?”

Beamish helped himself to a cigarette, unbidden, and slipped two or three more into his case. That was Beamish’s way in life.

“Yes,” he said. “I was telling them in the Common Room only last night that the Headpiece and his innovations are becoming a bore.”

Donkin chuckled.

“Another eminent authority made a precisely similar remark to me only a few minutes ago,” he said.

“Who?”

“Master Bimbo Faringdon. His wording was more tactful, but the import was the same. I’d just been tanning him.”

“What for?”

“He had disregarded one of the Head’s notices.”

“I don’t blame him. The Head puts up a damned sight too many of those things.”

“I agree. Legislation by typewriter does not appeal to the young: they prefer the spoken word, if possible in colloquial form. But the Head’s the Head. All the same, I don’t see why Culver’s Coppice should be put out of bounds. It’s in the School grounds——”

“He thinks the boys go there to smoke.”

“If I were Headmaster I’d let every one of them smoke. Pipes! Then they’d be so sick that they wouldn’t want to smoke again for years. Like the girls in sweetshops. They get the run of their teeth from the very start, you know. Not one of them ever wants to see a sweet again after a few days.”

Beamish gazed contemplatively at his superior. Funny old bloke, the Moke. As hidebound a routineer as you could find in most ways, but always apt to spring some Bolshie idea or other on you.

“I sometimes wish they’d made you Head, Donkin,” he said—“when——”

“Me? Head? Nonsense! I’m too old—gaga!”

“Oh, not so very,” said Beamish handsomely. “Anyhow, you know your job. And you are comparatively human.”

“Thank you.”

“At any rate the Governors made a first-class bloomer when they appointed that——”

Mr. Donkin decided that this conversation had run on long enough.

“I don’t think we’ll discuss the Headmastership,” he said, with a touch of stiffness. “The post is filled, and by a very brilliant man.”

But Mr. Beamish had by no means finished.

“What makes him brilliant? Tell me that!”

“Certainly. He’s a magnificent organiser; the routine goes on oiled wheels since he came here. He’s a profound theologian, a genuine scholar, a brilliant teacher—he’s taught me a thing or two about that, and I thought I knew everything——”

“And he hasn’t the faintest beginning of an idea what goes on inside a boy’s head!”

“My dear fellow, how many of us have? Anyhow, he’s the Head, and our business is to back him up.”

A distant bell began to jangle, and simultaneously through the green-baize door came the sound of hard chairs being pushed back, and the shuffle of reluctant feet over a linoleum floor. The Red House, having digested its breakfast, was upheaving itself for a return to the grindstone.

“Are you in School this hour?” asked Mr. Donkin.

“No, not till eleven. I’m going into the town, to see the Regatta Secretary about the entries.”

“Right. I’m not in till twelve: that gives me a chance to get on with these reports. I’ll look at the Eight to-morrow, at two fifteen.” Mr. Donkin produced a memorandum pad from one of his overcrowded pockets and scribbled on it. “Does it still contain three of my boys, or have you thrown them all out?”

“It contains four, if you count Bimbo. He’s coxing.”

“Well, if nerve is the essential qualification, he should steer you to victory. Hallo, here’s his report.... I wonder if he really went into Culver’s Coppice to smoke.”

“Much more likely bird-nesting. He can climb to the top of anything.”

“That’s more than Frank Hastings seems to think. Listen to Bimbo’s mathematical report: ‘Despite an inherent levity of disposition, he habitually gravitates to the bottom.’ ”

“The Headpiece will censor that one. You remember the elegant little typewritten notice he circulated last week, about the desirability of avoiding humorous or epigrammatic reports?”

“So he did: I’d forgotten. He sends round so many of these da—— Get out, Victor!”

“Righto,” said Beamish, with a grin.

As he opened the mahogany door he almost collided with a small, grizzled, prim-looking man of about Donkin’s age, attired in cap and gown—the latter flowing almost to his heels.

“Good morning, Beamish,” said the newcomer.

“Was it?” Beamish strode out, banging the door behind him.

“An uncouth modern product,” observed Mr. Hastings acidly. “Good morning, Charles.”

“No, Frank, I will not play golf with you this afternoon, nor any other foolish game.” Mr. Donkin began ostentatiously to initial reports.

“No one asked you to. Do you mind if I open one of these windows?”

“You dare!”

“But the atmosphere of this room——”

Mr. Donkin looked up, and surveyed his lifelong friend and sparring partner curiously.

“Frank,” he said, “for thirty years you have been trying to open my windows. You have been frustrated on every single occasion, yet you persevere. Why? Who taught you such a woman’s trick, I often wonder.”

“An adequate supply of fresh air is essential——”

“Nonsense. A fondness for through draughts is a purely feminine foible. You and I are bachelors, and always will be. Sit down and thank God for the fact. Ah, would you? Drop it!”

Mr. Donkin sprang to his feet, but it was too late. Mr. Hastings had picked up The Times, and was deep in the cross-word puzzle.

“I see you haven’t even done One Across yet,” he said.

“I haven’t even begun, as it happens.”

“I finished it at breakfast, as usual.”

“Clever, aren’t you? I suppose if you met Torquemada at a party you would simply spit in his eye!”

“ ‘In the eyes of his devotees,’ ” read Mr. Hastings loudly and pedantically, “ ‘Izaak Walton is a bird.’ Ten letters. Simple! Use your brains!”

“I’m keeping it till after prayers to-night, when I may possibly have a few minutes to myself.”

“The word is ‘Kingfisher.’ ”

“I don’t want to be told!” roared Mr. Donkin, in justifiable exasperation. “Will you get out of here?”

By way of reply to this order Mr. Hastings took off his mortar-board and sat down on Mr. Donkin’s worn leather sofa. He looked up for a moment at the girl on the mantelpiece.

“Charles,” he asked, “when did you last set eyes on Barbara Fane?”

“Barbara—Barbara Fane?” Donkin laid down his fountain-pen and in his turn glanced up at the girl on the mantelpiece. “Not since the day of poor Angela’s funeral. Nearly fourteen years ago. Why?”

“I had a letter from her this morning.”

“Written from——?”

“Folkestone. She has just arrived from Paris, and proposes paying you an immediate visit.”

“Does she? Well, it will be interesting to——” He whistled, suddenly. “Great Scott, I’ve just flogged her nephew!”

“I don’t imagine that she’ll object to that in the slightest.”

“But why should she announce her arrival to you? I’m the boy’s housemaster.”

“It isn’t about the boy. It’s about the girls.”

“What girls?”

“His sisters. There are three of them, you know.”

“I’d forgotten.”

“No, you hadn’t, Charles.”

Mr. Donkin merely glared, and returned to his grievance.

“But why should Barbara communicate with me through you? I’ve known her as long as you have.”

“Not quite. I introduced you to her—at a May Week Ball. And Angela. Possibly you remember.”

Apparently Charles Donkin did remember.

“So you did,” he said softly. “Fancy you and me at a ball, Frank—you, anyhow! We wore sashes across our shirt-fronts—things about the size of the Ribbon of the Garter—with the College crest on them, to show we were Stewards! How important we felt! And why not? We were young, and young people are important—infinitely more important than battered wrecks like you and me.”

“Shall we return to the matter under consideration?” suggested Mr. Hastings coldly. He prided himself upon always keeping to the point, which Charles Donkin never did.

“The girls? Certainly. I wonder what they have grown up like? Have you ever seen them?”

“Only occasionally. Their father keeps them abroad with him all the time. Rome—Venice—Vienna—Paris—what an upbringing!”

“So long as they take after their mother they’ll be all right.” Donkin was standing up now, with his hands behind his back, thoughtfully considering the girl on the mantelpiece. She was not Barbara, as you may have been led to suppose. She had once been Barbara’s younger sister Angela—and the mother of Bimbo Faringdon and the three girls.