“NO,” SAID BOOTHBY, “don’t take a pew. Remain standing.”
“I take it I can stand at ease?” asked Crabbe.
“The time for bloody stupid little jokes is over,” said Boothby. “You’ve had it now. I don’t mind your ruining your own career, but when you try to ruin mine as well …”
“I still don’t know what’s happened,” said Crabbe. “I admit that I wasn’t there for the lunch and the Sports, but I did what I could. I rang up the office. It wasn’t my fault if you didn’t get the message.”
“The whole point is,” said Boothby, “that you’d made up your mind to be away. You knew what was going to happen.”
“Did you know?”
“Don’t be a bloody fool. Only you knew about it, and you knew about it because it was your idea. You instigated it.”
“I still don’t know what happened.”
“I’ll bloody well tell you what happened. There they all were, the Sultan and the Mentri Besar, the British Adviser, the crowd from K.L., God knows how much royalty from all over the Federation. And they’d played the State anthems and everything was going all right and they announced the first track event.”
“Yes? And what happened?”
“You know damn well what happened. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?”
“The little bastards just sat there. They damn well refused to take part in any single event. Except the juniors. So all we had was the egg-and-spoon race and the sack race and the bloody hop, step and jump. That was the Sports.”
“And did anybody do anything about it?”
“I screamed myself blue in the face. And then the Mentri Besar appealed to the Malay boys and quoted the Koran at them. And some of them looked a bit bloody sheepish.”
“I see. And who were the ringleaders?”
“How the hell do I know? All I know is that it was your idea.”
“In all seriousness, and keeping my temper, what makes you think so?”
“What makes me think so? I like that. Ever since you’ve been here you’ve been encouraging these boys to go against discipline. There was the business of that expulsion. And I was right about that and you damn well know I was right. But you told them I was wrong. I know all about it, don’t think I don’t. You told them I was a bloody tyrant. And you were behind that protest meeting when I caned those prefects. And when I docked that holiday because of the bad exam, results. It’s all come out. One or two of the prefects here had the bloody sense to realise which side their bread was buttered. I’ve heard all about you. I’ve heard it all. That lad you were down on, that Chinese lad you said was a bloody Communist, he’s told me a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as that you’re a bloody Communist sympathiser yourself. You had him in your flat and you as good as told him that Communism was right and that the British were wrong in not recognising the Communist Party. Can you deny that?”
“I was trying to draw him out. I still maintain that he is a Communist, and if you look carefully you’ll probably find that he’s at the root of your trouble. I told you before, but you wouldn’t do a thing about it.”
“This Chinese lad proved himself the best bloody prefect I’ve got. Yesterday it was him who was pleading with them, threatening them even. He was in tears. He said the School had been let down and I’d been let down and the cause of democracy had been let down. There. What have you got to say about that?”
“Only this. That you’re too damned innocent to live.”
“Look here,” said Boothby, red and threatening, “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, Crabbe. You’re being transferred, and with a bloody bad report, too. And at the end of this tour I think you’ll find yourself out on your ear.”
“You know, Boothby, perhaps I’m really the innocent one. I just don’t understand. I’ve done my best for these boys, I even thought some of these boys liked me. I thought that I was really getting somewhere with them.”
“Oh, you got somewhere with them all right. You staged a nice efficient revolt. You made me and everybody look a pack of bloody fools.”
“Boothby, I want you to believe me when I say that I had nothing to do with that business. Frankly, I’ve never liked you. I’ve always thought you were inefficient, autocratic, unsympathetic, the worst possible headmaster for a School like this. But never would I dream of doing anything so disloyal, so …”
“Yes, I know exactly what you’ve thought about me. And I know exactly what you’ve been doing, day after day, in the class-room, on the sports field, in the dining-hall, at prefects’ meetings. You’ve been turning them against me, and that means turning them against everythind this Scool stands for. You’ve been a traitor. You are a traitor. And you’ll get the reward of a bloody traitor, you just wait and see.”
“I’m sorry you feel like that, Boothby. Really sorry. You’re doing me a very grave injustice.”
“You’d better look at this,” said Boothby. He handed over a typewritten sheet. “This is a record of what you’ve been doing. This is a protest from one of the best boys this School’s ever had.”
Crabbe read:
DEAR SIR,
“I hope you will forgive my writing to you like this, but I find that I am becoming increasingly disturbed by some of the things that Mr. Crabbe, the History Master, is saying in class, especially about the running of the School. I know I speak for all the boys when I say that he should not say these things. He is speaking as though he should be running the School himself and is always criticising the things that you, sir, do to make the School an efficient and happy School.
“First he said the expulsion of Hamidin was wrong. Then he said it was wrong to cane prefects when they have done wrong. Then he said it was not right to deprive the School of a holiday when, as is well known, it was the only way to make the School realise that they must do better work in the examinations. Then he said that you, sir, did not listen fairly to the things the boys say when they come to see you. Also, I believe that Mr. Crabbe has many wrong political ideas and talks about freedom and independence when he really means Communism.
“One day he called me into his flat and asked me many questions. He seemed annoyed that I was trying to help the younger boys to see how wrong Communism is. He said to me as follows …”
“All right,” said Crabbe. “There’s the evidence, a load of lies and half-truths. How long will it be, do you think, before my transfer comes through?”
“It’s going to be bloody soon,” said Boothby. “The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” At that moment the peon came in with the Sunday newspapers. Boothby scanned the front pages of the Sunday Gazette and the Sunday Bugle with grim concentration. “There you are,” he said. “All over the front page. If I had my way you’d be bloody well shot.”
Crabbe went out, feeling not in the least depressed. The thing was so thoroughly absurd; the truth would out, sooner or later. He felt clean with innocence, as though he had just showered. He got into his car and drove slowly back to Light House. To-morrow he must do something about applying for a driving-licence. With keen pleasure he drove through the town, avoiding children and chickens, back to lunch, a lunch that Fenella would be preparing herself. How good people were at letting one down. Well, if he were going on transfer, he would not want to take Ibrahim with him anyway. It was just as well. Still, when one thought of the thefts condoned, the bad meals cheerfully eaten, the complaints unvoiced at fantastic hairstyles and epicene hip-wagging, one felt rather hurt. He thought of Rivers, violent face contorted above the moustache which grew out of the lean British nose. Rivers now, back home, would be saying, “Lash them, beat them, flay them alive. …” Was Rivers right?
No, Rivers was not right. It was best not to wear oneself out with violence. The East would always present that calm face of faint astonishment, unmoved at the anger, not understanding the bitterness. That was why it was pointless to attempt to take any action at all against this young Chinese betrayer, to protest any further to Boothby. A pattern would work itself out.
“I’m being transferred,” he said to Fenella.
“Where to?”
“I’ve no idea. They think I was behind the strike that was organised at the School Sports yesterday.”
“A strike?”
Crabbe told her everything. Then she said:
“So Othello’s occupation will be gone.”
“Meaning?”
“Two people will be sorry to hear we’re going.”
“Yes. But still, wherever we go, there’s a hell of a lot of helping to be done.”
“I suppose so.”
“How about a drink before lunch?”
“Don’t call it lunch. It’s just a snack. That wicked boy has denuded the larder of practically everything. He’s left us canned soup and a couple of tins of sardines. I always said he was no good.”
“Yes. Look here, I’m sure we had some gin. We can’t have drunk all that, surely?”
“You forget the capacity of Nabby Adams.”
“Still … Have some sherry.”
Crabbe poured it out and then switched on the gramophone. A record was ready to play for them, one of the pile skewered on the automatic-change spindle. It started: strings rising from A to a long held F, through E to E flat, when the woodwind came in with their bittersweet chords. Wagner’s prolonged orgasm.
Languor came late for them that Sunday afternoon. They lay in bed, smoking and sweating and wondering. How strange life was. When life seemed at its worst, then came the astonishing revelation. The annunciation and the epiphany. They slept till long after dark came, not hearing the noise downstairs.
Yawning before dinner, surrounded by his Book Club library, Boothby put down his stengah and went out to the shy peon who waited, still astride his bicycle, outside the open door.
“You’re working late,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Surat, tuan.”
“A letter? Who from?” Boothby looked at the childish handwriting on the cheap envelope. No stamp. “All right, you can go.”
Boothby tore the envelope open and read:
DEAR SIR,
“We hope you will forgive presumption and untimeliness of what follow here. We have heard that Mr. Crabbe is to be expelled from the School where he has done much good and valuable work, not easily forgotten by boys he has taught. We will say that what happened at Sports yesterday was no fault of Mr. Crabbe’s, although Mr. Crichton say it is so to some senior boys, and we would humbly say, sir, that Mr. Crichton should not say like that to pupils but should keep his own council. Well, sir, to bring inordinately long missive to a timely end, what happened yesterday was the work of some boys who said it would be a good idea to do what was done, although some of us said no, it should not be. One of these boys has already been punished, to wit he has been punched on the nose and one eye has been blacked. This is termed summary justice. We beg, in conclusion, that Mr. Crabbe be not expelled but allowed to continue to teach the boys who would otherwise be sorry of his departure. You will understand that it is not fitting to sign this by name but will merely subscribe, with all good wishes,
“Fair Play.”
Boothby read it again and yawned. His wife, a scraggy and lank blonde in a faded blue frock, said, “Anything important, dear?”
“Nothing,” said Boothby. “Only another of these anonymous letters. That’s the only thing to do with them.” He accompanied his words with a violent tear across, and another, and another, and then threw the scraps into the waste-paper basket. Then he returned to his stengah.