AT THE SOUND OF OUR APPROACH the vast door of the manor house was swung open by a worried-looking young woman, apparently a nurse, who was done out in a most striking outfit, consisting of a blood-red dress with a white apron over it, and a little Sister Dora cap perched jauntily on her head, which gave her the appearance of someone having just rushed panicking from performing some particularly grisly surgery. From behind this rather ghoulish creature first came there a voice, and then a man, shuffling into view.
‘Do I hear John Bull’s roar?’ cried the voice. ‘The People’s Professor?’
‘You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,’ Morley said to the figure who now stood in the doorway. Their exchange of words caused much mutual amusement – it was some kind of private greeting, I understood. There was then a prolonged and vigorous shaking of hands – the two men seemed to operate on the same frequency and gave off exactly the same vibration of relentlessly hearty vigour – and Morley then introduced us.
‘This is Dr Standish,’ he said. ‘Headmaster of All Souls.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Dr Standish. ‘What do we have here?’
What we had here was a man who might almost have been Morley’s double, though perhaps a little more careworn, his face perhaps rather coarser-featured, his cheeks perhaps a little redder and rounder, his moustache rather more drooping, and his eyes small and hard and bitter, like a blackbird’s.
‘This is my assistant,’ said Morley, ‘Mr Stephen Sefton.’
‘Your Boswell, eh, Swanton?’ said Dr Standish, in a rather sniggering fashion, I thought.
‘I don’t know about that,’ I said. We shook hands: he gave off a slight whiff of lavender, as though having only recently bathed.
‘I have always been of the opinion,’ said Morley, ‘that the Great Cham was in fact a fictional character invented by the scheming Scotsman as a way of making a reputation for himself.’
‘Ha ha! Very good!’ said Dr Standish, smiling and showing a set of gleaming teeth. ‘Though I’m sure such treasonous thoughts are far from the mind of your young assistant.’
‘Indeed,’ I agreed. Nothing could have been further from my mind.
‘And this is my daughter,’ said Morley.
‘Charmed,’ said Miriam, offering her hand, and simpering rather.
‘Well, well,’ said Dr Standish. ‘You have grown up since last we met.’
‘Indeed, we are now full-grown,’ said Miriam, hoisting herself up to her not inconsiderable height, and gazing at him, mesmerisingly, in her fashion, over her cheekbones.
Puer Aeternus, The Eternal Boy
‘You haven’t aged, though, Headmaster,’ said Morley.
‘Well, teaching keeps one young, I suppose.’
‘Puer Aeternus,’ said Morley. ‘The Eternal Boy.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dr Standish. ‘No need to stand on ceremony though, old friend. Come in, come in, come in!’
Given Morley’s well-known quirks and attributes – his extraordinary working habits, his odd detachment from others, his fixation on objects, his obsession with classification, and his complete and utter inability to understand or to be able to empathise with others – one might have suspected that he would have found close relationships almost impossible to maintain. In fact, as I was to discover during the course of our time together, he was a man who attracted and enjoyed the company of all sorts of individuals, of both sexes, of all ages, all classes and all kinds. Of course above all he attracted fans, with whom and about whom he was always polite and courteous. Much of my time was spent protecting him from these fans, and from all sorts of other less well-meaning hangers-on and acolytes. (He was most often beset and troubled by those whom one might call Morley-mimickers: one thinks most readily perhaps of Frederick Bryson and John Fry, Morley-mimickers of brief renown. Such individuals often started out as fans, became acolytes, and then attempted to actually become Morley – ‘stealing our bread from the table’, as Morley often complained – trying to forge careers as hacks and popular writers, though none of them could match Morley’s own ferocious output. About such types Morley could be surprisingly and shockingly discourteous. Bryson, for example, I recall him once describing as a ‘sunburned nut’: he famously kept a house on the French Riviera. And Fry he often referred to simply as ‘the Pygmy’: he was a man famously short in stature.) But Morley also had real actual friends, and Dr Standish was one of them: he had contributed to a number of volumes edited by Morley for the edification of the young, including Manners Maketh the Man: A Guide for Parents and Teachers (1932), and A Boy’s First Fingering: Easy Piano Pieces for Small Hands (1934).
While the two men caught up with all their news and gossip, Miriam and I were shown through by the nurse to what seemed to be the old drawing room of the manor house, which had been converted into the school’s staff common room. The transformation had been entirely successful – and was, of course, quite appalling. Noticeboards had been erected on the oak-panelled walls, a long coat-rack was hung with gowns and mortarboards, and where there once might have been pleasing arrangements of bibelots, vases and ornaments there was now a mess of packets of chalk, cigarettes, brass ashtrays and bottles of ink. An elephant’s foot umbrella-stand in one corner held a quiver of canes, ranging from a thin-strip willow to a heavy hardwood beater. Windows high up allowed for no views, and little natural light. I knew exactly what the place had become, having wasted so much of my time over the course of the past five years in similar rooms throughout the country. It was a place for the gathering of the unredeemed before their trials: we had come upon a sodality of pedagogues.
We entered into a thick fug and hubbub of tobacco being smoked, of jokes being cracked, of sherry glasses tinkling, of the crackle of corduroy and tweed, and of the infernal sound of a gramophone playing music of a Palm Court trio kind – ‘the music of the damned’, Morley would have called it – but upon our entrance all noise abruptly ceased. From deep within the fug a dozen or so pairs of eyes fixed upon us. Only the Palm Court trio played on: the dreaded sound of Ketèlbey’s ‘In a Persian Market’, a tune regarded by Morley with particular horror (‘self-aggrandising nonsense’ is his memorable description in Morley’s Lives of the English Composers (1935)). The room also had the most extraordinary smell: rich, thick and rank. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but in this stench, and to the sound of Ketèlbey’s self-aggrandising nonsense, the gathered crowd smoked and stared at us, breathing as one.
‘Oh don’t mind us!’ said Miriam, entirely undaunted, and indeed clearly relishing the attention. ‘At ease, at ease. We’re only the school inspectors.’ And then turning to me, in the sotto voce remarking manner that she had unfortunately inherited from her father, she said, ‘Not sure that we’ll pass them, eh, Sefton? Seem like rather a rum bunch, wouldn’t you say?’ Clearly meant as a joke, the silence that greeted these remarks might best be described as stony, and the atmosphere as icy – until, as the sound of Ketèlbey faded away, a man boldly separated himself from what was indeed a rum bunch and came towards us, like a tribal leader stepping forward to greet the arrival of Christian missionaries.
A sodality of pedagogues
‘I’m Alexander,’ he said, ‘but everyone calls me Alex. Delighted to meet you.’
Alex shook my hand in an appropriately brisk and friendly manner but he took Miriam’s hand with a rather theatrical flourish, I thought, and then he kissed it, lingering rather, bowing slightly – all entirely unnecessary. He then gave a quick glance to his colleagues, which seemed to be the signal for them to resume their conversations. Sherry glasses were once again raised, and someone set the Palm Court trio back upon their damned eternal gramophone scrapings. The natives were calmed and reassured.
Alex was tall, long-legged, dressed in a dark double-breasted suit, and had what one might call confiding eyes. Miriam – who knew the look – offered her confiding eyes back. I feared the worst. There was no doubt that Alex had a commanding presence: he rather resembled Rudolph Valentino, though with something disturbingly super-sepulchral about him that suggested not the Valentino of, say, The Sheikh, but rather a Valentino who had recently died and then been miraculously raised from the dead. He also had the kind of deep, capable voice that suggested to the listener that one had no choice but to trust and obey him, and an accompanying air of bold determination, of knight-errantry, one might say, as if having just returned from the court of King Arthur, in possession not only of the Holy Grail but of the blood of Christ itself. I conceived for him an immediate and most intense distaste. Miriam, on the other hand, was clearly instantly smitten and the two of them fell at once into deep conversation.
Feeling rather surplus to requirements, and dreading an evening of talking about the state of modern education with a group of teachers – having long since forsworn all such utterly pointless conversations – I excused myself to go and arrange for the unloading of the Lagonda.
Out in the school’s forecourt I lit a cigarette and gazed up at the building. The place had a medieval aspect about it, like some kind of monastery, rather ponderous in style, and yet also at the same time strangely promiscuous, self-fertile almost, appearing to consist of numerous buildings growing into and out of one another, clambering over and upon itself with gable upon gable upon turret upon high tiled roof, writhing and reaching up towards the dark heavens above.
As I glanced up and around I fancied that I was being watched – and indeed for a moment I thought I saw the small white faces of young boys pressed up against mullioned window panes in the furthest and highest corners of the buildings. But when I turned again, having stubbed out my cigarette, they had gone.
The sensation of being watched, however, strongly persisted: it was almost as if someone had clapped me on the shoulder, or slapped me on the back; I felt eyes upon me. The air felt cold, as if someone had rushed close by. I turned quickly again, this time looking down around the forecourt and out towards the fields – and there in the moonlight I saw a man. He stood by the hedge beyond the lane, under the shelter of a tree.
‘Hello?’ I said instinctively.
‘Hello,’ he replied softly, his voice carrying clearly across the still night air.
‘Are you watching me?’ I asked. I didn’t know what else to say.
He stepped forward then, out from the shade of the tree, and I saw that he was dressed in old, stained muddy clothes – pig-skin leggings and an old battledress coat – with an unlit lantern in his hand. He was perhaps in his early twenties, with a light beard fringing his cheeks, a grey cap upon his head.
‘You’re out walking?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Well, who are you and what are you doing?’ The man struck me as a reprobate.
‘Who am I? I might be asking you the same, sir. Who are you? And what you be dwain? You a parent?’
‘No.’
‘Teacher?’
‘No.’
‘Who are you then, sir, and what you be dwain? You’re not from round here.’
‘No. That’s correct. My name’s Stephen Sefton and I’m here with Mr Swanton Morley, who is giving the Founder’s Day speech tomorrow.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. And you are?’
‘I,’ he said slowly, ‘am Abednego.’
‘Ha!’ I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Really? And you don’t happen to have two brothers named Shadrach and Meshach I suppose?’ He did not answer. He now stood no more than a few feet away from me, staring at me hard. I could smell cider on his breath. ‘Well, and what’s your business here this evening, Abednego, if I might ask?’
‘I’m watching the comings and goings,’ he said.
‘I see. You’re the night watchman, then, or a porter?’
‘You might say that.’
‘So Dr Standish would be aware of your activities?’
‘Standish knows all about me. And we know all about him.’
‘Good,’ I said, not entirely reassured, but wishing to be in conversation with this odd young fellow no longer. ‘Well, I’m just unloading the car here …’
He had already turned and walked away.
The contents of the Lagonda eventually unloaded into the school entrance hall, I separated my own travelling items from Miriam’s and Morley’s and picked up the Leica, fancying that I might perhaps take some photographs of the buildings. But as I was about to do so a loud gong sounded, summoning the teachers to dinner. As they flooded through the hall I found myself caught up among them as they trooped towards the dining room. Alex, walking alongside Miriam, spotted me with the camera and paused on his way past.
‘Camera fiend are we, Mr Sefton?’
‘I just take a few photographs,’ I explained. ‘For Mr Morley’s books.’
‘I’m a keen photographer myself. We have a modest little darkroom down in the basement if you’d like to see it some time.’
‘Tomorrow perhaps.’
‘I think you’ll be impressed,’ he said confidingly. ‘I think we may have many interests in common, Mr Sefton.’ And then he swept Miriam before him into dinner.