“Omnia vincit amor. Construe. Harris?”
“I … I don’t know, sir.”
Arthur Rochdale listens intently, biding his time. He knows the master will turn to him, if it comes to that.
“Rowlands?”
“Something about armour … and fighting, sir?”
“Not everything is about fighting, Rowlands.” The master’s admonishment is softened with a smile. Encouraged, the boys laugh. “Though in this case, you might be stumbling blindly onto the right path. Lawler?”
“Love, sir? And violence? Or victory?”
“Boys, boys—look to your Virgil. You should be able to translate this one in your sleep.” The tolling of the bell sounds through the room and the boys nudge their graduses and dictionaries and shuffle their feet. The end of second lesson. Their form master sighs. “Rochdale. Put us out of our misery.”
“Love conquers all things. Sir?”
“As always. Try and drum some sense into these friends of yours, eh?” The master waves a hand towards the door, releasing his students. “And try not to get into too many pickles before Monday!” His voice is lost in oaken scraping.
Students jostle as they funnel through the door and into the quadrangle. A small group surrounds Arthur, eager puppies ready for play, all shining eyes and bouncing bodies.
“To the Close!” Arthur sets the pace as they run through School House and then out, out, into the startling green. They pause, momentarily blinded, then strew books and bags on the grass. The windows glint with sunlight and the great flag on the tower ripples in the breeze. Rooks caw raucously from the treetops. Some younger lads begin to pelt each other with old acorns.
It is Saturday and lessons are over for the week; apart from Sunday’s chapel services and lecture, till Monday the time is Arthur’s to spend as he pleases. He turns and gazes with satisfaction upon the Close. The fields lie gently rucked before him, a long swathe marked only by the three great elms with a scattering of sheep beneath. In the distance, set alight by the sun, Bilton spire pierces the woods.
Arthur longs to pull the boots from his feet and the schoolboy armour from his chest. He imagines the tickle of grass between his soft toes and is taken back to another day, where he lay between Mother and Beatrice on a green carpet, their nestled bodies and faces turned to the sky.
A princess rides on a stallion.
Bea had gone first, that day, weaving a story from the scattered clouds beyond their hollyhock frame, then Mother had continued the tale, on into distant inky mountains. And what had he said? Something about trolls and a curse, his body held firm and safe by the warm earth and the hands of Mother and Bea.
He remembers Mother’s hair tickling his cheek as she leaned her head to his. What about this one? The whites and greys had shaped themselves into fantastical beings. Ummm. I know! Beetles and elven folk host a midsummer ball, he ’d started. Then Bea had squealed something about the guests, their own Hierde House flowers, while Mother’s hands drew a dance of violets and bluebells in the air.
The memories and longing still grasp at him, still carve a hollow in his core.
Arthur chases the pictures from his mind. He is Rochdale of the lower fourth and he has friends to lead and masters to impress. He sighs quietly. It is nearly the end of his first year at Rugby School House and he is beginning to understand that he will not make this place home by prattling about faeries and buttercups.
Bill Rowlands shoves the other boys aside. “Rochie, where’s the cricket ball?”
Rowlands has become his friend through wet months of kicking the puntabout and playing in little-side football matches in their School House scarlet and gold. They’ve worked well together—Bill throwing his body against boys like a bulky sack of potatoes, Arthur dodging and weaving, fleet-footed, both swaying shoulder to shoulder in scrummages that held the menace of an angry bull—but they’ve strived to outdo each other in tries and drop-punts at goal, the tally measured in mud and bruising and the admiration of their School House friends. Arthur remembers the last match. His knock against one of the trees on the pitch and that dizzy run with the ball. The sore glory of the team’s victory and Bill’s bruising clap on his shoulder. The smile like a scowl.
At the edge of his vision, Arthur sees Edward Harris stepping into the Close. He holds his breath; turns, as if his own eyes have been caught by something in the distance; intends distraction. But it’s too late. Though Harris swivels away, Rowlands strides into his path. Arthur’s breath quickens at the sight of Bill’s puffed-up body shadowing the lad.
“I … I don’t know, sir,” stutters Rowlands, mimicking Harris’s soft Scottish burr. Arthur wonders at his friend’s pleasure, this malice a new sport—one that shoots queasiness into his throat. Can Bill be drawn away?
Arthur mock-punches the mottled arm. “Come on, Rattlin, we’ve better games to play.”
The nickname suits Bill perfectly: once Rowlands hit someone so hard the lad said he felt his teeth rattling. Rattling Rowlands. Apart from close friends, the remainder of the lower fourth have begun to draw wary circles around Rattlin.
“Better games? But I like this one.” Bill’s smile is tight.
He is mean, thinks Arthur. The protest is unbidden and unwelcome; he does not want to make an enemy of his friend. But his mother’s voice comes to him as he stands, wavering: Sometimes, Arthur, we must fend for those who are not able to fend for themselves.
“Leave him alone, Rattlin.”
Arthur sees his friend’s surprise and then his new appraisal of Harris: the small boy’s hunched shoulders and his white face, turned to the ground. Arthur notices a hesitation; sees Bill’s eyes flicker uncertainly.
He presses his advantage.
“Come on, let’s see who can throw the ball furthest.”
Rattlin was the first in their form to throw a cricket ball over the rook trees to the headmaster’s wall. But challengers are already nipping at his heels.
“You’re right, Rochie; he ain’t worth it.” Rowlands turns to their group. “Come on, lads. Just try and beat me!”
Arthur walks up the spiral staircase behind the praepostor. Why has he been fetched? He only sees the headmaster at assembly and chapel service and knows boys are not brought to his study without good reason. Perhaps it is to do with Smyth’s pea-shooting raid, or the slipper battle that spilled into the corridor and neighbouring dorms in a jumble of arms and legs and hot boy bodies. Arthur joined in both capers. But why would he alone be in trouble? His tummy growls and squeaks.
Hetherington is silent as they climb. Arthur wondered at the praepostor’s shifting gaze when he came out into the Close and fetched him from morning break, and now he is not sure how to break the strange quiet. Of the sixth form leaders, Hetherington is one of the best. He looks out for young’uns when bullying draws blood and acts the boss when fifth or sixth form fellows become loutish. He is also, usually, a man to give advice to the smaller lads, especially about fags’ duties. How to know when to fetch hot water. Where to escape from brutish fifth-formers. But, today, it seems, he has no counsel to offer.
Arthur wishes Mother were here, her steady tread beside him, her eyes reading his secret fears. Seeing him. Not popular Arthur, but the Arthur he tries to ignore when hemmed in by the boys and men of Rugby School.
He spoke of it to her—that tearing inside him, the two Arthurs pulling him apart—on that precious morning in the last break. Beatrice and Cecilia at Herdley Hall, playing with the squire’s daughters; Mothering Sunday, and a morning spent with Mother all to himself. And at Hierde House for a change, not smelly London, where Father is busy and important—“hectic politicking” his parents call it, in a way he understands is a joke.
On that day, Mother had been drawing a portrait of herself for him to keep at school. So I will always be with you, wherever you are, she ’d said, smudging the charcoal image, those blackened fingers and their rounded waltz on the paper like a caress. Drowsiness had him sinking into the sofa. But then a strange pressure in his chest, that hard lump in his throat, snatched him back—back into wakefulness. And then he ’d heard his own voice, like a stranger’s, speaking of who he must be at Rugby School. Telling his mother of the fags who cower at the demands of older fellows. Confessing his silent fury in the face of bullies and his pity of the weedy, who make him want to shield them. And when he does not? The disgust at them. At himself. And, oh, how he wants to be a simple Rugby cock: funny, clever and strong.
He can feel it now, the tearing. An Arthur who cares and an Arthur who does not, not at all. But she helped, didn’t she, just as she always does. Wiping her hands on a cloth and seating herself next to him. Lifting his hand and squeezing it with her long fingers. Sometimes, Arthur, we must fend for those who are not able to fend for themselves. A sweep of her hand through his hair. And sometimes we must listen for the quiet voice that tells the truth.
Arthur can hear her saying the words to him as he climbs the staircase, trailing his fingers against the stones of the wall, tha-dub tha-dub tha-dub. He imagines her beside him, her feet on the same cold steps, and feels her hand clasp his. Then, without warning, they are on the landing. He comes up hard against Hetherington’s dandruff-speckled shoulders and tightens his lips against a nervous giggle.
Hetherington’s knock is hollow on the heavy door.
“Come.”
Faces of past headmasters peer down at Arthur as he enters the study, but the only one he recognises is Dr Arnold. His father often speaks with fondness of the great man and his own years at Rugby School, but something in his voice reminds Arthur of the mummers at Christmas, their masked words and waving arms. What does Father really feel?
“Here is Rochdale, sir.”
“All right, Hetherington. Just wait outside, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr Goulburn—“Old Ghoul”, the boys whisper at night, shuffling cold linen—takes no notice of Arthur. He frowns and pushes his pen at the paper on his desk, then sets to work on a fresh sheet.
The study window is placed too high for Arthur to see his friends, but he pictures himself still with them, hitting the cricket ball in the Close. Wishes himself at Hierde House, feeling rested and right. The summer holidays are only short weeks away, Mother reminded him in her last letter, and then the whole family will be together. Soon he will race with the village gang to the marketplace, the thought of spiced pie lending wings to his feet; stride through the Herdley hills and over the craggy slopes of the Peak District, Taffy panting at his side; chase Bea and Cissy around the delphinium bed, his sisters screeching and giggling; hide in the elm thicket by the village path, losing himself in the trees’ green embrace. Finding himself in another world.
The headmaster harrumphs and mutters a couple of words, then scribbles again. Arthur can only see the wide brow. He has to picture the boxer’s nose and long, downturned mouth, the pouchy jowls that shake when boys are in trouble. Arthur imagines all the lads who have stood here: proud, relieved, terrified. Wondering, will it be the birch? Arthur knows his own fear but he cannot read the mood; the air is as clotted as Hierde Farm cream.
Tap tap. The head manages his papers into a neat pile. He takes off his spectacles and rubs at the crease over his nose. Only then does he look at Arthur.
“Well, Rochdale, I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.” His eyes like pebbles. “Your mother has died. Right now, I believe your father is attending her funeral.”
Arthur’s body sways, punched. A cold swing of weight.
“I am addressing some correspondence to your father now, expressing the school’s regard.”
Desk, chairs, headmaster—they rush away as he reaches for them. Flat. A picture.
Who is it that feels the cold prickle sweeping from foot to head, scalp tugging at face? Who is it that senses the tight eyes, the thudding heart?
“Sir?” Is it his voice?
He is beside himself.
Crack of ball on bat. Harsh caws that swell and recede, swell and recede, as rooks circle the tree beyond the window. He is outside with them, a bird flying towards white clarity. The air opens beneath him …
“Right, Rochdale. I’ll let Hetherington take you to your dorm. Matron is waiting for you there. I expect your father will be in contact soon.”
Golden pudding steams gently in the bowl. Dead Man’s Arm is Arthur’s favourite but today his stomach tips at the cloying smell. To his right, Lawler’s shock of hair bobs as he and Smyth scoff their pudding; to his left, Hodge, Greenwood and Rattlin argue in whispers about cricket between great gulps of food.
Arthur swallows against his knotted throat. If he does not eat the pudding, his friends will begin to wonder.
He wants to disappear. He wants to flee his body as he did so briefly, days before. He’s not invisible, but maybe he can avoid talking to Rattlin and the others if he keeps his eyes lowered, gets the sticky mass past the rock lodged in his throat. His tummy heaves and for a moment his grip loosens. At the clatter of the spoon, Lawler turns, face concerned, eyebrows lifted with enquiry.
Father’s brow had wrinkled that night before the new term, when he saw Arthur picking at the turkey on his plate. What might have been a treasured time, all of them together at Hierde House, Father up from London at the end of the last short holiday, Mother quietly beaming at her family around the dining room table, but for his own roiling thoughts: the return to Rugby School on the morrow. The bubble and churn of his gut had been the same, then, but Father’s frown had told him he must eat. And after that silent mealtime battle, after he ’d cocooned himself in bed, he ’d imagined the days to come and the pictures had drifted him slowly towards sleep: his Rugby friends’ eager faces and the excited slaps on his back; the pleased expression of his masters; the glower of fifth-formers ordering him to fetch food and books and balls and … Then he came back to himself—he, Arthur: this boy who must prove himself over and over; this boy he wants to shove away like a stranger. And though his talk with Mother had eased him, he felt newly clogged with it all, full to the brim with things he couldn’t name. He sat up in bed, supper’s turkey and bread rising sour in his throat.
Arthur digs his spoon into the Dead Man’s Arm and pushes the red ooze about. Tries to recollect the rest of that last night, even if it hurts, remembering Mother.
He ’d pulled his eiderdown aside and slipped into the soft leather slippers by his bed. He ’d slid along the edges of the squeaky corridor to the top of the stairs. Felt the deep rumble of Father’s voice through the wood.
—and let him grow up, Louise. After all, he is almost twelve.
How can I not be concerned, when he speaks of … Mother’s voice had faded here, hadn’t it? Anyway, he ’d slipped down the flight of steps to his favourite corner. Heard her say something about him growing bigger, stronger, but somehow less than he was. Heard Father using hard words in a harder voice: confides, indulge. Then Mother again, talking about him not eating—and he ’d tasted the sourness once more, clasping his bony knees under his nightgown, while Father talked about his own time at Rugby, saying, I know what it is to be sick for home.
And now he wonders: did Father also have two selves? Did he leave one George Rochdale behind, then? Back at his old school?
Have you not heard him talking about the football matches? his father had continued that night. Something about a scholar, and an athlete—and the form master’s praise: a future leader. But Mother’s voice, too, had been clear and certain, and she ’d talked about love and power in ways he didn’t understand, though he remembers her saying it was the greatest men who love and protect those in need. And he remembers the smile in Father’s voice as he replied, Ah, Louise. Louise. It took your love for me to realise that caring is not weakness, but strength.
Are they right, these memories? One thing he does know: something settled inside him then, only short months ago, at his parents’ words; scattered things found some kind of home.
But now? Now, he has never felt so uncertain, or so lost—as if he is adrift in the dark; as if there will never be anything, anyone, to draw him back to the light.
He lifts a spoonful of the pudding. Opens his mouth.
Gentle breaths and occasional rustles come from the beds lined against the dorm wall. Arthur swallows, then swallows again. If he could just dislodge that rock …
He still hasn’t cried. He feels numb and cold, yet on the verge of explosion. As if someone has placed gunpowder within him and lit a fuse that travels from his feet, up, up, through his legs and torso and into his throat and head. He imagines himself exploded—bits of skull and brain on the ceiling, intestines slapped against the wall with mushy Dead Man’s Arm seeping from the mess.
He quietly pulls his mother’s drawing from where it is folded in tissue paper under his pillow. In the dark of the dorm he cannot see her features, the details she has drawn herself, but he pictures her face in his memory and traces it with a finger: the fine hair, drawn back smoothly over the ears and into a heavy braid that haloes her head; the angles of her face, softened by large brown eyes that dip gently at their outer corners.
How can he go on without her?
He swallows. And then, slowly, with care, he begins to tear bits from the charcoaled sketch and place them in his mouth. He nibbles and chews piecemeal, tasting the gritty residue of the cooled hearth, the image of his mother transforming into a soft pap that he swallows. He wonders where within him Mother might lodge and thinks, for a moment, of his classes on ancient Greece, the writers and physicians he loves. The tragedies of Euripides, the sound of them like music, and his prized volume of tales by Herodotus. The humours that ebb and flow beneath the skin. He imagines Mother seeping into his mouth and throat, his tummy, legs and arms, hands and feet. Into the organs his master told them make up their sad bodies. Lungs. Liver. Kidneys. Heart. She knits herself softly into the fibres of his being. Lights a flame in the hollow below his chest. Speaks calmly to him: So I will always be with you, wherever you are.
He swallows. And swallows. Mother washes at that rock in his throat, softly, lovingly, until he feels it dislodge and, finally, dissolve, somewhere deep within. Tears begin slowly to slide from the dipping corners of his eyes.