FOURTEEN

The building stood up a cobbled sidestreet opening off a main thoroughfare of the town. The room they waited in was occupied by a secretary seated at a desk. Her hair was fastened in a bun, one strand of which she leant back in her chair to fasten.

Mr Corrigan was dressed in a dark-grey suit with a high-winged collar: from the top pocket of his jacket projected a handkerchief and, intermittently, from beneath his jacket, he extracted a watch, wound it, then returned it to his waistcoat pocket.

‘Mr Berresford won’t be long.’ The secretary smiled. A bell rang on her desk. ‘Mondays are always busy,’ she added.

She got up from her desk and crossed the room, opening a door the other side.

‘Mr Corrigan, Mr Berresford,’ she called inside.

A man stood up behind a desk; strands of dark hair grew out, like wings, from the back of his head, the brow of which projected heavily above a pair of dark-brown eyes. Large nostrils were underlain by a dark moustache: a mouth, thin-lipped and scarcely visible, ran down into a circle of fat which, projecting outwards, was compressed against a stiff white collar.

The man wore a dark-brown suit and – like Mr Corrigan, and contrasting strangely with its colour – a pale-blue tie.

‘Hello, Harold,’ he said, and shook Mr Corrigan’s hand.

‘This is the gentleman in question.’ Mr Corrigan indicated Bryan.

The man shook Bryan’s hand, indicated two chairs which had already been placed in front of the desk, and asked, ‘What do you think to our building, Bryan?’

‘It’s old.’

‘Very.’ Teeth, tinted yellow, were revealed within the thin-lipped mouth. Opening a drawer, the man took out a pipe. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘Go ahead.’ Mr Corrigan crossed his legs and, having done so, glanced at Bryan.

‘Two old boys.’ The headmaster gestured at his pale-blue tie, and then, with the stem of his pipe, at Mr Corrigan’s. He laughed, Mr Corrigan laughed, and each, in turn, once more, glanced down at Bryan.

‘What are we to make of him, Max?’ Mr Corrigan laughed again.

‘Another Petersonian?’ the headmaster said.

‘I think so.’

The headmaster, having struck a match, applied it to his pipe.

‘His report gives grounds for hope.’

‘Considerable,’ Mr Corrigan said.

‘From rougher wood than this.’ The headmaster exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Along one wall ran a case containing books; a second, glass-fronted case was occupied by silver cups: above it, suspended from the wall, hung a wooden plaque bearing, in relief, a painted coat of arms beneath which, in black, was inscribed the one word, ‘Independence’.

The headmaster, following Bryan’s look, glanced up. He exhaled another cloud of smoke. ‘Any questions before we cast him to the wolves?’

‘He hasn’t his books,’ Mr Corrigan said.

‘Been ordered, have they?’

Mr Corrigan nodded. ‘Nor his uniform.’

‘Being altered at Bennett’s?’

‘Correct.’

The headmaster stood up; he opened the door to the outer office. ‘All under control, in that case,’ he said, and added, ‘You’ll find it different from what you’re used to, Bryan. We’ll make greater demands, despite our lack of the State’s resources, and also, as a consequence, look for better results.’

The secretary, typing, looked up from her desk.

‘I’ll be downstairs, Mrs Fletcher,’ the headmaster said.

‘Right-o, Mr Berresford,’ the woman called out.

A flight of stone steps led down to a hall: a door opened off on either side; a front door, at the opposite end, opened to the street. Here, after calling, ‘Good luck, Bryan,’ Mr Corrigan put on his hat, turned, waved, added, ‘Cheerio, Max,’ and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

‘Down to business,’ the headmaster said, knocking on one of the two doors and, thrusting his head inside, called, ‘One more for the chopping-block, Mr Waterhouse.’

‘Come in. Come in, Mr Berresford,’ came a high-pitched voice. ‘I’m ironing out,’ the voice added, ‘one or two creases.’

A group of heads, each surmounting a pale-blue blazer, was turned in Bryan’s direction: large, wooden desks faced a larger desk, behind which stood a blackboard on metal castors and in front of which, his arms folded, leaned a small, bald-headed man, with stocky shoulders, bow-legs and a bright-red face: within the bright-red face were set a pair of pale-blue eyes, a protuberant nose and a similarly proportioned mouth which, as Bryan came into the room, was opened in the configuration of the letter ‘O’.

‘Mr Waterhouse,’ the headmaster said to Bryan, and added, ‘I believe we have a desk for Bryan.’

A desk was pointed out at the front.

‘The uniform is forthcoming. Books and utensils forthcoming, too,’ the headmaster said.

‘Compris.’ The teacher glanced down at Bryan.

‘Any problems?’

‘None.’

‘Any problems, Morley?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘“Sir” is the normal suffix, Morley.’

‘No, sir,’ Bryan said.

‘Correct.’

The headmaster, having run his hand across Bryan’s head, glanced round him at the class, nodded, placed his pipe in his mouth and went over to the door. ‘Carry on.’

His footsteps sounded from the stairs outside.

‘Morley, initial “B”,’ the teacher said, stepping behind his desk and mounting a stool. ‘No other initial?’

‘No, sir,’ Bryan said.

‘B.M.,’ he wrote with a pen taken from the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Not B.O.M., or B.A.M., or even B.U.M., but simply,’ he wrote silently for several seconds, ‘B.M.’

A murmur of laughter came from the room.

‘Have you got a pen?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He took one, like the teacher, from the top pocket of his jacket, a fountain pen given him that morning by Mrs Corrigan.

High overhead a gas candelabra, unused, hung from a stuccoed ceiling.

The window beside him, and one other, looked out to the street: a house, of similar proportions to the one he was in, stood directly opposite, a brick-built structure with seven windows on the first floor, seven smaller ones above, and five dormer windows in the attic roof.

‘You will find your exercise books inside your desk. The red is for English, the blue is for French, the green is for Science, the orange for Maths, the purple for History, the pink for Geography, and the grey,’ he concluded, ‘is for General Studies, including,’ he raised his head, ‘Religious Instruction.’ He glanced round him at the class. ‘Perhaps you’ll do us the favour of inscribing your name, together with “Class 3”, on each of them.’ He returned his gaze to Bryan. ‘And then we shall all get down to work.’

Voices echoed in the room; feet shuffled on the ceiling: the building, he decided, had once been someone’s home. Behind the blackboard, on its metal castors, was the sealed-in fireplace with it high mantelshelf and voluted surrounds, and beside each window, folded back, were the original wooden shutters.

The walls, like the ceiling, were cracked, the cream distempered surfaces pocked here and there by the outline of a football and, in one spot, above the door, by the marks of someone’s foot.

The teacher’s voice droned on; at intervals, having descended from the stool and resumed his position, standing, in front of his desk, he glanced at Bryan and called, ‘Is that understood?’ crossing to his desk and inquiring, ‘Have you got the subject “English” written on the red book?’ or, ‘It’s orange for Maths,’ or, ‘The darker green, by the way, is Latin. I may have missed it off my list. If you’ve any inquiries raise your hand.’

That morning he had kissed Mrs Corrigan good-bye, she stooping in the porch then watching him descend to the car in which Mr Corrigan was already waiting, her figure still visible on the steps as they reached the end of the drive and the car dipped down to the road, and, in glancing across at the gaunt-featured figure beside him, he had thought, ‘This is part of the plan. She might not even be his wife.’

‘Morley?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Do you agree with that?’

‘With what, sir?’

‘Weren’t you listening?’

The tiny mouth was pursed.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sit up.’

‘She’ll be sitting in the dining-room,’ he thought, ‘or playing the piano. Or might even be coming into town, or be walking past the school.’

‘Do you always sit in a day-dream, Morley?’

‘No, sir.’

The teacher, after waiting for the class’s laughter to subside, stepped closer. ‘Have you inscribed your books correctly?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let me see.’

He handed up each book in turn.

‘Ever done Latin?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do they teach French where you come from?’

‘No, sir.’

‘This will be a new adventure.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A new start.’

The pale-blue eyes examined him intently.

‘Why are you trembling?’

His arms and his legs had begun to vibrate; he could feel the disturbance inside his chest.

‘You’re not frightened of me, are you?’

‘No, sir.’

Glancing round at the uniformed figures, the teacher said, ‘I’m not a frightening person, am I?’

‘No, Mr Waterhouse,’ the class as a single voice replied.

‘Far more,’ he continued, ‘it’s the other way round. They,’ he gestured at the class, ‘have a far greater capacity to frighten me, one which they exercise without compunction. The hours,’ he concluded, ‘I have shivered at this desk.’

The class laughed; they banged their desks: the majority, however, gazed at Bryan.

‘Parkinson.’

A tall, thin-featured boy stood up; he had bright-red hair and his pale face, particularly around his nose and across his forehead, was sprinkled liberally with freckles.

‘Parkinson is the worst boy in the class and he will hear me out as to how much he and his co-conspirators can frighten me.’

‘We don’t frighten you at all, sir,’ Parkinson said, closing his eyes and stammering before he added, ‘You frighten us.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘It is, sir.’

‘I, Algernon Hardwick Waterhouse, frighten this class?’

A hand was placed above Mr Waterhouse’s breast pocket, the top of which was lined by several pens.

‘It can’t be true.’

‘It’s true, sir,’ came a chorus of shouts.

‘I, who have never raised my voice in anger.’

‘You have, sir!’

‘When, ever, Parkinson, have I raised my voice to you?’

‘Every day, sir.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The tall, red-headed figure bowed its head and a crimson flush rose across its freckled brow.

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Your name isn’t Algernon,’ a voice called out.

‘If it isn’t Algernon,’ Mr Waterhouse replied, ‘may I lose every hair on my head.’

‘You have, sir!’

The hand from the breast pocket of Mr Waterhouse’s jacket was raised to the top of Mr Waterhouse’s head. ‘And this morning, in the mirror, I looked so pretty.’

The class laughed. Desk lids were banged. Feet stamped on the floor.

‘You’ll have to bear me out in this,’ Mr Waterhouse said, raising his hand, at which the banging of desks subsided. ‘Have I ever frightened anyone?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Parkinson said.

‘Who?’

‘Everyone, sir.’

‘Including you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I see little sign of it.’ He glanced at Bryan. ‘You will have to believe me when I say I was not aware I frightened anyone. If I do,’ he added, ‘I apologize.’

The desk lids were tapped, the feet were stamped; the laughter in the room broke out again.

‘I am an ogre. What am I?’

‘An ogre,’ everyone in the room replied.

‘A tyrant.’

‘A tyrant,’ everyone in the room responded.

‘I terrify everyone, as Parkinson can attest. No one sleeps at night who has spent the previous day in my classroom. Why, no one sleeps at all,’ he concluded, ‘if ever I catch them at it.’

The laughter broke out more loudly.

‘If Parkinson will sit up we’ll all get down to work,’ the teacher said, glancing round the room, and adding, ‘Everyone suitably frightened, are they?’ glancing down at Bryan, smiling, and calling, ‘When I say “three” take out your pens. One, two,’ pausing, his hand raised, ‘two and one half, two and three-quarters, two and seven-eighths, two and fifteen-sixteenths, two and thirty-one thirty-seconds, two and sixty-three sixty-fourths,’ and, beaming at the room in general, ‘two and one hundred and twenty-seven one hundred and twenty-eighths,’ and, finally, ‘three!’

‘Why did you come here if you didn’t have to?’ Parkinson said. He walked beside Bryan in the tarmacked yard, his hands in his pockets, his tall figure stooped, his freckled face turned down to watch his shoes. A tennis ball rose, bounced off the windowed wall of the school, fell back to the yard and was pursued, still bouncing, to a chorus of shouts.

‘I was invited to come here,’ Bryan said.

‘Who invited you?’

‘My aunt.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘Mrs Corrigan.’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘They own a shop in town.’

‘Oh, that Corrigan,’ Parkinson said.

‘Do you know them?’

‘I’ve seen the shop. My father gets most of his furniture there.’

‘Does Waterhouse really frighten you?’ Bryan asked.

Surprisingly, at a window overlooking the yard, the figure of Mr Corrigan was gazing down; a moment later it disappeared to be replaced by that of Mr Berresford.

‘We call him “Watty”,’ Parkinson said. ‘I once made him cry, as a matter of fact.’

‘How?’

‘I have my means.’

A tall, red-haired figure had come out from the glass-panelled door at the back of the school and stood for several seconds, picking a scab on its cheek, gazing down the flight of steps at the figures in the yard below: the tennis ball rose against the wall of the building, rattled a window, and came down again. The red-haired figure, after raising its arm, called, turned, and went back inside.

‘Have you a brother at Peterson’s?’ Bryan asked.

‘Clive.’

‘What’s your name?’ Bryan said.

‘Gordon.’

At the window overlooking the yard the figure of the headmaster had disappeared.

‘Why did your aunt send you,’ Parkinson said, ‘and not your parents?’

‘They haven’t any money,’ Bryan said.

Parkinson examined the toe of each shoe.

‘Why not?’

‘My father works on a farm,’ he said.

‘Which one?’

‘Spencer’s.’

Parkinson’s head came up. ‘My father knows Spencer.’

‘How does he know him?’

‘By way of business.’ The tennis ball passed by. Parkinson took a kick, missed, and, but for Bryan extending his hand, might have fallen.

‘Ronald!’ someone shouted.

‘Saunders!’

‘Victor!’

‘Who’s Ronald Saunders Victor?’ Bryan said.

‘Me.’

‘I thought you said your name was Gordon.’

‘My nickname. R.S.V.P.’ He nodded his head, kicked at the ground, and added, ‘Why did you come here if you didn’t have to?’

‘I wanted to come here,’ Bryan said.

‘If I had a choice I wouldn’t.’ Parkinson flung out his hand. ‘I don’t often come, in any case,’ he added.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘Where do you go?’

‘Reggie’s.’

‘What’s Reggie’s?’ Bryan asked.

‘Reggie’s is Reggie’s,’ Parkinson said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it?’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I’ll take you one day.’

‘Aren’t you ever found out?’

‘They don’t mind.’

‘Why not?’

‘My wadjers wanted me to come so here I come and here I stay and here I take a day off whenever I like.’

‘What’s a wadjer?’ Bryan asked.

‘A wadjer,’ Parkinson said, ‘is a parent. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a wadjer is?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘R.S.V.P.,’ came a shout behind.

‘Rotters,’ Parkinson called across his shoulder.

‘Morley moccasins,’ came another shout.

‘That’ll be your nickname,’ Parkinson said.

‘Mocky,’ came a further shout.

‘That’ll be the one they’ve chosen.’

‘Why’s that?’ Bryan said, glancing at the figures cascading across the yard behind.

‘Don’t ask me,’ Parkinson said. ‘I’ve only been here three years, and I know less about the place than when I started.’

‘I enjoyed it,’ Bryan said.

She took his arm and, glancing to the main entrance of the school – a metal gate which led round to the yard at the back – she said, ‘I set off over an hour ago and have been walking up and down for the past ten minutes.’

She’d been standing across the cobbled street, adjacent to the door of the building opposite which, like the entrance to the school itself, was approached by a flight of steps, lined by metal railings – and to the pavement end of which was attached a bracketed gas lamp: it was beneath the lamps, palely illuminated by their yellow glow, that she’d been waiting.

‘You didn’t have to wait,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘If I hadn’t have decided to meet you I couldn’t have got through the day,’ she said.

Mr Waterhouse came out from the front door of the building, drew a white raincoat about his stocky figure and, glancing across at Bryan and then at Mrs Corrigan, came quickly down the steps, raised a hat in Mrs Corrigan’s direction, and set off down the street towards the thoroughfare at the opposite end.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Mr Waterhouse glanced back, nodded, raised his hat, and hurried on.

‘He’s my teacher.’

‘He shows a great interest in you,’ she said and tightened the grip on his arm.

‘In you,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘I’m sure it must be you.’ Yet even as she spoke Mr Waterhouse glanced round again, stumbled against a flagstone, retrieved his balance, drew his white raincoat more closely about him, glanced back once more, then, breaking into a run, disappeared around the corner.

‘What on earth have you said to him?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You must have said something, Bryan.’

She was wearing a light-brown hat and, beneath the hat, a costume.

‘Mr Corrigan came at playtime,’ Bryan said.

‘I wish you’d call him Uncle.’

‘Uncle came at playtime.’

‘He rang me up to say he’d been across to see how well you’d settled.’

‘Why?’

‘I asked him to.’ She drew him across the street. ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, ‘you’ve thought of me all day.’

‘I have.’

She brushed back his hair, and said, ‘I thought we’d go to Fraser’s.’

‘Why Fraser’s?’

‘I thought we’d celebrate.’

A rush of voices came from the opposite pavement.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Bryan said.

‘Are you?’

‘I’d have been unhappy if you hadn’t.’

‘Well,’ she said. She glanced about her. ‘That’s nice,’ and, clasping his hand more firmly, led him down the street.

The interior of the shop was lit by lamps.

Halfway up a flight of steps she paused at a mirror, examined her make-up, then her hat, then, glancing at Bryan, smiling, she said, ‘You needn’t look so scared.’ She laughed, turned to the remaining flight of stairs, took his arm, glanced back at the mirror, in which – wanly, grim-visaged – he caught a glimpse of his own dark eyes, spectral, expanded, seemingly distended, and added, ‘Nothing’s as bad as it seems.’

Numerous tables, the majority of them occupied by women, heavily coated and brightly hatted, stretched across a carpeted interior illuminated, from the centre of the ceiling, by a dome of coloured glass and, from the opposite end, by several plate-glass windows across one of which, in an arc, reversed, was printed, in gold, the one word ‘Fraser’s’. A hand was waved, Mrs Corrigan called out, called out a second time and, not pausing in her progress, crossed to where a waitress in a black dress and a small white apron was standing at a table recently vacated. ‘Thank you, Phyl,’ she said, and added, ‘This is Bryan. You’ll be seeing a lot of him in the future.’

‘Hello, Bryan,’ the woman said, her appearance not dissimilar to that of Miss Watkinson in Mr Corrigan’s office. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Cakes and tea, Phyl,’ Mrs Corrigan said, taking off her gloves. ‘It’s been his first day at Peterson’s,’ she added.

‘Then he will be hungry,’ the waitress said and, smiling down, in turn, at Bryan, called, ‘I shan’t be long,’ and disappeared across the room.

‘Phyl’s nice,’ Mrs Corrigan said, and added, ‘She worked at the shop and when she got married she only wanted a part-time job. She always saves me a table.’

His hand was clasped beneath the cloth.

‘Isn’t it cosy?’ Beneath his hand he could feel her skirt and, beneath her skirt, the smoothness of her stocking. ‘Most of my friends come here,’ she said and, as a woman in a brightly coloured hat called, ‘How are you, Fay?’ she added, ‘We could come here each Friday, at the end of the week, and celebrate, and probably on Mondays, too,’ turning, as the waitress reappeared, holding a tray, swinging between the tables, and asking, ‘I don’t suppose Peterson’s is very different from what you’re used to?’ and, once the food had been laid out and, with a smile at her and one at Bryan, the waitress had disappeared across the room, concluding, ‘The teachers, I imagine, are much the same?’

‘Peculiar,’ Bryan said.

‘How peculiar?’

‘They put on more of an act,’ he said. ‘On top of which the children are different.’

‘Because they’re boys,’ Mrs Corrigan said. ‘You’ve been used to girls as well until now.’ She clasped his hand more firmly. ‘And now,’ she concluded, ‘you’ve only got me.’

A moment later, after watching him eat, she said, ‘You’ve no regrets, I take it?’

‘None,’ he said.

‘You see how silly I am.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Am I silly?’ She laughed.

‘Very.’

‘I hope not.’

‘At times.’

‘Can everyone see it?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘You’ll have to tell me if they can.’

She acknowledged several waves.

And later, before they left, several women, who had been on the point of leaving, came over to the table. ‘Bryan is my recent charge. It’s been his first day at Peterson’s,’ Mrs Corrigan explained.

‘That’s a good school,’ the majority said, shaking Bryan’s hand or, in one or two instances, clenching it tightly and asking, ‘How did it go?’

‘I enjoyed it,’ Bryan said, varying his responses by adding, ‘I think I’ll be happy,’ or, ‘I’m going to like it,’ implying by his look that his circumstances previous to his attendance at Peterson’s had not been all he might have wished for.

‘How charming he is,’ several of the women said, one of the older, more soberly attired turning to Mrs Corrigan and adding, ‘Is he adopted, Fay?’ Mrs Corrigan, flushing, glancing back and answering, ‘It’s far too early to say,’ laughing, still flushed, and nodding her head at a further remark, the woman turning, and calling, ‘See you do everything Mrs Corrigan asks!’

‘That went well,’ Mrs Corrigan said as they crossed the room, acknowledging several further inquiries, and introducing Bryan at two further tables, and on the stairs she added, ‘That didn’t frighten you, I take it?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘It frightened me. But then,’ she added, ‘I frighten easily,’ pausing at the entrance, gazing out at the street and calling, ‘It’s begun to rain. We’ll take a taxi,’ allowing him to precede her up the hill and to open the door of the first of the line of cars waiting in the Bull Ring and, in the process of climbing in, concluding, taking Bryan’s arm, ‘I think we can tell Mr Corrigan that the day, as a whole, has been a huge success.’