Marion’s curse had come again. Despite rigorous calendar keeping and even more rigorous effort, Jamie had not been able to give his wife the thing she wanted. The thing they both wanted. At first neither of them had admitted to worry. They weren’t in a hurry (though his sisters thought they’d already left it too long). But she was turning thirty, so last year he arranged for her to see a man in Harley Street, someone Beth found while promising not to tell Jamie’s other sisters or their father. After a thorough examination, the man had declared there was nothing wrong with Marion; later, he declared there was nothing wrong with Jamie. No reason whatsoever they couldn’t conceive. It was simply bad luck. They were to keep trying. She was to eat a healthful diet. They were both of them to be calm.
Still, every month blood, relentless as the Furies. They’d spent Easter at the Rectory with the horde and not one person asked them about it, leaving Jamie with the impression that his father had ordered them not to. Their silence had the perverse effect of making Marion despair; obviously, she said, they’d realized she was incapable. They’d always despised her, and now they knew she couldn’t do what every other woman could. Jamie responded with increased ardor in his childhood bedroom. She wasn’t incapable, neither of them was, they simply needed to persevere.
This time—the hope of Easter?—Marion had felt different. Something had stuck, she said. Her appetites changed, and her mood. But then his father had cornered him in the summerhouse:
—Everything waits on him, the man began.
Jamie had tensed but made no verbal reply.
—You can’t make a child by your own will.
—I know that!
His temper had risen, his mind a tangle of unvoiced accusations.
—What about John Grieves? his father said.
Jamie had to ask him to repeat himself.
—Why have you never had him down in the holidays?
Jamie hurled his pipe across the lawn:
—I don’t see what he has to do with anything!
—It’s been wrong to leave it so long, his father said.
If Jamie had been younger, he would have stormed up to his room and packed his things. Instead, he took himself for a stiff walk.
When he first took the post at St. Stephen’s, his father had agreed not to press him about John. The school needed John in good order, Jamie had insisted, more than anyone in the Sebastian family needed rapprochement about whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it. Since then, the Bishop had confined himself to the occasional query after John’s health, which Jamie always reported as excellent. But that was the thing with his father: he might seem reasonable, he might even behave reasonably for years on end, but one day, when you were least defended, the old devil would pounce. The very last thing Jamie intended to do was invite John to the Rectory. Even if John and Marion got on, which they never would, John didn’t deserve the Bishop uncut, not to mention Jamie’s sisters. The very suggestion, Jamie decided halfway through his walk, could only be a maneuver to undermine his marriage and recall him to the time of childhood.
He and Marion were due to leave the next day, so he was spared the fight with his urge to flee. They had a weekend in London, went to the theater, organized a new suit for him (Marion claimed the right to approve his wardrobe), and then returned to a spell of mild weather, a true breath of spring, new things rising unstoppably from the earth.
When her curse started again, Jamie did his best to act as though it didn’t matter. He wrote twelve letters pleading for funds for the school library, but what they really needed was a new organ. The recent patch job wouldn’t last long.
Gray’s relief at escaping Swan Cottage was soon eclipsed. There were the usual nerves on returning to school, but now he had to confront the problem of the holiday task, which he had forgotten in the macabre commotion at the end of last term. Arriving without one’s holiday task was the quickest way to a docket, but he had reckoned that he could seclude himself in the form room that first evening if the train arrived to schedule. The bigger if was Trevor, who would not easily allow him to swot on a night without prep. Add to that the elaborate exchange of information Trevor would demand, and the chances of completing the hol tak decreased; however, Gray thought it possible, at least as a backup plan, that he might escape a docket given his mother’s late and unwelcome interference. According to her, he was to sit for his Remove at the start of term rather than the end. Evidently his Housemaster had suggested it and she had consented, all without consulting him. Was the whole thing a plot to separate him from Trevor, who would stay behind in the Remove? Sickeningly, he realized such a plot could succeed.
JCR—Trinity Term, 1931
Carter |
Head of House |
Swinton |
Captain of Games |
Moss |
Prefect of Chapel |
Pearce |
Prefect of Hall |
Halton checked the notice board personally to make sure the rumors were true. Pearce’s appointment to full prefect didn’t make his plan any more or less necessary, but it did increase the chances of success. Fags weren’t required to report for duty the first night, but after Pearce’s studymate decamped, Halton came to the study. Pearce informed him that he did not belong there; he belonged in the dorm. When Halton reclined on the window seat, Pearce asked if he thought he was clever.
—I was only wondering, Halton replied, if you’ll be keeping football boots in the drawer this term.
Pearce froze. He begged Halton’s pardon.
—For late-night excursions.
Pearce began to stutter:
—I’ve n-no idea what you’re on about, but as they s-say in Scotland nemo me impune lacessit.
—They s-say that in Scotland, do they?
—And in case your Cicero’s gone rusty, it means no one messes me about and gets away with it!
Pearce wrenched open a desk drawer and produced a slipper, which he slammed across the desk in demonstration.
—I was wondering, though, Halton continued.
—You, Pearce said, are on my last nerve.
—Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. That means—
—I know what it means.
Pearce was still, like he got before snapping. If he hauled off and hit him, it would hurt, but he’d still win.
—Just what is your beastly point?
White flag. The thrill of holding secrets and making them pay. Pearce had got away with following Mainwaring and Riding to the barn in the middle of the night, and now Halton had made it plain he knew. But his decisive advantage, greater even than knowing Pearce’s night prowling, was knowing Pearce’s character. Any other person would have called his bluff: if he actually were to peach on Pearce, not only would he be sent to Coventry, but the accessory hell would make Pearce’s knockings-about look like love taps. But Pearce, and only Pearce, was straight enough to fear him. Pearce was too stupid for deviousness, so he never detected it in others, and he was too beholden to the goodwill of authorities to risk a fall from grace.
Pearce watched silently as he departed, and when he slammed the door, Pearce didn’t follow. His joints felt loose, like eating too much icing. Everyone talked about revenge served cold, but no one said it could rack your nerves.
Trinity term was the best term, in Moss’s view. The weather was good. The sport was cricket. They had Patron’s Day in June and fruit in season. The days were long, the bounds wide.
Pearce, as usual, tried to spoil it the very first night by lurching into Moss and Crighton’s study when he should have been at dorm rounds. Moss sent Crighton to the dorms and told Pearce to relax. Pearce refused. He was in a bait with Halton though fagging hadn’t even started. Despite a torrent of words, Moss couldn’t follow.
Pearce wasn’t usually this bad. True, he’d gone berserk in the final moments of last term, but Moss had supposed it the looming prospect of home. Had he always been worst at the start and end of terms? Moss had no idea what had transpired during Pearce’s holiday (and the thought of Pearce’s home life made him shudder), but he felt sure it involved hours on his knees. Too much religion was as bad as too little, though Morgan always said it wasn’t that simple with Pearce. Still, Morgan wasn’t here, and Pearce had never opened his heart to Moss.
Moss hauled him out of bed and into the corridor:
—I don’t know what you’ve been playing at, young Halton, but you can leave Pearce alone.
He would be fagging for Moss and Crighton this term. It was all settled with Pearce. He was to take the innocent expression off his face.
—And if word gets around, that we’re soft for example, you’ll get something to remember. Understand?
Was it necessary to thank God when good fortune arose from your own maneuvers? Their ayah in Mombasa had practiced witchcraft but always prayed as well to her own gods and to the Virgin Mary. Halton wasn’t sure the witchcraft had ever worked, but his sister believed in it. They’d been in England six months, and still Miranda wore that charm under her clothing. It was her luck and her blessing, she said, and without it, she would never have won a single competition. The holidays had not brought them closer, as he’d hoped, and he saw that in his absence she had become wed to the piano as never before. When he accused her of loving it more than she loved him, her reply was unconsoling: You are my brother. Piano is my soul!
Dear Mr. Grieves, Thank you for your letter and advice about taking the Remove exam early. A challenge would indeed do the boy good and give him something to focus his mind. (Heaven knows, he needs it.) Can I infer from your vagueness that my son is being a nuisance?
Mrs. Riding’s script was neat but boyish, sharper than most mothers’ and written in a turquoise ink. His letter had cheered her mother’s heart, she said, particularly his expectations for the Scholarship Sixth.
If it isn’t too forward, I’d take the liberty to say that there’s no other man I’d better trust with the boy than you.
He didn’t think she was speaking in code.
I hope the Remove will effect a change of manner in the boy, but in any case I’m confident you’ll guide him as only you can. Sincere Regards, Mrs. E. Riding.
And by change of manner, she meant…?
p.s. Incidentally, I’ve made plans to remarry. News not received as well as hoped. Work cut out for you, sorry to say.
He’d been delayed in France by stormy seas. His throat was sore during the crossing, and by the time he got back to the Academy, he was fevered and frantic. Jamie had postponed the staff meeting on his behalf, and his matron had taken care of study assignments, dorms, and other notices according to what he’d been able to shout down the telephone before the line dropped in Dieppe. He sat up that first night, preparing hasty lessons, attending to correspondence, and fielding a stack of memoranda from Jamie.
Choir 7–8 p.m. Sat., 8–9 a.m. Sun.
Austin withdrawn, cramming for Sandhurst.
Sunday timetable, rev …
Tea Saturday 5 o’clock?
Mainwaring withdrawn. Explain later.
Tea Sunday 4.30. Marion out.
The final letter had been discovered near dawn stuck to a bill from his booksellers.
Hôtel des Deux-Mondes, Vichy—Dear Uncle John, you mustn’t be agitated. It’s only been three days, and we didn’t get any of your letters until this morning. It was Hôtel des Sources, not Hôtel des Souris, but never mind now ’cause we’ve moved (see above). Mum has recovered some strength. The three doctors haven’t agreed on a scheme, but they have her taking the waters day and night. She says to tell you she’s doing splendidly and please forgive her being slack, she doesn’t feel much like letter writing. Now she’s telling me to say there’s no need, with a sweet secretary like me. Help! (Only joking.) (About the Help, I mean.) They say the weather in the Channel is clearing, so I expect you’ll soon be home and back to proper tea. Love, Cordelia.