13

Mr Turtle stood alone by the bicycle sheds. They were sheds that had not been there in his time: he was trying to think what had stood in their place. A small boy was cleaning the handle-bars of a bicycle with a rag, taking advantage of the day of freedom.

Approaching the boy, Mr Turtle said: ‘I broke my leg in this yard once.’

He looked around him, establishing the spot.

The boy paused in his labour, interested in the remark. He saw that at lunch something had spilled on Mr Turtle’s waistcoat and left a white stain. He said: ‘Are you an Old Boy, sir?’

He had slipped on a stick running to see if there was a letter for him. Somehow his foot had caught in the cobbles, and the weight of his falling body snapped the bone in his leg. ‘It was in plaster for nearly a whole term. I almost had to learn how to walk with it again.’

‘Wigg broke something, sir, at his prep school. I think he said a collar-bone.’

‘It is easy to break the collar-bone.’

Why should they interfere with his life like this? Why should they talk against Miss Burdock? What business was it of anyone’s but his that he was getting married? Old men got married, no one prevented them. Did they know better than he what it was like to have Mrs Strap coming to the house every morning, grumbling about the marks of his walking-stick on the linoleum? Did they know what it was to be always escaping from the images in his mind, and seeking people to talk to in parks?

‘On Sundays, sir, we can go out on our bikes. We can take sandwiches. Me and Wigg are going out on Sunday.’

‘Is Wigg – is that your great friend?’

‘Oh, yes, sir. Wigg’s father has a Mercedes-Benz. And a horse called Lightning. They’re very rich, but the old horse never wins anything.’

‘What’s – what’s the other thing you said?’

‘A Mercedes-Benz? Don’t you know, sir? It’s a German car. It’s probably the finest car in the world. It’s very fast. I’ve been in it when it’s gone a hundred miles an hour. On the M.1.’

Mr Turtle said: ‘You would not reach that pace on your bicycle.’ He smiled to show he knew he was making a joke.

‘I don’t think even a motor-cycle would, sir. No, I think a motor-cycle could go that fast. A motor-cycle can go as fast as a car, can’t it, sir?’

‘Oh, definitely, I think. Faster, you know.’

The boy nodded. Mr Turtle said: ‘I had a great friend: Topham minor.’ Topham had died a few years ago, after making a success of life. Mr Turtle was godfather to one of his sons. In his will there was a legacy for the younger Topham. ‘I was keen on wild flowers when I was here.’

‘Were you, sir? I’m quite good at carpentry. I made a bird-box last term. It’s in the Junior Exhibition.’

‘I did carpentry too; but I wasn’t up to that standard. I don’t remember ever having anything in an exhibition. I don’t think there were any exhibitions.’

‘We have a woodwork exhibition every year, sir. Mr Rathbone teaches us. Who taught you, sir?’

‘Well now, d’you know, I can’t remember that either. I think it was a little man with a moustache. It’s a longish time ago.’

‘Mr Rathbone has a beard. He teaches pottery as well; and archery. He’s here today, sir, keeping an eye on the exhibitions.’

They shouldn’t have spoken that way at lunch, discussing his private affairs in public. A total stranger had even become involved in the conversation. Why should they treat it so lightly, and laugh so much, as though he too treated it lightly and was marrying without thought or care? He enjoyed talking to Miss Burdock at the Rimini, he enjoyed going with her to the Gaumont. Was that a crime? Was it a folly? Did they think he didn’t know his own mind?

‘It’s a B.S.A., sir. I had it for my birthday, from my grandmother. My parents are in Kenya, sir.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My parents are out in Kenya. I go to my grandmother’s in the holidays. She lives in Totnes in Devon.’

Once he had gone to stay with Topham in Yorkshire. They had followed a river to its source, wading with their clothes tied to their heads. They must have looked odd, but Topham said that was the way to do it. Coming to the source was like reaching the peak of a mountain. Probably, he thought, it was one of the most exciting moments in his life.

‘Kenya is a troublesome place these days.’ The words slipped out: as soon as he spoke he was sorry he had said them.

‘It’s very beautiful, sir. Have you been there?’

‘No, I’ve never been there. I’ve seen pictures, though.’

‘Look, sir.’ And the boy drew photographs from his wallet, of scenery and animals, of a house with children and adults in front of it.

‘My mother’s just had another baby. I haven’t seen it yet, but I will this summer. I’m going out there.’

‘You’ll – you’ll like that.’

‘Yes, sir. It’s funny having a sister you haven’t seen.’

‘Your mother is a very pretty lady.’

‘She’s photogenic, sir. I’ve got another sister, older than me. She goes to school in England too.’

‘Do you know if it’s half-past three?’

‘A quarter to four, sir.’

‘I must take a pill for my heart.’

‘Yes, sir. Is that a bind, sir?’

‘Well, I have to have them.’

‘If you didn’t, sir, what would happen? Would your heart stop altogether? Would you die, sir?’

‘Probably. I have to lead a very quiet life, no excitement.’

‘Wigg says they can take your heart out and put it back again.’

‘Not, I imagine, if it’s in poor shape like mine is.’

‘I wouldn’t like to have it done to me. The heart isn’t the seat of affections, is it, sir?’

‘I’ve heard it said the kidneys are. I think you know more than I do.’

‘It’s Wigg really, sir. His father tells him. Like what would happen if you laid all the railway lines in the world end to end all the way to the moon.’

‘If you laid all the railway lines end to –’

‘We’d have to go everywhere by car. D’you think that bike looks clean?’

‘Very clean. Spotless.’

‘Would you like to see my bird-box in the Exhibition?’

‘What? Your –? Yes, yes, I would.’

‘I’ll just put the bicycle away.’

She had told him her Christian name and asked him to call her by it, but he couldn’t for the moment remember what it was. Agnes? Agatha? Angela? Helen?

The boy returned from the bicycle shed. They walked to the Exhibition.

‘That’s Mr Rathbone, sir. The man with the beard. There’s my bird-box.’

‘Well, that seems finely made. Did you do it all yourself?’

‘Mr Rathbone helped me a bit. You lift up the top to put the bread in, and that hole at the side is for the birds to go in and out. It’s got to be just the right size; if it’s too big they won’t use it. Would you like to meet Mr Rathbone?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Mr Rathbone. Sir, this is –’

‘Turtle the name is.’

‘Sir, this is Mr Turtle. He’s an Old Boy. Mr Turtle did woodwork too, sir.’

‘How d’you do?’ said Mr Rathbone, shaking hands.

‘Quite a display,’ Mr Turtle said.

‘We do our best, you know. Some good stuff the older boys turn out. You interested in woodwork, sir?’

‘Well, it was just that this young man –’ Mr Turtle looked round for the boy.

‘He trotted off,’ Mr Rathbone said.

‘A polite boy. Very nice. You don’t often get that at that age.’

‘We do our best with them. Not the same class of boy at all, of course. Still, tempora mutantur, as the Classics have it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Just a reflection in passing, sir.’

‘What?’

‘The type of boy has changed since your day.’

‘Oh. Well, I must trot off myself. Are you tied to your, hmm, stalls? Would you join me in a cup of tea?’

‘I am tied, I fear. Some kind lad may fetch me a cup if I’m lucky.’ Mr Rathbone laughed and they shook hands again. Mr Turtle, who had been fingering a sixpence to give to the boy, felt sorry that he was gone.

Tea was laid out in a large marquee, the property of a catering company. There was chocolate cake and shortbread, sandwiches, biscuits, and plates of raspberries and cream. The tea itself was of poor quality, metallic like rust water. It gushed from great tarnished urns that hissed and steamed menacingly. There were bowers of summer flowers against the canvas, tall delphiniums, roses and early asters. The Headmaster’s wife fussed about, a nuisance to the caterers.

‘Cake, Mr Turtle?’ she cried, proud that she remembered his name. ‘Chocolate cake with a thick filling? Or something else? There is lemon for that tea if you would rather.’

Mr Turtle took tea and cake. The woman was right, the filling was thick and good. Should he give her the sixpence, he wondered, to pass on to the boy? He remembered the boy’s face quite well; it would not be difficult to describe. But the Headmaster’s wife was talking to someone else.

He stood alone, drinking from a flowered cup, watching the marquee fill with people and voices. He and Topham used to hang round the marquee on Old Boys’ Day, waiting to slip in at the end of tea and take what remained of the cakes and the raspberries. Probably it was the same marquee, or at least of the same vintage: marquees are made to last. It would be nice to be talking to Topham today, as Cridley had Sole to talk to and Sole had Cridley. They weren’t aware of it but they guarded their friendship a bit. He had felt too grateful when they invited him to journey with them today. When one needed friendship, now or as a boy, there were always difficulties like that.

A woman in a white overall broke in on his thoughts, pressing a plate of wafer biscuits on him. He sighed and smiled and took one. How nice it would be to hear a bell and run to its summons, to join a queue for milk or cocoa, and later to do prep and wait for another bell that meant the rowdy security of the dormitory. How nice it would be to slip, tired and a little homesick, between the cold sheets. He heard his name called. Somebody gave him a fresh cup of tea and asked him a question he did not understand.