The school sports had been postponed because of bad weather. Nobody wanted them now. Sports day was the sort of climax you could not approach twice and the headmaster’s second choice of date lighted on the coldest day of summer. After morning prayers he called attention to the temperature – as if the boys were not shivering already.
‘Now don’t let me see any boy this afternoon without his overcoat!’
The boys listened in a docile fashion.
‘Now don’t let me see any boy …’ His particular form of injunction always sounded less like an order to obey than an invitation to deceive. He descended from the rostrum, clutching his gown tightly round him. Daily he was embarrassed by little boys who waylaid him.
‘Well, what is it?’ This morning he had to stop because there was a long queue of them. I sauntered by. Each little boy appeared to be asking the same question.
‘Please sir, will a mackintosh do?’
I moved away. I was concerned with the part I had to play in the sports. The arrangements were in the hands of Bolshaw, and in the previous year I had found myself down on his list as telegraph-steward. This meant that I was on duty beside the cricket scoreboard, thirty yards in front of the distinguished spectators’ row of chairs, for the whole of the afternoon. I thought telegraph-steward was an intolerable rôle, suited only to someone who felt a pathological desire to be in the public eye. I aspired to be the prize-steward, since this appeared to involve no duties at all. I told Bolshaw that I thought if I were only given a chance I could make an exceptionally good prize-steward. I tried to convey that I could care for the prizes as if they were my own children.
I went to the field early in the afternoon. Bolshaw had failed to circulate his list in the morning, and I was hopeful. I decided to install myself as prize-steward before he arrived. The games master was already there. Bolshaw did the organizing: the games master did the work. The weather was wretched and I was wearing an overcoat. There was a wind blowing, no blustering winter wind, but a summer one that insinuated its iciness. The games master came out of the pavilion, wearing a high-necked sweater and a pair of gym shoes.
‘Come on, Joe!’ he said. ‘Come an’ ’elp me with the prizes, before the nobs come.’
The games master was a friend of mine. He was a middle-aged family man, an ex-sergeant-major, unlettered, cheerful and fond of boys. I helped him unpack the prizes. The wind rustled the pieces of tissue paper out of our fingers.
‘Brr,’ said the games master, jumping springily from one foot to the other. ‘The ruddy Lord Mayor’ll ’ave to be set up like a brass monkey for this. ’E’ll need ’is gold chain to tie ’em on with.’
We surveyed the table, and the desired objects for which, like children of my own, I was to care. There were electroplated cups of different sizes, accompanied by a collection of teaspoons, cruets, rose-bowls with wire across the top and jam-pots with electroplated lids.
‘’Ere, what’s this?’ said the games master. ‘Not something useful?’ It was a safety-razor: I read the card, on which was written:
JUNIOR 100 YARDS
‘Good God!’ I said, and rapidly went through the other cards. Someone had playfully exchanged them all. A handsome case of silver teaspoons was going to the winner of the junior egg-and-spoon race, while the victor ludorum was going to get a plastic serviette-ring for his efforts.
We began a hasty redistribution. The Lord Mayor arrived. He was going to give away the prizes. He was a short, vigorous, red-faced man, with a bay-window and a powerful glare. He looked as if he had high blood pressure. He also looked as if he thought the games master and I were trying to steal the prizes. He stationed himself very close to the table and glared at us. We retired to the pavilion, which was filled with boys in different stages of undress, chattering at the top of their voices.
The games master pushed his way in.
‘Now then! Listen to me! You all know what a cold afternoon it is. Well, we’re going to get it over at the double. I’m not going to ’ave you all standing there, doing sweet fanny adams and catching your death. Understand this, now! Any boy who isn’t ready for ’is race loses ’is chance!’ There was a hush. ‘What’s more, I’ll run ’im round the gym tomorrow morning with the slipper be’ind ’im.’ The hush turned to laughter. ‘Who’s not brought ’is overcoat or ’is mac?’ The laughter turned back into a hush. ‘All right!’
We were about to begin what promised to be the fastest sports meeting in the history of athletics.
Many of the boys were excellent untrained athletes, and the school games record was highly creditable. But the Greek spirit burned with the lowest possible flame in the staff. Those given official duties walked about with their collars turned up and a look of hard-boiled irritation: as prize-steward, I was sorry for them.
As I walked across the field I met Bolshaw.
‘Lunn,’ he said, ‘Lunn!’
‘Yes.’
Bolshaw stared at me, with his shoulders hunched inside an old-fashioned overcoat. His hat was pulled down to his spectacles.
‘Lunn,’ he said, ‘I’ve rearranged the duties. I’ve got a different one for you.’
‘What?’
‘Telegraph-steward.’
I thought: ‘It’s not different at all!’ I said: ‘But the prizes, Bolshaw. Who’s to look after the prizes?’ At that moment I felt devoted to the prizes.
‘I’ve thought of that,’ said Bolshaw. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the prizes myself.’
‘Myself.’ I could not argue. I turned up the collar of my overcoat and made for the telegraph-post.
At the post I found Trevor and Benny waiting to assist me. I looked at Benny. ‘What are you doing here?’ I said loudly.
Benny’s face took on a grossly pathetic expression.
Trevor said: ‘He’s a menace. Send him away!’ He disliked Benny.
This made me feel inclined to let Benny stay. Like a dog Benny sensed it.
‘Don’t listen to him, sir.’
I hesitated. Benny’s expression was poised on the edge of a ludicrous, grateful smile. There was a loud bang. The first race had begun. It occurred to me that if I sent Benny away I should have to take a hand in the work myself. That settled it.
Soon I was delighted by the way things were going. I normally found sports meetings tedious: today’s performance began at the pace of a smart revue – it was perfect.
As usual, perfection did not last. Bolshaw had instructed the starter not to wait for boys who were late for the start. Naturally it was not long before a wretched little boy ran up as the gun went off. The starter shouted at him. The boy jumped like a rabbit and started to run down the track. The effect was dramatic. The spectators immediately came to life.
‘Go it, the little ’un!’ they shouted. He did not catch up but they cheered him loudly as he walked off the field.
Races followed each other at a pace more suited to Americans than Greeks. And then the weather took a hand. The clouds had been lowering, the wind dropped, and now there came a shower of icy rain. Immediately the spectators made for the lines of thick leafy trees on each side of the field.
The boys in the middle ran towards the pavilion. On the way they surged past the distinguished spectators, and saw the headmaster beside himself with alarm because rain-drops were falling on the prizes.
‘Look after the prizes!’ he was crying. He stripped off his overcoat and laid it over them. ‘Give me some more coats! You there, boy! Give me your overcoat. Boy! Boy!’
The Lord Mayor was struggling to undo his chain. The boys swarmed round, and in a few seconds the table was covered with a mountain of clothes.
‘That’s enough!’ cried the headmaster. ‘Enough! Enough! Don’t be silly!’ He furtively cuffed a boy who was taking no notice and the Lord Mayor pretended not to see.
The rain fell.
Under the trees it was dry. Several masters sat in their cars: the remainder, together with the boys and their parents, walked up and down to keep warm. It looked like a German theatre audience on the Bummel.
I was walking gaily with the games master. As we came to one of the turns in our promenade I glanced idly at the cars. Somebody inside one of them waved to me. The windscreen was steamed up, so I went closer. To my astonishment I saw it was our senior science master, Simms. He beckoned to me, and opened the door of his car.
Bolshaw had led me to believe he was at death’s door. Simms shook my hand with a light, firm grasp, and I found myself looking into a pair of clear, healthy, blue eyes.
‘I haven’t risen from the dead,’ he observed.
I was too embarrassed to reply.
‘I expect I shall in due course,’ he went on. He spoke slowly. ‘But I haven’t yet passed through those preliminary formalities that cause us so much concern.’
‘I’m delighted,’ I stammered.
I was very fond of Simms. I liked his face. He had a broad head, bald with a fringe of grey hair, and narrow, delicate jaw. His skin was pink, and his face showed his passing shades of emotion. It was the face of a man who had always gone his own way, and had thus arrived at a state of lively self-satisfaction. He was now old and frail, but it was probable that he had always looked frail. He was gentle and unaggressive – the opposite of Bolshaw. Yet had I been asked to say which of the two had done fewer things he did not want to do, I should have said Simms. The question would have been particularly relevant at this juncture, when the subject was Simms’s resignation.
‘Are you quite better?’ I asked.
‘My asthma still distresses me frequently.’
‘I mean, well enough to come back to school?’
‘Had you heard to the contrary?’ He glanced at me. ‘I’m very curious, my dear fellow,’ he said, his hand on my arm. ‘People come and give me advice, good and disinterested advice. And shortly afterwards I hear, to my astonishment, that I’ve taken it! Can you explain that to me?’
I shook my head.
‘I’m very gratified that anyone should think I have the sense to take good and disinterested advice. One is. You would be, I’m sure.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Oh, quite soon, you know. This term. There’s the matter of salary during the summer vacation to be considered.’ He smiled slyly to himself.
I looked out of the window, amused.
The rain had stopped. I told him I must return to my telegraph-board.
‘It has been nice to see you,’ he said. ‘I shall be seeing you again shortly. Next Monday.’
I stared at him. He was going to give up his job to nobody; and he had every intention of teasing Bolshaw and me for as long as he could spin out his time.
The weather was now colder. The headmaster and the Lord Mayor returned to their places of honour, but several of the other distinguished spectators and parents had quietly deserted. Before the headmaster sat down he called the boys to remove their overcoats from the prize table. They cheerfully obeyed, and after jostling and fighting they went away again, leaving the array of cups and cruets to shine sullenly in the grey light.
Fred joined me to watch one of the field events. His bare arms and legs looked greyer than ever. He said:
‘I saw your girl-friend, Joe.’
I was surprised, because Myrtle ought to have been at work.
‘While you was talking to old Simms in ’is car. She just came in to shelter and went out again.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said.
‘It’s quite true,’ put in Trevor. He laughed with nasal contempt as he said: ‘She was with that awful man, Haxby.’
I said nothing, and the boys were diffidently silent. Fred was upset. ‘’Ave I said the wrong thing?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
Myrtle’s action must have been deliberate. It could only mean the interlude was now over. More than anything else I felt irritation. If the interlude was over the whole thing had to end once and for all.
It had taken me a long time, far too long a time, to steel myself to do it. Now I was ready at last. It seemed a curious off-hand occasion on which to decide, but that is how it was.
My duties at the board came to an end. The only remaining event was the senior mile, and I decided to watch it from near the winning-post. It was one of the events in which Frank was hoping to shine, since he was in the running for victor ludorum.
While I was standing in the crowd of boys, I overheard a strange remark. ‘Where’s the victor ludorum’s prize?’ I turned round but I was too late to see who had spoken. I knew the answer, because I had labelled it myself: it was the case of a dozen silver teaspoons, right at the front of the table.
Frank won the race. There was cheering, and all the boys gathered round the Lord Mayor to hear him speak before giving the prizes.
The Lord Mayor spoke for a long time. He clearly had great stamina. His was the most Greek performance of all. I thought he would never stop.
At last the boys filed up to him for their prizes. He shook hands vigorously. The boys blushed and grinned and walked away with cruets, toast-racks, jam-pots and so on. The safety-razor was very properly won by a bearded boy in the fifth form.
We came to the victor ludorum. The contest had been won by Frank. He came up, with a mackintosh thrown over his athletic rig, looking pale and handsome and unusually shy. The Lord Mayor gave Frank his warmest handshake and his most powerful glare: then he prepared to give Frank his prize. The victor ludorum’s prize was not there.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd of boys.
‘Where is it?’ came the headmaster’s nattering voice. ‘Where is it?’ I thought if there was one question not worth asking, that was it.
‘Where is it? What is it? What was the prize, I say?’
‘Some silver spoons,’ came the voice of his secretary, from below the horizon.
‘They’re not here now!’
‘It’s no use blaming me.’
‘I’m not blaming anybody! I only want to know where they are!’ Pause. ‘Who was responsible for the prizes?’
I thought of the prizes, my prizes.
‘Mr Bolshaw,’ said the secretary.
I looked round. There was no sign of Bolshaw: he had gone home.
‘I thought it was Mr Lunn,’ said the headmaster.
I trembled.
‘No, Mr Bolshaw.’
Truth had prevailed. I could hardly believe it.
Meanwhile, the Lord Mayor was filling in time by giving Frank’s hand more jolly shakes.
Murmurs ran through the crowd. ‘They can’t find the victor ludorum’s prize. Someone’s swiped it.’
‘Be quiet there! Do be quiet!’ cried the headmaster.
Undismayed, the Lord Mayor shook Frank’s hand again. The headmaster whispered furiously into his ear. ‘Send the boy away! Tell him we will give him his prize later!’
I wondered what would happen to Bolshaw.
The house-captains filed up for their shields, but the crowd now paid the scantiest attention to the proceedings. Where were the teaspoons? Who was the lucky boy?
It was quite obvious what had happened. While the boys had been clustered round the table, struggling with their overcoats, one of them had smartly caught up the silver teaspoons. The games master and I could swear to the case’s having found its way safely to the table. It was up to the headmaster to find out where it had gone next.
The headmaster did not find out, nor did any of the other masters. I can tell you now that nobody ever did find out. And was Bolshaw held responsible for it all? Was he asked to resign, for lacking sense of responsibility and discipline? Does justice prevail on this earth?
I went away from the field thinking about Bolshaw. I arrived home thinking about Myrtle.
The more I thought about Myrtle’s appearance with Haxby, the more I felt venomous. My forbearance, my detachment, all those qualities to which I aspired, vanished. And I can only say that to the very depths of my soul I was fed up with her.