A Pretty Mouth (15 page)

“Black magic,” murmured the second boy, with a sage nod of his head. “The devil’s left hand.”

“What do you make of it all, Rochester?” Henry hissed to the youth seated next to him, but his neighbor did not reply. Henry cast him a sidelong look to see if his friend’s silence was interest in the master’s lecture or wounded feelings over the earlier kick to his shin. “Do you think it’s the
devil
?”

Rochester didn’t smile, but his nostrils narrowed slightly and his lips pressed together as he tried not to. Encouraged, Henry began to search for a folded piece of parchment he’d that morning hidden among his notes. As the boys in front of them had segued into a discussion of whether Satan would concern himself with dogs, and he was still disinclined to pay attention to the lecture, Henry felt this was a good time to unveil his recent masterpiece. Then he noticed that the rustling was eliciting dirty looks from several other students sitting near him.

He flashed them his most winning smile and they all turned away quickly.
That
, he congratulated himself, was the way to popularity. Be affable, and quick to admit your wrongs to your fellow men. Anyways, he’d found what he’d been looking for.

Henry waited for Master Fulkerson to look away; when the moment came, he slid the paper proudly along the table to Rochester. But upon receiving the document, the boy’s shoulders slumped.

Henry’s irked
tchah
came out a bit too loud, so he looked away quickly and feigned interest in the lecture. When had he ever expressed dismay over having to read one of Rochester’s shabby efforts? Never, not once! Rochester was a rotten, ungentlemanlike little bully-fop. If he wanted Henry to read his moldy old poems, he should at least be willing to return the favor with grace. But that was how they all were, the Fellow Commoners. Even those of them who didn’t have a title were still pretty goddamn entitled.

Except St John. At least that was Henry’s ‘hypothesis,’ as the natural philosophers would say. He hadn’t been able to actually verify his conclusion. Not yet.

“You promised you’d have a look when I’d finished,” hissed Henry out of the corner of his mouth, for when he glanced back, he saw the parchment still lay where he had left it. “You said you’d
help
.”

“Yes, but—”

“Come on, then! Tell me what you think!” he urged, as Rochester reluctantly accepted the note. “I think it’s my best effort yet.”

“That it may be,” murmured Rochester, his eyes rapidly scanning left to right and back again as he read. “But I … don’t you think …”

“What?” Henry, anxious, leaned forward and craned his neck to see his friend’s expression better. He was not encouraged by what he saw: Rochester’s slender eyebrows were cocked up nearly at his hairline and his full cupid’s-bow mouth twitched as if it were dancing a jig. These were not the signifiers of a young man profoundly moved by the depth of feeling expressed in an artistic endeavor, and Henry stiffened in his seat as his friend, now quivering like an autumn leaf, placed his elbows on the table to support himself through the final lines.

“This is …” said Rochester, not looking at Henry.

“Brilliant?”

“Really dirty? I knew you fancied him, but—”

“I do not
fancy
him!” huffed Henry. “I simply admire him for his, his devotion to academics, and his—”

“Creamy offerings?” supplied Rochester.

“I say! You have a nasty turn of mind!”

“Do you really think he’ll appreciate the punning on his title?” Rochester canted his head to the right, considering. “I dunno if someone wrote me an ode to the glory of, ummmm, ‘Rochestnuts’ or somesuch, if I’d particularly appreciate it.”

“You might if it was said with
feeling
!” Henry, offended, snatched back his parchment. “I should never have shown it to you; should’ve known you’d be a jealous—”

“Jealous?” Rochester looked genuinely surprised. “Jealous of what?”

“Yes, I too am quite curious,” said Master Fulkerson, snatching the scrap of parchment out of Henry’s plump hand with his withered, clawlike fingers.

Henry gasped in surprise. Busted, big time! How had he not heard the master’s footfalls on the rickety wooden stairs up to where he and Rochester sat?

“What have we here? Not notes on the
Symposium
, no indeed. This is …” Master Fulkerson’s eyes widened. “Well, Mr. Milliner, I can see why you’ve been doing so pitifully in my class—and others, I hear—if
this
is how you spend your time. I’d assumed that like the rest of this college you were neglecting your studies to swap rumors of the King’s plans to once again rule England from English soil, but it seems your interests lie … elsewhere.”

“What is it?” someone called. Henry swallowed; he felt himself blushing.

“It’s a
poem
, Mr. Neville,” drawled Master Fulkerson. “Written in honor of a respected member of the peerage—and one of our Fellow Commoners here at Wadham, as it turns out.”

“May I have it back?” croaked Henry.

“No, read it!” called another boy, to general cheering. Henry felt he might faint, and, offering up a quick prayer, begged God in His wisdom to intervene on his behalf. An earthquake or a fire would work, if Master Fulkerson were in too foul a mood for even the Lord to move him to Christian pity …

The Master did seem to be weighing his options as he scanned the page; Henry did not dare to hope, but St John
was
one of the Master’s favorites. Perhaps Master Fulkerson sensed if he read the poem to the class, the Lord Calipash would suffer, too?

The Master laughed. It was not a nice laugh.

“With work this …
remarkable
… I think it would be a crime
not
to share it with an audience,” said the Master, looking down at Henry with a thin smile. “And, I suppose, the subject—or object, perhaps—of the composition does possess a deep and abiding appreciation of, a
hem
, modern poetry.”

For the first time since the scene had begun, St John looked interested instead of annoyed by the distraction. Henry contemplated running out of the room, but to do so would be to admit guilt, or perhaps some feeling other than respect for the poem’s object. Better to sit up tall and accept his fate with bravery.

“Please do,” said Henry, willing his voice not to quaver. “It would be my honor to have my work judged by my colleagues.”

“Indeed? Well, then. Let us oblige Mr. Milliner.” Master Fulkerson cleared his throat and spat something yellowish on the floor. “This, ah, poem is entitled ‘The Hour of the Tortoise.’ Quiet, quiet,” he said in reedy tones, as sniggers, like hot fat in a pan, bubbled and popped throughout the classroom. Then he began in earnest:

“Send away this feast, it tastes of ash!

Fie on your jellies, mince, and pies.

If you see me fasting,
this
it belies:

Forevermore shall I sup upon
CALIPASH
.

Oh
CALIPASH!
This humble tongue yearns to lick and suck

A creamy offering of jellied delights testudinarious.

To claim it inferior or unwelcome is truly nefarious.

Gobs shall slide down my throat have I any luck!

Write your paeans to men or dogs or ladies named Eloise,

CALIPASH possesses many virtues, not just one.

Alas! I have said it all. Too quickly have I come

My heart hears the chime calling the hour of the tortoise!”

By the time Master Fulkerson read, “Composed in honor of the Lord Calipash, May, 1660,” he was shouting to be heard over the laughter and cat-calling. Henry was pained to see how comically his effort was regarded; nearly all were howling, and several students had pretended to fall out of their chairs from mirth and were rolling about on the floor, clutching their sides. The foofaraw was so loud that several other masters and students had stuck their heads in the doorway to see what on earth could have caused such a riot.

Henry accepted the taunting with poise befitting a Stoic, sitting tall in his chair though his face burned like a fire, but once his classmates got the bright idea of pelting him with balled-up scraps of parchment and then, painfully, an apple-core, he hastily scooped up his belongings and decided it was time to make his exit. Not before pocketing a few of the parchment-wads, though—he’d seen many of the missiles were notes on the day’s lecture. If they were going to hand him the information, he might as well take it.

The volume of the heckling increased as Henry rose with as much dignity as he could muster, but as he descended the stairs of the auditorium, he chanced looking over at St John. The Lord Calipash, unlike the rest of the Blithe Company, was
not
cackling at him; neither did he seem to be upset or angry. Instead, catching Henry’s eye, the curly-haired, pretty-faced lad smiled … and blew him a kiss!

Distracted, confused, Henry looked away only to see a foot jut out in front of him.
Bugger
, he thought as he tripped, and half-tumbled, half-slid down the rest of the stairs.

“
Oof
,” he grunted, and his eyes went all black and starry for a moment. When his vision cleared he found he’d landed on his back, which was nice as he hadn’t broken his nose, but his position afforded him the unfortunate sight of his notes and papers fluttering down around him as several of the boys from the Blithe Company fell upon him like the wolf-pack they were. He saw the savage cruelty in their faces; he knew he was really in for it now. Pathetically, he tried to scoot away from them using his feet, but one of them stepped on his stomach, immobilizing him. Worse even than the pain in his guts, he farted loudly.

Mortified and on the verge of tears, Henry was hauled to his feet as the rest of the class, the shitwigs, chanted “Stink-Pig, Pink-Pig, Oink Oink Oink!” He heard Master Fulkerson’s voice above the din but could not make out the words, and so had no idea if his assailants were disobeying or carrying out the Master’s orders when they deposited him on his knees at the base of the stairs leading to where St John yet lounged, surveying the hubbub with amused detachment.

“What shall we do with him, Calipash?” asked one of the Blithe Company, a tall, black-haired boy called Nicholas Jay. “You decide! He’s yours—
by right of conquest
.”’

This drew another round of laughter and cheering, but the din quieted when St John raised his pale hand. Henry looked up through weary, defeated eyes to see St John smiling down at him. He felt the stirrings of hope in his breast. The Company all looked up to St John. Perhaps he would curb the cruelty of his fellows.

“Let him go,” said St John softly. Henry had never heard him speak much above a murmur, and why should he? The whole room went silent whenever he spoke. “I thought it was a sweet little poem. Why should I punish someone who has shown such appreciation for our noble person?”

There was booing at this. St John waved them away.

“You asked me what to do with him, I say turn him loose. That is what I want; I was curious to learn more about Aristophanes’ speech in the
Symposium
. Master Fulkerson, I’m intrigued—why have Aristophanes, the great
comic
playwright, make a speech that is so very
tragic
? His remark that some humans—I believe he was speaking of homosexuals, the children of the sun—though split asunder like everyone else, are forced by social convention to marry those who are not their other half, and beget children with them, despite their inclinations. That seems rather distressing; I’d like to hear more, and our class time is not yet over for the day …”

Henry felt the hands that held him loosen their death-grip at St John’s reprieve; he sank to the floor, wobbly-legged. Of course the Lord Calipash would be the essence of
noblesse oblige
, he was so perfect in every way, so generous, so—

“Mr. Milliner, if you will not remove your fat backside from my classroom floor, I will remove it for you,” said Master Fulkerson.

“Do it!” hooted someone.

“I—y-yes, of course, my apologies,” stammered Henry, getting to his knees and dazedly collecting his scattered papers as Master Fulkerson resumed his lecture. So occupied, Henry failed to realize that he had presented the master with a generous opportunity for more mischief-making; just as he regained his feet and reached down one final time to retrieve a quill that had skittered away from him across the floor, he felt something hard collide with his posterior. Off-balance, he rolled arse over teakettle towards the door, which had thankfully been left ajar, his papers fluttering out of his grasp once again as if he had let go the neck of a sack stuffed with live pigeons.

The students broke into applause as Master Fulkerson thoughtfully rubbed his knee.