Noble in Reason (5 page)

The moment I had it in my hands I would have given anything in the world—even dared my father's anger—not to have done so. For as I looked up I saw Graham's blue eyes hard, his mouth sneering, while the rest of the circle turned away in disgust. I had accepted a favour at my enemy's hand and thanked him for it. Humiliated, defeated, enraged, I walked away and stood apart, alone, trembling with misery.

From that moment I was the natural butt of the class, and
being alone was my only respite from torment. I was shoved, pushed, tripped, insulted or even more insultingly disregarded; my possessions—rulers, pencils, compasses, indiarubbers— were continually ravaged, hidden, despoiled. At last one day my very spectacles were threatened; Graham snatched them and waved them by one earpiece before my horrified eyes. I controlled myself and did not attempt to snatch them back; I knew they were too fragile for such a contest.

“Baby Jarmayne can't see without his spectacles,” taunted Graham.

Had Graham known what was passing through my mind he would perhaps have been doubly pleased, for at that moment I suffered a double torment. I had not hitherto realized that the wearing of spectacles was a thing to be despised; I had simply rejoiced when these wonderful inventions improved my sight so remarkably. (Henry had discovered my short-sightedness when teaching me to play the piano, for I had to stick my nose almost into the notes to see them.) Now I understood both that spectacles were deplorable, and that my family had most considerately concealed the shaming truth from me. I was so overwhelmed, so numbed, by the humiliation of this discovery that even the danger to my cherished glasses made little impact upon me and I stood there impassive. Graham perhaps slightly nonplussed by this disappointing attitude—I usually “rose” so promptly to any gibe—stood for a moment silent, waving the spectacles, while he sought for fresh insults. Just then a round-faced, round-eyed, tubby, very Yorkshire-spoken boy named Atkinson came up.

“Give him his specs. You didn't ought to take his specs,” he said.

“Why not?” said Graham angrily.

“You're always taking his things.”

“Let him stop me then,” said Graham.

“Aye, but not specs,” said Atkinson in his thick country
accents—he came from a small hillside township up the valley from Hudley, of which Graham's father was the vicar. “Specs are serious. They cost money, like. Your father might have to pay for them if you broke them,” concluded Atkinson shrewdly.

A look of dark disgust crossed Graham's face. He held out the spectacles.

“Take them then,” he said contemptuously.

I ought to have been grateful to Atkinson, and so indeed I was, but somehow I never thought of him as a friend—his mind was slow and his view of life alien; I felt instinctively that we were of no interest to each other. No, it was not of Atkinson that I thought that night as I lay in bed meditating once again on school and what I could do to achieve a decent respect there. (For although I seemed passive and feeble enough, I continually strove to bear myself more suitably; I made good resolutions to laugh and be brave; I even
prayed
for courage.) It was Graham for whose approval I anxiously longed, whose lightest criticism unnerved, whose hostility eviscerated me. After all, I reflected wistfully, Graham had returned my glasses that day, when merely by opening his hand he could have smashed them. Perhaps he did not really dislike me. A glowing plan formed itself in my overwrought brain; next day I would dare all, put my fortune to the touch and ask him for his friendship.

Graham sometimes for the fun of the thing delayed his morning entrance into the school buildings to the last possible moment, rushing into morning prayers at the tail of the class in a way many of us admired but dared not imitate. Next morning therefore I hung around in the cloakroom to wait for him—in itself an adventurous act on my part which gave me a feeling of hope and courage. Graham, tearing his coat off as he at last rushed in, his handsome face flushed and laughing, looked even to my inexperienced eye not in a mood for a
romantic approach, but I had sworn to myself to make the move here and now and I would not break my oath.

“Graham, couldn't we be friends?” I blurted urgently, standing beside him as he threw his coat on a peg.

Graham became very still, and stood with eyes averted.

“Couldn't we?” I pressed him.

“We aren't rivals as far as I know,” he returned in a neutral tone.

“No, but I mean special friends,” I persisted. “I should like it.” Graham with a nervous laugh turned away and rushed from the room.

At first this incident did not unduly depress me. I felt nearer to Graham for having spoken, not further away. After all, he had not actually rejected my offer. I felt hopeful all day, and nothing happened to discourage me. Lessons went well. In break Graham avoided me and I approved what I thought his desire for time to consider his decision; in the noon hour he always went home by tram. My hopes remained undashed—and what splendid hopes! With Graham at my side the world could easily be conquered. But as I returned home up Walker Lane that afternoon, the blow fell. I was rather less deep in daydream than usual—at that time I was engaged with a titled family which adored me for my kindness to one of its junior members at a horrible school—for my hopes about Graham that day recalled me intermittently to the real world. But even so, it was a horrid jar, a most sudden and disagreeable transition from bliss to harsh reality, when a thin whining voice, which I at once recognized as a sarcastic imitation of my own childish tones, cried out behind me:

“Won't you be friends with me, Jarmayne?”

I turned. There they were, half a dozen of them, led by Graham.

“Please be friends with me, Jarmayne!” minced Graham, his head affectedly on one side.

At this insult to my deepest, sincerest feelings my usual cowardice was carried away by a mad rush of temper. I stepped forward.

“Shut up,” I said. But I was unused to such phrases, my voice shook and came out thin and high.

“Who are you telling to shut up?” demanded Graham, his handsome face flushing angrily.

“You. There's nothing wrong about wanting to be friends,” I shrilled.

“No—it's just soft,” said Graham contemptuously.

This was the moment, in school tales, where the hero struck out and by a well-planted blow on the jaw laid the villain low. I struck out. My puny fist grazed Graham's shoulder harmlessly. But he was wounded by the indignity of being touched at all by such a contemptible adversary as myself, and with a cry of rage swung his school satchel from his shoulder and set about me. The other members of the group virtuously—for was I not guilty of striking the first blow?—followed suit. School satchels in those days were of heavy leather, with long leather straps; filled with text-books and pencil cases for homework purposes they made formidable weapons. I drew my own, but was outnumbered and in any case did not strike with proper force and conviction; I was bruised, battered, even bleeding a little, all blubbered over and at the nadir of discouragement when at last I escaped and stumbled home.

Netta, who was crossing the hall as I entered, ran to me with a cry; she flung her soft little arms round my neck, planted half a dozen quick warm comforting kisses on my cheek. We sat down on the bottom step of the staircase and mingled our tears.

“Who has hurt you? Who has hurt you, Chris? It's those horrid boys!”

“Don't tell anyone, Netta,” I whispered.

“Why not?” said Netta, wondering. “I hate those horrid boys.”

“It's a secret between us. Don't tell.”

For though one word to John or Henry would have stopped the persecution, that word I could not speak—whether from pride or fear, shame or courage, I did not know.

“Promise, Netta,” I said sternly.

Netta obediently promised, and at times when my father asked how my nose came to be swollen or my cheek bruised, Netta laid her finger on her lips in a gesture I had taught her, and smiled with pride in our secret shared.

Of course there were days when all went well for me at school—after all I was not venomous, I bore no grudge, I was glad to perform useful services for the games I played so ill; I whitened hockey balls, I guarded coats, I was always ready to join a team if someone fell out at the last moment; in lessons I was delighted to be helpful short of directly giving the answer to a sum or question, which I regarded as cheating. But if the day went wrong for the class; if a master showed ill-temper, if impositions followed and tension gathered; then the irritation engendered often fell upon me. On such days, to return to school in the afternoon was an act requiring almost more courage than I possessed, and at the close of school hours I did not venture to walk boldly up Walker Lane.

At that time some rough uneven land at the foot of the lane where it joined the main road was being developed as a building estate (now called Walker Grove). Trees were being felled, old walls pulled down, foundations dug. This place had its own horror for me because in springtime it was thickly spattered with dandelions, for which I had an almost hysterical loathing. It is a measure of my fear of Graham and his crew that I would conquer the revulsion, the almost nausea which these plants inspired in me, in order to seek shelter from my classmates amongst them. Watching for a favourable moment
when my pursuers' attention was diverted, I shot suddenly in amongst the débris of Walker Grove—sometimes, too, workmen were there, and these formed an additional protection. After a time Graham and the rest, who made a brief détour from their homeward route to pursue me, discovered my retreat and followed me into the (of course forbidden) territory; but as I was light on my feet and slender, there was still some chance of concealment among the tree-trunks, so I continued to haunt the grove.

One spring afternoon as I dodged thus, panting, from tree to tree, I suddenly found myself confronted by Beatrice Darrell. She looked so astonished and disconcerted that I was astonished and disconcerted too. I gaped at her.

“What are you doing here, Christopher? Looking like that!” exclaimed Beatrice.

I hastily adjusted my facial expression from fear to a politeness which I hoped looked normal, but I could not help casting a glance over my shoulder where, sure enough, purple caps flitted among the trees. Beatrice's glance followed mine. I was afraid she had guessed my plight, for she was shrewd; I mumbled hastily:

“A game.”

“Nonsense! Walk beside me,” commanded Beatrice sharply.

I smoothed back my hair, buttoned my jacket and stepped towards her. At this point the ground formed a hillock which on the far side sloped down into Walker Lane. Beatrice without a word led the way down the slope and jumped from the wall into the road; I followed, and suddenly remembering my manners ran round her to the outside of the pavement. We proceeded up Walker Lane together in a decorous and conventional style.

In one sense I now knew Beatrice Darrell well, in another she was a stranger to me. For years I had seen her many times each week, but always in the distance; I had never been alone
with her before. The Darrells were scrupulously good neighbours to the Jarmaynes, but they had always skilfully maintained the social gap between the families; we were never on really intimate terms, never entered each other's houses without due formality. A good physician and an excellent surgeon, with the commanding bedside manner then admired, Dr. Darrell had worked up a considerable practice among the wealthier Hudley classes, and Beatrice had had many luxuries and advantages lavished upon her. The Darrells were immensely proud of her accomplishments, and with more justice of herself; her graceful movements and erect carriage were matched by her quick light fluent speech, in which she displayed a neat and ready wit. Thinking such great things of her, Beatrice's parents were apt to guard her over-jealously from the world—“They think nobody's good enough for her,” said my mother once with unusual impatience. After the custom of those days Beatrice had recently left school though only in her mid-teens, and now lived at home in a leisure modified only by a little genteel housework, with call-paying, embroidery, flower-arranging, singing lessons and so on to fill up her afternoons.

It was these singing lessons which formed a tenuous stairway over the invisible barrier (of which the real dividing hedge was symbolic) between Ashleigh and Ashroyd. My father's musical interests—he had sung in the Choral Society for years—were well known, and Henry's musical studies were even more respectable. Henry sometimes played, at Ashroyd and even at Ashleigh parties, the accompaniments while Beatrice sang, in a small, sharp, silvery soprano, the fashionable “ballads” of the day. Even at that time I wondered that the stern Henry seemed to like them, but he treated their sugary cadences as seriously as if they were Bach, and concealed the deficiencies of Beatrice's voice so skilfully that it was difficult for the Darrells not to ask him to perform this
service, since Beatrice always seemed to sing better when Henry accompanied her.

During these songs my father smilingly beat time in a manner which infuriated Henry—Beatrice had always been a favourite with my father, and he behaved with a lively courtesy when she was present. My mother had recently seemed less favourably inclined, and would sometimes bend on Beatrice a long challenging glance beneath which Beatrice's gold-green eyes would fall. To Netta, Beatrice was unfailingly kind; I believe she really loved the child. To me Beatrice always gave the impression I had received when I first saw her: an effect of light gay silks, of fashionable elegance, of grace and ease, in a word, of everything which at home we were not allowed, or could never hope to attain.

So now I was decidedly proud of walking at Beatrice's side; I held open the iron gate of Ashleigh for her and took my cap off as I bade her farewell.

“Goodbye, Christopher. Thank you for your escort,” said Beatrice, smiling.