School for Love (9 page)

‘Faro heneh,’ said the gardener and, delighted by his own perception and helpfulness, pointed to Faro asleep along a limb of the mulberry tree. She half-opened her eyes when Felix called her, but would not come down. Felix wandered off, disconsolately kicking a stone, and made his way round the wood-shed, in which Maria now slept. He had seen her go in and come out and had wondered how such a place could be combined into wood-shed, tool-shed, bedroom. On the side away from the house he noticed a small, unglazed window cut high in the wooden wall of the hut. He caught its edge and jumped. With his elbows gripping his waist he managed to hold his weight long enough to see stacked in one corner the gardening gear; and in another the wood; and in another an old mattress heaped with ragged covers. Above it was a hook from which hung Maria’s other dress. The air smelt stale. He dropped back to the ground.

At last Mr Posthorn arrived. Occasionally on Sunday mornings Mr Posthorn, who attended the English cathedral, would drop in on his way back to look through Felix’s week-end exercises. He had suggested, which Miss Bohun never did, that Felix should attend the cathedral and walk back with him, but Felix said: ‘I couldn’t do that. My mother did not believe in organised religion.’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Posthorn, ‘and what about your father?’

‘He was an atheist.’

Mr Posthorn made no comment, but screwed his face as though he smelt something unpleasant. He was a very tall, narrow-shouldered man, who, at the end of an undistinguished career, took pride in the one thing that set him apart from his fellows – his learning.

He told Felix once: ‘Latin makes the gentleman. You’ll have to mug it up, my boy. You’ll get into no sort of nice society without it.’ While Felix was with him in his office, Mr Posthorn often had to speak on the telephone to other Government officials, and sometimes, not knowing Felix was there, one of them would look into Mr Posthorn’s office to discuss some small matter. The officials of his own age, many of whom had fought their way up to Jerusalem in the Allenby Campaign and been rewarded with Government appointments, accorded him a sort of N.C.O.’s respect for book-learning: to these he spoke with a half-sneering smile, in an elaborate phraseology that hid his unease of the world; to the younger men, who saw him as a joke, he had nothing to say at all. It seemed that what friends he had were among the boys he had tutored, and when one of these rang him up, a mild humorousness seemed to come over him and, forgetting Felix’s presence, he would talk and laugh with a natural sweetness. Sometimes Felix would picture to himself the day when Mr Posthorn would admit him into this select group of his friends, but he knew it to be far distant. At the moment Felix’s ignorance forced Mr Posthorn to treat him as though he were a senior Government official.

Mr Posthorn sighed now as, sitting on the garden wall in the sunlight, he went through Felix’s exercise books. ‘I despair of you, Latimer,’ he said in his thin, genteel voice, ‘I despair of you.’

Felix, restless, bored and getting hungry, watched for Miss Bohun’s return across the wasteland. He had determined that at luncheon-time he would break through all barriers and ask her about Mr Jewel’s departure.

At last Frau Leszno appeared, trotting ahead to attend to the meal. Seeing Mr Posthorn, who did not see her, she looked down with humility and hurried through the gate. Miss Bohun, who now rose over the crest, was talking with loud good-fellowship to a companion, a soldier.

‘Ah!’ she cried, ‘how nice! There is my young friend Felix of whom I told you, and he’s with his tutor.’ As she drew near she said: ‘Good-morning, Mr Posthorn. Now, Felix, here is a lonely young warrior who wandered into our “Ever-Ready” Meeting. I hope you’ll be great friends. And you, Mr Posthorn, I know, are fond of the young. If you could see the gratitude of these poor boys, separated from home and loved ones, when we offer them spiritual refreshment and, indeed,
physical
, for I never begrudge a meal in a good cause – I think it would warm your heart.’

Mr Posthorn flicked his book impatiently so that it closed itself and he looked, with his discouraging smile, from Miss Bohun to the soldier. The soldier stood a step behind Miss Bohun, his head hanging.

‘His name is Marshall,’ said Miss Bohun, as though the soldier were too young to speak for himself. ‘Now sit down on the wall, Marshall, and make friends, while I go in and see about the luncheon.’

Miss Bohun hurried away across the lawn, her batik scarf floating after her. Marshall edged himself uncomfortably on to the wall. Felix expected Mr Posthorn to rise at once and abandon the pair of them, but instead, with his mouth askew, he fixed his eyes on Marshall’s large,
unshinable boots and offered him a cigarette. Marshall, his red hands hanging between his knees, in an attitude of crouching meekness, looked up without raising his head and smiled weakly: ‘Oh no, sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t indulge. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. I promised my mum.’

‘Oh!’

Marshall kept his head down while Mr Posthorn lit a cigarette for himself, then shook out the match and put it back dead into the box. ‘Been here long?’ Mr Posthorn asked stiffly.

‘Three months. Getting a bit homesiek.’ Marshall began fumbling in his shirt pocket. ‘Got a photograph of my mum here.’ His red, square fingers with nails so bitten down they had become no more than dents in the flesh brought out a wad of dog-eared letters and photographs. ‘That’s her,’ he said.

Mr Posthorn gave the photograph a glance: ‘Very charming face,’ he said and passed it to Felix. Felix, gazing into the small brown square, saw someone that might have been Marshall had Marshall worn his hair bobbed.

‘This one’s my sister Glad, only the sun got in the camera; and here’s our little Bethesda, West Hartlepool Road. I’m Little Bethesda myself at home, but,’ he added quickly, ‘I take my hat off to the “Ever-Readies”. Can’t say a thing against them.’ Marshall’s voice, that had been, at first, thin and nasal with respect, now took on a deeper note of confidence.

‘Indeed?’ sounded Mr Posthorn, stiffer than before. Another pause, then he asked: ‘Have you done any sightseeing here?’

‘Yes,’ said Marshall. ‘The Colonel laid on the Holy Places when our draft came out.’

‘What did you think of them?’

‘Well,’ Marshall wriggled slightly, obviously trying to suppress his sense of superiority. ‘What I says is: All that’s all right for show, like, but it’s not religion. Now religion – this is only my idea, mind, and I don’t say you haven’t got a right to question it, but what I always says is . . .’

As Marshall was speaking, a clock in the distance struck one and Mr Posthorn got abruptly to his feet: ‘Must be going,’ he said and walked out through the gate.

Marshall stopped speaking, but his mouth remained open. Humble again, he glanced round to see if Felix were still there.

‘I say,’ said Felix, ‘do tell me about the “Ever-Readies”. What do they
do?
’ But he was also interrupted, for Miss Bohun came out to the door, waving to them in a lighthearted way, shouting: ‘Now you two, come on, come on,’ and ringing the bell at the same time.

On the table there was a mound of mashed beans. Marshall, as he seated himself, stared at it in a disturbed way. When Miss Bohun put a wodge on his plate, he hung his head over it, but his eyes wandered over the rest of the table. Seeing nothing but the dark Palestinian bread, the pepper, salt and a jug of water, he slowly lifted his knife and fork.

‘Bread?’ said Miss Bohun. ‘I don’t eat bread myself. The millers here grind up stone with the corn to make the flour weigh heavier – so bad for the intestines.’

Marshall ignored the bread. ‘Is this all you folk get to eat of a Sunday?’ he asked, his humility ebbing again and a sort of sullen aggressiveness taking its place.

Miss Bohun seemed not to notice the change; her voice still rang out happily: ‘We civilians have got no Naafi,
you know – but this is wholesome food. It’ll do you good. Don’t cut it with a knife, just use your fork as we do.’

But Marshall cut off a cube of the bean-mash with his knife and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, a dark and swindled look on his face.

Miss Bohun talked on: ‘I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a good thing you boys should experience civilian conditions here. The army do themselves very well – they just requisition civilian supplies on the frontier. I’m told they don’t know what to do with the stuff. Half of it’s wasted. Of course we don’t begrudge you boys your food, but I’m sure you’ve never been so well fed in your lives before. . . .’

‘That’s a lie.’ Marshall stared angrily at Miss Bohun. ‘My mum never stinted us. On Sundays we’d have a proper blow-out – roast beef and Yorkshire, and roast potatoes and cabbage, and apple pie and custard and tea. None of this muck.’

‘My dear boy,’ Miss Bohun’s tones grew hushed and refined in rebuke, ‘there’s no need to bawl. I’m quite sure you were adequately fed at home, but conditions out here are different. Besides, I believe in the virtue of vegetables. Some of the great thinkers and mystics of India ate nothing else. As for this excellent bean-mash – it may taste different, but it’s quite as
strengthening
as meat. At school our teacher used to set light to a bean to show us how it burnt with a blue flame – that meant it was full of protein.’

‘Maybe it was,’ said Marshall. ‘But you’d need ten times as much.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Marshall let his voice rise again with a harsh superiority. ‘I’m not denying there’s protein in them beans, but
you’d have to eat ten times as much of ’em as meat – that’s what I mean. I know. I’ve taken the “Health and Hygiene” course.’

‘Well—’ Miss Bohun seemed at a loss. ‘You’re welcome to a second course.’

‘Can’t eat this lot,’ he gave his plate a pettish push. ‘My mum never gave me mash – she knew it made me puke.’

‘Have some bread then . . .?’

‘What, with stones in it? No thanks.’ A new derisive note came into his voice and he lumbered to his feet. ‘I’ll shove off. I can get my Sunday dinner at the barracks.’ He glanced over the table once more with a wry, disillusioned smile, then made a large patronising gesture with one hand: ‘Day to you,’ he said and went with a trampling of feet.

Miss Bohun looked after him, an unnatural pink tinging her cheeks: ‘Well!’ she shook her head, for some moments seeming quite crushed. ‘How hard it is to help some people! And he was so respectful at first.’

Felix, although his imagination had been swept away by Marshall’s description of Sunday dinner at home, felt sorry for Miss Bohun. He also realised that his own discontent with the food (mild, of course, compared with Marshall’s) was something he would now have to leave unexpressed. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but Miss Bohun recovered before he could speak.

‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘the more for us. Now, Felix, eat up and have a second helping. I often say, the diet may not be rich but at my table everyone is welcome to a second helping. You won’t get that in restaurants.’

Felix, out of sympathy for Miss Bohun, poured himself
a glass of water with which to wash down the bean-mash. Now feeling himself restored to the position of Miss Bohun’s friend and ally, he took the opportunity to say: ‘Nikky says Mr Jewel is leaving.’

‘Oh,’ said Miss Bohun. Despite everything, she did not sound encouraging; there was a long pause before she said: ‘Well, the truth is, I don’t think it’s quite the right thing, not quite nice, having Mr Jewel in the house – it’s not as though either of us were married – and you’re only a child really. Besides, I need the room.’

‘For Frau Leszno?’ Felix asked unwarily.

‘Ah! so Nikky told you that, did he?’

Felix hid his hot cheeks, not daring to vindicate Nikky.

‘I must say, Felix,’ said Miss Bohun, ‘I’d much prefer you didn’t discuss these matters with the servants – not that Nikky sees himself in that class, but he gets pocket money from me for cleaning the knives and the windows and other odd jobs, and I can tell you if he were dependent on himself he’d be destitute.’ Miss Bohun rose with some dignity and went over to her writing-desk to telephone someone. ‘If you want coffee, ring the bell. I must soon hurry off. It’s my turn to distribute tracts at the hospital.’

Perhaps because it was no longer a secret from Felix, Miss Bohun spoke to Mr Jewel that evening about his departure: ‘I suppose,’ she said, sounding brightly interested, ‘you’ve got everything packed up?’

‘No.’ Mr Jewel seemed to be trying to make a joke of his answer. Miss Bohun, however, did not respond in the same spirit.

‘But you’re going to-morrow morning.’

Mr Jewel shook his head. ‘Got nowhere to go.’

Miss Bohun raised her eyelids and fixed on him an exasperated stare. Mr Jewel did not look up to meet it. She said: ‘You can go back to the refugee centre at Bethlehem.’

‘They’re closing it down.’

Miss Bohun drew in her breath. Felix, looking at her apprehensively, expected her anger to be terrible; instead she seemed suddenly to be deflated. ‘But I gave you a week’s notice,’ she said, with weaker peevishness.

Mr Jewel was eating furtively. He tried to swallow before replying and his words came muffled by his food: ‘Where can I go?’ He swallowed successfully this time, then added in a mild humorous way: ‘You’ll have to put me on the street.’

Miss Bohun sighed. Nothing more was said until their plates were empty, then she rang the bell and spoke sharply: ‘You’re taking advantage.’

Felix, who had been mazed by compassion for Mr Jewel, was relieved to have the situation clearly revealed from Miss Bohun’s viewpoint. It really was too bad that everyone took advantage of Miss Bohun.

Mr Jewel’s only defence was to shake his head again.

‘I suppose it’s my own fault,’ Miss Bohun sighed, ‘I should have made it clear from the first that the arrangement was temporary, but you should have realised it. Surely you didn’t think I could go on keeping you indefinitely for . . . for a mere pittance. But that’s always the way when one tries to do good. And on top of it all, you brought that woman here.’

There was a pause as Maria entered with some sardines split and fried. There were two each and half a one each left for a “second helping”. Mr Jewel’s hand was trembling
as he lifted his fork. He mumbled: ‘If it’s Frau Wagner, I won’t ask her again.’