Schooling (15 page)

48

No one turns when she comes in. Dorm 3. Minuscule suitcase clocking her knee. Smell. Forgotten after four was it only four days at the new house. No valley in the Felmar bed. Could sleep curled but didn’t. Hitching the case onto the hospital bobbled valley. Click click. Bureau, chair, uniform. Wrapped in blankets on a deck chair by the pool watching the drift of winter debris, turning when Father brought sandwiches. Father saying, All you need is a mink stole for you look very Port Out Starboard Home. Very QE2, putting down his sandwich to swab the deck. The mustard and the laughing made her nose hurt made her nearly say it Father. Father. Click. Now the clatter, the calling out, Mareka’s clothes humped on the bed. And seeing him swab the deck like that well what was the point. O Towel hook, O Number, O Tuck Key. Back to the room, unzip, let it fall. Is it worse he asked than not coming at all. She waited, passenger with folded hands. Listened to him set her suitcase on the backseat. Is it worse Father, no it is not worse. Buckled, she sat up and wished for a boater. She would set it very straight on her head, striped band parallel to the ground. A boater would keep her chin from a petulant downward tilt. She would never allow it to be jaunty like those in boarding school books, framing a face made frantic by cheer. Monstead did not require hats. Imagine Aurora Dyer in a boater. That was a good one. It all snapped back on the drive, the names, the throng. On the way they spoke of traffic of other cars and Father’s business.

49

A fight breaks out. Sophie’s pulling her toward School House after Prep and they hear the scream as the boy goes out the window. They stop, look back at Follyfield. The lamp outside lights up the brick wall. The boy lies folded into the spare rosebushes.

50

It wasn’t your fault . . . leaning back on the theatre steps, Owen Wharton addresses the air.

What wasn’t my fault?

Who’s that? . . . Betts cranes around the arched doorway.

Oh.

Catrine Evans from 3X . . . Owen consults the script resting in his lap . . . Sir, it’s We were all to blame in our different ways.

Yes yes I have it, Wharton.

We were
Up by the laundry
all to blame
Stokes plucks a burr from his sock
in our di ferent ways
supporting his weight
in our strange but different ways
with a hand placed on Simon Puck’s head.

Owen gets to his feet . . . Page sixty-six . . . he tosses the script to her . . . Evans will help you learn your lines, sir. Got dramatic blood, this one.

The theatre door swings open, releasing birdcalls. Percival serpentines his mousy head around the door . . . We need you here, Owen.

Betts (glumly) . . . Seems you’ve enough burdens of pageantry, Owen, without me adding to them. Don’t let me keep you.

The Colonel’s an old plant, Mr. Betts . . . Owen pulls Percival back inside . . . Don’t forget India, don’t forget the Maharajah.

The door shuts behind them, caging the birds again.

Betts sighs. Then, crustily . . . Perhaps you and I were the most to blame.

You and I.

Give it some effort, girl.

YOU AND I!

Don’t shout . . . Betts squints up. She does not shade his light.

You and I?

I think you may take after me a little, my dear. You like to sit on the fence because it’s comfortable and more peaceful.

Sitting on the fence!

Tell me, my dear. Where did it go. The spontaneity, the poetry of bruises.

No, sir, the line is still mine—

Apricot beauty, soliloquy of wristhairs, an unfaltering tenderness despite the delicious efforts at toughskin. Tell me.

In spite of all the humiliating scenes and threats! What did you—

Is there hope of a reawakening?

Your line will be about the letters, sir. Remember, the telegram, you’re confused because of having to drive up so suddenly.

Can’t I quit this . . . Betts sinks deeper into the step . . . You know what I mean, you with your selfish sorrow. Your body’s been donated to Science. To French, to Art. Tell me . . . he hisses . . . Is there any getting out?

Bonjour . . . Araigny steps into the thin margin of green next to them.

Genevieve! . . . Betts brightens . . . What a pleasant surprise.

Humbly, Araigny drops a stitch . . . I wanted to thank you, Patrick. Mr. Stokes tells me you agreed to serve as a chaperon on our Easter trip.

Indeed. Aix marks the spot and assorted bad puns. Of course, I’ve been to France before with my. Marjorie. I. Can’t say I boast any sort of fluency . . . he notices her fidgeting with
Anger
. . . Not like our Evans, I’m certain.

Madame throws her a sorrowful look. Let us hope the girl does indeed prevail at Science.

She holds out the play.

Araigny purls, liply, Frenchly . . .
Mais bon
, I won’t interrupt your studies.

No, no . . . Betts leaps up, snatching the script . . . You’re not interrupting, not at all.

Exeunt teachers of French and English. She goes to the window.

And for the Greeks, Percival pointing at a first year, whahooing with his hands, winging them out. In the aisle, pacing between seats, Duncan Peaks, hand to temple, lips moving then stopping. He pulls out a script, checks, lips move again.

Brickie. Beside her at the window hair in his eyes and that.

I had a cake. In a shape. She told me I could be an actor.

Don’t be an actor.

The Ambassador was away on business. He came to Monstead when he was a boy. Thither at the arch where old boys once stood, our fathers, Ambassador, Evans, the crumbling not crumbling in those days. Without regard to the two of us. No taller than that in grey shorts and all those days up ahead including war. My father. Puck walks by eating a meringue, beak pushed up to his forehead. My father Brickie says has never done anything out of the ordinary. The Practice of Insipidity my mother calls it icing another cake. When I was seven Brickie goes on When I was seven she stuck her head in the oven. After that she’s never stopped baking. That must make sense to someone. Not to me.

No, not to me.

The Ambassador led the campaign against admitting girls. Thought Monstead would lose its ranking once they came. Thought it would make the school frivolous. But they needed the money.

Frivolous? We have fires here in our very own fields.

That’s not war.

What do you know of war? Do you know the difference between mercy and good manners?

You are not Lawrence, Evans, this is not your Arabia.

There are other wars.

You mean Us v. Them? The Still-Hope-For v. the Not-Much-Left? The Jaded v. well, the Jaded.

Yes, the daily battles. Tea v. Coffee, Socks v. Stockings, to tell or not.

Never tell.

I don’t.

I saw you the day you visited. You remember, I was wearing cricket whites, standing outside the cloakroom with Paul Gredville. You were being led by your father.

Trees turn their colors, the walk to school becomes a golden walk.

Wearing those ugly dungarees and dirty trainers. Your own clothes. Like it was that easy.

What are you talking about.

You were yourself then. More than you could ever be once you got here.

I’m still—

No, they’ve squashed you. Look at your shoes. Boy shoes.

New shoes from Father. They turn toward Brinton, leaving rehearsals.

Did your father ever say anything to you about his time here? . . . Brickie divines the ground with a stick.

He talked about the raids.

Dorm or air?

Both. Told me about blacking out windows, stealing food.

They sit, backs against the wall.

From a distance, Sophie calls out . . . What are you two doing out here in the fog?

Brickie watches her walk toward them . . . You know . . . he taps the stick . . . It doesn’t matter . . . tap tap . . . What I have on you, it’s nothing really.

All along it was nothing?

Brickie looks down to her fingers marking his sleeve. She removes her hand. He raises his eyes. It’s about our fathers. Our—

Aren’t you cold? . . . Sophie stands in front of them, hands on hips . . . I just got back . . . she turns to the pavilion, the efforts to rebuild . . . What a mess.

They all look at the ashes.

Some loon that girl was . . . Sophie slides down the wall to sit . . . She used to fuck boys from town. What’s a sinew?

Aurora was alright.

Inelastic fibrous cord . . . Brickie pulls at the short winter grass.

Maggot said my face is a miscarriage of sinew.

Singed grid in the grass, the remains of the cricket pavilion.

I heard they’re arranging something for us something for the trauma, an outing.

Trauma? . . . Brickie spits out a blade of grass . . . For a fire.

Au contraire, we have suffered. It was a terrible waste of. Of. Of wood.

Brickie laughs.

Brickie’s going to be an actor . . . leaning across to tell Sophie.

No one wants to pay attention to you, Brickie

They might. I have the looks for it.

No you don’t.

Do I? . . . he turns to Catrine.

Not really.

Oh. Well it wasn’t my idea.

Only child . . . Sophie says . . . Typical.

There might have been more. She had miscarriages . . . Brickie says . . . One in Africa while the Ambassador played bowls. He came home just after. How was he to know.

Did she tell you that?

No . . . Brickie throws the stick . . . I found out.

Hello.

Gilbert stands before them. Brickie’s stick has landed on his foot. Warily they greet him. Lovely out he suggests. Yes yes they agree. On the cold side. Have you been monitoring the work of our builders? That’s right. Gilbert regards the lack of progress and the three of them, I suppose there’s more going on than meets the eye. Yes yes they are in harmony. More than meets the eye. He points to her. May I have a word?

She stands. Sophie’s eyes drain of blue. Brickie’s absorbed in his fingernails. Silently some might say sullenly she gets up and follows Gilbert across the playing fields toward School House. Past Araigny at the old swimming pool petting Tripod tangling him in yarn together mourning lost limbs and digits past Simon Puck brooding on a low wall past Betts scribbling in his notebook composing his sad comedies.

51

Marjorie on the beach that time we went to France. Pregnant, she stretched out among the pebbles, her great white stomach, a hill. The view behind it, the sloppy village of Gordes or Grasse, something. I couldn’t bring myself to stroke her belly though she wanted me to feel the child kick. She fell asleep, I covered her shoulders as they began to freckle. When Marjorie woke, pebbles clung to her thighs. She had slept for an hour or so. I watched her wake as I reclined in a deck chair. It was nineteen sixty-five. I contrived a disguise of the typical Englishman on holiday, though I chose not to wear a knotted handkerchief on my head. I leaned forward as Marjorie blinked against the sun. Flicked a few pebbles from her derriere. I allowed my hand to linger on her thigh then dropped it to her knee. It was the magnificent haunch of a beast. She carried my child. We roasted to the color of aubergine and were shrill when we voiced our desire for ices and citroën pressé. At the seaside bistro, Marjorie giggled on cheap wine. I ordered tartare and pronounced the meat badly while ordering and bad when it came. We were the English on holiday. I propelled Marjorie’s bulk through insouciant villages where tributes to our countrymen, blistering and obtuse, were sold on swivel stands outside the shops. We strolled. We ate small tubs of pink paste, fish roe, leaving smears on our shirts and bags. We were silent. Nary a topic in common. I thought about Zola, Molière. From time to time Marjorie offered a remark on the discrepancies between here and there, the lack of courtesy in the chemist’s. I forwarded the concept of cultural differences. Her eyes glazed. The day came to an end in a town square. Pallid horses moved lethargically around a track, nodding to the cheers of three or four sordid Frenchmen. There they went, the horses, around and around. After a bit, I turned and stood with my back against the fence. I was not immune to the notion of a controlling metaphor. I watched the Frenchmen eat their tubs of pink roe in one assured swipe, with bread or fingers. Was I always happiest a spectator. One man reminded me of Mahesh, had the same sleepy eyes. Our final year. Marjorie and I returned from the horses dusty and tired. Marjorie’s sandals had caused her to bleed between the toes. With Dettol, I wiped away the track, the French with their innate knowledge of how to eat roe. We wanted the restaurant where they would speak to us in English, a form of transportation devised for tourists. Pony with some sort of fringe. The next morning we would pack our suitcases in silence, drive to the airport where I would overtip or undertip the driver. We were not French, we did not know how to eat roe. We were the middle class and the middle class English and I was a married man with a child on the way. It was some years later when Clara first began to speak, that I got up from my armchair and walked away. Out of that cloying heat and stubborn domesticity. Yanking the door behind me, I escaped into the hope of evening. Through the streets I went, exalted! I would never go back. In the shedding light I ran, on and on, intoxicated by the merest doorstep. To the train station. And there on the point of collapse, I stood, hands on knees, managing breaths. Please, I said forcing the man behind the counter to cup one hand behind his ear. Please. The racks of schedules, pamphlets swam. I had something to say beyond expression. Help me. I needed to tell this employee of British Rail. A one-way ticket, yes. It was that I wanted. I straightened to catch my breath. My hand went to my money. One Way Single. An hour later, I returned home, drenched. I took up my place by the window. My book remained where I’d left it, on the table, facedown, as in flight. Brontë. Trust a Brontë to have you running through wet streets. Marjorie had noticed nothing. She continued to fold in the kitchen listening to the radio.

52

In the POD office, Gilbert throws his gloves to the desk, himself to the chair and begins the opening chords to the apology sequence. Catrine, about last week, our arrangement to meet in the library. Somewhere near the top of his head where the wall slips down behind it, a grey circle as if a ball has been bounced there repeatedly. That or Poland. The strings prepare for a bridge to contrition. There’s absolutely no, looking for, Excuse for it, a pen, I apologize. Glissando, I’m terribly terribly sorry. Quietly now in preparation for a final crescendo, Gilbert sets down the pen, picks up the gloves. Brown shoes heavy one plus one on the floor, set there. They have squashed her, she once wore. She once wore. Looking up, she pulls back her hair to see him clearly.

They have a name for you. Behind your back.

Gilbert bites at his lip.

Squeak, they call you.

Noises off. Conversation at the bottom of the stairs rises and falls, resounding in the well. My mother was quite ill. Gilbert searches for quality in the fingers of a glove. I was called away. Urgently. Had to wait by the phone. She says, Ill she was ill you had to wait by the phone? She does not say A Familiar Enough Tale. He says, Yes nearly dying rheumatism or typhoid a fever of sorts, cancer malaria a host of ills I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. How could I have left you waiting in the library, the girl who hates books. What was I thinking to do such a thing, he says. Alright, she says getting up, Alright. Enough already. Or something to that effect. And he—

Wait.

Bends his head to her sleeve. Folds her sweater at the cuff. He glances up, oh god the grin that grips her heart . . . I never told Miss Maggone about Paul hurting you, Catrine. It must have been Mr. Stokes who betrayed us.

Think. This tweed reach to halt the abrupt exit his attempt to righten the situation along with her cuff. Gaze into his eyes. Deeply, that’s right. Now compare this moment to a composition. Landscape of courtyard, brown tree, empty field. In the foreground there’s the rough outline of a dictionary. Recall, four days ago, an empty library. Four days ago—

Forgive me for not sending a messenger.

She stands up.

Forgive me, Punch.

In the doorway, she turns, he smiles. He knows.

What are we drawing?

Buildings.