A Future Arrived (11 page)

“Well?” Charles said.

“He's in the tub,” Gowers said. “Matron's doing the honors.”

“Has the lad said anything?”

Gowers and Wilson exchanged glances. “Not really necessary, sir.”

“No,” Wilson said. “It's quite evident why he took French leave. His poor old bum looks like a bruised apple.”

“Someone thrashed him good and proper.”

A
FAT, DIRTY
, untidy boy
. A
scug
in other words, Charles thought, remembering his Eton slang. Scugs had been treated without mercy at Eton, as they no doubt had been treated at other schools, and presumably still were. Singled out by their very grossness of appearance or habits by every bully or cane-wielding prefect and fag master. He remembered a boy named Thorne who shirked all games and was of uncouth appearance. A disgrace to the house and the college. A dozen members of Pop had come to the dormitory one wintry night and dragged Thorne shrieking from his bed, stripped him, whipped him with a birch cane, and then had carried him out into the sleeting night and tossed him into the freezing river. Thorne had left Eton a few days later and had been hooted all the way to the train station.
A fat, dirty, untidy boy
.

The winter of 1904. He had been thirteen, a year younger than poor Thorne. He had done nothing to save him. Had watched silently as he had been carried away and had felt no outrage toward Pop, had in fact heartfully accepted his election into that most ancient of Eton societies a year or two later. He had learned a great deal about human pain and suffering since then. It was far too late to cry out against Thorne's terror so long ago, but he felt a sense of shame and outrage now.

“Why were you beaten?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably on the seat in Charles's study. He was wearing gym shorts and a pullover too large for him. He looked better now that he had been bathed and fed, but his eyes were still swollen from weeping and he shifted them everywhere to avoid looking at the tall man seated behind the oak desk.

“There's little point in your remaining silent. Quite rude, in fact, considering how decently you've been treated here—Master
Ramsay
… Ramsay,
D
.” The boy drew in his breath sharply. “No need to be surprised. There was a name tag inside your jacket. What does the
D
stand for? David?”

“Derek … sir,” the boy whispered.

“Derek Ramsay. Nice name. I shall venture a guess. You may correct me if I'm wrong. You were probably called
Dirt-ee Ram-see
at Archdean.”

He cowered back in his seat and looked wildly about him as though expecting to see his tormentors. “They didn't have to tell you that. They needn't—”

“No one has told me anything, Ramsay. I haven't phoned your school yet. Some things never change. When I was at Eton we had a boy by the name of Allenby who was always getting ink on his cuffs and collar. We called him
Dirt-ee Allen-bee
… with some affection, I might add. There are some names that lend themselves to taunting rhyme. You were not called
Dirt-ee
with any affection whatever, judging by the condition of your backside. I want to know who thrashed you and I want to know why it was done.”

“I can't tell you. I
can't!
”

Charles stood up and walked around his desk. He regretted his height, towering over the cringing boy. He lowered his voice to a gentle murmur in compensation.

“I can understand how difficult it must be for you to confide in a headmaster. But then you don't know very much about us, do you? You must have heard something though, or you wouldn't have come here.”

“There's no … caning here,” he whispered.

“That's correct. No corporal punishment at all. But that's only part of the story. This is a school run, to a very great extent, by the pupils themselves through various elected committees. The highest committee is the governing body, or soviet. They wish to talk to you, Ramsay. If you hold any hope of attending Burgate House in the future, I would advise you to answer all of their questions with the utmost candor. Lying, even half truth, is simply not tolerated here. Do you understand?”

“I … I think so, sir.”

“And that's not my ruling. The soviet sets all standards for admission
and
expulsion.” He reached down and touched the boy on the head, the thick brown hair still damp from the bath. “Come along now, they're waiting for you.”

The high drama attending the arrival of Derek Ramsay had effectively destroyed the school routine for the rest of the day. When Charles went into the common room he found most of the teachers sitting about in varied attitudes of leisure.

“I say,” Simpson remarked, lowering his newspaper, “they're taking rather a long time.”

“I imagine they have a good deal to talk about,” Charles said. “You know how some of these runaways are. Can't get two words out of them at first and then one can't shut them up once they get started.”

“Poor little blighter.”

Charles glanced at his wristwatch. “Been nearly two hours.”

Simpson glanced at his own. “Almost time for tea. They'll break in a minute or two. No fools, the soviet.”

He was correct. There was the sound of footsteps hurrying along the corridor and then an elfin face peered around the doorpost, that of a girl elected to be one of the soviet messengers.

“Please, Mr. Greville, sir, but the soviet would like to see you in chambers.”

“Thank you, Valerie. I'll be right up.”

The girl ran off and Charles could hear her footsteps clattering up the stairs to the first-floor landing as he followed slowly, dreading the tale he was certain to hear.

The seven members comprising the soviet were elected each term by the entire school from pupils in the upper sixth form. It was composed this term of five boys and two girls, ranging in age from sixteen to eighteen and in background from the son of a fish shop owner in Ramsgate to the granddaughter of a viceroy. A small, sunny room that had once been a nursery had been turned into the soviet's council chamber. It contained a few pieces of furniture, although the council, by tradition, conducted its business seated or sprawled on a threadbare Oriental carpet which was believed—falsely—to have belonged to Lenin during his exile in Switzerland.

The council began to get to its feet as Charles entered the room, but he waved them down again. Young Ramsay, he noted, was sprawled among them amid a scattering of toffee wrappers. The soviet knew how to make someone feel at home.

“Conclusion reached, I take it.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the boys said. “We've delegated Jameson as spokesman and we're all in agreement.”

“Good. Tea's about ready. Why don't you take Ramsay down while I talk with Kevin in private.”

Kevin Jameson, a tall, gangly boy of seventeen, closed the door after the others were gone. Charles sat in the least battered of the few chairs.

“Any trouble getting him to talk?”

“A bit, sir. In a blue funk the first half hour. Then he opened up to us. Nasty story, I must say.”

“I can imagine.”

“A classic case of the wrong boy at the wrong school. I have a cousin who went to Archdean. He enjoyed the school immensely, won all sorts of colors and prizes … captained the eleven … led them over Harrow at Lord's three years ago. That sort of thing. He was the type, you see. A perfect fit. This little fellow simply rubbed Archdean the wrong way from the start. Overweight, sloppy dresser … clumsy, hopeless at games … untidy. A complete twerp. And homesick. He was terribly, chronically homesick. Blubbered half the night in the dorm and then, most disgusting of all to his house prefects, began wetting his bed. Their cure for that was to thrash him every morning in his wet pajamas. Only made the situation worse, needless to say. After a few weeks of being thrashed all the time he ran away. His grandfather brought him back. From what we can gather, his parents died years ago. He lives with his grandfather and some old biddy of a housekeeper … ex-nanny I suppose. Anyway, he was returned to the school. Running away was the worst possible crime he could commit. An insult to the entire school. He became a target for everyone's scorn and abuse. Life became a living hell and he finally responded to it the only way he knew how—by running away again.”

“Probably to be sent back again had he gone home.”

Jameson nodded vigorously. “Oh, no doubt of that, sir. It seems that the old gentleman went there … and his father—that is, young Ramsay's father. The must-keep-up-the-tradition nonsense. I faced the same sort of thing when my father packed me off to St. Gregory's in a burst of Catholic fervor which I thought rather odd for a man with two divorces and contemplating a third. Fortunately he came to his senses after my first term and allowed me to come here. I have the feeling that this chap's granddad won't be as accommodating.”

“Probably not.” He stood up and slowly paced the room. “
If
he were permitted to come here would the soviet accept him?”

“I believe so, sir. He's not without faults. Bit of a glutton and chews his fingernails to the quick. Bed pisser and all that. But those are anxiety symptoms, aren't they? Placed in a more tranquil atmosphere I'm certain he'd be quite changed. I mean to say, if I knew I'd be bummed with a bloody stick for pissing my mattress, I'd never stop bloody pissing.”

“Not so much of the
bloody
, if you don't mind.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Charles gazed thoughtfully at the wallpaper. A child's room. Rabbits in eighteenth-century costumes dancing a quadrille. “One thrashing too many and he ran away.”

“More to it than that, sir. Meaning no disrespect to the little chap, but he does have an uncommonly fat rump. Absorb any number of blows I should think. The bruises are certainly vile, though I doubt if he was ever given more than the customary six of the best. What sent him rushing off was a caning in front of his entire house following sentencing by a kangaroo court.”

“I thought that sort of nonsense was outlawed these days.”

“I'm sure it is in any decent school. It was certainly forbidden at St. Gregory's but still occurred from time to time. I imagine the same holds true at Archdean. Houses are run by the sixth form, prefects, and societies. They know how to form a court without attracting the attention of the housemaster. This particular one was held at midnight, in cloisters, the lower forms' study room. Ramsay was dragged out of bed to attend it. It was a frightening and humiliating experience and we feel certain he told us the truth.”

“There's truth enough in a black-and-blue backside.”

“Indeed there is, sir. He ran away the next morning before breakfast. That was three days ago.”

“How on earth did he manage to get here?”

“He'd read about us in one of the tabloids and had been to Abingdon before. He had enough pocket money for a railroad ticket. Got here in a few hours … then lost his nerve. He hid in that old shack at the bottom of the orchard for two days. Lived off apples and a few buns he'd bought in the High Street with the last of his money.”

“Resourceful chap.”

“Yes. And he's only twelve. A bit young for Archdean, but he was academically advanced at prep school. I'd say that's about everything. May I go and have my tea now?”

“Yes, Jameson. And thank you.”

Charles could visualize the scene as he walked to his study. The rough midnight justice of boys. All in pajamas and robes. Silent … filing down the dark corridors from the dorms under the watchful eyes of the prefects, their canes of office tucked under their arms. The court assembled in some candlelit hall. Judge and jury at a long table … the house captains, monitors, prefects, fag masters and bloods—the hierarchy of the sixth form. The oldest, biggest boys. The best of the athletes and scholars seated in judgment on Ramsay, D., the fat, untidy bed wetter whose appearance and behavior were giving the house a bad name. The court, by its actions and punishment, making clear that they did not appreciate
Dirt-ee Ram-see
as a member of their ancient and honorable house, or even of their school.

The headmaster of Archdean was cool but correct over the telephone. Ramsay, D.? He was well aware that the boy had run away, but unlike the previous time had not returned to his home in Wimbledon. The police had been notified. What on earth was he doing at Burgate? Caned and bullied? Certainly
not
bullied. Such behavior was forbidden at Archdean. As for having been caned, that was hardly surprising. A proper thrashing could work wonders on lazy boys with no sense of self-discipline. He would inform Ramsay's grandfather instanter. He would be relieved that the boy had been found—and a good day to you, sir.

I
F
M
R
. R
AMSAY
was relieved by his grandson's reappearance he did not mention it to Charles over the telephone. That Derek had appeared at Burgate House School was a puzzlement.
“Extraordinary. Most extraordinary.”
He could not have sounded more bemused had the lad turned up in a brothel.
“I will drive down. You can expect me around eight this evening.”
He did not say thank you, but did offer to reimburse the school for any expense incurred.