The Good Fathers

Chris Parker

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People try to get out of themselves and to escape from the man. This is folly; instead of

transforming themselves into angels, they turn into beasts; instead of lifting, they degrade

themselves. These transcendental humours frighten me, like lofty and inaccessible heights.

Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays

… the priests are the most evil enemies – but why? Because they are the most impotent. It is

because of their impotence that in them hatred grows to monstrous and uncanny proportions, to the

most spiritual and poisonous kind of hatred. The truly great haters in world history have always

been priests; likewise the most ingenious haters: other kinds of spirit hardly come into consideration

when compared with the spirit of priestly vengefulness.

Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals/Ecce Homo

Celibacy is the most extreme of sexual perversions, after all.

Ada Palmer, Too Like the Lightning

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Prologue

‘My name is Father Anderson. I’m a Catholic priest, and I do a lot of work with children.’

These introductory words to a jazz documentary, shown at a European music festival in the mid

1990s, reduced a roomful of jazz lovers to such a pitch of hysteria – manifested in uncontrollable

laughter, catcalling, even the sort of whooping and whistling ordinarily reserved for the end of drum

solos – that the screening of the film had to be temporarily abandoned. I only learned this later,

mind you, because I was made so angry by the audience reaction that I had to leave the cinema.

At a reception thrown by the festival organizers that evening, held in my hotel, the interrupted

screening inevitably formed the chief topic of conversation. I got talking to one of my closest

friends, an American jazz journalist for whom the words ‘grizzled veteran’ might have been coined.

His first words were of concern for me. ’Are you all right? Not ill are you? I saw you leaving the

screening earlier.’

‘No, I’m fine. I just couldn’t listen to that laughing. I found it unbearable.’

He paused, struggled with his better nature for a moment, then laughed outright, digging me

painfully in the ribs as he chortled and sniggered like a schoolboy. ‘Funny, though, right? You’d

have to go to the Marx Brothers, or Lenny Bruce, to get another audience reaction like that. Gold

dust. I’ve never seen so many men in tears.’

I remained silent, wondering how to formulate my thoughts on a subject I hadn’t allowed into

my head for a couple of decades.

My friend looked worriedly at me. ‘You didn’t find it funny?’

He made me feel priggish, over-earnest; I wasn’t sure how to explain myself without descending

into downright sententiousness. ‘No, it was funny … but I just think it’s a serious subject––’

Light dawned on my friend’s face. ‘You were taught by priests, weren’t you? Sorry, Alan, that

must have been painful.’

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 It was clear to me, suddenly, that my friend suspected I’d been abused in my youth, so I hastened

to reassure him. ‘No – or, yes: I was taught by priests, but nothing bad happened to me. It was later

…’ I hesitated, unsure how to proceed – we were, after all, at a party of sorts, and I was loath to

embroil us in the deeply depressing discussion the subject demanded.

‘I’ve got some Jack Daniel’s in my room – fancy a proper drink?’

We left the party and went upstairs. My friend – let’s call him Jack, after the drink he loved so

much – rummaged around in his suitcase and produced a bottle of Tennessee’s finest.

‘Once a Catholic, eh?’ he said, winking at me as we clinked glasses. ‘Tell me all about it.’

I’d known Jack since the early 1980s – I’d commissioned and edited a couple of books of his –

so was used to his habit of hiding a sympathetic, thoughtful interior under a tough carapace of New

York cynicism. We had an unspoken deal going: I made allowances for his need to adopt this hard-

bitten persona; he made allowances for my need to appear sensitive and English. We got on well

once we had tacitly established these rules of engagement.

‘I think I was almost as hurt by that laughter as the director was. Did you see his face? Not that I

blame anyone – I can see exactly why they all thought it was funny. It’s just that I find it maddening

that Catholic priests have gone straight from being untouchable, universally reverenced beings to

pantomime villains no one takes seriously – without anything in between. It’s the “in between”

that’s important – and it lets them off the hook to just laugh at them, as everyone seems to do these

days. Does that make sense?’

Jack took a large slug of his whiskey. ‘Whew! Are you sure you weren’t abused? Sure sounds

like it.’ He licked his finger, put it briefly on my forehead and made a sizzling noise. ‘What

happened to you?’

So I told him what had happened to me, over twenty years previously, during a brief stint as an

English teacher at a boarding school in the wilds of Lancashire. It took me about two hours – and

several large glasses of whiskey – to provide him with just edited highlights of this experience, and

I could see that, even after listening patiently for all that time to my account, he didn’t really get it.

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 He could sense my disappointment. He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This is a weird, alien

world to me. I’m a New York Jew – religion’s something out of “Religions Inc.” to me.’

We were back to Lenny Bruce. I tried again. ‘But you must be able to see how religion – or

Catholicism, anyhow; I can’t speak for the others – twists people so they––’

Jack put his hand up like a traffic policeman. ‘Hey, hey. It’s twisted you, is what I’m hearing.

Last time I looked, all sorts of people were abusing children, not just Catholic priests. What about

scout masters? Teachers? Hell, even fathers – and mothers, come to that. It’s a wider social

problem, not just a Catholic one.’ He saw my expression, and laughed. ‘You’re right, though: they

do seem to have a special talent for it. Face it: any religion that’s based on a spirit getting a woman

pregnant through her ear has to be pretty weird, right?’ He roared with laughter and emptied what

little remained of his Jack Daniel’s into our glasses.

I shook my head and went into my prissy-Englishman act, something Jack loved. ‘That’s not

quite how Catholics see the Annunciation, Jack.’

‘The what? Is that what they call it?’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Oh my God. I love it.

Why don’t they call it the Insemination?’

I realized that I had been cast in the role of the straight man in a black comedy routine satirizing

Catholic doctrine – not unwillingly; I found myself enjoying playing it – but I ploughed on

regardless. ‘Because an Annunciation is basically what it was: the angel––’

‘There’s an angel involved?’ Jack actually slapped his knee. ‘This just gets better and better.

What did this angel do? Keep it clean, mind.’

‘He had a name, Jack: Gabriel – one of the archangels, like Michael, you know, the one with the

flaming sword?’

‘Who could forget him? But Gabriel, why was he there at all? Wasn’t there insemination going

on? A pretty private moment, wasn’t it, for the two involved?’

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 ‘Actually, the “insemination” as you call it, must have happened then, because it was March

25th, nine months before Christmas Day, so yes, the Annunciation by the angel happened at exactly

the same time as the Holy Ghost––’

‘The Holy Ghost? Is that his real name?’

‘He’s the third person of the Blessed Trinity, Jack. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy

Ghost.’

Even Jack’s whiskey-befuddled brain spotted an anomaly here. ‘But not at that point, he wasn’t,

was he?’

‘Wasn’t what, Jack?’

‘The third person. The second person didn’t exist yet, surely – or why was he there?’

‘You may be on to something there. That honestly hadn’t occurred to me in all the years I’ve

known about it. But really, it’s not important, all this – just terminology, after all. The important

thing is what we were talking about earlier: the abuse thing.’

Jack became serious again. ‘Oh, that, yes. You should write it all down, why don’t you?’

This late-night conversation came back into my mind, over the following years, every time I heard

of another child-abuse scandal, Catholic, Muslim, Jewish or secular. Each one triggered a bout of

soul-searching: TV discussion programmes puzzled over it; social workers blamed society;

humanists blamed religion, religious people blamed humanism and secularism; survivors blamed

whatever organization had harboured and protected their abusers, whether this was an established

Church, a particular school or football club, even an administrative sporting body or the BBC. All I

could hear, though, was Jack saying, ‘They do seem to have a special talent for it,’ and his final

piece of advice: ‘You should write it all down, why don’t you?’

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1

Blame my Catholic upbringing, my over-protective parents, whatever – but I’ve never been what

you might call a creature of impulse; if I had been, all that follows might have been avoided. For the

first thing I saw, on driving up the avenue leading to Rockburgh, should have made me turn round

on the spot and go straight back to London. An old man was kneeling at the foot of a statue of the

Virgin Mary, in a violent rainstorm that rendered his light overcoat pitifully inadequate and

plastered his sparse hair to his streaming scalp. I got out of my car and struggled across the sodden

grass. The old man remained kneeling at the foot of the statue, watching my approach with

undisguised apprehension.

I dismissed an absurd impulse, triggered by the severity of the deluge enveloping us, to shout

‘Ahoy, there!’ Instead, I merely shouted, ‘Get in the car. I’ll take you back to the College.’

He glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm the building’s continued existence; it was indeed

still there, huge, grey, turreted, oddly malevolent, about half a mile away up the avenue.

‘Thank you, sir, but there’s really no need––’

‘Please get in. I’ll not leave until you do,’ I shouted back. I was acutely conscious of the

ridiculous banality of our argument, accentuated by the volume at which we were being forced to

conduct it.

He rose from his knees, turned towards me, and bundling up what looked like a necklace of

beads, put them in his pocket. A rosary, I realized; he’d been praying for Our Lady’s intercession in

some private, earthly matter.

In my car, he seemed even more nervous than he’d been when his prayers had first been

interrupted. ‘You really shouldn’t have bothered about me. I’m used to this weather, and I pray

there all the time.’

‘You’ll catch your death. Don’t they have chapels in the College you could use when it’s as wet

as this?’

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 A look of profound humility took hold of the old man’s features. ‘There is a Servants’ Chapel,

yes, but I prefer coming down here.’

‘You offer up the discomfort, do you?’

This was rude of me, and it was plainly too abrupt and crude a question for him to consider. He

squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as we arrived at the gates of the College. ‘Thank you sir, but

you really shouldn’t have …’ He trailed off, clearly embarrassed by our sudden enforced intimacy,

and left the car as soon as it stopped, his muttered repeated thanks swallowed by the noise of the

downpour.

I was given little opportunity to reflect on this incident; a lithe figure in clerical garb was striding

through the rain towards me. He leaned down to my hastily opened window. ‘Was that old John I

saw scuttling away?’

‘I don’t know his name; he was kneeling out there in the rain, so I thought I should rescue him.’

‘Bet he was furious, wasn’t he? Probably hadn’t done his nightly quota of decades. Still, nice of

you, I suppose. You must be Alan Simpson; we’ve been expecting you.’

I got out of the car and shook the hand he was offering me. He had a fierce grip, but his smile

was warm and welcoming as he went on, ‘I’m Fr Jackson, but I hope you’ll call me Francis.’

In both appearance and general demeanour, ‘Francis’ was not what I had expected. He belonged

to the order I’d been taught by at my grammar school, but where this experience had taught me to

look for scholarly severity and stern, unsmiling, calculating rectitude, he was all bluff

ingenuousness. The slightly absurd phrase ‘muscular Christianity’ rose unbidden to my mind,

summoned chiefly by his physique – he had the tough, wiry body of a rugby threequarter – but also

by his apparently disinterested friendliness. He pushed a surprisingly delicate-looking hand through

his crinkly hair, shook the rain off it on to the shining cobbles under the arch leading into the

school, and then ducked into my car and rummaged about among the luggage on its back seat.

‘You’re billeted in the New Wing,’ he said, hoisting my trunk on to his shoulder with all the

practised ease of an extra from Showboat. ‘Follow me.’

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 I picked up a couple of my lighter pieces of luggage – a box of books, my case of records – and,

locking the rest in my car, entered the College. I had to resist the urge to gawp at the massive stone

pillars crowned with heraldic creatures clutching shields that marked the boundary between the

bleak rainswept drive and the dim forbidding interior of the school, and the even more foolish

temptation to utter Dorothy’s words aloud: ‘Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’

The first thing I saw, once inside, was another statue, this time a Pietà; kneeling on the stone

flags in front of it was ‘old John’. I hurried past him and caught Francis up.

‘He’s not even dried himself.’ I could think of nothing else to say.

‘You must have interrupted him. He does the whole fifteen decades every day, rain or shine.’

Francis gave me another wide smile as he strode off down the gallery leading to the New Wing.

I trotted behind him, feeling rather foolish. My first action in this unfamiliar environment had

clearly been insensitive, meddlesome, even high-handed.

‘Should I have left him to get pneumonia?’ I asked, unable to keep the querulousness I felt out of

my tone.

‘Might have been kinder, yes. You’ll have embarrassed him no end simply by talking to him.

He’ll be even more embarrassed now he’s been seen by me praying in public inside the College.

He’s got very old-fashioned views on the duties of servants, has old John.’

‘He did mention something called the Servants’ Chapel …’ I said tentatively.

‘Ah, yes: that’s been taken over by the Spaniards,’ was Francis’s reply. I must have looked

startled, because he laughed at my expression and then explained: ‘I’m making them sound like an

Armada, aren’t I? I just mean that the majority of our servants are Spanish, and they use their own

chapel. John goes there too, but when he wants a bit of solitude he goes up to the Lady Statue.’

By this time, we were outside my room, one of about twenty on the top floor of what looked like

a recent extension to the College, built of honey-coloured rather than grey brick, and floored with

wood rather than cold stone. Francis ushered me inside a space so characterless that it might have

been a cheap hotel room. A single bed stood against one wall, with a straight-backed wooden chair

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next to it. A largeish table and an old armchair were the room’s only other pieces of furniture; there

was a small handbasin plumbed into the wall by the window, and a desk lamp, standing on the

table, which Francis switched on once he’d lowered my trunk to the floor.

The apprehensiveness I felt must have been discernible, because Francis’s next words were

unexpectedly kind: ‘Don’t worry about our odd ways. We must seem like Gormenghast to you, or

something out of the Middle Ages. You’re a Catholic, though, aren’t you?’

Here it was, as I’d expected. ‘Born and raised,’ I brought out in what I hoped was a frank,

disarming manner, omitting the vital coda: ‘… and lapsed’.

‘Well, then. You’ll know what to expect from us, won’t you?’ Francis’s quick glance at me as he

said this was overtly comforting, yet laced with a faint hint of satirical meaning I found hard to

dismiss from my mind as I made the return journey to my car to pick up the rest of my luggage: a

Dansette record player, and an overnight bag filled with toiletries and a change of underwear,

packed in case my trunk should be unavailable to me on my first night in the College – an

unnecessary precaution, I now realized, thanks to Francis’s intervention.

Once back in my room, alone now that Francis had left me to my own devices, I sank into

something of a blue reverie, wondering at the sudden change in my life. Only the previous evening

I’d been in another world entirely, listening to jazz at Ronnie Scott’s in Soho, a milieu where ‘Lady

Statue’ would probably have more readily signified a memorial to Billie Holiday than anything to

do with the mother of God, and the only Dukes and Counts were jazz royalty rather than the fathers

of the over-privileged pupils I was expecting to meet en masse the following day.

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2

My immediate sensation after waking on my first morning at Rockburgh was one of profound

disorientation. I knew I had been rudely torn from sleep by a noise of some sort, but on struggling

into full consciousness I could hear nothing. As far as I knew, I was alone in the New Wing, which

was otherwise inhabited solely by the sixth-formers who were due to arrive that day. I waited for

my heart to stop beating so wildly, and then I told myself sternly that there was nothing to worry

about. After all, no one had forced me to take up this post at Rockburgh; I was doing it merely as a

favour to a priest whom I’d met during my brief stint working as a lowly editor at a London

publishing house, and he – a stern but kindly and oddly unworldly soul – would surely be among

those waiting to greet me when I finally summoned up the courage to leave my room and venture

into the College. I got up and, shivering in the cold, dressed myself in my smartest clothes. I even

put on a tie and polished my shoes.

My first ordeal was exposing myself to my fellow teachers in the staff refectory, which I found

only after a lengthy ramble down several deserted stone-flagged corridors. I’d expected a somewhat

spartan dining space, in keeping with the rough simplicity of the rest of the building, but was

surprised to find a warm, well-appointed, even luxurious dining room, its dark red wallpaper

showing off a series of oil paintings tastefully lit by concealed overhead lamps. The reaction to my

sudden appearance, however, was anything but warm: all conversation ceased, all eyes turned

towards the intruder. I hesitated in the doorway, wondering if I had mistakenly entered a private

space, reserved only for priests. I was rescued, as on the previous evening, by Francis.

‘Ah, Mr Simpson – Alan!’ he said. ‘Summoned by bells! Come on in and have some breakfast.’

Grateful as I was, I could only summon sufficient courage to mumble, ‘Bells? I did wonder what

had woken me …’ before moving swiftly across the room to seat myself on the chair beside him.

His fellow priests continued to stare. Francis, sensing my discomfort, announced my name again,

then went round the table, introducing each priest in turn.

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 ‘This is our Prefect of the Curriculum, Fr Pond. Responsible for drawing up timetables, overall

administration … and discipline. Just follow the sounds of whalebone on palms, and you’ll find Fr

Pond.’

I expected this facetiousness to draw a protest from the pudgy, triple-chinned priest Francis was

pointing at, but Pond merely chuckled indulgently and resumed his breakfast, a massive pile of

bacon, scrambled egg and mushrooms. The other priests, too, laughed quietly to themselves, as if

they were being entertained by a licensed jester.

‘And this impressive fellow is Fr Forster, who keeps us all on the straight and narrow.’

The priest in question, a massive man with a bull-like neck and a physique to match, merely

nodded brusquely at me and gave Francis a baleful glare.

After performing a similar service for a number of clerics, whose names I instantly forgot,

Francis reached the one person with whom I was already acquainted. ‘And Fr Pym you know, don’t

you? Our spiritual leader.’

‘I’m pleased you could come at such short notice. We’re all very grateful to you, Mr Simpson.’

Noting his formality (he’d called me Alan during our previous conversations in London,

discussing his book about St Ignatius), but grateful for his welcome, I nodded round the table and

helped myself to mushrooms and eggs.

‘No bacon for you?’ asked Francis.

‘I don’t eat meat, I’m afraid.’

‘No need to be afraid,’ said Fr Pym, unexpectedly. ‘I often wonder myself whether it’s strictly

necessary to slaughter our fellow creatures quite so indiscriminately.’

There were indignant murmurs round the table at this, especially from Fr Forster, whose plate

was piled with steaming meat, but Francis intervened smoothly: ‘I often wonder why you’re a

Catholic and not a Buddhist, Father.’

‘There’s a two-word answer to that: Jesus Christ,’ Pym replied.

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 This assertion, something that all could readily agree on, seemed to restore emotional

equilibrium to the assembly, and I was able to finish my meal in relative tranquillity of mind.

I was hoping, once my breakfast was finished, that Francis might have the time to show me

round the College. I had seen, as I lost myself in its confusing immensity on my way to the

refectory, that Rockburgh was a huge building, honeycombed with stone corridors, its floors

connected by wide staircases lined with gloomy works of art, many of them depicting esoteric – and

frequently violent and bloody – passages of the Bible. To my surprise, though, it was Fr Pond who

volunteered for this task; I was suddenly aware of a soft white hand resting briefly on my shoulder,

and an insinuating voice in my ear: ‘Come with me and I’ll give you the tour. Can’t have you

getting lost, can we?’

I tried to rise from my chair, but felt Pond’s hand return and press me back down.

‘You’ve forgotten your Grace.’

I was bewildered by this remark until I looked over at Francis, who made a sign of the cross and

closed his eyes. I had neglected to say Grace before my breakfast – something that presumably had

not gone unnoticed – but I attempted to redeem myself now by adopting a suitably pious expression

and muttering a few inaudible words.

Pond sighed appreciatively and moved towards the door, then glanced coyly at me to encourage

me to follow him. ‘It’ll be a good chance to see the place uncluttered by boys.’ He chuckled, and

slid out into the corridor.

Pond started my tour by showing me the Pietà I’d left John praying at the night before. ‘I

thought you’d probably want to see this first,’ he said.

‘It’s …’ I faltered, unable to complete the remark honestly without using any of the words –

ghastly, macabre, creepy chief among them – that rose unbidden to my mind.

‘Overwhelming, isn’t it?’ Pond, I was grateful to see, mistook my embarrassed confusion for

pious awe.

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 ‘It’s beautifully carved,’ I managed to say, in a vain attempt to distract myself from the sickly

sentimentality of Our Lady’s expression as she gazed tenderly down at the wounded body of Christ

draped over her thighs.

‘It’s a great favourite with the boys,’ said Pond, gazing fondly at Christ’s twisted feet.

I could think of no suitable reply to this, so followed him silently down a flight of steps leading

to a wide main corridor, off which were offices, classrooms and a set of glass doors leading to a

playground large enough to accommodate four tennis courts as well as a flagged area the size of

three or four football pitches.

‘Impressive,’ I found myself saying. ‘I feel like Gulliver in Lilliput – or do I mean

Brobdingnag?’

‘You’re the English teacher,’ replied Pond, adopting a roguish expression and prodding my arm

repeatedly, presumably to draw my attention to the fact that he was jesting.

‘The latter, I think,’ I said, fervently wishing I could decently escape to my room and immerse

myself in some soothing jazz – Lester Young, maybe, or Hank Mobley.

The rest of the tour took in facilities my poor old grammar school would have killed for: a

theatre, an indoor football pitch, a suite of science labs, a huge refectory, two chapels, a tuck shop,

games rooms, an indoor swimming pool (always referred to as ‘the Plunge’) and – upstairs –

dormitories for the lower forms and individual rooms for the sixth form.

‘Think you’ll be able to find your way around now?’ asked Pond, when we had returned to the

main corridor (which he solemnly instructed me to refer to as a ‘gallery’ – another of the many

shibboleths waiting to trap the unwary).

‘I hope so – thank you very much, Father.’

‘A pleasure,’ Pond replied, smiling ingratiatingly at me. ‘I should get back to your room and

unpack. The boys will be here this afternoon.’ He smiled at me again and disappeared into an office

that smelled of sweat, tobacco and a third aroma not immediately traceable to its occupant, which,

while walking back to my room, I identified as linseed oil.

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 Finding my way back to the New Wing proved more challenging than I’d hoped, but eventually,

after mistakenly entering a wing reserved for priests and using the boys’ refectory as a short cut, I

found my room and collapsed on my bed.

I spent the rest of the morning unpacking to the comforting sound of Hank Mobley and Grant

Green, and after another slightly strained meal in the staff dining room (a more formal occasion

than breakfast, this, with collective Grace both before and afterwards), I decided to indulge myself

with a walk in the surrounding countryside.

The College was basically an estate, in that the building itself was the nerve centre of all the

activity of the area around it. Leaving through the main gate and walking down the drive between

two small lakes I had not seen in the murk of the previous evening, I noticed a row of stone

buildings nestling in a hollow to my left. A man, with what appeared to be a gun under his arm, was

observing me from the threshold of the largest cottage. I waved, and walked round the bottom of the

lake to see if I could have a word with him, but when I looked for him again, he had disappeared, so

I turned back and walked slowly up the drive towards the statue of the Virgin Mary at which John

had been praying the night before. In the daylight, this proved to be of carved stone like the Pietà,

but represented a praying woman rather than a grieving one, her hands piously clasped in front of

her, her eyes raised reverently towards heaven. The field from which it rose, I could now see,

bordered a rugby pitch, and just beyond it was what appeared to be a cricket pavilion, now shut up

for the coming winter.

Taking a path to the right of the statue, and crossing into the more open country by means of a

wooden stile, I was surprised to find myself on the edge of a golf course. Rough and ready it may

have been, its greens rudimentary and identifiable only courtesy of the flags at their centre, but I

could not help but reflect on the privilege – even luxury – it represented. Playing any form of sport

at my grammar school – and we played soccer rather than rugby in the winter terms – had involved

a lengthy journey through the town park to a muddy field without changing rooms; golf was an

15
alien practice reportedly indulged in by relatively remote figures, such as my parents’ doctor or

solicitor.

On the other side of the golf course, though, the countryside proper began, thick woods giving

way to outright heathland as I climbed out of the valley cradling the College on to the fells

surrounding it. I began to feel less apprehensive; if I could immerse myself in my two great

interests, jazz and bird watching, when things threatened to get on top of me, I might just survive.

The lake I came upon on my way back from the fell had pochard swimming and diving on it and a

heron prowling among the reeds on its bank; I’d seen kestrels and a buzzard, and heard curlews

bubbling in the heathland – even the small lakes at the front of the College were packed with

mallard and the odd tufted duck. I might be all right after all.

The boys had begun arriving when I returned. As I left the golf course I could see the drive was

teeming with ostentatious limousines – Bentleys, Daimlers, Armstrong-Siddeleys, Rovers – and

when I entered the school, the galleries were thronged with teenagers shouting to each other in the

unselfconscious manner exclusive to the upper middle classes. Holiday stories were related across

unsuitably large spaces; parental kisses were rudely remarked upon; nicknames of all sorts, and

crude insults were bandied about – I even heard one boy refer to another as a ‘spastic’ – in short,

adolescent male hysteria, a veneer of bravado thinly disguising fear and uncertainty, all fuelled by

testosterone, filled the air.

My painstakingly acquired equanimity threatening to desert me, I retreated swiftly to my room

and immersed myself in the plangent tones of Billie Holiday.

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3

My first few impressions of Rockburgh I found profoundly disturbing, for a number of reasons.

Chief among these was what I can only describe as the downright thoughtlessness – even

callousness – of the boys. They referred, for instance, to the Spanish servants as ‘boggies’, because

some of them cleaned the ‘bogs’ (a large toilet facility next to the indoor games area, always

referred to, in the school’s esoteric language, as ‘the Common Place’); they seemed entirely

ignorant of their acquaintances’ Christian names, always addressing each other either by surnames

or a variety of (usually unpleasantly cruel) nicknames; they seemed unable to sympathize with any

form of weakness or distress in their peers, routinely using the term ‘spastic’ or ‘spaz’ to describe

those who demonstrated anything other than robust heartlessness. Mind you, this may have been a

perfectly understandable reaction to the rigid regimentation of their lives: they were arranged in

alphabetical order for all their activities, whether in church or refectory or on the rugby pitch; they

were forbidden to speak everywhere but on the public galleries and in their games rooms (and even

in the refectory before Grace had been said); they were not allowed upstairs during daylight hours;

they were allowed only two visits from parents during thirteen-week terms, and only one phone call

a week (from a tiny cubby hole under the main staircase supplied with a pay phone which was often

out of order); they were expected to attend Mass every morning; they were beaten up to eighteen

times on the hands with a whalebone inside a rubber shoe-sole for every infringement of the many

rules by which they were governed; they had to dress up in army uniform every week and parade in

front of an undersized, apparently demented Welshman referring to himself, with an unshakable

conviction that would have seen him committed long ago if demonstrated in any normal

community, as a regimental sergeant-major; I could go on …

I was also disturbed by the complacent moral rectitude, the utter unwavering certainty I

discerned in the priests in whose charge these boys had been placed. I had been raised, I now

realized, in a kindlier, gentler Catholicism – emphasizing the forgiveness and understanding

17
available to the repentant sinner rather than the inevitable punishment awaiting him or her – than

this stern, unforgiving brand of the religion I now saw all around me. It was shocking to me, since I

saw it as a throwback to the pre-Vatican II world I had personally rejected so decisively, and which,

I had blithely assumed, would struggle to survive in a world of Civil Rights, technological progress,

the Beatles and LSD.

On my first whole day at Rockburgh, of course, I had not been able to reach such definite

conclusions; I had just noted various attitudes and incidents and weighed them in mental moral

scales. So far, only Francis and his breezy friendliness occupied the positive scale, and he it was

who roused me from the gloomy reverie into which I’d sunk after witnessing the boys’ arrival.

Sticking his head round my door without waiting for an answer to his thunderous knock, he was

even more animated than he’d seemed the previous night. ‘Good heavens, man,’ he said, ‘you’ll

drive yourself to distraction if you sit listening to stuff like this. Sounds like a sick cat. Come with

me; there’s someone I want you to meet, and she should be arriving any minute.’

‘“She”? You mean there are women here?’ I let my mouth fall open in mock astonishment.

‘They’re over half the human race, or so I’ve heard. Apparently they’re useful mainly for

procreative purposes, but this one’s the school secretary – reads and writes and everything. She’s

got a son here – and an ex-husband in Ireland.’ This last piece of information caused a slight

shadow to cross his face, but he recovered himself quickly and pulled me up out of my chair. ‘Turn

that caterwauling off and come with me.’

‘Caterwauling? That’s––’

‘I know who it is. Prefer rock music myself: have you heard Tommy?’

At this, my mock astonishment became genuine. ‘You like the Who?’

He turned and grinned at me. ‘We’re not all thuggish Neanderthals like Fr Pond and Fr Forster,

or ethereal moralists like Pym – you must come and listen to some proper music when you’ve a

moment. You’re not the only one with a Dansette in your room.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Are the boys allowed to listen to music?’

18
 This stopped him in his tracks. ‘Good God no! Some of them do manage to smuggle in transistor

radios, so they can listen to Radio Luxembourg, but they’re supposed to confine their music

appreciation to proper music, taught in the proper way, in music lessons. Mozart, Brahms, stuff like

that – the War Requiem’s about as modern as they get.’

‘Never been that keen on Britten. Peter Grimes!’ I sang, in a mock-Peter Pears voice.

‘That’s exactly it. Tommy’s more my idea of an opera – at least it’s got some tunes in it.’

‘Actually, I do like the Who. Pete Townshend does a good line in plaintive middle eights.’

Francis merely snorted at this piece of sententiousness. By this time, we’d reached the school’s

main entrance, where some later arrivals were still showing up, among them a strikingly statuesque

woman getting out of a Ford Zephyr.

‘That’s Grace,’ Francis murmured, suddenly oddly subdued.

Several aspects of this situation struck me at once. The most immediate was the change in

Francis’s demeanour, from light-hearted ebullience to near-shyness, but I was also impressed by the

serene melancholy of Grace. She exuded an affecting mix of resignation and gentle defiance, as if

she was steeling herself for an inevitable but undeserved ordeal. Beside her, after he’d struggled out

of the Zephyr’s back seat, stood a boy who so closely resembled her that he could only be her son.

He also seemed apprehensive, even submissive.

‘Good thing I came,’ said Francis under his breath to me. ‘That woman driving is the nastiest

piece of work I’ve ever encountered. Let’s hope she’s not stopping.’

His wish was immediately granted; paying little heed to the safety of the parents and boys

milling around unloading trunks and taking leave of each other, the Zephyr honked loudly and did a

brisk three-point turn before disappearing down the narrow drive.

‘Poop poop!’ I hoped my facetious imitation of Toad in reckless driver mode would break the

ice, and it did. Francis seemed heartened and chuckled as he introduced me. ‘Alan, this is Grace

Tawney and her son Donal.’ Then, to Grace: ‘You look shell-shocked, darling. That Taylor creature

been giving you a hard time, has she?’

19
 Grace smiled gratefully, took Francis’s proffered arm and kissed him on the cheek. I couldn’t

help noticing Donal wincing slightly at this display of affection, so I tried to distract him by

offering to help him with his trunk. We made a somewhat ill-assorted foursome as we entered the

College, Grace and Francis walking ahead, arm in arm, deep in conversation; Donal and I

following, carrying his trunk between us.

‘Who was that driving you back?’ I asked over my shoulder.

‘Ugh. The most unpleasant woman west of the Pennines – makes Ena Sharples look like Patient

Griselda.’

‘English scholar are you? We may be thrown together. I’m taking over the A-level English

classes from Mr Johnson.’

‘Another unpleasant piece of work. I’m glad he’s gone, at any rate. I’ve been staying with the

parents of a friend in Preston – his name’s David, and he managed to get himself expelled from here

last term, so I thought I’d try and give him a bit of moral support. He’s having to do his A-levels at

a polytechnic, and his mother – Mrs Toad, there – is distinctly unimpressed. Ma came and picked

me up from there this afternoon, and Mrs Taylor insisted on driving us back. I think she wanted us

all to herself for an hour so she could express as much disapproval at us as would fit in a confined

space.’

‘Why does she disapprove of you?’

‘Blames me for her son getting expelled, I think. Bad influence, apparently. I’d just about

charmed her into half-forgiving me when Ma turned up and ruined it. Divorcee, you know.’

‘And Irish to boot,’ I added.

Donal laughed. ‘Yes, that doesn’t help. Apparently there’s a Catholic mafia in Preston, and

they’ve told David’s mother all about the goings-on here last year. She doesn’t know who she

disapproves of most: Johnson, the powers that be here who expelled her precious son, or the over-

perfumed trollop who turned up to collect her son’s friend.’

20
 ‘“Over-perfumed trollop”? Is that what she said?’ I was genuinely outraged on his mother’s

behalf.

‘Yes, I heard her calling her that – I think she meant me to hear it, actually.’

I was shocked into silence not only by the sheer cruelty of this remark, but also by the

unexpected confidence shown in me by Donal, which I found at once flattering and disturbing.

We deposited his trunk in his room, just down the corridor from mine. Francis and Grace had

disappeared into another wing of the building, so I returned to my room alone, mulling over all

Donal had told me and all I had seen at the gates of the College: the unconcealed affection between

a supposedly celibate priest and an Irish divorcee; the mysterious departure of my predecessor, the

‘unpleasant piece of work’; the ‘goings-on last year’ so disapproved of by the fearsome Mrs Taylor.

Instead of preparing my first lesson (probably unnecessary anyway – I surely knew enough

about Macbeth to allow me to bluff my way through an A-level English lesson), I decided to cheer

myself up with a little light reading: P. G. Wodehouse had always dispelled any gloom I had

suffered as a child, and there seemed no reason to doubt that he would work his spell now.

21
4

‘Have you had any military experience, Mr Simpson?’ At breakfast the following morning, this was

Fr Pond’s unexpected conversational gambit. There was a sudden hush around the table as all eyes

turned to me.

‘Other than being born just after the war, no,’ was all I could muster as a reply. ‘I just avoided

national service …’

Pond allowed himself a brief smirk. ‘Too young, of course.’ He made it sound as if I’d purposely

arranged the date of my birth so that I’d be in my mid-teens in 1963. He went on: ‘It’s just that I’m

organizing the staff rota for the Combined Cadet Force, and we need men in uniform.’ The last

three words he pronounced with an odd, almost saucy emphasis, as if he were referring to

something slightly risqué – burlesque dancers, perhaps, or female impersonators.

‘Ah, yes, well I’m afraid I’m not really army material.’ In fact, I was a member of CND and a

full-blown pacifist, but I saw no reason to reveal this.

Pond shook his head sadly. ‘A shame. I find the boys look up to their superior officers in the

corps. It’s a short cut to their respect.’

‘No doubt, but as I say, I can’t oblige.’ I’d hoped this would mark the end of this particular topic,

but Pond was not so easily deflected.

‘I always think that the presentation of arms to the Blessed Sacrament is the highlight of the

liturgical year.’ This was Fr Forster’s contribution to our discussion, shouted through a mouthful of

bacon and sausages.

I could think of no reply to this astonishing statement: I was unfamiliar with this ritual; it

sounded utterly abhorrent. I was rescued from my embarrassment by Francis, as ever.

‘Leave the poor man alone – not everyone’s such a muscular Christian as you are, Fr Forster, or

as keen on boys parading around in uniform as you, Prefect.’

Pond grimaced. ‘I’ve asked you not to call me that, Francis. It makes me sound like a motor car.’

22
 Francis just laughed at this, and winked at me. ‘I expect you’ll be gaining the boys’ respect in

other ways. Had you thought of starting a Jazz Appreciation Society?’

There were gasps round the table at this; clearly jazz was viewed as the Devil’s music by the

assembled company.

‘I hadn’t, but now you mention it, it might be good to broaden their musical horizons a little …’

‘I can see you’re going to shake us up, Mr Simpson. First vegetarianism, now jazz. What next?’

This semi-jocular summation from Fr Pym served to put the matter to rest. Pond and Forster had

been successfully deflected, and Francis had managed to present me as a man with serious, if

somewhat eccentric, heterodox interests, which was as much as I could hope for in present

company.

My first English lesson went much better than I’d expected, too: luckily, I’d checked the text of

Macbeth we were supposed to be studying, and found it seriously deficient, a bowdlerized edition

lacking several vital scenes, including the Porter’s speech. I took my own edition of the play into

the school office, typed out the missing speech, and made thirty-odd copies for distribution to my

class. This gave rise, after the embarrassed giggling had died down, to a lively discussion of

equivocation, and even to a debate about the diffusion of dramatic tension. I felt absurdly gratified;

maybe I could make a genuine contribution to these boys’ education after all.

As the class filed out, I announced that I’d be starting up a Jazz and Blues Appreciation Society,

and that anyone interested should leave a note on my ‘pipes’ – another odd custom apparently

exclusive to this school, whereby each teacher was assigned a particular numbered grating over the

central heating pipes running along the lower gallery upon which homework could be left for

marking or, as in this case, notes placed for his attention.

As it turned out, only five notes appeared, so I put up a notice announcing that our first meeting,

given the modest numbers involved, would take place in my room in the New Wing the following

Sunday morning after High Mass. I was pleased to see that one of the prospective members was

Tawney, D.

23
 I spent the intervening days settling in to the routine of College life, which although less rigid for

me than for my unfortunate charges, who seemed to spend half their time in church and all their

afternoons either playing rugby or cross-country running, was none the less demanding, making my

previous life in London seem positively sybaritic by comparison. Rising at the behest of a shrill bell

that rang throughout the College just after seven o’clock was something I never got used to, but at

least I didn’t have to join the boys in church for daily Mass, merely sauntering along the silent

corridors towards the tempting smell of breakfast while they made their solemn way to worship.

Meals, however, were always something of an ordeal. I wasn’t used to eating in company, even

congenial company, and my fellow teachers were anything but congenial. Black-robed, elderly,

some of them downright wizened, they initially reminded me of a group of crows, or the Witches in

Macbeth. My arrival among them was generally marked by silence, but their conversation, when

resumed, did not encourage me to contribute, concerned as it generally was with esoteric matters of

church policy.

Vatican II was a hot topic, its liberalism seen by most as wishy-washy relativism that would

inevitably lead to the crumbling of papal authority, even to the demise of Catholicism itself. I had

previously regarded Fr Pym as a somewhat strict, unbending moralist, but in this company, he

revealed himself as an accommodating liberal.

His chief attacker was Fr Forster. He would launch himself into these debates with a belligerent

ebullience that I always later recalled when confronted by TV pictures of Ian Paisley bellowing his

hatred of Irish Republicanism and all its works.

‘I see we’re to go over, come Advent, to the new Mass.’ Fr Pym’s mild statement was clearly

meant to be an uncontroversial statement of fact, an announcement of a policy shift that he hoped

would be meekly accepted.

The crows bent lower over their breakfasts, the bobbing of their adam’s apples the only sign of

their discomfiture, but Forster stiffened in his seat.

24
 ‘Aren’t we supposed to be Roman Catholics? Didn’t the Romans speak Latin? Isn’t Latin a

universal language? Doesn’t the word “catholic” mean universal?’ He stared round at the assembled

company, daring anyone to dispute a single link in this chain of questions. No one spoke.

‘Well?’ Apparently disappointed at not being challenged, he again stared at everyone in turn.

Fr Pym reluctantly rose to the bait. ‘Latin is thought – rightly, in my opinion – to make the Mass

inaccessible to the average layperson. The English Mass has, I’m sure you agree, been more

welcoming, especially since we turned and faced the congregation rather than muttering to

ourselves in a foreign language that you needed a Missal to follow properly.’

Forster snorted derisively. ‘Since when did making things accessible to the average layperson

improve anything? Look what happened when the Bible was translated into other languages: Martin

Luther! Calvin! The Reformation!’ He again stared round the room, bristling with hostility. ‘I’m

warning you: we’re heading towards a world where everyone’s opinion is seen as equally valid.

Everyone is right, as long as he’s sincere.’ This last word was almost spat out, as if it contained a

dangerous venom.

There was a prolonged uncomfortable silence in the room until, in a clear attempt to defuse the

situation, one of the lay teachers, a fastidiously dressed old patrician dandy nicknamed ‘Flarsh’ by

the boys, piped up: ‘Mr Keating, I owe you an apology.’

This was addressed to another lay teacher, one of the few Northerners (inevitably referred to as

‘Yobboes’ by their pupils) to be employed by the College.

‘I’m awfully sorry I was so vague yesterday when you called the classroom, but I’m afraid I

thought it was a workman testing the line.’

I expected this to intensify the general embarrassment, but to my surprise it did indeed defuse the

situation. Forster, sitting next to Flarsh, roared with laughter and slapped him on the back as if

congratulating him on his wit. Mr Keating had to be content to smile thinly and resume his

breakfast.

25
 I had not yet attended one of the Masses about which there was currently so much discussion,

but when Sunday came round I thought I’d better show my face, especially since to be absent would

serve to confirm my lapsed Catholicism, which I hoped, for the moment at least, to conceal. When

the bell went signalling the start of High Mass, I therefore joined the boys filing slowly and silently

into the main church, a large, draughty, overdecorated building abutting the priests’ wing. I made

my way to the back of the congregation, where I had spotted Francis and Grace, the latter looking

svelte in a simple black dress and a chic little hat tastefully adorned with a tiny feather. Both smiled

at me and made room in their bench so that I could join them.

‘Smart move,’ whispered Francis, as if he’d read my mind about my motives for attending.

Grace continued to smile serenely at me.

I began to regret my decision about an hour in to the ceremony. I’d never actually experienced a

High Mass before, so was unprepared for the sheer pomposity and overblown splendour of the

thing. Over the familiar skeleton of the common or garden Mass had been stretched a gaudy skin of

tuneless singing and incense burning, genuflexions, bowing and sudden mysterious pauses

apparently designed to allow the celebrant and his servers to engage in rapturous contemplation of

the divine presence conjured up among us at the Consecration. I might well have fallen asleep had it

not been for the need to stay alert: each discrete part of the Mass entailed an answering movement

from the congregation, so we were continually rising to our feet or kneeling down again in response

to esoteric signals from the altar, though during the (lengthy) sermon we were allowed to sit.

The only incident of interest to me was the distribution of Holy Communion. Neither Grace nor

Francis went up to the altar rails to receive it, staying with me in our bench and causing all its other

occupants to have to push past us, to their ill-concealed irritation. Francis later told me that he’d

already said Mass that day, so didn’t need to receive Communion again, but Grace’s abstention

remained unexplained.

26
 When it was all over, I joined Francis and Grace in the flagged priests’ graveyard at the back of

the church. The relief I felt standing in the open air instead of breathing in incense must have shown

on my face, because they both laughed openly at me.

‘You’ll need a heavy dose of the Devil’s music to dispel all that piety, I expect,’ said Francis.

Grace merely smiled sympathetically and told me that Donal was looking forward to the first

Jazz Society meeting.

This had been scheduled to take place immediately after Mass, so I returned to my room and

started sorting through records. Donal was first to arrive, in company with another member of my

A-level English class, a fellow Irishman by the name of McCarthy. They had clearly been arguing

about something; both were flushed and tight-lipped as they sat on the chairs I’d provided for them.

‘All right?’ I asked.

‘Fine,’ Donal replied. ‘Just defending my mother’s honour from the scurrilous aspersions of this

benighted bog-trotter.’

McCarthy reddened still further. ‘You’re Irish yourself, Tawney!’

‘I’m from the Ireland of Yeats, Wilde and Sheridan; you’re a character from Synge.’

I tried not to allow my admiration for Donal’s erudition to cloud my judgement. ‘What’s the

problem?’

‘I just said that Ma Tawney keeps Chanel in business single-handed,’ admitted McCarthy after

an awkward silence.

‘Ah. Well, I don’t think the fact that a woman wears perfume has any bearing on anything, does

it? Her choice, surely. I do think you should call her Mrs Tawney, though – how would you like

your mother to be called “Ma McCarthy”?’

At this, Donal shot me a look of warning, but it was too late.

McCarthy went bright pink and stammered out: ‘My mother died last year.’

27
 I was too mortified to reply to this, but was prevented from carrying on the conversation by the

arrival of the rest of the group, who disposed themselves noisily around my room, some sitting on

my bed, others cross-legged on the floor.

‘OK, let’s start at the beginning. Louis Armstrong’s Hot Fives and Sevens …’

‘Surely the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, sir!’

And we were off––

After a stimulating discussion of such matters as what constitutes a solo, what improvisation

consists of, whether there was any truth in Jelly Roll Morton’s claim to be the inventor of jazz, etc.

etc. – matters I’d hitherto considered to be of interest only to myself and a few other habitués of

Ronnie Scott’s – we settled down to listen to ‘Potato Head Blues’ and other classics. It was good to

hear Louis Armstrong’s strident, confident music ringing out in such a place, and it brought home

to me just how buttoned-up and subdued the atmosphere at Rockburgh was.

When we finally broke up the meeting, Donal seemed disposed to linger, so I gave him an

excuse: ‘You couldn’t show me where the jazz scores are in the music basement, could you,

Tawney? I’m not sure I can even find the basement, let alone the cupboard where Mr Wolfe said

they were stored.’

After a face-saving show of reluctance, Donal agreed to be my guide through the labyrinth of the

College.

‘Was that all right?’ I asked as we set off down the corridor towards the main gallery. ‘I feel bad

about putting my foot in it with McCarthy, and I don’t want to give him more ammunition to use

against you.’

‘It’s not against me, it’s my mother. You’d think women were an alien species, the way people

react to her here. I blame the Bible, personally.’

This was unexpected. ‘What, you mean Eve and Delilah, and all those other wicked

temptresses?’

28
 Donal groaned in assent. ‘It’s the idea that everything’s fine in the world – the male world –

until women come along and mess things up with their …’ He hesitated, either searching for an

appropriate word, or maybe from sheer embarrassment, it was difficult to tell.

‘Wiles?’ I prompted.

He tossed his head and snorted. ‘Wiles, yes. As if the world of Rockburgh is this pure paradise, a

clean male place, complete and perfect, until …’ He stopped again and looked at me, as if trying to

assess just how sympathetic I was likely to be.

‘I’m not sure it’s personal, as you say. It’s dinned into them from the cradle. Men are the real

thing – Abraham, Moses, Adam, all those people God deals with when things have to be done

properly – and women are just a sideshow, a distraction at best, downright evil at worst.’

‘They’re not that big on the Old Testament, the Good Fathers, you’ll notice.’ Donal was clearly

enjoying this chance to express his resentment, and I was gratified to see him willing to confide in

me, a relative stranger. ‘They tend to avoid the stuff where God makes unreasonable demands, like

sacrificing Isaac, or getting your servant girl pregnant, or … oh, you know what I mean.’

‘I know. Christ is much less of a problem, with his sweetness and sandals, and all his Marys and

miracles.’

Donal laughed. It was good to hear a genuine emotional response, spontaneously produced; our

talk was reminding me just how much I missed normal human interaction. I determined to ring

Richard, a colleague at my old publishing house, and a true friend. I’d have to stock up on loose

change to feed the battered public phone box on the lower gallery, but it would be worth it just to

have contact with the real world again. I was in danger of becoming institutionalized, even this

early in my time at Rockburgh.

‘I think my mother fits quite neatly into the Marys category – Magdelene, anyway. A fallen

woman.’

‘She’s only divorced. Lots of people get divorced these days.’

29
 ‘Not in Ireland, they don’t. And they’re not married to saints, or in love with priests.’ This last

statement he made with a fierce look at me, filled with reckless defiance.

‘They seem very fond of each other. It’s good to see.’ This was the best I could come up with at

such short notice. I hoped it sounded sincerely sympathetic.

By now we had reached the music basement, and were sorting through the scores cupboard.

Donal turned to me, his hands full of jazz music. ‘You’ll never last here, you know.’ He said this

with a smile as he pressed the scores into my hands.

‘Like Mr Johnson?’ I decided to risk a little gentle probing.

Donal’s face fell. ‘He was just plain stupid. Don’t ask about him if you want to stay on here. I

don’t want to go into all that. You surely saw the papers at the time, didn’t you?’

‘I lived in a bit of a bubble in London, I must admit – didn’t read the papers much.’

Donal busied himself with tidying up the score cupboard, then seemed to have a sudden idea.

‘The person you need to speak to is my friend David Taylor – he lives in Preston and he knows all

about everything that happened here. It’s just that I don’t want it to look as though I’ve told you.

I’m in enough trouble already, what with Ma and all. My advice, though, would be to leave it. It’s

not pretty.’

With that, he shut up the score cupboard and we left the music basement, the bell for lunch

ringing as we mounted the stairs to the main gallery.

30
5

Despite Donal’s advice to ‘leave it’, over the next few days I found myself speculating furiously –

even obsessively – about the events he’d described as ‘not pretty’. I didn’t want to get him into

trouble, though, so I thought it best not to compromise either him or Francis – already too closely

connected with Donal in the public mind – by asking them for more details of what had clearly been

a traumatic event in the College’s history. Any information I obtained would have to be readily

traceable to sources entirely unconnected with them.

A chance remark from one of my A-level pupils gave me food for thought. We were discussing

the power of conscience in Macbeth, the susceptibility of both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth to the

corrosive power of guilt. ‘Everyone who’s committed shameful acts must feel it,’ I was saying.

‘Except Fr Pond.’ I think it was McCarthy who said this, but I pretended not to have heard him

or the muffled tittering that greeted his remark, and went on discussing the play as if nothing had

happened. It was no surprise, of course, to hear that Fr Pond was generally unpopular; what was

striking, though, was the bitterness of the comment and the readiness of a whole class to laugh at it.

Thinking it over in my room that night, I decided a little discreet investigating of my own might

not come amiss. I’d assumed that Francis’s introduction of Pond – ‘just follow the sound of

whalebone on palms’ – had been facetious, especially since it had provoked no reaction from him,

or from the assembled Fathers, but I’d since overheard, as I supervised games activities, odd

remarks passed between members of the school year for which he was responsible, the youngest

boys, aged thirteen or fourteen. These took the form of rueful reflections on the pain still felt from

beatings Pond had given them on what they referred to as his ‘night prowls’ round their dormitories.

I decided I’d see if I could witness one of these prowls, so after evening prayers and ‘lights out’,

I made my way along the deserted galleries and climbed the three flights up to Pond’s lair in the

East Wing. Pond’s room, on the landing outside his charges’ dormitory, was lit, but empty. I paused

beside a painting depicting the flaying of Marsyas, wondering whether I could reasonably enter

31
Pond’s dormitory on the somewhat flimsy pretext I’d prepared – a request for the keys to his office

so that I might use the roneo machine there. I thought, on balance, that I probably couldn’t, so was

just turning to leave when I heard a loud cracking sound, then what H. P. Lovecraft would

undoubtedly have described as an ‘eldritch shriek’. This blood-curdling sound was immediately

followed by another loud cracking noise, then another – six in all, each succeeded by a pathetic

whimper. I crept up to the heavy door separating the landing from the dormitory and opened it a

little. In the light of what appeared to be a calor gas lantern, Fr Pond was whaling the living crap out

of a tiny, cringing figure in striped pyjamas. Another boy – presumably the one who had attracted

my attention in the first place with his shrieking – was standing witnessing this scene, his hands in

his armpits, rocking back and forth on his bare heels, sobbing. When the second beating was over,

Pond stood still, panting slightly, looming over the two boys, clearly waiting for something. ‘What

do you say?’

‘Thank you, Father,’ they said as one.

Shaken, sickened, but ashamed to have witnessed this horror without intervening, I carefully

shut the door and hurried back to my room.

I kept telling myself that I should not be shocked by what I’d just witnessed, that I had, after all,

gone up to Pond’s dormitory with the express intention of seeing just what I’d seen, but I found it

impossible to feel anything but appalled repugnance, mixed with shame and guilt at my own

cowardice. Desperate to connect in some way with a world untainted by such casual sadism, I sat at

my desk and wrote a long letter to Richard.

In the process, I got my first inkling of enlightenment concerning the attitude of the boys to the

system they were forced to live under. I found myself, in my letter, not so much making light of

what I’d witnessed as viewing it through a prism of protective humour. This was partly attributable,

as I say, to guilt – had I expressed the full horror I felt at witnessing Pond’s beating, I could not

decently have accounted for my failure to intervene – but it was also rooted, I was sad to

acknowledge, in sheer embarrassment. I was reluctant to make a fuss, to attract attention by setting

32
myself up as a superior moral arbiter on behaviour that was apparently seen as unexceptionable by

the majority of people around me. Instead, I drew a grotesque portrait of Pond, describing him as a

slimy monster with personal hygiene problems; his fellow priests I portrayed as gargoyles and toby

jugs; the College I inevitably compared with Gormenghast, though I was understandably reluctant

to identify too closely with Steerpike. When I’d finished the letter, I did indeed feel better – the

humour I’d summoned in writing it had, mercifully, distanced me from the events it described, and

eventually I even found myself able to sink into a somewhat fitful and troubled sleep.

For the next few days, I kept my head down, mentioning my nocturnal visit to Pond’s dormitory

to no one. It was difficult sitting across the table from Pond at mealtimes, listening to his chuckling

about ‘rebel trebles’ (he supervised occasional choir practices when the music master, Mr Wolfe,

was otherwise engaged) and fending off his teasing about what he affected to regard as my

unseemly interest in ‘the more salacious passages of our national Bard’ (he’d seen the stencil master

of the Porter’s speech, which I’d carelessly left in his office), but Francis generally managed to

deflect him from his more egregious assaults on my nerves.

I let about a week go by before phoning Richard, to give him time to assimilate my letter’s

contents. I had some difficulty finding a time when the phone would be free, then in furnishing

myself with enough change to pump into the clattering black box to prolong a long-distance call

beyond a couple of minutes, but I eventually did find myself talking to him. It was strange, but

oddly comforting, to imagine him sitting comfortably in his London flat after a day at the

publishing house when I was standing shivering in a makeshift wooden cabin-like structure

partitioned off from the lower gallery, whispering to prevent our conversation being overheard.

‘Got your letter. Pretty grim up North, eh?’ was Richard’s first remark.

‘You could say that. I’ve been running around a muddy rugby pitch all afternoon, pretending I

understand why I keep blowing my whistle.’

Richard spluttered. ‘You? Running? Blowing a whistle? That I’d pay to see.’

33
 ‘I’m afraid they don’t sell tickets. Good thing, really: my games aren’t even fifteen-a-side.

They’re for the dregs who can’t catch, run or remember simple rules.’

‘Sounds right up your street, then. You’re more of a football man, aren’t you?’

‘I am. Rugby’s so violent – and you get so dirty, even as a referee. Ghastly business.’

‘Character-forming, though.’

‘Yes: the Navy has rum, sodomy and the lash; we have rugby, weak tea, masturbation and

whalebone.’

‘Whalebone?’

‘I thought I’d explained in the letter: the Good Fathers have an endless supply of torturing

implements – the boys say they’re made by the Sisters of Mercy, but I’m not sure that’s true – made

from hard rubber with whalebone inside, all shaped into a shoe-sole-type arrangement. They use

them on the boys’ hands, to punish minor infractions like talking after lights out.’

‘Hence Fr Pond’s nocturnal prowling.’

‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘He’s making sure his little charges are meditating on the Four Last Things

rather than whispering secrets to each other.’

‘I’m not even going to ask what the Four Last Things are––’

‘Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell,’ I cut in, unable to stop myself.

‘I said I wasn’t going to ask.’

‘Fair enough. Point is, there’s no talking in the dormitories, and Pond feels it’s his duty to––’

‘Pleasure, I’d say, not duty.’

‘Well, yes, since you mention it, he does seem to enjoy it rather. Do you think I’m being unduly

squeamish, finding it repellent?’

‘I don’t, personally. I’m as horrified as you are, but I thought it’d be interesting to ask the Ladies

what they thought.’

34
 ‘The Ladies’ was our shorthand for our female colleagues at the publishing house, all of them

upper-class, many of them semi-literate at best, looking for a little gentle London-based work to

occupy them while they waited to be paired off with a suitable aristocratic male.

‘Ah, yes, what did they think?’

‘They found it difficult to see what you were fussing about. Anyone complaining about the

rigours of public-school education is a whinger at best, and a pinko subversive at worst in their

book.’

‘I thought they might say that. I’ve had some robust discussions with them myself. I remember

once saying I didn’t believe in capital punishment and being looked at as if I was defending

bestiality.’

Richard laughed. ‘I must say I enjoy baiting them. Yesterday, I told them I thought hunting was

stupid and cruel and should be banned.’

‘But you do think that, don’t you?’

‘Not the point. It was more in the spirit of “light the blue touch paper and retire”. Turns out these

demure-looking girls, given a chance, would hunt not just foxes but homosexuals, drug-takers and

possibly Labour MPs – certainly Harold Wilson anyhow.’

‘Right … I can see that a little well-meaning chastisement in a private school tucked away in the

wilds of the North might not even register on their indignation meters.’

‘Not even an issue for them. I might agree with you, but they certainly don’t – and they’re the

class in charge, unfortunately, or their brothers and fathers are, at any rate. We need a desensitized

elite willing to exercise the degree of ruthlessness necessary to keep their inferiors in their place,

don’t we? You don’t do that by encouraging independent thought: you put the fear of God into them

as soon as you can, and hope the prospect of everlasting torment keeps them on the straight and

narrow.’

‘It does me so much good to hear you say that. I was beginning to think I was going mad up

here.’

35
 ‘It’s not just hellfire, though, is it? You also need to brutalize them with beatings, deprive them

of parental love and discourage emotion of any sort, so that you turn out a continuous supply of

administrators for the Church, the Law, Parliament, what have you. I can tell you this: your little

whining boy in pyjamas will be handing out beatings of his own in four or five years’ time. Didn’t

you say the prefects up there can cane people just for not handing in punishment essays?’

‘I did. They have a room to themselves just opposite this phone box. I can smell the toast from

here.’

‘What?’

‘I didn’t tell you: toast is a prefects’ privilege here. The boys aren’t allowed to have it, so the

prefects have a toaster in their room, and make sure everyone knows they’re privileged by

spreading the smell all over the bottom gallery.’

There was silence from the other end of the line at this; it’s always the apparently irrelevant

minor detail that shocks, and this was no exception.

‘And you were getting so eloquent there for a moment, weren’t you?’ I said.

Richard sighed theatrically. ‘Yes, I thought I had it all rationalized. Then came the toast. I don’t

know what to say, Alan.’

‘Well, that’s a first. Look, I’d better go; I’m running out of coins. I’ll reverse the charges in

future, if that’s OK.’

‘Yes, I was going to suggest that. The pips were driving me potty. Ring me any time. I’m

generally here after about seven. And don’t let the bastards grind you down.’

36
6

I was, when I reflected dispassionately on it, unsurprised by the results of Richard’s (admittedly

somewhat unrepresentative) survey on the subject of beating small children into submission. I had,

indeed, to struggle to hold on to my own initial horror at what I had witnessed in Pond’s dormitory

– after all, no one around me, boy, priest or lay teacher, seemed unduly bothered by the supposed

brutality of the system in which they operated. The boys, as McCarthy had done, would

occasionally make sardonic remarks about harsh treatment or the unfairness of individual priests,

but these were always uttered in a spirit of resigned acceptance rather than outright rebellion. To the

priests and lay teachers, the imposition of discipline was just part of the element they lived in.

It wasn’t even as if Pond was exceptional in his keenness to punish: every aberrant action on the

part of the boys had a particular punishment automatically attached to it. Minor infractions

(whistling, walking with hands in pockets, talking upstairs or – a useful catch-all, this – ‘cheek’)

were punished by prefects ordering essays, to be done on special pink paper obtainable only from

the school shop at a penny a sheet, and to be handed in to the prefects’ room within twenty-four

hours. More serious offences (swearing, lateness for class or church services, flouting the dress

code – the boys wore a uniform of grey sports jackets, dark grey trousers and detachable-collar

shirts) resulted in ‘runs’: offenders had to get up half an hour early and run to the Lady Statue on

the drive under the supervision of a prefect. The aforementioned beatings on the hands (usually six,

but twelve for especially bad behaviour and – very occasionally – ‘twice nine’ for the most grave

offences) punished the breaking of school rules: talking after lights out or in class, skipping

compulsory activities such as singing practice or hand-washing before meals, going out of bounds

by visiting the local village without permission, and so on. Then there was the birching: prefects

held regular ‘courts’ after lights out to which boys who had neglected to hand in punishment essays

on time, or who had offended in a variety of other ways, were summoned before the head boy and

his deputies, given a dressing-down, then birched – two chairs were placed back to back with the

37
offender kneeling on one of them and a prefect (with a coat over his head to prevent his being

recognized) would then administer the required number of strokes with a birch rod. The Combined

Cadet Force also birched offenders, using an under officer’s swagger stick rather than a birch rod.

All this barely registered, either with boys or staff, but I did attempt – the day after my phone

conversation with Richard, while my rekindled indignation was still fresh – to bring the subject up

with Fr Pym as we left the staff dining room together after lunch.

‘So how are you finding us?’ he asked as we strolled along the lower gallery against a stream of

boys making their way to the changing rooms to get ready for rugby.

I sensed he was just being sociable, filling an awkward silence, and that he didn’t expect

anything other than a politely evasive reply, but I realized I was being given a rare chance to speak

my mind to authority, and so took it.

‘It’s a more structured life than I’m used to, certainly.’

He seemed unperturbed by this, so I took the plunge. ‘More disciplined, too. I’ve never been

entirely convinced by the advocates of corporal punishment.’ There, it was out. I glanced at him,

expecting defensiveness, even annoyance from him.

Instead, he seemed disappointed, even sorrowful. ‘It’s a necessary evil, I suppose. We have a

very serious duty here, with the boys under our care. We’re preparing them not just for the world,

38but for the life to come. They have to know that actions have consequences; it’s better that they

learn that now, while they can still change their behaviour, than when it’s too late.’

‘Too late? You mean when they’re adults?’

‘That’s why we ask them to meditate on the Four Last Things when they go to bed at night.

That’s the core of everything we do here. The world is a very difficult place these days. The boys

are going to be exposed to all sorts of things that could endanger them. We need to give them a

solid foundation, prepare them.’

I felt the ground slipping beneath my feet at this. From his point of view, with his priorities,

what he said made perfect sense. Christ’s words, ‘For what shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole

38
world and suffer the loss of his soul?’ came unbidden into my mind. I’d have to change tack

slightly, I realized.

‘Do you not think you may alienate them?’ I was tempted to say ‘brutalize’, but restrained

myself.

‘Oh, I doubt that. They’re all from good Catholic families, after all. They’ve had decent

upbringings, all of them. Their parents know what we do here; many of the fathers were educated

here themselves. They want their sons to be turned out as good Catholic gentlemen.’

Again, I’d come up against a wall of unquestionable belief, and I felt that if I questioned him

further I’d reveal my lack of it, and thus lose any authority – even validity – my opinion might have

with him as a result.

‘Yes, I think I’d underestimated the weight tradition has here.’ I knew I’d chastise myself later

for having wasted this opportunity to speak truth to power, but – in my defence – I had managed to

plant a seed, open up the subject, so that I might return to it at a later date.

‘At least you’re getting plenty of exercise,’ Pym said, clearly hoping to steer our conversation

into less choppy waters.

‘Yes, I’m surprised how much running’s involved in refereeing rugby. You have to have eyes in

the back of your head, too. There’s a lot to look out for.’

‘There you are, you see: even games can’t be played without someone to enforce proper

discipline.’

He’d thoroughly outflanked me now, and he knew it. He smiled quietly to himself, and left me to

my afternoon of mud and organized violence.

That evening, I was still mulling over my somewhat lacklustre performance in my debate with

Pym while I did my rounds after lights out. This duty – which was similar to Pond’s prowling, but

without the violence – was shared with other masters who lived in and fell to my lot about twice a

week. It was a bit like being a nightwatchman, or a neighbourhood policeman from Dixon of Dock

Green: you went slowly round your beat (in my case the New Wing and its immediate environs)

39
making sure that everyone was safe and well and – more importantly – where they were supposed

to be: in bed. I was just indulging myself with a stunning example of esprit d’escalier, in which I

made Pym tie himself in knots with an argument of unanswerable subtlety and complexity, when I

heard a scuffling noise. It seemed to come from behind one of the busts on plinths lining the Do

Room, the ironically vulgar name given to the wide corridor linking the New Wing to the rest of the

building, so called because it was used for more informal functions such as team teas after inter-

school rugby matches. The corridor was unlit at this time of night, so I switched on the torch I was

carrying and approached the bust: Cardinal Newman, staring steadfastly into the middle distance.

There was an unshod foot sticking out from behind the plinth, so I shone the torch on it and said,

‘I can see you. You’d better come out.’

My first instinct, when the figure slowly unfurled itself and emerged from its hiding place, was

to laugh out loud, but I swiftly suppressed it. Before me, vainly attempting to pull his shirt down

over his naked lower half, stood – or, rather, stooped – a boy I recognized as a prefect. His name

was Forrest; school gossip labelled him as an insufferable prig, a Holy Joe, and had bestowed on

him the unenviable nickname ‘Virgin’ Forrest. All this went through my mind as he cowered

miserably before me, blinking in the torchlight.

‘What on earth …’ I could think of no more specific question to ask, so, averting my eyes from

his ill-concealed nakedness, I motioned to him to precede me back to the New Wing. When we

reached his room, he attempted to scuttle away into it and shut the door on me, but I pushed it open

and stood inside with my back to him while he struggled into his bottoms.

‘So, what happened?’ I asked. It was difficult to get the tone right: I was still tempted to laugh,

but I could see he was in considerable distress, not to say absolutely mortified, so I tried to strike a

stern but avuncular note.

He looked around the room, as if searching for an escape route. Eventually, seeing I was going

to stay until I received an answer, he faltered out, ‘I lost my trousers, sir.’

‘Yes, I can see that. The question is, how?’

40
 ‘I’d rather not say, sir.’

‘I’m sure, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to. What happened?’

‘I was in the Plunge, sir.’ He looked desperately up at me from his bed, where he’d slumped

after putting on his trousers. He was clearly hoping I’d accept this as sufficient explanation of his

nakedness.

‘I’m not aware there were any swimming sessions today. What were you doing down there?’

Forrest now looked thoroughly miserable, but I could almost see the wheels turning in his head,

attempting to produce a plausible explanation for his plight.

‘I was investigating something.’ He fixed me with a pleading look, hoping this would satisfy me.

‘What were you investigating?’

He began to gain a small measure of confidence, now that he’d reminded me that he held a

position of responsibility. ‘I’d been told something was going to happen there and so I went to see if

I could, er …’ He faltered.

‘What was going to happen?’ I decided the relentless, dispassionate approach would probably

yield the most satisfactory results.

‘I’d rather not say, sir.’

I lost patience at this point, a fatal error: ‘For God’s sake, man, you’re not Bartleby!’

‘Who sir?’ Forrest looked innocently up at me, as if I’d fascinated him with an obscure literary

reference.

‘Never mind. You’re clearly not going to co-operate now. I’ll make inquiries elsewhere. You’ve

not heard the last of this.’

This was a less than satisfying conclusion to my first attempt to exert authority, and I left his

room silently upbraiding myself for falling victim to one of the boys’ most frequently used ploys:

the seemingly ingenuous diverting question.

41
7

Although I’d assured Forrest that I would make further inquiries into his mysterious nocturnal

wanderings, I did not follow up on this threat. I had now been at the College for less than a month –

although it sometimes felt as if I’d been there all my life – but if I’d learned one thing about the

boys it was this: they obeyed their unspoken rule of omertà with a strict fidelity that would have

impressed the Sicilian Mafia. Early on, in one of our many mealtime discussions of the boys’ codes

of behaviour (which Pond insisted on referring to as ‘their little ways’), the Prefect of the

Curriculum advised me, with a sorrowful air, that – regrettably – I would be forced, in the event of

my being unable to establish the identity of a particular offender, to punish the entire group of

which he was a part.

‘They never tell on each other, and they very seldom own up, either. They prefer to suffer

collective punishment – a sort of martyrdom, if you like.’ He smiled fondly. I couldn’t help

imagining that he was conjuring up a mental picture of a group of small boys standing around him

with their hands raised, pleading to be beaten.

‘Bit unfair, that, surely?’ I said.

Pond chuckled indulgently. ‘When you’ve been here as long as I have, you’ll realize it’s the only

sure way of punishing offenders. They expect it, and it helps toughen them up, forms them into a

“band of brothers”, if you like.’

I’d noticed that Pond, whenever he was attempting to convince me of something he knew I was

dubious about, would frequently quote Shakespeare, as if anything written by a man of whom I was

an avowed, unqualified admirer provided irrefutable proof of an argument, irrespective of its

dramatic context.

‘They’re not fighting a war against the French, though, are they? Just covering up for each other,

as friends do in difficult situations.’

42
 Pond switched abruptly from Shakespeare to the Bible, again something he was wont to do when

challenged. ‘“The Devil goes around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” That’s the

war they’re fighting, Mr Simpson. Their common enemy is the world, the flesh and the Devil.’

‘Though not necessarily in that order.’ This was Francis, wading in as usual to rescue me from a

tricky situation.

As it was intended to do, this intervention threw Pond off course. He hesitated, as if unable to

decide which of the three enemies was the most dangerous, and Francis was able to steer the

conversation into calmer waters. ‘How’s your jazz society shaping up?’ he asked me.

‘Ah, we’ve got on to discussing the relative merits of traditional jazz and swing,’ I replied,

gratefully.

‘It’s all the Devil’s music,’ said Pond, with the satisfied air of someone closing a topic

definitively.

‘Well, they say he has all the best tunes, don’t they?’ Francis had managed to get the last word;

silence reigned once again over our meal.

Further enlightenment over the Forrest affair came in the end from an unlikely source: Grace. I’d

heard from Francis that she was keen to do some shopping in Preston, and so I volunteered to drive

her there on my next free afternoon, one on which I was not down to supervise sporting activities,

the boys being otherwise occupied in the Combined Cadet Force.

‘Thank you so much for this, Alan,’ she said as she got into my Mini and settled herself as

demurely as possible in the cramped front seat beside me.

‘A pleasure,’ I assured her. ‘I’ve heard there’s a pretty good covered market in Preston, and I

want to see if I can pick up any second-hand jazz records – or books, possibly.’

‘I think you may be being optimistic there, but you never know, do you?’

We drove away down the long drive, past the Lady Statue, and I found myself telling her about

my first-night encounter with the servant, John, there – an event that now seemed like something

from another life.

43
 ‘You must find us rather strange,’ was her comment on this story.

‘“Us” being who? Northerners, public-school people, or––’

‘Catholics,’ she said, ‘though I keep forgetting you’re one, aren’t you?’ I could sense her interest

quicken slightly as she fed me this leading question.

‘I must confess I’m not quite the Catholic I pretend to be.’ I decided that she was to be trusted

with this information. I assumed that Francis suspected as much, and that he’d not kept his

suspicions from Grace. I was also tired of the pretence and needed a sympathetic confidante.

‘It’s a difficult religion, I admit,’ she said. ‘It’s not good at accommodating the various sorts of

mess we sinners get ourselves into.’ This was said with a mix of self-deprecation, light irony and

genuine wistfulness that I found extremely affecting.

‘“Sinners”? I thought we Catholics prided ourselves on our religion’s ability to welcome sinners

back into the fold. And anyway, what sins can we commit, stuck away in the wilds of Lancashire as

we are?’

I regretted saying this as soon as it was out of my mouth. It was a staple of College gossip that

Grace and Francis were involved in an affair of some – generally unspecified – sort, and I didn’t

want Grace to think I was fishing for information about it.

To my surprise, she laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that assured me immediately that she was

not offended in the least.

‘You’d be surprised, Alan – or perhaps you wouldn’t, given your experience the other night with

– what’s his name? That dreadful stuck-up prefect you found wandering about without his trousers.’

‘Forrest,’ I said, ‘Virgin Forrest.’

She laughed again. ‘The boys have a wonderful knack of giving people appropriate nicknames,

don’t they?’

‘You know about it? Who told you?’

‘Donal, of course. There’s a bush telegraph that relays everything of that sort from boy to boy as

soon as it’s happened.’

44
 ‘I’m still in the dark about how he happened to be in the Do Room without his trousers,’ I

admitted.

‘What did he tell you he was doing?’ I got the impression that she was enjoying this, and wanted

to tease me about it.

‘He said he’d been in the Plunge, investigating something, but he wouldn’t elaborate.’

‘I bet he wouldn’t. Do you really not know what happened? Can’t you guess?’

‘Something against the rules, maybe? Smoking? Forbidden books? I don’t know.’

Grace laughed again. ‘You’re such an innocent, Alan. How do you account for the missing

trousers in your scenario?’

‘That is a mystery, I admit.’

There was a sudden silence in the car, as we sped through the countryside. I sensed Grace was

debating with herself about the advisability of taking this conversation to a deeper level.

‘I suddenly feel like a parent giving a facts-of-life talk. You know: “When a husband and wife

love each other very much…”’ She chuckled quietly to herself. ‘All right: when two boys who’ve

been stuck in a boarding school for all their adolescent lives love each other very much …’

‘What? You mean it was some sort of tryst?’ I could think of no other word than this slightly

absurd, archaic one to refer to her explanation.

‘Not exactly a tryst, as you so charmingly put it. More of an assignation. What happened was

that a group of younger boys got fed up with being picked on by Forrest. They suspected – quite

rightly – that he was only picking on the prettier ones among them for his own gratification. Are

you following me so far?’ She hadn’t dropped her faintly teasing manner, I was glad to see; it made

the whole conversation a lot easier for both of us.

‘I have read Proust, yes.’

Grace spluttered. ‘I see why Francis finds you so amusing now, Alan. Don’t be offended; it’s

quite endearing, your reliance on literature to keep you informed about the world. Anyhow, these

young boys decided to teach Forrest a lesson, by getting the prettiest one among them to write him a

45
letter – a billet doux I’m sure you’d call it – pretending to want to confide in him about something,

and asking if Forrest would meet him in one of the bath cubicles behind the Plunge after lights out.’

‘And Forrest fell for this?’ I was genuinely amazed, not only at the hidden world this explanation

revealed, but also at the sheer naïveté of Forrest.

‘You underestimate the power of adolescent hormones. Don’t forget, you’re talking about boys

whose natural instincts have no outlet. They’re a raging mass of desires and needs, with no idea

how to express them. Surely you remember how you felt at their age?’

I imagined she was smiling as she said this, and a glance at her confirmed my suspicion. ‘OK,

let’s say I do. How did he lose his trousers?’

‘Oh, Alan! Use your imagination: he thought he was going to be able to persuade this boy to …

well, provide relief, and so he took them off, as the young boys hoped he would. They then

appeared from the other cubicles and ran off with them.’

‘Really? Is that … I mean, does it happen often?’ I was genuinely shocked.

‘Have you actually read Proust? Or are you just pretending?’ Grace was back to her teasing tone

again, I was relieved to hear. ‘Albertine’s not really a young girl, you know. Shocking eh?’

‘Well, yes, I know, but …’

‘You didn’t expect to find sweet cheats in the wilds of Lancashire?’ Grace laughed, and then,

patting my knee as we entered the outskirts of Preston, said, ‘Now you know – let’s talk about

something else, shall we?’

Further discreet eavesdropping on conversations held between members of my Jazz Appreciation

Society, and on more ribald comments on the rugby field and in the galleries, confirmed that Grace

was right about Forrest; she was also right about the likelihood of Preston’s market and shops

providing me with anything jazz-related. I returned empty-handed from our expedition.

46
8

My conversation with Grace, and the time spent with her just sitting in companionable silence as we

travelled through the Lancashire countryside, made me feel better disposed to my Rockburgh life.

There were times, especially when I was sitting picking at my vegetarian fare – usually just the

meal of the day without the meat – in the staff dining room, surrounded by the toby jugs and

gargoyles, listening to Pond or Forster pontificating about Rome’s latest spineless capitulation to

the forces of lily-livered liberalism and relativism, that I felt utterly isolated, even desolate. When

these moods overtook me, it was comforting to know that I did have access to two souls who at

least understood and sympathized with my plight. Grace and Francis might not have been people

towards whom, in my life outside Rockburgh, I would have necessarily gravitated – they were

considerably older than I was, for one thing – but they were, undoubtedly, vital to me in this first

term at Rockburgh. I simply could not have survived without them.

I also found great comfort in my solitary walks in the countryside surrounding the school. I

would arm myself with binoculars and walking boots and, once across the golf course, would feel

oppressive thoughts of beatings, trysts in the Plunge and mysteries from past years fade into

insignificance as I watched a kestrel hovering over the fell, or a heron prowling slowly through

lakeside reeds.

It was on one such walk, however, that I encountered the man who was to force me to face up to

unpleasant reality once again. I was leaning on a fence post, watching lapwings feeding in a sodden

field, when I heard a Lancastrian voice hail me: ‘Fine birds close up, aren’t they, peewits?’

I turned to find myself confronted by a small, dapper figure in green waterproofs, carrying a gun

casually over his arm. ‘They are. Lovely colours – and those crests are very smart.’

I thought that I might have overdone the aesthetic appreciation to a down-to-earth practical

country man, but he seemed unperturbed by my comment. ‘Birdwatcher, are you? I’ve seen you

before, haven’t I, walking around the fells?’

47
 ‘Yes. I hope I’m not trespassing on your domain?’

‘No, no. You’ll be a teacher at the College, are you? You’re welcome to go where you like round

here, as long as you’re not disturbing my pheasants, and they’ve finished nesting for this year.’

He was clearly the gamekeeper I’d glimpsed on my first outing all those weeks ago. He squinted

up into the weak sun and turned away from me. ‘Are you going back to the College now? I’ll walk

with you, if you don’t mind. What have you seen today, then?’

As we made our way slowly down the fell, we discussed the local birdlife, about which he,

unsurprisingly, was extremely well informed. He ran through all the species I was likely to

encounter up here on the fells, then, as were approaching the golf course, asked me if I’d been down

to the river that ran through the wooded valley that lay on the other side of the school. I said I

hadn’t.

‘Oh, you should. Tell you what, next time I go down there, I’ll take you. Are you free this

Sunday afternoon?’

‘I am. Sundays are a bit of a wasteland, I must admit.’

He looked up at me, clearly amused at my mournful tone. ‘Aye, happen you’ll be used to

London life, are you?’

So he knew who I was – the bush telegraph in operation again, I supposed. ‘It’s very different up

here, yes. My name’s Alan, by the way.’ I put out my hand, feeling a little foolish.

He took it and smiled warmly at me. ‘Jim,’ he said. ‘Come down about three o’clock.’

We parted at the school gates, and he went slowly along the side of the duck-filled pond in front

of the College, and disappeared into the greenery surrounding his cottage.

I was at his door the following Sunday on the dot of three o’clock. ‘Come in, will you?’ he

called from his kitchen at the back of his house. ‘The door’s open. Sorry about the mess. I’m not

much of one for tidying and such. My wife died last year,’ he said.

I felt he’d made this bald statement as an explanation of the state of the house rather than as a

confidence, so I merely made a sympathetic noise and looked solemn for a moment.

48
 ‘Aye, I live alone, like all the buggers up there.’ He tossed his head in the direction of the

College. ‘Shall we get on?’

It was drizzling quite heavily as we left his cottage, and I turned up the collar of my waxed coat.

He trudged beside me, not even wearing a hat, and allowing the rain to run down his face, soaking

his moustache.

‘Not bringing your gun?’ I asked him.

‘No, I’ll leave the rabbits be for today. Sunday, after all.’ He smiled grimly to himself.

‘Good variety of habitats round here,’ I said. ‘I imagine there’s quite a lot of birdlife on the river,

is there?’

‘Aye, we get all sorts down there. Kingfishers, wagtails, sand martins in the summer. And

dippers.’

‘Dippers! I love dippers.’

‘Then you’re in for a treat.’

He was right: after we’d walked through the local village, where married masters lived in stone

houses clustered around the Post Office and village shop, we crossed a muddy field and entered a

dense wood that skirted the river we were heading towards. I could see and hear its rushing waters

through the trees as we approached it. ‘Perfect dipper territory,’ I commented.

‘Aye. Just you wait.’

We scrambled down a steep bank littered with fallen trees. ‘Storms last year brought these

down,’ Jim muttered.

‘Good for wrens’ nests, though,’ I replied, stopping to examine, in the tangled roots of one such

tree, a neat ball of moss that had clearly been used the previous spring.

‘Aye, nothing’s wasted, is it?’

We were now on the river bank, clambering over boulders. A flash of white on the opposite

shore brought a laconic ‘Redshank’ from Jim. We paused for a moment to take in the beauty of the

scene before us. Even on a dull, rainy day like this one, it was impressive. The river tumbled over

49
the rocks, foaming and gurgling as if in a desperate hurry to reach some unspecified destination. Jim

nudged me and glanced to our left: a grey wagtail was running busily among the rocks at the river’s

edge. He signalled to me that we should settle down and observe for a bit, so I sat on a convenient

rock in the shade of a tree overhanging the river and trained my binoculars on the water.

‘Phsst.’ Jim made a discreet sound through his teeth and pointed. A blur, that’s all it was, but

definitely a dipper, because it suddenly dropped out of its flight and perched on a rock, mid-stream,

so that we could see its fussy dipping and bobbing as it examined the river rushing by it before

diving in and disappearing under the water.

‘Ah, wonderful,’ I said.

‘Come with me.’ Jim got up and motioned up the river. ‘You’ll like this.’

He led me along the river bank, scrambling over boulders and splashing through the water, until

we reached a tributary stream coming out of the wood, with a stone bridge over it. He beckoned to

me to follow him under it, and then pointed to a deepish hole in the brickwork. ‘Dippers nest there

every year,’ he said.

I felt privileged to have been entrusted with this information, and said so.

‘Nah, you’d have found out sooner or later without my help,’ Jim said. ‘I used to bring lads from

the College down here – them that were interested, like.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Can’t do

that now, of course.’ He glanced at me, clearly searching my face for signs that I knew what he was

talking about, and, finding none, looked troubled and anxious.

‘Sorry, I don’t follow you. Why can’t you do it now?’ I tried not to sound too eager, fearing I’d

scare him off with more vehement questioning about something that obviously made him uneasy.

He shook his head sadly. ‘Drowning,’ he said. ‘Lad drowned last year. River’s been out of

bounds ever since.’

‘What was he doing down here? Birdwatching was he?’

50
 ‘He was one of the lads I showed the nest to, yes, he was. Nice, quiet lad. Had a funny name. I

remembered it because it was a fish: Grayling, it was.’ Jim paused and looked at me again. ‘You’ve

not heard about it, then?’

‘No, I didn’t know the river was out of bounds, let alone the reason for it.’

‘It may not be, now, for all I know. It was last year, though, after it happened, like.’

‘What exactly happened?’

‘Don’t rightly know. They found his body upstream there, after he’d been reported missing up at

the College. Suicide, they said it was – there were a note found. Fathers were all running about

telling everyone there were nowt to see, mind. They hushed it up, like they always do.’

‘Yes, they’re very secretive, aren’t they?’ I could think of nothing else to say but this somewhat

lame remark.

‘That they are,’ said Jim darkly, and then he shrugged, as if the world outside his sphere of

pheasant-rearing and rabbit-shooting was not of much concern to him. ‘Best left alone, all that.’

We returned to the College in a sombre mood, hardly talking, and parted silently outside the

church, from which I could just make out the sound of Mr Wolfe, playing the organ, practising the

Bach he was going to play after Benediction that evening.

51
9

Despite my curiosity about Grayling’s death, and my suspicions about the eagerness of the College

authorities to discourage speculation about its causes, I was reluctant to pursue the matter further. I

could have simply asked either of the Tawneys, or Francis, to tell me what they knew about it, but I

sensed that, for them, the whole affair was an extremely muddy pool containing all sorts of matter

better left undisturbed. Donal, in particular, was extremely sensitive on the subject, as I discovered

when, after one of our weekly Jazz Appreciation Society meetings, I casually mentioned to him that

I’d been walking with Jim and been told about Grayling’s drowning.

‘I really don’t want to talk about him, sir. I can’t do anything about it. He’s gone, and that’s all

there is to it.’

I could tell just how annoyed he was by his use of the word ‘sir’, which rebuked me by

reminding me of our official master–pupil relationship. Stung, I retreated into a somewhat sulky

silence, and resolved never to bring the matter up with him again.

After our next jazz meeting, however, he surprised me by lingering afterwards, clearly wanting

to talk to me. I could see McCarthy – his sardonic wit always on the lookout for targets – smirking

as he left us together, so I was painfully conscious of how difficult things could get for Donal were I

to presume unduly on our relationship.

‘I’ve sorted out those scores for you, Tawney,’ I said as the door closed on his sarcastic friend.

Donal made a contemptuous noise with his lips. ‘Nice try, but I don’t think McCarthy will be

fooled for a second. I just wanted to say I was sorry about being rude to you last week.’ He recited

this as if he’d rehearsed it, then snorted again, as if deriding himself. ‘Actually, Ma told me to

apologize to you. You’ve made a hit there, for some reason.’

‘I don’t want to pry––’

‘Yes you do. And you’re quite right. Someone should.’ He hesitated. ‘I was very close to Tim

Grayling, but I can’t … You shouldn’t ask anyone here about it.’

52
 ‘Jim’s already told me there was “nowt to see”.’

‘You have to imagine this place as a sort of feudal estate, with everyone deferring to the wishes

of the “big house”. Jim would lose his job if it was known he’d talked to you about Tim. And so

would Ma, or even Francis, so they’re grateful you’ve not asked them about it. I don’t really care

what happens to me, but Ma does, and she wants me to finish my A-levels here, so …’

‘Unlike your friend in Preston, you mean?’

‘Funny you should mention him. I think we should go into Preston next week for the Kenny Ball

concert––’

‘Kenny Ball?’ I liked to pose as a jazz modernist (though of course I was properly appreciative

of the likes of Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington), wilfully blind to the merits of British trad

jazz, so I was unable to prevent myself going into full Edith Evans ‘handbag’ mode at the mention

of this name.

‘Don’t be such a snob – he’s just toured Europe with Louis Armstrong for God’s sake. Anyway,

I’m not suggesting we actually go to the concert, just that we tell the Good Fathers that’s what

we’re going to do. They’re not going to know the difference between trad and bop – it’s all just a

horrible modern American noise to them.’

‘Right. Of course. So why are we going?’

‘To see David Taylor.’

Never one to disobey a direct order, whatever its source, I therefore put up a notice on the

bottom gallery notice board announcing that the Jazz Appreciation Society was organizing an

outing to see Kenny Ball in Preston, and that anyone wishing to go should contact me via my pipes.

Donal had assured me that this would be largely ignored, and sure enough, I received only one reply

– from McCarthy – and he, according to Donal, had an ulterior motive for visiting Preston: he was

going to slope off to see Easy Rider.

So it was, that on reaching the venue, McCarthy did indeed slope off, leaving Donal and me in

the foyer pretending to buy tickets. I was a little apprehensive about lying to McCarthy, but Donal

53
assured me that his friend would be concerned only to conceal his own misdemeanour, so wouldn’t

be unduly suspicious about us. I could only hope that he was right.

When McCarthy was out of sight, Donal and I set off to our rendezvous with David Taylor.

‘Where are we meeting him?’ I asked, as we trudged through the rain.

‘At the corner of Friargate and Fishergate.’

‘Could Preston be any more Catholic?’ I asked. ‘I’m assuming Fisher is St John Fisher?’

‘How should I know? I assume so – Lancashire Catholics make us Irish look lukewarm – but I

couldn’t say for sure.’ Donal was craning his neck, squinting through the driving rain, to see if

David was waiting for us. ‘There he is, looking furtive as usual.’

‘You’re right: he looks like a spy––’

‘He should be reading a newspaper the wrong way up. Always the self-dramatizer, our David.’

I detected a good deal of affection in this remark of Donal’s, but was none the less surprised to

see him greet David by hugging him. I’d noticed that the boys seemed to have a horror of physical

contact of any sort (off the rugby field, anyhow), even wincing and reacting as if scalded when their

own mothers kissed them goodbye, so I was amused at David’s embarrassed reaction: he stepped

backwards, then reluctantly patted Donal’s back in the manner of someone humouring an over-

exuberant puppy.

‘You’ll be Mr Simpson,’ he said, extricating himself from Donal’s grasp.

‘Alan, off school premises,’ I replied.

‘You’ll be lucky: he’s only just getting used to calling me Donal – a stickler for convention,

aren’t you, despite being the great rebel?’ Donal punched David lightly on the arm before asking:

‘So, where are we going to have our pow-wow?’

‘I thought we could go to that new coffee bar by the market.’ David blushed as he said this, as if

he was suggesting we visit a brothel.

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘This is on me, by the way.’

54
 ‘Of course,’ said Donal, raising his eyebrows at David. ‘You can spend the money we saved on

the Kenny Ball tickets.’

‘That’s where I told my mother I was going,’ said David. ‘Backfired, that: she likes “Midnight in

Moscow”, and wanted to come with me. I had a lot of trouble shaking her off.’

‘I bet she just wanted to keep tabs on you,’ said Donal. ‘That woman makes Hercule Poirot look

like a bungling amateur.’

David shuddered. ‘I’m going to have to move out. I’ve been looking for lodgings, but people

don’t seem to want to let rooms to someone my age.’

By this time, we’d found a secluded table in the coffee bar. ‘I notice we’re all having tea,’ I said

as we sat waiting to be served. ‘Did you see the waitress’s face when I asked for one without milk?’

‘It probably comes ready mixed from an urn,’ said Donal. ‘You’re not in London now, you

know. They’ll be making one specially, for that stuck-up cosmopolitan with the posh accent. You

might as well have worn a bow tie and asked if their tea was China or Indian.’

‘And you forgot to address her as “my good woman”,’ said David.

They chuckled comfortably together. It was good to see them relax – they were clearly very

close, but had seemed oddly shy until I’d given them the opportunity to join forces in teasing me.

When we’d been given our teas – mine was accompanied by ‘And one without milk’ and a fierce

look – we sat in silence for a while, each wondering how to broach what was going to be a difficult

subject.

Donal broke the ice. ‘Jim the gamekeeper’s told Alan about Tim Grayling drowning. I thought

it’d be better if you told him more about it, rather than me: Ma’s keen I shouldn’t be involved.’

‘But you are involved,’’ said David. ‘You’ve brought him here, for a start.’

‘Ma doesn’t know that, though, does she? And neither do the Good Fathers. That’s the point.’

‘OK. What do you want to know?’ David assumed an almost absurdly conspiratorial air.

‘Well, Jim seemed to think the whole thing had been hushed up, that there was more to it than a

suicide. You knew Tim Grayling, did you?’

55
 ‘Donal knew him better than I did, but yes, I liked him a lot. He was a sensitive, gentle boy – not

good things to be at Rockburgh. I once played rugby with him, and he screamed and threw the ball

up in the air when it was passed to him. He hated the CCF, too: got put on a charge once for

sunbathing on an exercise on the fells.’

‘He took his shirt off, didn’t he? “Indecency” he was charged with. Only the army could charge

you with indecency for sunbathing.’ Donal snorted derisively. ‘Got birched for that, didn’t he?’

‘He did,’ said David. ‘But that wasn’t what made him so unhappy – he expected the army to

behave like that – it was Pond and Wolfe who really worried him.’

I pricked my ears up at the mention of Pond. ‘I’ve come across Pond and his prowling and

beating, but Wolfe I don’t know at all. I’ve just heard him playing the organ after services.’

‘He’s nearly as bad as Pond.’ David shuddered eloquently. ‘It’s not beating, though, that’s the

problem. It’s the … unwanted attention.’ He looked at me, as if willing me to understand what he

was getting at without his having to elucidate further.

‘You’ll have to spell it out for him,’ said Donal. ‘My mother practically had to draw him

diagrams.’

‘Right,’ said David. ‘Both Pond and Wolfe like to get boys in – how can I put this –

compromising situations, and then take advantage of them.’

‘Ah, like Forrest and his trousers?’

Donal made a ‘don’t ask’ face at David after this question of mine, but then said: ‘He’s got it. Go

on.’

‘Tim was a great favourite of both of them. He was in the choir, and they’d keep him behind

after choir practice, things like that. Pond used to have choir teas, too, and get his favourites to sit in

a chair in his room that reclined so he could touch them up and stuff.’ David paused, embarrassed.

Donal helped him out: ‘Wolfe apparently used to wrestle Tim to the floor in his room, all

apparently innocent horseplay, but Tim hated it. He’d do anything to avoid going up there, but he

56
was chief tenor, so he had to see Wolfe a lot, officially. It was Pond who sent him over the edge,

though.’

David nodded. ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened, but apparently Pond got him alone

in his room by some subterfuge, and assaulted him. I tried to get him to complain about it, but he

refused point blank. Said no one would believe him, that Pond had threatened to tell his parents that

he was just a cheap tart who had sex with other boys if he so much as hinted––’

‘Was this true?’ I interrupted.

Both Donal and David gave me angry looks at this. ‘What if it was?’ said Donal. ‘Having sex

with your friends isn’t the same as getting groped by a disgusting sadistic pervert like Pond.’

‘No, no,’ I backtracked hastily. ‘I wasn’t suggesting it was. One’s consensual, the other’s just

abuse.’

‘You’re shocked, though, aren’t you?’ said David. ‘Not quite as sympathetic as you thought you

would be?’

‘No, I think it’s good that boys find an outlet … well, they’re cooped up in this hothouse

atmosphere, aren’t they?’ I was floundering, and they could see it.

David still looked angry, but Donal saved the situation by laughing at me. ‘Free love not exactly

your scene, is it? Ma told me you went on about Proust when she told you about Forrest.’

‘This is a new situation for me, I must admit. I spent my adolescence agonizing about my own

awkwardness, not worrying about being assaulted by priests and organists. I’m sorry if I sounded

judgemental; I’m not, really. I want to help.’ This sounded rather lame, even to me, but David

seemed to have been appeased by my contriteness.

‘You’ll have to be very canny,’ he said. ‘Look what happened to Johnson.’

‘He went about it all wrong,’ said Donal. ‘He was just creepy, wanted to suck up to the boys all

the time, like a trendy vicar doing the twist after a whist drive. He had no proof, just went off half-

cock and expected everyone to believe him when he accused Pond and Wolfe. He deserved to get

sacked, just for sheer idiocy, in my opinion.’

57
 ‘He did tell the powers that be about his suspicions, though, did he?’ I asked.

‘Yes, and just got sacked for his trouble – I think there must have been something else, too; he

must have had some skeleton in his closet that the Fathers were able to rattle to scare him off. Never

heard from again, anyway.’ Donal suddenly looked at his watch. ‘We’d better get back. The

concert’ll be over soon, and we want to hang about in the foyer for a bit, see if we can hear what

they played, as if we couldn’t guess.’

‘“Midnight in Moscow”, “Samantha”, “The March of the Siamese Children”––’

‘And other jazz classics,’ said Donal, as we hurried up Fishergate, bidding David a hasty

farewell.

58
10

As Donal had suspected, McCarthy was too preoccupied with his own offence to suspect us of

committing a different one, and showed little curiosity about Kenny Ball’s repertoire on the drive

back to Rockburgh. He was uncharacteristically reticent about his reaction to Easy Rider, too,

restricting himself to a single bitter remark: ‘When I think there’s a world out there full of stuff like

that, it makes me want to line the priests up against the wall and shoot them.’

This gave rise to a no-holds-barred discussion of Lindsay Anderson’s If, which we’d all seen,

and of the writings of A. S. Neill (which only I had read), and so the drive back to Rockburgh

passed very pleasantly, and I was left reflecting, as we parted at the school gates, on the surprising

fact that such an apparently restrictive and repressive education managed to produce such a variety

of thoughtful and lively minds.

I was still mulling over the irony of this as I strolled through the New Wing around midnight on

my lights-out patrol, so I was slow to register a low whistling sound behind me. Once I did hear it,

though, I immediately recognized it: ‘Samantha’. I assumed its source would be either Donal or

McCarthy, and was preparing a rude remark as a riposte, when the whistler spoke: ‘Mr Simpson.

And how was Mr Ball?’

I turned to find myself confronted by a plump, bearded figure in evening dress. I was being

accosted by Mr Wolfe; we had spoken of the Devil, and here he was, looking appropriately

Mephistophelean. He exuded a slightly sinister bonhomie; he had obviously spent the evening

somewhere smart, and had drink taken.

‘Not really my cup of tea, to be honest …’ I thought it best to be carefully non-specific.

Wolfe made a low growling sound in his throat: ‘Mmmm. As I suspected. I had you down as

more of a Charlie Parker man.’ He cocked his head and fixed me with a satirically inquisitive look.

I felt that I was on dangerous ground; Wolfe clearly knew more about jazz than I had suspected.

I would have to be careful in my replies to his apparently teasing remarks, keep things light, but be

59
circumspect. ‘I’m not sure Preston’s ready for bop. Kenny Ball seemed to be right up their street,

though.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘You’re looking very smart. Been dining out?’

‘I have friends locally.’

I later found out – from Francis, naturally – that these local ‘friends’ were minor gentry, the

occupants of a country house I’d noticed at the end of a long drive leading off the Preston road. I

made what I hoped was an appreciative noise.

‘Nightcap?’ We were, I now saw, outside Wolfe’s room, and he was ushering me in with a

humorous courtly bow. I could see no polite way of refusing him, so I preceded him into his

surprisingly luxurious quarters.

He could see I was impressed. It seemed to please him. ‘I think comfort is important, don’t you?’

He bustled round the room making unnecessary minor adjustments to the various bibelots and

trinkets which covered every available surface.

I stared round like a gawping tourist in a royal palace. ‘How did you manage to …’ I couldn’t

complete this question, but its meaning was clear.

‘I’ve travelled, and everywhere I’ve been, I’ve been an accumulator of – unconsidered trifles,

shall we say?’

Suppressing an urge to utter the name that rose in my mind like a sea monster – Melmoth the

Wanderer – I sat myself down in the chair Wolfe provided for me, and watched him, fascinated, as

he opened a drinks cabinet and pointed silently to its contents, inviting me to choose a nightcap.

‘I’ll have a brandy, please.’ I thought this a suitable drink for the situation, and so it proved.

‘Wise man,’ said Wolfe, pouring two generous measures into large round glasses. He handed me

one before he settled himself, with a purr of satisfaction, in an armchair opposite me. ‘Bottoms up.’

He winked at me and waited for me to start my drink before sipping at his own.

Now, instead of Melmoth, the word ‘lair’ sprang unbidden into my mind, prompted no doubt by

Wolfe’s surname, but also by his faintly predatory air. He smiled at me and asked: ‘How are you

finding things so far?’

60
 ‘A bit like Gormenghast, I must admit.’ I thought a literary reference might deflect him from too

personal an enquiry, and so it proved.

‘I’ll watch out for you climbing up to our turrets.’ He chuckled and wiped his beard with a

spotted handkerchief that had been lying over the arm of his chair. ‘I’ve always thought of the

house in Turn of the Screw, personally.’

‘Funnily enough, that’s one of the A-level texts I’m teaching. An odd lot this year, a mix of the

sinister and salacious. We’re doing Macbeth and the James, plus Antony and Cleopatra and The

Merchant’s Tale.’

‘“She makes hungry where most she satisfies.” Always been one of my favourites – so rich, such

wonderful imagery.’ Wolfe actually smacked his lips at the thought of Cleopatra in her barge, then

swallowed some more brandy in a manner that somehow managed to combine an almost dainty

fastidiousness with voluptuousness.

‘Over-ripeness and deliquescence,’ I interjected. Perhaps it was the effect of the brandy, but I

was suddenly feeling in danger of being overwhelmed by Wolfe, and was keen to assert my strictly

academic credentials, rather than encouraging his decadence. ‘I’m trying to convince them that

they’re privileged to be studying a literature that’s produced both Chaucer and Shakespeare.’

This sounded absurdly pompous to me as soon as I’d uttered it, but Wolfe merely nodded and

said, ‘Yes, what’s that phrase about Chaucer? “The genial tolerance of human frailty”, is that it?’

‘Something like that. Walter Raleigh, was it? I can’t remember offhand.’ The brandy was

definitely going to my head. I needed to regroup. I summoned my resources. Perhaps if I got him on

to his own ground he might be encouraged to talk rather than listen to me being indiscreet. ‘I heard

you practising Bach the other night. Beautiful.’

He dismissed the compliment with a wave of a plump white hand. ‘The beauty’s all in the music.

All you have to do is channel it. Like you, I feel a sense of obligation to the boys. If we can open

them up to a sense of the beauty of our … enthusiasms’ – he paused before this word, caressing it as

it left his mouth – ‘then we’ll have done our duty.’

61
 This was at once indisputable and yet oddly creepy. It frankly made my skin crawl. I had to get

out. ’Well, it’s getting late,’ I said, rising from my chair.

Wolfe’s lips formed themselves into a brief moue of disappointment, then he too got to his feet

and ushered me out, saying: ‘I hope we can do this again. I’m always here. Perhaps you could

educate me with some jazz. The MJQ, perhaps – start me off gently.’ He gave me a charming smile

as he closed the door behind me.

Now I’d made Wolfe’s acquaintance, I seemed to see him everywhere: bowling along the lower

gallery booming out instructions to the smaller boys; striding down the drive in a cape, flourishing a

silver-topped walking stick; hurrying to choir practice, resplendent in bow tie and cream waistcoat.

If he had a secret, he was hiding it in plain sight.

Of Tim Grayling’s other supposed tormentor, Fr Pond, I learned nothing – nothing more,

anyway, than what he seemed perfectly happy to display: a belief in rigid adherence to both

religious and secular law, a reverence for Christ and the Virgin Mary that verged on the idolatrous

and made him sound, at times, like a more naïve version of St Bernadette, and a relish for punishing

his charges that only I, apparently, found distasteful.

It was beginning to look as though I might have to accept Jim’s sardonic assertion that there was

‘nowt to see’ when I received fresh stimulus from an unexpected quarter: Richard. I’d been

sounding him out on the subject of where I was to spend my Christmas holidays – I was counting

on his offering me his couch, frankly – and so I was hoping, when I phoned him early in December,

that he’d taken the hint and was going to put me up for Christmas in London, but he brushed my

tentative approach to this tricky subject aside: ‘You can stay here, of course you can. I thought I’d

made that clear already. It’s not that I want to talk about.’

‘Oh, that’s great. I really need a break from all things Rockburgh.’

There was silence on the other end of the line at this, but then he seemed to rally, and it all came

out in a rush. ‘I’ve been doing a little digging at the Central Reference Library about the Graylings.

Ever since you told me the name I’ve been intrigued. It rang a bell, but it wasn’t till I looked in

62
Who’s Who that I remembered where I’d heard it before. It’s such an odd name, and I knew I’d

come across it somewhere. Turns out that Tim Grayling’s father is one of those old military types

whose memoirs we keep publishing. Arab Legion, Great Game, that sort of thing, you remember,

don’t you?’

I did, all too well, having spent countless hours checking Arabic spellings and trying to persuade

pompous old buffers that spelling Koran and Mahomet in the modern accepted way, Qur’an and

Muhammad, was not part of a Communist plot to rewrite history. ‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

‘Grayling senior’s something of a war hero and he was a diplomat in the fifties, so his entry’s

quite extensive. But here’s the thing: he began his career in the Imperial Police Force, in Burma.’

‘Like George Orwell.’

Richard sighed theatrically. ‘That’s so irritating, Alan. I might have known you’d steal my

thunder. Point is, though, that I’ve come across his name in the footnotes to a book we did about

Orwell’s early life. He’s written articles about Burma, India, Malaya – if the Empire’s been there,

and it’s east of Suez, he’s written about it.’

I felt myself becoming infected by Richard’s enthusiasm. I could see where he was going with

this. ‘And you want––’

‘Yes, I thought we might get a book out of him, since he’s retired, so I asked Jane if she’d be

interested––’

‘And was she?’

‘I’ll say. She jumped at it. Military memoirs are steady sellers, you know that, and he’s already

written some highly respected stuff. Also, he’s been a diplomat, so he’s likely to have a more …

nuanced view of politics than some of the dinosaurs we publish. Upshot is, I’ve been told to

approach him.’

I had some difficulty assimilating this. ‘You mean … you’re going to meet him?’

‘No, we are, Alan. I’ve written to him suggesting we meet just before Christmas, and since

you’ll be staying with me then, I thought we could go down to Chichester together, sound him out.’

63
 ‘About his memoirs?’

‘No, I thought we could just barge in there and badger him straight away about Tim’s death. Of

course about his memoirs. The beauty of it is, it’s perfectly legitimate: he won’t suspect a thing.’

64
11

Although I had come away from my phone call to Richard thoroughly infected with his enthusiasm,

and touched by his concern, reimmersion in the strict, unvarying routine of Rockburgh – its

religious rituals, CCF parades, afternoon games, all regulated by bells and punctuated by enforced

silences – slowly eroded my confidence in his plan. We were, quite simply, up against a rock-solid

institution impervious to outside influence. McCarthy, If – and the Bolsheviks – may well all have

been right: perhaps the only solution was the machine gun.

It was Donal who relighted the fire in my belly. Two days before the end of term, he came to my

room, greatly excited about something.

‘I can’t stop, I’ve got a squash court booked in ten minutes, but I just thought you might like to

see something interesting. You know I’m friendly with Bradley’ – he was the Head Boy, a bluff,

no-nonsense type who lived in South Africa; Donal and he had struck up an unlikely friendship

based, as far as I could see, on a mutual antipathy to the duplicity and hypocrisy of English

colonialism – ‘well he’s playing rugby this afternoon for the First XV, and so his room will be

empty for the next two hours. He’s got the Prefects’ report books in there – he was showing them to

me this morning, seemed to think I’d be interested in their accounts of beatings through the ages.

You know what he’s like.’

‘I’ve never quite understood him, actually. Hates the system, but thinks anyone who complains

about it is a pathetic whinger––’

Donal made an impatient gesture to silence me. ‘He’s more complicated than that. You wouldn’t

get it. The point is, you’d be very interested in these books: they go right back to the 1920s, logging

every beating that the Prefects have ever given – reasons, behaviour of miscreant, even the number

of strokes – they’re a goldmine, and you can read them if you go to his room now. They’re just

open on his desk.’

65
 I wanted to question Donal further about this, but he refused to stay a moment longer. ‘I was

never here,’ he said over his shoulder as he disappeared.

I sat still for a few minutes, pretending to myself that I was weighing the pros and cons, but I

knew all along that I would not be able to pass up an opportunity to see these books. Francis had

told me about them; they were a scrupulously kept record of what were pompously known as

Appearances Before the Committee, ‘Committee’ being the name adopted by the judicial arm of the

Prefect body, used only when it sat judging whether or not to birch someone. Francis had been

typically flippant: ‘Just imagine the diary of Tomás de Torquemada, and you’ll have some idea

what they’re like.’

I waited until I was sufficiently calm to affect nonchalance as I strolled along the corridor, even

having the foresight to tuck my camera in the pocket of my jacket. Nevertheless, my heart was

beating wildly and my mouth dry as I entered the Head Boy’s room and saw, as Donal had

predicted, three hard-backed exercise books, embossed with the school crest, lying on his desk, one

of them invitingly open.

I spent only about a quarter of an hour reading passages from the books, flinching at every noise

from the corridor – Donal had chosen his time well; the vast majority of boys were outside,

supporting the First XV – but that was more than enough to convince me that a system that could

produce such priggishness, such pig-headed rectitude, must be challenged. My blood boiled as I

read account after account of what amounted to the torture of terrified small boys by a smug,

privileged, untouchable elite. I decided I would need a record of my visit, so I chose a particularly

unpleasant passage, propped up the book in good light from Bradley’s window, and took a picture

of the page containing it with my Super Sporti.

Making sure I left the books in exactly the right position, I then hurried back to my room, my

camera seeming to burn a hole in my pocket. I spent the next couple of days packing up ready for

the Christmas holidays, saying goodbye to Francis and Grace, and attempting to behave normally,

66
despite feeling, somewhat absurdly, like Harry Palmer after a successful mission behind the Iron

Curtain.

I was unable to get the film developed until I was established in London, but when it came back

from the chemist, my anxious wait proved worthwhile: there it was, perfectly legible, in neat,

schoolboyish script:

XXX appeared before the Committee on a charge of not doing an essay for one of us. His defence was

that he had not seen this prefect in question for over a week! Throughout the proceedings he cried

heartily and this seems to have had a peculiar effect on my fellow-members, for whom this was the

first experience of its kind. Taking his age (he is only thirteen) and quite extraordinary terror into

consideration, he was only birched a stiff four by the author. Nevertheless, his hysterical shrieks were

heard as far afield as the gym doors. A most distressing and thoroughly degrading performance.

Sitting reading this in Richard’s flat, I was, initially, so overwhelmed with pity for this poor mite

that I was uncertain as to whether I would be able to summon up the required resolve to carry out

our plan to visit the Graylings in Chichester; I was tempted simply to resign my post at Rockburgh

and stay safely in the comfortingly anonymous capital with like-minded souls.

Richard immediately sensed my discomfort. ‘Come on, this should make you more determined.

What is it you’ve been teaching this past term? “Screw your courage to the sticking-point and we’ll

not fail”?

‘It’s “place”, actually.’

‘What?’

‘“Sticking-place”. It’s probably a reference either to a stringed instrument, or a crossbow.’

‘That’s more like it! You’re yourself again – like Macbeth after Banquo’s ghost disappeared,

eh?’

‘Yes, and look what happened to him in the end.’

67
 Despite my gloomy forebodings, though, we took the train to Chichester the following morning

in relatively good spirits. It was a slow train, packed with Christmas travellers, but we managed to

get ourselves seats and settled down for the journey, sharing a Guardian to pass the time.

Patrick Grayling had promised to meet us at the station, and he was an unmistakable figure on

the platform as we alighted from the train, standing erect as if at attention, elegantly but casually

dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and flannel trousers. He hurried towards us, and shook us both

warmly by the hand. ‘You must be the publishing chaps. I can tell by the newspaper you’re

carrying. Enemy territory here, you know.’

He chuckled and led us off to his car, which turned out to be a Mini Countryman rather than the

larger limousine-type vehicle I was expecting. He seemed to sense my surprise, and muttered:

‘Wife’s car. Runabout for shopping purposes.’

‘I have a Mini myself,’ I told him as he pulled out of the station car park. ‘Useful cars, but not so

good for long journeys.’

‘Quite,’ said Patrick firmly, as if he considered this subject closed.

After a somewhat hair-raising trip through Chichester, during which Patrick, oblivious to other

road users, kept up a running commentary on the sights around us – ‘lovely cathedral; I’m a guide

there, you know’; ‘Festival Theatre; wife goes a lot, I don’t’ – we arrived at his house, a compact,

sturdy building surrounded by laurels. His wife had clearly been watching out for our arrival, and

was already on the doorstep as we struggled out of the car. She was a lot younger than Patrick, his

second wife, married to him just after the war after his first had been killed in the Blitz. I’d been

given all this information, gleaned from Who’s Who by Richard, in advance of our visit, so I

wouldn’t embarrass everyone by mistaking her for a daughter or a niece.

‘Liz, here are the chaps who are going to make us famous,’ Patrick said as she advanced towards

us, hand held out, smiling in welcome.

‘Come in. Lovely to meet you. Good of you to make the journey.’ She shook both our hands and

led us into a dark wood-panelled hall. ‘Come in to the drawing room.’

68
 After we’d seated ourselves, side by side on a sofa so yielding we had to struggle to stay upright,

we were at something of a loss, unsure whether to plunge straight in to the subject at hand, or to

make general conversation until it came up more naturally.

Liz saw our hesitation, and rescued us: ‘You must be thirsty after so long on the train. What

would you like to drink? We’re having turbot for lunch, so there’s white wine for that if you want it,

but we’ve also got spirits, if you don’t think it’s too early in the day …’ She looked expectantly at

us.

‘Wine would be perfect, thanks,’ said Richard, and I nodded my assent.

After we’d all got some alcohol inside us, conversation started flowing, and Patrick proved to be

something of a raconteur.

‘Shall I tell them about the embassy secretary in India, Liz?’ he said, after we’d moved into the

dining room to eat our turbot.

Liz groaned: ‘If you must. I’m not going to be able to stop you, am I?’ She rolled her eyes

theatrically at us.

‘Well, we had a very fussy secretary at the embassy in India – after Independence, this was,

early fifties – and she was helping me deadhead some roses in the grounds. I was putting a

particularly big rose in a trug when I caught my finger rather badly on a thorn. It bled and bled, so

she ran into the embassy and got some gauze and bound me up. I thought nothing of it, but it

obviously stuck in her mind, because later that evening, at a drinks party attended by all the local

bigwigs, she suddenly pipes up, for all to hear: “By the way, Patrick, how’s your prick?”’

If any ice had remained by then, this would certainly have broken it; much to Liz’s relief, we

both laughed heartily at this story, prompting Patrick to regale us with several other anecdotes from

his ambassadorial history: the policeman in Central Park whom he invited to join him in a glass of

wine at an impromptu picnic, not realizing that he was being warned that al fresco drinking was

strictly forbidden in New York; the owner of a private zoo in Amsterdam who, when Patrick had

69
expressed interest in his wife’s collection of rare mammals, asked: ‘Would you like to see her bear,

tomorrow?’

And so on, until it was suddenly three o’clock, and the book hadn’t even been mentioned.

Patrick called us to order. ‘Come into my study, you two, and I’ll show you some pictures I thought

might illustrate my memoirs.’

Liz laughed. ‘If they still think you’re suitable, Patrick. They probably have standards at their

publishing house, don’t you?’ She smiled warmly at us both as we followed her husband into a cosy

male den containing a roll-top desk and two old armchairs, obviously drawing-room rejects, in

which we were instructed to seat ourselves while Patrick sorted through a pile of photograph

albums.

We spent an extremely enjoyable hour sorting through these, turning up pictures of every phase

of a fascinating life. I was so absorbed that I had almost forgotten the clandestine motive of our visit

when Patrick suddenly groaned and slumped in his chair. Looking discreetly over his shoulder, I

saw he’d been confronted by a family portrait, from his last diplomatic posting in Cuba: he and Liz

were standing in a lush garden surrounded by exotic vegetation, their hands lightly resting on the

shoulders of an adolescent boy.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Richard’s sudden formality seemed to strike the right note; Patrick sat up

straighter in his chair.

‘Stupid of me. Should have thought about that. That boy’s my son. We lost him last year.’

Although I should have been willing Patrick to continue in this vein – it was, after all, why

Richard and I had come to Chichester – I found myself praying he’d say nothing more about Tim,

so desolate was his expression as he gazed at the picture. I glanced at Richard; he grimaced and

shook his head slightly at me, signalling that we should stay silent.

Patrick then did something that surprised both of us: he called out to his wife. ‘Liz! Can you

come in here a moment?’

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 She hurried in, and realized what had happened as soon as she saw the album lying open on her

husband’s lap. ‘Oh, Patrick! I should have thought …’ She knelt on the floor in front of his chair,

gently removed the album, then laid her head tenderly on his knees.

Richard and I, murmuring incoherent apologies, shuffled awkwardly out of the room and sank

silently on to the drawing-room sofa. How long we sat there I couldn’t say, but it seemed like an

eternity until Liz reappeared. She had obviously been crying.

We both rose automatically from the sofa, apologizing and assuring her we would leave straight

away.

She motioned for us to sit down. ‘Please. It’s not your fault. Our son was drowned last year, and

Patrick––’

Richard tried to interrupt her: ‘You needn’t feel … we’d better go.’

She flashed a grateful smile at him. ‘Thank you for coming. I was very pleased when Patrick

showed me your letter. I thought it might be just the thing to take him out of himself. He’s been

shattered by what happened to Tim – we both have, but he blames himself for not …’ She hesitated,

then, bracing herself with a little shake of the shoulders, she went on: ‘I hope you’re not put off,

Richard. I really do think it would be good for him to immerse himself in a book like the one you

suggest. It’s the first time since Tim’s death he’s shown any interest in anything. Please come again

after Christmas. And you, too, Alan. I’ll get him to sketch out some sort of plan for the book, shall

I?’ She shepherded us into the hall; we took our coats and left, thanking her profusely for her

hospitality, and assuring her we’d return, as she suggested, after Christmas.

It was only once we were out in the main road outside the Graylings’ house that we realized we

would have to make our own way to the station, so dazed were we by what had just happened, but

we spotted a bus stop in the distance and walked towards it, assuming – rightly, as it turned out –

there would be a regular service into Chichester from it.

71
 Our journey back to London was a sombre one. We hardly spoke to each other, unable to erase

from our memories the picture of Patrick, slumped in his chair, his eyes full of tears, staring at a

photo of his dead son.

72
12

To say that Richard and I were thoroughly chastened by our experience with the Graylings would

be a gross understatement: we were mortified. We had behaved in a disgracefully cavalier fashion,

allowing our crusading zeal to blind us to the one simple truth of the situation: the Graylings were

suffering unassuageable grief, and we had intruded upon it.

We tiptoed round each other in Richard’s tiny flat for the next few days. Christmas came and

went, barely acknowledged, but at New Year, we forced ourselves to attend a small party thrown by

Jane, Richard’s boss. I remembered her as an overworked dogsbody, fearsomely efficient, but

constantly exasperated by the sheer lethargy and downright illiteracy of the upper-class women who

constituted the bulk of her staff; Richard assured me she hadn’t changed a bit.

She greeted our arrival with undisguised relief. ‘Ah, sanity in person! Or two persons – good to

see you again, Alan. Come with me into the sitting room. Everyone’s crammed into the kitchen, as

usual, so we’ll be able to talk there before things get out of hand. Sorry to be so official, but I want

to grab you before everyone, including me, gets too drunk to make sense.’

She led us into a small, cosy room with a coal fire burning in the hearth. ‘Sit yourselves down. I

just wanted to say thank-you to you, Alan, for putting us on to Patrick Grayling. Richard tells me it

was your idea – we should never have let you go, you know: Richard and I are now having to run

the place between us. Anyhow, Patrick’s already sent us a detailed synopsis of his book, and it’s

wonderful, just what I’d hoped. I’ve also spoken with him on the phone, and I love him to bits: an

old-school charmer, full of fun.’

The relief both Richard and I felt at her praise, and at her unexpected description of a man we’d

last seen sitting brokenly at his desk, was considerable. Liz had been proved correct: her husband

had clearly been given a chance to distract himself from his grief, and had – despite our crass

intervention – seized it with both hands.

73
 ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so pleased.’ I felt close to tears, and would have continued gushing at

Jane had not Richard elbowed me discreetly.

As it was, Jane fixed me with one of her probing stares. ‘Did you not expect that? Richard told

me you were familiar with his work on George Orwell’s Burma.’

‘Yes, yes, I am. It’s just that he seemed a bit Bufton Tufton-ish when we actually met him, and I

wondered if I’d made a mistake.’ It seemed better to divert Jane by means of this somewhat disloyal

and inaccurate description than have her ferreting out the true reason for my misgivings. I felt

Richard relax beside me.

‘He’s verbose, I grant you, but that’s a good thing in an author. He certainly tells a good story.

Did he tell you what he overheard in the gift shop in Chichester Cathedral?’

We both shook our heads.

‘Apparently he’s a guide there, and he was showing a tourist how to get hold of a cross as a

souvenir of his visit. The girl behind the shop counter asked this tourist: “Do you want one with a

little man on? They’re more expensive.”’ Jane roared with laughter at this, and we joined her, as

much in sheer relief as in genuine amusement. ‘I’m hoping his book’s going to be as witty as he is

in person.’

‘I’m sure he’ll produce the goods,’ said Richard. ‘He’s a very intelligent man, and he’s led a rich

and varied life. I’m looking forward to working with him.’

We then spent a very enjoyable quarter of an hour bitching about the many shortcomings of ‘the

Ladies’. Jane spluttered in indignation as she told us about a tour she’d made, in the summer, of

their empty offices: ‘I went into room after room – no one at home, despite it being well after ten

o’clock. Eventually, I got hold of one of them and asked where all her colleagues were. She looked

at me as if she couldn’t quite grasp how ignorant I was, then said: “It’s Henley”, as if this explained

everything. I was just gobsmacked, stood there like a goldfish out of water, my mouth slowly

opening and closing, with no sound coming out.’

74
 By this time, guests had begun to trickle into the sitting room, so we left off talking to Jane and

started to mingle. At midnight, we sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, kissed everyone in sight, and finally

staggered off into the night around two o’clock. Rockburgh was, temporarily at least, just a bad

dream; this was a new decade, a fresh beginning, a clean slate.

The following morning, of course, we were less optimistic, hung-over as we both were.

Surfacing painfully around midday, we huddled over cups of black coffee in Richard’s tiny,

freezing kitchen.

‘Thank God Jane insisted I needn’t go in to work today.’ Richard’s breath steamed in the air as

he warmed his hands on his coffee mug. ‘I think I’ll ring Patrick and wish him and Liz a Happy

New Year, tell him how happy Jane is with him, re-establish normal contact. What do you think?’

‘Good idea. I’m sure he wants to forget how our visit ended, just concentrate on his book.’

He left the room, leaving me nursing a throbbing head at his kitchen table. He was gone for

about ten minutes; I could hear him laughing, so assumed the call was going well, and so it proved.

On his return, he looked a lot more cheerful. ‘Thank God for that. He seemed very touched that I’d

bothered to call him. I got Liz first off, and she was full of how therapeutic his book was proving,

couldn’t thank me enough, was very apologetic about leaving us to our own devices that day – then

Patrick came on, called me “old boy”, referred to you as “that clever bear who knows all about

Orwell” – it couldn’t have gone better. I’m so relieved.’ Richard poured himself another mug of

coffee and sat back down at the table opposite me.

‘Best forget Tim for the moment, with him, anyhow. If he mentions it, all well and good;

otherwise just let him get on with his memoirs.’ A thought struck me. ‘Why did he refer to me as a

bear?’

Richard laughed. ‘He calls everyone bears. It seems to be a term of affection. Did you know he’s

a jazz buff?’

My ears pricked up at this. ‘How did you find that out?’

75
 ‘I was telling him that you were not just a literature fiend, and mentioned your love of jazz. He

was all over me like a rash when he heard that. You know what jazz people are like: he wanted to

know exactly what sort of jazz you liked, when you’d started listening to it – all the usual

questions.’

‘And what sort of jazz does he like?’ I couldn’t help myself.

Richard grinned. ‘See? You’re just like him. He likes Sidney Bechet, Duke Ellington, Billie

Holiday and Lester Young, in that order. I’m sorry to have to break this to you, though: he thinks

everything after Charlie Parker is a horrible noise.’

‘Like Philip Larkin. I’m going to have to take him in hand, I can see …’

‘He’s way ahead of you: he’s already making a tape of his favourite Sidney Bechet tunes for

you. It was all I could do to stop him delivering it in person. I gave him this address so he could

send it when it’s done. You can expect it tomorrow, first thing, I imagine.’

‘I wonder what he thinks about the trad revival.’

‘My first thought, too,’ said Richard. ‘It keeps me awake at night, personally.’

‘All right, I get it. I’ll restrain myself. It’s good, though: it means he’s forgiven us for upsetting

him. And it’s a link for me, as well as you. Can’t be bad, surely?’

‘No, it’s very good. Couldn’t have turned out better.’

Patrick, as we’d expected, was as good as his word: a package arrived for me first thing on 3

January – he’d clearly spent the whole of New Year’s Day and the following one sorting out his

favourite Bechet tracks. It was a reel-to-reel tape – Patrick presumably considering the cassette one

of the ‘modern horrors, works of the Devil’ he railed against in the many enjoyable diatribes with

which he laced his conversation – and it came with a meticulously typed commentary full of

evocative phrases conjuring up the essence of Bechet. ‘Here, he plays low and lonesome’,

‘powerful, but bright as a new penny’, ‘not jazz, strictly speaking, but piercing and effervescent’ –

Patrick had clearly relished this opportunity to share his passion for Bechet with me, and I was

suitably grateful.

76
 ‘I must write off straight away and thank him,’ I said to Richard as he stood watching me

enthuse over this gift like a child at Christmas. ‘It gives me an excuse to take my tape recorder up to

Rockburgh, too.’

‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that: it’s cluttering up my only cupboard.’

‘Sorry, but I thought I’d better choose between that and the Dansette. I didn’t really have room

in my car for both.’

‘Perfectly all right, but I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

I sat down straight away at Richard’s kitchen table and wrote a short thank-you note to Patrick,

assuring him I’d send him my reactions to the music on the tape as soon as I’d had a chance to

listen to it properly, and asking him if he’d like me to reciprocate by making him a tape of some of

my favourite jazz.

Richard snorted when I told him I’d done this. ‘I don’t think he’s ready for Ornette Coleman or

Coltrane. Perhaps a little early Mingus, for the Ellington connection––’

‘Why not Money Jungle? It’s got Ellington and Mingus on it, and might ease him out of the

mainstream without frightening him too much.’

‘I can see he’s given you a project to wile away the long Rockburgh evenings.’

My heart sank a little at this reminder of my coming school duties, but I managed to pay Richard

back by treating him to a detailed and lengthy lecture on the unreliability of accepted jazz

categories, illustrated with copious references to the influence of Bechet on Johnny Hodges, the

blues roots of Ornette Coleman and the Fletcher Henderson years of Sun Ra.

‘I surrender! It’s not me you have to convince – I’m not even sure it’s Patrick, either, to be

honest. Just send him some Mingus and a little gentle Hank Mobley – no one could object to that,

surely. Let’s go down to Dobell’s – I’ve got a sudden appetite to get my hands on some Blue Notes

or Impulses.’

So we spent the rest of the day mooching about in the Charing Cross Road, first in Dobell’s, then

in the second-hand bookshops around it.

77
 Richard put my thoughts into words perfectly on our return: ‘How you can live in the wilds of

Lancashire, away from all that, is a mystery to me.’

78
13

I spent the days of this Christmas break, while Richard was at work, prowling the streets around his

flat and walking on Hampstead Heath; the evenings I spent reacquainting myself with the joys of

listening to jazz in intelligent and knowledgeable company, Richard being almost as keen on the

music as I was. Together we compiled what I considered an irresistible tape of post-war jazz,

beginning with selections from Money Jungle, but also including a lot of Blue Note classics – Jazz

Messengers, Lee Morgan, Hank Mobley, Grant Green – that might help to convince Patrick that

there was life after Charlie Parker.

It was on one such evening, about halfway through the holiday, that Richard told me he had an

unexpected treat for me. Reaching into his shoulder bag, he produced a small foil-wrapped packet.

‘Nepalese temple balls,’ he said. ‘Got them through one of our authors who works for International

Times.’

I was not, initially, as enthusiastic about this as Richard clearly hoped – I’d tried smoking grass

once in my life at that point, and had been spectacularly ill – but it seemed impolite and ungrateful

to mention this, so I put on a good show of impatient interest as he rolled a mixture of crumbled

hash and Golden Virginia into a long joint and lit it. An hour later, I was completely converted: we

were topping off Patrick’s tape with a small dose of late Miles Davis, In a Silent Way – something

we expected him to be extremely suspicious of – and I was, quite simply, entranced by the sheer

shimmering delicate beauty of it. I could almost see the music hovering in the air between Richard’s

speakers, a diaphanous web of sound … I had an apparently immovable blissful grin plastered all

over my face …

We’d sat in enraptured silence throughout the record, but when it finished, we looked at each

other’s awe-struck faces and laughed aloud in sheer delight.

‘Well, I can see what all the fuss is about now,’ I said.

‘What, about Miles, or about marijuana?’

79
 ‘Both. Can we listen to Kind of Blue?’

‘Absolutely. Perfect choice.’

We spent the rest of the evening – and many of the subsequent evenings of my holiday –

smoking our way steadily through the Nepalese and listening to jazz with what amounted to new

ears: Charlie Parker seemed impossibly vibrant and frenetic, slow Duke Ellington wonderfully

languorous, Mingus howled and bustled, Miles’s trumpet speared through our heads as never

before, Billie Holiday was almost unbearably poignant …

‘We’ve become what Patrick would call “vipers”,’ Richard said on my last evening, as I

bumbled, stoned, around his flat, putting my things into cases to take up to Rockburgh the next day.

‘He wouldn’t approve at all, though, I imagine.’ I suspended my packing, suddenly

overwhelmed by nervous apprehension about the coming term. ‘Neither would the Good Fathers.’

‘Screw ’em,’ said Richard, seizing me in an entirely uncharacteristic manner and giving me a

hug. ‘They’re the weirdos, not you, remember that. Ring me any time.’

This dispassionate, laconic assessment of Richard’s became a heartening mantra for me as I

drove back to Rockburgh the following morning, and it was particularly helpful as I got out of my

car at the top of the College avenue. Dazed and stiff after over six hours cramped at the wheel of

my Mini, I heard myself being hailed by name: ‘Mr Simpson, hello!’ I was mystified as to the

source of this greeting until it was repeated, with ‘Up here!’ appended. I looked up towards the

College roof and saw, through a crenellation next to the huge clock that loomed over the school’s

entrance, a rotund figure waving at me. It was Pond. He seemed to sense my bewilderment, and

shouted down to me: ‘Mending the clock!’

I didn’t reply to this, merely waved at him and ducked back into my car, hoping he’d be satisfied

with our brief exchange. On my second trip out to ferry my luggage into the College, however, I

saw he’d descended from the roof and was standing by my car, looking eager.

80
 ‘Thought you might need a hand. What a lot of luggage you seem to have. So many records!

And what’s this? A tape recorder!’ He seized it and, bearing it in front of him like a prize, trotted

off, shouting ‘I know the way! Don’t worry!’ over his shoulder as he disappeared into the College.

‘Screw him. He’s a weirdo,’ I silently repeated to myself as I followed him into the New Wing. I

spent the first evening of the Easter term pottering round my room unpacking, listening to my

Sidney Bechet tape, and wishing I’d had the nerve to bring some hash back with me.

‘My favourite term!’ This was Pond’s conversational gambit the following morning, when I

encountered him in the staff refectory. We were the only two breakfasters – I’d got up especially

early hoping to avoid the majority of the toby jugs and gargoyles – and he seemed pleased to have

been granted the opportunity to ‘have me all to himself’, as he disconcertingly put it.

I made a polite noise of enquiry about his remark.

‘All Catholics love Easter, of course,’ he explained as we sat down together. ‘It’s at the heart of

what we all believe, isn’t it?’ He fixed me with what it was hard not to conclude was a slightly

cynical eye.

I murmured my assent, pretending my mouth was too full to allow full participation in the

conversation.

‘It’s the Retreat that really makes this term special, though – that and all the services during

Holy Week – oh, and the Choir Supper.’ He was almost gleeful as he mentioned these attractions,

and – short of suddenly ejaculating ‘Hallelujah!’ or ‘Praise the Lord!’, which would clearly have

been inappropriate – I could think of no suitably enthusiastic response.

Pond seemed unfazed by my silence, rattling on like a chatty teenager discussing a date. ‘You

should come to my talk on the Passion. There’ll be a slide show.’

I nearly spat out my Weetabix at this, so unexpected was it. Up to then I had been pretending to

be unable to speak; now I was genuinely struck dumb.

81
 Pond had obviously intended to shock me; he chuckled and patted my hand on the table between

us. I withdrew it as if scalded, then felt, absurdly, that I had been rude, so employed it to remove my

handkerchief from my pocket and pat my mouth, as if this had been my sole intention in moving it.

‘They’re not contemporary depictions, of course,’ Pond went on. ‘They’re slides of the more

reverent paintings of Christ’s death and the events surrounding it: the crowning with thorns, the

stations of the cross, the entombment, Mary grieving – all that sort of thing.’ He smiled to himself,

as if overwhelmed by fond memories. ‘Boys have been known to faint during my description of the

Crucifixion.’

‘Is that your intention? Don’t you think it may put them off thinking about it altogether?’

‘No, of course not. You forget that the present generation has been somewhat mollycoddled,

growing up in peacetime as it has. Or perhaps …’ He hesitated, recalling my youth. ‘It’s just that I

don’t think a generation that didn’t witness, first-hand, as mine did, the violence and destruction

that can result from the toleration of evil can really understand what danger their souls are in unless

it’s graphically pointed out to them.’ He paused, as if he wished to elaborate, but was unsure that

I’d be properly receptive.

I decided to prompt him, to see where he was going with this. ‘So what sort of things do you tell

them?’

‘Well, take Christ’s actual death. It’s often depicted as a rather tranquil event, with him gazing

serenely up to heaven, giving up his life willingly as a sacrifice for us. Crucifixion wasn’t like that.

It was brutal, slow and agonizing. It also involved a lot of movement, because you actually die of

suffocation on a cross, not from your wounds: your chest is constricted so that you can’t breathe,

and so you have to keep pushing yourself upright to catch your breath. That’s why they broke your

legs after an hour or so, to stop you pushing yourself up to breathe. And scourging, now, that’s

often seen as a light whipping, but in reality––’

At this point, I was rescued from this horror by the entrance of Fr Pym. He had obviously

overheard the latter part of Pond’s description, and recognized it. ‘Rehearsing your Retreat talk on

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poor old Alan, are you? I’m sure he doesn’t need to hear that on his first morning back, especially

over breakfast.’ He sat down next to us and helped himself to bacon from a silver serving dish.

‘And how was your Christmas, Alan? Did you go home?’

‘I stayed with an old friend in London. My parents are both dead, I’m afraid.’ Why was I

apologizing for this? They’d both been heavy smokers who’d died of lung cancer within a year of

each other, not executed serial killers. ‘Smoking,’ I explained, with a rueful smile.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Pym. ‘It’s a vice we try to discourage here, as you know, but I myself …’ He

hesitated, unsure how to proceed.

I wondered if he was aware of his nickname, ‘Wun’, another witty invention by the boys,

springing from a fictional Chinese tobacconist, Wun Lung-on, and referring not only to his smoking

habit, but also to his somewhat cadaverous appearance and yellowish complexion. ‘Difficult to give

up, I understand,’ I said sympathetically.

‘That’s why we prevent the boys taking it up in the first place,’ said Pond flatly. ‘Best way to

stop is never to start, as they say.’

Pym changed the subject abruptly. ‘How’s the teaching going, Alan? I’m afraid you’ve been

given some rather … difficult, shall we say …’ He looked over at me with eyebrows raised.

I had been expecting this. Having spent the previous term exploring equivocation in Macbeth,

with special reference to drink and its unfortunate effects on the libido, then engaging in some very

lively class discussions of Victorian attitudes to sex, with special reference to the repression that

may or may not have precipitated the catastrophe in Turn of the Screw, I was surprised that Pym

had waited until now to bring it up. I decided to adopt a self-deprecating, light approach. ‘The

syllabus does seem to have been chosen by someone who’s not thought through the problems

involved in teaching it to a bunch of adolescent boys, I admit. We’ve got The Merchant’s Tale and

Antony and Cleopatra, too, this term.’

Pym actually winced when I mentioned the Chaucer. ‘We did complain to the board when we

got notification of The Merchant’s Tale, but we were ignored.’

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 Pond piped up: ‘“… sodeynly anon this Damyan/Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng”.

Hardly the sort of thing we want to be discussing in class, is it?’ He looked triumphantly at each of

us in turn, pleased to be able to demonstrate his knowledge.

Pym winced again. ‘Thank you, Father, I don’t wish to hear quotations like that. I’m surprised

you know them.’

Pond, realizing he’d gone too far, subsided into sulky silence. Pym took his glasses off, rubbed

the bridge of his nose and sighed. ‘You’re going to have to be extremely careful how you deal with

both the Chaucer and the … Roman play. We try to protect the boys here, as you know, from a

world that seems to be determined to get more permissive by the day––’

At this point he was interrupted, as Pond had been, by another arrival in the refectory: Francis

bowled in, beaming at us: ‘What ho, chaps? Why so gloomy?’ He bustled around, helping himself

to cereal.

‘Talking of which …’ said Pond. He got to his feet and stalked out of the room.

‘Something I said?’ asked Francis.

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14

This first breakfast back at Rockburgh had given me a lot of food for thought, and over the next few

days I brooded about the various subtle warnings I’d been given by Pym, and about the horrors in

store for the boys in the coming Retreat, so gloatingly described by Pond. I found great solace in my

walks around the countryside, some with the laconic but tersely amusing Jim, but more often

undertaken alone, with only my binoculars for company.

One afternoon in early February, the ground was too frosty for rugby, so I was asked to be a

marker on a cross-country run that had been hastily arranged to keep the boys busy. ‘God forbid

they should be given a free afternoon,’ I commented to Francis as I encountered him at the school

gates on my way, clipboard in hand, to my position on the fell halfway round the run.

He laughed sympathetically. ‘“The Devil finds work”, you know. Mind if I join you? I was down

to referee the Second XV match, but it’s been cancelled, so I thought I’d go for a walk instead, get

some fresh air.’

I nodded to him, glad to have his company. ‘Please. I’ve got to tick off the runners as they go

past, but otherwise I’m free for the afternoon.’

He fell into step beside me, looking youthful and vigorous in a bright red anorak, a smart maroon

woollen scarf wound round his neck. ‘It’s good to get away from the College, isn’t it, even if only

for the afternoon?’

‘I’ll say,’ I replied. ‘Pond got me off to a very bad start this term, lecturing me about his Retreat

sermons, then Pym started on at me about the decadence of the A-level syllabus – as if I could do

anything about it.’

Francis glanced sympathetically sideways at me. ‘I heard him mention “the Roman play” as I

came in. Notice he can’t bring himself even to utter the name Cleopatra – or Antony, for that

matter. Dreadful adulterers you know.’ He laughed briefly. ‘I also heard Pond’s snarky remark as he

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left, though I pretended not to. But never mind, I’ll be out of all this soon. Been meaning to tell you.

All very hush-hush, of course, as yet, but I’m leaving at Easter.’

This was profoundly disheartening news. I found myself protesting. ‘Oh no, you can’t. It’s only

you, Grace and Jim that keep me going here. What’s happened?’

‘Grace Tawney happened,’ he said baldly. ‘I’m leaving the priesthood to marry her. We went to

Ireland over Christmas to talk to her ex-husband about it all. Decent chap, actually. He’s known

about me and Grace for a while now, but he wanted us to keep it under wraps until Donal finishes

here, for obvious reasons. Seems that the Catholic Mafia in Preston’s found out about it, though,

and the news has filtered back to the College from them. I blame that Taylor woman, personally –

you know, David’s mother. Donal tells me you met David that time in Preston. Must say, I thought

at the time that it was odd, you going to a Kenny Ball concert.’

I didn’t want him diverted from confiding in me, so I ignored this. ’They didn’t want you to

leave straight away then?’

‘No, they want it to look like a routine transfer, so they’re pretending to post me to Ireland,

where I’ll be out of sight and – they hope – out of mind. Grace is going to stay here until Donal

does his A-levels in the summer, then she’ll come out to Ireland and join me, and we can begin

married life. A fresh start. Or that’s the plan, anyhow. Cheer up, Alan, you look very glum.’

‘I am glum, honestly, but I’m very happy for you, too. I’d obviously assumed you were a couple

of some sort, you and Grace, but I just couldn’t work out how it fitted in to your life here, or how

…’ I faltered. I was on unfamiliar ground, discussing a priest’s love life, and could think of no

suitable way of proceeding.

‘It’s been difficult, yes, you’re right. Donal’s been very helpful, mind you, telling us to brazen it

out, hide it in plain sight, things like that – he knew the Good Fathers wouldn’t want a scandal, so

would ignore it if they possibly could. He’s a bright lad, is Donal, and very mature and sensible,

considering his education.’

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 ‘Isn’t he?’ I was glad to be able to be wholehearted and unambiguous about something, after the

embarrassment I felt at my awkward reaction to Francis’s disclosures. ‘He and David Taylor told

me a lot about what happened here last year, you know, with Tim Grayling.’

Francis looked very dark at this. ‘Dreadful business. Donal was shattered by it – Grayling was a

good friend to him – and Grace is still threatening to … Well, she actually doesn’t know what to do,

frankly, what with all the hoo-ha about us, and Donal’s A-levels – it’s an appalling sort of stand-off

at present, a bit like mutually assured destruction, or the Cuban Missile Crisis – each side is pretty

sure the other could wipe it out, so can’t make a move. I’m not even sure what happened, in any

case, and I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t do more at the time. The College authorities won’t hear a

word of criticism of their precious priests – look what happened to your predecessor, Johnson.’

‘Donal told me he went off half-cock.’

‘He did, yes. Lost his job, sent off in disgrace without references – don’t know what happened to

him, but I bet he’s not found it easy to explain to anyone he wants employment from. Accusing

your former employers – priests, no less – of covering up something like that is not the best

recommendation. People just can’t understand it. Public-school education is a bit of a mystery to

most people in any case, and religious education even more so. If you think it’s bad here, mind you,

you should go to Ireland.’ Francis shook his head and expelled a long, despairing breath. ‘I’m not

sure I want to go there, to be honest, but it’s what I’ve been told to do, otherwise the whole thing

with Grace is going to blow up in my face, and Michael – her ex-husband – really doesn’t want that

to happen. Though God knows how he thinks he’s going to be able to keep it quiet: Ireland’s worse

than Preston for Catholic gossip.’ He relapsed into a brooding silence as we plodded on up the long

road to the fell.

I was almost overwhelmed by all this information, the sheer complexity of the situation in which

Grace and Francis found themselves, but I tried to hold on to the most important aspect of the whole

affair: Tim Grayling’s death and what had caused it. I was haunted by the memory of Patrick and

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Liz’s grief, and was determined to do something – anything – to help them come to terms with it, if

such a thing was even remotely possible.

I decided I’d have to enlist Francis and Grace’s help. I couldn’t do anything on my own. I took a

deep breath and plunged in, head first. ‘I’ve met Tim Grayling’s parents.’

This literally stopped Francis in his tracks. ‘What? How on earth …?’

I explained about Richard, Patrick’s memoirs, our visit to Chichester – even the Sidney Bechet

tape. I also told him about Jim’s sardonic remark that there was ‘nowt to see’, then went on to relay

Donal’s suspicions about Pond and Wolfe and their ‘unwanted attentions’, the wrestling, the assault

– everything I knew came tumbling out in a headlong rush. ‘So I really don’t think Tim’s death was

a drowning accident. I think he killed himself because he was being assaulted by one or both of the

choirmasters, and he’d been told there was no way out, that no one would believe his word against

theirs. Donal tells me Tim was …’ I didn’t know quite how to phrase what I wanted to tell Francis,

but he helped me out.

‘Promiscuous, yes. A lot of boys are – you must have noticed it, surely?’

I shook my head. ‘Can’t say I have, no.’

‘Grace told me you were an innocent, but I thought she was exaggerating. It’s more common in

some years than others, but yes, there are a lot of secret little crushes, assignations, that sort of

thing. It’s mainly mutual masturbation, I imagine, but it’s deadly serious – you must remember how

you felt at their age, surely?’

‘I do, yes, but––’ I wasn’t actually entirely sure I did, but I didn’t want him to see my confusion.

‘Well then. Why people expect boys in single-sex schools to behave any differently from boys

anywhere else is … well, it’s just unrealistic. They have affairs with each other, simple as that.

Most of them aren’t homosexual – or won’t be when they leave – but that doesn’t invalidate the

experience, surely? It doesn’t help that it was illegal until recently, mind you, it gives the Good

Fathers social sanction for their horror at the whole business. They can – or could, anyhow – just

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point to the law and wash their hands of the whole thing. It’s not even up for debate, still, as far as

they’re concerned: the whole thing is unthinkable, an abomination. Doesn’t happen, end of story.’

‘But they must know it does, surely?’

‘You didn’t.’

There was no answer to this. We had now reached my marker’s station, so I took up my position.

As he left me, Francis said, ‘Come to my room tonight; we’ll plan a campaign. We can go down

in flames together.’

I spent a dispiriting afternoon, ticking off runners on the freezing fell, and I returned to the

College extremely downcast, but the sight of Pond and Wolfe chuckling with each other over the

evening meal in the staff refectory infused me with fresh determination. After an invigorating burst

of Sidney Bechet, I went to Francis’s room along the corridor.

He seemed oddly upbeat, greeting me with an upraised arm, motioning me to sit down opposite

him. ‘Listen to this,’ he said. He had, I now saw, the sleeve of Tommy open on the table next to him,

and he took out one of the LPs and put it on his record player, carefully selecting a particular track.

‘I’m your wicked Uncle Ernie, I’m glad you can’t see or hear me as I fiddle about,’ boomed out. ‘…

Down with the bedclothes, up with your nightshirt … Fiddle about!’

‘OK,’ I said, ‘so Pete Townshend’s less naïve than I am.’

‘John Entwistle, actually, but yes, it’s more common than you think.’ He took the needle off the

record and sat back in his chair. His next question was a surprise. ’Have you explored the old

servants’ stairways in this building?’

‘I’ve seen the one that goes past the theatre, yes. Donal took me down to the music basement

using it. Why?’

‘I thought you might like to gather some first-hand evidence against Pond and Wolfe. There’s a

Choir Supper coming up.’

‘I know. Pond was gloating about the prospect the other day. What of it?’

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 ‘I’m not certain of this, but I think it may be just an excuse for them to get their hands on young

flesh.’ Francis shuddered. ‘Sorry to be so graphic, but what you told me this afternoon about the

Graylings has made me so ashamed of myself that I’m keen to make amends. I’ve been so

preoccupied with Grace and Michael, and sorting things out so no one gets hurt, that I’ve blinded

myself to what’s going on under my nose. They hold the Choir Supper in the main orchestra room

in the music basement, and the servants’ staircase comes out there. I think we should be able to

position ourselves so that we can spy on them. Worth a try, don’t you think?’ He looked enquiringly

at me.

‘Definitely. But what good will it do? It’ll just be our word against theirs, whatever we see. I’m a

teaching novice with a predilection for smutty literature; you’re an adulterous priest with an agenda.

Sorry, but that’s what they’ll say.’

Francis smiled. ‘I have a plan, don’t worry. This is just the beginning, to convince us, rather than

them. I want to be sure in my own mind that we’re on the right track. I’d like to see Pond and Wolfe

in action before going any further.’ He paused, then laughed softly. ‘Come on, we can’t do anything

more now. Let’s educate you with the rest of Tommy.’

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15

The Choir Supper was scheduled – as Pond never stopped reminding us – for the fourth Friday of

term, so the night before, Francis and I did what he insisted on calling a ‘recce’. We entered the

back staircase – a reminder of the days when Rockburgh had been a massive manor house in which

an army of servants had to move unseen, pandering to every whim of the family inhabiting it –

through the theatre on the first floor of the building, and made our way quietly down to the music

basement. The stairs were narrow and dusty, seldom used, but were perfect for our purpose,

bringing us out on to a sort of minstrels’ gallery overlooking the orchestra room, from which – if we

crouched down so as remain invisible from below – we would indeed be able to observe,

surreptitiously, whatever took place at the Choir Supper the following evening.

As we made our way back up to the theatre, Francis was optimistic: ‘I think we should be able to

see pretty well from there, as long as we’re quiet. Pity we can’t take photographs, but you can’t

have everything.’

The following evening, with the Choir Supper scheduled for seven sharp, we were in position

quarter of an hour in advance, able to observe the College servants bustling around laying out cakes,

sausage rolls and jugs of orange squash on the tables lining the room.

‘Why are the tables up against the wall?’ I whispered to Francis.

‘I imagine they need the centre of the room for games. Haven’t you been listening to Pond?’

‘He did say something about Blind Man’s Buff the other day, but I assumed he was joking,’ I

said.

‘Pond only makes jokes at other people’s expense. Otherwise he’s completely humourless. Shh!

Talk of the Devil.’

Pond had entered the room below us, accompanied by Wolfe. They were chuckling together

conspiratorially, but were a somewhat ill-assorted pair, Pond pudgy, shiny-faced and dressed in an

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ill-fitting, stained soutane, Wolfe his usual immaculate dandified self, wearing his customary bow

tie, cream waistcoat and sharply creased trousers, his beard meticulously trimmed.

They were immediately followed into the room by their choir, about twenty boys in a crocodile.

They seemed oddly subdued for partygoers, filing silently to their seats at the tables around the

walls.

‘Splendid!’ This was Wolfe’s favourite word, much imitated by boys and staff alike. It brought

silence to the room; all eyes were turned to him. ‘Welcome!’

‘Like Tommy at the holiday camp,’ I couldn’t resist whispering to Francis. He shook his head

fiercely at me. ‘More like Uncle Ernie. Shhh!’

I subsided into silence and observed the scene below me. While Pond stood in the centre of the

room, beaming benevolently at his charges cramming sausage rolls into their mouths and swilling

fizzy pop, Wolfe was busy in a far corner, fiddling with a record player. A Brandenburg Concerto

began, its sprightly elegance providing an incongruous backdrop to the boys’ greedy rapaciousness

and shrill chatter. Wolfe rejoined Pond in the centre of the room, and they resumed their

conversation, occasionally breaking off to reprove excesses: ‘Don’t talk with your moth full,

Baines!’ or simply ‘Manners, gentlemen!’

When the tables had been cleared of empty plates by a posse of scurrying servants, Pond and

Wolfe began organizing the evening’s games. ‘Blind Man’s Buff!’ Pond announced. Wolfe took a

large silk handkerchief from the top pocket of his jacket and bound it round his colleague’s head,

covering his eyes, and gestured to the boys to assume positions scattered around the room. When

they were disposed to his liking, he clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Begin!’ Pond began shuffling

round the room, his arms stretched out in front of him, snuffling loudly in imitation, I assumed, of a

truffle pig. Some boys, easily evading Pond’s questing hands, laughed and screamed, clearly

enjoying the sight of a figure of authority making a fool of himself; others, however, were impeded

by Wolfe, his sudden grip on a shoulder preventing movement, so that they were caught in Pond’s

enfolding arms, hugged close into him, and then tickled by his exploring fingers moving swiftly

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over their bodies. This happened four or five times – always, I couldn’t help noticing, to strikingly

good-looking boys – and then, as if at a pre-arranged signal, Wolfe strode over to the record player

and announced: ‘Oranges and Lemons’.

Removing the Bach record, he began to sing, in a ridiculous treble squeak, the nursery rhyme

listing the bells of London, while the boys formed themselves into a line and prepared to run under

the arch formed by Pond and Wolfe. When the ‘chopper’ line came round, the arch descended, its

victim was restrained and tickled, and eventually emerged, tousled, clothes askew, to form a second

arch with a fellow victim. And so it went on, the boys being forced to run ever more swiftly to

avoid a lengthening series of arches, Wolfe continuing to sing in his piping treble, Pond sweating

and smiling, and occasionally roaring with laughter as he wrestled with his more unwilling victims.

While the noise level was so high, I thought it politic to withdraw discreetly, so I motioned to

Francis and whispered, ‘We’ve seen enough, let’s go.’

We crawled away from the edge of the gallery and squeezed back through the door to the

servants’ staircase. I didn’t realize, until I found myself gasping for air as we went back up to the

theatre, that I’d been holding my breath. ‘That was …’ I then found I couldn’t think of a suitable

adjective.

‘Disgusting? Degrading?’ suggested Francis.

I nodded dumbly. ‘It was the planning that got to me. The way Pond and Wolfe choreographed

the whole thing so they could grope as many pretty boys as possible.’

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt now that Pond’s not only a sadist, but a sick pervert as well. That

doesn’t surprise me, really, but what does surprise me is the way he’s found a willing collaborator

in Wolfe. As you say, they’d clearly planned the whole thing like a military operation.’

I shuddered at the memory of Pond’s shining sweaty face, his exploring hands and tickling

fingers, his obscene chuckling. ‘He makes Uncle Ernie seem almost benevolent.’

‘Yes, at least he had the excuse of being drunk.’

‘And he’s redeemed, isn’t he, by the end – he’s the host at the holiday camp?’

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 Francis shook his head wonderingly. ‘Ever the literary critic. Digging about for morals,

redemption. I’m not sure this is an area where your passion for exegesis is going to help you much.

Face it: Pond’s just an evil bastard who likes getting his hands on young flesh, and Wolfe’s either

the same or very similar – it’s just that he looks more sophisticated and can quote Henry James or

Plato, probably – who knows? – to justify his behaviour, or root it in historical precedent, I don’t

know. I give up trying to understand it. It’s not something I thought I’d ever come across, though

Grace tells me that in her area of Ireland there’s a lot of father–daughter incest, and what goes on at

the Christian Brothers’ establishments is often discussed in hushed tones in the pubs there. Nothing

gets done, though: people seem unable to accept that it happens, and the few people who do

complain are generally regarded as liars casting aspersions on the Good Fathers, the men of the

cloth appointed by God to keep their flocks in order.’

‘Are you sure you want to go there?’ I couldn’t help asking him.

‘We’ve just seen that Ireland’s no worse than anywhere else, haven’t we?’

We parted at the entrance to the New Wing. I returned to my room and immersed myself in

Sidney Bechet, playing ‘low and lonesome’.

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16

Although both Francis and I were now convinced that Pond and perhaps Wolfe, too, were more

interested in their own sexual gratification than in music or teaching, and that Pond had probably

been directly responsible for Tim Grayling’s death, we were uncertain how to proceed. Francis, on

our now regular evening musical get-togethers, kept assuring me he had a plan, but was hazy when

challenged to reveal its precise details, merely saying things like ‘We’ll smoke them out somehow’,

or ‘We’ve got to get Pond to admit it.’

This business of admission had already occurred to me, but solely in the context of Confession, a

sacrament I’d abandoned some time back, along with my other Catholic practices. Pond, Francis

and I agreed, would surely not be willing to live in a state of perpetual mortal sin, thus endangering

his immortal soul, so would be confessing any illicit sexual contact in an effort to cleanse himself

ready for death and Purgatory, rather than the eternal damnation he so graphically described in his

sermons.

‘Who’s Pond’s confessor? Do we know?’ I asked Francis this one evening about a week after the

Choir Supper. We’d been listening to Astral Weeks, and I was in an exultant mood, having managed

to trump Francis’s assertion of the superiority of contemporary rock music to jazz by pointing out

that Van Morrison’s backing band on this wonderfully evocative recording were all jazz musicians.

He was grateful to have the subject changed.

‘Well, it’s certainly not me. My fellow priests have all deserted me in that department since my

fall from grace – sorry for the pun – so I assume it’s Fr Pym. I’ve been watching their interactions

closely, and Pym seems unhappy with Pond, don’t you think? Embarrassed by him?’

I’d noticed Pym’s distaste at some of Pond’s enthusiasms – the Passion of Christ, the reality of

hell, the poignancy of the Pietà statue – but had ascribed it to the older man’s natural fastidiousness,

his instinctive aversion to religious ostentatiousness, rather than to anything more specific. ‘You

mean he might actually know that Pond is interfering with the boys?’

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 ‘I’d say so, yes. He’s hamstrung, though – he can’t make his knowledge public because he’s

bound by the seal of Confession.’

‘But surely, if Pond is confessing to Pym, Pym can force him to promise to stop – he could

refuse to grant him absolution, couldn’t he? Isn’t there this thing about the sincere desire for

amendment?’

‘You’re still a Catholic at heart, aren’t you?’ Francis smiled fondly at me as he took Van

Morrison off his turntable and replaced him with Leonard Cohen. ‘You’re right, though: Pym

should really be convinced that Pond is contrite enough to be able to promise not to repeat his

offending before he grants him absolution. That’s the theory, anyway – the practice, though, is

somewhat different. I imagine that Pond promises to mend his ways, pretends to be horrified by his

own weakness, gets absolution, and then just carries on as normal. Pym can hardly accuse him

outright of lying in Confession – in any case, we don’t know how many times Pond has confessed

to him, if at all. There’s no way through for us, in that route – you’ve seen I Confess, haven’t you?’

The sudden conflation of the yellow-skinned, cadaverous Fr Pym and the unfeasibly handsome

priest embodied by Montgomery Clift in Hitchcock’s film was startling enough to make me laugh

out loud. ‘Yes. I wonder if we’d be as exercised as we are about all this if Pond looked like

Montgomery Clift, rather than a slimy toad in a greasy soutane?’

‘That’s an entirely unworthy thought. You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Francis paused, then

laughed at my expression of guilt. ‘It’s all right: I’ve had the same thought myself. It’s just that I’ve

been carefully trained to suppress worldliness, and so I can censor my thoughts better than you can.

Grace is always accusing me of duplicity, hypocrisy – whatever you want to call it – it’s what

attracts me to her, if you want to know the truth. It’s as if she’s slowly reversing a brainwashing

process I didn’t know I’d undergone.’ He smiled ruefully at me. ‘It’s no wonder the Church resists

admitting women to full participation: they have an uncomfortably dispassionate view of things that

cuts through all the obfuscation and verbiage we men construct around our precious so-called

truths.’

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 ‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s true––’

‘Ah, yes, I was forgetting the odd exception, such as your good self …’ Francis adopted a mock-

pious expression that I assumed must be an imitation of my own, and then abruptly changed the

subject. ‘Listen to this: Leonard Cohen. Big favourite of Grace’s – apparently he was raised in

Montreal, so he knows a lot about Catholicism, not just Judaism. Mixes up all the imagery …’

He was right; I found Leonard Cohen just as entrancing as Astral Weeks, and – to Francis’s

considerable amusement – was unable to detect any hint of jazz influence in his accompanying

musicians.

So Francis and I were unable to hit on a definite plan to expose Pond, despite our now firm

conviction that he was – and was likely known to be – a habitual abuser of the young boys in his

charge. The first inkling of such a plan came from an unexpected source: Richard.

Halfway through this Easter term, attempting to dispel gloomy and guilty thoughts about Pond

by immersing myself in the problems of teaching Antony and Cleopatra to a bunch of determinedly

unromantic adolescents, I was surprised to receive a weighty package, postmarked London. It

turned out to be a long letter from Richard:

Dear Alan,

I’d better apologize in advance for what I’m pretty sure will turn out to be an overlong letter. I

have a lot to tell you, and I need to sort out my own feelings about some of it, and I think I can do

this better in a letter than on the phone, struggling with button A and B, or operators and reverse

charges.

First: the Graylings. I’m beginning to wish, frankly, that I’d never got involved with them. Their

grief oppresses me every time I talk to them (Liz is typing up Patrick’s manuscript, so I have as much

contact with her as with him). I’m haunted by the memory of Patrick fighting back tears that day, and

by the guilt I feel at my deception of them both. Luckily, though, he’s producing a very interesting

memoir, full of vivid first-hand description and illuminated by sudden shafts of sly wit. Sorry, I’m

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going into blurb mode here, but you get the picture: we’ve been lucky enough to chance on a genuine

writer, so his skill is a very effective smokescreen hiding our original purpose. At times, I even forget

that I’m supposed to be finding out what I can about Tim’s death.

Anyhow, I’m sure you’re keen to hear about any progress I’ve made on this, rather than about the

felicities of Patrick’s writing style, so I’ll get to it. I went down again to Chichester at the end of last

week, mainly so that Patrick and I could sort out his illustrations. He’s got a large collection of slides

and black-and-white photos, many of them he thinks perfect for the book, but he seemed hesitant

about the process of sorting through them, so I offered to help him in person. When I got there, and

sat in his study confronted by the piles he’d assembled, I knew why he was so reluctant to start sorting:

he doesn’t want to be confronted by pictures of Tim again. Liz had hinted at this on the phone when

she’d arranged the visit, so I was prepared. I just went into brisk editor mode, and told him I’d be

perfectly happy to save him trouble by taking the lot back to London with me and choosing an

illustrated section from them, which I’d then submit to him and Liz for their approval. He was

pathetically grateful for this, and just handed over all his albums and packets of slides. So after another

boozy lunch – they really are a delightful couple – I lurched off to the bus stop and caught the

afternoon train back to London.

I’ve been through Patrick’s albums, and have come across a number of pictures of Tim; there are

also a few colour slides, one of which shows him splashing about in water, presumably in Cuba,

judging by the sunshine. This has given me an idea, which I’ll tell you about when I next see you –

which brings me to my second subject.

Last weekend I decided to follow Aldous Huxley’s advice and open the doors of perception –

which is a pretentiously literary way of telling you that I finally took the plunge and dropped some

acid. My Nepalese-source author’s (better not mention his name in a letter!) been badgering me for

some time to join him on a trip, since I told him how much I’d enjoyed the hash. So we went off to

Kenwood last Sunday, dropped a couple of tiny blue tabs, and waited, sitting on a secluded bench,

for the acid to take hold. For about an hour or so I felt nothing, though my ‘guide’ (let’s call him X)

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was claiming to have begun his trip and was staring fixedly into the middle distance, occasionally

grunting to himself or sighing, it was difficult to tell which. Then I suddenly realized that my teeth

were giving me trouble: I was ultra-conscious of their presence in my mouth, and couldn’t think why

I’d never noticed this before. Then my blood made itself felt, moving round my body, and my eyes

seemed to be floating free in my head. The heath in front of me began to heave and breathe, as if it

was alive. The sky, which was full of darkish clouds, seemed to suck me up into it, then the whole

world started to flash and crumble and my head filled with crazy thoughts. Each moment disconnected

itself from its immediate neighbour, so that I felt I had to reconstruct a unifying personality for myself,

from scratch, at each moment throughout the trip. This was probably the most disconcerting aspect

of the whole extraordinary experience: it’s mentally exhausting having to persuade yourself you’re

the same person you were a moment ago fifty times a minute, for nearly seven or eight hours.

Eventually, you just stop trying, and relax (hah!) and enjoy the flow of sensation. Which presumably

is why it’s called a ‘trip’ – or so X kept assuring me. I was very grateful for his presence – I couldn’t

have coped on my own. I’d just have spun off into gibbering madness, I’m sure. After he’d calmed

me down, still sat on the bench, he suggested we take a walk round the less populated parts of the

heath. I was initially reluctant to do this, but movement did actually serve to dissipate some of the

more alarming symptoms, giving me a focus: just moving my legs and body in a co-ordinated way

proved a herculean task, demanding all my concentration. I’d just about sorted myself out so that I

was able to walk in what I hoped was a non-conspicuously ordinary way when I was confronted by a

sight I’ll never forget: a man leading six dachshunds on six separate leashes. X drew my attention to

this by saying ‘Well, just look at that!’ – not a particularly witty remark, but one that, confronted as

I was by the sheer dachshundness of the vision in front of me, I found unbearably amusing,

overwhelmingly funny, so that we had to retreat to another secluded bench to avoid drawing

unwelcome attention to ourselves, giggling helplessly as we both were.

We spent the rest of the afternoon getting ourselves into and out of similar scrapes: we’d lurch off

our bench and totter round the heath’s less frequented paths, but always we seemed to be confronted

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by oddness, even grotesqueness. Everywhere we looked, people seemed to be behaving in the most

bizarre ways, grimacing, leering or just staring threateningly at us. Looking back, I’m sure most of

this was happening solely in our fevered imaginations, but at the time it seemed that the whole world

had gone mad for the afternoon. ‘Trip and the world trips with you’ was the way X summed it up

later, as we sat in my flat, recovering ourselves by drinking endless cups of tea and listening to a

couple of records X had provided for just this eventuality: Happy Sad and Blue Afternoon by Tim

Buckley. Beautiful music – even you, the unreconstructed jazz snob that you are, would approve –

he’s obviously a big jazz fan, and even uses the opening riff of Kind of Blue on one of his tracks …

But I digress: I could go on about acid for hours – and probably will when I next see you, which

brings me to my next suggestion: you’ve got a half-term break coming up, haven’t you, during the

boys’ Retreat? X has offered me the use of his cottage in the Lake District, so I thought I might come

up and whisk you away from the Good Fathers and their dark secrets for a while, and introduce you

to the delights of acid while I’m at it. You’ll be fascinated, I know it, though I am a bit apprehensive

about your literary bent taking over. I don’t want to have to listen to lectures about Gerard Manley

Hopkins and ‘instress’ – or even hear you quoting the opening lines of ‘The Windhover’ every time

you see a kestrel. (Or going on about Proust’s actress comparison when you happen to see the moon

in the daytime.) How well I know you, old friend! Just say yes to this, and I’ll book the time off with

Jane (with whom I’m in extremely good odour these days, thanks to Patrick). I also have the

aforementioned idea to discuss with you, so let me know precise dates etc. asap.

Bye for now,

Richard

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17

Richard, as he said at the end of his letter, had to book his time off with Jane; for my leave of

absence I had to get permission from the Prefect of the Curriculum, Fr Pond. I was not looking

forward to this, but in the event, it proved relatively unproblematic.

‘Come in, come in!’ Pond shouted cheerily when I knocked on his door after High Mass the

following Sunday. Then, when he saw who it was, ‘Alan! What an unexpected pleasure.’

This was the first time he’d used my Christian name. In spite of my feelings about the man, I

was conscious of a small surge of gratification. I quickly suppressed it and got straight down to

business.

‘I’m hoping to get away to the Lake District during the Retreat and half term. I’ll be away for

four nights, if that’s all right. I’ve no teaching then, obviously.’

Fr Pond adopted one of his roguish looks. ‘You’re not going on the Retreat? What a shame!

You’ll miss my slide show.’ He pointed to a projector and screen, just discernible behind a curtain

in a corner of his room. ‘But I suppose you’ll be wanting to immerse yourself in the beauties of the

land of Wordsworth and Coleridge, won’t you? Perhaps you could take some slides of Grasmere for

me to show to your A-level class.’

‘We’re not doing the Romantics this year; the poetry section’s Hardy, I’m afraid.’

Pond’s expression changed abruptly from teasing facetiousness to undisguised horror. ‘As if

pornography and licentiousness weren’t enough, you have to teach the poetry of a philandering

agnostic as well! I really don’t know what the exam board was thinking of this year. Why couldn’t

they have set some decent poetry, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, or George Herbert?’

‘Actually, I’d have enjoyed teaching Hopkins, but their alternative to Hardy was an anthology of

Ted Hughes and Thom Gunn.’

‘I’m not entirely familiar with either of them – modern, are they?’

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 ‘Hughes is a nature poet of sorts, like Hopkins, though with a rather different outlook – he was

married to Sylvia Plath until her suicide.’

Pond reassumed his expression of horror. ‘Oh, really! What on earth … So Hardy was actually

the more acceptable option?’

I decided to give Pond the second barrel: ‘I suppose so. Gunn’s homosexual, lives in California –

though, oddly, he has a suicide connection, too: his mother killed herself when he was a teenager.’

Pond actually gasped at this information. ‘I just don’t understand … I must talk to Fr Pym about

this. Perhaps another letter to the exam board––’

‘I’m not sure that would do any good, Father. Gunn and Hughes are highly thought of in literary

circles these days, bracketed with Philip Larkin, no less.’

‘Larkin? Now him I have heard of. Another atheist!’ Pond was now beside himself, red in the

face and spluttering.

‘Agnostic, really, I think. Big jazz fan, mind you.’ I smiled placatingly. ‘I’m not sure you can

keep the world away from the boys, you know. My class will be going out into it next year, after all.

Perhaps it’s best they know about it before then.’

‘I don’t agree. Some things are always true, whatever changes in the world around us. The love

of Christ, God’s redeeming power, the one true Church …’ Pond faltered, sensing that his words

were falling on stony ground. ‘You’re altogether too modern for me, Mr Simpson. The Retreat

might have done you some good, I must say. But go to the Lake District if that’s what you want.

You’ll need to register your absence with the school secretary. You know where to find Mrs

Tawney, I suppose?’ Pond’s customary air of spiteful self-assurance had returned with this last

question; he fixed me with a sarcastic stare as he uttered it, and actually shooed me from his room

with little fluttering hand movements, as if I were a troublesome puppy.

‘I can find it, yes. I’ll go there right away. Thank you, Father.’

Once outside in the corridor, I found myself struggling to regain my composure. Even muttering

Richard’s mantra – ‘Screw him. He’s a weirdo’ – didn’t help much. My mind kept returning to the

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picture of Tim Grayling, smiling in a Cuban garden, and to the effect this image had had on his

father.

By the time I got to Grace’s room, discreetly tucked away in a tower above the College’s main

entrance, I had calmed myself sufficiently to face her with a smile.

‘Alan.’ Into this simple greeting, Grace infused a warmth that had been entirely lacking in

Pond’s more effusive welcome. Absurdly, I felt close to tears.

‘I’ve come to arrange some time away,’ I managed to say. ‘Fr Pond tells me you need to register

it.’

Grace regarded me steadily, a sympathetic smile spreading slowly over her face. ‘I wondered

why you were looking so fraught. Fr Pond does that to me, too.’ She ushered me into a chair. ‘I’m

making some tea. You look as if you need some.’

I sank gratefully into the armchair she’d indicated, and watched her busy herself boiling water

on a small spirit stove. She felt my eyes on her and laughed. ‘Not allowed, strictly speaking. Fire

risk, I suppose. But I don’t want to go down to the staff refectory every time I want a cup of

something hot. I try and keep myself to myself, if possible.’

It struck me that I’d never encountered Grace while taking my meals with the rest of the staff,

and I was suddenly ashamed that I’d never speculated as to where she ate.

‘Yes, where do you eat?’ I asked.

She turned to me with a kindly, but slightly satirical expression. ‘Not with the Good Fathers, as

you’ve seen.’

I noted her use of this expression, so familiar to me from my conversations with Donal and

Francis, and wondered which of them had been its original source. ‘So, where …?’

‘In the staff refectory, but after the men have left, as is only proper as a Daughter of Eve.’

‘On your own?’ It was, I realized, a little late to come over all indignant on her behalf, but I

couldn’t help myself.

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 ‘No, usually the housekeeper joins me. You probably haven’t even been introduced to Mrs

Tucker, have you?’

‘Er, no, I can’t say I have. I’ve seen her, of course, serving …’ I faltered, acutely conscious that I

was falling into a discreetly prepared trap.

Grace laughed. ‘It’s all right, Alan. I’m teasing you. You’re not responsible, after all.

Rockburgh’s basically a men’s club, isn’t it? What is it St Paul says? “Her part is to keep silent”?’

‘Funnily enough, Francis and I were saying only the other night that it was stupid of the Church

to treat half its members as second-class citizens––’

‘More than half, actually, but I take your point.’ She handed me a cup of tea. ‘No milk, no

sugar.’

I was surprised she knew this, but she explained: ‘Donal told me about the waitress in Preston.

He tells me everything, you know.’ She seated herself across the room from me, balancing her cup

of tea delicately in her lap.

‘I’ve just been profoundly shocking Pond with more details of the A-level English syllabus. He

thinks civilization’s end is coming because we’re having to study Hardy. I’m not sure he’ll ever

quite accept Vatican II, let alone––’

‘Oh! Vatican II!’ Grace looked quite angry, and put her cup on a table by her side to avoid

spilling it. ‘Have you not read any accounts of the discussions the men had there, in Rome?’

‘I haven’t, no. I’ve heard quite a lot of discussion of it over meals, mind you.’

‘Hah!’ Grace snorted – an entirely unexpected sound, coming from her – and then composed

herself before going on, more quietly, ‘The Archbishop of Nazareth pointed out that married clergy

were the norm in other churches without causing too much of a problem, and wondered why

Catholics seemed to want to pretend women didn’t exist. Do you know what the reaction to this

was?’

I shook my head.

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 ‘A bishop from Brazil said women should keep making the coffee, and the whole subject was

dropped.’

‘I suppose they justify it by pointing to the fact that all Jesus’s disciples were men––’

‘Yes, and God himself told Moses that priests were to be male! If you believe that, you’ll believe

anything. Look what happened to the St Joan’s Alliance.’

‘I’m sorry, I––’

‘No, you won’t have heard of them. They fight for female equality in the Church. They’re only

mentioned these days because of their stand against official brothels during the war, and their

disapproval of soldiers being issued with contraceptives. They’re always petitioning for women

priests, but no one takes any notice of them. They’re just dismissed as fanatical killjoys, and

unpatriotic killjoys at that. But I’m preaching at you. You came for bread, and I gave you stones.’

She smiled at me. ‘You mustn’t let Fr Pond and his like get to you, Alan. They’re not the real

Catholicism I was brought up in. I’m hoping that when Francis and I get away …’ She hesitated,

conscious that she might have strayed on to forbidden territory.

I hastened to reassure her. ‘I hope so, too. I couldn’t have survived without Francis – and you

and Donal, too.’

‘Yes, I hear Francis has been educating you, showing you the joys of Leonard Cohen.’

‘Absolutely! I was fascinated by the difference between the way he treats the story of Isaac

being sacrificed, and the way Bob Dylan treats it in “Highway 61”. And both Jewish, of course.’

And we were away from the awkwardness of our earlier discussion, quoting lyrics at each other,

and comparing our reactions to Dylan, Cohen and Van Morrison. By the time I emerged, duly

registered, an hour later, I felt healed and re-energized, all the pessimism built up during my

encounter with Pond dispelled by Grace’s good sense, warmth and serenity.

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18

Such psychological equilibrium as I had been able to regain as a result of my hour with Grace,

however, didn’t last long. I had only to hear Fr Forster’s pungent reactions to the latest

manifestations of social permissiveness – a rise in the abortion rate or the take-up of contraceptive

services, changing attitudes to homosexuality, even the predilection for soft drugs manifested by the

Beatles or the Rolling Stones – to be plunged into gloom once again. Fr Pond, too, was a source of

constant irritation, whether he was asking me apparently innocent questions about Antony and

Cleopatra (he was, maddeningly, surprisingly well informed on the subject, even to the point of

being able to quote Bernard Shaw’s preface to Caesar and Cleopatra verbatim), or needling me

more openly about what he presumed to call my ‘promiscuous adoption of moral fads’, by which he

meant anything from vegetarianism to agnosticism, with special reference to all the items on Fr

Forster’s hate-list.

I had expected that Francis would be my sole defender against these attacks – and he did, indeed,

fight both Forster and Pond with a beguiling mix of wit and pithy logic, for which I was suitably

grateful – but I was disturbed to find that he was seconded, on several occasions, by Mr Wolfe.

Typically, the discussion between the priests would be sparked by a waspish comment from

either Forster or Pond, followed by a stinging riposte from Francis, leading to a full-blown

argument on increasingly esoteric aspects of moral theology refereed, in a tone of sorrowful

resignation, by Fr Pym. Into the lull that often followed such acrimony, Wolfe would interject

placatory remarks, like a healer spreading soothing balm on raw wounds. To a debate about

abortion he would append comments on the number of back-street procedures that might be

replaced by less dangerous operations, performed legitimately; after attacks on the legalization of

homosexuality he would sorrowfully recite a litany of names, beginning in Ancient Greece and

ending in the England of Oscar Wilde and Alan Turing, of those who had been ‘needlessly

persecuted’ by people he termed ‘zealous busybodies’; he even defended the Beatles’ presumed use

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of soft drugs, citing what he called their ‘undisputed masterpiece’, Sgt. Pepper, in justification of

his position.

I would generally withdraw quietly from such arguments, leaving them to the professionals (as

Francis called his fellow priests), so I was displeased to be drawn back into the Beatles-and-drugs

discussion by Wolfe’s closing comment, specifically directed at me: ‘Mr Simpson, I’m sure, would

see the validity of the argument I’m making here: “I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it

being so proper”.’ I was used to having Pond quote Shakespeare at me, but I didn’t want to

encourage Wolfe to do so; I also wanted to distance myself from the dapper music master rather

than be seen as willing to welcome him as an ideological ally. On the spur of the moment, I decided

to send a shot across his bows.

‘Shakespeare’s so mercurial, though, isn’t he? It’s like the Bible: you can always find a quote to

back up any position you hold, however unorthodox. I sympathize, in some ways, with the people

who stood by and said nothing when Turing was arrested, or the Rolling Stones were persecuted by

the drugs squad. They knew what they were seeing happen around them was wrong, but they were

afraid to speak out. It’s like Angelo says in in Measure for Measure: “my authority bears of a

credent bulk, that no particular scandal once can touch but it confounds the breather”. It’s all about

the power of authority, isn’t it? It works through fear, suppresses dissent by making people want to

hang on to the little they’ve got by keeping quiet about injustice, even if they’ve seen it with their

own eyes.’

I had never made so long a speech in such company before, so there was a prolonged silence

after I made this one. The assembled teachers seemed at once embarrassed by my earnestness and

puzzled as to my motivation. Pond recovered first: ‘I hope you don’t feel you’re being

“suppressed”, as you put it, Alan. I should have thought that the debates we have every day, in our

refectory, are evidence of the openness of our little society here.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at me.

‘Have you seen injustice with your own eyes here? I don’t think so, do you?’

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 I could almost feel Francis flashing warning signals to me across the table, so I tried to lighten

the atmosphere: ‘Of course I don’t feel suppressed here; I do feel we might be fooling ourselves

about the outside world, though. I sometimes think we’re a bit cut off from reality, living in a bit of

a bubble, don’t you think?’

‘Speak for yourself.’ Francis suddenly came to life. ‘Your bubble’s a particularly opaque one, it

seems to me. I’ve never come across anyone so shielded from reality. You know more about

fictional characters, or people in Shakespeare plays, than about actually existing men and women.

Listen to yourself: you can quote Angelo or Lear, or drag out examples from Henry James or

Chaucer to underline your arguments, but when was the last time you spoke to someone real about

their actual experience?’

There was another awkward silence after this, but I was profoundly grateful to Francis for

diverting his fellow teachers’ attention away from my ill-considered outburst, and after the

company broke up, as he and I walked away together from the refectory, I told him so. He laughed

and said, ‘I just thought we should keep our powder dry, that’s all – you came dangerously close to

touching on whistle-blowing there, and we don’t want either Pond or Wolfe thinking we’re on to

them, do we?’

‘Absolutely not: “Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t” should be our motto,

don’t you think?’

‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. How on earth do you manage to remember

all those Shakespeare quotes, anyhow?’

‘I had them beaten into me at school by teachers like Pond,’ I replied.

I spent the rest of the week before half term keeping my head down. I went for long walks in the

countryside with Jim, or immersed myself in the lighter material available from the school library:

Dornford Yates and Sapper. By the time the boys’ Retreat came around – three days, beginning on a

Friday, that would lead into a half-term break lasting until the following weekend – I had managed

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to stifle my anxiety to such an extent that I was able to greet Richard, when I met him off the

London train at Preston station, with a welcoming smile and a warm hug.

‘Steady on, Alan. What’s got into you?’

‘Just pleased to see you, that’s all. I’ve been told I need to engage more with real people rather

than fictional ones, so I thought I’d start with you, if that’s all right.’

I explained myself at more length on our journey up to the Lakes, so that by the time we reached

Kendal Richard had been told all about the Rockburgh staff refectory discussions, Francis and

Grace’s strictures concerning my unworldliness, Pond’s teasing probing of my teaching methods,

Wolfe’s attempts to present himself as a liberal – once I started relating all this, I found I couldn’t

stop, and Richard simply lapsed into receiving mode, slumped beside me in the front of my Mini,

an occasional grunt his only sign of life.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said (insincerely), as we finally drew up in front of the cottage, deep in the wilds of

Cumberland, that was to be our base for the coming week. ‘Are you still awake?’

‘Yes, still here. I thought it best to let you sound off, but I’m warning you now: once we’re in

the cottage, I don’t want to hear any more about Rockburgh unless I specifically ask you something

about it. We’re here to relax, clear our minds.’

‘And here was me thinking we were girding our loins for the coming struggle,’ I said.

‘That too,’ said Richard, reaching into the back of the car for our luggage. ‘Good to see you’ve

brought some records with you. I’ve only brought a few with me – three Tim Buckleys, plus some

Blue Notes.’

‘Francis has lent me some LPs, so it won’t all have to be jazz. I’ve got Tommy there, plus some

Leonard Cohen and various other rock albums you’ve probably not heard, being such an

unreconstructed jazz snob.’

‘Unlike you. Let’s get in, I’m freezing out here.’ Richard took a handful of LPs off the back seat

and ran through the rain to the cottage door. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a joint

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after that journey. I was asleep for most of it, but I had a horrible dream where I was being bored

witless by a whining adolescent with verbal diarrhoea.’

We spent the next few hours pottering about in the cottage, nipping out as darkness fell around

us to buy food from a general store we had noticed as we drove through Sedbergh, the nearest town.

‘Not the warmest of North Country welcomes, that, I thought,’ I commented as we left the shop

with our provisions.

‘You shouldn’t have asked if she had any real coffee. And your telling her we were vegetarians

didn’t help – not the best recommendation in a farming community.’

‘I was trying to be friendly,’ I protested.

‘Well don’t,’ said Richard. ‘You just came over like a member of the royal family trying to look

interested in what the plebs are up to.’

We continued to bicker all the way back to the cottage, through the preparation of a basic meal

involving too many root vegetables, and then – sporadically – during an extended record session

until a surfeit of Nepalese sent us stumbling up to bed, blathering inanities at each other. Rockburgh

suddenly seemed a long way away.

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19

The ‘cottage’ lent to Richard by his author friend was, once we had had the chance to look at it

properly in full daylight, revealed as a larger building than the small, cosy dwelling suggested by its

name. It was two storeys high, sturdily built of rough stone, and was well appointed: the front door

opened straight into a large living area furnished with a comfortably sagging sofa and a couple of

easy chairs, there was a stone-flagged kitchen at the back, with a breathtaking view over an

overgrown garden and fells that reminded me of those around Rockburgh, and two bedrooms and a

boxroom upstairs served by a basic but functioning bathroom. It also had mains electricity, and gas

for cooking supplied by a large canister standing next to the back door.

‘Happy, darling?’ This was Richard’s morning greeting to me as I stumbled blearily into the

kitchen to find him frying mushrooms on the stove. ‘Scrambled eggs OK with these?’

‘You’re an angel. Beautiful place, this – I was expecting a damp, poky hovel with no facilities.’

‘Andy lived here until he was twenty-odd. His parents were rich bohemians and he was their

only child, so he was pampered, by all accounts. Went to Sedbergh, up the road, so he was very

sympathetic when I told him about your problems at Rockburgh. It’s why he was so keen to lend

me the cottage.’

‘Are his parents still alive?’

‘They live in Jimena de la Frontera, apparently … It’s in Cadíz,’ Richard added, seeing my

puzzlement at the name.

We had a leisurely breakfast washed down with weak tea, a tacit agreement between us resulting

in our refusal to open the jar of instant coffee we’d been shamed into accepting at the local shop the

day before.

‘Saturday,’ I said contentedly, surveying the wreckage of our breakfast on the kitchen table.

‘The gargoyles will be squabbling over the finer points of Vatican II, while the boys prepare for a

second day of silence and contemplation of their own mortality.’

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 ‘Sounds like fun. Can’t think why you wanted to miss it.’

‘Neither can Fr Pond. He was desperate to have me watch his slide show of the Crucifixion, the

highlight of the Retreat.’

This took some explaining to an initially incredulous Richard. It was heartening to see that

people from the world outside Rockburgh found its practices bizarre – of all the people I’d

encountered there, only Jim maintained sufficient detachment from the ‘world of Catholic

gentlemen’ (his customary sardonic description of the school) to enable him to see it for what it

surely was: a uniquely anachronistic anomaly. Even Francis and Grace were too immersed in the

Catholic worldview to appreciate just how strange Rockburgh and its rituals were.

A thrilling piercing warble interrupted our conversation. ‘A wren,’ I guessed, leaving the table to

fetch my binoculars from my bag upstairs. I was right: from my bedroom window I could see a tiny

brown bird singing its heart out, perched on a bare tree branch. I went back down to the kitchen to

clear away our breakfast things, and suggested to Richard that we might spend the day walking in

the hills around the cottage, taking in the local birdlife.

‘We should get out while it’s fine and do a recce,’ he agreed. ‘If we’re going to ingest some

psychedelics, we should get to know the land a bit before we go stumbling around in it. We’re

pretty isolated here, but I don’t want us walking into someone’s farmyard by mistake. You’ve no

idea how difficult it is, just talking to someone normally, when they’re dissolving in front of your

eyes, or transforming into a circus clown or one of your gargoyles. Best avoided, if possible.’

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of this, but then I told myself that I’d been equally apprehensive

about the effects of Andy’s Nepalese, and those had turned out to be entirely benevolent. ‘I’ll get

my rugby boots,’ I said.

‘Have you not got any proper walking boots?’

‘They’ve got very small studs – they’re what I wear for walking at Rockburgh.’

‘Ah-ah! I allowed this morning’s mention, but I think I may institute a system of fines for

mentions of that place from now on. Shall we say half a crown?’ Richard shook his head,

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presumably in wonder at my inability to immerse myself in my immediate surroundings. ‘Let’s get

out into that lovely countryside and forget all about Ponds and Wolfes.’

‘And Graylings,’ I added.

‘And Graylings,’ Richard agreed.

The countryside around the cottage was less bleak and rugged than the fells around Rockburgh,

greener and gentler, but the birdlife was similar: lapwings, curlews, the odd kestrel and buzzard, the

usual old faithfuls – wrens, blackbirds, robins, crows and wagtails. I’d been hoping to see some less

common species – redstarts, even ring ouzels and wheatears – but it was too early in the year for

these, so I had to content myself with watching familiar birds doing familiar things.

We’d brought some sandwiches out with us, and I felt my cares slip away as I sat on a log,

eating them, while a stream bubbled cheerily past us.

‘“Here I feel amends, the breath of Heav’n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet”,’ I said.

‘I thought I said no quotations,’ said Richard.

‘No Proust and Hopkins it was, as I remember. You said nothing about Milton. No, you’re right:

Francis was saying only the other day––’

‘That’s a half-crown you owe me!’

‘Damnation! Hadn’t we better start thinking decimal, though? What’s half a crown? Twelve and

a half pence?’

‘I’ll never get used to that. You know where you are with pounds, shillings and pence––’

‘Yes, so easy to work in units of twelve and twenty, rather than just moving a decimal point.’

‘No need to be sarcastic. I’m serious: it’s good for people’s maths to stretch them every time

they go shopping.’

‘They’ll soon get used to the change – you sound like the priests talking about Vatican II––’

‘Five shillings!’

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 I was slightly irritated by Richard’s teasing on this subject, but it did serve a useful purpose by

alerting me to my obsession with Rockburgh, and I determined to incur no more fines if I could

possibly help it.

We spent the rest of the day exploring rolling hills and valleys, and returned to Andy’s cottage

tired but happy, like the Famous Five or – more appropriately – the children in the Swallows and

Amazons books. I bit back my inclination to point out these literary precedents to Richard, and

started peeling vegetables for our evening meal.

Our evening, after a rudimentary vegetable curry had been consumed, was spent like the

previous one: listening to music, smoking Nepalese, giggling at inane jokes, teasing each other. I

felt a surge of happiness. Richard had been right to suggest this break. I felt almost human again.

More exploring took place the following day, so we were now relatively familiar with the lie of

the land immediately bordering the cottage. As we relaxed in front of the fire that Sunday evening,

Richard produced a box from his pocket. ‘Have you seen acid before?’ he asked.

I peered over at the tiny blue pills he was holding in the palm of his hand. ‘Is there really enough

in there to send two of us on trips?’ I was sceptical – the pills were so innocuous-looking.

‘Absolutely. Blue cheer, this is; it’s what I took with Andy on the Heath. More than enough for

our purposes.’ Richard grinned wolfishly and put the pills carefully back in the box. ‘Get a good

night’s sleep. I’d also advise having a bath and a crap before you start the trip. Makes things easier.’

‘I always have a crap after breakfast, regular as clockwork,’ I assured him.

‘Of course you do,’ said Richard, rolling his eyes theatrically.

The following day was bright and sunny, so we put our plan into operation, and by nine o’clock

we were out in our favourite spot by the stream, the blue cheer inside us, but not affecting us as yet.

‘How long does it take?’ I was suddenly fearful that the pill would have no effect on me, or that I

had somehow not swallowed it correctly.

‘About an hour, perhaps a bit more or less. Depends …’

‘On what?’ I asked.

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 ‘I don’t know, Alan. Just concentrate on thinking pleasant thoughts. Look at the sky. Listen to

that bird singing.’

‘A robin.’ I couldn’t help correcting him. This turned out to be the last coherent, calm thought I

had that day. Immediately I’d said the word ‘robin’, it seemed odd, inappropriate, plain wrong even.

I found myself repeating the word in my head, revolving it, examining it from every angle, splitting

it up into ‘rob’ and ‘in’ – neither syllable made any sense; my mind struggled to find anything

remotely familiar in the sound or make-up of the word.

I looked at Richard; he was grinning widely. He pointed to the sky. ‘Blue cheer,’ he said.

This reminder of the reason for our bewildered state helped me anchor myself, but only briefly. I

looked at the sky, as Richard had suggested I should. It was blue to a ridiculous extent, a blue I’d

never really appreciated before, a blue that–– I now saw paisley patterns in the sky, flowing across

the blue. ‘Wonderful,’ I managed to croak out; the word seemed perfect – it described my reaction

precisely. The world was indeed full of wonders. I looked again at Richard.

‘Now, you’re feeling yourself again, aren’t you?’

This was, I saw immediately, not only rich in subtle and ambiguous meaning, but also

unbearably funny. I was feeling myself again. How had Richard precisely divined my need to be

told this? I started laughing uncontrollably, throwing myself on to my back in the grass, helpless in

the grip of utter hysteria, wildly happy yet breathlessly nervous. Richard had described the

sensation perfectly in his letter: it was just like having your personality, everything that

unconsciously defined you, disintegrate moment by moment, so that you marvelled at your former

self’s ability to keep it together without the effort you were presently having to make just to stay

afloat in all the chaos raging round you.

‘Whooo!’ I wasn’t capable of making a more coherent statement, but I felt compelled to utter

some sort of reaction, if only to reassure Richard that I was coping with the immensity of it all.

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 ‘Exactly. Whooo indeed.’ Richard laughed and joined me on his back in the grass, laughing,

gasping for breath and then spluttering out nonsense syllables – ‘whoar’, ‘huh-huh-huh’, ‘eeeh’ –

each bringing on a fresh bout of laughter.

This state of helplessness – the ‘rush’, as we later termed it – lasted about an hour (I had to check

my watch to determine this); it was succeeded by a slightly calmer state, signalled by Richard

saying, ‘Well, here we are, then.’

This also seemed to me one of the funniest – yet wisest – statements I’d ever heard, zen-like in

its simplicity and truth.

‘Wow,’ I said.

‘Eat your heart out, Gerard Manley Hopkins.’ Richard suddenly got to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s

walk.’

This proved easier to suggest than to put into practice: my body seemed unable to obey simple

instructions from my brain. My legs felt disconnected from my trunk, and I nearly fell as I

attempted to stand. Eventually, however, we managed to ‘get ourselves together’ (how well I now

understood that hippy phrase) sufficiently to embark on a somewhat erratic and stumbling walk

along the stream.

After another hour or so, our trippy state seemed almost normal. Richard again set our agenda:

‘Let’s stay out here for a bit. Go back later, listen to some music.’

‘Righto, stay by the stream. Then follow it back.’ This seemed eminently sensible, given the

confusion of our senses, and it proved a workable plan: we turned round when we looked as if we

might be getting uncomfortably close to a farm, and followed the stream back to where we’d taken

the acid – it seemed an age ago.

After a brief rest on this familiar spot, we made our way back to the cottage, blessing ourselves

for our earlier foresight in having already laid a fire that we merely had to light before slumping

into chairs and soaking up its warmth.

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 ‘Whooo!’ Never had an apparently nonsensical, meaningless sound conveyed such deep truth.

We spent the evening slowly coming down, though experiencing sudden little surges of intensity,

echoes of the initial rush, all the while. We were silent for much of the time, but felt connected in a

way I had never experienced before with anyone. Words seemed unnecessary; we simply knew

what we were thinking, together, as if we shared a single brain. Van Morrison, Tim Buckley, the

Velvet Underground and Miles Davis succeeded each other on the turntable, but it was John

Coltrane who best summed up our mood: ‘A love supreme’.

‘Amen to that,’ said Richard. I couldn’t help but agree.

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20

Richard and I spent the rest of our stay at Andy’s cottage relaxing, doing little besides feeding

ourselves, walking in the countryside, birdwatching and listening to music. Oddly enough, we shied

away from discussing our trip together, rather in the manner of two old friends whose relationship,

hitherto platonic, had taken an unexpected – and perhaps regrettable – turn into drunken sex.

On our last night, however, I decided to tackle this embarrassment head on. ‘Do you think we

should discuss what happened between us the other day?’ I knew Richard would see the humorous

intent behind this, and he did indeed get the joke immediately,

‘I still respect you, don’t worry about that,’ he replied. ‘We can still be friends.’

The ice broken, we plunged into the sort of detailed, blow-by-blow analysis of our respective

reactions to our psychedelic experience that gives drugs and their users a bad name. I ignored

Richard’s instructions and talked at length about instress, selving and Proust’s madeleine; Richard

retaliated with a lengthy disquisition on the dachshundness of dachshunds, followed by a

scrupulously exact description of every face encountered by chance on the Heath during his trip

with Andy, with extensive footnotes tying each to a category of humanity – circus performer,

gypsy, spy, pirate – or to a specific person from his past, profusely illustrated with anecdotes and

childhood memories.

‘Do you think it would help to talk about it?’ My teasing reaction brought Richard’s torrent of

memories to an abrupt halt, and he snorted derisively.

‘At least they’re my memories I’m talking about, not those of some precious French snob, or a

repressed priest with an unhealthy interest in young boys––’

‘Ah, you’re talking about “with dare and with downdolfinry and bellbright bodies”. I’m not sure

noticing how water makes bodies shine means that Hopkins––’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I might have known you’d have a quote ready. I’ve not heard that one

before – I’ve just read his dark sonnets and the odd nature poem – no, please don’t go into your

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“Windhover” recitation – but even from those I get the impression that there’s a dark secret lurking

under all that joy in creation. It’s so brittle, somehow. Anyhow, I don’t want to discuss literature.

I’ve had an idea that applies to real life – remember that? It’s what happens between bouts of

reading.’

‘All right, all right. But if you’re going to talk about Rockburgh we’ll need to suspend the fine

system.’

‘Done. Listen: you’re wanting to expose Pond, right? Get him to admit he was involved in Tim

Grayling’s death?’

I nodded. ‘That’s the plan, but––’

‘Just listen, will you? Just think back to how you felt when the acid hit you. Complete

disorientation? A sudden realization that you were a tiny, insignificant cog in a vast impersonal

machine and, at the same time, in the same blazing moment of revelation, an infinitely complex and

utterly unique individual with an urgent need to share your thoughts in all their rich detail?’

‘Something like that, yes …’ I thought I could see where Richard was going with this, but it

seemed a little outlandish, so I kept quiet, let him explain himself.

‘I think you should get Pond to take some acid, somehow, and then question him about his …

sins, whatever you want to call them.’

‘I think you may have hit on the vital element missing from the plan Francis and I have been

cooking up. We’ve been trying to think of a way to get Pond to drop his guard so that we can tape

him saying incriminating things.’

‘Tape him? Now that’s a good idea. Difficult to arrange, but it should be possible with two of

you working on it, I’d’ve thought.’

I was excited about this whole plan, now. ‘Francis and I have been trying to think of a way of

confronting Pond, getting him to talk about his “rebel trebles” and his midnight prowling, and

beatings––’

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 ‘Please!’ Richard put his hand up like a traffic policeman. ‘Spare me the details. It’s not just the

acid I’m thinking about, it’s Pond’s projector, coupled with the slides of Tim Grayling Patrick gave

me. Think about it. We’ve got all the elements we need: a tape recorder, a slide projector and

screen, slides of Tim Grayling, and – the vital ingredient – acid to break down Pond’s resistance.’

‘This may, of course, be just a mad acid-fuelled scheme that no sane person would even

contemplate. I hate to pour cold water on things, but my inner Eeyore is arguing with my Tigger.’

Richard stared at me incredulously, then we both burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity of the

whole situation. ‘I’ve always seen you more as Piglet, personally,’ he said.

‘Thanks for that. There’s a snag, though, about your plan––’

‘Only one? I can think of three or four off the top of my head, but go on.’

‘We need some more acid.’

Richard looked serious at this. ‘Ah, yes. Andy’s in Spain visiting his parents, so I can’t get any

more from him for a while, and I’ve no idea how to go about contacting his dealer …’

A memory of a conversation I’d had with Donal was nagging at me. He’d told me, on our trip to

Preston for the Kenny Ball concert, that David Taylor was now a ‘keen consumer of illicit

substances’ – this was how he put it – and that Mrs Taylor, formidable guardian of public morals

though she was, had been persuaded to put her gardening skills to good use to grow marijuana, so

that, in Donal’s words, ‘her precious son won’t have to mix with criminal elements, or spend his

hard-earned money on buying stuff that grows like a weed’. I’d dismissed this at the time as an

amusing fantasy of Donal’s, brought out to spice up my meeting with David, but I now wondered if

it was true, and whether David might be persuaded to serve our cause.

Richard was similarly sceptical when I told him about Mrs Taylor’s presumed horticultural

activities, but thought it might be worth following up, in the absence of any other feasible course of

action.

‘Donal’s staying with David for half term,’ I mused aloud. ‘I think I might offer to pick him up.

What do you think?’

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 ‘Might as well. You’re going to persuade a drug-addled teenager with a marijuana-growing

mother to get you some acid to feed to a paedophile priest so that he’ll confess on tape to abusing a

boy into suicide. What can possibly go wrong?’

‘My sentiments exactly.’

Although we’d appeared unsuitably frivolous in our discussions of this plan, both Richard and I

were deadly serious about one thing: we wanted to nail Pond so that he couldn’t make more

families suffer as the Graylings had.

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21

On my return to Rockburgh on the Thursday of the half-term week, I sought out Francis at my first

opportunity. I was a little reluctant to confide in him about my drug use, assuming he’d be less

relaxed about this than Mrs Taylor seemed to be, but to my surprise he just chuckled indulgently

when I told him I’d ‘experimented with LSD’ – which is how I put it, in an attempt to make it

sound scientific rather than hedonistic.

‘I rather envy you that. I’ve read Huxley on the subject. Did you know he died tripping? Would

have had more press coverage if Kennedy hadn’t been assassinated at the same time and hogged all

the limelight. What was it like? Did you see God?’

I laughed, as much from relief as anything. ‘Afraid not. I did meet myself, though …’ I

hesitated, unsure how to proceed, then decided to plunge in, heedless. ‘It’s a bit like a truth drug––’

Francis perked up at this. ‘I’ve read about that, too. There’ve been rumours that the US army

experiments with it as a secret weapon in the Cold War, but it’s difficult to get at the truth, for

obvious reasons.’ Seeing my surprise, he shook his head. ‘You always assume that, because I’m a

priest, I don’t take any interest in the real world. You’re not the only keen reader in this building,

Alan – and some of us read non-fiction rather than the fairy stories you favour.’

‘Point taken. Sorry. I’ve been thinking about Fr Pond, though …’ I told him about Richard’s

plan, and about my hope that David Taylor might be able to help with it.

He looked initially sceptical, but then brightened. ‘It’s a very long shot, but what have we got to

lose except our jobs, our reputations and our futures?’ He laughed at my gloomy reaction. ‘It’s as

you say: the Graylings are what’s most important in all this. We can’t just stand by while there’s a

chance that another family might be hurt by Pond. I’d never forgive myself if it happened again,

would you?’

‘No. I’m glad you agree.’

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 ‘Did you think I wouldn’t? No, don’t answer that – I’d prefer not to have your thoughts on the

priesthood, thanks. I’ll be a layman soon, in any case. I would caution you about one thing, though:

don’t mention drugs to Grace. She’s not as liberal-minded as I am, on that subject anyhow –

especially with regard to Donal. Understandable, surely?’

‘Perfectly. Do you think you could suggest to her that I might pick Donal up from the Taylors’

tomorrow?’

‘Of course. She’ll be delighted. I know she’s worried about Mrs Taylor coming here to drop

Donal off – she doesn’t want to meet “that dreadful woman”, as she calls her, ever again.’

So it was that I found myself driving to Preston once more, for the third time within a week.

David’s house proved to be a large detached building in a quiet cul-de-sac next to a park, in a part

of the town very different from the terraced streets I’d driven through on my journeys to and from

the station.

I commented on this as Mrs Taylor welcomed me into her hall, a commodious passageway

whose walls were decorated with horse brasses on leather straps.

‘Yes, we’re not all clogs and shawls up here, you know. Some of us even have inside toilets.’

This put me firmly in my place, and I determined to keep my thoughts to myself from now on.

‘I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Alan Simpson, Donal’s English teacher.’

She fixed me with a gimlet eye. ‘I know who you are. I hope you’ve more sense about you than

the previous one – complete waste of space, he was.’

I could think of no suitable answer to this, and so simply stood awkwardly in her hall hoping that

David would appear and rescue me.

‘Where’s that boy?’ Mrs Taylor seemed to have read my mind. ‘Mr Simpson’s here.’ Then, in

the same hectoring tone, she addressed me: ‘You’ll have some tea before you go.’

This was clearly not a polite invitation proffered for my consideration, but a simple statement of

fact, so I murmured my thanks and followed her into her dining room, where a table awaited us, set

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for four and loaded with a dispiriting quantity of food. A coffee percolator stood on a hostess trolley

in a corner of the room, and Mrs Taylor hastened over to it and turned it on.

‘There we are, I’ll just put this on so––’

‘It’ll be nice and stewed by the end of the meal.’ This from David, as he came into the room

followed by a sheepish-looking Donal.

Mrs Taylor laughed indulgently. ‘Oh, David! You’re awful, always showing me up.’ She was

almost skittish as she showed us where to sit. ‘David’s father’s not going to join us. He’s at his

precious Catenians.’

I was grateful for what I assumed might be a neutral, safe topic, and enquired politely, ‘Really?

I’ve never come across them. Is it some sort of club?’

Donal flashed me a warning look, but it was too late. Mrs Taylor gave me another of her gimlet

stares. ‘You’ve not heard of the Catenians? You are a Catholic, aren’t you?’

I assured her I was, almost expecting to hear a cock crow from the garden.

Mrs Taylor continued to stare grimly at me, as if hoping that I’d break under pressure. ‘I’m

surprised you’ve not heard of the Catenians in that case. They’re an organization of business people

who do good works––’

‘They’re like the Masons, only Catholic,’ David interrupted.

Mrs Taylor simpered at him, girlishly. ‘Oh no, David,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t say that. The

Masons are an ungodly lot. Catenians do have rituals, I know, but––’

‘Dad has a little hammer in a velvet case. Can’t think what he does with it.’ David smirked

obscenely.

Donal, I saw, was squirming uncomfortably in his seat. I didn’t blame him; I could only imagine

how unbearable his last few days had been. I tried to change the subject. ‘This stew looks delicious,

Mrs Taylor. Unfortunately, I don’t eat meat – vegetarian, you see.’ I added this explanation in a

vain attempt to deflect her incredulous, outraged glare.

David spluttered. ‘You love vegetarians, don’t you, Mum?’

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 Mrs Taylor lost patience at this and gave him both barrels. ‘Don’t show off, now, David. I’ve

had quite enough for one day.’

David slumped in his chair, muttering, ‘You always say people should eat “summat that’s looked

over a gate”, don’t you?’

His mother was visibly outraged by this remark. ‘I may think that eating meat is good for people,

but I certainly never say “summat”. Common expression.’ She shuddered eloquently, and a silence

fell on the company.

I picked at the few vegetables Mrs Taylor grudgingly served me, fervently wishing that the

ground would swallow me before I died of embarrassment. I daredn’t look at Donal, and could

think of no safe topic to introduce to break the oppressive silence. We ate on doggedly, the only

sound in the room the relentless whooshing of the coffee percolator.

Mrs Taylor, clearing away the stew and replacing it with a massive fruit salad involving

industrial quantities of mandarin oranges, pineapple slices, diced apples and assorted unidentifiable

varieties of exotic tinned fruit, all swimming in juice the colour and consistency of urine, looked

balefully at me as she asked, in a sweet, wheedling tone, ‘Alan. I’m assuming you’ll have some

sweet?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I endeavoured to sound enthusiastic, but I felt I was fooling no one.

Mrs Taylor ladled a huge portion of salad for me on to a dish around whose edges huntsmen on

horses galloped, endlessly pursuing an invisible fox.

‘I see you’ve got the posh plates out, Mum.’

Mrs Taylor ignored this remark, and smiled bravely, her martyred expression clearly saying:

‘This what I have to put up with, but I don’t complain.’

I somehow choked down my pineapples and oranges, and then was force-fed around a pint of

stewed coffee, my cup repeatedly filled unasked by a grinning David, who was pretending to be

helpful.

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 At last, we were allowed to leave the table, but my ordeal was far from over. Just as I was

hoping that Donal and I might be able to make our excuses and leave, I was horrified to hear him

offer to help with the washing up.

‘Oh, I’m sure Alan wants to get away. I expect he’s got more important things to do,’ said Mrs

Taylor, regarding me with a dispassionate eye.

There was no polite way of answering this other than to assure this appalling woman that

nothing would please me more than spending another half-hour in her company holding a damp tea

towel, so I smiled weakly and submitted to my fate, silently cursing Donal all the while.

As we finally drove away, Donal having been almost smothered in Mrs Taylor’s capacious

bosom and assured that he was welcome to stay for as long as he liked, whenever he liked, I was too

relieved to upbraid Donal in the manner he so richly deserved.

We were silent until we left the outskirts of Preston, then, as if at a signal, both burst out

laughing.

‘How did you stand it, spending three days with that woman?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘Can I trust your discretion?’ was Donal’s surprising reply. When I nodded and said, ‘Of

course’, he said, ‘I know I can, actually. Francis phoned me yesterday to arrange your picking me

up, and we had quite a long talk. He told me you wanted to sound me out about something

connected with The Doors of Perception? I’m assuming he was being careful in case he was

overheard, but I imagine you’ve talked to him about LSD? It’s one of his pet topics. Odd, I know,

but he’s a very unusual priest, as you’ll have discovered by now. To answer your question, I

survived by smoking lots of David’s dope.’

I laughed. ‘I thought you were joking when you told me he gets it grown for him by Mrs Taylor.

Is that true? I can see how he might have persuaded her, now I’ve seen them together. She’s

besotted with him, isn’t she? And he manipulated her by appealing to her pride in her gardening

abilities and her worries about him spending money unnecessarily with criminal elements?’

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 ‘Spot on, Alan! I’d be more impressed, mind you, if you’d thought of all that yourself, rather

than just regurgitating my analysis of it.’

‘Cheeky sod, you are. If I’d been told, last September, that I’d end up discussing drug deals with

my A-level English students, I’d never have come to Rockburgh. I was an innocent until I came up

here.’

‘Actually, that’s true, in a sense. I bet you didn’t expect to have to deal with scum like Pond and

Wolfe when you agreed to take the job.’

This was taking us back on to more serious ground, and we spent the rest of the journey back to

Rockburgh discussing the plan Richard and I had cooked up in the Lake District, and the details of

how I’d be able to obtain the necessary LSD from David’s contacts in Preston. By the time we’d

pulled into the avenue, where, I noticed, John was praying at the foot of the Lady Statue, as he had

been on my first night there, we had formulated a plan. The first part of the jigsaw had fallen into

place.

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22

Another short period of relative calm followed this week of activity. Donal had promised to sort out

the supply of the LSD Francis and I proposed to give to Pond, after extracting a solemn promise

from me that I would not tell his mother anything about it; Francis (similarly sworn to secrecy by

Donal) set about preparing the ground for our exposure of Pond by feigning interest in the Prefect’s

slide projector and screen; I resumed my struggle with the philistinism and indifference to literary

nuance apparently endemic in upper-class adolescents.

I also resumed my regular record sessions with Francis, and so it was to the beguiling tones of

Leonard Cohen and Billie Holiday that our plans were discussed and honed.

‘The Eagle has landed,’ Francis announced one evening about a week after my visit to the

Taylors. ‘I was a bit sceptical about you just showing your face to David – I’d hoped you’d at least

discuss our plan with him – but your pussyfooting turned out to be just right: Donal’s done all the

heavy lifting, by phone, and now all you have to do is get over to Preston and pick the stuff up.’

‘I was hoping to get David on his own, but you’ve no idea how much of a gorgon his mother is –

she’s got eyes in the back of her head, and they’re all trained on her precious son.’ I shuddered at

the memory of the urine-soaked pineapples I’d had to pretend to enjoy.

‘It’s all right, no one’s going to make you go back to the hell-house. You can meet David at that

café where you went during the Kenny Ball concert. Tomorrow evening, eight o’clock.’

So it was that, the following evening, I made yet another trip to Preston and found myself sitting,

sweating nervously – I’d seriously underestimated how frightening it would be to commit a serious

criminal offence in full public view while pretending to be going about my normal business – in the

town-centre café, waiting for David to show up. Absurdly, the Velvet Underground song about

‘waiting for my man’, which Richard had insisted I listen to repeatedly in the Lake District, played

on a maddening loop in my head as I sat fussing about with a pot of tea. Eventually, David

appeared, and confirmed all my worst fears by peering furtively around him as he came over to my

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table, thus ensuring that anyone who didn’t think he was supplying me with drugs would assume I

was meeting him for illicit sex.

‘I’m not sure everyone noticed you come in, David,’ I hissed at him as he sat down. ‘Perhaps

you’d like to do it again – only this time shout “Yoo-hoo” from the door.’ I quickly realized,

though, on seeing David’s stricken expression, that I was allowing my nervousness to spill over into

outright rudeness, so I immediately apologized. ‘Sorry. I’ve never done anything like this before –

it’s not something I’m used to, at all, just––’

I’d been muttering all this with my head down, so didn’t see the waitress standing by the table

until it was too late. She’d clearly heard most of what I’d just said and was visibly struggling to

contain her disdain. ‘Would you two gentlemen like more tea – without milk – or will the one pot be

sufficient for both of you?’

‘Ah, yes, please just another cup. Thank you very much.’ I was barely able to pronounce this

answer under her steely gaze, but she seemed satisfied enough, and left us to our squabbling. When

she reached the counter where the cups were stacked, she paused to have a quick word –

presumably about us – with a sniggering colleague, and then returned bearing an empty cup, as

requested. ‘There we are, sir. One cup.’ I thought she was going to drop into a satirical curtsey, such

was her mock-reverent tone, but she just turned on her heel and went back to her giggling friend.

‘That went well, don’t you think?’ I said to David. ‘She’ll never remember us, we’ve blended in

so well.’

David, maddeningly, simply smiled at me. I was suddenly reminded of his mother; he’d

inherited her air of self-satisfaction, her imperturbable conviction of her own rectitude. I shook my

head, telling myself sternly to get on with the matter at hand.

‘Sorry to snap at you. I’m very grateful you’ve done, er, what you’ve done, so swiftly.’

This sounded ungracious and somewhat inadequate, but David seemed happy. ‘Blue cheer, as

you had before, I hear.’ He slid a kitchen-sized matchbox across the table. ‘You can give me the

money outside. Just the one tab. I hope Fr Pond chokes on it.’

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 ‘Let’s hope he keeps it down long enough to make him gibber. Have you tripped yourself?’ I

was painfully conscious that I was allowing my polite manners to kick in here, inappropriate to the

situation as they were, but David just settled in his seat and poured himself some stewed tea.

‘I’ve had quite a few trips, yes.’ He leaned back and sipped his tea reflectively, like an elderly

colonel reminiscing in his club about war service. ‘My first one was really awful …’ He proceeded

to tell me, in Proustian detail, about all five of his experiences – every one of them fascinating to

him in its own particular way – so that our pot of tea went cold on the table and had to be replaced

with a fresh one by our grinning Nippy before I could decently bring the proceedings to a close by

getting to my feet and going over to the counter to pay.

‘Everything satisfactory, sir?’ The maddening girl made this sound subtly obscene, as she no

doubt intended.

‘Very good, thank you. My nephew and I enjoyed it. Thank you.’ Why I mentioned this entirely

fictitious (and unlikely, given our respective ages) blood relationship I can’t imagine – it just

popped out.

She was not convinced for a second. ‘I hope you and your young friend will come back soon.’

I blushed furiously, thus dispelling any slight doubt she may have still harboured about the illicit

nature of our meeting, and joined David at the door of the café.

‘For God’s sake let’s get out of here before they call the police,’ I said as we emerged into

another rainy Preston night.

‘Pigs not very clued up about drugs round here,’ David replied.

‘Keep your voice down! It’s not that I’m worried about …’ I looked at David’s blank expression

and decided not to elaborate. ‘Here’s a fiver for you.’

‘That’s too much.’

‘No, you deserve it. Keep the change.’

‘Thanks, man. And give my love and that’ – he gestured at the matchbox – ‘to Donal.’

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 I swallowed my resentment at being addressed in this way and just nodded at David. He

slouched off into the sleet.

Back in my car, I took the matchbox out of my pocket and examined its contents. I’d been

surprised at its size, given the tininess of acid tabs, and somewhat mystified by David’s last remark,

but this was explained when I examined it: alongside a smaller matchbox, containing a blue tab,

was a bulging plastic bag crammed with grass. This would no doubt be David’s home-grown – or

Mrs Taylor’s; the idea still seemed bizarre to me – and its presence helped explain Donal’s

eagerness to assist me.

‘Naughty boy,’ I said to myself as I drove back through the rain to Rockburgh.

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23

We now had most of the pieces of the jigsaw in place: the acid was safely stowed in a drawer in my

room; Francis had made Pond think his projector and screen might be useful for showing slides

illustrating jazz history to my Appreciation Society – I had asked Richard if he could get hold of

some slides of New Orleans and Chicago in the twenties and thirties from London junk shops, and

he’d just sent me some (not exactly relevant to jazz, but close enough to fool Pond) – and, in the

same package from Richard, I’d received two slides of Tim Grayling, one of them showing him

splashing about happily in the sea. It was ideal for our purposes: not only did it capture Tim’s

likeness perfectly, but it also showed him in a situation that could not fail to bring his death to mind,

even to the callous soul we believed Pond to be.

There now ensued a period of inactivity akin to the situation in 1939: the phoney war. I had, I

now realized, not really expected to get this far with our plot intact and undiscovered. It had seemed

to contain too many unreliable elements, as Richard had pointed out so sarcastically that evening in

the Lakes. But here we were, nevertheless, poised ready for action.

That Pond had taken the bait without suspecting any ulterior motive was proved to me one

morning in the staff refectory. I was sitting moodily contemplating a plate of mushrooms on toast,

having a desultory conversation with Flarsh about his predilection for eating them with crème

fraîche, wine and thyme – only Flarsh could complicate such a straightforward dish in such a

ridiculously pretentious way, I felt, but I was carefully concealing my feelings on the subject –

when Pond bounced into the room and interrupted us.

‘Sorry to intrude on your culinary dispute, gentlemen, but I must talk to you, Alan.’

Flarsh muttered something about there being no peace, threw his napkin on to the table, and left

in high dudgeon.

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 Pond was unapologetic. ‘Saved you from being bored to death, haven’t I?’ He beamed

conspiratorially at me. ‘Fr Jackson’s has been telling me about Bunny Bolton.’ He looked at me

expectantly.

‘What?’ It was all I could manage to say. I stared stupidly at him.

‘The trumpet man. I’m told you want to show some slides of him and his band to your little

group of jazz fans.’

Suppressing my disgust at his terminology, I came to with a lurch of the stomach that reminded

me just how nervous I was about this whole affair. ‘Ah, you’re talking about Buddy Bolden, I

expect. First real jazz musician. Actually, it’s not him I want to show – there aren’t even any

recordings of him, and only one picture – and that’s thought to be the wrong way round …’

I was losing him here in all the detail I couldn’t help but give him, jazz pedant that I was. I

brought myself swiftly to order. ‘Anyway, that’s not important. I’ve got some slides of New

Orleans I want to show to the Jazz Appreciation Society, and I wondered if I might be able to get

you to show me how to operate your projector and maybe borrow your screen for an evening––’

He was eagerness itself to oblige me. ‘Of course, Alan! Nothing would give me greater

pleasure.’ This word from his lips made me shudder, but I composed myself and tried to remain

focused on the matter at hand.

‘Perhaps you’d like to give me a time when I could––’

He again interrupted me: ‘Your room or mine?’ He adopted the roguish expression I found so

distasteful and waited, smirking, for my reply to his innuendo-laden question.

Feeling absurdly like the straight man in a music-hall comedy routine, but concentrating on the

fact that whereas my room was relatively spartan, his was more cluttered, and, moreover, contained

a curtained-off alcove behind which I might contrive to hide my tape recorder, I said, ‘Yours, I

think, don’t you? Save you lugging your equipment along the corridor, won’t it?’

‘Are you proposing to hold your meeting in my room, too?’ He looked a little less enthusiastic at

this prospect, so I hastened to reassure him.

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 ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’ll get Francis to help me set my room up for that. You don’t mind if

he comes along to your demonstration, do you?’

‘The more the merrier. Francis’ (he made my use of the Christian name sound inappropriately

intimate) ‘will be very welcome. Shall we say tomorrow night, after supper?’

‘Perfect, Father.’ My face by this time was aching, such was the effort I was having to expend in

the simple process of keeping a guileless smile on it. ‘See you then.’

That evening, I congratulated Francis on the success of his deception of Pond. ‘I don’t think he

suspects anything. Keen to help. It’s Buddy Bolden, by the way, though, not Bunny Bolton.’

‘I don’t think he’ll care about the names, Alan. The point is, we’ve got him to agree to show us

the projector. Now all we’ve got to do is smuggle your tape recorder into his room by tomorrow

night, and hide it so he doesn’t suspect it’s there.’

‘And then find some way of getting him to swallow the acid about an hour in advance, so it’s

hitting him by the time we show him the slide of Tim.’

‘Yes, tricky business, that. I’ve been worrying about it for some time, but I think I may have hit

upon a solution. I’ve been promising him that I’d give him something – a present of some sort – to

thank him for the trouble he’s taking over the projector, and the other day I told him I’d managed to

get hold of some of his favourite treats: truffles.’ Francis smiled. ‘I’m going to give him one,

suitably doctored, as soon as we get into his room tomorrow.’

‘But that’ll mean we have to wait there for maybe an hour before it hits him––’

‘I know, but I can’t see any alternative, can you? It can’t be beyond us to keep him talking for

that time, surely? Entertain him with your stories about Bunny Bolton. You’ve bored me often

enough for longer than that with those.’

‘It’s Buddy Bolden, as you well know by now. But you’ve given me an idea. Maybe we needn’t

smuggle the tape recorder in at all. If I take it in openly, we could say we want to synchronize the

slides with some recorded music. That way, we’ll be able to take up quite a lot of time fiddling

about with the tape recorder after you’ve fed him the truffle, give the acid lots of time to kick in.’

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 ‘And we’ll be able to put a fresh tape on quite openly, so that we can record his reaction to

seeing Tim on the screen. I like this more and more. It might just work.’

I was all mock outrage. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘Frankly? Yes.’

‘O ye of little faith.’ I hadn’t entirely convinced myself, but I wasn’t going to tell Francis that.

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24

The day of reckoning, as I’d privately christened it, was a Sunday, so I didn’t have any teaching, or

rugby refereeing, to distract me from worrying about the task Francis and I had set ourselves. I’d

had a somewhat restless night, my sleep disturbed by strange dreams, the details of which I found

myself unable to remember when I woke up – I did have the impression that one of them had

involved repeated attempts to hear bells ringing under water, but I couldn’t recall any other details –

and so I decided to spend the day as far away from the College as possible, walking with Jim,

should he be free.

After breakfast – taken early to avoid contact with other staff members – I walked over to the

gamekeeper’s cottage. It was a foul day, windy and squally, but he was up and about, fussing

around in his garden, throwing what looked like kitchen refuse on to his compost heap.

He gave me a welcoming smile. ‘Howdo. Walking, are we?’

‘If you’ve got the time, yes.’

‘Oh, I’ve got the time, all right. I’ve nothing but time these days. River or fells?’

‘River? I was hoping to see the dippers.’

‘Aye, they’re always there. We’ll have to be careful, mind. They’ll be nest-building around now,

I reckon.’

We set off straight away, passing the church on our way to the village that lay between us and

the river. A few locals – teachers and their wives, mainly – were milling around in the graveyard,

huddled under umbrellas, talking together before the service.

‘Not going to Mass, then?’ Jim asked when we were safely past them. He seemed quietly

amused.

‘Not much of a churchgoer these days, I’m afraid.’

‘No need to be afraid. I expect them buggers you teach with have put you off, eh?’

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 This was unexpected. Jim generally kept his feelings about the College to himself, even when

invited to comment by leading questions from me.

‘I was having doubts before I started teaching here, but yes, I can’t say Rockburgh life has

strengthened my faith – quite the opposite, in fact.’

Jim gave me one of his quizzical looks, then chuckled to himself. ‘Some of them can’t stay on

the straight and narrow, so why should you?’

I pricked my ears up at this, but it turned out he was referring not to Pond, as I’d hoped, but to

Francis. He went on, ‘Not that it’s any of my business, mind, but I do like that Fr Francis, and Mrs

Tawney, now she’s a rare’un.’ This was Jim’s highest form of praise, generally applied to his late

wife.

I murmured my agreement, hoping that, if I kept quiet, he’d explain himself.

Jim generally found it easy to stay silent for prolonged periods, but on this occasion he seemed

keen to talk. ’Saw her only the other day. She came over to go through some accounts. We got

talking, as you do. About Donal, mainly – he’s too busy with his exams these days to go walking

with me, as he used to, so I’ve not seen much of him lately, but she told me he’s getting on fine –

but as she was leaving she happened to mention she was going to live in Ireland again. Next year,

maybe, she said.’ Jim looked hard at me now, obviously wondering how much I knew about

Grace’s situation.

I decided to throw caution to the winds – given what I was about to do that evening, it seemed

foolish not to. ‘I know all about her plans with Francis. I’m all for them. They deserve a second

chance at life, both of them. Good people.’

Jim threw his head back and laughed. It was the first time I’d seen him completely drop his dour

demeanour. ‘Don’t let the priests hear you say that! Biggest scandal since that do last year.’ His

face clouded again and he went silent.

We were now passing through the village, which was almost deserted, most of its inhabitants

presumably attending Sunday Mass up at the College. Jim looked round malevolently. ‘Buggers all

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on their knees up there.’ He tossed his head in the direction of Rockburgh. ‘Whited sepulchres, the

lot of ’em. Make more fuss over a man and woman loving each other than over … well, other things

much worse in my book.’

An awkward silence fell on us as we crossed the fields leading to the riverside woods. Jim kept

looking at me, clearly afraid he’d gone too far in his criticism of the College, so as we crossed a

stile into the wood, I decided to reassure him.

‘I’m with you on all that – whited sepulchres they are. Francis and Grace – and Donal, come to

that – have practically saved my sanity this past six months. If it hadn’t been for them – and my

walks with you – I don’t think I’d’ve survived.’

Jim snorted at my mention of him. ‘No need to thank me for walking with you, Alan. I’ve nowt

better to do.’ He laughed, to reassure me he was joking, and the succeeding silence was

companionable rather than constrained.

We scrambled down through the dense vegetation bordering the river and were soon immersed

in contemplation of the dippers going about their business. I was able to smother my anxiety about

the evening for a few precious hours, watching these industrious birds diving, bobbing and whirring

off up the river.

We didn’t get back to the College until late afternoon. As we passed the church, we could hear

the organ being played.

‘Wonderful organist, Mr Wolfe,’ I said.

‘If you say so,’ Jim growled. ‘Not my sort of man at all – a fancy Dan.’

We parted silently by the graveyard, Jim headed for a solitary tea, while I made my way back to

my room. Once there, I tried to still my rising anxiety by telling myself that there was a world

outside the blinkered, inward-looking society of Rockburgh, and that Jim’s down-to-earth

assessment of Francis and Grace’s relationship – and of Mr Wolfe and the ‘buggers all on their

knees up there’ – represented its feelings perfectly. Surely, I told myself, if Francis and I could get

Pond to confess on tape – and this should be possible if we played our cards right – then all we’d

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have to do would be to threaten to expose him to the judgment of this wider, secular, liberal world.

Fr Pym would be the key player in this process, I assumed, and I was confident that, on being

informed of Pond’s behaviour – given our past relationship, which had been characterized by

mutual respect and frankness – he would exhibit the fine moral scrupulousness that informed his

writing and conversation.

I was, nevertheless, a bundle of nerves as I waited for Francis to come to my room after supper,

so his knock on my door made me jump out of my skin.

On seeing my face, he became very stern. ‘For God’s sake, get a grip on yourself. Where were

you at supper? Pond was asking after you. You’re not ill, are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured him, though I felt anything but.

‘Well you don’t look it. You should have come to supper. Everything should appear normal.

Calm down. We’ll be fine just as long as we concentrate on pretending we’re doing something

entirely above board – which we are: we’re seeing if we can use Pond’s projector to show slides of

American cities. You’ve got them, haven’t you?’

I nodded, and pointed to my desk, where I’d assembled everything we were going to need: the

matchbox containing the acid, the slides Richard had sent me, the tapes of music I was going to play

in Pond’s room as he showed us how to operate his equipment. On the floor, next to the desk, was

my tape recorder.

‘Right,’ said Francis, striding purposefully across the room. ‘First things first: the persuader.’ He

took a foil-wrapped truffle from his pocket. ‘Pond loves truffles, like the pig he is. I’ve already told

him I’ve got one for him. He’s making cocoa as we speak, to wash it down.’ He shuddered. ‘He

really is a disgusting animal. He seems to go out of his way to be as repulsive as possible.’

Picking up the matchbox, he removed the tiny blue dot from inside it and inserted it carefully

into the truffle, making sure that the chocolate around it appeared undisturbed. When he was

satisfied with this operation, he wrapped the truffle up again and put it back in his pocket. He then

picked up the tape recorder and turned to me. ‘Ready, Alan?’

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 ‘As I’ll ever be.’ I picked up the packet of slides and accompanied Francis out of my room and

along the gallery to Pond’s. My heart was thumping in my chest, my mind was racing out of control

– I felt as though I, rather than Pond, was going to be interrogated.

‘Courage, mon brave,’ said Francis as we waited outside Pond’s room for his answer to our

knock.

‘Come in, come in.’ Pond was all over us, fussing over the disposition of the tape recorder,

pointing to chairs we should sit in, beaming and clucking like a mother hen. ‘What a lot of slides!

And what a complicated-looking machine. Plug it in behind the curtain there; I’m using the main

plug for the projector. I only hope we don’t blow the fuse. Do you want to join me in some cocoa?’

He made this simple offer sound decadent, even sybaritic, accompanied as it was by his trademark

simpering twinkle.

‘Just had some tea in Alan’s room, thanks. You can have it all to yourself. Here’s the truffle I

promised you,’ said Francis.

Pond’s eyes lit up. ‘You know me so well, don’t you? I can never resist a truffle.’ He unwrapped

it and popped it into his mouth whole, as we’d hoped he would. He pulled a face presumably

intended to convey wicked pleasure, closing his eyes and smacking his lips. ‘Mmmm, delicious,’ he

said, then swallowed noisily.

Francis and I glanced at each other. The first hurdle had been successfully negotiated. Now we

had to wait, stall Pond with small talk until the acid took hold.

This also proved easier than I’d anticipated: Pond was soon in full flow, swilling down cocoa

while he chattered about the slides we were showing him. We were taking as much time as we

could, pretending to sort through piles of possible candidates (Richard had been able to provide us

with only a few genuine pictures of old New Orleans and Chicago, mixed in with a lot of

completely irrelevant material for ‘ballast’), and I was constantly diverting Pond’s attention from

the paucity of our selection by launching into anecdotes about Buddy Bolden, Louis Armstrong and

Jelly Roll Morton. Weirdly, I found myself almost enjoying having a captive audience for these

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tales, and I began to relax into jazz-pedant mode, always a comfortable role, as Francis had

frequently pointed out to me.

I was in the middle of a long story about Louis Armstrong firing a gun on a street parade and his

subsequent spell in the waifs’ home, accompanied by the taped music of his Hot Seven, when I

noticed that Pond was paying no attention to me whatsoever. He was staring fixedly at his carpet. I

motioned surreptitiously to Francis.

‘Are you all right, Father?’ he asked.

Pond shook his head, apparently dazed by something only he could see. ‘I don’t–– The truffle

seems–– Can’t think what I’m doing.’ He subsided into uncharacteristic silence, slumped in his

chair. His eyes were now wide, and he was grunting to himself, obviously trying to speak, but

unable to arrange his thoughts into any coherent order.

I felt almost sorry for him. I knew exactly what he was experiencing: an unbearable rush of

crazy thoughts and sensations, overwhelming in their intensity, impossible to assimilate. And I, as I

kept reminding myself, had been prepared for the experience, had undergone it willingly in

sympathetic company – and it had still almost wrecked me; I’d managed to cling on to sanity by my

fingernails, but it had been a close-run thing. Pond, with no warning, no previous experience with

drugs of any sort, simply didn’t stand a chance: he was drowning in a whirlpool of mental turmoil.

Francis, I now saw, was gesturing to me. I located the slide of Tim Grayling cavorting happily in

the Cuban surf, and handed it to him. Glancing briefly at it to make sure it was the right way up,

Francis slid it into the projector.

Its effect on Pond was immediate and dramatic. He actually screamed – a sound I never wish to

hear again – then tried to speak. ‘You … you’ve done this …’ He subsided into incoherence again,

staring into the distance, his face a mask of tortured confusion.

Francis moved over to the tape recorder behind the curtain. I assumed, from the sudden silence,

that he’d replaced the Louis Armstrong tape with the blank one we’d brought along for this very

moment. He emerged from behind the curtain and nodded to me.

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 Pond was gasping like a beached fish, drooling slightly and making little incoherent sounds, as

Richard and I had done in the Lake District, but – unlike us – with no conscious volition. I again

had to suppress a surge of pity for him, concentrate on the matter at hand.

I adopted a sympathetic, concerned tone. Hectoring would be of little use, we’d decided; better

to coax a confession from him while he was bewildered and vulnerable. ‘You know why we’re

doing this, don’t you, Father?’ I asked him.

Pond’s eyes were swivelling in his head. He looked like a trapped animal, desperately searching

for a means of escape. He was still panting and grunting, but this was of little use to us: we needed

him to speak, to talk about what he’d done to Tim Grayling so we could record it and play it to Fr

Pym.

Francis then surprised me: he went over to Pond and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘This can’t go

on, you know,’ he said kindly. ‘I think it worries you, torments you, even, doesn’t it?’

Pond seemed to calm a little at this unexpected sympathy. He looked up at Francis with a

pleading expression on his sweating face. ‘I–– I just can’t––’ He subsided into silence again.

‘What can’t you do, Father? You can’t stop yourself, can you? Tell us. No one blames you. It’s

not your fault.’ Francis was almost cooing at Pond now, kneeling by his chair, his hand still resting

lightly on Pond’s shoulder. ‘I know how difficult things are for us––’

This last comment seemed to electrify Pond, rouse him from his torpor. ‘Us? I’m not like you.’

Francis had finally managed to reach him, I saw. He was struggling to contain himself, still

bewildered, but summoning his resources. ‘I’ve seen you with Grace Tawney. Disgusting! I’m not

like that!’

This was more promising; he was at least responding to Francis, but we needed him to talk about

himself rather than spew out insults.

Francis tried again: ‘We’re all weak, Father. We all need to confess. You hurt Tim Grayling,

didn’t you?’

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 This seemed to infuriate Pond. ‘He was just a tart! I did nothing to him that he didn’t want me to

do.’ As soon as he’d said this – almost as if it had burst out of him unbidden, as it probably had –

Pond seemed to regret it, and slumped back in his chair, a sullen, stubborn expression on his face. ‘I

mean–– I did nothing, that’s what I mean.’

‘His death was an accident, we know that,’ said Francis.

If he was hoping to coax more confessions from Pond, though, he was disappointed. For what

seemed like an eternity to me, the two priests remained motionless, as if in a tableau, Francis

kneeling, Pond sitting in his armchair. I looked questioningly at Francis. He nodded and glanced

meaningfully at the tape recorder, its spool still turning silently behind the curtain. I went over and

stopped it, removed the spool and put it in my pocket. We hadn’t got as full a confession as I’d

hoped, but what Pond had said would have to suffice. He had, after all, admitted doing something to

Tim, and he’d called him a tart – this should surely be enough to convince Pym of his guilt.

I moved towards the door, tapping my pocket significantly. Francis again nodded, but remained

kneeling by Pond’s chair. ‘I’m going to stay with Fr Pond for a while. He seems agitated.’

Pond looked as if he was about to protest at this, but was in no state to prevent Francis staying.

He looked utterly drained. As I left the room, I glanced back at the screen standing in the centre of

it. Tim Grayling’s smiling face shone out from it, frozen in an expression of uncomplicated

happiness.

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25

Although the confrontation of Pond had gone far better than I’d dared hope, I felt oddly deflated

when I got back to my room. I wasn’t able to check the tape to ensure that we’d recorded the brief

confession clearly, the recorder having been left in Pond’s room with Francis, but I was confident

that when I did, I would be able to hear enough to present to Fr Pym. Still, I felt weary and sad. I

tucked the spool away in a desk drawer and then slumped down on my bed.

I lay there for an hour or so, unable to summon up the energy to read, or even to listen to music.

It felt very late, but it was actually only just after midnight when I heard a shuffle outside my door,

and a discreet knock. It was Francis. He was carrying my tape recorder, and the packet of slides.

‘Oh God. That was ghastly,’ he said as he sat down in my only chair. He exhaled theatrically.

‘Pond was sick after you left.’

‘Must have been something he ate,’ I couldn’t resist saying.

Francis gave me a weak smile. ‘Actually, that’s what I told Matron. It was good, really, that he

was sick, because it gave me an excuse to pass him on to her. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have

to stay with him all night.’

‘What did she say when you took him in to the infirmary?’

‘Not a lot. She just had to look at him to see he was sick. He was a very strange colour, and

shaking and mumbling to himself.’ Francis shuddered at the memory. ‘She gave him a sedative of

some sort, I think.’

‘I wonder how much he’ll remember when he wakes up.’

‘How much did you remember when you woke up after your trip?’

‘Difficult to tell if what you remember is everything that happened, if you see what I mean.’

Francis rolled his eyes. ‘You know what I’m after: will he know we drugged him?’

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 ‘Does it matter? We can just deny it, surely. He’s not going to be thinking about drugs, is he?

Surely he’ll be worrying about what he said, won’t he? I would have thought he’s likely to

remember that, if nothing else.’

We mulled this over in silence for a while, then Francis suddenly laughed.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was your interminable lecture about Louis Armstrong that made

him ill. Where d’you get all that guff? It just poured out of you. I was nearly sick myself.’

I joined in his laughter – a cloud seemed to have rolled away from over us. ‘We did it, you

realize. I’m really surprised it worked. Both Richard and I were convinced it would go horribly

wrong.’

‘Now you tell me,’ said Francis. ‘You’ve put the tape in a safe place, I hope.’

I pointed to the desk. ‘It’s in a drawer. Shall we listen to it?’

Francis nodded, so I set up the machine and wound the tape back. I paused before pressing the

play key. ‘Fingers crossed,’ I said.

We needn’t have worried: Pond’s words were a little muffled, but quite distinguishable. We had

his confession, on tape; he’d admitted his responsibility for Tim Grayling’s death. All that remained

for us to do was to play the tape to Fr Pym.

In the staff refectory the following morning, everything seemed normal: Flarsh was holding forth

about the superiority of French breakfast habits, with special reference to the difference between

bowls and cups and what he called ‘the barbarity of marmalade’; Forster was grumbling about the

inadvisability of granting the vote to eighteen-year-olds, or ‘idiotic adolescents just out of nappies’,

as he called them; Mr Keating was telling whoever would listen about his football team, Bury’s,

unique selection system – ‘First eleven through t’ turnstile ’ave to get kitted up’ – Pym was smiling

benevolently round at his staff, gently cajoling here, spreading emollience there.

When Francis came in, I searched his face for any sign of fresh information concerning Pond.

Nothing: he just smiled at me and sat down in his usual seat. ‘Morning, all,’ he said.

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 As Pym rose to leave, however, Francis got up and left with him, glancing significantly at me as

he did so. I took the hint and followed them out. Pym seemed a little startled to be confronted by us

in the gallery, but he agreed to see us after lunch, once Francis had convinced him that we had a

serious matter to discuss with him.

As we walked back into the New Wing, Francis and I met Matron hurrying towards us. She

looked worried. ‘Ah, Fr Jackson,’ she said. ‘I was just coming to fetch you from your breakfast. It’s

Fr Pond. He’s been very sick all night, and he’s been saying you poisoned him. I’m sure it’s not

true – he’s confused, poor thing – but I thought I’d better make sure, in case you’d also eaten

whatever he says he’s had. Something about a truffle?’ She looked innocently up at Francis, her

head slightly turned to one side. I was reminded of Nipper, the HMV dog, and nearly laughed out

loud, but managed to stop myself in time.

‘Ah, yes. He’s right: I did give him a truffle last night. It was a present. Do you think that’s

what’s caused his sickness?’ Francis was all concern. It was an impressive performance.

‘I don’t think a truffle could have made him so ill. Was it just the one?’ Matron looked suitably

perplexed and again adopted her Nipper stance, looking up at Francis, her eyes bright and curious.

‘Yes, just the one, but he washed it down with about a gallon of cocoa – I did think at the time

that he was overdoing the chocolate. Didn’t you, Alan?’ Francis sought my corroboration with a

very convincing show of sympathetic curiosity.

I hastened to his aid. ‘Yes, I thought that myself. He seemed over-excited, a bit like a child

who’s eaten too many sweets at a party.’ I was conscious that I might easily overegg this particular

pudding, so lapsed into silence.

Matron seemed satisfied, however, and just nodded, as if we’d confirmed her suspicions about

Pond’s greediness. ‘Odd that he’s calling it a poisoning, but as I say, he’s very confused. I’d better

get back to him. He was asleep when I left, but he could wake up any time, and I don’t like to leave

him alone. Thank you both.’ She turned briskly on her heel and bustled back to the infirmary.

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 I spent the morning trying to go about my normal business as if nothing had happened. Two

classes passed without incident, but then I had an extremely tricky moment with my A-level English

class, caused by a marginal note in The Merchant’s Tale. Damyan was up in his pear tree, hoping

that ‘fresshe May’ would ‘rewen on his peyne’ by tricking her elderly, blind husband Januarie into

allowing her to climb up to join him there. The gloss helpfully explained that the young bride was

pretending to Januarie that she ‘had an urge to sample the fruit she could see dangling from the

tree’. Silently cursing the innocence of the academic who’d written this note, I attempted to quell

the unseemly hilarity it caused to sweep through my class.

‘Please, gentlemen! It’s not funny,’ was all I could think of to say, against all the evidence. The

class suddenly fell silent, and I was congratulating myself on my disciplinary effectiveness, when I

noticed that they were looking not at me, but at the door. Fr Pym stood there, his face a mask of

stern disapproval. ‘I’m glad to see your class enjoys your teaching so much, Mr Simpson,’ he said.

‘I just came to ask you to postpone our meeting until three o’clock. I find I’m engaged after lunch.’

He swept the now silent room with a gaze that could have frozen boiling lava. ‘Carry on, please,

gentlemen.’

I’d hoped that the class might show some sympathy for me at this point – they were, after all,

entirely responsible for landing me in hot water with the Rector – but they merely resumed their

silly giggling, some of them even marking my discomfiture by pursing their lips and making a

prolonged ‘Ooooh’ sound.

‘Thank you. Let’s get on, shall we? Exams not so far away.’ This seemed to focus their minds,

and we resumed our reading in a more subdued mood; even Damyan’s perfunctory, rough coupling

with May provoked little response.

When I told Francis about this later, while we were making our way to Pym’s office, he tutted,

clearly irritated with me. ‘Not a good start,’ he said. ‘We need to have Pym taking us seriously, not

treating us like silly delinquents.’

This seemed unfair to me, but I buttoned my lip. ‘I’ll let you do the talking, shall I?’

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 ‘It might be better, yes,’ said Francis. ‘You set up the machine while I fill him in on the

background.’

Pym received us with icy formality. ‘What can I do for you two gentlemen?’ He placed what I

couldn’t help feeling was ironic stress on the last word, and my heart sank a little. This was not

going to be straightforward.

I fussed about with my tape recorder, locating an electric socket and plugging it in, while Francis

explained our purpose in requesting the meeting.

He got straight to the point. ‘We’ve come about a very unpleasant matter concerning Fr Pond,’

he began. Then, seeing that Pym remained impassive, he continued, ‘You’ll be aware of rumours

about his treatment of the young boys in the choir and elsewhere, I assume.’

‘I’m aware of no such rumour. I never listen to gossip.’ Pym’s face was now a hostile mask, I

was dismayed to see.

Francis struggled on manfully. ‘We wouldn’t have come if we weren’t completely sure that Fr

Pond was … responsible for … he’s not safe with young boys, Father.’ This was disappointingly

vague; I could see Pym becoming impatient. ‘We have evidence here that he’s been molesting

them, that he was responsible for the death of Tim Grayling last year.’

This finally got Pym’s attention. He stiffened, and fixed Francis with a malevolent stare. ‘This is

an extremely serious allegation, and one that was made at the time, but withdrawn when it was

shown to be utterly false.’

I was, if anything, slightly encouraged by this information. At least we weren’t going to have our

allegations dismissed out of hand as sheer fantasy. I didn’t have time to speculate, however, on just

what information Pym had been given, and who had given it him – the unfortunate Mr Johnson,

presumably – because Francis was gesturing to me, urging me to play the tape.

I pressed the play key. Pond’s incoherent mumbling could be heard, then my voice, saying, ‘You

know why we’re doing this, don’t you, Father?’

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 Pym listened impassively to what followed, his expression of distaste at what he was hearing

intensifying only when Pond started accusing Francis of disgusting behaviour. He raised an

eyebrow at this and looked at Francis and me in turn, as if we were confirming his worst suspicions

about ourselves. Then Pond said, ‘He was just a tart! I did nothing to him that he didn’t want me to

do.’ I let the tape run on for a moment or two, then turned it off.

There was a profound silence in the room. Pym was obviously struggling to remain calm.

Finally, after what seemed an age, he murmured, ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention.

Leave it with me, would you? I’ll need to talk to Fr Pond before we go any further. Where is he, do

you know? I haven’t seen him today.’

‘He’s sick, in the infirmary,’ said Francis. ‘I do think, though, Father––’

Pym cut him off before he could articulate this thought, whatever it was. ‘Thank you for doing

this. As I say, I’ll have to talk to Fr Pond before we go any further.’ He rose from his chair and

gestured towards the door, signifying that our meeting was over.

Francis made a last attempt to protest: ‘Don’t you think––’

‘I’ll speak to Fr Pond. Thank you, gentlemen.’ Pym, his face grave and solemn, ushered us out

of his office. It was only when we were standing, shell-shocked – Pym had somehow succeeded in

making us feel we were the guilty ones, rather than Pond – in the gallery outside that I realized I’d

left my tape recorder, along with the incriminating tape, in Pym’s office.

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26

I had been naïve enough to assume that alerting the authorities to Pond’s crimes would

automatically precipitate swift and appropriately stern retribution, that Pym would be so horrified

that he would wish to rid the College of Pond at the earliest opportunity. Instead, in the staff

refectory at teatime, everything seemed to carry on as normal: Flarsh and Mr Keating continued to

bicker about Molière and Racine, Fr Forster to fulminate over the latest manifestation of the

country’s slide towards moral oblivion, Fr Pym to exude calm beneficence as if he hadn’t a care in

the world. I was mystified, and not a little disturbed, but as we left the refectory together Francis

urged patience.

‘Pond’s still in the infirmary; Matron’s not letting anyone see him. I tried to visit him, but she

turned me away – he’s apparently still very restless, and she’s trying to keep him calm. I couldn’t

find out whether or not she’s let Pym see him – very tight-lipped, she became, when I asked if he’d

had any other visitors. So we’ll just have to wait.’

‘I wish we could get my tape recorder back. I don’t like the idea that Pym has control over the

evidence.’

Francis gave me a sharp look. ‘Oh, come on, Alan. Pym may be many things – pompous, self-

opinionated, sententious, patronizing – but he’s honest. You’re always saying that – it’s not just me.

He was shocked about Pond, you could see that.’

I wasn’t so sure about this. ‘He already suspected Pond – he let that slip when he mentioned that

he knew about last year’s allegations – but he didn’t say he believed us, did he? I don’t like the idea

that he’s going to talk to Pond before going any further. Pond will just lie, discredit us – he may

even accuse us of drugging him, and then where will we be?’

‘Drugs won’t even enter his mind, I shouldn’t think. Pond’s only experience of stimulants of any

kind would be Communion wine – he doesn’t even drink. He’ll just think he ate a dodgy truffle –

aren’t there mushrooms with hallucinogenic properties?’

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 ‘There are, but I hardly think they sell them in Thornton’s or wherever you got that truffle.

You’re right, though: we should slyly suggest that, if it comes up. Pym’s going to be as ignorant

about drugs as Pond is, surely. What I’m really worried about is Pym destroying our evidence. We

should have hung on to that tape.’

‘You may be right – but short of risking alienating Pym further by accusing him of dishonesty, I

don’t think there’s much we could have done about that. We need Pym on our side, remember.’

I still wasn’t convinced, but allowed myself to be persuaded to trust to patience and

steadfastness, rather than shrill accusation and bluster. I had to agree to carrying on as normal, as

the College seemed to be doing all around us, so after my talk with Francis I simply returned to my

room and read a Blandings novel, hoping that the antics of Lord Emsworth and Freddie

Threepwood would distract me from my troubles. They didn’t, but they made a gallant attempt.

Given my agitation, I was surprised to find I’d slept right through the night when I awoke the

following morning. As I lay in bed, trying to calm myself at the prospect of the day ahead – and

feeling almost nostalgic about the days when my chief problem had been working out how to infuse

a love of Shakespeare into my A-level students – I was vaguely conscious of unusual levels of

activity in the courtyard beneath my window. I got up and went over to the window. I was unable to

see right out under the College entrance arch into the parking area beyond, but noticed what

appeared to be a flashing light coming from it, and then saw a man in uniform hurrying across the

courtyard. After a minute or so, the flashing light disappeared. I left my room and walked quickly

up the gallery to a window looking out on to the avenue, just in time to see an ambulance moving

away from the College, passing the Lady Statue. Someone had clearly been taken ill in the night,

seriously enough to warrant an ambulance being called. I immediately assumed – unable as I was to

think about anything but the Pond affair – that the Prefect had taken a sudden turn for the worse,

and that an ambulance had been summoned to remove him to a hospital with more sophisticated

facilities.

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 I hurried back to my room and got dressed, then went down to the staff refectory, trusting that

the bush telegraph that operated so efficiently in the College would have relayed any news about the

ambulance there. I was right: Francis and Fr Forster were already at breakfast, discussing the events

of the night.

Francis regarded me gloomily as I sat down, but it was Fr Forster who filled in all the details for

me. ‘A dreadful accident, Mr Simpson. Have you heard?’

I shook my head.

‘I was always warning Fr Pond about the dangers of wandering about on the roof, but I never

really thought––’

‘Fr Pond?’ I couldn’t help interjecting this question, hoping to get Forster to cut to the chase.

‘Yes, Fr Pond. He was mending the clock, apparently, and fell. Dead – didn’t stand a chance,

falling from that height.’ Forster leant back in his chair complacently. ‘Told him many a time: leave

the clocks to the professionals. He didn’t listen, and this is the result.’

I was stunned by this news, and could only think to stammer out: ‘But it must have been dark,

surely? Why would Fr Pond have been trying to mend a clock in the dark?’

Fr Forster shrugged. ‘You’d have to ask Fr Pond that. He was obsessed with that clock – always

up there, tinkering with it. Probably heard it miss a chime or something in the night and couldn’t

resist going straight up there to fix it.’

‘But surely––’ I had so many questions that I couldn’t formulate them in their proper order. I

wasn’t allowed to get even my first one out, though, because at that moment Pym entered the

refectory, his demeanour at its most grave.

He looked round at us, his expression forbiddingly stern. I expected him to attempt to explain

Pond’s death, or at least speculate upon it as we had been doing. Instead, he waited until he was

sure he had imposed, courtesy of the sheer power of his frigid dignity, an unbreakable silence on us,

then said, ‘Tragic accident, gentlemen. I’ll be saying a Mass for Fr Pond’s soul at ten o’clock in the

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Boys’ Chapel. Classes have been suspended for that time. I expect you’ll want to attend, all of you.’

Having made this announcement, he looked at us each in turn, then left the room.

Silence reigned. Pym had made our speculation appear undignified, even unseemly. We shifted

uncomfortably in our seats, avoiding each other’s eyes.

As he left the refectory, Francis looked at me significantly, so after a decent interval, I hurried to

his room.

‘Well, what do you reckon, Alan? Suicide’s my guess – but was he encouraged?’

Suicide had been my first thought, too, but this talk of encouragement shocked me. ‘You mean

Pym – like a John Buchan hero, or something – gave Pond a pearl-handled revolver and showed

him the library?’

Francis rolled his eyes. ‘I might have known you’d have a literary reference handy, but yes,

something like that. The only thing that’s making me hesitate about thinking that is the mortal-sin

aspect. Pym shouldn’t be encouraging someone to die with a mortal sin on his soul, and suicide’s a

mortal sin.’

‘Perhaps he’s feeling guilty for that very reason, and that’s why he’s so keen to say a Mass for

his soul,’ I suggested.

‘You may be right. What I suspect probably happened was that Pym got to Pond in the infirmary

– Matron wouldn’t actually lie to me, I noticed, when I asked if anyone had seen Pond – and told

him he was in too much trouble to be covered up again, as they’d managed to do last time. You

know what Pym’s like: he can freeze your brain with those reproachful looks of his. Even Fr Forster

was shamed into silence just now. Pond would have panicked, I expect, especially in the state he

must still be in after the acid. Couldn’t face being exposed, so took the hint and killed himself.’

‘But surely he’d be damning himself, wouldn’t he? Suicide’s only been legal for about a decade,

let alone––’

‘I’m always telling you, Alan: what people say they believe and what they allow themselves to

do in spite of saying they believe it’s wrong – sorry, I’m not putting this properly, but you know

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what I mean – these are two very different things. Look at me: I said I believed in celibacy, but

when it came down to choosing between what I said I believed and the chance to have a happy life

with Grace, what did I do? Ignored my vows and abandoned the priesthood, the vocation I’d

thought was final and definite, God-given if you like.’

I was exasperated by this. ‘But your situation’s in no way comparable with Pond’s. As Jim

says—’

Francis looked horrified. ‘You’ve been discussing Grace and me with Jim?’

‘Why not? He’s a perceptive soul, is Jim. Loves Grace and admires you. You’d be surprised. He

thinks the priests here are hypocritical buggers – his word, not mine – who can’t see the difference

between natural love between a man and a woman and … other things that he wouldn’t specify, but

I strongly suspect included Pond and his predilection for molesting young boys. He was a friend of

Tim Grayling’s, don’t forget.’

This seemed to calm Francis down a little. ‘You’re making him sound like something out of D.

H. Lawrence – no surprise there – but OK, I take his point. I had no idea my situation was so widely

known – and discussed.’ He smiled placatingly at me. ‘So we’ve convinced the gamekeeper. Job

half done, I’d say. Now all we have to do is get round Fr Pym.’

‘First thing we have to do is get that tape back,’ I said.

‘We’ll try and see Pym after the Mass. You’re coming to that?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

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27

The Boys’ Chapel was exactly that: a place of worship for school pupils, slightly less formal than

the church in which Benediction and Sunday Mass were celebrated (services open to the inhabitants

of the surrounding village as well as the College community), but more formal than the Servants’

Chapel, over which John reigned supreme, but which was attended mainly by Spanish domestic

staff. Given that the boys had been excused classes to attend this requiem Mass for Pond – not to

mention the sensational nature of his death, details of which had passed through the College like

wildfire – there was an oddly febrile atmosphere discernible in the chapel as I entered it about a

quarter of an hour before the service. The boys were already assembled, having processed along the

gallery in formal order at half past nine, and they were clearly agitated, a discreet low murmuring

audible from their packed benches.

Perfect silence fell on the chapel, however, as Fr Pym, dressed in black robes and preceded by

two servers (the Head Boy and his deputy, I noticed – a mark of the seriousness of the occasion),

emerged from the sacristy and walked solemnly towards the altar, head bowed. The Mass

proceeded: ‘Grant them eternal rest, O Lord …’. I surreptitiously surveyed the boys’ benches,

paying particular attention to the members of the choir I had seen being manhandled by Pond at the

supper at the beginning of term. They were all utterly impassive, betraying not a flicker of emotion

as they watched the service unfold before them.

There was no sermon, so the Mass – shorn of its Gloria and Credo – was over relatively quickly,

within half an hour, but as the altar boys returned to the sacristy, instead of following them Pym

paused and turned to the congregation.

As was his wont, he swept the assembly with a cold, almost baleful gaze before speaking. ‘You

will all have heard about the tragic death of Fr Pond, for the repose of whose soul we have just

offered up this Mass. He died as he lived, in the dedicated, selfless service of the community he

loved. His unswerving devotion to his duties – whether those involved the organization of mundane

155
matters such as the academic curriculum, or less prosaic activities such as the choir, or even the

regulation of the school clocks – was exemplary throughout his life. His death leaves a void, not

only with regard to the day-to-day running of the school – though initially this will be severely

affected, given Fr Pond’s singular energy and stamina – but also in all our hearts. He will be sorely

missed by all who truly care, as he did, for the College. I can think of no other servant of our great

school who so thoroughly lived up to its motto: Quant Je Puis – As Much as I Can.’

At the mention of this motto, I caught Donal turning and fixing me with a satirical eye, and very

nearly disgraced myself by laughing out loud, for it had been the subject of the first real

conversation I’d had with him. He’d shown me the school crest on a magazine to which he’d

contributed an article, translated the motto under it for my benefit, then pointed out that it was

inscribed on all sorts of College artefacts – including chamber pots. We’d had a schoolboyish giggle

together about this, so it was all I could do, on this solemn occasion, to suppress a disastrous

resurgence of my amusement. I glared with mock severity at Donal, turned away and left the chapel

with the rest of the teaching staff. Fr Pym’s short speech had given me much to ponder upon: was it

merely a conventional tribute, of the sort routinely trotted out on someone’s death, or was it – and I

considered this more likely, and the thought filled me with deep misgivings – a template for future

statements, signalling Pym’s determination to pretend nothing untoward had happened?

I shared these thoughts with Francis as we waited outside Fr Pym’s office. We’d not told Pym

we wished to see him, but assumed he’d make time for us, given the gravity of the situation, and

indeed the Rector showed no surprise at seeing us when he finally appeared, still shrugging himself

into his soutane.

‘Ah, gentlemen, I was hoping you’d come to see me. Come in.’ He ushered us into his spartan

office, and seated himself behind his desk. ‘Sit, sit,’ he said, indicating two chairs facing him. There

was a lengthy silence; we all sat looking at each other. Then Pym spoke: ’This is a sad day. A

senseless accident has deprived the College––’

‘Are you sure it was an accident?’ Francis interrupted.

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 Pym winced, as if appalled by such rudeness. ‘Please allow me to speak, Fr Jackson.’ He closed

his eyes briefly, then continued, ‘As I was saying, a senseless accident has deprived us of a fine

servant of the College, a man tireless in his pursuit of excellence, academic, disciplinary and – most

important’ – and here, to emphasize the seriousness of what he was about to say, Pym paused for a

moment and looked at us each in turn – ‘spiritual. Fr Pond’s methods may have been seen by some

as – how can I put this? – over-zealous, but he got results. He imposed strict discipline only for the

boys’ good, and the more sensible ones among them came to appreciate this. The choir, for

instance––’

‘I really don’t think there’s much point in giving us another funeral eulogy, Father,’ interjected

Francis. ‘Please don’t think me rude, but we have serious allegations to discuss against Fr Pond –

you’ve heard the tape. Now what do you propose to do about it?’

Pym again looked hurt, then steepled his fingers and put them to his mouth. ‘I think we might

easily conclude that Fr Pond was unbalanced in his behaviour over the past few days. First the

strange outburst you captured on your tape, then his being taken ill and claiming you’d poisoned

him, then the extraordinary decision he made to attempt to mend a clock in the dark. None of this is

exactly the sort of behaviour expected from a balanced individual.’ Pym paused and regarded us

evenly. ‘You’re surely not going to suggest we take seriously a remark made in anger, provoked by

who knows what sort of needling from you – what were you both doing in his room, asking him

questions about something he clearly found painful?’

I decided to answer this before Francis could antagonize Pym further. ‘I was responsible for that,

Father. I happened to see Fr Pond beating two small boys one night with what I thought undue

severity, and it crossed my mind that he seemed almost to be enjoying it. I asked around among the

boys––’

Pym blew out his lips in an oddly French gesture. ‘Pah! The boys aren’t generally considered

reliable sources of information regarding their teachers – you should have realized this by now,

surely.’

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 ‘I do see the need for caution in assessing what the boys think, yes, Father, but I did hear from

several sources that Fr Pond was thought to be over-physical, shall we say, in his dealings with

some boys, so I decided to observe the Choir Supper to see if this was the case.’

Pym looked surprised at this, and I thought I could see doubt creeping into his mind for the first

time. ‘You mean it’s not just the tape that makes up your … evidence, shall we call it?’

I now realized that it was not doubt that had crossed Pym’s mind, but a glimmer of fear. Perhaps

he thought I had witnessed Pond abusing his choirboys, and had then elicited accounts of this abuse

from them; I wished I had, now I saw how the possibility of dealing with a wider circle of accusers

worried Pym. I tried to push home what I saw as a slight advantage. ‘I’m not proud of this, really,

but I did actually conceal myself on the minstrels’ gallery leading from the servants’ stairs to

observe Fr Pond at the Choir Supper.’ I decided not to include Francis in this; he was very still in

his chair, listening intently.

‘And what did you see from this … somewhat ignominious vantage point?’ Pym’s tone was

silky, but I could see he was rattled.

‘Fr Pond touched several boys inappropriately, in my opinion. He was hugging them to him in a

way they obviously disliked, and not releasing them when they objected.’

‘And this happened in full view of all the boys at the Choir Supper? And in front of Mr Wolfe, I

assume – doesn’t he also attend this function?’

‘He was operating the gramophone, yes.’

‘The gramophone? You mean there was some sort of game going on?’

I sensed the initiative slipping away from me here, but went on regardless: ‘Blind Man’s Buff,

then Oranges and Lemons, yes, Father.’

‘Both games involving, as I understand them, physical contact?’ Pym was now in full

inquisitorial, confrontational mode, like a defence barrister defending his client in court.

‘Yes, some contact is required by both games, but that’s exactly why Fr Pond chose them, I’m

assuming. And he wouldn’t let go once he’d trapped someone, as I say …’ I tailed off, feeling that

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Pym might have won this particular round: I couldn’t prove, after all, that Pond’s physical contact

had been excessive or unduly prolonged. I decided to move on. ‘And then I heard about Tim

Grayling’s death last year.’

As it had during our last interview with Pym, the mention of Tim Grayling sharpened the

Rector’s attention. ‘Who from? Who told you about Tim Grayling?’ He sat up straighter in his

chair, waiting for my reply.

‘I … I’d rather not give you one particular name, obviously––’

‘Obviously,’ said Pym, raising a weary eyebrow.

‘But it’s common talk around the College––’

‘Rumour, in other words, but go on.’

‘It’s widely thought that Tim Grayling’s death was a direct result of Fr Pond abusing him.’

‘As I told you during our last meeting about this matter, this was an allegation made at the time,

but one that was immediately found to be utterly false, malicious, even.’

‘So why did Fr Pond tell us he’d had sexual contact with Tim, then?’ This was Francis, suddenly

thrusting himself into our argument again.

‘Did he actually say that?’ Pym asked.

‘You heard the tape,’ said Francis.

‘I heard Fr Pond accuse Tim Grayling of sexual promiscuity, then say he had done things to him,

of an unspecified nature. Is that what you mean?’

‘Those things were clearly connected in Pond’s mind with Tim’s being a “tart”, as he called him,

so yes, he did actually say he’d done things of a sexual nature to Tim.’ Francis paused, and looked

round the room. ‘Why don’t we listen again to the tape, if you’re not sure it means what we say it

means?’

Pym smiled sadly. ‘Unfortunately that won’t be possible.’ He again steepled his fingers and

regarded us steadily.

A dreadful suspicion formed in my mind. ‘You’ve destroyed it, haven’t you?’

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 ‘I have destroyed it, yes,’ said Pym. ‘I brought Fr Pond out of the infirmary yesterday evening,

and confronted him with your tape. He told me – and I have no reason to doubt his word – that the

things he was referring to were of a purely disciplinary nature––’

‘No, no!’ Francis was nearly beside himself now, almost shouting at Pym. ‘Tim wouldn’t have

wanted Pond to discipline him, would he? You heard the tape: Pond says he didn’t do anything to

Tim that Tim didn’t want done to him – and he’s talking, obviously, about sexual things, not

disciplinary things.’

Pym shook his head. ‘I think you’re underestimating the power of Fr Pond’s persuasion. As I’ve

been saying all day today, Fr Pond was a powerful spiritual force in this College, bringing boys to

God through getting them to acknowledge their faults, their weaknesses. He told me that this was

exactly what he’d done with Tim Grayling, and that Tim had been suitably grateful for it, thanked

him, even.’

I had a sudden flashback to the evening in Pond’s dormitory, when I’d witnessed two small boys

thanking Pond for disciplining them. I think this was the moment at which I began to acknowledge

defeat, but Francis was not so acquiescent.

‘So why did Tim Grayling then kill himself?’ Francis asked Pym.

‘Who says he killed himself? I understand it was an unfortunate accident: Tim drowned, didn’t

he?’

‘Tim Grayling’s death was just as much of a suicide as Fr Pond’s,’ Francis asserted.

There was a brief silence while we all contemplated the cards now laid plainly on the table

before us. Pym was the first to speak. ‘Now we seem to be wandering into the realm of paranoid

delusion, fantasy, Francis. What makes you think Fr Pond killed himself?’

‘I think you played him the tape, threatened him with exposure and then hinted that there was a

way out for him: suicide.’ Francis didn’t look as sure as he was attempting to sound; he, like me,

had scented defeat, I could see.

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 ‘But that would mean you’re accusing me of endangering Fr Pond’s immortal soul, just to quash

a rumour I’ve already told you I don’t believe. That’s not only a very serious – even libellous –

accusation, but an appalling insult to my integrity as a priest. Are you sure you wish to pursue it?’

Francis sighed wearily, but made one last effort. ‘You know that’s what happened, Father. You

also know that Fr Pond was abusing boys in his charge. I know you know this, though, as you say, I

can’t prove it. For the love of God, man, can’t you see you’re sentencing more boys to the misery of

abuse – even to more suicides – by pretending you don’t believe us?’

Fr Pym visibly relaxed; he knew he’d triumphed. He was careful, though, to keep any

satisfaction he may have felt out of his voice as he said, ‘I’m not pretending, Francis. Why should I

believe the word of an adulterous priest who can’t even keep his own vows and’ – he turned to me –

‘a lying agnostic with an unhealthy interest in sex, over the word of a man of God with whom I’ve

worked for many years, and for whom I have the profoundest respect?’

‘I’m not going to keep quiet about this, Father.’ This was out of my mouth before I was

conscious that I was about to speak. I suddenly felt the recklessness that comes from having nothing

to lose. ‘I happen to know the Graylings personally’ – this got Pym’s attention, I saw, so I

continued, ‘and they know about Fr Pond’s abuse of their son.’ This was bluff, of course, but I

could see it worried Pym for a moment before he was able to summon his resources again.

‘I’m not sure how you know the Graylings, Alan, but I should warn you that Patrick Grayling

has already threatened to sue anyone who says his son’s death was anything but an accident.’ Pym

regarded me levelly for a moment, seeming to revolve something in his mind, then went on, ‘I’m

sure you don’t know about the diary, do you?’

I looked bewildered enough to enable Pym to go on, ‘I can see you don’t. I thought not. Listen to

me, Alan, and you’ll see how much support you can expect from the Graylings. When Tim died in

that unfortunate drowning accident last year, a note was produced, by Jim, of all people, purporting

to be a suicide note, blaming Fr Pond. Shortly afterwards, Fr Pond, going through Tim’s things to

give them to his grieving parents, found a diary hidden in Tim’s chest of drawers. This we decided

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not to show to Patrick and Liz, because it contained salacious details of their son’s promiscuity. Are

you following me, Alan?’

I nodded, dumbly. I was beginning to see how the College had silenced Patrick and Liz, and how

they were going to silence Francis and me now.

‘We then showed Tim’s supposed note to Patrick, and he told us it wasn’t in his son’s

handwriting. The news of it had already leaked, however, so he used his influence at the Foreign

Office, and his status as a retired, respected public servant with an impeccable record, to silence the

press speculation, strangle it at birth, so to speak, by threatening to sue anyone who said his son’s

death was anything but an accident. Now do you see how much support you can expect from

Patrick and Liz, Alan?’

I did see: Pym and Pond had threatened to splash their son’s sex life all over the papers if Patrick

refused to say the note was a forgery. I knew this, but couldn’t prove it, just as I couldn’t prove that

Pond had abused Tim, especially now the tape had been destroyed. I couldn’t even approach Patrick

and Liz with my new certainty: I would be telling them nothing they didn’t already know, nothing,

presumably, that they didn’t already regret every moment of their lives. This explained Liz’s odd

assertion that Patrick blamed himself for letting Tim down; it also explained how Pond had felt

invulnerable enough to carry on abusing boys after the scare Tim’s death must have given him.

Pym could see me digesting all this, could see that I was admitting defeat. Francis, too, was

looking utterly drained.

‘I think that brings our meeting to an end, doesn’t it, gentlemen? I’ll be considering your

positions over the next few days, but I don’t think I’d be making plans to return here for the summer

term, if I were you.’ Pym rose from his chair and gestured towards the door. Francis and I filed

silently out of his office, totally deflated.

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28

I spent the rest of this dreadful day operating on automatic pilot: I supervised the boys’ lunch in

their rowdy refectory lined with paintings of the school’s VCs; refereed a rugby match (badly – I

muddled my rucks and mauls and ignored the offside rule altogether), and then spent the evening,

after a near-silent meal in the staff refectory, sitting gloomily in my room listening to Billie

Holiday, always a refuge in times of trouble.

About nine o’clock, Francis came to see me. After he’d seated himself on my bed, he smiled

wryly at me. ‘Well, that could have gone better, don’t you think?’

‘I didn’t think he’d be that ruthless. That Pym we saw today isn’t the Pym I knew in London. I

thought we could expect him to be honest, at least. I feel like a fool. When I think of all the hours I

spent with him when he was writing his bloody book about St Ignatius, scrupulously weighing

moral values against each other, sorting through abstruse historical writings to tease out their hidden

meaning – I thought we had a pretty good bond; we got on. It makes you realize you don’t really

ever know anyone.’

‘The Pym we saw today is the chairman of Rockburgh Ltd, not a priest. He was just defending

his firm against a serious existential threat. He’d already blackmailed the Graylings into keeping

quiet about Tim’s suicide note; why we expected him to tell the truth about Fr Pond’s death I can’t

imagine.’

‘You knew about him blackmailing the Graylings?’ I was astonished at the casual way Francis

had dropped this bombshell.

‘Not knew, exactly, suspected. One minute it was all over the local paper that a boy had killed

himself here, then the next minute everything went quiet and everyone was talking about a tragic

swimming accident. I’m sorry, Alan, but I was too preoccupied with my own problems with Grace

to pay much attention to it. Also, I saw what happened to poor old Johnson, and I needed to keep

my head down, as much for Grace and Donal’s sake as my own. I know, it sounds craven and

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cowardly. It is craven and cowardly – which is why I’ve tried so hard to make things right this time

round. But we’ve failed. I’m sorry, Alan.’

He looked so miserable and guilty that I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame him. ‘What are you

going to do now?’ I asked.

‘I’ll go off to Ireland and set up a house there so that when Grace joins me … oh, I don’t know –

I’ll be lucky if she’s still willing to do it. The Good Fathers could easily kick up a stink about it now

our deal’s off, make it impossible for me to slip quietly away as I was planning to do.’

‘You think the deal’s definitely off?’

‘What do you think? It was delicately balanced as it was – it was only my assurances that I

wouldn’t make a fuss that persuaded them to let me go quietly. They didn’t want the headlines

about a Rockburgh priest running off with the school secretary to a love nest in Ireland, and Grace’s

husband also persuaded them to keep it under wraps, for his sake – he’s a decent man, but quite a

big wheel in the Irish church, so they listened to him – but now, of course, Pond’s death is going to

bring reporters here and … they’ll just want us both out of their hair, I imagine, get all the bad

publicity over in one confusing mess, if it comes to that. They’ll try to persuade everyone there’s

nothing to see, as they did last time, and we’re hardly in a position to contradict them – we’ve no

evidence, as Pym said, and we’re also not the most reliable of witnesses. What was it he called us?’

‘“An adulterous priest and a lying agnostic with an unhealthy interest in sex” – I assume he’s

referring to my teaching from unbowdlerized texts.’

Francis snorted. ‘He can’t be referring to your riotous love life, that’s for sure.’ He smiled kindly

at me to soften the tone of this remark.

‘No, I’m not exactly the Romeo of Rockburgh, am I?’

‘Or the Lancashire Lothario.’

‘The Preston Priapus–– Oh, Francis, what are we going to do?’

He smiled ruefully. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We’ve shot our bolt, and it’s missed its mark. It

wouldn’t be so bad if I thought we’d helped stop the Ponds of the future, but we haven’t even done

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that. Wolfe will just take over where Pond’s left off here, and there are plenty of other molesters

waiting in the wings – I imagine the seminaries are full of them.’

This was a profoundly depressing thought. ‘You really think Pond’s not an anomaly, a one-off?’

Francis shook his head in wonder at my naïveté. ‘Not everyone’s cut out for the life of blameless

celibacy you seem able to lead, Alan. Look at me, for one. What the Catholic Church has done is

provide a handy niche for people who have sexual problems. Think of it from another angle for a

moment. You’re a young Catholic man confused about your sexuality – and how many Catholics

aren’t, given the teachings of the church about the sinfulness of sex? – ashamed and bewildered,

unable to find an outlet for your desires – then the Church offers you a way of presenting your

celibacy, which may well be just a dislike or fear of women, as a commendable sacrifice, a way of

gaining the respect of your local community, doing a job that’s dedicated to the highest cause there

is: the service of God. And this job also involves unsupervised access to children and adolescents,

whose parents are delighted if you take a special interest in their children, because you’re above

suspicion, the Good Father, dedicated to God. It never occurs to them to suspect you of anything but

a desire to help their children find God – they’d feel thoroughly ashamed of themselves if they even

harboured such an unworthy thought for a second. That’s an almost irresistible prospect, isn’t it? I

can’t think why there aren’t more cases of it. Perhaps there are …’ Francis tailed off, alarmed at his

own argument.

‘This gets worse the more you think about it. I’ve got to get away.’ I suddenly felt close to

downright panic.

‘It’s nearly Easter, only a week to go. Why not go off to that cottage in the Lake District, sort

yourself out there, then see if you’re up to going back to London?’

‘You’re right. I’d better start saying my goodbyes – my English classes I feel very guilty about,

and I need to say goodbye to Jim and Grace. I’ll ring Richard tonight.’

‘I must confess I wasn’t giving you entirely disinterested advice about the cottage: I was rather

hoping Grace and I might use it as a temporary bolt hole, if you can swing it. What do you think?’

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 ‘I’d be very grateful for the company. We could celebrate Easter together.’ I smiled for the first

time that day. ‘Easter won’t be same here without Fr Pond, after all. It was his favourite feast.’

‘Having an unhealthy interest in the Crucifixion and Passion isn’t necessarily the same thing as

celebrating Easter, but you’re right: I can’t face that interminable Good Friday service, then Easter

Sunday High Mass – not knowing what I know about Pym and the rest of them.’ Francis shuddered,

then roused himself, reached over and squeezed my arm, and left me.

It wasn’t too late, I decided, to ring Richard, so I walked down to the phone box on the lower

gallery. On the way there, I encountered a burly figure bowling through the Do Room: Mr Wolfe,

resplendent in a dark suit and a red bow tie, and carrying a smart cane with a gold top, was

returning from an evening out. He looked like a man without a worry in the world. As he passed

me, I caught a hint of expensive cologne.

The lower gallery was silent and deserted. Fr Pond’s office, opposite the phone box cubby hole,

was locked, on its a door a handwritten note instructing anyone with business there to refer

themselves to Fr Forster. Since such ‘business’ was far more likely to involve Pond in his capacity

as Prefect of Discipline rather than of the Curriculum, this was merely code for: ‘Fr Forster will be

administering beatings from now on.’ As I entered the phone box, I reflected ruefully on the

smoothness of the ‘succession’ – I had been painfully reminded, in the course of a short walk

through the College, on the first day after Pond’s death, of the untroublesome, almost automatic

nature of the process by which the Prefect would be replaced: Wolfe would no doubt take Pond’s

place as chief molester of choirboys; Forster would replace him as the College’s most zealous

disciplinarian.

Such gloomy forebodings did little to lighten my mood as I made my call to Richard, but I

attempted to put on a brave face to him about the consequences, for me and the College, of the

failure of our plan. Achieving justice and healing for the Graylings, after all, had always been our

chief declared motive in trying to trap Pond, and their welfare should, I told myself sternly, be our

main concern now. The only scrap of comfort I could hang on to, now that this affair had played

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itself out unsuccessfully, might be found in the fact that the Graylings need never know Richard and

I had deceived them; their slow healing process could continue, painful as it must be, but taking

place in private rather than in the glare of publicity that would have inevitably followed Pond’s

exposure. This may have been sheer casuistry, but I held firmly on to it while Richard ranted and

raved on the other end of the line.

Eventually, Richard calmed down enough to admit to me that he’d been extremely apprehensive

about revealing our plan to the Graylings, as he inevitably would have had to do in the event of its

being successful. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘I was dreading having to tell Patrick and Liz

that we’d only approached them with the memoir idea so that we could pump them about Tim’s

death. He’s found a real refuge in that book – and, ironically, he’s writing a very interesting

autobiography. Jane’s really excited about it.’

I was glad to hear him restate this: it was the only ray of hope on my blackest day. We had, after

all, helped the Graylings – the law of unintended consequences had come to our aid.

‘OK, Richard,’ I said, ‘now I have a favour to ask.’

‘As long as it doesn’t involve deceiving another vulnerable old man, ask away.’

‘I want to stay in the Lakes for a while. They’re going to sack me, I’m pretty sure––’

‘You think so, do you? Whyever would they do that?’

‘Oh, just listen, please. I’d like to get away somewhere quiet for a bit, think things over.’

Richard demurred. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? You’ll get very gloomy stuck out there on

your own––’

‘I won’t be on my own, I don’t think. Francis and Grace are going to try and join me, if

possible.’

‘That’s a good idea.’ Richard paused briefly, then went on, ‘At least, it might be if you all agree

not to brood about this.’

‘Of course we won’t: we’ll be too busy trying to re-create William and Dorothy and their drug-

addled friend Samuel.’

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 ‘That’s the spirit, Alan: run to Mother Literature. The key’s in that black box under the eaves

where I left it. Keep in touch, won’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. I look forward to making long-distance phone calls under the sympathetic eye of

that nice woman in Sedbergh. I expect she speaks very highly of us.’

‘Perhaps you should let Grace deal with her. And make sure Francis takes his dog collar off,

won’t you?’

I hung up the phone. Richard, as he always did, had managed to knit up my ‘ravell’d sleeve of

care’.

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29

After a night filled with confusing dreams, in the most vivid of which an extremely angry and

unsympathetic woman – an unlikely mix of the Sedbergh shopkeeper and Mrs Taylor – confronted

me with slides of a drowning Tim Grayling, I woke, with a sickening lurch of the stomach, to the

prospect of having to take what would surely be my last English A-level class, then with the

ignominy of slinking away from the College in disgrace, sacked after two terms, during which I

could hardly be said to have distinguished myself. I would take my place alongside Mr Johnson: an

embarrassing failure, dismissed for reasons the Good Fathers – victims of their own well-

intentioned but misguided attempts at liberalization – could only sorrowfully hint at.

As I had done the previous night with Richard, though, I determined to put as brave a face on

things as possible, so I made my way as usual to the staff refectory for breakfast.

Fr Pym was already there, presiding over an unusually subdued gathering of gargoyles and toby

jugs. ‘Ah, Mr Simpson,’ he said smoothly, as I took my place at the table, ‘I’ve just been, ah,

“filling in”’ – he had an infuriating habit of putting imaginary quotation marks around any

expression he imagined might be thought slangy – ‘the rest of the staff on the events of yesterday. I

had imagined that you’d have the decency to absent yourself with all possible dispatch, but since

you’re here, it gives me a chance to make sure you are seen to have had justice done to you.’

I was bewildered by this, and glanced for support at Francis, who was sitting opposite me. He

avoided my eyes. He seemed uncharacteristically subdued, even stunned. I began to worry in

earnest.

Pym went on, ‘I had hoped that by employing you, Mr Simpson, we might open the College up a

little to – what can I call it? – the “spirit of the age”. I was encouraged to think, from our dealings

concerning my book about St Ignatius, that you might be a useful conduit by which modern ideas

could be introduced to the boys, in measured doses. This, of course, was when I assumed you were

what you’d presented yourself as: a practising Catholic––’

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 ‘I never actually––’ I attempted to protest at this, but Pym silenced me with a cutting motion of

his hand.

‘Allow me to finish uninterrupted, please. Thank you. As I was saying, you led me to believe

you were a Catholic, albeit a somewhat “modern” one with unconventional ideas, and so I thought

that you might be suitable as a replacement for Mr Johnson.’ He paused after pronouncing this

name, presumably to allow the assembly time to locate their memories of this unfortunate

individual and to associate them with me. ‘I quickly discerned, however, that you were not a

practising Catholic, that you attended Mass only infrequently, and that you never went to

Confession or Communion at all. Furthermore, you allowed your English classes to be exposed to

all manner of unsuitable material, and encouraged them – I saw this with my own eyes, remember –

to giggle and poke fun at the more salacious passages in their texts.’ He again paused, to allow his

audience to appreciate the full extent of my depravity. ‘This isn’t all, however – I only wish it was.’

I couldn’t imagine what was coming. Was Pym going to try to implicate me in Pond’s death,

somehow? I braced myself. Francis was very still, across from me, staring at the floor.

‘Fr Forster, here, has contributed the final, and most damning, piece of evidence of your

unsuitability as a teacher of young minds. We’ve all been aware of your … what can we say

without trespassing into areas I’d rather not enter? … closeness, shall we put it that way, to certain

members of staff here, specifically Fr Jackson and our school secretary, Mrs Tawney, themselves

the subject of unpleasant rumour and speculation, into which I do not intend to delve at this time.’

He looked sternly at Francis, who visibly quailed under his gaze. ‘That, you might say, is your own

business – like minds attract, and you are entitled to find friends where you may – but when one of

our boys becomes involved, then I cannot stand by in silence. You gave drugs to Donal Tawney,

which Fr Forster found in his room last night.’

There was a stunned silence at this. Francis, judging by his demeanour, had obviously been told

about this development in advance – presumably by Grace – but the other staff members were

shocked rigid by it, and simply stared at me in disbelief.

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 Pym went on, remorselessly, ‘I had noticed – and Fr Forster here had confirmed my fears – that

you were unsuitably close to Donal Tawney, but I never thought for a second that you might be

capable of corrupting him in this way. I now know I was naïve. I could not think where Tawney

might have obtained the drugs Fr Forster found, but a search of his room revealed letters from a boy

I had the good sense to expel last year: David Taylor. In these letters, Taylor mentions you, Mr

Simpson – as a joke, no less – as a “mule”, which I’m told is a slang term for a courier of drugs.’

The staff were now mesmerized by this account; they clearly felt they were being introduced into

a world they’d encountered only in the more lurid stories favoured by the Sunday newspapers they

pretended not to read. They listened open-mouthed as Pym concluded his speech. ‘I ascertained, by

asking various staff members, that you have indeed made several trips to Preston in recent weeks,

presumably for the purpose of collecting these drugs and giving them to Tawney. I telephoned Mrs

Taylor last night to warn her about her son, and she has assured me that she will co-operate fully in

any inquiry we choose to make. I’m hoping, however, that – given the febrile atmosphere already

abroad in the College after Fr Pond’s unfortunate accident – we can rely on your discretion. I

shouldn’t like to have the boys disturbed any more than they already are, especially just before the

feast of Easter, traditionally a time of renewal and hope. I have therefore decided that if you, Mr

Simpson, and your friends the Tawneys – and of course Fr Jackson – are willing to leave quietly

and discreetly, we may find ourselves able to draw a line under the whole appalling business: the

drugs, the unsuitable attachment of a priest and a married woman, the wholly inappropriate teaching

of salacious passages from literature’ – here Fr Pym permitted himself a brief but eloquent shudder

at the sheer decadence of what he had allowed to happen under his roof – ‘without the involvement

of the police or the press. As I say, it’s nearly Easter, when Christ rose again and redeemed the

world. I’m sure we can celebrate it by purging ourselves of this … I’m not sure how to refer to the

four of you, Mr Simpson, without sounding like one of our more sensational newspapers. I’ve

already told Fr Jackson that I expect him to leave the premises today, and to take Mrs Tawney and

Donal with him. I expect you’ll wish to do the same. I’ll be informing your classes. Thank you,

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gentlemen.’ And with this, Fr Pym left the refectory without a backward glance at its astonished

occupants.

The assembled staff looked fixedly at the table as Francis and I rose and left the room together. I

was in a daze, stunned by what I’d just heard, but gradually my mind thawed, and self-reproach

began to trickle into it. How could I have been so stupid as to think that I could pass on drugs to

Donal without seeing the danger I was putting him in? How had I imagined that I could take on a

customer as slippery as Fr Pym and beat him? Above all, why had I allowed myself to believe that

such an ill-conceived, hare-brained scheme as Richard, Francis and I had cooked up could possibly

succeed, when, before me, Jim, Mr Johnson and the Graylings had all failed?

‘Hubris.’ I summed it all up in this one word to Francis as we walked disconsolately back to the

New Wing together.

‘For once, your literary allusion is spot on. But I wouldn’t mind so much if it was just us – it’s

Grace and Donal I’m most worried about. They’re the innocents in all this – or Grace is, anyhow.

Her only crime is to have fallen in love with me, and she’s paying for it by seeing her son expelled

just before his A-levels, losing her job with no hope of references, and having to run back to Ireland

with her tail between her legs, throw herself on the mercy of the Good Fathers in the hope they

won’t kick up a fuss about her son being a drug user – Michael’s a tolerant man, but I don’t think

he’d tolerate that for a second. Pym’s won hands down – and not because he’s played dirty, as we

thought yesterday, in all our righteous indignation about him – but because we’ve played into his

hands by being plain stupid. The arrogance of it …’ He shook his head.

I could only agree with him. Richard’s sardonic question – ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ –

was playing on a loop in my head as I packed my things and loaded them into my Mini.

Francis had decided that I should drive up to the cottage straight away, taking as much of his and

the Tawneys’ luggage as would fit beside my own, and prepare the place for our Easter sojourn

there. They would follow, later in the afternoon, by taking a train to Kendal, where I would pick

them up.

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 Once I’d finished arranging all the luggage in my car, I had one last visit to make before I left

Rockburgh for ever. I walked slowly over to Jim’s cottage, to find him in his garden, smoking his

pipe.

‘Howdo.’ He examined me curiously. ‘Summat happened?’

‘You could say that. Have you got a moment?’

‘All the time in the world. Just let me put my pipe out. I don’t smoke in the house – wife never

allowed it, and I don’t see why I should do it now she’s not here to tell me off.’ He fussed about,

knocking his pipe on a stone before checking it carefully and putting it in the pocket of his oiled

jacket.

Once installed in his kitchen, a cup of tea steaming in front of me on his deal table, I found

myself telling Jim everything: my suspicion about Tim Grayling’s death, my visit to Patrick and

Liz, Francis’s and my confrontation of Pond, Pym’s dismissal of our evidence and destruction of

the tape, our ultimate banishment into the outer darkness, omitting only any reference to drugs,

either Donal’s grass or the LSD we’d used as a persuader on Pond. If this were to come out later,

then so be it; for now, however, I thought it best that Jim not be implicated in any way that he might

find uncomfortable.

When I’d told him the whole sorry story, he just regarded me in silence, his expression

unreadable. I waited for his comment, but when it didn’t come, I decided I’d have to prompt him.

‘I’m told you knew about the note Tim left, took it to the College.’ I hoped this didn’t sound too

accusatory, but Jim just smiled wistfully, as if at some poignant memory.

‘Aye, I did that. Tim were a good lad – like you, he loved them dippers. We got pretty pally, him

and me. Found his note on this table, the day he died. Dunno why he chose me, mind. Took it up to

Fr Forster, it was. Told him I’d read it, so I thought he’d see me right, do the right thing, like. It said

that bugger Pond had … you know. Turned out it were a forgery, though. So they said, anyhow.’

Jim looked steadily at me. ‘I was told to keep quiet, and my cottage and job were mentioned – just

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in passing, like. My wife had just died and I were grieving still. Didn’t want to lose everything all at

once, so I kept quiet, as they wanted me to. I’m sorry, Alan.’ He looked close to tears.

I hastened to reassure him. ‘No, really, you’re not to blame in any way. They did the same to Mr

Johnson, and now they’ve done it to me and Fr Jackson. All they care about is hushing the thing up;

they don’t care how they do it, as long as the College isn’t involved in any scandal. You can’t fight

them. They’re too strong.’

‘Aye, they’re ruthless buggers when they’re afeard. I used to go to Mass up there’ – he indicated

the church with a movement of his head – ‘but no more. Not after that.’ He stared gloomily into the

distance. ‘What’ll you do now?’

‘I’m going to stay in the Lake District in a friend’s cottage for a bit, try and sort myself out.

Grace and Donal Tawney are coming with me, and Francis Jackson.’

‘You’ll have a house full, then.’

And with this, Jim rose to his feet and stuck his hand out awkwardly to me. ‘Take care, lad,’ he

said as I took it in mine.

I turned away, fighting back tears, and walked blindly back to my car.

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30

As I drove up to the Lake District that afternoon, my mind was in turmoil. I was haunted by

memories of Fr Pond beating the two small boys in his dormitory, of his lewd behaviour at the

Choir Supper, and of his sweating, jowly face as he spat out obscenities about Tim Grayling. I

winced at the memory of Fr Pym’s smooth refutation of our taped evidence, and of his humiliation

of me that morning in the staff refectory. Most painful of all, though, were two strikingly similar

memories: the first of Patrick, sobbing at his desk; the second of Jim struggling to hold back tears at

his kitchen table. These were the people I had let down so badly that I couldn’t forgive myself. I

had been arrogant and naïve – arrogant in my assumption that I might succeed where others had

failed before me; naïve in thinking that I had only to draw the attention of the College authorities to

Pond’s wickedness to bring it to an end.

These thoughts assailed me all the way up the motorway, where driving was a relatively

automatic process, but once I’d struck out on to the country roads leading to Sedbergh, I had to

dismiss them and concentrate on the route, which I’d taken only once before, and that with a

navigator sitting beside me reading a map. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, and I was

almost calm by the time I parked in Sedbergh’s main street so that I could stock up on a few

provisions for the weekend ahead. There was a four-day Easter break on the immediate horizon, and

although anything I forgot could be picked up the next day, Maundy Thursday, I would need to do a

careful and thorough shop so that Francis and the Tawneys would feel welcome and secure when I

brought them back to the cottage from Kendal later in the evening.

Nerving myself for what I assumed would be a trying encounter, I entered the shop, clutching

my empty overnight bag and armed with a lengthy list of provisions I hoped to put in it.

‘We’ve no “proper coffee” still, you’ll find.’

If I was hoping to go unrecognized by the formidable woman behind the counter, whom I’d last

encountered in a dream, in disconcertingly hybrid form, I was immediately disappointed. I started

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guiltily and began to stammer out a list of my requirements. ‘Oh, yes, hello. I’m not actually after

coffee this time. More basic shopping, really. I’d like some tea, sugar, cornflakes––’

To my surprise, and considerable relief, she softened on seeing my confusion. ‘Why don’t you

just give me that list and I’ll see if we can help you.’ She smiled, took the paper from my hand, and

bustled about the shop taking things from shelves and putting them on the counter in front of me.

‘Up for another weekend with your friend, are you?’ She asked me this apparently casual question

over her shoulder as she peered at a shelf containing breakfast cereals.

It may have been the slight pause before she uttered the word ‘friend’, or perhaps the tone in

which she said it, that alerted me. I was suddenly aware that she assumed that Richard and I were a

homosexual couple. For no good reason, I began to blush furiously. ‘Ah, yes. I’m not–– Well,

actually, I’m here this time with a family. Easter break, you know.’ Why was I blushing? It was

none of this woman’s business, after all, what my relationship with Richard consisted of, and I

certainly considered myself enlightened enough to see no shame whatsoever in being homosexual.

By the time I’d stammered out this explanation of my presence in her shop, surveyed and paid

for the goods she’d assembled in front of me, and stowed them away in my overnight bag (‘I see

you’ve come prepared this time’ was her comment as I did this, delivered with a scarcely

discernible smirk), I was thoroughly rattled by her dispassionate stare, but I managed to remember

the second part of my mission. ‘You don’t happen to know how I could find out train arrival times

at Kendal, do you?’

She was all efficiency at this. ‘I do. I’ve got a timetable here.’ She reached under the counter and

came up with a typed sheet. ‘We get quite a few walkers and such in here, and they often want to

know train times, so …’ She pointed out the relevant trains on the sheet.

I noted the possible arrival times, wrote them down on my list and began to thank her profusely.

‘No need to thank me, lovey. All part of the service. Anything else you need, just come in and

ask me.’ She beamed at me over my groceries, then transferred her attention to another customer

behind me.

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 I had clearly misjudged her attitude to me, I reflected as I left the shop. I told myself to calm

down. As Richard was always reminding me (‘No one actually gives a shit about you, Alan, you do

realize that, don’t you?’), the world was largely indifferent to my moods, fears and assumptions. It

was an oddly comforting thought, and one I hugged to me as I drove off to the cottage.

The key was exactly where Richard had said it would be, under the eaves, and I felt my mood lift

a little as I let myself in to the familiar living room, with its homely furnishings and bookcases full

of battered paperbacks. I went through into the kitchen and stowed away my shopping, then

slumped on the sofa with a cup of tea. I was vaguely conscious of a need to process my unexpected

reaction to the shopwoman’s assumption that I was homosexual, but I didn’t have time for that now.

I dismissed it from my mind, sipped my tea and consulted a map to see how I was going to get to

Kendal.

An hour or so later, I was waiting on Kendal station for the arrival of the first train on the list I’d

been given in Sedbergh. Francis had told me he’d try to arrive as close to six o’clock as possible, to

save me hanging about too long, and he was as good as his word: I had to wait only a short time

before a train arrived and I saw him and the Tawneys at the end of the platform, surrounded by

baggage. They looked rather forlorn; I was reminded of pictures of wartime refugees fleeing

persecution, or the occupation of France. Sternly telling myself not to over-dramatize the situation, I

plastered a smile on my face and approached them.

‘Hello, hello,’ I said, ‘come out to the car. I’ve got a fire waiting for us at the cottage and I’ve

got all the ingredients for a stew for our supper.’ I bustled around them, fussing with their bags.

Francis took hold of the heavier luggage and carried it off the platform. I was suddenly reminded

of my first evening at Rockburgh, when he’d helped me with my unloading. This wouldn’t do: I

was here to forget the College, not allow myself to wallow in memories of it. I looked at Grace,

struck all over again, as I had been the first time I saw her, by her serenity and natural elegance. She

caught my glance and smiled.

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 Donal seemed to sense our need for distraction, and did a comic skip as we left the platform. ‘No

more church! No more––’

‘Donal, please!’ Grace silenced him with this rebuke, but he continued to grin at us all as we

loaded the luggage into my Mini. I was glad to see him in such good spirits; indeed, the three of

them seemed to be facing their situation with remarkable equanimity.

As we drove back to the cottage, I attempted to entertain them with an exaggerated account of

my treatment on my Sedbergh shopping expedition, laughing as I recalled the shopwoman’s

assumption that I was part of a homosexual couple. This was met not with the good-natured teasing

I’d expected, but with a somewhat awkward silence.

Francis, sitting in the back seat with Donal, was the first to speak. ‘Actually, I’d always assumed

… well, that you were … not that it matters, of course …’ He subsided into uncharacteristic

embarrassed reticence, from which he was rescued by Grace.

‘You should never assume, Francis. You have such a black-and-white view of things.’

‘But he’s read Proust and loves Cole Porter!’ said Francis in mock indignation.

‘He prefers Billie Holiday to Judy Garland, mind you,’ said Donal, entering into the spirit of the

thing with what I felt was unseemly enthusiasm.

‘I am actually present, you know,’ I pointed out, peering at direction signs in the gathering

darkness.

‘Take no notice of them, Alan,’ Grace said. ‘Surely our sexuality is a sort of spectrum, not

something fixed for all time. I always think––’

But we never learned what Grace always thought, because Donal silenced her with an anguished

‘Ma, no! Wait till I’m not here if you want to discuss your sexuality.’ He placed satirical emphasis

on this last word, but the seriousness behind his apparent flippancy was there for us all to discern,

so we changed the subject, and spent the rest of the journey telling each other how hungry we were

and how much we were looking forward to relaxing over the coming Easter weekend.

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 Donal went straight upstairs on our arrival at the cottage and put his things in the boxroom,

calling down as he did so, ‘Nice place. I’m assuming mine’s the smallest room.’

Francis and Grace looked suddenly overcome with shyness, like a honeymoon couple booking

into a smart hotel. I busied myself in the kitchen, giving them some privacy. ‘Vegetable stew OK

with everyone?’ I called out.

‘Not summat that’s looked over a gate?’ This was Donal, from upstairs.

As I chopped vegetables and listened to the soft murmur of Grace and Francis’s conversation,

and the banging about in the boxroom caused by Donal unpacking his things, I experienced a

sudden rush of unexpected happiness. I felt safe here, in this cottage, and I found I was looking

forward to a relaxing weekend in congenial company. Pym, Forster and Wolfe suddenly seemed a

long way away, part of a world that couldn’t reach the four of us tucked away here in our rural

retreat.

‘Put some Hank Mobley on, would you, Francis?’ I called through to the sitting room.

‘If I must,’ he replied.

‘You must,’ Donal shouted from upstairs.

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31

We spent our first full day in the cottage – Maundy Thursday we would have called it, had we still

been at Rockburgh – relaxing, mooching about and reading the detective novels with which the

bookcases were filled (Andy’s parents had clearly been addicted to the work of Margery Allingham,

Dorothy L. Sayers and – a writer I’d hitherto connected solely with romantic historical fiction –

Georgette Heyer). We had scrupulously avoided, during our meal the previous night, all reference

to the events that had brought us here, and by tacit agreement, we extended this embargo into the

following day. We behaved like patients in a convalescent home: discreetly attentive, but conscious

of each other’s need for privacy. The future and the immediate past were taboo subjects; we moved

with extreme caution, alive to each other’s immediate sensitivities but scrupulously non-intrusive.

This all changed on Good Friday, which dawned cold, blustery and wet. I had appointed myself

chief cook and bottle washer, and was frying mushrooms and scrambling eggs for our breakfast

when I heard raised voices from the sitting room. Francis wasn’t down yet – I could hear him

moving about upstairs – but Grace and Donal were sitting on the sofa, waiting for me to call them

into the kitchen to eat.

‘What? Why would you want me to go to church?’ This was Donal.

I froze momentarily, then began clattering dishes in a futile attempt to disguise the fact that I

could hear every word they were saying.

‘Because it’s a Holy Day of Obligation, Good Friday,’ Grace replied.

‘It’s not, actually.’ Donal took the words out of my mouth. He was, like me, a pedant – the Good

Fathers had done a thorough job on both of us. ‘Catholics are encouraged to go to Mass today, not

obliged,’ he went on.

‘Well I’m encouraging you to go, then.’ Grace was firm, but obviously struggling to control her

temper.

‘You’re assuming I’m a Catholic, Ma.’

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 This was a deliberate provocation; I silently cursed Donal for his stubbornness. Grace didn’t

respond for quite some time. I imagined her carefully attempting to strike the right note. I silently

turned off the gas under the mushrooms and – unnecessarily – beat up the eggs again in their bowl,

hoping the noise would convince the Tawneys I wasn’t listening.

Grace’s reply, when it eventually came, was Cordelia-like, soft, gentle and low. It was also

completely unexpected. ‘I blame myself for this.’

Donal was wrongfooted. He was extremely protective of his mother – I’d seen this time and

again, most notably in his arguments with McCarthy – and he immediately hastened to reassure her.

‘Ma, no. I’ve made my own mind up. It’s nothing to do with anyone else. I just can’t believe any

more. Haven’t for some time – nothing to do with you.’

And here the matter rested for the time being; there was a prolonged silence in the sitting room. I

resumed my mushroom frying and egg scrambling; Francis clattered down the stairs saying, ‘Smells

good, Alan. Prefer bacon, myself, in the morning, but when in Rome …’

‘Let’s leave Rome out of this, shall we?’ said Grace – and we were back in calmer waters again.

‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, Alan,’ said Donal as he finished his breakfast.

‘That was perfect.’ Then, seeing the shock on all our faces, he laughed out loud. ‘It’s all right: it’s

just something Mrs Taylor says all the time to David, or at least whenever he performs some trifling

domestic task without completely buggering it up.’

Grace shuddered. ‘That woman! Treated me like the Whore of Babylon when I went to pick

Donal up that time. How you survived half term with her I’ll never know.’

‘As long as you eat everything she puts in front of you you’re all right. Remember that delicious

stew she served up to you, Alan?’

It was my turn to shudder. ‘It was the fruit salad that did it for me––’

‘Pineapples soaked in dog urine––’

‘Donal!’ said Grace reprovingly, but she was laughing. It was good to see her regaining her

equanimity; Donal obviously thought so too, and pressed on with his reminiscences.

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 ‘One night, she gave us a special treat: a trifle. David tried to warn me, but I thought: What can

go wrong with a trifle? It was like a prop for a clown’s act – massive, like everything she puts on

the table, and full of luridly coloured bits of fruit and jelly, all mixed up under a thick layer of

custard and cream. It looked ghastly, but I had to pretend to be excited, and I got given a huge

portion, which she watched me eat, waiting for my reaction. I had one mouthful, and it wasn’t as

bad as I’d been expecting, so I told her it was delicious. David was smirking – I should have known

something was up, but I took another mouthful anyhow. I nearly broke a tooth: it had boiled sweets

in it, which were impossible to deal with. I had to decide whether to draw attention to myself by

crunching them up, or try to swallow them whole.’ He paused theatrically.

‘I hope you crunched,’ said Grace. ‘A whole boiled sweet might still be lying undigested in your

stomach otherwise.’

‘I did crunch, but I smiled while I did it, as if I always had boiled sweets in trifles, and found

crunching them just part of the fun of eating them.’

‘Did this satisfy her?’ I asked.

‘Seemed to. Once I’d crunched, everyone started doing it, as if it was some sort of Taylor ritual.

Made me feel part of the family.’

There was a brief silence at this, ‘family’ being a forbidden word, but Francis – as he had done

so many times, in similar circumstances, at Rockburgh – came to the rescue. ‘Never trust a woman

who drives like Mr Toad.’

‘Or a woman who supplies marijuana to schoolboys.’ Grace stared at Donal until he blushed and

looked away.

There was an even longer silence after this, again broken by Francis. ‘I still can’t quite believe

that Mrs Taylor actually cultivates home-grown marijuana.’

‘No, she does.’ Donal had recovered his equilibrium relatively quickly, I was pleased to see.

‘She even grades it, divides it into tops – which are the strongest – standard strength, and stems and

seeds, then she puts each grade into different Tupperware containers. I’ve seen them in David’s

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bedroom. It took him a while to convince her, but now she thinks it’s less harmful than alcohol, and

she particularly likes its effect on David’s appetite. Loves feeding people, as I say, despite being

one of the worst cooks in Western Europe. She also likes the people who smoke it – his friends who

come round. Says they’re “nice, gentle boys”.’

‘You’ve talked to her about it?’ I beat both Francis and Grace to this question, I could see.

‘Yes, she’s quite open about it. I thanked her for giving me some while I was there at half term –

David said she wouldn’t mind.’ Donal was obviously thoroughly enjoying amazing us with all this,

and I could see why: we were all staring at him open-mouthed. ‘She told me I was welcome, and

that I was to ask David if I wanted more, rather than spending good money on it.’ He gave me a

significant look; I was to understand he had not told his mother of my part in his downfall. I was

suitably grateful, and determined to thank him properly later, in private.

‘Pity she didn’t grow a non-smelling strain,’ Francis commented.

‘I know. I was always careful to go on to the golf course to smoke it, but Forster smelled it on

my clothes, I think, so he searched my room. I was unlucky.’

‘You were stupid, Donal,’ said Grace. ‘Funnily enough, I agree with Mrs Taylor on this one

subject – I’ve seen too much alcoholism in Ireland to disagree with her – but you shouldn’t have

risked bringing it into the College. Idiotic of you.’

‘Sorry Ma. You’re right: it was idiotic.’ At this, both Donal and Francis looked at me, their faces

studiedly impassive. I could feel myself blushing and covered my confusion by clearing away the

breakfast dishes.

We spent the rest of the morning alternating spells of staring out of the kitchen window at the

rainswept hills and reading thrillers in the sitting room. At lunch, however, Grace again stated her

intention of going to a Good Friday service, so she and Francis borrowed my car and drove off in

search of a church, Francis dramatically crashing the gears as they disappeared into the distance.

Donal and I decided to go for a walk, so I fetched my binoculars and joined him outside the

cottage, leaving the key in the eaves for Francis and Grace in case they returned before us.

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 ‘Thanks for covering for me about the grass. I’m not sure I could have faced Grace if you’d told

her I was responsible––’

‘You weren’t responsible, I was. Don’t be like Ma – I’m a free adult. I make my own decisions.’

‘Well thanks anyway.’ I was impressed all over again at Donal’s forthrightness, his self-

possession.

‘Don’t mention it – and I mean that literally.’ He laughed quietly to himself.

‘What are you going to do about your exams?’ I thought this might be a safer topic, but was

careful to introduce it casually, while I was pretending to sweep the horizon with my binoculars.

‘I’ve done most of the course work I need to do. Next term would have been mainly going over

and cramming in what we’ve already covered, so I’ll do it on my own, with a bit of help from

Francis and Ma. She speaks French, luckily.’

‘And you’re probably better off without that dreadful English teacher you had.’

‘There is that, yes. Obsessed with sex, he was, so the class was too busy blushing to learn

anything useful.’

‘Don’t you start; that’s exactly what Pym told the entire teaching staff yesterday morning. That

and labelling me as a drugs mule.’

Donal snorted. ‘He actually said “drugs mule”?’

‘He put heavy inverted commas round it, and said he’d been informed it was a slang term for a

courier, yes.’

Donal’s snort became an outright burst of laughter. ‘I love Pym. He’s so precise and fastidious.’

‘Not so fastidious about Pond groping small boys, he wasn’t.’ I found anger welling up in me

again at the memory of Pym’s icy calmness, his refusal to consider our evidence against Pond.

Donal shook his head. ‘You’re as bad as Francis. I warned him Pym wouldn’t listen, just like he

didn’t listen to Johnson. What did you expect? No, don’t answer that. I know what you both

expected: you assumed he’d be so horrified that he’d do everything in his power to stop Pond,

didn’t you?’

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 I nodded. ‘Well, yes––’

‘No, Alan. You were wrong, that’s all. Pym’s not stupid, or blind. He’s been living with Pond

for years – far longer than you have, or Francis, for that matter. He’ll have known all along that

Pond was molesting his choirboys, or whatever – who do you think Pond used to confess to, for

God’s sake? I bet it was Pym. But they’re men of God, him and Pond: they see the world very

differently from the way you or I – or even Francis – do. God comes first with them, in a field of

one. We write it on our exercise books, hadn’t you noticed? A.M.D.G.: ad majorem dei gloriam, all

for the greater glory of God. So Pond’s flawed, human, sinful – so what? He’s a man of God, that’s

what really matters – that’s all that matters. Face it: if the Catholic Church was really serious about

protecting children from priests, they’d be much more careful about the sort of men they took into

their seminaries – instead, they seem to actively attract men with odd attitudes to sex. Which

Catholic teaching does nothing to alter – quite the opposite, in fact: even Ma thinks the Church

disrespects women, and priests with what you or I would consider a healthy attitude to women –

people like Francis – are mentally castrated by their celibacy vows. It’s a recipe for disaster.’

‘That’s basically what Francis thinks.’

‘Didn’t stop him going to Pym, though, did it?’

‘No, it didn’t. So why didn’t you stop us, Donal?’

He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I felt so broken up and guilty about Tim that I was willing to

try anything to get Pond.’

‘Even use Francis and me as catspaws?’

‘I was reluctant, Alan. You must remember that first meeting with David?’ He looked over at

me. I could see he was not as confident as he’d been trying to appear.

‘I know, I know. First Jim, then the Graylings, then Johnson – why did we think we’d do any

better?’

‘Don’t despair, Alan. It’s led me to drugs, and you don’t want that to happen to you, do you?’

He laughed.

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‘God forbid,’ I said.

‘I think he already does.’

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32

We spent so long out walking, Donal and I, that Francis and Grace were already back, sat in front of

a blazing fire, when we returned.

‘Good service?’ I asked.

‘As if you cared,’ said Francis.

Grace sent him a look of mock reproof. ‘It was fine, thank you, Alan. Better than Francis’s

driving, at any rate.’

‘I’ve not driven for quite a while. I just needed a bit of practice, then I was fine.’

Grace caught my eye and raised her eyebrows at me, shaking her head. ‘I’m lucky to be alive.’

‘You’d have risen again on Sunday, I expect,’ said Donal.

‘Donal!’ said Francis and Grace together, then laughed at the synchronicity.

It was Donal’s turn to raise his eyebrows at me. ‘You can see what my life’s going to be like

from now on, can’t you, with these two on my case day and night?’

‘Hardly worth living,’ I said. ‘You’d be better off staying with the Taylors.’ This made everyone

laugh, and we resumed our reading in comfortable silence.

After an hour or so, Francis stretched his arms above his head, closed They Found Him Dead,

the Georgette Heyer he’d been reading, and said, ‘Never trust an Australian.’

Grace punched him lightly on the arm. ‘I was going to read that. Don’t need to now, thanks to

you.’

‘I didn’t say he was the murderer, now did I? Just that you can’t trust Australians. Look at their

cricketers.’ He shuddered.

‘That Richie Benaud seems very nice,’ said Grace.

‘Not according to Mrs Taylor. Said he had a mean mouth.’ Donal smiled, as if fondly recalling a

treasured memory.

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 ‘That woman would find something to criticize in Christ himself.’ Grace’s indignation was

almost comical, and she realized it, laughing at herself. ‘Here I go again. Sorry.’

‘She did once say to me that Jesus was a bit scruffy, with his long hair and sandals – she seemed

to think he set a bad example to today’s youth.’ Donal looked triumphantly at his mother.

‘Well, really!’ This was all Grace was prepared to say on the subject. She controlled herself with

a visible effort, then asked, ‘So what have you got in mind for supper, Alan?’

‘Since it’s Friday, I thought fish might be in order. Tuna and mashed potato bake OK with

everyone?’

‘Your vegetarianism doesn’t stop you eating fish?’ This was Donal.

‘Oh don’t start him off,’ said Francis. ‘He’ll be describing conditions in slaughterhouses, and

telling us pigs are so intelligent they can practically talk, if you encourage him. Just go and help

him. Grate some cheese or something, leave us in peace.’

So Donal and I prepared the meal while Francis and Grace sat on the sofa together, talking

quietly. Donal closed the door between the rooms, saying ‘Give you some privacy’ to them, then

said to me, ‘This was a good idea, wasn’t it? They seem OK. Great relief to me. Thanks.’

‘No need to thank me. I’m very glad of the company.’

‘No, you’ve been very good for them: the first person who’s accepted them as a couple without

disapproving, or telling them they’re unredeemable sinners.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Though my father’s

been pretty decent, too, I must admit.’

‘That does surprise me. I’d’ve expected him to be obstructive, disapproving. He’s not, then?’

‘Not a bit, no. He and Ma were always falling out when I was little, then he went off with the

housekeeper at the local church. I was glad to get away to Rockburgh, honestly.’

This was news to me, but I decided to keep it light. ‘Your family has a penchant for clergy and

their staff, I see.’

Donal laughed. ‘You could say that. I was bitter at first, but I can see that they’re both happier

apart, and I like Bridget – that’s Pa’s new partner – and Francis a lot, so …’ He shrugged his

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shoulders. ‘It’s made things a bit difficult with the church, but what can you do?’ He looked

warningly at me. ‘I can feel you searching for a quote about the heart having its reasons, or

something. Don’t!’ He grinned and resumed grating cheese. ‘Is this enough?’

‘Yes. If you could peel some potatoes for mashing …’

Over the meal, I was relieved to see, peace reigned. Grace teased Francis about his driving,

Donal teased me about my supposed obsession with the more salacious passages in Chaucer and

Shakespeare, Francis teased Grace about what he called her ‘crush’ on Richie Benaud. I was

impressed by their unforced cheerfulness, their resilience, their good sense. I was also still

experiencing a small glow of satisfaction every time I recalled Donal thanking me for accepting his

mother’s and Francis’s relationship, despite my harbouring an uncomfortable suspicion that my

approval may have had its roots more firmly planted in a desire to outrage Church authority than in

an uncomplicated wish to see them happy. Happy they undoubtedly were, though, so I dismissed

such doubts and concentrated on enjoying the evening, joining in their banter and attempting to give

as good as I got.

The next morning, I was feeling almost cheerful as I went downstairs to make breakfast. Only

three days before, I had been close to utter despair; now, thanks to the healing qualities of

sympathetic company, I was definitely on the road to recovery. On the floor by the front door, I saw

as I went into the sitting room, was a letter addressed to me. I recognized the handwriting: it was

from Richard.

I decided to leave opening it until after breakfast, so I was sitting with the Tawneys and Francis

when I finally got round to reading it. Richard began by reassuring me that Andy wouldn’t be back

from Spain until the middle of April, over a fortnight away, so we could relax until that time. Then

he made a few sympathetic comments about the Rockburgh affair, telling me I shouldn’t blame

myself, that I had done my best and should concentrate on planning my future. It comforted me to

hear this: I was hoping that he might put in a good word for me with Jane, with a view to my taking

up my old post at her publishing firm once I was certain I could face the world again. Then, almost

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casually, he dropped his bombshell: ‘You’ll have to find somewhere else to live, I’m afraid, old

chum, if you’re planning to come back to London. I’ve got Chloe here – remember her? Jane’s

secretary for a while? – and we’re living love’s young dream, which I’m sure you’d be revolted to

witness first hand. Besides, the flat’s tiny and her stuff – her parents have chucked her out because

they disapprove of me, so I’m putting her up – is filling every available space here.’

There was some more to Richard’s letter, something about going away for Easter with Chloe, but

I found I couldn’t concentrate on it. I stared dumbly at the floor, unable to think of anything but my

shattered dreams. Then I realized, with a force that almost took my breath away, that I had indeed

been dreaming: I’d assumed that I could just pick up the reins of my former life and–– I couldn’t

even continue the metaphor sensibly: my world seemed to close in on me, stifling all thought.

‘Are you all right? Bad news?’ Grace was kneeling at my feet, her face full of concern.

‘It’s Richard,’ I managed to stutter out, then faltered, unable to continue.

‘Is he all right? Has something happened to him?’

‘No, no. It’s just …’ I couldn’t think how to complete this thought and again stared dumbly at

the floor.

‘Donal, why don’t you come with me into Sedbergh and pick up some provisions?’ Francis was

on his feet and at the door, Donal at his heels, before I could protest. ‘See you later. Shan’t be long.’

And they were gone, the crashing of my Mini’s gears briefly breaking the silence.

Grace’s lips twitched. ‘He thinks he’s Stirling Moss, but he drives more like Mr Pastry.’ She

peered up into my face. ‘What’s Richard said to upset you so much?’

‘It’s not his fault. It’s just that I was hoping …’ I realized that I wasn’t sure what I had been

hoping, just that things wouldn’t change in the way they had. ‘Here, read it.’ I pointed out the

passage about Chloe, and she read it slowly.

‘Ah, I see – but you know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’

‘Yes. That it’s nothing to do with me who Richard lives with, and that I should be happy for

him.’

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 ‘I wouldn’t put it quite so baldly, but yes, you certainly should be happy for him, shouldn’t

you?’

‘Yes, of course, and I am – or I will be when I’ve got over the shock.’

‘What shock, Alan? You weren’t a couple, were you?’

There it was. I looked down at Grace and had to look away immediately; the kind concern – the

love, even – that filled her face overwhelmed me with pity for myself. I didn’t want to break down,

so I took a deep breath and got to my feet. ‘I’d feel stronger with another cup of tea inside me, I

think.’

We both went into the kitchen and stood about, smiling awkwardly at each other, while the kettle

boiled, then returned to the sitting room with our tea.

‘So what were you hoping, then? You’ll feel better if you say it out loud, I think.’ Grace was

now seated in an armchair opposite me, rather than kneeling on the floor; I was on the couch, my

tea on a table in front of me.

‘Perhaps I should be lying full-length, since you’re going to psychoanalyse me,’ I said.

Grace shook her head. ‘I’m not going to psychoanalyse you. I’m just returning a favour, if you

like. You’ve been very good to Francis and me in the last six months or so, in your own quiet way,

and so I want to be good to you, now you need someone to talk to.’

I took another deep breath. ‘OK: what was I hoping for? I suppose that things would go on as

they were before.’

‘And how was that – in what way were you happy then that you’re not able to be now?’ Grace

pulled a face. ‘Sorry, that’s convoluted – I’m always very conscious of grammar and syntax when I

talk to you, Alan – but you know what I mean.’

‘No, it’s a good question. I suppose I thought … It’s not that I’m in love with Richard, or want

to be in a couple with him, necessarily … it’s just that I thought he’d always be there, somehow,

and it wasn’t until he withdrew himself, so to speak, that I realized I was depending on him. Does

that make sense?’

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 ‘Perfect sense. But has he ever given you any reason to think he feels the same way about you?’

This was another moment of truth: Grace’s methodical, gentle probing had exposed a nerve.

‘No.’ There it was. It was almost banal in its simplicity: I loved him; he didn’t love me – I might

not be ‘in love’, as I’d already claimed, but I’d allowed myself to invest all sorts of inappropriate

emotions in my relationship with Richard that were not reciprocated.

‘Do you wish he had felt the same way?’

‘Not really, no.’ Although Grace looked a little sceptical at this, I was suddenly confident it was

the truth, as far as I could ascertain it in my befuddled unhappy state. ‘I’m not really a sexual

animal – sorry, that sounds cruder than I’d intended – I mean––’

‘I think I know what you mean. You’re a very private person. You’re not happy in your own

skin; I’ve noticed this. Desire confuses you; it’s almost distasteful to you, isn’t it?’ She smiled at me

over her teacup. ‘Have you ever had a sexual relationship, Alan?’

The very directness of this disarmed me. I answered automatically, without thinking. ‘No.’

‘But you’ve wanted to?’

‘At school I thought I wanted to have sex with girls.’

‘You thought? What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, I suppose it was because it was expected, somehow. Everyone else seemed to

be doing it, no problems at all.’

‘I think you’d be surprised at how many problems they had, but never mind: we’re talking about

you. Were you sure you were heterosexual?’

Another nub. ‘I didn’t really consider the alternative, I suppose; I just knew––’

‘You were not like other men.’ Grace adopted a mock-professorial tone for this remark. I was

grateful for the light relief it injected into what was becoming an increasingly painful conversation

for me.

I laughed. ‘I certainly didn’t go around boasting about sexual conquests like a lot of the other

boys.’

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 ‘That would have been difficult, though, in your case, wouldn’t it?’ Grace was serious again.

‘Yes. I suppose I’ve always been frightened of committing myself – declaring myself to

someone in the hope that they’d … Oh, I don’t know – I’ve never really wanted sex – not like other

people seemed to want sex, anyhow.’

‘I’m surprised you weren’t tempted by the priesthood, Alan. You’re describing the state of mind

Francis is always claiming is at the root all the Catholic Church’s problems. You’ve talked to him

about it?’

‘Not on a personal level, no – we’ve talked about celibacy, naturally.’

Grace allowed herself another of her kind, knowing smiles. ‘Naturally. You see, there’s the

problem. It’s more “natural”, in the Catholic Church, to talk about celibacy than about good

straightforward honest sex. You see: you’re wincing as I say that. I’ll say it again: good

straightforward honest sex. That’s better: you took that like a man.’ She laughed out loud.

‘No, you’re right, of course. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen sex as good, let alone honest, and

certainly not straightforward.’

‘And there we have it. You know Francis thinks that Pym recruited you because he thought you

might have a vocation to the priesthood?’

I was dumbfounded by this. ‘What?’

Grace chuckled wickedly, an oddly attractive sound starting deep in her throat. ‘He spotted the

troubled celibate in you, I expect. Perfect priesthood material.’

I gaped at her like a beached fish. ‘I did wonder why he was so keen on having me,’ I eventually

managed to say.

‘So to speak. Well, I think that’s enough for this session, don’t you? I think we’ve made good

progress. Make another appointment with my receptionist on the way out.’ Grace looked over at the

table under the window. ‘Now where’s that Ngaio Marsh I was reading?’

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33

I felt drained and oddly vulnerable after my talk with Grace, but Francis and Donal were supremely

tactful on their return, restricting themselves to a little light-hearted teasing on the subject of my

reputation in the Sedbergh shop they’d visited to buy groceries.

‘She identified us straight away as part of the family “that nice young man” – that’s you, Alan,

apparently – is staying with. I was tempted to tell her that I’d been kidnapped by a renegade priest

and his concubine to make them appear innocent, allow them to mix with decent society.’ Donal

shouted this to us through the door of the kitchen, where he’d been busy unpacking the shopping,

then joined us in the sitting room. ‘Not that far from the truth, really,’ he added as he sat down.

I could see that both Grace and Francis wanted to reprove Donal for his facetiousness, but were

wary of presenting him with an opportunity to exercise it on them.

‘I think you may be training them to accept you,’ I said. ‘You might be OK in Ireland after all.’

‘I don’t know about that: they’ve fallen into a lot of bad habits with their previous owners.’

We fell into an easy silence, reading thrillers while the rain lashed against the windows; nothing

was said about my letter until lunchtime.

‘Grace tells me you’re not going to be able to stay with Richard in London when you go back,

Alan’ – this must have been the murmuring I heard from the sitting room while I was in the kitchen

preparing the lunch – ‘Are you going to try to find a job there anyhow?’ Francis was clearly trying

to divest this enquiry of all emotional significance, make the discussion of my plans a purely

practical matter.

I was grateful, as always, for his straightforward approach to things. ‘Yes, I’m going to go back

to the wordface, I think. I always enjoyed it. Can’t think why I left in the first place.’

Actually, now I’d faced my feelings in my talk with Grace, I suddenly knew exactly why I’d

been so keen to take Pym’s offer and get away from London: I’d been frightened of falling too hard

for someone I knew in my heart was not constitutionally capable of reciprocating … I shook off

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these thoughts – I could leave them for later – and went on, ‘Rockburgh just ended up with me

changing one set of ungrateful, illiterate oafs for another.’

Donal looked minded to protest at this, but subsided at a silent signal from Francis. ‘Authors

surely must be grateful to have their books put into print, aren’t they?’ This, I suspected, was in the

nature of an open goal; Francis had left me unmarked in the penalty area with the goalkeeper off his

line.

I gratefully took the chance he’d given me. ‘Huh! You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but authors

aren’t even capable of being grateful to their own dedicatees.’ I told them the story of the author

who’d decided to add a dedication to his novel, already at page-proof stage, by scribbling ‘I’d like

to dedicate this novel to my wife, but if there isn’t room, it doesn’t really matter’ on the relevant

page of his proofs. ‘I caught this only at the very last moment, printed complete, word for word, in

all its glory, in the prelims of his novel as it was going to press. I was very tempted to let it go, but

took pity on him at the last moment and crossed out the last bit. He never knew, of course – and this

was a man who’d wanted to mess about with his book, swap chapters around, move everything to

fit new stuff in, right through the proofreading process. I tried to accommodate him at first, but

eventually snapped and told him I couldn’t change anything else, because there wasn’t room in the

book’s finished form. “Couldn’t you move the first page across into that blank page opposite it?”’ I

imitated the author’s wheedling tone. ‘“No, the first page is always a recto,” I told him. Do you

know what he said?’ I adopted an insultingly patronizing tone. ‘“So you say.”’ I laughed – though

Donal, for one, seemed unsure why this anecdote was supposed to be funny, and both Francis and

Grace were looking a little anxious on my behalf – and ploughed on. ‘Richard’s even worse than

me, mind you: I once heard him shout in triumph after a phone call, and asked him why he was

looking so happy all of a sudden – he’d been worried all morning about a puff he’d written for a

book in our catalogue, in which he’d misspelled the author’s name. “I’ve just been told he’s died.”

That was why he shouted, apparently. “Considerate of him,” I said. “Yes, but you can’t depend on

it, can you?” He was really gloomy about it – seemed to see it as just another example of authors’

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general fecklessness.’ I stopped babbling, uneasily conscious that I’d lost my audience some time

back.

‘Why don’t you boys all go for a long walk this afternoon?’ suggested Grace brightly, breaking

an awkward silence. ‘Leave me here in peace with my Ngaio Marsh.’

‘I’d like to stay, too, Ma, if you’ll have me,’ said Donal, adopting the lost-puppy look that he

knew infuriated her.

I was tempted to turn to Francis and say something along the lines of ‘We can go alone: give us

a chance to have a nice long talk about celibacy’, but I realized I was in danger of becoming even

more hysterical, so I shut up, hoping he’d rescue me from my embarrassment.

He didn’t fail me. ‘Fancy showing me some birdlife, Alan? Didn’t you say something about a

thrush-thingy you wanted to see?’

‘The ring ouzel, that was. They should be here by now, but I’ve not seen one. They’re very like

blackbirds, mind you, from a distance.’ This was safe ground at last. ‘I’ll get my binoculars.’

By the time I came back downstairs, Francis was ready to venture out into the storm. ‘We may

be some time,’ he said to Grace and Donal.

‘No hurry,’ said Grace, opening her book and sighing contentedly. Donal just beamed at us and

raised a thumb in the air to signify that all was well in his world.

‘Heartless beast, that boy,’ said Francis as we strode away from the cottage.

‘“To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure––”’

‘Oh shut up! Who’s that now, Lear, is it? Someone in a lot more trouble than you, anyhow.’

Francis laughed at my hurt expression. ‘Cheer up, Alan. You’ll be back being a dogsbody for

illiterates in no time. You’re young and resilient – and you have a skill. Look at me: middle-aged,

defrocked, disgraced, no skills except an ability to argue the hind legs off donkeys.’ He laughed

sardonically. ‘Might come in handy in Ireland, come to think of it.’

‘Are you definitely going there, then? All three of you?’

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 ‘Looks that way, yes. Michael’s sorted us out a place to live. There’s a cottage on the mainland

going, apparently, opposite where he lives, with a plot of land attached. Sort of smallholding.’

‘Mainland? He lives on an island?’

‘Sort of. It’s attached to the mainland by a road, but it’s on a small island between Skibbereen

and Baltimore, in Cork. Our place is on the road. I’d better buy some wellingtons and lots of

waterproofs.’

‘Donal told me Michael’s living with a woman called Bridget, a priest’s housekeeper?’

Francis laughed briefly. ‘He is. Has been for a good while now. It’s why he’s sympathetic to us,

I imagine. He’s had to brave the local gossip, not to mention defy the Church. A small matter of his

ex-wife returning with a priest in tow isn’t going to damage him any more than he is already. And

he’ll be able to see more of Donal, which is something he wants badly. They get on well.’

‘People don’t need to know you’re a priest, do they?’

‘They’ll find out, don’t you worry. There’s a bush telegraph over there, rather like the one that

operates at Rockburgh. For a start, the phone system’s run by the village postmistress, who listens

in to all the calls. They’re not all Catholic, mind you, down there: the local nobs are mainly Church

of Ireland. Michael’s a bit of an exception.’

‘I thought everyone was Catholic in Ireland – or the vast majority anyhow.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about the world, isn’t there? Perhaps you should read more, Alan.

Now where are these ouzels you’re so keen on?’

We plodded through the rain in silence for a while. I stopped and scanned the horizon with my

binoculars from time to time, but my heart really wasn’t in it.

‘I hope Jim’s all right,’ I said suddenly. I told Francis about my last meeting with the

gamekeeper.

‘Another good man outmanoeuvred by the Good Fathers. We really didn’t stand a chance, did

we? Never mind: perhaps you could encourage Patrick Grayling to tell the truth about Tim’s death

in his autobiography?’

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 I shook my head. ‘Not a chance, I’m afraid. For a start, I’m not going back to that firm, and so I

won’t have a say in the book. I can’t see Richard being able to bring the subject up, either. Face it,

they’ve won. We were stupid to think we could appeal to Pym’s better nature. He doesn’t have one

– or not when he feels threatened, anyhow.’

‘Very depressing, the whole thing,’ said Francis. ‘Still, I’ve got to be strong, for Grace’s sake.

We’re going back to Rockburgh next week to pick our stuff up, did I tell you? I was hoping you’d

take us to Kendal station, Grace and me, and take Donal in your car, drop him off at the Taylors’ in

Preston – he’s staying there for a couple of days while we sort out things at Rockburgh. Then we’ll

all be off to Cork, never look back. You need to pick your tape recorder up, don’t you? Pym can’t

hold on to it, surely. Grace will get it back for you, and you can pick it up from her office, if you’re

prepared to sneak in while the Good Fathers are all occupied – lunch might be a good time, if

you’re quick.’

This seemed like a workable plan – I’d been fretting about my tape recorder, which had been

forgotten in all the hoo-ha surrounding Pond’s death and our disgrace and subsequent banishment,

and I was oddly curious to see Mrs Taylor again, to see how she’d behave in the changed

circumstances in which we all found ourselves.

We tramped on in the driving rain, each lost in his own thoughts. Ring ouzels were conspicuous

by their absence from the fells.

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34

The rest of this impromptu Easter break passed in a bit of a blur as far as I was concerned. Grace

and Francis had a brief tussle with Donal over his non-attendance at Mass on Easter Sunday, but

otherwise peace and harmony reigned, at least outwardly. Inwardly, I was all turmoil, my recent

talk with Grace having churned up all manner of issues I would need to process in the coming

weeks and months; Grace and Francis, too, were clearly concealing serious doubts and worries

about their upcoming move to Ireland; Donal, although outwardly cheerful for most of the time,

would occasionally lapse into gloom, disappearing upstairs, presumably to brood alone in his

boxroom.

We had settled on the Wednesday after Easter as the day of our departure, and it dawned bright

and sunny.

‘Typical!’ Donal grumbled as he came downstairs. ‘First decent day, and we have to leave.’

‘Never mind. You’ll be able to go for long walks along the Ribble with David if it stays like

this.’ I was in the kitchen making breakfast. ‘We need to finish off these eggs, so you’ll have to

have at least two – do you want them boiled, fried or scrambled?’

Donal sighed wearily. ‘I used to think Mrs Taylor was the world’s worst cook; now I’m not so

sure.’

‘At least your teeth are safe with my cooking.’

‘There is that, I suppose. All you need to eat your meals is a fork––’

‘And non-functioning taste buds,’ Francis finished the thought from the sitting room.

‘Do they still use the spoon and pusher?’ Grace asked. ‘Do you remember, Donal, when you

were little, you had a spoon and pusher?’

Donal rolled his eyes at me and went back into the sitting room, where he entered into a spirited

discussion of superannuated cutlery, which quickly degenerated into a litany of complaints about

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missing childhood toys and favourite clothes, all apparently thrown away by a heartless Grace the

moment Donal’s back was turned.

‘Breakfast’s ready! Everything must go.’ I had to shout to make myself heard over the Tawneys’

dispute.

‘We’re going to be egg-bound for months to come,’ said Francis as he took his place at the

kitchen table.

‘Better than a mouthful of broken teeth,’ I said.

We spent an hour or so after breakfast tidying up the cottage and dividing up our luggage into

appropriate piles for transportation to Rockburgh (Francis and Grace), Preston (Donal) and London.

At last we had sorted it all out to our satisfaction, and I jingled my car keys at Francis and Grace.

‘I’ll take you to Kendal now, shall I?’

Francis looked around the sitting room. ‘I’ll miss this place,’ he said.

Grace came up to me and hugged me tight to her. ‘Thank you, Alan. I don’t know what we’d

have done without you.’

‘Still been employed at Rockburgh, I expect,’ said Donal.

‘Donal!’ Francis and Grace said together.

‘See you later, Alan. ’Bye, you two – see you at Preston station on Friday.’ Donal hugged his

mother and Francis in turn, then went upstairs.

‘Do you think he’s all right?’ Grace asked Francis as we squeezed ourselves into my Mini.

‘Nothing a couple of days with Mrs Taylor won’t sort out. Just think how wonderful you’ll look

to him by Friday.’ Francis laughed sardonically.

‘I meant more generally, but you’re right. Camp Commandant Taylor might be just the thing.’

Grace settled herself in the front seat beside me, and we drove off to Kendal in thoughtful silence.

Negotiating the narrow roads of South Lakeland presented me with something of a challenge,

but I was grateful for the distraction it provided on this day of partings. I had come to depend on the

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kindness of Grace and Francis – and on the bracing effect of Donal’s cutting remarks – more than

was perhaps healthy over the past few days, and I needed to take myself in hand.

Donal was already standing on the doorstep of the cottage when I returned from Kendal. His

bags – and mine – were at his feet, ready for loading into my car.

‘I thought we’d best get off. Mrs T expects.’

I suspected Donal had wanted to spare me another emotional wrench by arranging for us to drive

straight off without my having to re-enter the cottage, and I was struck once again by his bluff good

sense and tact.

‘Absolutely. Have you left the key under the eaves?’

‘I have. Home James, and don’t spare the horses.’

I loaded our luggage into the back seat and we drove off without looking back.

‘Did they get off all right?’ Donal asked as we drove through Sedbergh.

‘They should have done by now. There was a train due straight away, so they told me not to

wait. They’ll be in Preston long before us.’

‘Do you think they’ll survive in Ireland?’

This was unexpected. ‘You’d know that better than I would – I’ve never been to Ireland. I should

think so, though; they’re well suited, don’t you think?’

‘They have religion in common, at least,’ Donal said, not without a trace of bitterness in his

voice. ‘How do people with any sense keep believing in all that?’

‘It’s a mystery; I agree. Especially for them: their religion seems to have done them nothing but

harm, insulted their relationship, rejected them … a mystery.’

‘Ma thinks Catholicism’s been perverted over the years by power-hungry men. Keeps thinking

that she can reform it from within, make it acknowledge its true nature by gently reminding it of its

roots in Christ’s teaching. It’s romantic nonsense – I think it should be abolished.’

‘The Clarissa syndrome,’ I said, then seeing Donal’s puzzlement, began to explain my theory

about the need some women seemed to have to convince themselves they’d be able to reform

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abusive partners. ‘It’s the same with Clarissa, in Richardson’s novel. She really loves Lovelace,

but––’

‘Oh please, Alan! Spare me the literary allusions. You’re right, mind you. I think it’s very

simple: she should just give up her faith, and so should Francis. They don’t seem able to, though;

it’s like a drug for them.’

‘I suppose it’s what they were born to––’

‘We managed it, though, didn’t we?’

‘Perhaps we lack a gene – the spirituality gene.’

Donal snorted. ‘Oh come on! We both love John Coltrane, don’t we? I think they’re just

frightened, religious people, of suddenly finding all bets are off, that the universe doesn’t give a fig

about them, that they have to start from scratch building up everything giving their lives meaning

… oh, I don’t know. I’d like to say we’re right, but are we really? Who’s to say that being right is

everything, anyway? Being comforted by illusion may be a better way in the end.’ He subsided into

a gloomy silence that I thought it best not to break.

He was still sunk in despondency when we arrived at the Taylors’ house, but he did his best to

rally his resources on being confronted with Mrs Taylor.

‘Donal! You’ll be wanting something hot after that long journey …’ She transferred her

attention, with an obvious effort, to me. ‘And Mr Simpson. You’ll be wanting to get off, I expect.

Long drive ahead.’

‘Actually, I’m going to Rockburgh first. Have to pick up a few things.’ I shuffled uncomfortably

under her gimlet eye.

She regarded me coldly while, behind her, David and Donal made rude faces that I attempted to

ignore. ‘Then you’ll be off back to London, will you?’ From her expression, she might have been

referring to Sodom and Gomorrah rather than our capital city.

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 ‘Yes, I should be there tonight. I’m staying with a friend very briefly, then I’ll find a flat of my

own, I expect.’ This was, I reflected, none of her damn business, but I was keen to be polite, for

Donal’s sake.

‘A shame you couldn’t manage to keep your job there, but then Rockburgh sets very high

standards, doesn’t it. Some people’ – she glanced behind her, instantly transforming her son’s

expression to one of angelic innocence – ‘just aren’t capable of …’ She didn’t complete her

sentence, out of an entirely assumed and specious tactfulness.

I ground my teeth. I was tempted to ask her if she’d managed to plant this year’s marijuana crop

yet, but instead thanked her, on Grace’s behalf, for having Donal.

‘It’s all I could do, in the circumstances, isn’t it?’ she said, exuding self-satisfaction. ‘The poor

boy’s got so much to put up with, haven’t you, Donal, love?’

Donal didn’t reply, just smiled weakly at her. It was odd to see him chastened in this way.

‘Oh, before I go, I wondered if you might be able to do me a small favour,’ I said to her. ‘I’m not

sure where I’ll be living, as I say, and I don’t want to lose touch with Donal and Grace––’

‘No, I don’t expect you do.’ She made us sound like partners in some unspeakable crime.

I hurried on. ‘No, as you say. I, er, wondered if I might send my address to David here, once it’s

sorted out, and Donal’s going to do the same for his address in Ireland. Would that be all right?’

‘Use us as a post office, by all means. No skin off my nose. Goodbye, Mr Simpson.’ And with

that, she shut the door in my face.

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35

I drove off to Rockburgh in an absolute fury. Grace’s description of Mrs Taylor as an ‘appalling

woman’ didn’t come close to my assessment of her. She was smug, self-righteous, judgemental and

– above all – staggeringly hypocritical, blithely ignoring the fact that she herself had played a

leading role in Donal’s fall from grace with her insistence that her precious David shouldn’t spend

his money on––

I swerved to avoid an oncoming car and realized I was wandering over the road’s central line in

my absorption. I determined to dismiss the maddening Mrs Taylor from my mind; a fatal accident,

no doubt, would serve only to confirm her suspicion that I was feckless and unreliable, and I didn’t

want to give her that satisfaction. I concentrated instead on my upcoming clandestine mission.

Grace had told me to slip into the College during lunch; the building was generally pretty quiet

then, and I might be able to get to and from her office without encountering anybody.

My heart lurched within me as I turned into the familiar avenue, the Lady Statue its impassive

guardian, its sodden rugby pitches bringing back memories of dismal afternoons spent breaking up

tussles between over-excited adolescents. I was tempted to turn round and drive straight off to

London, but the thought of leaving my precious tape recorder in the clutches of the Good Fathers

stiffened my resolve; its repossession would mark a minor but important victory over them, I told

myself – every time I played the Sidney Bechet tape Patrick had given me, I would be reminded of

their hypocrisy. And your doomed, futile attempt to expose it, said a mocking voice in my head as I

parked discreetly behind the church wall and hurried furtively into the College through a side door.

There was no one about on the lower gallery as I emerged on to it from the church passageway.

Grace’s office was in an old wing of the College, facing the avenue, and I hurried through a flagged

entrance hall and up a flight of stone steps to reach it before anyone emerged from lunch. I could

imagine the scene in the staff refectory all too well: the lay teachers – Flarsh, Mr Keating and all the

‘Yobboes’ – would have left for the Easter holidays, leaving a rump of toby jugs and gargoyles in

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their greasy soutanes, slurping their soup and lamenting the moral decline of the western world. Fr

Forster would be holding forth about the latest outrage reported in the Telegraph; the gargoyles

would all be nodding their agreement; Pym would be gently chastising them, posing as the

moderator. I grimaced at the thought, and knocked quietly on Grace’s door.

‘Come in.’ Such a welcome sound, Grace’s mellow voice was, after Mrs Taylor’s northern rasp.

She was sitting at her desk, sorting through papers. ‘Alan – you made it. We’ve only got here

ourselves an hour or so ago. Francis is hiding in his room – he couldn’t face the other priests.

We’ve been told we can stay until Friday as long as we’re discreet and don’t attempt to spread our

subversion among the Good Fathers.’

I noted her use of Francis and Donal’s term, and thought it a good sign. ‘You got a taxi from the

station, did you?’

Grace nodded. ‘Very expensive, it was, but I used the money Michael gave me for Donal’s

school fees. Shan’t be needing next term’s money, after all.’ She smiled up at me. ‘We’ll have to

get straight down to work once we get to Cork, though – money’s very tight, and we can’t live off

Michael all our lives.’

‘I was wondering …’ I didn’t finish this thought; it seemed indelicate, somehow, to reveal to her

that I’d been speculating about their financial survival, given Francis’s vows of poverty and Grace’s

sudden dismissal from her post.

‘Donal OK, is he, with the gorgon?’

I shuddered, and told her about Mrs Taylor’s reception of us, and of my near-accident as I’d

reflected on it.

‘You shouldn’t let her get to you like that. She’s a bitter, thwarted woman – if she’d been a man,

she’d have been a managing director by now––’

‘Or a prison governor, more like.’

We both chuckled. I had had a sudden vision of Mrs Taylor prowling the corridors of some

maximum-security establishment, and Grace had clearly conjured up something very similar.

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 ‘I’ve got your tape recorder. Fr Pym was a little reluctant to part with it, but I managed to

persuade him that he had no right to hang on to it, and you know what a stickler he is for doing

what’s right.’ She laughed briefly. It was encouraging to see her developing a layer of protective

cynicism. She was going to need it in the coming months.

‘That’s a relief, thank you.’ I took the machine from her and laid it at my feet. ‘I’ve asked Mrs

Taylor if I could give David my address in London once I’m settled. Donal’s going to send him

your address in Cork, so …’ I let the thought dangle – it suddenly seemed almost presumptuous of

me to assume we’d wish to stay in touch, given the trouble I’d landed them all in.

‘Oh, yes, I’m so glad you did that, Alan.’ She positively beamed at me. My fears melted away. ‘I

was wondering how we’d get our address to you – I didn’t want to involve Michael … That’s ideal.

We’ll send word to David as soon as we’re certain where we are. I was hoping …’ She hesitated

and looked closely at me.

‘What?’

‘I was hoping that you might be able to come over and give Donal a bit of last-minute cramming

help for his A-levels. You’ve done wonders for his Shakespeare appreciation, and he says you

speak French and could help him with his history, too.’

I was surprised – and not a little gratified – by this. ‘I’d be glad to help if I can, of course I

would. I’m not sure about the French – you speak it, too, don’t you? – but the history’s no problem.

Just let me know when you want me.’ I found myself grinning stupidly at her.

‘That’s such a relief. I don’t want us to drift apart, and neither does Francis – we’ve both become

very fond of you.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, that’s enough of that. I’d better get on sorting all

this out.’ She indicated the pile of papers on her desk.

‘OK, thanks for this, Grace.’ I picked up my tape recorder. ‘See you in Cork.’

As I made my way across the entrance hall towards the church passageway, I was suddenly

aware of someone shouting to me, something about ‘a maid’. I turned to find Mr Wolfe behind me,

puffing slightly in his effort to catch me up.

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 ‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’

‘Didn’t you know you were called that?’ he asked me, his voice low and insinuating.

‘What? I’m not sure––’

‘You surely must have heard. The boys used to call you “The Maid”. I think it was a reference to

Joan of Arc – pure, self-righteous, you know.’ He smirked at me, glad of a last opportunity to rub in

my defeat. ‘Boys are so cruel, aren’t they?’ He laughed outright at this, throwing his head back like

a pantomime villain, exposing a wet mouth filled with yellowing teeth.

‘You’d know all about that.’ This was unsatisfactory as a retort, but it was all I could think of to

say as I hurried away from him down towards the church, clutching my tape recorder.

I struggled blindly into my car, putting the tape recorder on the back seat among the litter of my

other luggage. As I drove furiously away down the avenue, I had to swerve to avoid a hunched

figure hurrying up towards the College: John, clutching his rosary beads, and muttering to himself.

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Epilogue

‘Got here all right, then?’ This was Donal’s greeting to me, around two months later, as I stood on

the threshold of his house, soaking wet but congratulating myself on having arrived there unaided

via three bus journeys from Cork harbour.

‘Fine. All the buses were really well co-ordinated.’

‘We’re not all clogs and shawls here, you know.’ Donal adopted a stern expression that was

obviously meant as an imitation of Mrs Taylor.

‘Yes you are. I saw the other passengers actually praying on the Drimoleague bus.’

‘Oh they do that, yes, I have to admit. Only on the steeper hills, though.’ He grinned, and stood

to one side to let me in. ‘You managed to decipher the Gaelic bus destinations OK?’

‘Thanks to your letter, yes. Not exactly phonetic, is it, as a language?’

‘That’s relative, surely, isn’t it?’ Grace appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea

towel. I realized I’d never actually seen her – or even thought of her – in a domestic role.

‘Let the man get in, Tawneys, before embroiling him in linguistics.’ This was Francis, following

Grace out of the kitchen. He had an apron tied round his waist.

‘New Pa’s made a vegetable stew in honour of your arrival,’ said Donal.

I suppressed my impulse to laugh at his name for Francis, unsure how satirical it was meant to

be. ‘Good. It was a long old journey. Sea was very rough from Swansea onwards, and the boat was

full of young lads gorging themselves on chips and ice cream.’

‘Which all came back to haunt them, I expect,’ said Grace. ‘There’s always someone stuffing

themselves with unsuitable food on that boat. They should search people as they come aboard.’

‘They bought it on the boat, I think,’ I said. ‘I was surprised to see palm trees in Cork. That was

very strange, given how cold and wet it was.’

‘Gulf Stream,’ said Donal. ‘Pretty mild here, compared with some parts of Ireland.’

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 ‘What ignorance, Alan. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve made a mistake asking you to tutor

Donal,’ Grace said, taking my soaking-wet coat from my shoulders and hanging it in a cupboard

under the stairs.

‘It’ll fester perfectly in there, still be nice and damp when you next want it,’ said Donal, earning

himself a gently reproving look from his mother.

‘Come and sit down, Alan. Drink?’ Grace ushered me into a chair in a small, cosy sitting room

lined with books.

‘I could murder a Scotch,’ I said.

‘Not here, you couldn’t. We only drink Jameson’s.’ Francis went over to a tray of drinks in the

corner and located a bottle.

‘Oh yes, of course. Whiskey has an “e” here, doesn’t it, and is never “Scotch”. Stupid of me.’

‘Good thing you didn’t say that in a bar. Whole place would have gone quiet. Also, another tip:

if you want a pint of beer, don’t ask for “bitter” – you’ll just get blank looks – ask for “beer”; “a

pint” is Guinness – much the best thing to order here.’ Francis brought my whiskey over and then

poured similar drinks for everyone else. ‘Sláinte.’

‘Sláinte agad-sa,’ said Donal and Grace together, raising their glasses to me.

‘We’re foreigners here, you and I,’ Francis said. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve

greeted me here with: “Ah, you’ll be Mrs Tawney’s English priest now, are you?” I just smile and

say I’m not a priest any more, and they look suitably shocked, want to cross themselves.’ He smiled

ruefully.

‘They’ll get used to you eventually, Francis,’ said Grace. ‘They’re already calling you Mr

Jackson in shops, aren’t they?’

‘Among other things,’ said Donal.

‘So, how have you been, Alan? Have you settled back in London all right?’ Grace, obviously

keen to change the subject, looked brightly across at me over her whiskey glass.

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 ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ve got a tiny flat in Crouch End – well, Stroud Green, really – it’s closer to

Finsbury Park than Highgate.’

‘I’ve heard of Highgate; the other names mean nothing to hicks like us,’ said Francis.

‘Sorry, yes. Anyway, I’m OK, that’s the main thing. I’ve managed to get a job in another

publishing firm. Not the one I was in with Richard, but my old boss, Jane, recommended me to a

publishing friend of hers and got me in.’ I found I could now say Richard’s name without the lurch

in the stomach that used to accompany it.

‘They were OK with you coming over here, though?’ Grace looked worried.

‘Oh yes, they said they can do without me for a couple of weeks. They have freelance

proofreaders who can do my work for a bit.’

Grace looked satisfied with this, so I said to Donal, ‘I’ve got my hands on some old exam

papers, so we can go through them and see what comes up.’

‘Oh joy,’ he said.

So for the next ten days or so, Donal and I went through these exam papers while Francis and

Grace dug, fed chickens, went in to Skibbereen to shop, and avoided all mention of Rockburgh.

On my last afternoon before my departure back to Swansea, though, instead of tutoring – ‘My

work here is done,’ I said, when Donal managed to explain the causes of the English Civil War, the

allegorical significance of the plague in La Peste and the relevance of deliquescence imagery in

Antony and Cleopatra in a single day – we all went for a farewell walk around Michael’s island

home. He was away, attending to legal business in Bantry, so we went right up to his house and

peered in through the windows like tourists.

‘Big place,’ I said unnecessarily, once we’d done a circuit of the grounds and plunged into the

woods surrounding them.

‘One of the oldest families in Ireland,’ said Grace.

‘And I’m the only heir. What have we come to?’ Donal looked cheerful enough, but there was

genuine melancholy in his words.

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 ‘Aren’t you going to carry on the great Tawney tradition?’ I asked this before I considered

whether it was wise to broach what was clearly a painful subject.

‘Shouldn’t think so. There’s my lack of religion, for a start. You need to be Catholic to be a true

Tawney.’ Donal looked a little shame-faced as he said this, as if he felt he’d failed some obscure

test.

‘The IRA might be a problem, too,’ said Francis unexpectedly. ‘Far too many links with

England, the Tawneys have, for Republican tastes.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Grace, placatingly. She obviously felt the need to lighten our mood. ‘I

bet you’re looking forward to getting back to London, aren’t you, Alan?’

‘I’ve enjoyed it here,’ I replied. ‘Seeing you settled makes me feel less guilty.’

They all looked at me enquiringly.

‘I keep thinking you’d all be a lot better off if you hadn’t had to leave Rockburgh – and it was

me who brought that about, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m pretty certain I would have got myself expelled sooner or later,’ said Donal. ‘I always hated

the place. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Thanks for that – but you’d all have been able to leave in your own good time had I not

blundered about trying to––’

‘Alan, don’t! We knew what we were doing. We’re all adults here. We were just keeping our

heads down, really, feeling guilty, hoping we could sneak away without a fuss. You made us face

things we knew were going on, but had never had the gumption to do anything about.’ Grace

grimaced. ‘That’s ungrammatical isn’t it?’ She laughed. ‘See how you’ve improved us! And I’m

sure Donal will do well in his exams, so don’t worry.’

‘You know who I met in the corridor outside your office that day when I came back to pick up

my tape recorder?’ I had not mentioned this meeting up to now, but I felt a perverse need to do so

before I left. ‘Mr Wolfe.’

There was silence at this.

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 ‘He taunted me about my nickname.’ I could tell by their strained silence that they were all

aware of what this name was. Donal in particular looked extremely uncomfortable. ‘It’s all right. I

can see you wouldn’t have wanted to tell me about it. I can’t hold that against you.’

There was another uncomfortable silence, which Grace eventually broke. ‘I’m sure we all saw

how cruel and spiteful the name was. I’m not surprised Mr Wolfe wanted to taunt you with it –

horrid of him.’

‘I’m sorry I brought it up, but––’

‘You wanted to tell us it no longer applies?’ Francis looked hopeful.

‘Still looking, I’m afraid …’ I now really wished I hadn’t brought it up.

‘Among men or women?’ asked Donal.

‘I’m not telling you – none of your business. Isn’t that a long-eared owl in that tree?’

‘They’ll have to be registered blind, though – that we do know.’

‘Donal!’ said Francis and Grace, in perfect unison. Donal rolled his eyes.

We walked on round the island until darkness fell, and then returned to the mainland.

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