A Future Arrived (15 page)

“I had a fine time last night,” she said easily, sitting in the chair facing his desk.

“So did I. I like old pubs … places with character.”

“We should do it again. I understand there's an inn near Dorking where Nelson used to stay with Lady Hamilton.”

“Yes. It's famous for its beef and kidney pies … and a beer the monks brew at Pebble Coombe. I'll take you there, if you'd like.”

“Lovely! When?”

“Well …” He felt flustered. “Soon, perhaps.” He leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling. “I need some advice … this Ramsay business. Putting our best foot forward is easier said than done. I took a hard look at the school today, trying to see the place from T. C.'s point of view. A view not much different from my father's, I would imagine, and Lord knows I've heard his comments over the years.”

“What exactly did you find to be the matter?”

“The very things that make us unique … the freedom of individual expression and dress … the total air of nonconformity about the place. Wallis, as only one example, was teaching his geometry class this morning on the west lawn, using string tied to croquet stumps. The class lounging about, laughing and joking, dressed every which way. Some still in their pajamas.”

“It's a bright class all the same. Untidy except in mind. I would think that angles made with twine would be easier to comprehend than lines drawn on a blackboard. You could point out to Mr. Ramsay that Andrew Wallis may look rather eccentric in his shabby blazer and cricket cap but that he once chaired the mathematics department at the University of Glasgow and did not leave under a cloud to come here.”

Charles waved a dismissing hand. “It's the tableau I'm referring to … the effect such a scene would have on Ramsay. So totally alien from his concept of a
proper
school.”

Marian studied her fingernails. “If the scene is wrong, change the scene. An old saying in the theater.”

“I gathered as much.”

“It would seem to me that the only possible way to create the
proper
impression is to turn to theater for help.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow you.”

“It's quite simple. We put on a kind of play.”

“A
play?
”

“Tom Brown's Schooldays … the Jolly Chaps at Greyfriars … the Eton boating song fondly remembered. That sort of thing. Children are natural actors and I can't see how we could go wrong. I'll take charge of it because I'm the obvious choice with my background. Wardrobe will be a slight problem, but then he knows we don't wear uniforms here.” She stood up abruptly. “Not much time if we want perfection when the curtain rises on Saturday. I'll discuss my idea with the soviet right away. I know they'll jump at it.”

Charles was leaning forward now, staring at her. “I don't have the foggiest notion of what you're talking about.”

“Never mind. Just wait for the matinee and be pleasantly surprised.” She headed for the door, then paused and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Though we will need you. The lead role. The part calls for a tall, handsome, wise, and compassionate headmaster type. Yes, I believe you'll do nicely.”

“I'll be damned,” he said as she left the room. Simpson had called her a “spirited” young woman. That was certainly an understatement.

W
HEN THE BLACK
Daimler rolled sedately up the drive at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning, the front doors of Burgate House opened and a file of boys and girls emerged walking two by two. They fairly gleamed in the morning sun with shiny faces, washed hair, polished shoes, and neat clothing. They were led by Mr. Simpson, splendid in the flowing black gown he had not worn since his years as a university don. Master and pupils nodded respectfully to the occupant of the car and continued their silent, ordered way across the gravel drive toward the far side of the building.

“Rather neatly turned out, I must say,” T. C. Ramsay remarked, more to himself than to his chauffeur.

The hall clock had just finished striking eleven when Charles had seen the car coming up the drive.

“He's here,” he had said to Marian Halliday. She had then told Simpson to move his group out. The forty or so children, who had been chatting and laughing among themselves, had fallen silent and marched out of the hall as actors onto a stage, with all the solemnity and pomp expected of their roles.

“Right on time, Mr. Ramsay,” Charles said as he greeted the man.

“Punctuality is my obsession, sir.” He drew a gold watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. “This shouldn't take too long. I'm expected in Guildford at one thirty.” He closed the watch cover with a snap. “Well, let's get on with it.”

The tour of the school began with a visit to the soviet in their chambers, where beef bouillon and biscuits were served. Extra chairs and a table had been brought into the room to give it a more businesslike atmosphere and the members conducted themselves with the poise of barristers.

“Soviet,”
said T. C. Ramsay with a scowl. “Not the most pleasant-sounding word. At least to
me
.”

“Only a word,” Charles said. “When John Mastwick founded the school in nineteen nineteen he let the children pick the name for the governing body. They could just as easily have chosen
parliament
, or
congress
, but they wanted something more modern and daring.”

“To shock the establishment, I presume.”

“Precisely. But what's in a name? It's the purpose that counts.”

T. C. Ramsay asked a few pointed questions regarding the functions and duties of the soviet, listening attentively as they were explained, and seemed pleased with the answers.

“Novel, what? A true democratic body at work. And a most pleasant room in which to conduct business.”

No one mentioned that he was standing on Lenin's carpet.

The dormitories—no more than four beds to a room—were pristine with not so much as a stray sock left lying about. In the study halls and classrooms the students sat in quiet groups, reading or writing in their notebooks. And from the chapel came the sweet sound of the choir at practice.

Mr. Simpson, imposing in his gown, came in on cue and offered to show the new science laboratory. And then T. C., visibly impressed by the lab, wanted to walk around on his own and “poke the nose here and there.” He found nothing to put it out of joint.

“Quite impressive, Greville,” he said as Charles walked beside him toward his car. “Not always so neat and tidy, I would imagine.”

“Few schools are. Even Archdean.”

“Visiting-day behavior. I know what you mean.” He paused, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. “I'm a cautious man. I approached the idea of Derek entering here the way I would approach an application for a loan. I made a few discreet inquiries. Your school may have its detractors, but also its share of friends. I was surprised to discover that a member of my club, the managing director of the Manchester and Midland Bank, had sent his grandson here.”

“John Laird. He's at Oxford now.”

“You may have Derek. Let us say for a year … possibly more if I see a marked improvement in him. I still have hopes that he will be capable of enjoying the public school experience one day, but it's the boy's happiness and well being that is my primary concern at the moment. I'll send him down by train on Monday. I will ring first and perhaps you could meet him at the station.”

“Of course.”

“Though God knows he could find his own way.”

T
HERE WAS A
picnic in Leith Wood that afternoon, a closing-the-show party, Marian Halliday called it. It was a joyous, boisterous event, marred only by Valerie A'Dean-Spender falling out of a tree, cutting her leg and spraining her arm. Not a child to suffer in silence, her howls and wails coming from the depths of the wood had sent everyone fanning out through the dense stands of oak and beech to find her. Charles carried her back to the school for iodine, sticking plaster, and a sling.

“I must be getting home now,” Marian said after helping Matron with the first aid. “I have my cat to feed.”

“I'm sorry you have to go,” Charles said. He smiled warmly at her as they walked down the corridor from Matron's room. “Everything worked out marvelously—thanks in no small part to you.”

“Oh, I think he'd made up his mind. We could have been running around in paint and feathers and he'd have placed Derek here.”

Charles laughed. “Paint, perhaps … no feathers.”

“Definitely
not
feathers,” she agreed. “Look here, if you have nothing better to do tonight why not take pot luck with me? There must be something in the larder I could whip into a meal.”

“I would like that,” he said without hesitation. “Very much.”

She had bought one of the older cottages in Abingdon, a small but solid structure with fieldstone walls and a slate roof set in the midst of a rambling garden choked with flowers and wind-tattered yew. Her huge ginger cat waddled down a garden path to greet them as they got out of the car.

“Hello, Tartuffe,” she called out.

“Unusual name for an English cat,” Charles remarked.

“I was designing a Molière play when I found him. He was just a kitten then … skin and bones and chewed about by the Covent Garden toms. He's filled out in the past five years.”

“Filled out? He's a horse!”

The cat trailed them into the house and sat patiently beside his empty feeding bowl in the kitchen.

“You might fix some drinks,” Marian said as she picked up the cat dish and placed it on the sideboard. “You'll find a cocktail cabinet in the parlor.”

The cottage had been decorated with the elegant simplicity of a modern London flat. Bright paintings and watercolors lined the white walls.

“You have a charming house,” he said, handing her a drink.

“Thank you. It was terribly ‘olde gifte shoppe' when I first saw it. All chintz and brass hangings. The owners were dismayed when I told them I didn't want the furnishings.” She raised her glass to him. “Here's how.”

“And to you. For your successful pantomime this morning.”

“My pleasure. In fact, it started the wheels turning. There's something wondrously picturesque about the school. The building, the orchard … the old courtyard and the lawns. Can't you just imagine
Hamlet
or
Macbeth
played against such a setting? A Shakespeare festival in the summer, out of doors—a professional troupe, mind you. Split the box office. How does that strike you as a fund raiser?”

He almost choked on his gin and tonic. “You're incorrigible. You'll have us selling home-made jams next.”

She sat on a sofa and cradled her glass in both hands. “I have a practical mind. It's from growing up on the genteel edge of poverty. I still think it's a good idea. Something the Old Vic might go for … two weeks every August. Draw the holiday crowds. Become an established institution in a few years.”

“You miss the theater, don't you?”

“Some aspects of it. Working with certain directors I respected … reading glowing comments on my costume designs in reviews. The cast parties in Soho. I don't miss the shallow little friendships and the constant bickering and character knifing that went with it. But sometimes I think of going back. I had an offer just last week … a revival of a Shaw play at the Lyric in September.”

He took a calm swallow of his drink. “We would hate to lose you.”

“I'd rather hate to go, to tell you the truth. I'm content. A few days teaching, then puttering about here with my painting. And besides, Tartuffe would loathe returning to London. He's quite the country gentleman now.”

She fixed a supper of cold chicken, potted ham, mustard pickles and a salad which he helped her pluck fresh from the garden. She did not employ a maid, she said, because maids had a distressing habit of dusting her paintings with oily polish rags. And as for a cook, she had never found one yet who could cook as well as she. She waved a chicken wing. “Not that this poor bird is any example. I studied for a year in Paris … at the Comédie … and shared digs with an American girl who was studying at the Cordon Bleu. I'll fix you a
poitrine de veau farcie Gascogne
one night that will reduce you to tears. And my
canard à la Normande
will send you straight to paradise.” She nibbled at the wing. “Have another glass of plonk.”

“Plonk” was a chianti which she bought from a shop in Soho in gallon jugs encased in wicker. Red wine with chicken seemed a heresy to Charles, but after two glasses of the stuff it began to take on a mellow affability. He felt mellow himself, totally at ease. He sipped his wine and watched her as she talked, the lovely, expressive face, her long, slim-fingered hands moving to emphasize each word—gestures more Gallic than North London Irish. She had changed before dinner into American-style slacks and a blue cotton jersey. He watched her as she cleared away the dishes and carried them into the kitchen—slim hips and long legs, breasts moving softly beneath the vivid blue cloth.