The Dreaming Suburb (11 page)

Nothing did happen immediately. When Mr. Little discovered that he no longer held the cane it crossed his mind that the stick must have caught in something—he could not imagine what—as he raised it above his head. Instinctively he turned to see what inanimate object had cheated him of the first blow. It never occurred to him that the cane had been torn from his hand by a human being. He had been a schoolmaster nearly forty years, and during that period he must have raised his cane a hundred thousand times without anything like this happening. When he swung round, and met Bernard's unblinking stare, he still did not connect the boy standing there with the loss of the cane, and addressed him simply because he realised that this boy must have been the nearest eyewitness to the improbable occurrence.

“What... what happened to my cane?” he demanded, and
as he shaped the words something in the boy's sullen expression gave him an inking of the incredible truth.

Bernard's gaze did not waver. “You can't do that,” he said levelly. “Boxer wasn't moving. He stopped, soon as the whistle blew, soon as he could!”

Mr. Little stood stock still. There was a faint roaring sound in his ears, and the close-packed ranks of the boys swam a little before his eyes. It was an old, familiar warning. He was due for a cramp at any moment, but he mastered himself with great effort, pressing his left hand hard against the taut muscles of his stomach.

“You ... you
snatched
it!” he gibbered, “you ... you
snatched
it from me?”

“He wasn't moving, he stopped when the whistle blew,” repeated Bernard, doggedly.

Boxer had now straightened up, and was massaging his crimson ear.

“I wasn't, neither,” he corroborated flatly.

A strangled, inarticulate sound issued from Mr. Little's moist lips. It sounded vaguely like the word “snatch”, but it might have been anything.

Suddenly, unexpected corroboration came from another source. The small boy whom Boxer had flattened decided to defend his own honour, and deny in advance any possible claim of “weak horses”, a claim that would have undoubtedly been made by Boxer's team, had the whistle not sounded when it did.

“He fell off,” said the small boy, adding grudgingly, “but he stopped falling, soon as the whistle blew, I
sore
it!”

For a moment it seemed to those watching that Mr. Little was considering the scientific aspect of this remarkable assertion, that he was, in effect, trying very hard to picture to himself a boy's body defying the laws of gravity in a praiseworthy attempt to obey his headmaster's injunction to the very letter.

Then two things happened simultaneously. Mr. Little's first spasm doubled him up like a jack-knife, and the ranks surrounding the group suddenly found courage in their numbers and anonymity.

They began to groan and hiss, first a few, well away at the
back, and then all of them, even those standing directly under Mr. Little's eye.

The sound of their own voices encouraged them. In a moment the groans became shouts and catcalls; then they stopped hissing, and began to laugh, and thump one another, to hop about exultantly, point directly at the gasping figure of Mr. Little in their midst, and vie with one another in the violence of the personal abuse they hurled at him.

Then, as the first wave of pain receded, and Mr. Little half-straightened himself, a tall boy, known as Lofty Gibson, recognised as one of the more daring spirits, sang out:

“Shorty's got the belly-ache! Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, and the cry was immediately taken up on all sides, until every boy in the enclosure was hopping up and down to the rhythm of “Shorty's got the belly-ache!”, shouted at the top of his voice.

For a period of about five minutes the entire school drank deeply of the wine of revolution. It was very intoxicating, and they savoured every sip. For all who were present it was to prove the high spot of their stay at Havelock Park School, and those that took part never forgot the incident. Years afterwards, when one Havelock Road old boy of this cadre encountered another he would always say: “Remember the revolution?” It became a kind of pass-word among them, and those who were too old or too young to have witnessed it regarded it as having established an epoch in the history of the school, so that Havelock Road events were always labelled “Before the Revolution”, and “After the Revolution”.

Yet it all ended rather lamely.

From the staff-room window, Mr. Porless, the second master, and deputy Head during Mr. Little's periodical spells of absence, put through a panic telephone call to one of the regular inspectors, with whom he had recently had a guarded conversation on the subject of Mr. Little's fitness to command. The inspector, who lived in the Lower Road, owned a motor-cycle, and arrived on the spot within ten minutes of the outbreak. He was an ex-regular officer in the Buffs, and his experienced eye took in the scene the moment he had parked his machine against the railings. The boys nearest the road ceased to chant as soon as the inspector appeared, and
when he climbed upon the brick base of the iron gates, and roared “Shut up!”, in a voice that had terrified recruits in a dozen base camps, and on hill-station parade-grounds, the chanting ceased altogether and there was a general scuttle for the classrooms. In less than a minute the yard was empty of everyone except Mr. Little, the inspector, and the twins, with a breathless Mr. Porless peeping from the main door.

Bernard stood his ground, his cool brain already grappling with the various repercussions he might expect, and Boxer remained because Bernard had given him no alternative lead. The inspector was an observant man, and noticed that the boy against the railings had a crimson ear. He looked from the ear to Mr. Little, now struggling with his third cramp.

“How did this idiotic business begin?” he demanded, and when Mr. Little seemed incapable of answering, he turned towards the fair-haired boy, who was still standing stiffly to attention, immediately behind the headmaster.

“He was bashing my brother for moving,” said Bernard, in a curiously flat tone. “He never did move. He stopped, soon as the whistle blew!”

“That's right, sir,” said Boxer; “then they all started shouting!”

At last Mr. Little found his voice. He straightened himself and began to speak in a gobbling, high-pitched voice: “He snatched the cane ... he snatched it ...” but the inspector now turned to Mr. Porless, who had at last nerved himself to leave the safety of the buildings.

“Did you see it begin, Mr. Porless?” he asked briefly.

Mr. Porless was perspiring freely. He looked even less in command of himself than the headmaster.

“Well, no, sir ... not exactly ... they ... they ... suddenly seemed to ... er ... get out of hand. I thought I'd better ring ... there was nobody else.”

“You did perfectly right,” said the inspector crisply. “We'd better all go to the study, and someone had better make arrangement to get Mr. Little home immediately.”

He turned to Bernard, as Mr. Porless gingerly took hold of his chief's arm.

“I shall want you two. You'd better come along with me now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bernard mildly. “Come on, Boxer.”

Five hundred pairs of eyes watched the little procession trail across the playground, and disappear through the main door.

“Lumme!” said Lofty Gibson, climbing down from his observation post on the radiator of Standard Six, “It'll be bloody Borstal for them two, you see if it ain't!”

There was no reaction to this prophecy among Standard Six. Now that they were back in the classrooms, individualised by their desks, stripped of the security they had enjoyed when they were pressed closely against one another in the tumultuous circle about the groaning headmaster, they felt naked and defenceless. Hysterical elation had ebbed from all but Lofty Gibson, and would ebb from him after a few minutes' reflection.

They looked at one another and giggled nervously. Mr. Porless waddled in and rapped his ruler on the desk.

3

It was fortunate for the twins that Mr. Goreham, the ex-officer Schools Inspector, had had his eye on Havelock Road for some time past.

Having disposed of the incoherent Mr. Little, who was ultimately taken home by ambulance, and having on his own resonsibility installed Mr. Porless as deputy Head until further notice, he set about seeking corroboration of Bernard Carver's laconic account of the mutiny.

A conscientious and thoughtful man, he was tremendously impressed by Bernard's manner. The child showed no sense of contrition, or anxiety over reprisals, but simply reiterated his story without the slightest attempt to elaborate. Boxer had not moved. Boxer had been unjustly set upon. He, Bernard, had checked a renewed assault by quietly relieving Mr. Little of his cane, and throwing it into Cawnpore Road, where it was subsequently retrieved by the householder of Number Seventeen.

All Mr. Goreham could extract from Boxer was three words: “That's right, sir!” and these he repeated as often as Bernard repeated his modest outline of events.

Soon there was not the slightest doubt in Mr. Goreham's mind that the twins were speaking the plain truth, and his heart warmed towards them. Like the women of the Avenue, he was touched, deep down, by their mutual devotion, and it seemed to him that if he could confirm their story he might improve upon the occasion by disposing of Mr. Little once and for all.

This proved a good deal easier than he anticipated.

The housewife who returned the cane provided further corroboration, and so, with a little judicious prompting, did two of the oppressed female staff. Their statements opened the door to further investigations, and finally Mr. Porless was prevailed upon to put on paper a factual report of Mr. Little's behaviour during the past twelve months.

There was a certain limit, it seemed, to the powers that headmasters of Council Schools could exercise, and it was now very clear to the authorities that Mr. Little had exceeded that limit on numerous occasions. Mr. Porless was promoted, Mr. Little was promptly retired on grounds of ill-health; the changes were carried out with a minimum of fuss and, to Mr. Goreham's soldierly relief, without a whisper of newspaper publicity. He, in fact, was warmly congratulated by his superiors on the efficiency and dispatch he had exhibited in handling the affair; and with this commendation the incident was officially closed.

For the twins, however, there was a curious sequel. During investigations Mr. Goreham called upon their father, and discovered that he and Jim had served in the same sector during the Passchendaele offensive. Having established this, they were not disposed to go very deeply into the business which had brought Mr. Goreham into the sitting-room of Number Twenty. They had taken part in great events, and were thus able to get Mr. Little's stomach cramp into its correct perspective. Only when they were parting did Mr. Goreham refer once more to the mutiny, and give Jim Carver a final piece of friendly advice.

“Those lads of yours,” he said, with apparent casualness; “it might be a good idea to shift them for their own good.”

“But you said they weren't to be punished,” protested Jim.

“That's true,” replied Mr. Goreham; “but Little's name stank over there, and it isn't surprising that they are now regarded as heroes!”

“Well,” said Jim, “that's understandable, isn't it?”

“Certainly it is,” replied Mr. Goreham affably, “but it might go to their heads. Bernard isn't likely to get big-headed about all this nonsense, but the other one might. Why don't you try getting them in at the Grammar School, over at Godley? It's only a two-penny bus fare from the Lower Road depot, and they'd get a better start there.”

“On three-fifteen a week?” replied Jim cynically. “Unless they win scholarships, I couldn't think of it. Isn't there some other school round here they could go to?”

“I'll see what I can do to get them shifted over to Sydenham Road,” promised the Inspector. “It's not in my district, but I dare say I can manage it in the circumstances.”

Mr. Goreham did manage it Like almost everybody, he had succumbed to the unity of Bernard and Boxer. In a highly competitive world they became, for other people, a sort of symbol of co-operative bliss. Without either of them ever knowing it they were to reap the advantages of this all their lives.

They moved over to Sydenham Road School, where their fame as “the twins who got the Head sacked” preceded them, and made their settling-in easy, but they did not remain at a Council School much longer. Mr. Goreham continued to interest himself in them, and maintained his casual friendship with Jim Carver. The result was that he found their fees for the Grammar School from some mysterious ex-servicemen's fund. By their eleventh birthday they were bedded down at Godley, and were to be seen almost any morning in termtime, leaping on to the tail-boards of slow-moving lorries in the Lower Road, in order that they might arrive at school before second bell, and yet retain their twopenny fares for gob-stoppers.

Bernard and Boxer accounted for thousands of gobstoppers during their school-days. Whenever you saw them they appeared to be suffering from agonising toothache, and their speech was slurred and clumsy. There was the same element of share-and-share-alike even about their gobstopper-sucking, for Boxer crushed his to pieces within minutes of popping one into his mouth, whereas Bernard conserved his, in order that he might pass on the diminished globe to his twin, as soon as Boxer's cheeks ceased to bulge.

“Mine's gone, Bernie,” Boxer would announce at length; “they don't last like they used to. How about you, Berni; you half-way yet?”

Berni would hesitate, as always, as though pondering the judicial aspect of a transfer. After a few moments, however, he would capitulate, quietly extract the bright blue ball, and hand it to Boxer. Boxer would put it straight into his mouth. He was untroubled by thoughts of hygiene. Bernard's digestive processes were also his, like all things that were Bernard's.