“Well, the stuff about our upcoming trip to the Himalayas, anyway.”
He managed a weak smile.
“You know,” I said, “I don't think you needed to tell her all that.”
He wagged the teaspoon at me. “Of course I bloody did!” Now that the topic had changed to Helen Paradise, Stanley recovered some of his energy. “I had a pretty good idea what she'd think of me if I told her I'd quit climbing.”
“How the hell are you going to get out of it?”
“With your help of course!” He got up from the table and began to pace the room, still waving the spoon. “All you have to do is back me up when I tell her the plan fell through on account of my uncle's death. If we both say it, then she'll have to believe us.”
“You shouldn't ask me to do a thing like that.”
He clicked his tongue. “If you thought you might be falling in love with somebody, wouldn't you resort to anything to keep them in your life?”
I shrugged uncomfortably, because I did not know.
“Oh, but why am I asking you?” he snapped. “You've kept the world at arm's length for so long that you probably have no idea what I'm talking about.” With that, he flopped onto my couch, placed a cushion over his face, and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even hear me tell him to bugger off.
Stanley slept all morning and halfway through the afternoon, while I tried reading the papers. Mostly, however, I thought of what he had said about me keeping the world at arm's length and wondered if it was going to be like this forever.
Late in the afternoon, I was just getting ready to wake Stanley, so that we could go over to the Climbers' Club before it closed, when the bell rang downstairs.
I went down, opened the door, and found a tall, elderly man waiting in the street. His white hair was combed straight back on his head and he wore a suit made of heavy reddish-brown wool. The toe caps of his black shoes were spit-polished and he was carrying a small brown briefcase, on which the brass latch was also polished. “I'm Dr. Webb,” he said.
“I didn't call for a doctor,” I told him.
“I'm actually looking for Stanley.” Dr. Webb cleared his throat. “I was told he might be here.”
“Oh. Yes, he is.” I stepped aside. “I beg your pardon.”
“You're William Bromley, aren't you?” he asked.
“That's right, sir.”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this. I expect you know what it's about.”
“I think so, sir.”
“How is Stanley taking the news?” asked Dr. Webb. “Doing all right, is he?”
“More or less, but he's asleep at the moment.”
Dr. Webb stopped. “Do you suppose I should come back later?” he said without turning around.
“I think it would depend on what you have to tell him.”
He thought about this for a moment. The fingers of his left hand drummed on the banister. “I'll wake him,” he said quietly.
Stanley was already awake when we walked in. He sat upright on the couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is it?” he asked.
“There's someone here to see you,” I told him.
Through bleary eyes, he blinked at the man. “Dr. Webb!” he exclaimed, and rose to his feet.
The two of them shook hands.
“Dr. Webb is the Carton family physician,” Stanley told me, “although given that I am the only one left, I hope he has found other means of drawing income.”
Dr. Webb gave a short, flustered laugh. “I'm here because I've got some news that I think you should hear. I didn't want to say it over the phone. I felt I ought to tell you personally.”
“That doesn't sound good,” muttered Stanley.
“Do you want me to leave the room?” I asked.
“No,” said Dr. Webb. “That won't be necessary. What I have to tell you is that Henry Carton committed suicide.”
Stanley blinked at him, too shocked to speak.
“That can't be right,” I said. “His lungs were giving out. He was dying anyway. You must be mistaken.”
“It's true, I'm afraid,” said Webb.
“But what happened?” asked Stanley. “I mean exactly.”
Dr. Webb winced. “Surely there's no need to go into the details ⦔
“I want to know what happened,” demanded Stanley. “I want to know exactly and I want to know now.”
Dr. Webb sighed and then nodded. “Carton had called in to say he was having more trouble than usual with his breathing. I went straight over, but by the time I arrived, it was too late. He'd hung himself. One end of the rope was tied around the horns of that wildebeest on the stairs. His neck was not broken, but his windpipe was crushed. As I told you on the phone, I found him myself, so there can be no doubt about it being suicide.”
Now I was the one who felt like a murderer. Or at least someone who had not prevented one. I had seen he was about to break. That thing I'd called fragility. It had not been my imagination after all.
Webb glanced down at his shoes and up again. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.”
We stood there in silence. I heard the clock ticking in my bedroom.
Webb looked at his watch. “Stanley, you had best come with me now. There are many things that need to be arranged.”
Obediently, Stanley went to fetch his coat.
I saw them to the door and then went back upstairs.
That night, as I was lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, an image appeared to me of Carton. It was as if I were looking down at him through the dark glass eyes of the animal. I saw him alone in his club, sitting on a chair he had fetched from the dining room and neatly fashioning the noose. He tied the thirteen-banded knot, swung it over the horns, and pulled it
tight. I saw the expression of calm determination on his face, the way his mustache twitched. With a grunt, he climbed up onto the chair and fitted the noose around his neck. He stood there for a while, looking out over the shadows of his club. Then, with a savage jerk, he kicked the chair out from under himself. His back thumped against the wall. The horns creaked as they took the weight. The blood vessels burst in the old man's face. His eyes rolled round to white and his lips turned blue. The last of his cigar-smoky breath trailed out into the dust-speck constellations drifting through the room.
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THE END OF THE TERM was only one week off. The seniors had already begun their mental graduation from the school, which took place long before their bodies were permitted to depart. Although I couldn't blame them, I sometimes felt as if I ought to be conducting séances, in which I'd have a better chance of making contact with them than in the teaching of my class.
I finished my last lesson for the afternoon and shuffled over to the department room for a “brew-up” with Higgins and Houseman before the weekly faculty meeting.
I arrived to find them in their usual positionsâHiggins sprawled on the couch reading the sporting news, and Houseman lying on his bench,
De Bello Gallico
shielding his eyes.
But I saw, beneath the visor of that tattered book, that his eyes were open, his head leaned slightly to one side. Following his gaze, I turned to see Darcey Kidder standing at the pigeonholes, delivering the weekly paychecks.
A second glance at Higgins revealed that he was only pretending to read the paper. In reality, his eyes were fixed on Darcey Kidder.
“Oh hello!” I said cheerfully.
This earned me one annoyed grunt each from Higgins and Houseman.
Darcey Kidder glanced at me. “Hello, Mr. Bromley,” she said, and immediately turned back to her task.
For a while, the only sound was of the paycheck envelopes sliding into the wooden slots and clicking against the back wall.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked Miss Kidder, as I poured myself a cup.
Higgins glared at me. Offering Miss Kidder tea, and being refused, was his department.
Houseman's eyes glinted from under his book.
“No thank you,” replied Miss Kidder. “I've just had a cup. Besides, I don't think they give you the same stuff as they give us in the headmaster's office.” She wrinkled her nose, to show that our tea was decidedly inferior.
Higgins laughed uproariously, as if this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.
Houseman pretended to remain asleep.
Miss Kidder stood back from the pigeonholes, having delivered the last of the paychecks. “Enjoy your weekend, gentlemen,” she said. Then she strode out of the room, but as she did so, something slipped from her pocket. It was a small blue fountain pen with a golden arrow for a clip.
It hadn't even hit the floor before Higgins was lunging to catch it. Houseman also sprang into action. His book spiraled into the air.
The two men, both of them with arms extended, collided head to head, with a sound like two coconuts knocking together. They fell back, groaning, but Houseman struggled to regain his balance. By now, the pen had landed on the tattered carpet. Houseman's fingers were just about to close around it when
the book, which had been silently pirouetting up in the rafters of the room, fell and smacked him on the head. With a sigh, Houseman subsided onto his back. The two men lay there, stunned and blinking at the ceiling.
This allowed me to step forward, pick up the pen, and stride out into the hall on the trail of Miss Kidder.
She was heading down the center of the corridor, the heels of her shoes clicking against the polished wooden floor. Her dress swished in rhythm with her stride. The notices pinned to corkboards on the walls fluttered slightly as she passed.
“Miss Kidder,” I said. Then I changed my mind and shouted, “Darcey!”
She stopped. She turned. Her face was nearly hidden in the gloomy shadows of the hallway. “Yes?”
“You dropped your pen.” I held it up so she could see.
“Oh!” She checked her pocket. “So I have.” She retraced her steps to me and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Bromley,” she said.
“You're welcome, Miss Kidder.” I set the pen in her hand and watched her fingers close around it.
She stood there, not moving, looking me right in the eye.
I opened my mouth to ask her out for a drink, for tea, for any excuse to spend some time with her.
But before I could get the words out of my mouth, she thanked me again and turned away.
“You're welcome,” I replied, and watched her go.
I wanted to call out to her, but something seemed to paralyze me and I only stood there in silence. It's just nerves, I told myself. Nothing to worry about. Next time will be different.
Back in the common room, Higgins and Houseman were still on the floor, rubbing their heads.
“You gave it back to her!” blurted Higgins. “Bloody oozlebart!”
“Whatever that means,” I said. “Of course I gave the pen back to her.”
“What did you go and do that for?” mumbled Houseman.
“What else was I supposed to do with it?” I asked.
“Keep it!” they chorused.
“And take it home,” continued Higgins, “and guard it with your life.”
Houseman rose shakily to his feet. “You just don't get it,” he told me.
“But I got the pen, didn't I?” I replied.
They scowled at me, but then their anger faded into curiosity.
“Did you ask her out?” inquired Higgins.
“Timing wasn't right,” I said dismissively.
This answer seemed to satisfy them.
“She's a lovely bint,” said Higgins dreamily.
“Smells nice,” added Houseman.
“Sarkam?”
asked Higgins, which was his way of asking the time in God knows what borrowed language.
I looked at my watch. “Damn,” I said. “We've only got ten minutes until the faculty meeting.”
One thing the headmaster would not tolerate was lateness to faculty meetings. It was one of his favorite pastimes to point out to anyone shambling into his chambers after the four o'clock bell had rung that we had no right to expect punctuality from our students if we could not be punctual ourselves. The year before, he had even fired a faculty member for consistently showing up late to these meetings. What was more, he insisted that we show up in what was called “standard
change.” This meant smart jacket and tie, not the tired old stuff in which we taught our classes.
I kept a set of standard change clothing in the storage closet in my classroom, in order that I wouldn't have to go home to dress again and then come all the way back to school.