Silent Noon (19 page)

“I wanted to ask you something…” Barney hesitated, wondering if he should say “sir”: it felt wrong not to, but the groundsman was not to know that Barney himself
was poor and uneducated. “…Mr Krawiec.”

The groundsman looked at him, waiting.

“It’s about Miss Duchâtel.”

The groundsman grunted and returned to fiddling with the lock.

“Why can’t you ask her yourself?”

“Because I don’t think she would tell the truth.”

“That is her right.”

“Please, sir.”

A hint of a smile. “What do you want to know?” he said.

“When she came here. Why. Why she lives alone.”

“That is not ‘something’. That is several things.”

“What she’s hiding, then.”

“You are being impertinent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are a boy. That is the way it is. When you are grown up you will return to school and realize that the students never age: only the masters grow old.”

“You must know something. You were here. You worked for her.”

“They attacked her like animals. She didn’t hurt anyone. She wants to be left in peace.”

“Who attacked her?”

The groundsman let the lock fall, shrugged at his reflection in the cloudy glass. “Who didn’t? Little children spat in the street. They cut her hair. That’s why it is so ugly
– she chooses to keep it that way.”

“Was it because of the commandant?”

Krawiec regarded the boy in the window’s reflection, reading the curious inclination of his head.

“I don’t know if you are very clever or very rude. Perhaps Mr Pleming will tell me.”

“Please don’t tell Mr Pleming I asked you.”

“Then go back to your house.”

“Did he give her the painting? It belonged to the school before.”

“To accept a gift is not a crime. They destroyed so much.” Krawiec stepped past Barney to push a wheelbarrow round the side of the sheds. “I have work to finish. Go back to
your house, and don’t ask me these things again.”

When he had left, Barney made his way to the shelter to think things over. The sound of voices inside made him stop by the outside door.

“You hate yourself because you don’t feel guilt. But sin begets heroism.” There was the sound of a bag rustling – sweets being passed from one to the other – and a
murmur that Barney could not make out.

“I can’t help being horrid. I watch myself as if I were someone else.”

“Society’s to blame. Margaret Mead saw it plain as day. You’d be all right if you’d grown up a Tau girl rather than an English one.”

A pause.

“So you’ll do it?” the girl said.

“Of course. Cowper’s a little shit.”

There was another pause, and laughter.

“Will you tell Barney?”

“What’s the point? He’d stand there like a lump, as usual.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“He can’t imagine things on that scale. He can’t even aspire to. The most he can aspire to in his whole life is a house in some vile garden city, or whatever it is
they’re calling them now – places with no centre, no history, for people with no imagination. Displacement camps for the working classes.”

“Why must you be so horrid always?”

“Always?”

“You talk about him all the time.”

He laughed. “I’ve not the faintest interest in him, because I’m not like him. He’s numb: that’s how they breed them, because it’s the only way they can go on
living.”

“Tosh.”

“Do you know what his old man did, before the war? He worked in swampland. Day in, day out, pumping mud out of the Thames so more docks could be built. And to think he probably copped it
doing the same thing for the Japs.”

“Just because his people are different from yours—”

“He
has
no people. His dad’s rotting in a pit in some godforsaken jungle, and his mum’s jaunted off to the other side of the world because she couldn’t stand to
look at her snotty-nosed halfwit kids one minute longer…”

“Why must you be so cruel?”

“It’s not my fault that he’s a parasite, clinging on to us as if we’re his family. It’s more than pathetic: it makes my skin crawl. He’s like a hermit crab,
squatting in someone else’s shell.”

“You used him when it suited you. In fact, I think you rather envy him.”

“Whenever you try to be clever you end up sounding like a child.”

“I don’t care. Better to sound like a child than a horrible old snob.”

Perhaps Robin was right; perhaps he should come straight out and demand that Ivor tell him what he’d been playing at. Slipping from the clearing, Barney told himself that he wasn’t
running away.

He went to Doc Dower’s classroom, but the door was locked. Previously, Barney would have felt the dead handle with relief; he had never been one to seek the attention of
adults, least of all teachers. He did not know why today was different. The
piastre
itself was worthless – Doc had said so himself.

Workbook in hand, he made his way to the masters’ common room. He did not allow himself to hesitate before knocking. Several moments passed before a senior master whipped the door open. He
peered down at Barney with disdain.

“What is it?”

“Please, sir – I’m looking for Doc Dower.”

“Has no one told you never to knock on this door? Boys must wait for a master to enter or exit before pestering us with queries.”

“I’m sorry, sir—”

The master did not reply; the door closed. Barney paused, wondering if he had gone to find Doc Dower or if he had left the second-former to wait to intercept the next passing master. So it was
with some relief that he turned to see Mr Swift advancing down the hallway towards him.

“Please, sir – I’m looking for Doc Dower.”

“One minute, Holland.”

Once again, the door opened and shut.

“Holland, what?”

A trail of crumbs dotted Doc Dower’s tie; in one hand he held a dainty china cup.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s the problem you set. About draining the pitch. With slope—” Barney hated himself for babbling; he shuddered inwardly at the dampness of the
book he handed over, pages crumpled by his clammy palms.

“Hold this, Holland.” Doc Dower passed him the china cup in exchange for the workbook.

“Two feet, sir. You have to double the slope. Dig down another foot at one end—”

“Quite right. Quite right.” He flipped the book shut, returned it to Barney.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Wait here, Holland.”

Again, the door shut. Floating with relief, Barney grinned at a passing pair of Sagartians, provoking a smart clip round one ear.

“Look at us like that again and we’ll report you for impertinence, new scum.”

Undaunted, Barney continued to wait at the door, rubbing his stinging ear.

“As promised, what?” Doc Dower reappeared, proffering a small silver coin between fat forefinger and thumb. He dropped it into Barney’s extended palm, then clasped both hands
behind his back.

“Thank you, sir.”

It was heavier than it looked. There was a garland on one side, and a woman in long robes with rays emanating from behind her head on the reverse.

“Not bad for a bit of mud work, what, Holland?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep it safe, will you?”

Barney did not need telling. He took it to the dormitory and wrapped it in a balled sock which he pushed to the farthest corner of his dressing-table drawer. Then he went to dinner, feeling
every inch the engineer of Ispahan.

Moments after the dormitory lights were switched off, a commotion erupted from Cowper’s bed: a gulping, terrified noise and then the thump of Cowper tumbling to the floor,
his legs tangled in a knot of sheets. There was the sound of something wet hitting the footboard, and moments later a putrid smell that made the boys gasp.

“Someone get the lights, for Christ’s sake!” bellowed Cowper. Someone did – and the six boys blinked in amazement to see him in a heap on the floor, red-faced and
sweating. Then Hiram Opie pointed at the cause of all this – the bloody mess of yellow skin pimpled with bumps where all but the smallest feathers had been plucked – giving rise to a
chorus of disgust.

“What is it?”

“It’s a bird, you idiot. Or it was.”

“Someone put it in my bed,” said Cowper, who sounded as if he might be on the point of tears. “Some sick
arse
put it in my bed.”

The boys regarded each other.

“Not I,” said Shields.

“Not I,” echoed Percy, who still could not bring himself to look at that horrible mess.

“It was Holland,” said Cowper in a vicious tone. “He did it for Belinda Flood. She worked her voodoo magic on it.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

“The little slut did it to get back at me.”

There was a tense silence. “For what?” said Barney.

“For nothing,” snapped Cowper. “But you still did it.”

“I didn’t,” protested Barney. “I swear I didn’t.”

“Liar. You got it from that woman’s farm!” Cowper was standing, trying to decide whether to venture across the floor to confront Barney. In the end, he opted against it.
“You’ll have to clear it up. I’m not touching it. It’s probably got all kinds of plague.”

“I’m not touching it either.”

“You will, or else I’ll report it to Runcie – and everyone here will back me up, too.” Cowper climbed into bed and pulled the covers around him. The others followed suit,
watching Barney with nervous delight.

“If I do, it will only be because the rest of you are being such wimps about it.” Barney made for the dustpan and brush kept by the door. “And because then I’ll be the
only one to know where I put it.”

He put it outside with the other rubbish, of course, taking care to rearrange the contents so that the carcass wouldn’t be seen when it came time for the bins to be emptied.

He returned to the dormitory to find Cowper and Shields blocking the door, arms folded across their chests.

“Not so fast,” said Cowper. He looked past Barney to Hughes, who had emerged from the adjoining dormitory.

“Fairborough’s got it going nicely,” said Hughes.

“Well done,” said Cowper.

“Leave off,” said Barney. “Let me in.”

“When you helped her with that bit of witchcraft? Not a chance, Camden Town. You’ll be tried by ordeal, just like all witches.” He grabbed Barney by the collar and shoved him
backwards. Shields and Hughes grabbed his arms, and between them they bundled Barney into the other dormitory.

A fire blazed in the grate, casting shadows on the faces of five boys sitting up in bed: a grim and silent jury. Barney did not know these boys well. He certainly could not count any friends
among them.

“Sit him down just there,” ordered Cowper, indicating a spot in front of the fire. “Fairborough, lend a hand.”

Barney had begun to struggle, but between the four of them they managed to pin him down. Cowper tore off his slippers and rolled Barney’s pyjama cuffs to the knees.

“You’re lucky we hadn’t any hot coals,” he said. “Though this shall do just as well, I’ll wager.”

Hughes sat on Barney’s chest while Cowper and Shields lifted his feet to the fire: close enough that he could feel the wall of heat against his soles.

“We shan’t let you blister, never fear,” said Cowper. “That would give Runcie something to ask about.”

“Let go—” The blood rushed from his raised ankles down his legs, deadening his feet even as ripples of white heat stung his soles.

“Admit that you did it, and say you’re sorry.”

“I
didn’t
do it—”

“We’ll see if that’s what you’re still saying a minute from now.” Cowper threw a glance at the clock on the wall.

“Let go!”

“Hush, or Swift will come. Then we shall have to tell him about your little prank, and you’ll really be in for it.”

Cowper waited for more than the full minute before heaving Barney’s feet over his head and saying, “Now will you apologize?”

“Just say it, Camden Town,” hissed Shields, who was getting the worst of the heat.

“I’m sorry—”

They allowed him to struggle to his feet and stumble back to bed, all the while looking to each other with grim satisfaction that justice had been done.

In the morning, inspecting his feet before the others were awake, Barney was distressed to find no marks, even though it stung to touch the soft skin under his toes. Even the knowledge of the
piastre
at the back of his dressing-table drawer was not enough to distract him from the lingering pain. He found some calamine lotion in the toilets and doubled his socks so that he would
not limp; when Robin asked about the ordeal he shrugged and said Cowper gave himself more credit than he deserved. When he told Ivor about it after lessons, the Mede threw back his head and laughed
in a way that made Barney suspect he was as much a butt of the joke as Cowper had been.

It was around this time that Mrs Morrell paid her first visit to the school.

She was greeted by a cluster of junior boys who paused to gawp at the woman in the fox fur: an interloper, foreign by virtue of her sex and ostentatious Englishness, and the fact that she had
arrived in a private car. Make-up clumped at the corners of her eyes and mouth; most likely it had been applied in the pre-dawn dark before catching the first ferry of the day. At first she did not
appear to know what to do. Several minutes passed before the Head emerged from the school, pulling at his tie, and with a flustered air extended his hand in welcome long before he was close enough
for her to take it.

Later that evening, Barney spotted Ivor waiting grimly in the atrium, wearing a duffel coat and Jonty’s fedora.

“Mater’s in town,” said Ivor, in response to a curious look. “Jonty’s anniversary. She’s taking me out.”

“All right for some,” said Barney.

“It’s only her hotel,” said Ivor. “Dismal place.”

Barney didn’t see him again for two days.

On the Sunday morning, Mrs Morrell appeared in time for Chapel, flanked by the Head and the Head’s wife.

The junior boys had been discussing executions as they waited to file in. Robin wanted to know if Barney had joined the crowds outside Wandsworth Prison when that poor idiot was hanged for
murder. “‘Let him have it’ – that was all the bugger said, and he got the drop.” Robin shook his head. “What do you think of that, Holland?”