The Keys of the Kingdom (9 page)

‘Now, he looked at me disgustedly. “Not a fish in sight. Just when I wanted one for the notables!” The Bishop of the diocese and the retiring principal of our English Seminary at San Morales were coming to lunch at Holywell that day.

‘I said, “ There’s a fish in the Glebe Pool, sir.”

‘“There’s no fish in the river at all, not even a grilse … I’ve been out since six.”

‘“It’s a big one.”

‘“Imaginary!”

‘“I saw it there yesterday, under the weir, but of course I didn’t dare try for it.”

‘From beneath his sandy brows he gave me his dour smile. “You’re a perverse demon, Chisholm. If you want to waste your time – you’ve my dispensation.” He handed me his rod and walked off.

‘I went down to the Glebe Pool, my heart leaping as it always does at the sound of running water. The fly on the leader was a Silver Doctor, perfect for the size and colour of the river. I began to fish the pool. I fished it for an hour. Salmon are painfully scarce this season. Once I thought I saw the movement of a dark fin in the shadows of the opposite bank. But I touched nothing. Suddenly I heard a discreet cough. I swung round. Rusty Mac, dressed in his best blacks, wearing gloves and his ceremonial top hat, had stopped, on his way to meet his guest at Doune Station, to condole with me.

‘“It’s these large ones, Chisholm –” he said with a sepulchral grin – “they’re always the hardest!”

‘As he spoke, I made a final cast thirty yards across the pool. The fly fell exactly on the spume eddying beneath the far edge of the weir. The next instant I felt the fish, struck, and was fast in it.

‘“Ye have one!” Rusty cried. Then the salmon jumped – four feet in the air. Though for my own part I nearly dropped, the effect on Rusty was stupendous. I could feel him stiffen beside me. “In the name of God!” he muttered in stricken awe. The salmon was the biggest I had ever seen, here, in the Stinchar, or in my father’s Tweedside bothy. “Keep his head up!” Rusty suddenly shouted. “Man, man – give him the butt!”

‘I was doing my best. But now the fish was in control. It set off, downstream, in a mad tearing rush. I followed. And Rusty followed me.

‘The Stinchar, at Holywell, is not like the Tweed. It runs in a brown torrent through pines and gorges, making not inconsiderable somersaults over slippery boulders and high shaley ledges. At the end of ten minutes, Rusty Mac and I were half a mile downstream, somewhat the worse for wear. But we still stayed with the fish.

‘“Hold him, hold him!” Mac was hoarse from shouting. “You fool, you fool, don’t let him get in that slack!” The brute, of course, was already in the slack, sulking in a deep hole, with the leader ensnared in a mess of sunken roots.

‘“Ease him, ease him!” Mac hopped in anguish. “Just ease him while I give him a stone.”

‘Gingerly, breathlessly, he began flipping stones, trying to start out the fish without snapping the cast. The game continued for an agony of time. Then
whirr!
– off went the fish, to the scream of the reel. And off again went Rusty and I.

‘An hour later, or thereabouts, in the slow wide flats opposite Doune village, the salmon at last showed signs of defeat. Exhausted, panting, torn by a hundred agonizing and entrancing hazards, Rusty gave a final command.

‘“Now, now! On this sand!” He croaked: “We’ve no gaff. If he takes you down farther, he’s gone for good.”

‘My mouth was gulpy and dry. Nervously, I stood the fish close. It came, quiet, then suddenly made a last frantic scuttle. Rusty let out a hollow groan. “ Lightly … lightly! If you lose him now I’ll never forgive you!”

‘In the shallows the fish seemed incredible. I could see the frayed gut of the leader. If I lost him! – an icy lump came under my shirt. I slid him gently to the little flat of sand. In an absolute tense silence Mac bent over, whipped his hand in the gills and heaved the fish, monstrous, on to the grass.

‘It made a noble sight on the green meadow, a fish of over forty pounds, run so freshly the sea lice still were on its arching back.

‘“A record, a record!” Mac chanted, swept, as was I, by a wave of heavenly joy. We had joined hands and were dancing the fandango. “Forty-two pounds if it’s an ounce … we’ll put it in the book.” He actually embraced me. “ Man, man – You’re a bonny, bonny fisher.”

‘At that moment, from the single railway line across the river, came the faint whistle of an engine. Rusty paused, gazed in bewildered fashion at the plume of smoke, at the toylike red-and-white signal which had suddenly dipped over Doune village station. Recollection flooded him. He dug in consternation for his watch. “Good Heavens, Chisholm!” His tone was that of the Holywell Headmaster. “ That’s the Bishop’s train.”

‘His dilemma was apparent: he had five minutes to meet his distinguished visitors and five miles of roundabout road to reach the station – visible, only two fields away, across the Stinchar.

‘I could see him slowly make up his mind. “Take the fish back, Chisholm, and have them boil it whole for luncheon. Go quickly now. And remember Lot’s wife and the pillar of salt. Whatever you do,
don’t look back!”

‘I couldn’t help it. Once I reached the first bend of the stream, from behind a bush, I risked a salty ending. Father Mac had already stripped to the buff and tied his clothing in a bundle. Wearing his top hat on his head, with the bundle uplifted like a crozier, he stepped naked into the river. Wading and swimming, he reached the other side, scrambled into his suit and sprinted manfully towards the approaching train.

‘I lay on the grass, rolling, in a kind of ecstasy. It was not the vision – which would live with me forever – of the top hat planted dauntlessly upon the nubile brow, but the moral pluck which lay behind the escapade. I thought: He too must hate our pious prudery, which shudders at the sight of human flesh, and cloaks the female form as though it were an infamy.’

A sound outside made Francis pause and he ceased writing as the door opened. Hudson and Anselm Mealey came into the room. Hudson, a dark quiet youth, sat down and began to change his shoes. Anselm had the evening mail in his hand.

‘Letter for you, Francis,’ he said effusively.

Mealey had grown into a fine pink-and-white young man. His cheek had the smoothness of perfect health. His eye was soft and limpid, his smile ready. Always eager busy, smiling: without question he was the most popular student in the school. Though his work was never brilliant the masters liked him – his name was usually on the prize list. He was good at fives and racquets and all the less rough games. And he had a genius for procedure. He ran half a dozen clubs – from the Philatelists to the Philosophers. He knew, and glibly employed, such words as ‘quorum’ ‘minutes’ and ‘ Mr Chair’. Whenever a new society was proposed, Anselm’s advice was sure to be invoked – automatically he became its president. In praise of the clerical life he was lyrical. His only cross was the singular paradox: the Headmaster and a few odd lonely souls cordially disliked him. To the rest he was a hero, and he bore his successes with open smiling modesty.

Now, as he handed Francis the letter, he gave him that warm disarming smile. ‘Hope it’s full of good news, dear fellow.’

Francis opened the letter. Undated, it was written in pencil upon an invoice headed:

Dr to Edward Bannon
Union Tavern
Corner Dyke and Canal Streets,
Tynecastle

Dear Francis,

I hope this finds you well as it leaves me. Also please excuse pencil. We are all upset. It grieves me to tell you Francis you won’t be able to come home this holiday. No one is more sick and sorry than me about it not having seen you since last summer and all. But believe me it is impossible and we must bow to the will of God. I know you are not one to take no for an answer but this time you must the B V M be my witness. I won’t disguise we have trouble as you must guess but it is nothing you can help or hinder. It is not money nor sickness so do not worry. And it will all pass by the help of God and be forgotten. You can easy arrange to stay the holidays at the college. Ned will pay all extras. You’ll have your books and your nice surroundings and all. Maybe we’ll fix for you to come down at Christmas, so don’t fret. Ned has sold his whippets but not for the money. Mr Gilfoyle is a comfort to all. You are not missing much in the weather, it has been terrible wet. Now don’t forget Francis we have people in the house, there isn’t no room, you are not [underlined twice] to come.

Bless you my dear boy and excuse haste.

Yours affectionately, POLLY BANNON

At the window, Francis read the letter several times: though its purpose was plain, its meaning remained troubling and inscrutable. With a strained look he folded the sheet and placed it in his pocket.

‘Nothing wrong I hope?’ Mealey had been studying his face solicitiously.

Francis, uncomfortably silent, hardly knew what to say.

‘My dear fellow, I am sorry.’ Anselm took a step forward, placed his arm lightly, comfortingly, around the other’s shoulders. ‘If there’s anything I can do for mercy’s sake let me know. Perhaps,’ – he paused earnestly, – ‘perhaps you don’t feel like handball tonight?’

‘No,’ Francis mumbled. ‘I believe I’d rather not.’

‘Quite all right, my dear Francis!’ The vespers bell rang. ‘ I can see there is something bothering you. I’ll remember you tonight in my prayers.’

All through vespers Francis worried about Polly’s incomprehensible letter. When the service was over he had a sudden impulse to take his trouble to Rusty Mac. He went slowly up the wide staircase.

As he entered the study he became aware that the Headmaster was not alone, Father Tarrant sat with him, behind a pile of papers; and from the odd sudden silence his appearance provoked, Francis had the extraordinary feeling that the two had been discussing him.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He cast an embarrassed glance towards Rusty Mac. ‘I didn’t know you were engaged.’

‘That’s all right, Chisholm. Sit down.’

The quick warmth of the tone compelled Francis, already half-turned towards the door, into the wicker chair beside the desk. With slow movements of his stubby fingers Rusty went on stuffing shag into his corroded briar pipe. ‘Well! What can we do for you, my good man?’

Francis coloured. ‘I … I rather thought you’d be alone.’

For some queer reason the Headmaster avoided his appealing gaze. ‘You don’t mind Father Tarrant? What is it?’

There was no escape. Without guile to invent further excuse Francis stumbled out: ‘It’s a letter I’ve had … from home.’ He had meant to show Polly’s note to Rusty Mac but, in Tarrant’s presence, his pride restrained him. ‘For some obscure reason they don’t seem to want me back for the vacation.’

‘Oh!’ Was he mistaken; was there again swift interchange between the two? ‘That must be something of a disappointment.’

‘It is, sir. And I feel worried. I was wondering … in fact I came to ask you what I should do.’

Silence. Father MacNabb himself sank more deeply into his old cape; still fumbling at his pipe. He had known many boys, known them inside-out; yet there was about this youth who sat beside him a fineness, beauty, and dogged honesty which lit a fire in his heart. ‘We all have our disappointments, Francis.’ His meditative voice was sad, more than unusually mild. ‘Father Tarrant and I have suffered one today. Retirements are the order of the day at our Seminary in Spain.’ He paused. ‘ We are appointed there, I as Rector, Father Tarrant as my Administrator of Studies.’

Francis stammered a reply. San Morales was, indeed, a coveted advancement, next step to a bishopric; but whatever Tarrant’s reaction – Francis shot a quick glance at the expressionless profile – MacNabb would not so regard it. The dry Aragon plains would be alien for a man who loved the green woods and rushing waters of Holywell with all his soul. Rusty Mac smiled gently. ‘ I had my heart set on staying here. You had set yours on going away. What d’you say. Shall we both agree to take a beating from Almighty God?’

Francis strove to pluck the proper phrase from his confusion. ‘It’s just … being anxious … I wondered if I shouldn’t find out what’s wrong and try to help?’

‘I question if I should.’ Father MacNabb answered quickly. ‘ What would you say, Father Tarrant?’

In the shadow, the younger master stirred. ‘Troubles resolve themselves best, in my experience without outside interference.’

There appeared nothing more to be said. The headmaster turned up his desk lamp which, while it brightened the dark study, seemed to terminate the interview. Francis got up. Though he faced them both, haltingly, from his heart, he spoke to Rusty Mac.

‘I can’t say how sorry I am that you are leaving for Spain. The school … I … I shall miss you.’

‘Perhaps we shall see you there?’ There was hope, quiet affection in the voice.

Francis did not answer. As he stood there, indecisively, hardly knowing what to say, torn by conflicting difficulties, his downcast gaze struck suddenly upon a letter, lying open on the desk. It was not so much the letter – illegible at that distance – as the letter’s bright blue-stamped heading which caught his eye. Quickly he glanced away. But not before he had read
St Dominic’s Presbytery, Tynecastle.

A shiver went through him. Something was wrong at home. Now he was sure. His face revealed nothing, remained impassive. Neither of the two masters was aware of his discovery. But as he moved towards the door he knew, despite all persuasion to the contrary, that one course at least was clear before him.

The train arrived at two o’clock that sultry June afternoon. Carrying his handbag, Francis walked rapidly from the station, his heart beating faster as he approached the familiar quarter of the city.

A queer air of quiet hung outside the tavern. Thinking to take Aunt Polly by surprise, he ran lightly up the side stairs and entered the house. Here, too, it was quiet and oddly dim after the glare of the dusty pavements; no one in the lobby or the kitchen, no sound but the thunderous ticking of a clock. He went into the parlour.

Ned was seated at the table, both elbows on the red drugget cover, gazing endlessly at the opposite blank wall. Not the attitude alone, but the alteration in the man himself, drew from Francis a stifled exclamation. Ned had lost three stones in weight, his clothes hung upon him, the rotund beaming face had turned dreary and cadaverous.