Balefanio - tmp0

Then he sprang on to the saddle and rode on, past the quarry, where you could get white heather; past another farm; beginning to apply the brakes as the hill got steeper: suddenly turning a corner, Gatesley lay below him.

And now he was at the edge of Gatesley Brow. It dipped very steeply, trees arching across, the Buxton road running through the village at the bottom—so that, if you weren't careful, you got cut in half as you reached the foot of the Brow, by a car travelling at full speed.

In a minute I shall see them, he thought.

In a minute I shall see them, he repeated to him­self, getting off his bicycle, standing still. He often teased himself thus, letting his pleasure at the coming meeting sharpen, by a few moments' delay, into absolute bliss.

He walked slowly downhill, wheeling his bicycle, until he came within a dozen paces of the gate of their house.

He could see the whole of the little garden, and they were all on the lawn. Gerald and Tommy Ramsbotham were there, and Edward Blake and Maurice and Anne. They were knocking a hockey ball about, not taking sides but tackling whoever had the ball. Edward Blake was in his shirt-sleeves and rather out of breath. Maurice, who loved, whenever possible, to dress up in some way or other, was wearing an extraordinary old straw hat, much too big for him, on the back of his head.

And now Aunt Mary had come out of the sitting-room, with Ramsbotham, through the French windows. She smoked and watched them, smiling, a bundle of papers in her hand. Edward Blake saluted her with his hockey-stick. Maurice, skipping about in the sunshine, got the ball and drove it with all his might into the fence at the back of the garden. His delighted scream of "Oh, God!" echoed down the Brow. Anne called out: "Idiot!"

They went over to examine the fence. Eric could hear Gerald Ramsbotham say: "Here's the ball, any road." Tommy, the more serious-minded of the brothers, went over to Mary and told her it was all right. "Only a loose board, Mrs. Scriven." Mary smiled and answered something. Then she turned and went into the house, followed by Rams­botham. Maurice balanced the hockey-stick on

his chin. Edward Blake came up behind him and tripped him with his stick. "Oh, would you," cried Maurice, "would you?" He tapped Edward Blake on the shins. They circled round each other, laughing and feinting blows. "Peace!" cried Maurice. "You swine, you started it. Peace! Ow!" Then Gerald and Tommy began a bully. In another moment, they were all playing again.

Eric turned and wheeled his bicycle slowly up the hill. They hadn't seen him. And now, he had the feeling that he had never meant to go into Aunt Mary's house that afternoon at all, but just, as he had done, to look in at them, to assure himself that they were there, as he had pictured them, on the lawn. He felt no jealousy now of Edward Blake, nor of Gerald, nor of Tommy. He was glad that they should have been there, helping to complete the scene. As though something were accomplished, he was ready to go back to the Hall. At tea-time he would see his mother, and be kinder and more con­siderate to her than he had ever been before.

And after all, he reflected, I'm certain to see Aunt Mary, at any rate, next Monday.

Free-wheeling down into Chapel Bridge, he was calm, almost happy, had even a certain" faint sense of relief; surrendering himself altogether, now, to the attraction of the negative pole.

BOOK THREE 1925

I

"Yes," said Gerald Ramsbotham, "tomorrow I'm going to get her flat out on the straight."

He lolled back nearly prone, his powerful thighs stuck forward like buttresses, clothed in aggressive check plus fours. His gold wrist-watch looked tiny and over-elegant on his beefy red wrist.

"The timing's all to pot," said Farncombe, knocking out his pipe on the fender.

"She's beastly stiff on the controls," said Moody.

"Did you ever know an American car that wasn't?" said Hughes.

Maurice looked down on them from the fender-rail on which he stood, twirling at the end of a wire what had once been the throttle-control of a motor bike.

"Teddy's Moon isn't," he said.

"That's a damn fine bus," said Farncombe earnestly. "My Christ, Gerald, you should see the way she picks up."

"I don't know why," said Hughes, "but I don't like Yankee cars."

Gerald Ramsbotham yawned and stretched himself:

"Did you see the new Brough on the corner by Trinity yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes," said Farncombe, "with the Webb forks."

"A Brough hasn't got Webb forks, "said Hughes.

"The new ones have."

"Bet you they haven't."

"How much?"

"Nothing," said Hughes, yawning; "what's the time?"

Gerald looked at his gold watch. "A quarter to twelve."

"Goddy!" said Maurice, "I've got to see the Tutor at twelve."

"And I've got a lecture," said Farncombe, "unless I cut."

"You're going to give me that essay to copy, aren't you, lovey?" asked Maurice anxiously.

"It's in my digs, if you want it," said Farncombe briefly.

"Thanks most frightfully."

They rose slowly, yawning.

"What does Jimmy want to see you about?" asked Hughes.

"About Saturday." Maurice made a face.

"How much do you think he knows?"

"That's the point. I don't know."

"That girl may have said something."

"Not she. She'd lose her job."

"It must have been the old bitch, then."

"She didn't see us in the hen-house."

"No, but she saw the hen-house after we'd been

in it."

"You were a madman," said Farncombe. Maurice giggled. "They looked so damn funny

with their little heads tied up." "I don't suppose she thought so." "Well, it didn't do them any harm." "It did harm to the sitting-room, though." "She's got to prove it," said Gerald. "I'm afraid Jimmy won't want much proving,"

said Hughes. "He'll accept circumstantial evi­dence."

"There's no justice in this College," said

Maurice.

"You thank your God there isn't, my boy. If

there was justice, you'd have been sent down your

first term."

Maurice giggled, flattered. Going across to the

cupboard, he hooked his square and gown off the

peg. His square had had all its stuffing long since

removed. It hung floppy like a cap.

"Jimmy eats out of my hand," Maurice boasted.

"Good-bye, you chaps. Don't go away. I'll be back

soon."

All the same, he felt a little uncomfortable as

he hurried downstairs and out into Silver Street—

not forgetting to put his head into his landlady's sitting-room and say: "Good morning, Mrs. Brown. How's the kitten?"—for it was most important to keep on the right side of Mrs. Brown, who'd even once or twice risked saying nothing about the times they came home from London in the early hours, without late leave. He wondered, hurrying towards his College, how much Jimmy really did know—and how much he'd believe. His thoughts ran on earlier rows. His first—his first term—when he'd let off that aerial torpedo under a Robert's feet on Guy Fawkes night. The Robert had been quite badly burnt and there'd been a terrific fuss. Maurice had had to go round and interview an important official, who'd ended by asking him to lunch. Then there was the smash-up last year on the Newmarket Road, when Stewart-Baines had been killed and they'd had to appear at the inquest. That was awful. Maurice had expected anything up to a manslaughter charge, but they'd got through it somehow, and only poor old George, who'd really had nothing to do with it, had been sent down. And then there were the minor rows. The row over the disturb­ance they'd made by bringing a boat with an out­board motor up the Backs and swamping punts. The row over the fire in Hughes' room after a birthday party. Endless rows about bills. Cam­bridge tradesmen were much too ready to get into touch with the College Tutor.