Old Filth - Jane Gardam [35]
He left Oils’ study and made for the Headmaster’s House where no foot trod unbidden except those of the old spider himself and his paddly housekeeper. Eddie stood outside, and turned the great iron ring on the tall gate. The flagstones were slimy, the windows glimpsed through tangled plants.
“Come round the side,” said a threadbare voice from behind a pane. “Kitchen.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Head after blinking at the daylight Eddie brought in with him, “Tussock, isn’t it?”
“Tussock, sir? I’m Feathers.”
“Ah, Feathers, Feathers. ‘The life of man is plumed with death.’ It’s part of a plea of mercy by a seaman to Queen Elizabeth the First.”
“I know, sir.”
“Do you? We aren’t told whether it was successful. I knew your father, Feathers. He was a boy here when I was. How is he?”
“I never see him. He’s in South-East Asia. I think he’s gone to Singapore now.”
“Yes. Of course. And that’s what we must talk about. I’ve been pondering the matter all week, Tussock. But first—what?”
“I want to visit my friend, Ingoldby, in the San, sir. I am told by Mr. Oilseed that it is an unholy desire.”
“Yes, yes. You would be.”
“It’s obscene of him, sir, to say a thing like that.”
“Yes. But it’s an old obscenity. Very primitive. Age gives these flabby ideas weight. Oh yes—and parents. No, the reason for isolation of patients in the San is the possibility of infection.”
“But, it’s pneumonia. Caught in the performance—”
“—ah, yes. The invasion by barrage-balloon. I slept through it.”
“All I want is to wish him well. Put my head round the door. You’d allow me if he were my brother. Wouldn’t you, Headmaster?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. And you are a prefect. And, I understand, fairly sane. Yes.” The Head had shrunk in his chair. “Particularly today, I would.” He pointed to a second armchair across the fireplace. “Stick another log on the fire as you go by, would you? Will you have a cup of tea? We ought to be talking about your future. We have a bit of a worry with you—oh, nothing to do with this David and Jonathan business. We all grow out of every loyalty in the end.”
“It’s called friendship, sir.”
“Yes. Yes. And you won’t be seeing much more of Ingoldby. Your father has written to us to say that he wants you to leave school after Christmas. He wants you to go to Malaysia. Or Singapore. We have been giving it a lot of thought.”
“He—what?”
“He thinks you should be evacuated from England. To get away from the bombing. Place of safety. He was—I needn’t tell you—through the last one. And he’s been out of touch with British politics. We’re trying to persuade him to let you take the Oxford entrance exam first.”
“But it’s children who are evacuated. And women. I’m going on eighteen.”
“Until you are eighteen, your father has the say.”
“But I’ve his sisters. My guardians. What do they say?”
“We have written to the Misses Feathers and they replied in a very—sanguine—manner. Busy women. War work, one supposes.”
“I don’t know. I’ve hardly seen them. Am I to leave school after Christmas?”
“And here is tea. Let us hope for crumpets though it will be only marge.”
“May I go now? I want to think.”
“If you feel it wise. One can of course think too much. Your father tended to think too much.”
As Eddie opened the door of the study, there came padding towards it an old lady in slippers pushing a tea-trolley. The teapot was muffled in a knitted crinoline of rose and orange frills and had an art-nouveau lady’s head on top, a black painted curl against each porcelain cheek. Whenever afterwards Filth beheld such an object—at a church fête, perhaps, at the end of his life and long after the precise reason for it had been lost—he found himself near tears.
The old woman handed Eddie a silver dish full of crumpets and indicated a brass crumpet-stand on the hearth.
“Oh, good. Jam,” said the Headmaster. “This is Ingoldby’s friend, Mrs. P.”
“Ingoldby’s a nice boy,” said the housekeeper, “and so was his brother, God rest him.” She left the room.
“What’s this?” cried Eddie.
“Sit down a minute, Feathers. I was coming to it. I’m sorry. But tomorrow I shall have