The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh - Evelyn Waugh [147]
“What d’you make of the man Peacock?” (Charles, Tamplin and Wheatley were all in the Classical Upper Fifth under Mr. Peacock.)
“He’s started decently. No work tonight.”
“Raggable?”
“I doubt it. But slack.”
“I’d sooner a master were slack than raggable. I got quite exhausted last term ragging the Tea-cake.”
“It was witty, though.”
“I hope he’s not so slack that we shan’t get our Certificates next summer.”
“One can always sweat the last term. At the University no one ever does any work until just before the exams. Then they sit up all night with black coffee and strychnine.”
“It would be jolly witty if no one passed his Certificate.”
“I wonder what they’d do.”
“Give Peacock the push, I should think.”
Presently Grace was said and the school streamed out into the cloisters. It was now dark. The cloisters were lit at intervals by gaslamps. As one walked, one’s shadow lengthened and grew fainter before one until, approaching the next source of light, it disappeared, fell behind, followed one’s heels, shortened, deepened, disappeared and started again at one’s toes. The quarter of an hour between Hall and Second Evening was mainly spent in walking the cloisters in pairs or in threes; to walk four abreast was the privilege of school prefects. On the steps of Hall, Charles was approached by O’Malley. He was an ungainly boy, an upstart who had come to Spierpoint late, in a bye-term. He was in Army Class B and his sole distinction was staying-power in cross-country running.
“Coming to the Graves?”
“No.”
“D’you mind if I hitch on to you for a minute?”
“Not particularly.”
They joined the conventional, perambulating couples, their shadows, lengthened before them, apart. Charles did not take O’Malley’s arm. O’Malley might not take Charles’s. The Settle was purely a House Dignity. In the cloisters Charles was senior by right of his two years at Spierpoint.
“I’m awfully sorry about the Settle,” said O’Malley.
“I should have thought you’d be pleased.”
“I’m not, honestly. It’s the last thing I wanted. Graves sent me a postcard a week ago. It spoiled the end of the holidays. I’ll tell you what happened. Graves had me in on the last day last term. You know the way he has. He said, ‘I’ve some unpleasant news for you, O’Malley. I’m putting you head of the Upper Dormitory.’ I said, ‘It ought to be someone on the Settle. No one else could keep order.’ I thought he’d keep Easton up there. He said, ‘These things are a matter of personality, not of official position.’ I said, ‘It’s been proved you have an official. You know how bolshie we were with Fletcher.’ He said, ‘Fletcher wasn’t the man for the job. He wasn’t my appointment.’ ”
“Typical of his lip. Fletcher was Frank’s appointment.”
“I wish we had Frank still.”
“So does everyone. Anyway, why are you telling me all this?”
“I didn’t want you to think I’d been greasing. I heard Tamplin say I had.”
“Well, you are on the Settle and you are head of the dormitory, so what’s the trouble?”
“Will you back me up, Ryder?”
“Have you ever known me back anyone up, as you call it?”
“No,” said O’Malley miserably, “that’s just it.”
“Well, why d’you suppose I should start with you?”
“I just thought you might.”
“Well, think again.”
They had walked three sides of the square and were now at the door of Head’s House. Mr. Graves was standing outside his own room talking to Mr. Peacock.
“Charles,” he said, “come here a minute. Have you met this young man yet, Peacock? He’s one of yours.”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mr. Peacock doubtfully.
“He’s one of my problem children. Come in here, Charles. I want to have a chat to you.”
Mr. Graves took him by the elbow and led him into his room.
There were no fires yet and the two armchairs stood before an empty grate; everything was unnaturally bare and neat after the holiday cleaning.
“Sit you down.”
Mr. Graves filled his pipe and gave Charles a long, soft and quizzical stare. He was a man still under thirty, dressed in Lovat tweed with an Old Rugbeian tie. He had been at