The Death of Grass Page 9

  Pirrie put up the idea of a guard. Roger was dubious.

  ‘I shouldn’t think we’d have any trouble here. And we want what sleep we can get. There’s a long day’s driving tomorrow.’ He looked at John. ‘What do you say, chief ?’

  ‘A night’s rest – what’s left of it.’

  They settled down. John lay on his stomach, in the posture that Army life had taught him was most comfortable when sleeping on rough ground. He found the physical discomfort less than he had remembered it.

  But sleep did not come lightly, and was broken, when it came, by meaningless dreams.

  6

  Saxon Court stood on a small rise; the nearest approach to a hill in this part of the county. Like many similar preparatory schools, it was a converted country house, and from a distance still had elegance. A well-kept drive – its maintenance, Davey had confided, was employed as a disciplinary measure by masters and prefects – led through a brown desert that had been playingfields to the two Georgian wings flanking a centre both earlier and uglier.

  Since three cars in convoy presented a suspicious appearance, it had been decided that only John’s car should go up to the school, the others being discreetly parked on the road from which the drive diverged. Steve, however, had insisted on being present when Davey was collected, and Olivia had decided to come along with him. Apart from John, there were also Ann and Mary.

  The headmaster was not in his study. His study door stood open, looking out, like a vacant throne-room, on to a disordered palace. There was a traffic of small boys in the hall and up and down the main staircase; their chatter was loud and excited and, John thought, unsure. From one room leading off the hall came the murmur of Latin verbs, but there were others which yielded only uproar.

  John was on the point of asking one of the boys where he might find the headmaster, when he appeared, hurrying down the stairs. He saw the small group waiting for him, and came down the last few steps more decorously.

  Dr Cassop was a young headmaster, comfortably under forty, and had always seemed elegant. He retained the elegance today, but the handsome gown and neatly balanced mortar-board only served to point up the fact that he was a worried and unhappy man. He recognized John.

  ‘Mr Custance, of course – and Mrs Custance. But I thought you lived in London? How did you get out?’

  ‘We had been spending a few days in the country,’ John said, ‘with friends. This is Mrs Buckley, and her son. We’ve come to collect David. I should like to take him away for a little while – until things settle down.’

  Dr Cassop showed none of the reluctance Miss Errington had at the thought of losing a pupil. He said eagerly:

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. I think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Have any other parents taken their children?’ John asked.

  ‘A couple. You see, most of them are Londoners.’ He shook his head. ‘I should be most relieved if it were possible to send all the boys home, and close the school for the time being. The news…’

  John nodded. They had heard, on the car radios, a guarded bulletin which spoke of some disturbances in Central London and in certain unspecified provincial cities. This information had clearly only been given as an accompaniment to the warning that any breach of public order would be put down severely.

  ‘At least, things are quiet enough here,’ John said. The din all round them increased as a classroom-door opened to release a batch of boys, presumably at the close of a lesson. ‘In a noisy kind of way,’ he added.

  Dr Cassop took the remark neither as a joke nor as a reflection on his school’s discipline. He looked round at the boys in a distracted unseeing fashion that made John realize that there was more to his strangeness than either worry or unhappiness. There was fear.

  ‘You haven’t heard any other news, I suppose?’ Dr Cassop asked. ‘Anything not on the radio? I have an impression… there was no mail this morning.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think there would be any mail,’ John said, ‘until the situation has improved.’

  ‘Improved?’ He looked at John nakedly. ‘When? How?’

  John was sure of something else; it would not be long before he deserted his charges. His immediate reaction to this intuition was an angry one, but anger died as the memory rose in his mind of the quiet, bloody young face in the ditch.

  He wanted only to get away. He said briefly:

  ‘If we can take David…’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll… Why, there he is.’

  Davey had seen them simultaneously. He dashed along the corridor and hurled himself, with a cry of delight, at John.

  ‘You will be taking David to stay with your friends?’ Dr Cassop asked, ‘– with Mrs Buckley, perhaps?’

  John felt the boy’s brown hair under his hand. There would very likely be more killings ahead; that for which he would kill was worth the killing. He looked at the headmaster.

  ‘Our plans are not certain.’ He paused. ‘We mustn’t detain you, Dr Cassop. I imagine you will have a lot to do – with all these boys to look after.’

  The headmaster responded to the accession of brutality in John’s voice. He nodded, and his fear and misery were so apparent that John saw Ann start at the perception of them.

  He said: ‘Yes. Of course. I hope… in better times… Good-bye, then.’

  He performed a stiff little half-bow to the ladies, and turned from them and went into his study, closing the door behind him. Davey watched him with interest.

  ‘The fellows were saying old Cassop’s got the wind up. Do you think he has, Daddy?’

  They would know, of course, and he would be aware of their knowledge. That would make things worse all round. It would not be long, John thought, before Cassop broke and made his run for it. He said to Davey:

  ‘Maybe. So should I have, if I had a mob like you to contend with. Are you ready to leave, as you are?’

  ‘Blimey!’ Davey said, ‘Mary here? Is it like end of term? Where are we going?’

  Ann said: ‘You must not say “Blimey”, Davey.’

  Davey said: ‘Yes, Mummy. Where are we going? How did you get out of London – we heard about all the roads being closed. Did you fight your way through?’

  ‘We’re going up to the valley for a holiday,’ John said. ‘The point is – are you ready? Mary packed some of your things for you. You might as well come as you are, if you haven’t any special things to get.’

  ‘There’s Spooks,’ Davey said. ‘Hiya, Spooks!’

  Spooks proved to be a boy considerably taller than Davey; lanky of figure, with a withdrawn, rather helpless expression of face. He came up to the group and mumbled his way through Davey’s hasty and excited introductions. John recalled that Spooks, whose real name was Andrew Skelton, had featured prominently in Davey’s letters for some months. It was difficult to see what had drawn the two boys together, for boys do not generally seek out and befriend their opposites.

  Davey said: ‘Can Spooks come with us, Daddy? That would be terrific.’

  ‘His parents might have some objection,’ John said.

  ‘Oh, no, that’s all right, isn’t it, Spooks? His father is in France on business, and he hasn’t got a mother. She’s divorced, or something. It would be all right.’

  John began: ‘Well…’

  It was Ann who cut in sharply: ‘It’s quite impossible, Davey. You know very well one can’t do things like that, and especially at times like this.’

  Spooks stared at them silently; he looked like a child unused to hoping.

  Davey said: ‘But old Cassop wouldn’t mind!’

  ‘Go and get whatever you want to bring with you, Davey,’ John said. ‘Perhaps Spooks would like to go along and lend you a hand. Run along now.’

  The two boys went off together. Mary and Steve had wandered off out of earshot.

  John said: ‘I think we might take him.’

  Something in Ann’s expression reminded him of what he had seen in the headmaster’s; not the fear, but the
guilt.

  She said: ‘No, it’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You know,’ John said, ‘Cassop is going to clear out. That’s certain. I don’t know whether any of the junior masters will stay with the boys, but if they did, it would only be postponing the evil. Whatever happens to London, this place is likely to be a wilderness in a few weeks. I don’t like the idea of leaving Spooks behind when we go.’

  Ann said angrily: ‘Why not take the whole school with us, then?’

  ‘Not the whole school,’ John said gently. ‘Just one boy – Davey’s best friend here.’

  Bewilderment replaced anger in her tone. ‘I think I’ve just begun to understand what we may be in for. It may not be easy, getting to the valley. We’ve got two children to look after already.’

  ‘If things do break up completely,’ John said, ‘some of these boys may survive it, young as they are. The Spooks kind wouldn’t though. If we leave him, it’s a good chance we are leaving him to die.’

  ‘How many boys did we leave behind to die in London?’ Ann asked. ‘A million?’

  John did not answer at once. His gaze took in the hall, invaded now by a new rush of boys from another classroom. When he turned back to Ann, he said:

  ‘You do know what you’re doing, don’t you, darling? I suppose we’re all changing, but in different ways.’

  She said defensively: ‘I shall have the children to cope with, you know, while you’re being the gallant warrior with Roger and Mr Pirrie.’

  ‘I can’t insist, can I?’ John asked.

  Ann looked at him. ‘When you told me – about Miss Errington, I thought it was dreadful. But I still hadn’t realized what was happening. I do now. We’ve got to get to the valley, and get the children there as well. We can’t afford any extras, even this boy.’

  John shrugged. Davey came back, carrying a small attaché case; he had a brisk and happy look and resembled a small-scale Government official. Spooks trailed behind him.

  Davey said: ‘I’ve got the important things, like my stamp-album. I put my spare socks in, too.’ He looked at his mother for approval. ‘Spooks has promised to look after my mice until I get back. One of my does is pregnant, and I’ve told him he can sell the litter when they arrive.’

  John said: ‘Well, we’d better be getting along to the car.’ He avoided looking at the gangling Spooks.

  Olivia, who had taken no previous part in the conversation, broke her silence. She said:

  ‘I think Spooks could come along. Would you like to come with us, Spooks?’

  Ann said: ‘Olivia! You know…’

  Olivia said apologetically: ‘I meant, in our car. We only have the one child, after all. It would only be a matter of evening things up.’

  The two women stared briefly at each other. On Ann’s side there was guilt again, and anger moved by that guilt. Olivia showed only shy embarrassment. Had there been the least trace of moral con--descension, John thought, it would have meant a rift that the safety of the party could not afford. As it was, Ann’s anger faded.

  She said: ‘Do as you like. Don’t you think you ought to consult Roger, though?’

  Davey, who had been following the interchange with interest but without understanding said:

  ‘Is Uncle Roger here, too? I’m sure he’d like Spooks. Spooks is ferociously witty, like he is. Say something witty, Spooks.’

  Spooks stared at them, in agonized helplessness. Olivia smiled at him.

  ‘Never mind, Spooks. You would like to come with us?’

  He nodded his head slowly up and down. Davey grabbed him by the arm. ‘Just the job!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on, Spooks, I’ll go and help you pack now.’ For a moment he looked thoughtful. ‘What about the mice?’

  ‘The mice,’ John ordered, ‘remain behind. Give them away to someone.’

  Davey turned to Spooks. ‘Do you think we could get sixpence each for them, off Bannister?’

  John looked at Ann over their son’s head; after a moment, she also smiled. John said:

  ‘We’re leaving in five minutes. That’s all the time you have for Spooks’s packing and your joint commercial transactions.’

  The two boys prepared to turn away. Davey said thoughtfully: ‘We should get a bob at least for the one that’s pregnant.’

  They had expected to be stopped on the roads by the military, and with that possibility in view had devised three different stories to account for the northward journeys of the three cars; the important thing, John felt, was to avoid the impression of a convoy. But in fact there was no attempt at an inquisition. The considerable number of military vehicles on the roads were interspersed with private cars in a normal and mutually tolerant traffic. After leaving Saxon Court, they made for the Great North Road again, and drove northwards uneventfully throughout the morning.

  In the late afternoon, they stopped for a meal in a lane, a little north of Newark. The day had been cloudy, but was now brilliantly blue and sunlit, with a mass of cloud, rolling away to the west, poised in white billows and turrets. The fields on either side of them were potato fields planted for the hopeful second crop; apart from the bareness of hedgerows empty of grass, there was nothing to distinguish the scene from any country landscape in a thriving fruitful world.

  The three boys had found a bank and were sliding down it, using for a sleigh an old panel of wood, discarded probably from some gipsy caravan years before. Mary watched them, half envious, half scornful. She had developed a lot since the hill climbing in the valley of fourteen months before.

  The men, sitting in Pirrie’s Ford, discussed things.

  John said: ‘If we can get north of Ripon today, we should be all right for the run to the valley tomorrow.’

  ‘We could get farther than that,’ Roger said.

  ‘I suppose we could. I doubt if it would be worth it, though. The main thing is to get clear of population centres. Once we’re away from the West Riding, we should be safe enough from anything that happens.’

  Pirrie said: ‘I am not objecting, mind you, nor regretting having joined you on this little trip, but does it not seem possible that the dangers of violence may have been over-estimated? We have had a very smooth progress. Neither Grantham nor Newark showed any signs of imminent breakdown.’

  ‘Peterborough was sealed off,’ Roger said. ‘I think those towns that still have free passage are too busy congratulating themselves on being missed to begin worrying about what else may be happening. You saw those queues outside the bakeries?’

  ‘Very orderly queues,’ observed Pirrie.

  ‘The trouble is,’ said John, ‘that we don’t know just when Welling is going to take his drastic action. It’s nearly twenty-four hours since the cities and large towns were sealed off. When the bombs drop, the whole country is going to erupt in panic. Welling hopes to be able to control things, but he won’t expect to have any degree of control for the first few days. I still think that, providing we can get clear of the major centres of population by that time, we should be all right.’

  ‘Atom bombs, and hydrogen bombs,’ Pirrie said thoughtfully. ‘I really wonder.’

  Roger said shortly: ‘I don’t. I know Haggerty. He wasn’t lying.’

  ‘It is not on the score of morality that I find them unlikely,’ said Pirrie, ‘but on that of temperament. The English, being sluggish in the imagination, would find no difficulty in acquiescing in measures which – their common sense would tell them – must lead to the death by starvation of millions. But direct action – murder for self-preservation – is a different matter. I find it difficult to believe they could ever bring themselves to the sticking-point.’

  ‘We haven’t done so badly,’ Roger said. He grinned. ‘You, particularly.’

  ‘My mother,’ Pirrie said simply, ‘was French. But you fail to take my point. I had not meant that the English are inhibited from violence. Under the right circumstances, they will murder with a will, and more cheerfully than most. But they are sluggish in logic as well as imaginati
on. They will preserve illusions to the very end. It is only after that that they will fight like particularly savage tigers.’

  ‘And when did you reach the end?’ Roger asked.

  Pirrie smiled. ‘A long time ago. I came to the understanding that all men are friends by convenience and enemies by choice.’

  Roger looked at him curiously. ‘I follow you part of the way. There are some real ties.’

  ‘Some alliances,’ said Pirrie, ‘last longer than others. But they remain alliances. Our own is a particularly valuable one.’

  The women were in the Buckleys’ car. Millicent now put her head out of the window, and called out to them:

  ‘News!’

  One of the two car radios was kept permanently in operation. The men walked back to see what it was.

  Ann said, as they approached: ‘It sounds like trouble.’

  The announcer’s voice was still suave, but grave as well.

  ‘… further emergency bulletins will be issued as they are deemed necessary, in addition to the normal news readings.

  ‘There has been further rioting in Central London, and troops have moved in from the outskirts to control this and to maintain order. In South London, an attempt has been made by an organized mob to break through the military barriers set up yesterday following the temporary ban on travel. The situation here is confused; fresh military forces are moving up to deal with it.’

  ‘Now that we’re clear,’ Roger said, ‘I don’t mind them having the guts to break out. Good for them.’

  The announcer continued: ‘There are reports of even more serious outbreaks of disorder in the North of England. Riots are reported to have occurred in several major cities, notably Liverpool, Manchester, and Leeds, and in the case of Leeds official contact has been lost.’

  ‘Leeds!’ John said. ‘That’s less good.’

  ‘The Government,’ the voice went on, ‘has issued the following statement: “In view of disturbances in certain areas, members of the public are warned that severe counter-measures may have to be taken. There is a real danger, if mob violence were to continue, that the country might lapse into anarchy, and the Government is determined to avoid this at all costs. The duty of the individual citizen is to go about his business quietly and to co-operate with the police and military authorities who are concerned with maintaining order.” That is the end of the present bulletin.’