FORFEITS

There was nobody to meet him at the station. Bodley Major… Arthur, had always been his collector, zooming into the forecourt in his battered old Austin 10, open topped in all weathers, impervious to the elements of whichever season it might be, sending fragments of gravel scattering in every direction. What, George wondered, would become of the car now?

Apart from the cooing of a woodcock, invisible, somewhere in a nearby hedgerow and the gentle, restless rustling of the giant poplars that formed a protective ring around the station, once the locomotive had chuffed and chugged its way into the distance, all was silent and he became dimly aware that Smithers, the ageing porter of this remote outpost of the great British Rail network, was watching him concernedly at a respectable remove, both arms around his trunk vigilantly… awkwardly. News, it seemed, had travelled fast. He knew, without a word needing to be spoken that his belongings would follow him eventually and arrive at the Hall, safe and sound, so, with a slight nod of thanks, he set off to walk, just as the rain that had been threatening all day began to fall.

Vaguely -what a perfect word to describe how he was reacting to yesterday’s news. Not numb exactly or unable to function quite, just vaguely aware of everything: that very English sweetness of petrichor as the autumnal rain mingled with the varied foliage of the countryside, the splash of puddles as he trod, mechanically, along the country lane, the sour dampness of tweed as the drizzle penetrated his jacket. All of these familiar, bucolic perceptions, he could sense, just…vaguely.

“Oh my dear boy. You’re here. I…I…well, I thought…you know…”

He, Bodley Minor, George, nodded. He did know. Wet and bedraggled as he was after the trudge from the station, even now, in their shared misery, father and son were unable to embrace; the former seemingly without the strength to rise from his favourite chair, in front of the roaring fire though seeing his son for the first time since the summer hols. Besides, hugs and such had never been a part of life at Bodley Hall. Yet, through his own wretched miasma, George could clearly distinguish the obvious signs of suffering in his father: different socks on each foot, one tartan, one bland, both un-darned, big toes prominent, the futile attempts to light his tobacco-less pipe, match after match, sucking vainly and distractedly. George felt a strong inclination to touch his father, to console the old man but lacked the ability to do so. Two men, young and old, linked by blood, yet unable to expound on their sorrow.

He did not ask after his mother, knowing that she would be abed, the sanctuary she had sought for all ails, large and small, for as long as he could recall, never once having visited Charters during his time there and, to his shame, oftentimes, he struggled to remember exactly what she looked like. Upstairs, he paused and listened at her door. Unrestrained sobbing. How he envied her. Once again, he felt that unusual urge to touch but, instead, walked in the direction of the opposite wing, to his brother’s room.

Everything as he remembered; a shrine now. Fishing rods, tennis rackets, a ravaged looking rugby ball. Two dog-eared posters adorning the walls: Marlene Dietrich, Jean Harlow. Flashes of remembrance, long forgotten: numerous trips to the cinema at Arthur’s behest, sitting through endless, overly romantic films that, to George, in his youth, were utterly boring, striving to stay awake.

Afterwards, he would listen to Arthur, rapturous, replaying each scene, as they scoffed ice cream, the true reason, George would pretend, for accompanying his brother. In reality, he would have followed Arthur anywhere, listened to him give voice on any subject. Arthur, for all of his young life had… sparkled.

Espying an old album, he opened it up. Photos of Arthur through the years, that gleaming, all encompassing smile that he seemed to have been born with. George could not recall a single snap of himself at any stage of his own young life. As he flicked through the pages, George noticed a young woman, beautiful, looking upon her first born with undisguised pride and he realised with a start that it was his mother. Closing his eyes, now, he squeezed them tightly, willing the tears to come… but nothing. He felt his own sorrow, of course, indeed, could sense the misery that hung over the entire Hall but only…vaguely.

In a way, it was a relief be back at school. The anticipated, awkward ritual of gauche commiserations from those in his house finally over, he escaped to his room only to find Davenport, the boy with whom he’d boarded for the last four terms, packing up his belongings.

“What ho, Bodley, old chum. Sorry about your news. I’m off. Bunking with Atherstone”.

Although he had long been used to the way that Davenport could, in as few words as possible, with no change in cadence or emotion, manage to say all that needed to be said, George, in his current state of puzzled vagueness, struggled to comprehend as Davenport, arms stacked eye high with clothing and books, bumped past him and he was left alone to construe his former roommate’s words.

Although the two boys were as chalk and cheese, Davenport, too, had lost a brother; an early fatality of the conflict, and George had hoped that their shared circumstances might, somehow, allow them to find mutual solace in each other’s company. But a greater power had deemed otherwise. Left alone in his cold, monastic cell, the only furniture just two single beds and a rickety old wardrobe, now only half occupied, the boy felt abandoned.

“You see, Bodley, I thought it best that you have some time alone. Not be…uh… reminded of your…uh…loss. Davenport, of course, has managed to get himself together remarkably well, don’t you think? It’s for King and country, after all”.

George nodded mutely. It was pointless mentioning the bed wetting or those awful occasions, that first term, when poor Davenport had woken up screaming his brother’s name; secrets that Matron had sworn Bodley to uphold for, in an establishment such as this, any display of weak character was frowned upon and considered, in a way that nobody was able to articulate, not quite right. The Prof, the Headmaster of Charters, continued as he looked out onto the playing fields, his back to George, unable to look him directly in the eye.

“But, upon reflection, you seem to be doing extremely well…uh…all things considered…and I believe you would be…uh… the perfect roommate, so to speak, for a new boy that comes to us next week”.

The Prof, an elderly, bewhiskered tutor, shrouded, as always, in voluminous black gown, the tassel of his cap swinging irritatingly, turned, his rheumy, bespectacled eyes upon his young pupil. George squirmed within his seat, much preferring the back view.

“You see, in these…uh… perilous times, we must all maintain a stiff upper lip, you understand. It’s our duty”.

George nodded mutely, having no idea what the Headmaster was alluding to. Most certainly nobody could accuse him of having shed a tear, either privately or in public.

“Good. I knew you’d…uh… understand, Bodley Minor…or is it Bodley Major, now? Or, come to think of it…just plain Bodley?”

More confused than ever, George made his escape from the dreaded, intimidating Headmaster’s study where, normally, boys were only summoned to receive six of the best; the feared swipes of the cane administered, ruthlessly, and with undisguised, sadistic delight, so it was rumoured, by the Prof.

In the interim, George attended his daily classes, present in body, if not in mind, and was eternally grateful to be given a sick note by Matron so that he did not have to participate in any sporting activities. Generally, he spent his free time staring at an open book, not a page being turned, memories of his times with Arthur playing over and over in his mind, bringing, always, a painful lump to his throat though, still, he found it impossible to weep; some undefined instinct forbidding such an emotional outpouring.

Only Matron seemed able to calibrate beyond the electro-magnetic rays that vibrated throughout this archaic institution, the subliminal drip-drip feeding of that constant refrain: be a man, be a man.

Too many times she had nursed the young, tender flesh of boys, skin broken from thrashings delivered with a viciousness that had, long since, crossed the frontier into outright savagery and, yet, these victims, tuned in to that same frequency from their very first day in Charters, preferred to take their punishment, honourably, like men. As well, of course, she was strictly bound, by the terms and conditions of her contract of employment, to observe and adhere to the traditional rules of Charters, laid down by those progeny of blue bloods that had come before, dating back two centuries. Still, in her own rebellious way, silently execrating the weak, cold-hearted leadership of the Headmaster, though she carried no lamp, she dared, at night, to walk throughout each house administering limited advice and consolation as best she could and, to her watchful eyes, Bodley Minor was much in need of such counsel.

By the end of that first week, aided by Matron, George had managed to compartmentalise his grief in a way that allowed him to recover a little of his former self for, henceforth, he would make believe that his brother was still here, off with his squadron, flying loops and barrel rolls and sundry other manoeuvres in a clear, blue, cloudless sky and not a, charred beyond recognition, corpse at the bottom of a freezing ocean unable even to be afforded a proper burial.

In this way, though consumed with guilt at the thought that he was betraying Arthur by this fantasy and inability to grieve properly, his outlook improved slightly and it was only the recollection of that day, his recent departure from Bodley Hall, that returned him to his darkened state.

His mother, whom he had not seen at all, had been too grief-stricken even to say goodbye. His father had wandered out of his study, feet still clad in the same odd socks. Had they even left his feet since George had returned? Still sucking on air, he had placed an arm on George’s shoulder and, pointing with his fallow pipe at the lush, fertile, thousands of acres that comprised most of the county, said:

“It’ll all be yours, now, dear boy”.

Unsure whether it was this acknowledgement, the passing of inheritance from the dead to the living, or the unfamiliar, paternal arm around his shoulder, that troubled him more, George now fought vainly to keep such thoughts at bay, believing his dull, immature normality, utterly unworthy to fill the huge void his brother had left behind.

The week following his one-sided interview with the Prof, the newcomer duly appeared and, though, outwardly, dressed perfectly in the fusty, old fashioned uniform of Charters, hair cut to regulation length, it was clear, immediately, to all that witnessed his arrival, that this boy was different.

He was not English as was evident as soon as he opened his mouth and, this alone, was enough for him to stand out in such a conservative arena whose pupils were all fee paying boarders, scions of the upper class of England. Rumours spread on the grapevine that he was, God forbid, German! Suspicion fostered instant paranoia. Thus far, in a school of two hundred boys, thirteen had already lost relatives and this war was far from over. To room a kraut with poor old Bodley Minor who was the latest to have lost a family member was… well, an outrage!

As George and his new roommate entered the gymnasium, the place of assembly, on that first morning, shortly after the new boy’s advent, the loud murmur of disapproval halted only momentarily, recommencing as soon as the two boys had taken their seats. Striding to the dais and taking his accustomed place at the podium, the Prof, flanked by Matron and the other tutors of Charters, had to thrice, ineffectually, call for silence before, most unusually, getting to the point straight away.

“School, today we welcome our newest pupil, Jakub Dabrowski who comes us to us from… Poland…”

Immediate, clamorous, chain reaction. Poland? Boys turned to their neighbours, twisted in their seats. Those, lacking guile, stared shamelessly in the direction of this foreigner whose eyes met them all defiantly. The cacophony of high pitched voices was tumultuous.

“QUIET!”

This from Matron who, usurping the authority of the Prof, now stood in all her commanding vibrancy, the true ruler of Charters, staring down upon her subjects and demanding, and getting, instant silence. Meekly, shaken, ears ringing from this unexpected alpha feminine roar, the Headmaster resumed his address.

“Uh, as I was… uh, saying, uh… Jakub is from…uh… Poland and, as such, is… uh… an ally of our country in the war against Germany so I am sure that you will all make him most welcome during his time at… uh… Charters”.

Later, as they walked across the playing fields, George pointed out the various pitches.

“Do you play rugger?”

“Rugger?”

“Rugger, you know. Rugby”.

“Ah. No. This game is unknown to me”.

“Your English is really rather good”.

“Thank you. My accent is, of course, strong. But my father was a Professor, as was my mother, back home in Warsaw. My sister spent four years at Oxford before…”.

George was tempted to ask if they had accompanied him to England but felt, without knowing why, that the question would be, somehow, inappropriate.

“Golly, how awfully well educated your family sound. We’ve a huge library at home but the only things my father reads are the Racing Form and the Farmers’Almanac. He follows the gee gees, you see, and he keeps abreast of the farming markets and such. Arthur, of course, is super intelligent; brains of the family. My brother, you know. He reads everything about everything. One could listen to him all day…”

Later, as he showed Jakub the trophy room; large, glass fronted cabinets containing cups sportingly fought for on the playing fields, they came upon two carved wooden shields hanging in pride of place upon the wall. One portrayed a roll call of names; those former pupils from Charters who had lost their lives, unsportingly, in the Great War. Jakub scrutinised it carefully.

“So many. So very sad”.

“Yes”, acknowledged Arthur, whose attention had been drawn, not just to the vast number of names, but to the young ages of all; many, just two or three years older than himself.

But his heart pounded as he gazed upon the second shield, commemorating the fallen of Charters in the current conflict; thirteen names and, there, the latest edition, in bright, gilt etched letters: Arthur P Bodley 1923 -1944. Unprepared for this confirmation of reality, in bold type, shattering his pathetic illusion, hurriedly, he ushered Jakub away.

That night, as George lay, wide awake, brain feverishly active, he realised with a start that he had, all day, been talking about Arthur in the present tense. Yet, though Jakub had offered, on first meeting, his condolences for George’s loss, the young foreigner had not once tried to correct him and had allowed him to speak as if his brother were still alive.

Staring across the room, he saw, by the light of the moon, that this boy with the strange name, too, was awake, looking up at the ceiling, tears running silently from his eyes. George sat upright.

‘I say, old chap. Thanks awfully for not correcting me about…you know…”

“I understand what it is to grieve, George”.

George? Nobody used Christian names at Charters; surnames were, well, more…masculine. George realised what else about this young foreigner had struck him forcefully this morning. Upon first eye contact he had somehow known, without the fact properly registering, that this boy, also, was suffering loss and, in a strange country, among strangers, though admirably fighting to retain his composure was doing so… vaguely.

“Your father?” He enquired hesitantly.

“Tak. My father, mother, sister. Intellectuals, you understand, considered a threat to the Germans. All executed. I owe it to them to make something of my life, do you see? Their loss must be worth something.”

George gasped silently. He could not even imagine losing one’s entire family. The old man was not much of a conversationalist and seemed to be getting more gaga and forgetful every time George returned home. As for his mother, well, she was a bewildering mess of a woman who’d expended all of her adoration on her eldest with nothing much left over for the remaining son. But, well, hang it all, they were still his parents and, in their frightfully English way, he supposed that, somehow, they loved him.

Arthur’s death was a great tragedy, cut down before even reaching his prime; something that George would never quite come to terms with. A sacrifice to the gods; a forfeit, so that he, George, could live on in his place, making sure not to waste the unwanted, unexpected advantage and opportunity that fate had laid upon him. The tears welled up in his eyes and he shuddered involuntarily as he felt himself unable, any longer, to hold back the long delayed torrent. Stiff upper lip be damned!

Silently, the newcomer rose from his bed, crossed the room, placing a platonic, brotherly arm around his new friend and, in this cold prison cell of a room, within an ancient edifice, devoid of compassion, sterile attestation of all things wrong about the ruling elite, two small boys, George and Jakub, broke through the restrictive barriers of ennoblement, daring to hug, and finding comfort within their shared grief.