Years of Plenty Part 8

He had been proud of knowing about Synge at school.

"Oh, that was nothing," he answered. But it had meant fewer sardines and sausages when he fed with Rayner.

"Then we're quits, dear old fool."

"Why old fool?"

"For taking me seriously."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"n.o.body else does. I amuse them and they like me all right. But I think you really care----"

"Yes, of course. Honestly, I care."

They lay in silence, looking at one another.

Later on they went headlong down the slopes and a.s.suaged their heat by bathing in the pool, which was almost deserted. It was still warm enough to lie on the soft banks so that the setting sun might dry their bodies.

They were late for house tea.

At this point Heseltine comes into the story.

He was head of Berney's, a fact of which he was most painfully aware.

Though not prominent in games, he was sound in all branches of life: above all, he was a man with an influence, a force for good, one of Foskett's darlings. He held strong views on the duty of a prefect and the possibility of 'feeling the school's moral pulse.' Berney's objected to his constant attentions: the house preferred to have its pulse unfelt. Everyone resented Heseltine's new rules and posted notices and petty interference, but of all Berneyites the most opposed to Heseltine in spirit and conduct was Anstey.

That night Heseltine asked Martin to see him after prep.

"Oh, I want to have a chat with you," said Heseltine when Martin arrived. "Just one friend to another."

"Yes," said Martin suspiciously.

"You've been going about a lot with young Anstey," the prefect went on.

"Yes."

"I don't want to seem interfering" (sure sign, Martin knew, that he was going to interfere), "but I think I ought to warn you against him.

He's not good enough for you. His record isn't a good one."

"He's in the Lower Sixth."

"I know that. He's clever enough. But we've had trouble with him. He doesn't fit into things: he's dangerous."

Martin wanted to say: "You think everybody dangerous who has more brains than you." As a matter of fact he said: "Oh?" There was something formidable about Heseltine.

"Of course," he continued, "one can't be too careful in matters of this sort. In a community like this sentimental attachments won't do. We prefects are responsible for the moral health of the school and we've got to keep our fingers on its pulse...." He prosed away and Martin regarded the literature he favoured. He read, it seemed, Seton Merriman and the publications of the Agenda Club. Suddenly he realised that Heseltine was saying: "I want you to promise me to see less of him."

Martin flared up at once. "I don't see why," he said angrily.

"I've given my reasons. He's not a fit friend for you."

"Surely that's for me to judge."

"You're not infallible. I'm only speaking for your good. I should like to have your promise. I know I can't compel you, but I ask it as a favour."

"I think my friends are my own affair," answered Martin, infuriated by what he considered to be the oiliness, the furtive oiliness, of Heseltine's methods.

During the next three days Martin was constantly with Anstey and, as a result, Heseltine declared war. He definitely forbade the friends to visit each other's studies without permission, and on the following evening he swiped Anstey for impertinence. To swipe a member of the Sixth was a violation of tradition but not of law. Not even Anstey could have denied that he had been sublimely impertinent, but his appeal was to custom. Heseltine smiled calmly and said that he couldn't be limited by hide-bound traditions when the maintenance of discipline was at stake. He enjoyed his triumph and did not spare his victim.

The news came to Martin through Rayner, who, though secretly pleased at Anstey's discomfiture, honestly admitted that Heseltine hadn't played the game. Martin listened to him in silence: he did not volunteer any conversation and was glad that Rayner went away at once.

He picked up a book and went straight to Heseltine's study.

"Can I speak to Anstey?" he asked quietly, "It's about some words in Homer!"

Heseltine looked at him suspiciously: he could hardly call him a liar to his face. "Very well," he said. "But don't stay."

Martin found Anstey in his arm-chair. His face was very white and when he saw Martin he smiled the forced, flickering smile that is so often born of an effort to conceal pain.

"It's all right," said Martin, "I've got permission."

Anstey told him to sit down.

"It's frightfully rotten luck," Martin began. "Heseltine is simply a devil."

"He didn't hurt me as much as he thought he had."

The thought gave Martin a thrill: it was something more than sympathy.

"What did he have you up for?" he asked.

"Cheek. You must have heard what I said. I certainly shouted."

"But I joined in that."

It had been in the tuck-shop. Heseltine's entrance had been greeted with remarks about the advent of the deity.

"He didn't hear you."

Martin knew that he hadn't shouted: he had only muttered something. He hadn't Anstey's pluck. The thought was bitter and increased his admiration of Heseltine's victim. Anstey had suffered for what he had helped to do.

"But what about this persecution?" he exclaimed suddenly. "I'm d.a.m.ned if I stand it."

"And what do you propose to do?"

"I don't see why we shouldn't remain friends."

"Nor do I. But the powers disagree."