Arthur & George Read online

  “George, where do you live?”

  “The Vicarage, Great Wyrley.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Staffordshire, Father.”

  “And where is that?”

  “The centre of England.”

  “And what is England, George?”

  “England is the beating heart of the Empire, Father.”

  “Good. And what is the blood that flows through the arteries and veins of the Empire to reach even its farthest shore?”

  “The Church of England.”

  “Good, George.”

  And after a while Father begins to groan and wheeze again. George watches the outline of the curtain harden. He lies there thinking of arteries and veins making red lines on the map of the world, linking Britain to all the places coloured pink: Australia and India and Canada and islands dotted everywhere. He thinks of tubes being laid along the bed of the ocean like telegraph cables. He thinks of blood bubbling through these tubes and emerging in Sydney, Bombay, Cape Town. Bloodlines, that is a word he has heard somewhere. With the pulse of blood in his ears, he begins to fall asleep again.

  Arthur

  Arthur passed his Matriculation with Honours; but being still only sixteen, he was sent for a further year among the Jesuits in Austria. At Feldkirch he discovered a kindlier regime, which allowed beer drinking and heated dormitories. There were long walks, on which English pupils were deliberately flanked by German-speaking boys, thus obliging them to speak the language. Arthur appointed himself editor and sole contributor of The Feldkirchian Gazette, a hand-written literary and scientific magazine. He also played football on stilts, and was taught the Bombardon tuba, an instrument which wrapped twice around the chest and made a sound like Judgement Day.

  On his return to Edinburgh, he discovered that his father was in a nursing home, officially suffering from epilepsy. There would be no more income, not even occasional coppers from watercolours of fairies. So Annette, the eldest sister, was already in Portugal, working as a governess; Lottie would soon join her, and they would send money home. The Mam’s other recourse was to take in lodgers. Arthur felt embarrassed and affronted by this. His mother, of all people, should not be reduced to the status of a landlady.

  “But Arthur, if people did not take in lodgers, your father would never have come to live with Grandma Pack, and I should never have met him.”

  This struck Arthur as an even stronger argument against lodgers. He knew he was not allowed to criticize his father in any way, so he remained silent. But it was a nonsense to pretend that the Mam could not have made a better match.

  “And if that had not happened,” she went on, smiling at him with those grey eyes which he could never disobey, “not only would there have been no Arthur, there would have been no Annette, no Lottie, no Connie, no Innes and no Ida.”

  This was indisputably true, and also one of those insoluble metaphysical conundrums. He wished Partridge were there to help him debate the question: could you remain yourself, or at least enough of yourself, if you had a different father? If not, it also followed that his sisters would not have remained themselves either, especially Lottie, whom he loved the best, even though Connie was said to be prettier. He could just about imagine himself being different, but his brain would not stretch to changing one iota of Lottie.

  Arthur might have better stomached the Mam’s response to their reduced social condition if he had not already met her first lodger. Bryan Charles Waller: just six years older than Arthur, but already a qualified doctor. Also a published poet, whose uncle had received the dedication of Vanity Fair. Arthur did not object to the fact that the fellow was well-read, even scholarly; nor to the fact that he was a hot-hearted atheist; he objected to the way he was far too easy and charming around the house. The way he said, “So this is Arthur,” and smilingly held out his hand. The way he implied he was one step ahead of you already. The way he wore his two London suits, and talked in generalities and epigrams. The way he was with Lottie and Connie. The way he was with the Mam.

  He was easy and charming with Arthur, too, which went down ill with the large, awkward, stubborn ex-schoolboy just back from Austria. Waller behaved as if he understood Arthur even when Arthur could not seem to understand himself, when he stood there by his own fireside feeling as absurd as if he had a Bombardon tuba wrapped twice around him. He wanted to blow a blast of protest, the more so when Waller affected to peer into his very soul and—which was the most annoying part—to take what he found there seriously and yet also not seriously, smiling away as if all the confusion he detected was unsurprising and unimportant.

  Far too easy and charming with life itself, dammit.

  George

  For as long as George can remember, there has been a maid-of-all-work at the Vicarage, someone in the background scrubbing, dusting, polishing, laying fires, blackening grate and setting the copper to boil. Every year or so there is a change of maid, as one gets married, another goes off to Cannock or Walsall or even Birmingham. George never pays them any attention, and now that he is at Rugeley School, taking the train there and back each day, he notices the maid’s existence even less.

  He is glad to have escaped the village school with its stupid farm boys and odd-talking miners’ sons, whose very names he soon forgets. At Rugeley he is generally with the better sort of boy, while the masters consider it a useful thing to be intelligent. He gets on well enough with his fellows, even if he does not make any close friends. Harry Charlesworth goes to school in Walsall, and nowadays they merely nod at one another if they meet. George’s work, his family, and his faith, and all the duties that flow from these adherences, are what count. There will be time for other things later.

  One Saturday afternoon, George is called to his father’s study. There is a large biblical concordance open on the desk, and some notes for tomorrow’s sermon. Father looks as he does in the pulpit. At least George can guess what his first question will be.

  “George, how old are you?”

  “Twelve, Father.”

  “An age at which wisdom and discretion might to a certain degree be expected.”

  George does not know if this is a question or not, so he remains silent.

  “George, Elizabeth Foster complains that you look at her strangely.”

  He is puzzled. Elizabeth Foster is the new maid; she has been there a few months. She wears a maid’s uniform, like all the previous maids.

  “What does she mean, Father?”

  “What do you think she means?”

  George ponders this for a while. “Is it something sinful she means?”

  “And if it is, what might it be?”

  “My only sin, Father, is that I am hardly aware of her, though I know her to be part of God’s creation. I have not spoken to her more than twice, on occasions when she has mislaid objects. I have no reason to look at her.”

  “No reason at all, George?”

  “No reason at all, Father.”

  “Then I shall tell her she is a foolish and malicious girl who will be dismissed if she gives further grounds for complaint.”

  George is eager for his Latin verbs, and does not mind what becomes of Elizabeth Foster. Nor does he wonder if it is a sin not to mind what becomes of her.

  Arthur

  It was decided that Arthur would study medicine at Edinburgh University. He was responsible and hard-working; in time he would surely acquire the stolidity patients liked to trust. Arthur was agreeable to the idea, if suspicious about its origins. The Mam had first proposed medicine in a letter to Feldkirch, a letter sent within a month of Dr. Waller’s arrival into the household. Mere coincidence? Arthur hoped so; he did not care to imagine his future being discussed between his mother and this interloper. Even if he was, as people constantly reminded him, a qualified doctor and published poet. Even if his uncle was the dedicatee of Vanity Fair.

  It also seemed a little too damned convenient that Waller was now offering to coach him for a scholarshi
p. Arthur accepted with adolescent ill grace, which drew a private word from the Mam. Nowadays he towered over her, and her hair, which had already lost its fairness, was beginning to whiten where it was drawn back behind her ears; but her grey eyes and her quiet voice, and the moral authority implicit in them, remained as powerful as ever.

  Waller proved an excellent tutor. Together, they crammed the classics, aiming for the Grierson bursary: £40 a year for two years would be a great help to the household. When the letter came, and the household was united in acclamation, he felt it was his first real achievement, his first act of paying back his mother for her sacrifices over the years. There were handshakes and kisses all round; Lottie and Connie became absurdly sentimental and wept like the girls they were; and Arthur, in a spirit of magnanimity, resolved to lay aside his suspicions of Waller.

  A few days later, Arthur called at the University to claim his prize. He was received by a small, embarrassed official whose precise status was never made clear. It was all entirely regrettable. It was still unclear how it had happened. A clerical error of some kind. The Grierson bursary was open only to arts students. Arthur’s entry should never have been accepted. They would take steps in future, and so on.

  But there were other prizes and bursaries, Arthur pointed out—a whole list of them. Presumably they would give him one of those instead. Well, yes, that could be the case, in theory; indeed, the next bursary down on the list was available for medicals. Unfortunately, it had already been claimed. As, indeed, had all the others.

  “But this is daylight robbery,” Arthur shouted. “Daylight robbery!”

  Certainly it was unfortunate. Perhaps something could be done. And the following week it was. Arthur found himself awarded a solatium of £7, which had accumulated in some overlooked fund, and which the authorities graciously felt could be applied to his purpose.

  It was his first experience of rank injustice. When he had been beaten with the Tolley, it was rarely without some reasonable cause. When his father was taken away, it had struck a pain to his son’s heart, but he could not protest that his father was blameless; it had been a tragedy though not an injustice. But this—this! He had a case in law against the university, everyone agreed. He would sue them and reclaim the bursary. It took Dr. Waller to persuade him of the inadvisability of suing the institution you were relying upon to educate you. There was nothing to be done except swallow pride and bear disappointment like a man. Arthur accepted this appeal to a manliness he had yet to inhabit. But the calming phrases he pretended to find persuasive were mere breath in his ear. Everything within him festered and burned and stank, like a tiny corner of the Hell he no longer believed in.

  George

  It is unusual for George’s father to speak to him after prayers have been said and the light turned out. They are supposed to reflect upon the meaning of the words while yielding themselves to the bosom of God’s sleep. In truth, George is more inclined to carry on thinking about the next day’s lessons. He does not believe God will count this a sin.

  “George,” his father suddenly says. “Have you noticed anyone loitering near the Vicarage?”

  “Today, Father?”

  “No, not today. Generally. Recently.”

  “No, Father. Why would anyone be loitering?”

  “Your mother and I have been receiving anonymous letters.”

  “From loiterers?”

  “Yes. No. I want you to report anything suspicious to me, George. Somebody pushing something through the door. People standing around.”

  “Who are these letters from, Father?”

  “They are anonymous, George.” Even in the dark he can sense his father’s impatience. “Anonymous. From the Greek, then the Latin. Without a name.”

  “What do they say, Father?”

  “They say wicked things. About . . . everyone.”

  George knows he is meant to be concerned, but finds it all too exciting. He has been given authority to play the detective, and does so as often as possible without interfering with his school work. He peers from behind the trunks of trees; he obscures himself in the cubbyhole beneath the stairs to watch the front door; he examines the behaviour of those who come to the house; he wonders how he might afford a magnifying glass and, perhaps, a telescope. He discovers nothing.

  Nor does he know who starts chalking up sinful words about his parents on Mr. Harriman’s barn and Mr. Aram’s outbuildings. As soon as they are washed off, the words mysteriously reappear. George is not told what they say. One afternoon, taking a circuitous route like all the best detectives, he creeps up on Mr. Harriman’s barn, but all he espies is a wall with some wet patches drying.

  “Father,” George whispers after the light has been put out. He assumes this is the permitted time to talk about such matters. “I have an idea. Mr. Bostock.”

  “What about Mr. Bostock?”

  “He has lots of chalk. He always had lots of chalk.”

  “That is true, George. But I think we may safely eliminate Mr. Bostock.”

  A few days later George’s mother sprains her wrist and wraps it in muslin. She asks Elizabeth Foster to write the butcher’s list for her; but instead of sending the girl with it to Mr. Greensill, she takes it to George’s father. After comparison with the contents of a locked drawer, Elizabeth Foster is dismissed.

  Later, Father has to go and explain things to the magistrates at Cannock. George secretly hopes he might also be asked to give evidence. Father reports that the wretched girl claimed it was all a foolish joke, and has been bound over to keep the peace.

  Elizabeth Foster is not seen again in the district and a new maid soon arrives. George feels he could have done better at playing the detective. He also wishes he knew what was chalked on Mr. Harriman’s barn and Mr. Aram’s outbuildings.

  Arthur

  Irish by ancestry, Scottish by birth, instructed in the faith of Rome by Dutch Jesuits, Arthur became English. English history inspired him; English freedoms made him proud; English cricket made him patriotic. And the greatest epoch in English history—with many to choose from—was the fourteenth century: a time when the English archer commanded the field, and when both the French and Scottish kings were held prisoner in London.

  But he also never forgot the tales heard while the porridge stick was raised. For Arthur the root of Englishness lay in the long-gone, long-remembered, long-invented world of chivalry. There was no knight more faithful than Sir Kaye, none so brave and amorous as Sir Lancelot, none so virtuous as Sir Galahad. There was no pair of lovers truer than Tristan and Iseult, no wife fairer and more faithless than Guinevere. And of course there was no braver or more noble king than Arthur.

  The Christian virtues could be practised by everyone, from the humble to the high-born. But chivalry was the prerogative of the powerful. The knight protected his lady; the strong aided the weak; honour was a living thing for which you should be prepared to die. Sadly, the number of grails and quests available to a newly qualified doctor was fairly limited. In this modern world of Birmingham factories and billycock hats the notion of chivalry often seemed to have declined into one of mere sportsmanship. But Arthur practised the code wherever possible. He was a man of his word; he succoured the poor; he kept his guard against baser emotions; he treated women respectfully; he had long-term plans for the rescue and care of his mother. Given that the fourteenth century had regrettably ended, and that he was not William Douglas, Lord of Liddesdale, the Flower of Chivalry himself, this was the best Arthur could currently manage.

  It was the rules of chivalry, and not the textbooks of physiology, which governed his first approaches to the fairer sex. He was handsome enough to attract women, and robustly flirtatious; once, he proudly informed the Mam that he was honourably in love with five women at the same time. It was different from being bosom friends with fellows at school, but at least some of the same rules applied. Thus, if you liked a girl, you gave her a nickname. Elmore Weldon, for instance: a pretty, sturdy thing with whom
he flirted furiously for weeks. He called her Elmo, after St. Elmo’s Fire, that miraculous light seen about the masts and yardarms of ships during a storm. He liked to picture himself as a mariner in peril on the seas of life, while she illuminated the dark skies for him. Indeed, he almost became engaged to Elmo; but then, after a while, he didn’t.

  He was also much concerned at this time about nocturnal emissions, which had featured little in the Morte d’Arthur. Damp morning sheets rather detracted from chivalric dreams; also from a sense of what a man was, or might be, if he put his mind and strength to it. Arthur sought to impose discipline upon his sleeping self by increased physical activity. Already he boxed, and played cricket and football. Now he also took up golf. Where lesser men consulted filth, he read Wisden.

  He began to submit stories to the magazines. Once again he was the boy standing on the school desk, deploying his vocal tricks; the cynosure of raised eyes, the cause of mouths dropped open in credulity. He wrote the sort of tales he enjoyed reading—this seemed to him the most sensible approach to the writing game. He set his adventures in distant lands, where buried treasure could often be found, and the local population was high on black-hearted villains and rescuable maidens. Only a certain kind of hero was fitted to take part in the hazardous missions he sketched. For a start, those whose constitutions were enfeebled, those given to self-pity and to alcohol, were manifestly unsuitable. Arthur’s father had failed in his chivalric duty to the Mam; now the task had devolved upon his son. He could not rescue her by fourteenth-century methods, so would have to apply those available in a lesser age. He would write stories: he would rescue her by describing the fictional rescue of others. These descriptions would bring him money, and money would do the rest.

  George

  It is two weeks before Christmas. George is now sixteen, and no longer feels the excitement of the season as he once did. He knows our Saviour’s birth to be a solemn truth, annually celebrated, but he has left behind the nervous exaltation that still infects Horace and Maud. Nor does he share the trivial hopes his old schoolfellows at Rugeley used openly to express: for frivolous presents of a kind which have no place at the Vicarage. They also annually set their hearts on snow, and would even demean the faith by praying for it.