A Question of Proof Read Free

Tiverton comes wearily down to put an end to this tableau of original sin.
    One more conversation and our prologue will be over. Stevens minor, the dictator (title derived from Evans’ modern history teaching) of the Black Spot society, leans close and whispers to his lieutenant, a cheerful, chubby infant, Ponsonby:
    ‘This afternoon: immediately after lunch; in Mouldy’s hut: private conclave: password “Dead Man’s Chest,” countersign – “Bottle of rum.”’
    ‘But, you fool,’ hisses the lieutenant, ‘we’re supposed to be in the day room then.’
    ‘We can easily oil out; there’s no roll-call. It’s a life or death matter.’
    It is a couple of hours later. Michael has a period off. He fills a pipe and walks down the long passage between classrooms that lead out to the grounds. On either side of him arise sounds of education, curiously antiphonal in effect; a strident, confident recitative from the master, alternating with a treble solo or unison passage. In Sims’ room something halfway between a marathon of coloratura sopranos and a witches’ sabbath seems to be taking place. Michael shrugs his shoulders and passes on. Tiverton’s rather petulant tones on his left: on his right Wrench is teaching the youngest form – a fluky, spasmodic voice; but he is doing it well; he has a gift. I must be nicer to him, thinks Michael. But how nightmare-ish these disembodied voices sound. And no doubt mine sounds just as repellent; though I flatter myself that I speak to boys in my natural voice. Anyway, it can’t be as bad as that hectoring drawl of Percy’s. No, I don’t like the man, I definitely do not like the man. What on earth did darling Hero go and marry him for?
    He emerged into the airy sunlight, lit his pipe, and strolled down the asphalt path between Big Field and the Hay Field. Mould, the groundsman, was whitewashing afresh the lines of the running track. Big circular stacks of hay, hollow in the middle, reminded him of yesterday’s hay battle. A good romp. Tomorrow they would be dismantled and carted. He walked to the end to the path where the grounds were bounded by a thicket, and turned back. Passing behind the school block and the back of the headmaster’s house he came to the high brick wall of the private garden. At the far end of this, where a shrubbery ran close to the outer side of the wall, was Hero’s pillarbox. Just like her, he thought – not for the first time – her strange mixture of madcap play and reckless loving, to have chosen this romantic line of communication. He looked round once, his heart beating quicker, annoyed by the word ‘furtive’ entering his head, took out a loose brick, transferred a piece of paper from the cavity to his pocket, and replaced the brick. Then he walked back and sat down on a seat by the Big Field, and read her note.
    ‘Darling, I shall be in the Vth form haystack during lunch tomorrow. Yes, highly imprudent, isn’t it? But please come. I must see you. I
must see
you. H.’
    He sat there, content to feel happy, till the bell range for recess. Then he went in to the common room. Surely they must be able to read his secret on his face, see that he was walking in an air of glory? Wasn’t Tiverton looking at him in a rather peculiar way? He endeavored to compose his features into a workaday expression. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.
    ‘Have you taken to Kruschen, or what is it?’ said Tiverton.
    ‘No, I’ve just had an hour off.’
    Griffin came up to him, ‘Will you change the chaps after lunch? I want to have a last look round in case Mouldy has committed any gaffes. Oh, and I say, Sims wants to know if you’ll take on the stopwatch this year.’
    ‘Certainly, if he really doesn’t want to – are you sure, Sims?’
    ‘Yes, I’d really rather you did. I made rather a bloomer of it last year. I mean, I get so excited that I forget to press the button.’
    ‘All right, then: but I shall probably commit some solecism