Read Online Guy Renton by Alec Waugh - Free Book Online Page B

A fresh page was turned each day. He looked at that day’s page. A. T. Gresling. School House 1914-1916. He half remembered him: an inky-collared fag in his last term. He did not suppose he had ever spoken to him; he certainly had not thought of him since he left. And Gresling had been killed at Monday on 28 March, 1918: only two miles from where, at Neuville-Vitasse on that long nerve-charged day, he had held a section of machine-gun posts. A. T. Gresling.
    The cracked bell from the Almshouses began to ring. Only five minutes now. He stood in the entrance to the cloisters, by the School House studies, waiting for the hour to strike, with the consequent spilling from every doorway of boys, books under their arms, tearing across the courts to their separate houses. He wondered when he would stand here next. Now that Franklin was leaving and that he was giving up football he did not suppose that he would come down often. He would have no link. Maybe he would not come again till he had a son here. Would Renée and he ever stand here, waiting for that son? His mind ran forward: a year for a divorce; marriage in autumn ’26. October 1940. No, it was not impossible.
    The Abbey chimed the hour. The empty courts were flooded with raised voices and scurrying feet. He stood aside, letting the stream pour past. Within two minutes the courts were empty, except for the few senior boys too grand to hurry, who sauntered, their hands driven deep into their pockets, scarves flung round their necks.
    Franklin was among the last. He was with two other boys. He did not hurry at the sight of Guy. That would have been below his dignity, but he waved, and a broad smile lit up his face. A friendly, good-natured smile. He was really exceedingly good-looking: with the kind of figure that can make clothes bought off a peg look as though they had been tailored in Savile Row. His tie fitted neatly into the apex of his collar; his hair though a little long was neatly brushed. He had an air of elegance. Yes, he was too old for Fernhurst.
    He could not have been more adult than he was that night.
    â€œNow that I’m practically an old boy, there’s no reason is there, why I shouldn’t have wine with dinner?”
    â€œI don’t suppose that there is.”
    â€œI thought not and it’s time I began my education. You choose what you’d have if you were with Jimmy Grant, then tell me why you’ve chosen it. Is there any reason, by the way, why I shouldn’t have an aperitif as well?”
    â€œThere’s every reason why you shouldn’t have a cocktail. Gin spoils your palate.”
    â€œWhat about sherry then?”
    â€œI’ve nothing against that.”
    â€œFine: order me the best.”
    He behaved as though he had earned some high distinction instead of having been presented with the embroidered bag. He was curious to know how the news had been received at No. 17.
    â€œTell me everything that everybody said; I bet Rex was pompous.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, he was.”
    â€œHow that man bores me. How did Father take it?”
    â€œPuzzled. Rather disturbed at having something that he’d thought was settled interfered with.”
    â€œHe would. He’d like to treat me like a pipe of port, that you buy, lay down, and leave to mature until it’s fit to drink. You provide your son with a nurse, enter him for your school and college, and twenty years later there’s the finished product, a credit to the family. A pity it didn’t work out that way.”
    The analogy was disconcertingly apposite: it was said moreover with a complete absence of any criticism of their father.
    â€œWhat about Barbara? I suppose she hasn’t heard. What reason are you going to give her for my leaving school at Easter?”
    â€œWe haven’t got around to that one yet.”
    â€œThink a good one out. I’ve an idea that I’m a kind of hero to her.”
    There was a