Read Online Lord Dismiss Us by Michael Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Campbell
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The Pedant came walking away from the reed-filled lake. A worn path in the grass went curving up the slope, round the cricket-field which stood out above them like the prow of an aircraft-carrier; with its protective netting silhouetted against the blue sky. (If anyone hit a six over it, the fielder took ages to recover it. Many balls had disappeared into the lake).
They were a well-matched pair of walkers. Roly’s great round head came up to The Pedant’s thin shoulders. The Pedant, or Mr Milner, was aged fifty-three, and Rowles was seventy-two. They had addressed each other by their surnames for twenty-three years. (The third Housemaster, The Cod, was younger, and straightforward, and they avoided him). In absolute contrast to Rowles, The Pedant had been wearing the same brown coat, with padded elbows, for at least ten years. He looked so like a schoolmaster that one might have suspected it of being done by cunning design.
That he possessed a pointed nose and spectacles, unaltering short-cut-hair, and an almost perpetual frown, fitted the picture. That testiness – ‘You wretched child’ – was his well-nigh invariable emotion, did too. But a startling gift for obscene jokes and verses combined unexpectedly with sudden critical, though devotional, outbursts concerning the Church of England in the local press. And what on earth had The Pedant been doing in intimate conversation with the young barmaid in the Crown and Anchor Hotel in Marston?
Everything Dr Rowles had to say to The Pedant was said, frequently with good reason, as if it was something to be passed on to no other quarter – and might easily be overheard by someone lurking in the grass. He spoke with bent head, in a low murmur, out of the corner of his mouth, and Milner had difficulty in hearing.
‘By the way, Milner . . . have you heard about our cynic, Carleton’s summing-up of the New Administration?’
‘Indeed, no. What does your prize exhibit have to say?’
‘ “A tough nut” . . . tee-hee!’
Flushing a little, and his face alight with humour, Rowles raised his pale blue eyes quickly to catch Milner’s certain enjoyment.
‘The boy is imbued with the gift of exaggeration, Rowles,’ said The Pedant, in his dry, constrained voice.
Rowles darted a look to the left, and to the right. But there was no one in sight.
His question was almost inaudible.
‘Is that your considered opinion, Milner?’
‘Are you referring to the subject or object?’ said The Pedant, who was a painstaking, precise, and exceptional Latin teacher.
‘Ah, come off it, Milner!’ said Rowles, with thinly disguised irritation.
‘Well, I’d say it was a little too early to tell, Rowles. The good man is due some surprises. That much is certain.’
‘Tee-hee!’ (He loved Milner’s dryness).
‘How about you?’
Rowles took the return poorly. He made his particular motion of uncertainty. He brought up his right hand and with the frequently washed, perfectly cut and rounded pink thumbnail scratched his right temple. He kept his other fingers folded well away from this strangely delicate motion, with whose implications The Pedant was well acquainted.
‘One has scarcely had the opportunity as yet. . . .’
‘The scholastic record is unappealing,’ said The Pedant, who was now impatient in his turn. ‘Or, rather, it seems to reside with the female line.’
Appalled and delighted by Milner’s daring, Rowles dropped his mouth open and looked in all directions. They were passing the Nets, but no one could possibly have heard. Carleton was batting. He liked very much to watch, and would have paused, but Milner was only mildly interested.
‘That’s more your line than mine, Milner.’
He had caught the infection: this was a daring one! At least, he was not absolutely certain whether Milner knew that that curious oaf, Merryman, had seen him, last term, through the Saloon Bar door of the Crown and Anchor, and spread the information at once. He himself had
They were a well-matched pair of walkers. Roly’s great round head came up to The Pedant’s thin shoulders. The Pedant, or Mr Milner, was aged fifty-three, and Rowles was seventy-two. They had addressed each other by their surnames for twenty-three years. (The third Housemaster, The Cod, was younger, and straightforward, and they avoided him). In absolute contrast to Rowles, The Pedant had been wearing the same brown coat, with padded elbows, for at least ten years. He looked so like a schoolmaster that one might have suspected it of being done by cunning design.
That he possessed a pointed nose and spectacles, unaltering short-cut-hair, and an almost perpetual frown, fitted the picture. That testiness – ‘You wretched child’ – was his well-nigh invariable emotion, did too. But a startling gift for obscene jokes and verses combined unexpectedly with sudden critical, though devotional, outbursts concerning the Church of England in the local press. And what on earth had The Pedant been doing in intimate conversation with the young barmaid in the Crown and Anchor Hotel in Marston?
Everything Dr Rowles had to say to The Pedant was said, frequently with good reason, as if it was something to be passed on to no other quarter – and might easily be overheard by someone lurking in the grass. He spoke with bent head, in a low murmur, out of the corner of his mouth, and Milner had difficulty in hearing.
‘By the way, Milner . . . have you heard about our cynic, Carleton’s summing-up of the New Administration?’
‘Indeed, no. What does your prize exhibit have to say?’
‘ “A tough nut” . . . tee-hee!’
Flushing a little, and his face alight with humour, Rowles raised his pale blue eyes quickly to catch Milner’s certain enjoyment.
‘The boy is imbued with the gift of exaggeration, Rowles,’ said The Pedant, in his dry, constrained voice.
Rowles darted a look to the left, and to the right. But there was no one in sight.
His question was almost inaudible.
‘Is that your considered opinion, Milner?’
‘Are you referring to the subject or object?’ said The Pedant, who was a painstaking, precise, and exceptional Latin teacher.
‘Ah, come off it, Milner!’ said Rowles, with thinly disguised irritation.
‘Well, I’d say it was a little too early to tell, Rowles. The good man is due some surprises. That much is certain.’
‘Tee-hee!’ (He loved Milner’s dryness).
‘How about you?’
Rowles took the return poorly. He made his particular motion of uncertainty. He brought up his right hand and with the frequently washed, perfectly cut and rounded pink thumbnail scratched his right temple. He kept his other fingers folded well away from this strangely delicate motion, with whose implications The Pedant was well acquainted.
‘One has scarcely had the opportunity as yet. . . .’
‘The scholastic record is unappealing,’ said The Pedant, who was now impatient in his turn. ‘Or, rather, it seems to reside with the female line.’
Appalled and delighted by Milner’s daring, Rowles dropped his mouth open and looked in all directions. They were passing the Nets, but no one could possibly have heard. Carleton was batting. He liked very much to watch, and would have paused, but Milner was only mildly interested.
‘That’s more your line than mine, Milner.’
He had caught the infection: this was a daring one! At least, he was not absolutely certain whether Milner knew that that curious oaf, Merryman, had seen him, last term, through the Saloon Bar door of the Crown and Anchor, and spread the information at once. He himself had
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