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  I see now that one of the effects of this was to make Dunstan Ramsay a much bigger figure in my life. He was the chief history master at my school, Colborne College, and because he was a bachelor and lived a queer kind of inward life, he was one of the masters who was resident in the school and supervised the boarders. Indeed he was Acting Headmaster for most of the war years, because the real Headmaster had gone into the Army Education Service. But he still taught a good many classes, and he always taught history to the boys who were fresh from the Prep, because he wanted them to get a good grounding in what history was; he caught up with them afterward when they were in the top classes and gave them a final polishing and pushed them for university scholarships. So I saw Ramsay nearly every day.

  Like so many good schoolmasters, he was an oddity, and the boys liked him and dreaded him and jeered at him. His nickname was Old Buggerlugs, because he had a trick of jabbing his little finger into his ear and rooting with it, as if he were scratching his brain. The other masters called him Corky because of his artificial leg, and they thought we did so too, but it was Buggerlugs when the boys were by themselves.

  The bee in his bonnet was that history and myth are two aspects of a kind of grand pattern in human destiny: history is the mass of observable or recorded fact, but myth is the abstract or essence of it. He used to dredge up extraordinary myths that none of us had ever heard of and demonstrate—in a fascinating way, I must admit—how they contained some truth that was applicable to widely divergent historical situations.

  He had another bee, too, and it was this one that made him a somewhat suspect figure to a lot of parents and consequently to their sons—for the school always had a substantial anti-Ramsay party among the boys. This was his interest in saints. The study of history, he said, was in part a study of the myths and legends that mankind has woven around extraordinary figures like Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar or Charlemagne or Napoleon; they were mortal men, and when the fact could be checked against the legend it was wonderful to see what hero-worshippers had attributed to them. He used to show us a popular nineteenth-century picture of Napoleon during the retreat from Moscow, slumped tragically in his sleigh, defeat and a sense of romantic doom written on his face and on those of the officers about him: then he would read us Stendhal’s account of the retreat, recording how chirpy Napoleon was and how he would look out of the windows of his travelling carriage—no open sleigh for him, you can bet—saying, “Wouldn’t those people be amazed if they knew who was so near to them!” Napoleon was one of Ramsay’s star turns. He would show us the famous picture of Napoleon on Elba, in full uniform, sitting on a rock and brooding on past greatness. Then he would read us reports of daily life on Elba, when the chief concern was the condition of the great exile’s pylorus, and the best possible news was a bulletin posted by his doctors, saying, “This morning, at 11.22 a.m., the Emperor passed a well-formed stool.”

  But why, Ramsay would ask, do we confine our study to great political and military figures to whom the generality of mankind has attributed extraordinary, almost superhuman qualities, and leave out the whole world of saints, to whom mankind has attributed phenomenal virtue? It is trivial to say that power, or even vice, is more interesting than virtue, and people say so only when they have not troubled to take a look at virtue and see how amazing, and sometimes inhuman and unlikable, it really is. The saints also belong among the heroes, and the spirit of Ignatius Loyola is not so far from the spirit of Napoleon as uninformed people suppose.

  Ramsay was by way of being an authority on saints, and had written some books about them, though I have not seen them. You can imagine what an uncomfortable figure he could be in a school that admitted boys of every creed and kind but which was essentially devoted to a modernized version of a nineteenth-century Protestant attitude toward life. And of course our parents were embarrassed by real concern about spiritual things and suspicious of anybody who treated the spirit as an ever-present reality, as Ramsay did. He loved to make us uncomfortable intellectually and goad us on to find contradictions or illogicalities in what he said. “But logic is like cricket,” he would warn, “it is admirable so long as you are playing according to the rules. But what happens to your game of cricket when somebody suddenly decides to bowl with a football or bat with a hockey-stick? Because that is what is continually happening in life.”

  The war was a field-day for Ramsay as an historian. The legends that clustered around Hitler and Mussolini were victuals and drink to him. “The Führer is inspired by voices—as was St Joan: Il Duce feels no pain in the dentist’s chair—neither did St Appollonia of Tyana when her teeth were wrenched out by infidels. These are the attributes of the great; and I say attributes advisedly, because it is we who attribute these supernormal qualities to them. Only after his death did it leak out that Napoleon was afraid of cats.”

  I liked Ramsay, then. He worked us hard, but he was endlessly diverting and made some pretty good jokes in class. They were repeated around the school as Buggerlugs’ Nifties.

  My feelings about him underwent a wretched change when my mother died.

  (4)

  That was in the late autumn of 1942, when I was in my fifteenth year. She had had pneumonia, and was recovering, but I don’t think she had much will to live. Whatever it was, she was convalescent and was supposed to rest every afternoon. The doctor had given instructions that she was on no account to take a chill, but she hated heavy coverings and always lay on her bed under a light rug. One day there was a driving storm, turning toward snow, and her bedroom windows were open, although they certainly should have been shut. We assumed that she had opened them herself. A chill, and in a few days she was dead.

  Ramsay called me to his room at school and told me. He was kind in the right way. Didn’t commiserate too much, or say anything that would break me down. But he kept me close to him during the next two or three days, and arranged the funeral because Father had to be in London and had cabled to ask him to do it. The funeral was terrible. Caroline didn’t come because it was still thought by Netty and the Headmistress of her school that girls didn’t go to funerals, so I went with Ramsay. There was a small group, but the people from down by the crick were there, and I tried to talk to them; of course they hardly knew me and what could anybody say? Both my Staunton grandparents were dead, so I suppose if there was a Chief Mourner—the undertakers asked who it was and Ramsay dealt with that tactfully—I was the one. My only feeling was a kind of desolated relief, because without ever quite forming the thought in my mind, I knew my mother had not been happy for some years, and I supposed it was because she felt she had failed Father in some way.

  I recall saying to Ramsay that I thought perhaps Mother was better off, because she had been so miserable of late; I meant it as an attempt at grown-up conversation, but he looked queer when he heard it.

  Much more significant to me than my mother’s actual death and funeral—for, as I have said, she seemed to be taking farewell of us for quite a long time—was the family dinner on the Saturday night following. Caroline had been at home all week, under Netty’s care, and I went home from school for the week-end. There was a perceptible lightening of spirits, and an odd atmosphere, for Father was away and Caroline and I were free of the house as we had never been. What I would have done about this I don’t know; I suppose I should have swanked about a little and perhaps drunk a glass of beer to show my emancipation. But Caroline had different ideas.

  She was always the daring one. When she was eight and I was ten she had cut one of Father’s cigars in two and dared me to a smoke-down; we were to light up and puff away while soaring and descending rhythmically on the see-saw in the garden. She won. She had a reputation at her school, Bishop Cairncross’s, as a practical joker, and had once captured a beetle and painted it gaily before offering it to the nature mistress for identification. The nature mistress, who was up to that one, got off the traditional remark in such circumstances. “This is known as the nonsensicus impude
ns, or Impudent Humbug, Caroline,” she had said, and gained great face among her pupils as a wit. But when Mother died, Caroline was twelve, and in that queer time between childhood and nubile girlhood, when some girls seem to be wise without experience, and perhaps more clear-headed than they will be again until after their menopause. She took a high line with me on this particular Saturday and said I was to make myself especially tidy for dinner.

  Sherry beforehand! We had never been allowed that before, but Caroline had it set out in the drawing-room, and Netty was taken unaware and did not get her objection in until we had glasses. Netty took none herself; she was fiercely T.T. But Caroline had asked her to dine with us, and Netty must have been shaken by that, because it had never occurred to her that she would do otherwise. She had put on some ceremonial garments instead of her nurse’s uniform, and Caroline was in her best and had even put on a dab of lipstick. But this was merely a soft prelude to what was to follow.

  There were three places at table and it was clear enough that I was to have Father’s chair, but when Netty was guided by Caroline to the other chair of state—my mother’s—I wondered what was up. Netty demurred, but Caroline insisted that she take this seat of honour, while she herself sat at my right. It did not occur to me that Caroline was pulling Netty’s teeth; she was exalting her as a guest, only to cast her down as a figure of authority. Netty was confused, and missed her cue when the houseman brought in wine and poured a drop for me to approve; she barely recovered in time to turn her own glass upside down. We had had wine before; on great occasions my father gave us wine diluted with water, which he said was the right way to introduce children to one of the great pleasures of life; but undiluted wine, and me giving the nod of approval to the houseman, and glasses refilled under Netty’s popping eyes—this was a new and heady experience.

  Heady indeed, because the wine, following the sherry, was strong within me, and I knew my voice was becoming loud and assertive and that I was nodding agreement to things that needed no assent.

  Not Caroline. She hardly touched her wine—the sneak!—but she was very busy guiding the conversation. We all missed Mother dreadfully, but we had to bear up and go on with life. That was what Mother would have wanted. She had been such a gay person; the last thing she would wish would be prolonged mourning. That is, she had been gay until five or six years ago. What had happened? Did Netty know? Mother had trusted Netty so, and of course she knew things that we were not thought old enough to know—certainly not when we had been quite small children, really. But that was long ago. We were older now.

  Netty was not to be drawn.

  Daddy was away so much. He couldn’t avoid it, really, and the country needed him. Mummy must have felt the loneliness. Odd that she seemed to see so little of her friends during the last two or three years. The house had been gloomy. Netty must have felt it. Nobody came, really, except Dunstan Ramsay. But he was a very old friend, wasn’t he? Hadn’t Daddy and Mummy known him since before they were married?

  Netty was a little more forthcoming. Yes, Mr Ramsay had been a Deptford boy. Much older than Netty, of course, but she heard a few things about him as she grew up. Always a queer one.

  Oh? Queer in what way? We had always remembered him coming to the house, so perhaps we didn’t notice the queerness. Daddy always said he was deep and clever.

  I felt that as host I should get into this conversation—which was really more like a monologue by Caroline, punctuated with occasional grunts from Netty. So I told a few stories about Ramsay as a schoolmaster, and confided that his nickname was Buggerlugs.

  Netty said I should be ashamed to use a word like that in front of my sister.

  Caroline put on a face of modesty, and then said she thought Mr Ramsay was handsome in a kind of scary way, like Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre, and she had always wondered why he never married.

  Maybe he couldn’t get the girl he wanted, said Netty.

  Really? Caroline had never thought of that. Did Netty know any more? It sounded romantic.

  Netty said it had seemed romantic to some people who had nothing better to do than fret about it.

  Oh, Netty, don’t tease! Who was it?

  Netty underwent some sort of struggle, and then said if anybody had wanted to know they had only to use their eyes.

  Caroline thought it must all have been terribly romantic when Daddy was young and just back from the war, and Mummy so lovely, and Daddy so handsome—as he still was, didn’t Netty think so?

  The handsomest man she had ever seen, said Netty, with vehemence.

  Had Netty ever seen him in those days?

  Well, said Netty, she had been too young to pay much heed to such things when the war ended. After all, she wasn’t exactly Methuselah. But when Boy Staunton married Leola Cruikshank in 1924 she had been ten, and everybody knew it was a great love-match, and they were the handsomest pair Deptford had ever seen or was ever likely to see. Nobody had eyes for anyone but the bride, and she guessed Ramsay was like all the rest. After all, he had been Father’s best man.

  Here Caroline pounced. Did Netty mean Mr Ramsay had been in love with Mother?

  Netty was torn between her natural discretion and the equally natural desire to tell what she knew. Well, there had been those that said as much.

  So that was why he was always around our house! And why he had taken so much care of Mother when Father had to be away on war business. He was heart-broken but faithful. Caroline had never heard of anything so romantic. She thought Mr Ramsay was sweet.

  This word affected Netty and me in different ways. Old Buggerlugs sweet! I laughed much louder and longer than I would have done if I had not had two glasses of Burgundy. But Netty snorted with disdain, and there was that in her burning eyes that showed what she thought of such sweetness.

  “Oh, but you’d never admit any man was attractive except Daddy,” said Caroline. She even leaned over and put her hand on Netty’s wrist.

  What did Caroline mean by that, she demanded.

  “It sticks out a mile. You adore him.”

  Netty said she hoped she knew her place. It was a simple remark, but extremely old-fashioned for 1942, and if ever I have seen a woman ruffled and shaken, it was Netty as she said it.

  Caroline let things simmer down. Of course everybody adored Daddy. It was inescapable. He was so handsome, and attractive, and clever, and wonderful in every way that no woman could resist him. Didn’t Netty think so?

  Netty guessed that was about the size of it.

  Later Caroline brought up another theme. Wasn’t it extraordinary that Mother had taken that chill, when everybody knew it was the worst possible thing for her? How could those windows have been open on such a miserable day?

  Netty thought nobody would ever know.

  Did Netty mean Mother had opened them herself, asked Caroline, all innocence. But—she laid down her knife and fork—that would be suicide! And suicide was a mortal sin! Everybody at Bishop Cairncross’s—yes, and at St Simon Zelotes, where we went to church—was certain of that. If Mother had committed a mortal sin, were we to think that now—? That would be horrible! I swear that Caroline’s eyes filled with tears.

  Netty was rattled. No, of course she meant nothing of the kind. Anyway that about mortal sins was just Anglican guff and she had never held with it. Never.

  But then, how did Mother’s windows come to be open?

  Somebody must have opened them by mistake, said Netty. We’d never know. There was no sense going on about it. But her baby girl wasn’t to think about awful things like suicide.

  Caroline said she couldn’t bear it, because it wasn’t just Anglican guff, and everybody knew suicides went straight to Hell. And to think of Mummy—!

  Netty never wept, that I know of. But there was, on very rare occasions, a look of distress on her face which in another woman would have been accompanied by tears. This was such a time.

  Caroline leapt up and ran to Netty and buried her face in her shoulder. Netty took her o
ut of the room and I was left amid the ruins of the feast. I thought another glass of Burgundy would be just the thing at that moment, but the butler had removed it, and I had not quite the brass to ring the bell, so I took another apple from the dessert plate and ate it reflectively all by myself. I could not make head or tail of what had been going on. When the apple was finished, I went to the drawing-room and sat down to listen to a hockey-game on the radio. But I soon fell asleep on the sofa.

  When I woke, the game was over and some dreary war news was being broadcast. I had a headache. As I went upstairs I saw a light under Caroline’s door, and went in. She was in pyjamas, carefully painting her toe-nails red.

  “You’d better not let Netty catch you at that.”

  “Thank you for your invaluable, unsought advice. Netty is no longer a problem in my life.”

  “What have you two been hatching up?”

  “We have been reaching an understanding. Netty doesn’t fully comprehend it yet, but I do.”

  “What about?”

  “Dope! Weren’t you listening at dinner? No, you weren’t, of course. You were too busy stuffing your face and guzzling booze to know what was happening.”

  “I saw everything that happened. What didn’t I see? Don’t pretend to be so smart.”

  “Netty opened up and made a few damaging admissions. That’s what happened.”

  “I didn’t hear any damaging admissions. What are you talking about?”

  “If you didn’t hear it was because you were drinking too much. Booze will be your downfall. Many a good man has gone to hell by the booze route, as Grandfather used to say. Didn’t you hear Netty admit that she loves Father?”

  “What? She never said that!”

  “Not in so many words. But it was plain enough.”

  “Well! She certainly has a crust!”

  “For loving Father? How refreshingly innocent you are! One of these days, if you remind me, I’ll give you my little talk about the relation of the sexes. It’s a lot more complicated than your low schoolboy mind can comprehend.”