The Honours Page 11

  ‘It’s nothing.’ She gathered them up, trying to remain calm. ‘Correspondence chess.’

  ‘You? A chess-player?’ He glanced at the kettle. ‘That’s dry-boiled.’

  ‘Well, you took too long.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m back early on account of the drizzle. How does that work, then, chess by post?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. Mr Garforth raised his eyebrows. ‘I mean, I don’t care. I’m giving up. It’s boring.’

  Mr Garforth made an ‘umph’ sound behind his teeth. ‘No patience. Let’s have a look.’ He reached for the letters.

  She clasped them to her chest. ‘No, it’s stupid.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He leaned forward, grasping. ‘Maybe I can talk some sense into – hey!’

  With a flick of her wrist, Delphine cast Mr Propp’s letters into the fire. They rolled with the updraft, flared and crumpled. What had she done?

  Mr Garforth glared at her. ‘That was damn foolish.’

  She bit down against the cold panic rising in her chest. He was right.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want you to see how rotten I am at chess. I’m a bad loser. It doesn’t matter.’

  He looked at her for a long time. At last, he said: ‘Right, then. Fill the kettle.’

  Delphine rose, glad of something to do. In the fireplace the remains of Propp’s letters flickered like votive candles, secrets vanishing up the chimney in twists of black smoke.

  The next morning, a car arrived containing Mr Kung. He wore round eyeglasses and carried a small brown suitcase with a paper tag attached to the handle. The tag flapped in the wind as he stood before the Hall, staring. Delphine watched him from her bedroom window. His mouth was open and he kept putting a hand on his bowler hat to stop it blowing away. He looked like a man about to step into the belly of a whale.

  Delphine let the curtain fall back across the pane.

  On her bed was a gun catalogue, open at a colour double-page spread of sidelock ejectors. She clothes-pegged it to a wire coat hanger, slipped a powder-blue frock over the top, then hung it in her wardrobe. Another twelve or so catalogues were stashed in a hat box wedged behind a joist in the attic. Beside the hat box was her old suitcase. She had poked airholes in the lid. There was shredded newspaper for bedding, a twig for gnawing, an old Bournville cocoa tin for a nest, a saucer of water and whatever food she managed to sneak up from the kitchen (the previous evening it had been a bit of sausage saved from dinner). Delphine had christened the rat Vicky.

  Though Mother had never explicitly forbidden gun literature, she was a capricious god. Texts bearing the whiff of heresy might be seized and confiscated, or torn to scraps. Indeed, any item Delphine betrayed a fondness for became territory ripe for annexation in Mother’s neverending war on delinquency.

  Like anyone living under an occupying power, Delphine had devised ingenious methods for hiding contraband. She spent many hours in the attic, reading by the light of a bare electric bulb and listening to Vicky rustle and chirp. Her bedposts, it turned out, were hollow, and by unscrewing the bedknob and stuffing a woollen stocking a foot or so down, she had created a secret cache for sweets, matches and beautiful pebbles found on the tideline.

  Communications were the war’s primary front. Mother was liable to intercept any correspondence addressed to Delphine, so she requested catalogues as ‘Miss P. DeGroot’. This was mainly because Miss DeGroot was a part-time resident and seldom checked her letters (she liked to let them build to a suitably impressive stack before opening them, conspicuously, one after another in the drawing room, gutting each envelope with an ivory-handled fruit knife) though, since their exchange at the symposium, Delphine rather fancied that if Miss DeGroot did one day find out, she would approve.

  As it was, the rigmarole of the deception – the writing of a short covering letter, the copying of the manufacturer’s address onto an envelope, the long walk to buy stamps at the sub post office in Pigg – these small, everyday tasks made her feel like an outlaw, a smuggler. They set a warm rush going in her chest that made her climb the stairs three at a time. Sometimes she became convinced that Mother was onto her, that something in her face had betrayed her; at other times, she felt serenely invincible. When Mother chided her for some imagined crime such as running in the hallway or frowning, Delphine felt her growing collection of secrets snug around her waist like a dynamite belt.

  She stepped out onto the landing. The maid Alice was leading Mr Kung through the Great Hall. Mr Kung had his bowler clasped to his chest. He bent over to stroke Zeno, the Hall’s resident tortoise, who was in the process of crossing the threshold between two tiles.

  Mr Propp emerged from a door beneath the stairs. His flat feet slapped against the black and white tiles. He saw Mr Kung and beamed.

  ‘But what is this? I thought you do not come for one, two weeks! I trust you had pleasant journey?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Mr Kung, bowing slightly. His black hair thinned around the crown like the grass on a batting crease.

  Mr Propp said something hearty in a language that might have been Russian or Mandarin. Mr Kung replied with vigour. The two had several rapid exchanges then Propp turned to Alice and said: ‘Two coffees, drawing room, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Propp.’ Alice nodded and smiled in that half-impertinent way of hers, and disappeared through a side door.

  ‘Ah, Edmund, my dear friend.’ Mr Propp’s words echoed up into the domed roof, and down the back of Delphine’s neck. Here was the sender of Propp’s letter. Propp squeezed the newcomer’s shoulder. ‘I am glad you arrive. We have so much to do.’

  She watched Propp lead him away. Kung’s head craned and swivelled as he took everything in. His movements had an urgency Delphine did not like. She could not help but think he was hunting for something.

  Professor Carmichael called Delphine to his desk. Without raising his head, he flourished her latest essay, 1,000 words on Hamlet.*

  Delphine took it. The Professor did not let go.

  ‘Not exactly according to Cocker, Miss Venner.’ His hand unclenched. ‘But a certain originality of thought, nonetheless. Take one.’ His fingers tapped a paper bag. ‘Go on.’

  Delphine stared.

  The Professor peered over a pair of imaginary spectacles. He glanced at the bag uncertainly. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like ’em?’

  Delphine teased open the mouth of the bag with a finger. It was full of wine gums.

  ‘Oh no, I like them.’

  ‘Take one, then.’

  In the shadow cast by the lip of the bag it was hard to tell which colour was which. Delphine plucked out a red one, put it back, pulled out another red, put it back, and finally found a green.

  ‘Thank you, Professor.’ She popped it into her mouth. When her molars met, the jolt of juicy sourness made her toes curl.

  ‘It’s not a gift. It’s a reward. Rest assured there will be punishments also.’ His gaze drifted to the abominations under glass. ‘Punishment and reward. The two great engines of pedagogy.’ He grinned and made a noise in his throat.

  On the desk was a pile of foolscap, the top sheet of which was covered in the Professor’s familiar runic scrawl. The title was in block capitals. Delphine read it upside-down: RAISING MU: HOW TO TACKLE COMMON OBJECTIONS TO LOST CONTINENTS.

  ‘What’s that about?’ she said.

  The grin disappeared. ‘Nothing you’d understand.’

  ‘Is it for the Society?’

  The Professor put down his fountain pen. ‘I may present it to them at some time, yes. Have you finished your arithmetic?’

  ‘What do you think of Mr Propp?’

  ‘What I think and what I write is none of your business. Your business lies solely with the heady world of long division, which I,’ he cupped a hand to his ear, ‘ah, yes, I do believe I hear it calling to you. Do you hear that? Now, off with you.’

  Delphine walked back to her desk, the dregs of the wine gu
m snug in the hollow of her back tooth. When she glanced up at the Professor, his patchy beard could not quite disguise the faintest rumour of a smile.

  Mr Propp called a special afternoon orientation. Delphine was supposed to be patrolling the box traps for Mr Garforth, but Mother had said the meeting was for all guests and residents.

  ‘Your father needs your support. Your silent support.’

  Mr Propp sat in a leather club chair, white moustache sagging over the stem of a large black pipe. The residents faced him in a loose horseshoe. Delphine wafted tobacco smoke out of her face, eyes watering. He placed his pipe on the arm of the chair and clapped his hands – big, heavy claps, like someone beating a carpet.

  Lord Alderberen permitted smoking anywhere within the Hall, but in the smoking room it rose to a contact sport. Contenders stuffed pipes, lit cigarettes with cigarettes and cut expensive foreign cigars with miniature guillotines. When Propp clapped his hands, all activity stopped. He basked in the fresh silence.

  ‘You are asleep,’ he said. He said that life was a war against sleep and everyone, everyone in the room, flinging opprobrium left and right, was losing. ‘You are no more master of your destiny than feather in stream. You are, you are, uh . . . quel est le mot juste?’ He circled his palm, snapped his thick fingers. ‘Ah! You are insensible to life.’

  Delphine sipped her Vimto, stewing.

  ‘You must take dissatisfaction you feel, deep in here,’ he beat a fist against his chest, ‘and deep here,’ he thumped his belly, ‘and push up, up,’ he mimed a volcano surging through his body, ‘until, at last, gets here.’ His hands came to rest on his bald head.

  He looked right at Delphine. She felt ice water spread through her gut. He was watching her, searching her. Did he know she had stolen his post? Was he deciding whether to kill her?

  She broke eye contact. The room felt too hot. She could feel a thin apron of sweat glazing her hairline. When she glanced back up, he was still watching her.

  The corner of his mouth curled upwards. He looked away.

  ‘When enough suffering, enough heat reaches brain, maybe, maybe you generate some energy, mist clears, and for one half of one half of one half of one second . . . you are awake.’

  Several guests nodded. Miss DeGroot went ‘Mmm’, as if smelling a pudding. She was having a mauve day, except for a daring tweed sash. Daddy watched with a sad, dogged intensity. His face was pouched and yellow.

  ‘And then . . . ’ Propp’s hands fell to his sides, making Delphine flinch. ‘ . . . is gone. But you are no longer fooled. And so you set to work. And you work now with intention.

  ‘This is work you must undertake. You must fight every day, every hour, every second. Normal efforts will not do. You do not heat kettle by deciding: “Oh, I will heat for fifteen seconds today, ten seconds tomorrow, maybe another ten at weekend.” No. You place kettle in fire and hold there until kettle boils.’

  Delphine fought the urge to leave there and then. He knew. He was toying with her.

  Alice entered carrying a tray with a crystal decanter and a steaming cup of coffee. Miss DeGroot applauded softly at the synchronicity. Propp accepted the coffee then held it up while Alice added calvados. Eventually, Propp said: ‘Thank you.’ Alice replaced the stopper and Propp stirred his coffee with a silver teaspoon.

  ‘We have new companion.’ He placed the hot spoon on the coffee table; little bumps of condensation rose on the glass, forming the spoon’s mirror-image. Delphine breathed in the bitter, earthy aroma. She couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. ‘Please welcome Mr Kung.’ He gestured towards the man sitting on a piano stool at the extreme right of the settee. The Society members clapped. Mr Kung acknowledged them with a momentary smile, hands bunched over the bowler hat in his lap. ‘Mr Kung comes to us from Inner Mongolia, so for today he is excused from activities. Tomorrow, real work begins, ha!’ Propp lifted his coffee to his lips and slurped; a shudder passed through his round shoulders and bald head.

  ‘How exciting!’ said Miss DeGroot. ‘Later I shall interrogate you mercilessly.’

  Mr Kung gave her a bashful chuckle. Residents began to shuffle and grunt, retrieving cigarette cases from clasp handbags, patting pockets for matches.

  ‘I have a question.’ The voice made Delphine jump. It was Daddy. He was usually so quiet as to be invisible; the other guests reacted as if a chest of drawers had come to life.

  ‘Please,’ said Propp.

  ‘If suffering leads to freedom, should we then be cruel to our fellow man, and thus emancipate him?’ Daddy’s expression was softly thoughtful – that of a perplexed schoolboy.

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ said Dr Lansley, crossing his legs and taking a drag on his cigarette. He turned to the Professor. ‘I say, Algernon, you could read people one of your essays.’

  ‘Pipe down, Titus,’ said Miss DeGroot. She shot a half-smile at Daddy. ‘Interesting question. What’s the answer, Ivan?’

  Propp rubbed an index finger across the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Misfortune alone does not create change within. Good fortune may distract you from need for change. But suffering alone – this is not sufficient. You must choose to suffer. And may I remind,’ he lifted an index finger, cutting off Miss DeGroot whose glossed lips had parted, ‘when I say “suffering” I use word in very specific sense. I do not say “suffering” to mean “Oh, dear me, I have banged toe on table leg,” not this sort of discomfort. No. When I say suffering I mean deliberate applying of will, focused upon single activity. For example, dances.’ He looked to Mother and Miss DeGroot. ‘I do not think dancing can be called “suffering” in normal sense.’

  Miss DeGroot opened her mouth as if to comment then apparently thought better of it.

  ‘When person performs Hidden Steps,’ Propp went on, ‘not repeating mechanically but fully being within each movement so no other action takes place except dance, this . . . this is true work, true effort, true suffering. This English word, to “suffer”, it means, I think, to carry, but also, to allow. You must willingly carry burden given to you.’

  Delphine watched Daddy’s face throughout the explanation. He looked like someone gazing into a treasure chest.

  ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ he said. ‘Things you’re not telling us. Secrets.’

  Propp sipped his coffee. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He began loading his pipe. ‘Every great religion has outside teaching, and inside teaching. Mr Kung – this is true of East as well as West, no?’

  Mr Kung seemed a little startled. He nodded quickly.

  ‘Yes, I think so, my friend.’

  Propp grunted, satisfied. ‘So. This protects religion and protects followers. Wisdom half-understood may be deadlier than gun.’ He peered down the pipe stem like rifle sights. ‘Wisdom is physical thing. Imagine canister of petrol. If we use for one car, we may travel many miles, see many things. If we divide between now fifty, now one hundred cars, all cars go nowhere. Petrol is wasted. So it is with wisdom.’

  ‘So what about us, Ivan?’ said Miss DeGroot. ‘When are you going to fill us up with your spiritual gasoline?’

  He shook his head. ‘You are not ready. You would not understand.’ He reached for his matches. ‘Or worse: you would go mad.’

  Miss DeGroot giggled. Propp did not smile.

  He touched a flame to the bowl of his pipe and took several practised puffs. ‘Friends, thank you. You may now go. Please, remember as you perform afternoon activities: you must hold yourself in fire. Willing suffering makes freedom, and only way to suffer is to work.’

  His audience shuffled and began to rise. Delphine hung back, watching Professor Carmichael approach Mr Kung. He slapped Mr Kung’s shoulder with such force that the smaller man’s eyeglasses slipped down his nose.

  ‘Good to have you here,’ said the Professor. ‘Welcome to the Hall.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Kung, listing slightly beneath the weight of the Professor’s meaty palm.

&n
bsp; ‘You’ve picked a good day to arrive. Archery tomorrow.’ Delphine saw the grey cotton of Mr Kung’s suit bunching as the Professor gave his shoulder a fraternal squeeze. ‘You any good with the old bow and arrow?’

  ‘I, uh . . . ’ Mr Kung gave a deferential laugh. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Never had a go?’

  ‘No. I do not think I will be so good.’

  ‘Don’t try it till you’ve nocked it.’ The Professor waited for a reaction. ‘Eh? No? Ah well, you’re tired.’

  Delphine followed the guests filing out of the south exit. As she walked down the corridor, she heard Dr Lansley behind her, muttering: ‘Work? He wouldn’t know work if it leapt out from behind the rosebushes and paddled him on his vast, self-righteous backside.’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak about our teacher like that.’

  She turned to look. Dr Lansley had stopped. Daddy was blocking his path.

  Delphine felt shiny and awake. It was finally happening. Daddy was going to pound the stuffing out of him.

  Dr Lansley folded his arms. She had to sidestep to see him.

  ‘I’m sorry – what?’

  ‘I said you shouldn’t speak about Mr Propp like that.’

  Residents bunched in the corridor behind Lansley. He regarded Daddy, lips parted, wet teeth gleaming.

  ‘You’re in my way.’

  Even with his poor posture, Daddy stood a good two inches taller than Lansley. Beneath his shirt, tendons shivered tight as ballista ropes.

  ‘He’s trying to help you,’ said Daddy. ‘But he can’t unless you let him into your heart.’

  Lansley went to push past but Daddy sidestepped. Lansley backed away. The two men stood watching each other, breathing.

  The corner of Lansley’s mouth twitched, curling upwards into a familiar smirk.

  ‘And what’s in your heart, sweet, tortured Gideon?’

  Daddy’s painting hand balled and flexed. Delphine waited for it to spring up and bury itself in Lansley’s sunken jaw. Her own hand twitched above an imaginary holster. If only she had a gun, God how she would humble him.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Lansley glanced at her. The smirk hardened into a grin. He looked Daddy up and down. He ran his tongue over his teeth.