The Loner Page 3

  It was compulsory for every boy to join the cadets. A few were exempt, by reason of the fact that they belonged to the scouts. Mark Flitley was one of these – a circumstance that was of no great concern to anybody, except to the scoutmaster.

  One day Smith, who happened to be in full uniform, found Flitley in the school cloakrooms watching scores of cadet soldiers polishing their brasses, boots, and webbing. He was clearly glad that this was a chore, which he did not have to do. Bob was a keen cadet, and it saddened him that Flitley was one of those who could not understand why so many others were taking a pride in their uniform. It could do him some good, he thought.

  Smith watched, as Flitley passed out of the cloakroom, and walked along one of the many school drives. It was impossible to go anywhere without seeing signs of soldiering. There, in front of them, a platoon of troopers was assembled and duly marching up and down under the prefect who was its officer. Smith knew that the regularity, precision, and the apparent purposelessness of the exercise would have as little interest to Flitley as the Duke of York of nursery fame.

  As Smith had nothing else to do, he decided to talk to Flitley.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Smith.

  “I-I-I- I was thinking of those s-soldiers. I-I-I-I c-c-can’t understand how they can k-k-keep p-practising drill. They c-can’t enjoy it.”

  “But they do enjoy practising drill. I do anyway. You have to learn drill and discipline if you want to be a soldier. Then there is the annual parade, when the school cadets are inspected by a high ranking army officer. That’s a grand occasion, and we all have to practise for it.”

  “But it’s all so p-pointless,” Flitley continued in a moaning tone. “Why should anyone w-want to be a soldier anyway? There aren’t any wars any more, and if there are any in the future, they’ll be f-fought with m-machines and a-a-a-atom bombs, and there w-won’t be a p-place for s-s-soldiers.”

  “Oh come off it!” Smith exclaimed. “There will always be a place for soldiers, even in a nuclear war. If there is a war, I shall be an officer and shall know what to do in an emergency, while you’ll be called up and have to start from bottom as a private.”

  “I-I-I can’t see why anyone should w-want to join the army. I-if there was a w-war, I-I wouldn’t join the army. And I wouldn’t go if I was called up either – I-I-I-I might get killed.”

  “Nonsense,” said Smith. “You’d have to fight like everyone else. Besides, if there is a nuclear war, no-one will be safe anywhere. If you don’t understand why we enjoy drill, and, as you say, want to play soldiers, why don’t you join cadets, and find out for yourself. It might do you some good.”

  Flitley replied:” No. I-I-I won’t join the cadets. I-I-wouldn’t like it. And, even if I did, I-I-I w-wouldn’t be any g-good. I-I-I c-couldn’t keep in s-step – even if they m-m-made me.”

  “It’s not all drill,” Smith added gently. “There are the exercises. Aye, you can learn to shoot. This year the cadets are organising a skiing holiday. We do climbing, and there’s a chance we might do some caving soon. There’s much more of an outdoor life with cadets than with scouts. We’re a tougher bunch than they are.”

  “I-I-I d-don’t want an outdoor life. W-why does anyone w-want to be tough anyway?” said Flitley.

  “You know something?” exclaimed Smith irritably. “You know, Mark, I feel sorry for you: I really do. I don’t like to see people suffer. I hate bullies. But you, Mark, you just don’t help yourself. You lay yourself wide open to everything you get. One day, perhaps, you’ll come to your senses, and I promise you, if I’m ever around when that happens, I’ll be right behind you – but, until then – Oh! I just give up!”

  Smith knew that it was a matter of some importance, in all public schools, that the boys should be properly exercised and kept in a good state of physical fitness. To this end a routine and a system had been devised at the school to ensure that every boy did a minimum amount of exercise each week. The name of the system was ‘the Three Changes’: every boarder was expected to change into his sports clothes at least three times a week, and on each occasion, to do one of several prescribed activities. In summer there was a choice between swimming, tennis, and cricket; in winter there was little else to do except practise rugger. If a boy had not completed his three changes before the end of the week, he was expected to go out on a cross country run on one of several approved routes, over a certain minimum distance.

  Smith thought it a good system. “Keeps us all fit!” How often had he said that?

  That afternoon the changing room was full of the excitement of boys of different ages changing into their rugger clothes. Mark Flitley was changing into his – but not to play rugger. He did not belong to any of the school teams and only played when he had to – that is to say, twice a week upon seeing his name listed on the school notice board. No – Flitley was changing so that he could do the easiest and shortest of the runs, in order to complete his series of changes for that week.

  Smith could read Flitley like a book. He saw him emerge alone from the changing room, and run down the drive at a good pace. When he reached the bottom of the drive, he saw a hill in front of him. So he stopped for a rest. Then he ran up the hill, and panting heavily, stopped for another rest. He would have stopped a little longer if he had not noticed a school prefect not far behind him. Knowing that he was not supposed to stop at all, he guiltily started running downhill at a slow pace which would just about pass for running, until the prefect was past him and out of sight. Then he stopped for another rest.

  Bob Smith was that prefect. He came running up behind Flitley. He had no difficulty in catching up with him. A popular sixth former, he was running with friends, but when he saw Flitley was alone, he felt sorry for. him. He decided to keep him company and slowed down.

  “What run are you doing, Flitley?” he asked.

  Flitley told him his way was along the route named the “short” run. He asked him why he was doing the short run.

  “B-because I still have to do one ch-change this week, and the ‘short’ run is the s-shortest one I can do w-within the school rules,” was the answer. Smith smiled. Flitley was at least honest. So Smith, who had originally intended to go another way, asked him if he minded if he did the short run with him. Flitley agreed.

  As they set off again, Smith remarked: “Running does you good,lad, and keeps you fit. I always like to try and beat my own record.”

  As they were at that moment going downhill, Flitley had no reason to disagree.

  Smith continued with enthusiasm: “I used only to be able to do ten minute miles, but now I reckon I can just about do five minute miles.”

  Just then the contours changed abruptly and they began to run uphill again. Flitley was soon lagging behind. Smith slowed to let his companion catch up.

  “I-I-I c-can’t k-keep going,” puffed Flitley. “I m-must rest.”

  “Nonsense,” said Smith.“Of course you can keep up. We’re near the top of the hill now. Try running slower downhill, and save your energy for the uphill stretches. You’ll find it much easier.”

  And so they ran on. In a spirit of compromise, Smith finished the course with rather more breaks than he was used to, and Flitley, with many less.

  Flitley looked very tired after this exertion, and sat down in the changing room, looking pale and exhausted. His exhaustion turned into alarm, when he happened to look up and find, to his horror, that Hurst was not far away. A tremor of fear and anticipation shuddered through his bones. Flitley’s terror seemed to communicate itself to Hurst – an open offer for sacrificial treatment.

  “Where have you been, Flitley?” he asked pleasantly.

  “The s-short run,” replied the other, almost visibly shrinking from his antagonist.

  “Run indeed? I expect you walked all the way.”

  Flitley was not slow in snatching the bait. “No I-I wasn’t. I-I-I was running – all the way. Ask Smith. He was with me,” he said quickly.

  Smit
h said nothing, either to corroborate or refute this claim. It was not the best moment to intervene.

  Hurst continued, as if he had not heard him: “You know, you’re no good, are you Flitley? You may have some brains, but you can’t play rugger, and you can’t play cricket. You can’t even run without stopping for breath. You’ve never done anything for the school or your house. In fact, you’re absolutely useless, aren’t you?”

  “N-no, that’s n-not true,” Flitley stammered nervously.

  “Well, what can you do?” Hurst put his hands on his waist and threw his head back in triumph, delighted in his victim’s obvious embarrassment.

  “I-I’m learning to r-ride h-horses at home.”

  This information was enough to surprise even the bully. Flitley had always shown so little interest in physical exertion that even horse riding ought to have been out of the question.

  Smith at last saw his chance to come to Flitley’s rescue. “Oh, you go horse riding do you, Flitley? That’s supposed to be a very good sport. Riding’s like swimming, isn’t it? Exercises all of your limbs at the same time.”

  Flitley did not know what to say. Until then, he had never thought of learning to ride a horse as a means of exercise.

  Hurst had by now recovered his composure. He recommenced his cross-examination with the same ruthlessness and contempt as before. “Oh I see, Flitley. So you’re learning to ride horses are you? Well you’re not telling me you rise to the trot are you?”

  Flitley cringed and confessed uncertainly: “Well – I haven’t quite g-got the knack yet.”

  Hurst laughed. “That just stands to reason doesn’t it?!” he exclaimed. “If you can’t rise to the trot, you can’t ride a horse. So you are no good at anything, are you, you fool?”

  Mr. Sands sat at a table in the staff common room, preparing for his next lesson. He was the Classics teacher, and as such, he reflected upon the many pitfalls of teaching the Latin and Greek languages.

  The study of both subjects was generally considered, even then, as obsolete and unnecessary as the ancient languages were themselves dead. Latin was still important, if only for the single reason that entrance to certain prestigious universities was still very difficult without passing an examination in that subject.

  The trouble was that the student had to have a high degree of intelligence before commencing his studies, and particularly in the case of Greek, an even higher degree of stamina and dedication to pursue his studies to the point when, many years after beginning the learning process, he could at last actually read and enjoy a Classical text in its orriginal form.

  If the pupil succeeded in surmounting these hurdles, it then became the unenviable task of the teacher to select suitable and interesting texts for reading. The teacher had to take care to avoid offending the parents as well as his pupils.

  For example, thought Mr. Sands, the ancients made very little distinction between secular and religious literature, and their religion was the Pagan religion. Now Julius Caesar had been so full of self-confidence that he rarely summoned the aid of any god at all in his ‘Commentaries’. So Caesar was a safe author to teach the lower school. And the piety of Virgil’s Aeneid was almost Christian – provided one reads the right books.

  The Greeks of Classical times had not long emerged from a primitive state of order and showed less reserve and restraint than the typical English gentleman was supposed to exhibit. The revenge motive figures prominently in their tragic plays, and the wit of the comic poets ranged from the heights of literary criticism to the depths of the lowest bawdy vulgarity. Even in the Nineteen Sixties the most comprehensive Greek-English dictionary hesitated to translate into English the rude words found in some Greek poetry – instead the dictionary gives the Latin version! Even scholars seemed to blush to translate the plays they loved, and teachers had to be careful to choose texts and editions which were suitably abridged and expurgated.

  Indeed, he thought, the schoolboy should be forgiven for thinking that the only activity which the Romans were really interested in was fighting wars. But then the philosophy of Cicero and Seneca was above his head, and the teacher must be careful to encourage the boys to read the sad memoires of the poet Ovid on his exile by the frozen wastes of the Danube and the Black Sea, rather than the lighter and merrier reflections of the same poet in the ‘Loves’, the ‘Art of Love’ and the ‘Transformations’. It was, of course, acceptable to allow the pupil to read some Catullus from an extensively abridged text, provided the pupil’s mind was focused on the swallow, rather than the passions, of that author’s girlfriend.

  To these prejudices, there were added those of the traditions of teaching the languages. In the rapidly declining age of the shrinking British Empire, it was still customary to pay attention to the advice of the philosopher Plato. His view was that the study of literature should be devoted to the necessities of state, and education should be designed to condition the youth to play a leading part in the life and sacrifices of the nation. The pupil should, therefore, be inspired by the glories and sacrifices of heroes, and not deterred by thoughts of the grief of their friends and relations upon their death. Plato would have abridged Homer so that the student would learn everything about the glorious and bloody deeds of Hector and nothing about the grief of Hector’s family upon his death. Perhaps it had been the influence of that stern philosopher, which had dictated that nearly every Latin and Greek text book written for the lower forms should have contained few passages which related to matters other than military affairs.

  Mr. Sands sighed. No, he thought, it was not surprising that subjects, whose teaching was so restricted by so many prejudices, should attract so few pupils.

  Then, of course, there was the problem of convincing both the boy and his parents that the Classics were not just old books written in dead languages with no use or relevance to the modern world, but were the very beacons of the civilisation which we all enjoy and, as such, possess an important intrinsic value.

  Mr. Sands could have been a successful teacher in the face of these problems, if only he had been employed at Eton or Harrow or at some other independent school where there will always be a leading role for the teacher of Latin and Greek. But at this school, the only reason for teaching Latin was to satisfy the requirements of University Entrance, and the events which had led to the introduction of Greek had had a lot to do with the ambitions of the headmaster and his board of governors.

  The school had never ranked in the top academic league among public schools, and a new headmaster had been appointed who promised to raise the academic standard. The introduction of Greek might give some credibility to the claim that this was being achieved.

  It so happened that the parents of a boy called Godwin had indicated that their son would like to enter the school. He was a scholar, and his entrance was made conditional on his being able to continue with his reading of Greek. The headmaster had gladly accepted the condition, and had reported his acceptance to the Board of Governors. Far from being pleased with this turn of events (which should have delighted them) someone had asked how much, in terms of time, it would cost the school for one teacher to be detailed to giving one boy tuition in a subject that nobody else was interested in. By sheer good fortune, Godwin, on his arrival, had happened to befriend Flitley. Flitley (who had no other. friends) eagerly consented to learn Greek – for no other reason than to please his friend. The headmaster was then able, with a sigh of relief, to inform his Board, at their next meeting, that there was not just one boy who was interested in learning Greek, but that now there were two.

  It was at about this time that Sands had been appointed, under. the mistaken impression that here was a school with a rising academic record, in which the future of a Greek department was assured. Fortunately, the initiative seemed to be working, as more students in the lower forms had begun to show an interest in the Classics.

  If one thinks Sands was either pleased or impressed with either of these two boys, he would be sadly
mistaken. Godwin it was true, had at one time, enthused over Herodotus, Xenophon and the other Greek classics. But Godwin suffered from a physical infirmity which prevented him from taking part in any sport. He had been crippled in infancy due to an attack of Polio, which had left him with a withered and shortened leg. Now the Ancient Greeks had been remarkable for their physical fitness. Not only had the sons of their leading citizens been expected to compete at the Olympic Games, but the pressures of the age had compelled every citizen who was able to bear arms to keep in training so that they could march across the most mountainous country on foot in complete suits of armour. It was not surprising therefore, that so many Classical scholars should have felt inspired to excel in competitive sport. As this kind of activity was beyond Godwin’s capacity, he had gradually lost interest in the great stories of the wrath of Achilles, the courage of Hector, and the cunning of Odysseus; and had begun to show what was, to Sands, an unhealthy preference for the complex theologies, mysticism, and heresies of the early Christian and Byzantine churches.

  Flitley, on the other hand, was an enigma. In most respects he was idiotic and foolish. At times, he behaved stupidly, without the slightest understanding of the World about him. He lacked stamina and determination. No-one had expected him to persevere very far with Greek.

  But there was one charge which could never have been leveled against Flitley – and that was lack of intelligence. Year after year teachers had watched him progress at the bottom of the class, and had shaken their heads with dismay. Year after year, Flitley had astonished his teachers by making his name appear at the top of the class, when the examination results were known. This bizarre paradox could be attributed partly (but not entirely) to the fact that, as he had rarely had friends to advise him on his preparation work, he had made a virtue out of the necessity of doing without such advice and assistance, and had viewed those who did consult together as cheats. And so, during term time, his results had always been poor; but when it came to examinations, he would revise intensively and excel.