The Horses Read online

  ‘They’re packing down nice and tight,’ Parsons admitted to Gregory. ‘Bums in the air. Those are state-of-the-art scrum machines, very expensive, we had a big fund-raiser to get them, but no one used them before Val came along. No one knew how to. The school bought them after a bad season when all the teams came last, but then they were left to rust. Until Val came. That’s Val for you. Up with the technology, all the latest techniques. Tradition and technology, together – that’s Val. Renaissance man.’

  ‘Reds against blacks!’ cried Val again, and some of the boys rose from their knees and limped back to the field, while the majority lingered, hands on hips, mouths open, heads lolling. Some lay near the machines, unmoving.

  ‘Look at that David go,’ Val murmured to Parsons, casting a glance at a boy who still looked fresh.

  ‘Oh, I know, he’s a wonderful specimen,’ agreed Parsons. ‘See, that’s David,’ he relayed to Gregory. ‘Val’s new boy.’

  ‘I spotted him playing for a high school out west last term,’ said Val. ‘I got him into the school on a scholarship. That took a bit of arm twisting, I’ll tell you. He’s fitting in well enough. Full of potential.’

  Val boomed, ‘Sit down! Twenty of you have chosen yourselves.’ He reeled off twenty names from memory, then turned to Gregory. ‘You can have the others,’ he said, ‘I’m only interested in this lot.’

  ‘I can have them?’ Gregory tried to compose himself. This must be some kind of test. ‘What do you mean? Where – where should I take them?’

  ‘There’s plenty of space.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with them?’

  ‘Whatever you want. The basics. You were watching, weren’t you?’

  Gregory led the crowd of leftover boys onto a neighbouring field. The minister followed at a distance.

  With only a slender red line to the west, night had nearly covered the playing grounds.

  The boys sat down.

  ‘Reds against blacks,’ Gregory heard himself bleat, throwing the ball in the air. No one moved.

  ‘We don’t want to,’ said a voice in the dark.

  Gregory poked around in the twilight, trying to find the football he had thrown away. He looked towards the minister, but the minister was quietly talking to two boys.

  Then long shadows began slipping over the bank between the fields, forms briefly silhouetted before dropping from the higher ground. The tall figures raced towards them at great speed, and the earth trembled and bounced. Ten, fifteen, who knew how many horsemen bore down, whooping and yelling, charging in short runs through the earthbound figures dashing about in the dark. The horsemen wheeled and galloped in again. Suddenly enlivened, the exhausted footballers were scattering in every direction. They were easily knocked down on the open ground, however. It seemed the horsemen had all the remaining light, it was darker down on the grass. The minister sheltered his two boys under outstretched arms. Gregory ran about yelling senselessly at the riders. Then, alarmed by a horse being galloped right at him, he ran headlong into Val.

  Who did not acknowledge the collision. Val remained focused upon his team of twenty.

  ‘Val! Val!’

  ‘Good break, David – support him, boys! Thomas is strong, but he’s slow.’

  ‘Val!’

  Parsons came running up to Gregory. ‘Sshh!’ he hissed.

  ‘What do you want? Val’s concentrating. What do you want?’

  ‘The horses!’

  ‘Oh, them. Never mind them.’

  ‘Never mind them? What are you talking about? They could have killed us!’

  ‘Of course not!’ snorted Parsons. ‘It’s only some sixth-formers reminding the fifth-formers who’s boss. It’s only a game.’

  ‘Onto him, David! Good boy! Bishop – get him! Good tackle! Ha ha, those two can’t wait to get the better of one another. Take note, Parsons. What is it, Gregory?’

  ‘It was only some riders,’ said Parsons. ‘They gave young Gregory a bit of a shock, it seems.’

  ‘This sort of thing always happens in the first week of term, Gregory,’ said Val, keeping it brief. ‘Best they sort out that kind of thing amongst themselves.’

  Even as Val spoke the horses were melting away, their riders laughing and flapping pilfered jerseys above their heads. Gregory’s footballers wandered around bare-chested.

  ‘That’s it for today boys, run back to your houses, off you go!’ bellowed Val.

  Boys limped and staggered away.

  ‘Take the balls back to sports shed seven for me, Gregory,’ said Val, pointing to a large and tumescent sack. ‘We’ll see you in the dining room at six-thirty. That’s in thirty-five minutes. Sports shed seven.’

  Gregory tried to see where Val was pointing. He could only make out the mounted form of The Whipper, unmoving against the black-spiked perimeter fence.

  Gregory dragged the sack of footballs in the direction indicated by Val. His headache was now so consuming he had trouble walking. Every form slid like a transparency from its backing. The side of his vision was breaking up into floating pixels. He made for a shed in the trees. Was it shed seven? Nearby a large animal went crashing and plunging about in the night. Several large animals.

  The shed was locked. He dragged the sack to the next shed. He could smell the horses, even glimpse the porcelain gleam of their eyes.

  Gregory was angry at Val. He had been set up to fail. He had worked hard to secure his position at this school. And now, on his first day, he had been left to flounder in front of a large number of senior boys and several masters. ‘But it’s my fault really,’ he cried as he reached the door of the shed, ‘I should have done better!’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The minister in white stood close by on the open, empty fields. Gregory was too gagged by the smell of the chaff and horse manure to reply. The minister stared a moment longer, then turned, his gown trailing over the grass.

  It seemed the interior of shed seven stretched forever, a mustard gloom lit by a single bulb on a flex. Wire cages ran the length of the walls. Cricket kits stretched in the cages like mummies. Shapeless sacks sat heaped on the floor. Mechanical contraptions occupied the centre of the space – some outmoded, older-model scrumming machines, and large round wire devices with inner spirals of tennis balls, which resembled giant lollipops. From beyond these Gregory heard a scuffling. He made out two figures struggling on the edge of the light, two big boys locked together – although they sometimes split into four. One was dark haired, the other fair. It was difficult to tell if they struggled in the middle of the shed, or towards the end of it, and if they were fighting, or only wrestling. They doubled, blurred, dissolved, then this repeated. Occasionally they gave little grunts, the noises seemingly out of proportion with the forces being exerted. Then their feet would shift suddenly, one forcing the other into a new position. How equal in strength they must be, Gregory thought, as they pressed and pushed, neither able to overcome the other.

  He moved forward to separate the boys.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ yelled the dark haired one. Then Gregory felt a bite, not from the dark boy, but the fair one. He yelped and tried to leap back, his flesh stretching in the boy’s mouth.

  ‘Let go, let go!’ he cried, getting free with a snapping sound. The boys went on struggling, smacking one another now with their fists, since Gregory had only succeeded in freeing their hands. The dull sounds infuriated him even more. He grabbed some kind of bat, and began clubbing the boys’ legs. The three of them wheeled clumsily, crashing into one of the devices stuffed full of tennis balls. Balls began shooting past their heads, plopping into a stack of gym mats. A cricket kit slid from a shelf, disgorging last summer’s paraphernalia. Then the dark-haired boy ran from the shed, and the blonde loped in pursuit, briefly dragging a box of skipping ropes.

  The tennis ball machine spat its last round, smacking Gregory full on the mouth.

  Tears started in his eyes as he staggered towards the door, clutching his
face.

  A fire flickered outside, perhaps not so far away. A second, more distant fire illuminated the spokes of the fence. Beyond those dark lines people were driving home. His eyes followed their headlights, his ears registered their gear changes.

  A figure abruptly reared up on a horse. It was The Whipper, his nostrils wide as he brayed at Gregory from the darkness.

  ‘Nothing is wrong!’ Gregory shouted back.

  The Whipper observed him closely. Then he wheeled his steed and galloped towards another point in the night. ‘Tally-ho!’ he bellowed.

  3

  ‘Hello boys. Let me start day two by saying well done on day one. How very proud I was as I walked about the boarding houses and horse yards yesterday. I can report with utter conviction there was no silliness yesterday, our first day, and not one act of cruelty towards the horses. However, something of considerable concern did come to my attention. Some boys have failed to shine their helmets since the holidays. It was obvious to me, as it must have been obvious to anyone, since the helmets did not shine nearly as brightly as they might have on parade. I trust this will be rectified by parade tomorrow, or The Whipper will see to the consequences, won’t you, Mr Whipper? And one more matter: horse graffiti. Horse graffiti has been found about the school. It has been removed with some effort by our hard-working grounds staff. I trust this will go no further, boys, let’s nip that kind of silliness in the bud. It’s not art, it’s not a game. It’s vandalism. And what did we talk about yesterday, in assembly?’

  Capon stretched his arm, pointing at a boy in the front row. The headmaster’s cloak hung suspended over the child, who began to be whispered to and nudged by those on either side of him. But the boy seemed transfixed. Sacrifice, sacrifice, whispered the little voices.

  ‘Sacrifice?’ the boy squeaked.

  ‘Precisely. Sacrifice. Those responsible for this vandalism need to think about sacrifice, or we shall remind them somehow, won’t we, Mr Whipper?’

  The Whipper, down in his corner, raised his lip in the T-bone of his face.

  This morning’s assembly was proceeding in a slightly different order to yesterday’s assembly, Gregory noted. Otherwise, it was the same. The headmaster had made another dramatic entrance, after some ecstatic organ playing from little Festus, the frogman. Festus had then sat astride his high stool, looking up at the lectern with his unblinking, popping eyes. Gregory expected the man’s tongue to shoot out at any moment and nab a fly from the headmaster’s reflecting shoe. Capon had not immediately given his address. After entering, he had humbly taken his seat centre stage. A florid-faced master began proceedings by walking to the lectern with a constrained gait, swinging long arms. This was Mr Cobblefield, housemaster of Holstein House, who launched an appeal on behalf of some stones. After this Capon bounced up to take the lectern.

  Val had made Gregory sit beside him again this morning. Gregory noticed the other masters seemed to occupy the same places as yesterday. A hierarchy was emerging, with those most dominant in the front row, and those closest to the headmaster being most important of all. Only the deputy headmaster separated Val from Capon.

  Val leaned towards Gregory and whispered, ‘You’ll see some action this morning. Heard about the boy who went to the media?’

  Gregory had not.

  ‘Yes. Claims of abuse in the boarding house. A Sunday paper telephoned Capon with the story. First we’d heard of it.’

  ‘Now, I want to review some points from yesterday’s theme,’ the headmaster was saying, flexing on tiptoe on his banana box. ‘Sacrifice. You boys, who have been given everything, are the beneficiaries of sacrifice. And some day you too will come to know the meaning of that word. Sacrifice, boys, is at the very heart of our establishment. The masters sacrifice their time and effort to give you a wonderful education. The amount of time and effort they put into the horses, clubs and societies is quite frankly enormous. You won’t find that in other schools. Oh no. The teachers there simply turn up, do their job because they must, then go home as soon as they can to the dinner their wives have cooked them. Not so here. In addition, your parents make enormous sacrifices, enormous sacrifices, to keep you here. And every one of you, in your own little way, is expected to make sacrifices, too, for your boarding house, your clubs and societies, for the horses, and, above all, for the school and everything it stands for.’

  The smaller boys sitting nearer the front stared up with saucer eyes, stiff little bodies encased in armour. Towards the back, however, big boys clearly dozed, or slouched extravagantly.

  ‘It is only through the sacrifice of others that you are to become the graziers, the bankers, the doctors, the lawyers, the veterinarians, the business leaders, the stock and station agents of the future. Your parents spend a great deal of money to send you here, to give you the excellent start in life we make every effort to provide. And we do provide. You couldn’t ask for a better start. There are no horses at other schools, for instance, none –’

  Gregory belatedly consulted an ‘Order of Service’ he found he had been sitting on:

  Day 2, Week 1, Term Two (Lent):

  Enter hall

  First Organ Solo (sit in silence)

  Special Request: The Stone Fund (Mr Cobblefield) (sit)

  First Hymn (stand: remain standing until seated)

  Headmaster’s Address: Sacrifice, Gratitude, Pillars of the School (sit)

  Stripping of the armour: Newbold to stage

  Daily Report on the Horses (Mr Val) (sit)

  Second Hymn (stand: remain standing until seated)

  Notices (sit):

  The Equestrian Club

  Gymkhana Society

  The Cataphractarii Club (Junior and Senior)

  The Small Firearms Club (Country and Beginners)

  Sword and Sabre Society

  Club and Mace

  The Templars

  Prayers Miscellaneous (kneel)

  Second Organ Solo (sit in silence)

  Prayer for the Horses (kneel)

  Gregory massaged his forehead. Was he feverish?

  He had to admit he was irritated by the fact he had yet to teach a class. Before parade that morning he had found most of the staff sitting around a large diorama at the rear of the staffroom, moving military models over the diorama’s flat and open landscape, and talking of yesterday’s football trials, which they had not attended. His enquiries about the start of classes had been fobbed off: yes, perhaps there would be classes today, but first they would see how the horses were faring; and they would wait and see if the rural boys had settled in yet, as some of them had had to travel for days, literally days, returning to school on trains from remote parts of the country; and then the football teams had to be picked, an enormous task, and the fence patrol roster put in place … None of the other masters had been preparing lessons, Gregory noticed.

  To make matters worse, he had woken up with his hand red and throbbing where he had been bitten.

  Last night, while eating dinner up on the masters’ dais in the dining hall, he had looked down on the rows of boys below, hoping to identify his assailant. The boys, seated at row after row of tables, had been gobbling down their food, their heads low over the food trays. He had searched their faces again before school this morning. Now he found himself scanning the faces before him in the hall. It seemed every fourth or fifth boy resembled the culprit, yet was not quite him.

  ‘Our theme for today,’ Capon was saying, ‘is gratitude, so entwined with sacrifice.’ Capon paused. When he resumed it was in a lowered voice, fleshy lips on the microphone. ‘It’s quite clear to me some of you fail to realise what lucky boys you are. One boy in particular. He knows who he is. Oh yes, yes, over the holidays one boy has shown by his actions that he has no idea what a lucky lad he is.’ Capon became regretful, downcast. ‘So before we talk any further of gratitude, boys, it is my duty, my unpleasant duty, to reprimand a certain individual who knows –’ Capon’s voice was rising and accelerating, ‘nothing of the
word!’

  The lighting in the hall was lowered. This gloom was accompanied by the slithers and squeaks of armour as the boys craned forward, and by a low, almost subsonic note maintained by Festus. The thickest organ pipe throbbed. High above them, the floating horse, dark now, with only a few highlights picking out its flanks, sailed away in the crafted suspense.

  ‘Oscar Newbold,’ pronounced Capon with crisp finality, ‘on stage now.’

  After a pause a boy began edging out from the middle of his row, past boys who shrank back from him, drawing in their knee armour.

  Gregory began to feel concerned. But no doubt the headmaster knew what he was doing.

  Once on stage – it seemed to take him a very long time to get there – Oscar Newbold looked unsure where to stand. Capon pointed to a dark circle chalked near the lectern. ‘This – boy – had the audacity, the temerity – to sell – I repeat, sell – some grubby cock and bull fiction about this school to some cheap, two bob newspaper.’ The headmaster was pointing at Newbold now, one quaking finger emerging from a fluttering sleeve. ‘A common, two bob, gutter-press Sunday paper! Take off that armour, Newbold!’ screeched Capon, purple in the face.

  ‘What – here?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘This will teach you to tell tales about our school! Strip the armour!’

  The school laughed and began clapping, slowly, in unison, then faster, and louder, then faster still.

  Oscar Newbold placed his helmet, which he had been clutching, by his boot. Beside it he placed his curled mitten-gauntlets. Then he began unfastening the leather buckles of his breastplate, but couldn’t manage them; perhaps his hands were trembling. Parsons dashed forward irritably, ripping off vambrace and pauldron, spaulding and breastplate. Gregory shrank back in his chair. Yet the entire school was laughing now, including the masters. Oscar stood shivering in boxer shorts and singlet.

  The headmaster raised his arm: the school became silent. Row upon row peered down big-eyed. A few delicious giggles and twitters burst from smaller boys. ‘I don’t want to humiliate this boy,’ reasoned Capon, ‘it is not my intention to do that. But he has brought this upon himself. He took his lies and his slander and sold them –’