A migration through a muddy stream
He pulled his jacket closer against the damp wind, and
glanced at his watch. It was not quite half-past three, but it was still late
January and the light was beginning to fade. They should be here by now, he
thought, and looked up at the rim of the hill on the other side of the other
side of the valley, beyond the river. The winter sky was a mixture of high,
light-grey clouds and darker, lower ones that drifted below them; it was quite
bright, and hurt his eyes a little, but as they focused he could see a slender
female figure motionless on the crest of the hill, three hundred yards or so
away, outlined against the sharp grey light. Its features were in shadow and it
was somewhat uncanny, a spirit of some sort, come to claim some debt or other.
Beside her sat a large dog, turning its head this way and that.
“I do believe that’s Dr Powell,” he thought. “Damn.”
He glanced at his watch, looked up and saw that a white
thread had appeared on the top of the hill opposite. It grew in width, and
passed the motionless figure and its dog; it widened into a white and black
river, flowing down the slope, and resolved itself into a phalanx of 70 or 80
youths aged perhaps 14 to 16, in black shorts and white singlets, their legs
spattered with mud.
“Come on, boys!” he yelled. “You’re almost halfway. Cross
the stream! Come on!”
They approached the river, panting, some looking grimly
determined, others exhausted, their hair matted from the rain, some bent
forward, others with their heads thrown back and panting for air. “This way!
This way!” he shouted, and they dropped off the meadow onto a shallow muddy
gradient that led into the river; it was churned by cows and scattered with
dung. The impact of their feet on the mud was clearly audible. They surged into
the water in a mass migration, zebras, gazelles and wildebeest breasting the
waters of a crocodile-infested Mara River in search of grazing, knowing the
leopard or lion awaited those who were slow, old or weak. The water reached
their waists or, if they were small, their chests. They clambered onto the bank
opposite, gasping for breath; some bent down for a moment, hands on knees, but
he urged them on, and they began to run slowly up the path to the crest of the
hill on this side of the river. One or two seemed to hesitate in the current.
“Come on, Grigson! Come on, Pettifer!” he bellowed. The latter, a short slim
boy of 15 or so, struggled to reach the bank and he strode forward and grasped
the boy’s shirt, yanking him onto the bank.
“Come ON, Pettifer!” he bellowed. “Dammit, boy, you’re being
left behind!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the boy. He stood and began,
half-heartedly, to half-trot towards the hill.
He watched the boy go, then began to follow him.
“Mr GUNTER!”
He paused, and turned round. The voice was from the
silhouette atop the hill on the other side of the river; it did not appear to
have moved.
“You have just made the boys run through a river. They will
be soaked from head to toe!” she called.
“Indeed. What of it?” he shouted. “The College ethos is
quite clear. Sport is character-forming.”
“I daresay, but really,” she shouted back. “It is the ’flu
season! For crying out loud. How many of those boys will I see on my rounds
later this week?”
He stared, and was about to make a rather sharp reply; then
he thought better of it and turned and resumed his slow walk up the muddy path.
Across the river, Dr Powell also turned, and strode off in
the opposite direction. “Buster. Come,” she barked. The Labrador had been
sniffing a damp pile of cow-dung . He left it with regret and trotted in front
of her. A light drizzle had begun. How bleak the English countryside is in
winter, she thought, grey and dull and lifeless – a sort of meanness. She
thought of the boys as they ran past her, their hair matted with the drizzle,
their faces frozen in endurance.
Ahead of them was a small barn. It was in poor repair and
appeared unused. Buster was passing it when he stopped, raised his head and
looked towards it; then he went over to it. I suppose he’s found something
appalling to roll in, she thought, and quickened her pace, her wellington boots
squishing on the muddy track.
But Buster had not found more cow-dung. He was sniffing
excitedly at a boy who was crouched in the lee of the barn. The dog’s tail was
wagging. The boy reached out to stroke him.
“What are you doing here?” asked Dr Powell. “The other boys
passed ten minutes ago.”
“Please, Miss,” the boy said, “I couldn’t go on.”
He was rather small and had spots.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“I don’t feel very well,” he said.
She bent down and felt his forehead.
“Have you been feeling unwell for long?”
“Since yesterday,” he replied.
“Did you go and see Nurse Critchley?”
“Yes.”
“Did she take your temperature?”
“Yes. But I’d been drinking tea.”
“To raise the temperature in your mouth so she’d sign you
off sick?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“That was silly, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t reply to this.
“What did she say?”
“She told me to pull myself together.”
“Ah. Well, come with me,” she said.
He stood up, but looked a bit unsteady. He really was rather
small.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen, Miss.”
She set off at her usual brisk pace then realised that the
boy could not keep up. They walked slowly to a gate onto the lane where her
Ford Consul was parked. She opened the door; Buster jumped in and onto the
front bench but she ushered the boy in beside him. She climbed in behind the
wheel. Buster rested his head on her thigh.
She drove down the lane to a main road and turned towards
the nearest village. It was, in fact, almost a small town. As they came into
it, a tall Victorian building gloomed above the road. It had spires and a clock;
it was a boarding school, but it always reminded Dr Powell of a wicked witch’s
castle in a fairy story. She turned the Consul into the school’s front yard and
stopped by the main door.
“Go straight to the dispensary,” she said, “and tell Nurse
Critchley that I sent you. I shall be in to do my rounds in the evening and I
shall see you then.”
He climbed out and moved to close the car door.
“Mind the dog’s tail,” said Dr Powell. She leaned over and
tucked Buster’s tail in behind his legs. The door clanged shut.
She put the Consul in gear and drove the 10 minutes or so to
a smaller village, where there was a row of cottages that included her own. Buster
snaked in ahead of her. “Sit!” she commanded. He sat. She rubbed his coat with
a rough old towel. “Mucky pup,” she muttered. She left her wellingtons in the
porch and put on her ladies’ brogues. Mrs Potts had left a fire burning in the
grate. Dr Powell pulled back the spark guard and poked at the coal with the
poker, then made herself tea. Mrs Potts had also left her a lamb casserole on
the sideboard, to heat up a little later. The Times waited on the low
table in front of the chintz sofa. Dr Powell opened it at the second page,
after the small advertisements that filled the front. "Mr. Kennedy Calls
on East and West to Begin Anew the Quest for Peace," read the headline.
The story went on to describe the wintry inauguration in Washington; the hatless
President, the elderly poet and his address, the many guests, the freezing
cold. She put the paper down and looked at the fire, then at the framed
photograph on the mantelpiece of a man in battledress and beret, his arm
through hers; she looked very young.
She became aware that she had been staring at the picture
for several minutes.
Buster laid his head on her knee.
“I suppose you want your dinner,” she said. She fed him, and
turned on the six o’clock news on the Home Service; the dial glowed a soft
gold-yellow as the radio warmed up. Ask not what your country can do for you
– ask what you can do for your country.
She heated up the lamb casserole and ate half of it. It was
good, flavoured with herbs that Mr Potts grew behind their cottage. But she did
not feel hungry.
When she had finished eating she jabbed the fire with a poker and put up the spark guard, then took her scarf and coat, and put on her stout brown shoes. She sensed the weather changing even as she left the house; it was colder, and the rain from earlier had changed to light snow flurries. She dusted the snowflakes from the Consul’s windscreen and drove the ten minutes or so to the school, parking where she had dropped the boy earlier.
She
walked through the tiled corridors of the Gothic building. The walls were
whitewashed and glaring – and empty, for it was the hour of evening service and
when she passed the stairs that led to the school chapel, she heard the sound
of a hymn – Onward Christian Soldiers, a little ragged and thin. There
was a noticeboard scattered with bits of paper and drawing-pins. Sunday dress to be worn at all times during
exeat, read one notice. The
following boys to report for detention after Chapel, read another. At
length she reached the door to the sick bay, a long, narrow room, also white,
with bright bulbs that lit it harshly.
The thin figure of Nurse Critchley greeted her at the
doorway. “Good evening, Doctor,” she said with a slight incline of the head.
“Good evening, Nurse Critchley,” said Dr Powell. She noted a
younger, plump woman walking between the beds. The junior matron from the Main
House. “I am about to leave, but Miss Clowes will be on duty overnight.” She
indicated the beds. “Collins and Jeffries, ’flu. Also this boy who I believe
you sent down here this afternoon.”
“Yes, I did,” said Dr Powell. For the most part, Nurse
Critchley’s parched rectitude did not worry her; but tonight it was an irritant.
“I will see Collins and Jeffries first.”
“Very good, Doctor. I will go now, if I may.” She stalked
out of the sick bay and disappeared up the corridor towards the Chapel, her
heels clicking on the worn, rounded Victorian tiles.
Miss Clowes smiled. “Would you like a cup of tea, Doctor?”
she asked. “I’ll make a pot. The boys can have some too.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Miss Clowes went into the pantry and busied herself with the
tea caddy and a big brown teapot. At length the kettle whistled on the hob.
“We have been lucky so far this year,” said Miss Clowes. She
handed the doctor a cup and saucer. “I thought we might have more ’flu. These
lads will be all right in a day or two.” She dropped her voice, and nodded
towards the 14-year-old in the corner. “But this little chap doesn’t seem very
well.”
Dr Powell asked the two older boys a few questions and took
their temperatures; both were still a little high. But they were both feeling
better. Thy admitted it with reluctance.
“Do you feel nearly ready to go back to the Big House?” she
asked Collins.
“I suppose so, Doctor,” he said.
“Surely you do not want to stay in here.”
“it isn’t so bad really,” the boy replied. She looked at his
bedside stand. It was stacked high with books; The Brides of Fu Manchu,
a Bulldog Drummond story, but also (she noted with relief) a Sherlock Holmes.
Jeffries had a Sanders of the River book, The Ghost Stories of M.R.
James and a copy of The Boy’s Own Paper.
“You two really are quite happy in here, aren’t you,” she
said. “Don’t you want to go out and go to lessons and see your friends and
everything?”
“No. They really don’t,” said Miss Clowes said from the
other side of the room. She was fiddling with a very large old Bush radio that
sat on the table near the door, looking for the Light Programme. At length The
Saturday Night Show issued forth.
Dr Powell chuckled.
“Back to work with you on Monday, both of you,” she said.
“Would they really rather stay in here?” she asked Miss
Clowes quietly.
“Yes,” said the other.
“But only when you’re in charge?”
“No,” said Miss Clowes. “All the time. They dread going back
out.”
Dr Powell frowned. She went to the bed of the younger boy.
His eyes had been closed but he opened them, uncertain; his eyes looked from side
to side. She took out her thermometer.
“I’ll pop this under your tongue, now,” she said. “Hold it
there. Keep still.” She looked across the room at Miss Clowes. “What was it
earlier?”
“103 when we put him to bed.”
At length Dr Powell took the thermometer out, examined it
and then shook it. “Unbutton your pyjamas,” she said, and listened to his chest
with her stethoscope.
“He’s just over 104,” she called out. “A bit high but it always
is, in the evening.” She took her cup and saucer over to the pantry, where Miss
Clowes was washing the teapot. “If it goes much higher though, ring me at home.
And also if he gets very chesty. That could mean a secondary infection. But if
that doesn’t happen, he’ll be on the mend in a couple of days.”
“Good. The usual I suppose, keep him warm, plenty of
fluids.”
“Yes.”
She left Miss Clowes in the pantry and went back to the
boy’s bed. The radio was playing jazz, quite softly. Miss Clowes had switched
off the main lights, and the boy’s bed was in shadow. She sat down on it. He
blinked at her.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Dexter.”
“No, your Christian name.”
“Oh,” he said. Then: “Timothy.”
“Where do your parents live, Timothy?”
“Dorking. They were in Africa. They came home last year.”
“Now they’re home, could they have you at home too?”
“Oh no.” The boy shook his head. “Dad came here as a boy,
you see. Anyway, he says it’s good for me. Character-forming, he says.” He
looked away, puzzled, then turned back to her. “Do you have children?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you want them?”
The question startled her.
“My husband was killed early on D-Day,” she said.
“Oh – I’m sorry – I’m very sorry.”
“It’s all right.” She was silent for a moment. “He dropped
by parachute. They had a lot of heavy equipment, you see, and some of them
landed in the River Orne, and the Caen Canal. He was found much later.”
For a moment neither of them said anything, then she said:
“We wanted children. We were going to have them, after the war.” She smiled.
“We wanted three. He wanted boys. I wanted a girl as well.”
“If you had had them, would you have sent them here? To a
boarding school? Like this?”
Once again, she was taken aback. Then she said:
“I think – if I had children – I would keep them with me. I
would want them with me.”
They looked at each other.
“You must get your temperature down,” she said. “Sleep now.”
She watched as he turned onto his side. She pulled up the counterpane so that
it covered his shoulder.
Then, to her own surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on
the brow.
She stood and walked quickly to the door of the sick-bay.
Miss Clowes was still in the pantry, tidying up. “Good night,” she called to
her. “Ring if there is a problem.” She heard a cheery “goodnight” in return.
She walked rapidly down the corridor. As she came to the stairs to the Chapel,
knots of boys clattered down towards her and dispersed; the Padre came down
too, his sermon notes under his arm, and they nodded briefly to each other. She
quickened her pace. Outside a front had passed. The drizzle of the afternoon
had gone and there were stars in the sky, and a crispness in the air and signs
of frost. She fumbled with the door-lock of the Consul, but at length it opened
and she slid behind the wheel, pushing Buster’s rug out of her way. She put the
key in the ignition, pulled out the choke and was about to start the engine.
Then the tears welled up and she rested her face on the wheel.
_______________________________
More short fiction from Mike Robbins
The
Man Who Lost the Plot When the character you write is cardboard
The Long Road from the Black Death A history
lecturer retires
Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now
A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your
birth
Come and See the Chickens A rather English love
story
In Search of a Plot Be careful. Elspeth
may put you in a bacon slicer
A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous
place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the
children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat
itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes
Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a
nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's
Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can
spot it happening
The
Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A
sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social
geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky
A Sideways Journey Things might have been
different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories
Mike Robbins is
the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered
from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and
other on-line retailers.
Follow Mike on Twitter and Facebook.
