Broken Voices (A Novella). Andrew Taylor
that year fell on a Wednesday. ‘Wednesday’s Child is full of woe,’ shrieked one small boy over and over again as he ran round the playground, until one of the bullies of the Fifth Form pushed him over and made him cry instead.
The school broke up two days earlier, on Monday. It was strange to watch the familiar routines unfolding and not be part of them: the station fly taking boys to the railway station by relays; the steady stream of parents, always a matter of enormous sociological interest; the boys queueing to shake hands with Mr Treadwell.
At that stage I was not the only one to stay – two other boys at Treadwell’s did not leave with the rest on Monday. For an hour or two, we revelled in undisputed possession of the few amenities the house afforded – the billiards table with torn baize, for example, and the two armchairs that leaked horsehair by the common room fire. There was a sense of holiday so we talked loudly and laughed a great deal to show what fun we were having.
On Christmas Eve, however, these boys left as well, collected one by one by their parents. Mr Treadwell’s suitcases stood in the hall. He shook hands with Matron, who was going to her married sister in Huntingdon, and tipped the maids.
Finally, only Mr Treadwell and I were left. He looked at his watch. ‘The taxi will be here soon. I’ll take you over to Mr Ratcliffe’s now.’
My trunk, packed and corded, was staying at Treadwell’s with my tuckbox. But I had been given a small suitcase, in which Matron had put those things she thought I would need, and I had a satchel containing a few personal possessions. I followed Treadwell into the College, which was the name given to the Cathedral close.
The College was, and for all I know still is, a world apart with its own laws and customs. Every evening at 7 p.m., the great gates were closed, and the place turned in on itself for the night. Its boundaries were those of the mediaeval monastery, as were many of its buildings where the Cathedral dignitaries lived and where the houses and classrooms of the school were.
Mr Ratcliffe lived at one end of what had been the Sacrist’s Lodging. He was a bachelor who had taught at the school for many years and who now lived in semi-retirement in a grace-and-favour house granted to him by the Dean and Chapter. He was still active, though he must have been in his early seventies, and regularly attended school functions and sometimes took classes when masters were away or ill. Unlike many of his former colleagues on the staff, he was not a clergyman.
‘It is most kind of Mr Ratcliffe to invite you to stay,’ Mr Treadwell told me on my way over. ‘You must try not to disturb him too much.’
‘How long will I be there, sir?’
‘It depends on your aunt’s health. I’ve asked her doctor to write to Mr Ratcliffe and he will pass on the news to you. If she’s well enough, she may want you home after Christmas.’ He must have seen my face for he hurried on, ‘But I advise you not to raise your hopes too high. Pneumonia is a very serious illness. Very serious indeed.’
‘Will she … will she die?’
‘God willing, no. But pneumonia can be fatal. You must pray for her.’
The Sacrist’s Lodging had been built against the northern boundary wall of the monastery. Most of the doors and windows faced inwards. If you looked out, you saw the Cathedral blocking out the earth and sky.
Mr Ratcliffe answered Mr Treadwell’s knock. He was a tall man, quite bald apart from two tufts of white hair above his ears. He generally wore knickerbockers and a tweed jacket, stiff with age, with leather elbow patches.
He was very brisk and businesslike on that first meeting – I felt that my plight deserved a little more sympathy than he gave it. He showed me over the house, with Mr Treadwell hovering behind us and making the occasional clucking sound designed to express approval and gratitude.
The tour didn’t take long. Downstairs, at the front, there was a sitting room dominated by a grand piano which occupied almost half the floor space. The air was stuffy with pipe smoke, which filled the air with a fine, blue-grey fog. There were books everywhere. They were shelved in the orthodox manner along the walls. They stood in piles under the piano and on the piano. They lined the mantelpiece and colonized the shadowy corners.
A tortoiseshell cat was asleep on one of the chairs. It opened one eye, looked at us, and shut it again.
‘That’s Mordred,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, looking directly at me for the first time. ‘I’d be careful with him, if I were you.’
‘Mordred?’ Mr Treadwell said. ‘An unusual name for a cat.’
‘In Le Morte d’Arthur,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, ‘Mordred betrays his uncle the King. Not a nice man. I regret to say that Mordred is not nice either, hence the name.’
‘In that case, I’m surprised you keep him.’
‘I’ve had him since he was very young. I must make the best of him now, just as he must make the best of me.’
Apart from the sitting room, the other rooms downstairs were a kitchen and dining room, dark little rooms with small windows, heavily barred, overlooking the bustle of the High Street.
‘One washes here,’ Mr Ratcliffe said, gesturing towards the kitchen sink. ‘I am afraid there’s no bathroom. The lavatory is outside in the yard. If I need a bath, my neighbours kindly let me use theirs. I have had a word with them, and they have no objection to extending their hospitality to you. Of course, I try not to trouble them very often if I can possibly help it.’
‘Splendid!’ Mr Treadwell said.
Upstairs there were only two rooms. The door of the one at the front remained closed – ‘My bedroom,’ Mr Ratcliffe explained, with an odd, apologetic twitch of his face.
The one at the back was mine. Like the kitchen and dining room below, it overlooked the High Street. It was low-ceilinged with two beds and a quantity of dark furniture designed for less cramped quarters. The window was small and barred, like the ones downstairs. It faced north and let in very little daylight. The air smelled damp.
Mr Treadwell poked his head into the gloom. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Splendid.’ He withdrew and clattered downstairs.
‘I – er – I hope you’ll be comfortable.’ Mr Ratcliffe glanced round the room. ‘Mrs Thing made up the bed on the left. She must have thought you would be more comfortable there.’
‘Who’s Mrs Thing, sir?’ I asked, and my voice emerged as a loud croak.
‘The woman who does – she comes in three times a week to clean. And so on.’ He frowned, as if trying to recall what she did do. ‘I stay out of her way myself.’
‘Is she really called Mrs Thing?’
Mr Ratcliffe appeared to give the matter serious consideration. ‘Well, no. Or not that I know of. But I can never remember her name. Indeed, I cannot be sure that I ever knew it. So I call her Mrs Thing instead.’
We went back downstairs. Mr Treadwell was waiting in the hall and frowning at his watch.
‘I haven’t mentioned your meals,’ he said. ‘Mr Ratcliffe makes his own arrangements. But you will find bread and milk in the kitchen, I understand.’
‘And tea,’ Mr Ratcliffe put in. ‘And butter and jam. Help yourself.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Ratcliffe.’ Treadwell turned back to me. ‘You will take your lunch and tea at Mr Veal’s house. You know where that is? Beside the Porta.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Porta was the great gateway at the far end of the College. Mr Veal was the head verger of the Cathedral, a tyrant who waged an endless war against the boys of the King’s School.
‘I am sure Mrs Veal will look after you.’ Mr Treadwell retreated towards the door. ‘It only remains for me to wish you both a very happy Christmas. Goodbye – I must rush.’
With that, Mr Treadwell was gone. The door slammed behind