School for Love Page 3

  He returned down the passage feeling that his mother, by dying and leaving him like this, had abandoned him utterly.

  Back in the house, he could not find Faro. He went to his room and left the door ajar in the hope she might find him.

  Lying cold in bed, he tried to return to his dream of his mother in the boat, but that now seemed as remote as she was. He stared into nothingness, thinking he would never sleep, never feel warm again. At last Faro jumped on to his bed and he felt her paws, soft and heavy, move with a cautious certainty up to his face; her whiskers touched his cheek as she sniffed to be sure of him, then, like an arrow-tip of ice, her nose pointed between the sheets. He raised the covers for her. Slipping like silk into his arms, she curled warm against his body and lay with her chin on his shoulder, purring contentment. He wrapped his arms round her. Comforted, kissing her between the ears, he whispered: ‘I love you.’ He pressed his face into her fur and said: ‘Faro, darling little Faro . . .’ but in a moment, when he meant only to say ‘Faro’, he found he was saying: ‘Mother’ and all the tears he had kept back that day streamed down his face until, he slept, exhausted.

  2

  As the days passed, life did not change much in Miss Bohun’s house. Felix was at a loss about it. Except for Faro, there was nothing here with which he could feel any contact. His longing for his mother was fixed like an ache in the centre of his chest and there was nothing to disperse it. From it the routine of his new life spread about him, winter bleak.

  The garden was green and cold; the house colder. Most days the sky was stormy. Miss Bohun said the rains had been unusually heavy that year; indeed it had been an unusual winter altogether, for snow fell only about once in a decade and the Arabs were saying the Jews must have brought it from Europe. When she noticed Felix shivering, she told him the winter here was so short, no one bothered to combat it; it had to be suffered and let pass.

  Felix would awake in the morning with Faro still in his arms and both of them would move reluctantly out of bed into the icy room. Each day seemed to lie ahead grey and purposeless. He would begin it by going downstairs in his dressing-gown and crossing the yard to the bathroom. As Miss Bohun saw nothing extraordinary about this, he supposed there was nothing extraordinary, but he caught the worst cold he had ever had. He began to remember his mother as warmth, comfort, happiness – things he must learn to live without.

  Before he arrived, Miss Bohun had arranged for him to have lessons with a Mr Posthorn of the Education Office. Mr Posthorn was a busy man; he not only had his government job but tutored some Arab boys of wealthy family who hoped, when the war ended, to go to an English university. He had agreed to ‘fit Felix into his spare time’, which meant that some mornings Felix went to Mr Posthorn’s office and was told to study this or that, while occasionally Mr Posthorn could spare an hour to drop in to Miss Bohun’s and give Felix some instruction. Most of Felix’s day was spent in study in his bedroom. He knew he would not get far in this way and he knew also that Mr Posthorn would have been willing to give him more attention had he, like Miss Bohun, not been disappointed in him. Miss Bohun said or did nothing that gave Felix any clue as to how he had failed her, but Mr Posthorn, after testing his knowledge, spoke without hesitation: ‘What on earth have you been doing with yourself since you left school in England?’

  Felix explained that in Baghdad he had taken lessons with an old English lady, an ex-governess to a royal family, who had taught him English composition, French, drawing, geography and history. Unfortunately she had known less Greek, Latin and mathematics than he knew himself. His mother had treated lessons there as a joke and said: ‘Never mind, darling, when the war’s over we’ll make up for lost time.’ The Shiptons, like Mr Posthorn, had been shocked to discover how little Felix knew and had told him that as he would have to earn his living one day, he had better start studying at once for his Matriculation. Mr Posthorn said:

  ‘Your parents ought to have been ashamed of themselves, keeping you away from school during the most important years of your life. I can’t understand it. Your father was an educated man, wasn’t he?’

  Felix explained: ‘It wasn’t my father’s fault. Mother wouldn’t let me go back to England when the war started. Father was cross, but Mother said: “If he goes I may not see him again,” and she wouldn’t have, either.’

  Mr Posthorn said: ‘You’ll never make up for it,’ but Felix, although he knew it to be a serious matter, could not really care. It was as though the important part of his life were already over; only blankness lay ahead. Like the Jerusalem winter, it was only to be suffered and got over. Yet, before his mother’s death, he had begun to feel excited about his life that was, he supposed, just beginning. The war was ending. Soon they would be able to go where they liked – there was the whole world to see. He had begun to have bursts of wild exhilaration. He felt then that something was growing within him that gave an excitement and brilliance and wonder to everything. But when his mother died, the wonder had gone like a light snapped off. He could see no reason for doing anything now. It would be like dressing up, or acting a play, or writing a book, on a desert island. Sometimes, when his own life flickered again in him and he knew the future was still there, he wondered in desperation if he could try and please Miss Bohun. Could he become something – a famous general, say, or an admiral? – to impress her? There was no warmth in the idea. And what would she care?

  At meal-times he would feel drawn to stare at her face, which was colourless as plaster, the eyes nearly always hidden behind the thick, plaster-coloured lids. Even when she lifted her face to speak or call Frau Leszno, she would not open her eyes. Her mouth was never more than a minus sign drawn under the thin, drooping tip of her nose. Often the sign drooped too, as though something near her was distasteful to her, but more often she held it firm and straight against her teeth. When caught staring, Felix would look away at once, nervous, repelled, yet drawn to look again as soon as it seemed safe. One day he realised she reminded him of a praying mantis. A mantis had come into his room once in Baghdad and hung motionless all night on the curtain – a narrow insect, like a green stick, silent, shut up in itself. This likeness made her even more strange to him, almost monstrous, and she was the stranger for having a religion of her own. She told him nothing about this; she seemed to have forgotten her promise to tell him one day, she seemed for long stretches to forget him altogether.

  When she was not rushing off to the ‘Ever-Readies’ or giving an English lesson, she was, he could see, obsessed by the disagreement with Frau Leszno which was always carried on just out of his hearing. He was rather glad of this quarrel because it somehow made the two women seem more human – but it was a negative consolation. He wished he had something, anything, to which he could look forward. For a week or two he dwelt on the new person who must be coming into the front room, but no one came and the hope began to fade. He wished very much that Mr Jewel came downstairs oftener, but the old man kept to his room and descended only for supper, which he ate rapidly without a word. Obviously things were not well between Miss Bohun and Mr Jewel, but there was no open quarrel; she merely ignored him, and when she was near there was about him something guilty, flustered, almost apprehensive. Felix was full of curiosity as to what Mr Jewel did about his other meals. One day he asked Miss Bohun. She kept silent, reflecting a moment, holding in her narrow spade-shaped chin so that two other chins appeared beneath it; then she lifted her face and said vaguely: ‘He makes tea in his room, I believe. He’s funny that way.’

  ‘Oh! . . . and what does he do all alone upstairs?’

  ‘I have not asked him.’

  The extreme coldness of this reply silenced Felix. But it was not only Miss Bohun that kept him at arm’s length – the atmosphere of the whole house seemed to him hostile. He was at home only with Faro or in the garden or at the cinema. He wondered sometimes if things would be any different for him anywhere. The centre wheel of his life was gone; he was at a standstill. He felt fo
rsaken by the world, when, at last, something happened that changed the whole situation. He became a confidant. He was made to feel important and Miss Bohun, unexpectedly turning to him for sympathy, was revealed as nothing more monstrous than an unhappy old lady.

  It was the first morning of spring sunshine when, with Faro on his shoulder, he was drawn out to the glitter of the open air. There was a bench under the mulberry tree. Despite the cold, he settled down to work there. When he heard someone crossing the garden he looked up to see Nikky, wearing a most elegant overcoat with an astrakhan collar. Nikky let it hang open so everyone could see the fur lining inside; it was so long, it tripped him several times as he walked, but he held his delicate, pale face aloof, apparently unaware of being tripped. Felix, awed and admiring, watched him as he went out through the back gate and crossed the stony wasteland beyond. Just as he was disappearing over the crest of the hill, Miss Bohun ran out, arms raised, and shouted: ‘Has Nikky gone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Felix pointed after him but it was too late to catch him.

  ‘Oh!’ Miss Bohun flung down her fists in exasperation, ‘I told him to clean the windows. He’s supposed to do the windows once a week, but he does nothing, nothing. All he wants to do is dress up in his father’s clothes and go out. It’s too bad. It’s so unfair to me.’

  Her voice almost broke, so when Felix returned to the house at lunch-time he was less surprised than he might have been to find her crouched at the table with rounded shoulders and drooping head. He stood looking at her, feeling the change in her. It was not only that she had a deflated look, there was something tearful about her although her eyes were dry. If she had been crying Felix could have asked at once what was the matter. Instead he had to stand uncertainly by the garden window and pretend to be looking at his books.

  Miss Bohun must have been conscious of him, for in a moment she sniffed and said: ‘She told me I was a wicked woman. I’d just gone out to have a quiet word about Nikky’s conduct when she flung at me – literally flung at me: “You could be an angel, but you’re really a devil.”’

  It was her stunned manner rather than what had been said that conveyed to him her sense of shock. He felt shocked himself. How cruel to say that to Miss Bohun – Miss Bohun who had befriended the Lesznos and given a home to him and Mr Jewel! She had been an angel to everyone.

  Miss Bohun sniffed again and continued: ‘She doesn’t mean it, of course; she couldn’t mean it. It was just temper, but it hurt me that she could say it after all I’ve done for them.’ She sat still again, brooding and silent, with Felix standing in sympathetic watchfulness, until Frau Leszno came in with the meal; then she jerked herself upright and looked as though nothing unusual had happened.

  ‘Go on up now, Felix,’ she said loudly and cheerfully, ‘and wash your hands. I want to get luncheon over quickly. I’ve a pupil coming in twenty minutes.’

  But as they ate, it was as though some barrier were down. Frau Leszno, coming in and out with a smirking look of guilt, seemed to sense this new relationship and slammed the door each time she left.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Miss Bohun as it crashed a second time, ‘and I’ve been so good to them. Well, I have nothing with which to reproach myself . . . but I must not lose heart. Whatever happens, I find I’m always rewarded in the end. When I make a gift to someone, it is returned to me a hundredfold. Does that happen to you, Felix?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed it.’

  ‘Well, notice next time and you’ll see.’

  Felix, though he lacked other education, was deeply read in children’s classics and he recognised here a true goodness. He was very impressed but, unable to think of anything adequate to say, remained silent.

  ‘You know, Felix,’ said Miss Bohun after a pause, ‘I came out here when I was still a young woman. Yes, I was under forty when I came. It was just when I realised nobody was going to want to marry me that I felt drawn to come here and join the “Ever-Readies”. My little income made it possible. By giving my heart and soul to the cause, I’ve worked my way to the top. Yes, it’s my own little show now. I think – I think I can say I’ve not wasted my life?’

  This, both statement and question, was spoken with so unexpected a tremulousness that Felix, although quite ignorant of the facts, felt bound to declare stoutly: ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re terrific, like a missionary, like Livingstone. Anyway, you’ve been jolly decent to me.’

  ‘I try to do good. I’m only an old spinster. No one, except God, has chosen me.’

  Miss Bohun’s mood of humility discomforted Felix very much, but he recognised it as a part of virtue.

  ‘I haven’t a family. I have no children, but I have a whole circle of people who’re indebted to me. I thought that meant something. I thought the Lesznos . . .’ she broke off, swallowed, then continued in stronger tones: ‘They’ve never shown much gratitude, it’s true, but I always told myself that deep down they must be grateful. That’s why I can’t understand Frau Leszno saying that this morning. I can’t understand it.’

  ‘I think she’s beastly,’ said Felix with deeper feeling than he knew he possessed.

  ‘Do you?’ Miss Bohun glanced up with interest, ‘you really think that, Felix?’

  ‘I don’t like her voice, and I think she’s mean,’ and for the first time he told Miss Bohun about the incident of the bath-boiler on the night of his arrival.

  Miss Bohun was not, as he had hoped she would be, indignant over his failure to get a bath, but instead said in an elated and excited tone: ‘There! I’ve always said it! Children’s instincts are so acute, children’s and dogs’. And she’s always telling me she’s a lady. She says she went to a boarding-school when she was a girl, and she says she’s been used to every comfort money could buy. And she’s always telling me how well servants are treated in Germany – like members of the family. That doesn’t sound very German to me. After all, she and her husband had to do a bolt from the Germans; I’ve had to remind her of that more than once. Well, no one could have done more for anyone than I’ve done for her. That’s the trouble, of course. Time was when she and Nikky were simply in possession here. They did what they liked. Nikky was getting so insolent, my students started to remark on it. I could see the danger. I’ve been forced to wean them from me. Forced – for their own sakes as well as mine. It’s so bad spiritually, don’t you think?’

  Felix, baffled by this question, could do no more than make a sympathetic murmur. Miss Bohun now retired again into brooding quiet. She said nothing more at that meal, but there was more to be said. She had clearly decided to tell Felix the story of her relationship with the Lesznos, for during the next week each luncheon-time added to it.

  Frau Leszno and her husband had arrived in Palestine some time before the war. Nikky had followed later. They had brought clothes and jewellery but only a little money. ‘Frau Leszno,’ said Miss Bohun, ‘at once took this house and furnished it. She never stopped to think she’d need the money for other things; to her the most important possession was a home. . . .’

  ‘But this house?’ Felix interrupted in his surprise, ‘this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Miss Bohun seemed irritated by his surprise, ‘the situation was quite absurd. Herr Leszno had married late. He was an old man and, to tell you the truth, he was dying before he left Germany. He had sclerosis. I prayed but nothing I did seemed to help him. He couldn’t earn a penny. And as for Frau Leszno – you’ve seen for yourself what she’s like. No one would employ her, except out of charity – yet she got the chance of this very nice house, which, mind you, belongs to an Arab. Yes, it belongs to an Imam at the big mosque. Well, they took it on. I’d been living at a pension but I wanted to move, for a reason. I began looking for something, rooms or something, in this quarter – my favourite; it’s the most picturesque, I think, don’t you? I happened to knock on this gate and Frau Leszno opened it – a poor, bedraggled, starved thing that started to cry before she’d said half-a-dozen words. They’d already sold part of the furniture
at a loss to keep going. Well, I came in and took charge at once. I’m always looking for some way to be of use in the world and here was my chance – the sick old man, and Frau Leszno wailing and lamenting and wringing her hands. She showed me over the house – well, really, I showed her over it – and there were these simply splendid rooms, empty, just what I wanted. I told her I’d take two of the bedrooms. “Now,” I said, “you’re not to worry. I’ll look after you.” Ah, she told me I was her good angel, then! I furnished my own rooms myself. I gave English lessons to make extra money. I paid all the rent that was owing – a considerable sum! £25 as a matter of fact! – and I had the house put into my name to safeguard all of us. When Herr Leszno died, I promised him on his death-bed that while I had a roof to give her, his wife would never lack one. Oh, it was quite an undertaking for one lone woman. Mr Tadlow, who was assistant D.C. here at the time (such a nice man), said: “You’re one of the bravest, Miss Bohun.” Yes, he said that: “One of the bravest.” And, I can tell you, Frau Leszno never let me forget my promise. Then Nikky turned up. She said she had a son who was trying to get out of Europe. She said the last she’d heard of him was he’d gone back to Poland to fight. I never thought he’d get here, but he managed it somehow. Trust Nikky Leszno!’ She gloomed over this escape a while before adding: ‘I had to go to Haifa to get him off one of those refugee coffin ships that came from Rumania. More trouble for me! He was in a state – thin and ghastly, dirty; ill, too – or, I mean, he thought he was ill. A mental condition, really, of course. Dear me, what a time that was.’ Miss Bohun made a grimace and shook her head over her memories, but suddenly her voice rose loudly and cheerfully: ‘Well, I did what I could for him. I introduced him into the “Ever-Readies” at once, and it made a power of difference. I’m sure if it hadn’t been for the spiritual comfort he drew from our faith, he would have been dead long ago. Not that I got much gratitude from him. As soon as he was well again, he began to find distractions outside our circle. That sort of thing happens, I fear – but, there, he’s a talented lad, a fey sort of creature. I always feel we mustn’t impose on him. We mustn’t complain.’