THEY MOSTLY LEFT him alone nowadays and it was better that way. There were still, every day, random acts of cruelty, a sly punch or poke in the ribs, a foot stuck out to trip him in the playground, chewing gum placed on his chair, Kick Me notes stuck to his back. But Tommy had learned that if you kept quiet, tried to look as if none of this bothered you, steered clear of those shadowy corners where the worst predators lurked, then life could be just about bearable. There wasn't, he had discovered, nearly so much fun to be had from torturing someone who didn't appear to mind.
For this important lesson in survival, Tommy had to thank the unfortunate Piggy Wadlow. Piggy provided sport of an altogether more gratifying nature. When a tormentor snatched his glasses or tweaked his folds of fat in the showers or threw water bombs at him over the cubicle door when he was sitting on the toilet, he would rise like a fleshy tornado and roar after them, even with his shorts and underpants flapping around his plump, pink thighs, his arms scything the air while he screamed retribution and occasionally managed to inflict it. Which, naturally, made such pursuits and endless variations of them all the more enjoyable.
There were certain measures which Tommy, now in his second term at Ashlawn, routinely took to protect himself. He always, for example, checked his bed before he climbed into it and he never put on a shoe or a boot or a slipper without first making certain it was empty. By so doing he had avoided sticking his toes into items of rotting fruit, dried dog turds and on one occasion, a dead mouse. At mealtimes he was careful never to take his eyes off his plate as it was passed from boy to boy along the table in case one of them chose to spit or shovel salt or something worse on to his food. He kept an obsessive eye on all that belonged to him and knew at a glance if anything had been taken or tampered with. And he never forgot to lock his tuck box, from which the painted alteration to his name had been removed with turpentine, leaving a white smudge just as eloquent.
The fact that his bed-wetting had become less frequent and that the logs had long ago been dispensed with seemed to make no difference. The nickname and reputation had passed into legend. His tormentors-in-chief were still Critchley and Judd, with their new apprentice Pettifer coming a close third. But at least Tommy knew what to expect from them and in their presence could steel himself. Much more upsetting were the many minor insults and injuries from boys who weren't really bullies at all, who were often actually quite decent when you found yourself alone with them, but who, in public, seemed obliged to be cruel.
Tommy knew, as much from instinct as experience, that to seek protection or justice from the staff, even from sympathetic masters like Ducky Lawrence, was counterproductive. Boys on whom you informed inevitably took their revenge, usually after lights-out or at morning break, in the toilets. He had seen it happen almost daily with Piggy, who would go screaming and sobbing to the first available master. And as the weeks and months went by, there had been a change in the way the masters listened to him. What had once been genuine concern and compassion had become a kind of weary contempt. Only yesterday, after someone pushed him over in the playground, Piggy had run howling to Charlie Chin who, quietly but sharply, told him not to tell tales, not to be such a cissy.
For two and a half terms, nearly nine whole months, without any real friend, Tommy had increasingly sought the solace of his fictional one. Denied his regular Monday evening dose of Wagon Train (television was, naturally, banned at Ashlawn, along with all other inventions that threatened to make life in any way enjoyable), he now had to make do with the photograph of Flint McCullough that he had taped inside the lid of his tuck box. There were pictures of his parents there too, as well as his favourite one of Diane outside the Cafe Royal. But it was Flint who held pride of place.
The tuck boxes were stored on slatted wooden shelves along a corridor to which the boys were allowed access only after meals. But at those times it was always too crowded and noisy, so Tommy had developed the habit of sneaking in illicitly when he might have the place to himself. It was, like most other minor transgressions, a beatable offence, but he was careful and hadn't yet been caught. His black lace-ups had rubber soles which meant he could move silently on the tiled floors and at any sound he would freeze and wait in the shadows until the danger had passed. When he got to his tuck box he would unlock it with the key he kept on a cord looped to the belt of his shorts. And as he gently lifted the lid, Flint's face would slowly be revealed, staring at him with that slightly sad yet comforting little half-smile, as if he'd been expecting him.
Tommy was aware that treating his tuck box like a shrine and standing before it in communion with a cowboy actor teetered on, if not over, the brink of weirdness. In fact sometimes he wondered if he might be going a little mad. He never spoke out loud to the picture and would have fled in terror had those famous McCullough lips so much as twitched in response. But in his head, Flint's voice rang as clear as if he were there in person.
"How'd you get on last night?"
"I wet the bed, darn it. I'd been dry for nearly three weeks."
"Hard luck, son. But you're doing fine. How many I will nots are we saying now before we go to sleep?"
"Three hundred."
"Let's try upping it to four."
"Okay."
"And that thing Pettifer said to you after breakfast. About your mother having square tits. Don't let it get to you. He's just an idiot."
"I know he is."
"That's probably what his mother's look like."
"Yeah. Saggy too I should think."
"Real saggy."
"Thanks, Flint."
"You're welcome, Tommy."
"I'd better go now. I'll see you later. Okay?"
"You bet. You take care now."
"You too. Bye."
The only person who came anywhere close to being a mentor in real life was The Duck. Mr Lawrence was an old man—well, probably about the same age as Tommy's father—and wore tweed jackets with leather pads on the elbows. He had little whiskery patches on his neck that he missed while shaving and he smelled comfortingly of pipe smoke like Tommy's father. Some of the older boys said he must be a homo because (a) he wasn't married and (b) his first name was Evelyn which was apparently a girl's name. Tommy didn't care. He was kind and funny and full of fascinating stories. He was the master in charge of Tommy's class, 2B, and whenever he came into the room he would say, Ah, Two B or not Two B, that is the question and they would all groan. Best of all, he had an infectious passion for books.
When he discovered how keen Tommy was on westerns, he gave him a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage and then a collection of short stories by Jack London. Tommy was immediately hooked and was soon reading almost anything he could lay his hands on. The school library was small and meanly stocked. But every Wednesday, after tea, The Duck escorted into town any boys who wanted to go to the public library where they were allowed to take out three books. It was the highlight of Tommy's week.
The walk into town was a winding descent of about a mile and, even in the rain, the sense of freedom as they stepped out of the school gates was thrilling. It wasn't advisable to be seen talking too much to masters in case you got accused of sucking up or, worse—when it happened to be Ducky Lawrence—of being a homo. Nevertheless, either on the way there or the way back, Tommy usually managed to have a chat with him. The Duck always had some new book or writer to suggest.
"Been thinking about you, Bedford."
"Sir?"
"Have you read any Fenimore Cooper?"
"No, sir. Never heard of him."
"Last of the Mohicans?"
"You mean Hawkeye? I've seen it on the telly. It's great."
"The book's even better. Let's see if we can find it for you."
By now Tommy had read every western the library had. The nice old woman behind the desk always made a point of telling him when a new one had arrived and even ordered special transfers for him from other libraries. While he waited, with The Duck's guidance, Tommy tried other writers, such as Agatha Christie, P. G. Wodehouse and the most frightening ghost story writer in the whole world, M. R. James. But The Duck's best suggestion by far was Rudyard Kipling. Tommy found himself transported to places that were thrilling and exotic yet somehow reassuringly ordered. Where there was danger, even wickedness, but where truth and decency finally prevailed.
It was on one such Wednesday evening, in the middle of a damp and dismal June, that Tommy found himself, to his surprise and cautious delight, reacquainted with Dickie Jessop. Dickie preferred illegal comics and magazines to books and rarely came on these trips to the town library. They had just walked back through the school gates and Tommy was trailing a few yards behind the rest of the group, partly through self-protective habit but also because he had his nose buried in the new Zane Grey novel he'd just borrowed. It was called The Arizona Clan and he was so absorbed he hadn't noticed Dickie had dropped back to walk beside him.
"What did you get?"
Tommy showed him.
"I thought Zane Grey was dead."
"He is, but he wrote a lot, so the books keep coming out."
"You read more than anyone I ever met."
Tommy shrugged.
"I just like it."
"Is it true your sister's going to be in a film with Gary Cooper?"
If anyone else had asked this, Tommy would have sensed a trap and denied it. Any item of personal information usually got twisted around and used against you. He would be accused of lying or boasting or they would call Diane a tart or make some insulting remark about her looks. But Dickie wasn't like the others.
"Yes," he replied, simply.
Dickie nodded thoughtfully but said nothing. Tommy couldn't tell if he was impressed or not. So, trying to sound casual, he went on.
"She's over in Hollywood at the moment, actually."
Dickie still didn't say anything. He just nodded again and stared away across the playing fields that had been transformed by weeks of unremitting rain into an ocean of mud. A watery sun flashed for a moment on the driveway puddles.
"How did you know? I mean, about the Gary Cooper thing."
Dickie kicked a stone into a puddle.
"I dunno. Someone saw it in a magazine or something."
Tommy guessed that getting confirmation of this story was probably the only reason Dickie had come back to walk with him. But having got it, he didn't seem in a hurry to go. His silence was more unsettling than it was surprising. Dickie Jessop had changed almost beyond recognition since those first few days when Tommy thought they were best friends. Not that he had become one of Tommy's tormentors. He never called him Bedwetter, just ignored him. And Tommy didn't take this personally because Dickie now ignored nearly everyone. In his own, more powerful way, he had become as much of a loner as Tommy. All the early cheek and sparkle and mischief had literally been beaten out of him.
The Whippet had made it a personal mission. There had been weeks when he'd summoned Dickie down to the changing room every single night. Dickie seemed to take it as a challenge and would break rules deliberately right under The Whippet's long and twitching nose. On bath nights and in the showers after games, boys would gape at the bruises. His buttocks were an abstract painting of black and blue and purple and yellow, a work in progress that didn't get a chance to heal. Yet never once had anyone seen him cry. All that happened was that with each beating he had become a little quieter, a shade more serious, retreating one small step further into himself. It was like watching the slow yet steady dimming of a light.
They were trudging up the last stretch of driveway now and it was starting to rain again. As the school building loomed over them, Tommy felt a surge of desperation that he was about to lose a second chance of being Dickie's friend.
"Want to see something?" he said.
"What?"
"You have to promise not to tell anyone."
Dickie shrugged.
"Okay."
"Say I promise."
"I promise."
A few minutes later they were tiptoeing along the corridor to Tommy's tuck box. The time when it was permitted to be there had passed. They were supposed to be in their classrooms getting ready for prep. The corridor was dark but they didn't switch on the light. Tommy unlocked his tuck box and lifted the lid.
"Nice pictures."
"That's Diane, my sister."
Dickie nodded his approval then glanced at the picture of Flint.
"And you know who that is."
" 'Course I do. Is that all you wanted to show me?"
Tommy shook his head and reached down into the tuck box and carefully lifted out a large manilla envelope.
"Look," he said, pointing at the postmark.
"Hollywood, California."
"It arrived this morning."
Tommy glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. Then he opened the envelope and gently pulled out a large black-and-white photograph.
"See? It's Red McGraw from Sliprock," he said proudly.
"Bedford, I know who it is, for heaven's sake."
"Yes, but look what he's put on it."
Dickie peered at the large, loopy handwriting.
To Tommy Bedford,
The Quickest Draw in England.
See ya along the trail!
Red
"Did he do this specially for you?"
" 'Course he did."
"Wow."
"And you know what?"
"What?"
"Promise you won't tell anyone."
"Bedford!"
"Cross your heart and hope to die."
Dickie wearily obeyed.
"They had a date."
"What?"
"Diane and Red—well, he's not really called Red. His real name is Ray. Ray Montane. A date is when—"
"Bedford, I know what a date is."
Dickie stared at the picture for a moment. Tommy could tell he was impressed.
"So is she his girlfriend?"
"I don't know. I think so. They had dinner together, I know that. And she says he's really nice."
"Wow."
Suddenly the corridor lights went on.
"What do you two think you're doing in here?"
Charlie Chin was peering at them from the far end of the corridor. Tommy quickly slipped the photo and envelope back into his tuck box.
"Who is it? Speak up, boy!"
"Jessop, sir," Dickie said. "And Bedford. Just putting our library books away, sir."
"You know you're not allowed in here, don't you? Well?"
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"I'll see you both later. Now get along to your classrooms. Go!"
Two hours later, they were standing outside the changing room in their dressing gowns. It was only the second time Tommy had been beaten. The first was when The Whippet had slippered the whole dorm for talking after lights-out. But Charlie always used the cane. Tommy's knees had gone wobbly with fear. He didn't want to cry or, heaven forbid, wet himself. Not in front of Dickie. He tried to think of Flint but it wasn't much help.
"You'll be all right," Dickie whispered. "The first one hurts a bit but then it's okay. Just grip the bench and grit your teeth."
Tommy didn't trust his voice so he just nodded. The door opened and the headmaster stood there for a moment looking down at them. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. In his right hand was a thin bamboo cane, about three feet long.
"You first, Bedford."
He stepped aside to let Tommy enter then shut the door behind him.
"Well, Bedford. Jessop leading you astray, is he?"
"Sir?"
"Teaching you some of his bad habits."
"No, sir. It was my idea to go in there, not his."
"I see. Anything more to say for yourself?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Since this is your first offence, I'm going to give you three."
Tommy swallowed and nodded.
"Take off your dressing gown and bend over that bench."
Tommy's lip began to quiver and he bit it hard. He laid his dressing gown on the bench and turned his back on Mr Rawlston and bent over until his head was inside one of the wire cages. He gripped the edge of the bench as hard as he could. For a moment all went still. Then the sound of Mr Rawlston taking a step forward and the swish of the cane as it whipped through the air and in the next instant a searing white slash of pain as it cut into his buttocks. Tommy whimpered and at the second stroke cried out. Then he remembered Dickie outside and how all the boys upstairs would be listening and he clenched his teeth and held hard to the bench and on the third stroke kept silent. But he couldn't stop the tears. Slowly he straightened himself and stood for a moment, facing the cage, trying to control himself. He felt humiliated and small and wretched and angry.
"Put your dressing gown on."
Without looking at him, Tommy did so. He was about to head for the door when he realized Mr Rawlston was holding out a hand. Tommy had forgotten this part of the ritual. The man was actually smiling. Tommy shook his hand.
"It's customary to say thank you, Bedford."
"Thank you, sir."
"Good. Off to bed now."
"Sir."
As he came out Dickie smiled at him and whispered well done. Tommy's buttocks were on fire and as he walked along the cold corridor he put a hand inside his pyjama bottoms and gingerly felt the damage. He could trace the three welts but when he checked his fingers there was no blood. He made his way up the creaking wooden staircase and as he reached the top heard the first slash of the cane. He stood there and began to count. Two, three, four, five, six.
Tommy knew he was supposed to go directly back to his dormitory but instead he decided to wait for Dickie. They would return together. And as the thought occurred, standing at the top of the stairs, he began to feel something shift inside him. He wasn't crying any longer. He didn't feel ashamed or even sorry for himself. It was as if the glow of his backside were spreading and filling him with a kind of heroic pride. And now here came Dickie, grinning at him as he bounded up the stairs.
"Six!" Tommy whispered.
"Yeah. Pathetic."
Tommy smiled.
"I heard what you told him, about it being your fault. Thanks."
He put a hand on Tommy's shoulder and left it there a moment.
"Come on, better get to bed."
They set off along the corridor. Side by side, like brothers in arms.