father was. I was about to tell him to mind his own business when I remembered.
‘Will he make it?’ Vanderpoel asked.
‘Make what?’
‘Make it through to next weekend — or whenever the Oundle match is played?’
‘I hope so. My mother says he’s clinging on.’
I did feel some real guilt about this — especially given that Father is actually ill. I worried that by placing him on death’s door like this I was imposing some sort of malign curse upon him. But then I say to myself: they’re only words I’ve uttered. Mere words are not going to accelerate or retard the course of an illness. Yet at house prayers this evening I prayed for him, the hypocrite that I am. How H-D would mock me: having my cake and eating it — like all lazy believers — routinely going through the motions of piety when it suits. Perhaps I should insist Vanderpoel take back the £5.
Friday [22 March 1924]
Worked like the proverbial charm. There we are training when Younger and, to my surprise, Barrowsmith trot over from the First XV pitch. ‘Mountstuart! comes the cry. I jog over innocently. Vanderpoel’s lame, twisted his knee — are you up for the match tomorrow? I’ll do my best,’ I say modestly. ‘Good man!’ says Barrowsmith, clapping me on the shoulder. Vague alarm at earning the Barrowboy’s approval. I had forgotten he was in the First XV — no Fenian bastard now.
Ben and Peter seem genuinely delighted for me — and not a little admiring, I think, at my dogged perseverance — and Ben vows he will break the habit of a lifetime and voluntarily watch a game of competitive sport. Peter told me he had had a clandestine meeting with Tess: her father has banned all contact between them (he, Peter, was close to tears as he told me this). He thinks Clough saw them holding hands. He talked wildly of staying in a boarding house in Norwich during the Easter vac in the hope they can surreptitiously meet. We urged him not to be such a fool.
Ben, on his part, said that Mrs Catesby had written to him offering to give him private instruction in place of Doig. ‘I think she plans to seduce me,’ Ben said. ‘What an odd lot you RCs are.’ What’s she like, your Mrs Catesby? I asked. ‘Sort of plump and powdery and pink,’ he said, shuddering. ‘I’d rather sodomize little Montague.’ Do you know, I think he would. We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.
Easter Sunday [20 April 1924]
BAD RIEGERBACH
I told Mother my arm was hurting and so have been excused Easter service. She, Father and Lucy have taken the funicular down to the old town, where the church awaits their pieties. Immediately after they left I ordered a bottle of hock from Frau Dielendorfer and am already feeling better — nothing nicer than being pleasantly tight on a Sunday morning at 10.30 — so I thought I would take up the journal again.
The portents for the match against Oundle could not have been better: a clear, sunny, sharp-shadowed day, a thin frost, which had melted by lunch time. In the changing room I could hardly hear the captain’s pep-talk: I felt light-headed, as if there were too much oxygen fizzing around my blood vessels. I rubbed horse liniment on to my knees and thighs, stamped my boots upon the tiled floor and grinned at my team-mates like an idiot. And when we ran out — and it seemed as if the entire school was on the touchline cheering — I thought (and I must be honest, here of all places) that my heart would burst it was beating so strongly.
The referee tossed a coin for the captains: we lost and prepared to face the kick-off. I jogged across the pitch to join my fellow forwards. From the touchline I heard Ben and Peter screaming my name and I gave them a quick, confident wave.
The whistle blew, the ball was kicked and lofted high in the air before falling directly towards me. I sensed, rather than saw, the charge of the opposing forwards and I caught the ball a second before the first three or
‘Will he make it?’ Vanderpoel asked.
‘Make what?’
‘Make it through to next weekend — or whenever the Oundle match is played?’
‘I hope so. My mother says he’s clinging on.’
I did feel some real guilt about this — especially given that Father is actually ill. I worried that by placing him on death’s door like this I was imposing some sort of malign curse upon him. But then I say to myself: they’re only words I’ve uttered. Mere words are not going to accelerate or retard the course of an illness. Yet at house prayers this evening I prayed for him, the hypocrite that I am. How H-D would mock me: having my cake and eating it — like all lazy believers — routinely going through the motions of piety when it suits. Perhaps I should insist Vanderpoel take back the £5.
Friday [22 March 1924]
Worked like the proverbial charm. There we are training when Younger and, to my surprise, Barrowsmith trot over from the First XV pitch. ‘Mountstuart! comes the cry. I jog over innocently. Vanderpoel’s lame, twisted his knee — are you up for the match tomorrow? I’ll do my best,’ I say modestly. ‘Good man!’ says Barrowsmith, clapping me on the shoulder. Vague alarm at earning the Barrowboy’s approval. I had forgotten he was in the First XV — no Fenian bastard now.
Ben and Peter seem genuinely delighted for me — and not a little admiring, I think, at my dogged perseverance — and Ben vows he will break the habit of a lifetime and voluntarily watch a game of competitive sport. Peter told me he had had a clandestine meeting with Tess: her father has banned all contact between them (he, Peter, was close to tears as he told me this). He thinks Clough saw them holding hands. He talked wildly of staying in a boarding house in Norwich during the Easter vac in the hope they can surreptitiously meet. We urged him not to be such a fool.
Ben, on his part, said that Mrs Catesby had written to him offering to give him private instruction in place of Doig. ‘I think she plans to seduce me,’ Ben said. ‘What an odd lot you RCs are.’ What’s she like, your Mrs Catesby? I asked. ‘Sort of plump and powdery and pink,’ he said, shuddering. ‘I’d rather sodomize little Montague.’ Do you know, I think he would. We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.
Easter Sunday [20 April 1924]
BAD RIEGERBACH
I told Mother my arm was hurting and so have been excused Easter service. She, Father and Lucy have taken the funicular down to the old town, where the church awaits their pieties. Immediately after they left I ordered a bottle of hock from Frau Dielendorfer and am already feeling better — nothing nicer than being pleasantly tight on a Sunday morning at 10.30 — so I thought I would take up the journal again.
The portents for the match against Oundle could not have been better: a clear, sunny, sharp-shadowed day, a thin frost, which had melted by lunch time. In the changing room I could hardly hear the captain’s pep-talk: I felt light-headed, as if there were too much oxygen fizzing around my blood vessels. I rubbed horse liniment on to my knees and thighs, stamped my boots upon the tiled floor and grinned at my team-mates like an idiot. And when we ran out — and it seemed as if the entire school was on the touchline cheering — I thought (and I must be honest, here of all places) that my heart would burst it was beating so strongly.
The referee tossed a coin for the captains: we lost and prepared to face the kick-off. I jogged across the pitch to join my fellow forwards. From the touchline I heard Ben and Peter screaming my name and I gave them a quick, confident wave.
The whistle blew, the ball was kicked and lofted high in the air before falling directly towards me. I sensed, rather than saw, the charge of the opposing forwards and I caught the ball a second before the first three or
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