The Go-Between by L. P. Hartley Page A

soon fled. I was urged to put out more
spells, one of which was that we should be given a whole holiday.
Into this last I put all the psychic force I had, and I was
rewarded. Soon after the beginning of June we had an outbreak of
measles. By half-term more than half the school was down with it,
and soon after came the dramatic announcement that we were to break
up.
      The delight of the survivors, of whom I was one and
Maudsley another, can be imagined. The spiritual and emotional
intoxication, which normally took thirteen weeks to brew, was
suddenly engendered after seven; and added to it was the thrilling
sense of having been favoured by fortune, for only once before in
the history of the school had such a crowning mercy been
vouchsafed.
      The appearance at my bedside of my shiny black trunk
with its imposing, rounded roof, flanked by my father’s brown
wooden tuck-box, which still showed, by a path of darker paint,
where my initials had been painted over his—this ocular proof that
we were really going back had an effect on my spirits more
overwhelming than the headmaster’s brief announcement after prayers
the previous evening. And not only the sight, the smell: the smell
of home exhaled by the trunk and tuck-box, drowning the smell of
school. For the whole of one day the vessels of salvation stood
empty, and as long as they were empty there was always the fear
that J. C., as we called him, might change his mind. The matron and
her assistant were engaged in other dormitories. But our turn came,
and at last, stealing upstairs to look, I saw the trunk with its
lid pushed back and its tray foaming with the tissue paper in which
were wrapped my lighter and more breakable possessions. This was a
supreme moment: nothing that came afterwards surpassed it in pure
bliss, though excitement steadily mounted.
      Two brakes, instead of three, were drawn up before
the school front door. The apathy on the drivers’ faces contrasted
strongly but rather agreeably with the joy on ours. They knew the
procedure, however; they did not start off as soon as the last
small boy (even to me he looked extremely small) had climbed into
his place. There was a last rite to perform— the only flourish we
allowed ourselves, for we were not an emotional school. The head
boy stood up and, looking round him, cried: “Three cheers for Mr.
Cross, Mrs. Cross, and the baby!” How the baby came to be included
I never knew; perhaps it was the spontaneous, facetious
afterthought of a former head boy. Late in life (or so it seemed to
us) Mr. and Mrs. Cross had been blessed with a third daughter. The
other two were already, to our eyes, grown up, and them we did not
cheer. For that matter the baby was no longer a baby; she was
nearly four, but for some reason it delighted us to cheer her, as
it plainly delighted her to be lifted up between her parents and to
wave her hand. We waited for this to happen, and when it did we
laughed and nudged one another, relieved, as Englishmen, at not
having to take our cheering too seriously.
      The volume of sound was thin compared with normal
times, but it lacked nothing in fervour nor did we stop to think
how it would sound to the suffering prisoners in the San. The
“baby’s” acknowledgment left nothing to be desired: it was
comically regal. The drivers raised their whips without raising
their faces, and we were off.
      How long did the ecstasy of escape continue? It was
at its height in the train. Both coming and going, the school was
allotted a special coach. It was a parlour car of a kind not found
now, upholstered in deep red plush, the seats facing each other the
whole length of the compartment. They were impregnated with a most
searching smell of train smoke and tobacco, which on the outward
journey at once turned my stomach. But going home it was the very
breath of freedom and acted like an apéritif. Joy shone on every
face; playful punches were exchanged; new variations were found of
the theme of