upon Morganâs evasions?
âYouâre letting yourself get carried away, Grieves said at last.
If Grieves imagined it was his place to say such things, then he was going to have to be taught a lesson. Morgan was forced to endure a good many things, but he drew the line at being toyed with.
âThatâs me, sir. A regular tearaway.
âYou know what I mean.
Morgan laughed; Mr. Grieves didnât.
âHeaven only knows what will have to happen before your ⦠generation gets it into your headsâ
â To respect our elders and betters and be grateful to the dead , Morgan said, supplying one of the Headmasterâs favored phrases.
Mr. Grieves held his gaze:
âI would have said the other way around. Be grateful to your elders and respect the dead.
âWhatâs there to respect about death? Morgan balked.
âIâd have thought you had a notion about that.
A cheap shot. Shabby and cheap. How dare Grieves speak ofâthough it was possible the man was not alluding to his mother but was instead resurrecting the ghastly Gallowhill Ghastliness?
Of course he was. The man was sitting there at Morganâs table accusing him once again âof tearing from a yearbook a photograph of Gordon Gallowhill (Old Boy 1884â90, history master, war hero, suicide), of placing it inside a human skull stolen from RENâs lab, of burying it in the wretched archaeology pit for a prank. Except that he hadnât , and in any case the whole affair had happened years ago ! This man had a memory like a steel trap, and he held grudges longer than a perverse elephant. If anyone was off his dot, it was Grieves. Morgan got up from the table.
âThe Eagleâs been offered a post, Grieves continued blithely. Housemaster at Pocklington.
A surge of alarm overtook Morgan:
âWill he take it, sir?
âCanât see why not. Burton-Leeâs got an offer somewhere, too.
â Burton?
Morgan did not know what was more unsettling: the idea of losing Burton-Lee or the fact that Grieves was telling him unsolicited secrets from the Senior Common Room.
âBut Burtonâs been here forever, sir. The Eagle almost forever. Why leave now?
Mr. Grieves gave him a look that made him feel culpable of any number of sins, venial and mortal:
âWhy indeed, Wilberforce?
Â
6
The next morning, Grieves had the gall to take breakfast in the refectory without looking once in Morganâs direction. In chapel, the Headmaster droned about bounds-breaking, veering periodically into windy reminders about Prep: the Third, Fourth, and Remove were not to leave their form rooms without written permission; the Fifth ditto their studies; the Lower and Upper Sixth likewise belonged in their own studies, not loitering in the library ⦠The SCR lounged just beyond S-Kâs line of sight, Clement dozing openly, Hazlehurst consulting a newspaper, Grieves resting his head against his hand, whether to soothe a headache or to conceal closed eyes, Morgan couldnât tell.
Morgan had woken that morning with a curious waft of hope, a hope that evaporated once he remembered the unsavory nature of his conversation with Grieves: not only had Grieves ruined his refuge at the Keys, but the Academy was on the verge of losing the Eagle and the Flea, who, with Grieves, were the only switched-on masters in the place.
The Headmaster dismissed them after a prolonged lecture, but with a scant ten minutes left to the first lesson, Burton-Lee declined to teach them, instead directing them to begin their prep while he attended to some correspondence. It took all of Morganâs restraint not to tell Nathan and Laurie everything of the night, up to and including the fact that the Fleaâs correspondence could only be with the horrible other school. Instead Morgan gossiped about sport and wandered restlessly to French.
There Hazlehurst set them to reading from Le Figaro and writing précis, a task
âYouâre letting yourself get carried away, Grieves said at last.
If Grieves imagined it was his place to say such things, then he was going to have to be taught a lesson. Morgan was forced to endure a good many things, but he drew the line at being toyed with.
âThatâs me, sir. A regular tearaway.
âYou know what I mean.
Morgan laughed; Mr. Grieves didnât.
âHeaven only knows what will have to happen before your ⦠generation gets it into your headsâ
â To respect our elders and betters and be grateful to the dead , Morgan said, supplying one of the Headmasterâs favored phrases.
Mr. Grieves held his gaze:
âI would have said the other way around. Be grateful to your elders and respect the dead.
âWhatâs there to respect about death? Morgan balked.
âIâd have thought you had a notion about that.
A cheap shot. Shabby and cheap. How dare Grieves speak ofâthough it was possible the man was not alluding to his mother but was instead resurrecting the ghastly Gallowhill Ghastliness?
Of course he was. The man was sitting there at Morganâs table accusing him once again âof tearing from a yearbook a photograph of Gordon Gallowhill (Old Boy 1884â90, history master, war hero, suicide), of placing it inside a human skull stolen from RENâs lab, of burying it in the wretched archaeology pit for a prank. Except that he hadnât , and in any case the whole affair had happened years ago ! This man had a memory like a steel trap, and he held grudges longer than a perverse elephant. If anyone was off his dot, it was Grieves. Morgan got up from the table.
âThe Eagleâs been offered a post, Grieves continued blithely. Housemaster at Pocklington.
A surge of alarm overtook Morgan:
âWill he take it, sir?
âCanât see why not. Burton-Leeâs got an offer somewhere, too.
â Burton?
Morgan did not know what was more unsettling: the idea of losing Burton-Lee or the fact that Grieves was telling him unsolicited secrets from the Senior Common Room.
âBut Burtonâs been here forever, sir. The Eagle almost forever. Why leave now?
Mr. Grieves gave him a look that made him feel culpable of any number of sins, venial and mortal:
âWhy indeed, Wilberforce?
Â
6
The next morning, Grieves had the gall to take breakfast in the refectory without looking once in Morganâs direction. In chapel, the Headmaster droned about bounds-breaking, veering periodically into windy reminders about Prep: the Third, Fourth, and Remove were not to leave their form rooms without written permission; the Fifth ditto their studies; the Lower and Upper Sixth likewise belonged in their own studies, not loitering in the library ⦠The SCR lounged just beyond S-Kâs line of sight, Clement dozing openly, Hazlehurst consulting a newspaper, Grieves resting his head against his hand, whether to soothe a headache or to conceal closed eyes, Morgan couldnât tell.
Morgan had woken that morning with a curious waft of hope, a hope that evaporated once he remembered the unsavory nature of his conversation with Grieves: not only had Grieves ruined his refuge at the Keys, but the Academy was on the verge of losing the Eagle and the Flea, who, with Grieves, were the only switched-on masters in the place.
The Headmaster dismissed them after a prolonged lecture, but with a scant ten minutes left to the first lesson, Burton-Lee declined to teach them, instead directing them to begin their prep while he attended to some correspondence. It took all of Morganâs restraint not to tell Nathan and Laurie everything of the night, up to and including the fact that the Fleaâs correspondence could only be with the horrible other school. Instead Morgan gossiped about sport and wandered restlessly to French.
There Hazlehurst set them to reading from Le Figaro and writing précis, a task
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