The “Turbot’s” Aunt
Of course, he was not really called “Turbot”; but just after he came to Merivale, some ass in the Fifth started the silly rag of calling everybody after a fish, and pretty well every fish known to science was rung in. In fact, they just about went round. Sometimes the likeness was fairly clear and the simile was good. For instance, being head of the school, I was called “Salmon,” which is the king of fish; and as I am underhung and have rather fierce eyes, there was a certain fitness in calling me “Salmon.” But after I had decided that Abbott could not have his colours for “footer,” being lame, there was a feeling against me among Abbott’s friends, and Tracey called me “Tinned Salmon,” which was merely silly and not in the least amusing. Nor was it amusing to call Maybrick “Sardine” because he kept tins of this fish in his desk; but “John Dory” was all right for Nicholas, that being the ugliest fish in the sea, and Nicholas the ugliest chap at Merivale. “Porpoise” was true for Preston, who inclines to great fatness, and blows after exertion in a very porpoise-like way; but to call Briggs “Herring” because he was a “doter on a bloater,” as Tracey said, and to call Tracey himself a “Torpedo Ray” because he was always trying to give shocks, was footling without being funny. On the other hand, it was neat to call Pratt “Cuttlefish,” because he was always inky to the elbows; and as far as Bradwell was concerned, the nickname of “Turbot” suited him very well, owing to his eyes, which always goggled if a master spoke to him, and also owing to his mouth, which was all lips and rather one-sided when he laughed.
Kids, of course, have a poor sense of what is really funny, owing to their general ignorance. Yet they prefer their own feeble jokes to ours. A joke that the Sixth sees in a moment is utterly lost on them, while utter piffle, that no sane person would smile at, makes them scream. We, for instance, called Mitchell “Shark” because of his well-known habits over money, but this did not amuse the kids in the least; while they called Forbes minimus “Whale” because he was the smallest boy in the school; which naturally could not cause anybody but an idiot the least amusement.
Well, Bradwell was far from interesting from a mental point of view, having, as our master, Mr. Fortescue, said, apparently outgrown his brains. He was just at his seventeenth birthday when these remarkable events happened; but at first glance, and, in fact, until you talked to him, you would at once have said he was grown up. He was in the Lower Fifth, and it really looked as though a master was in the Lower Fifth rather than a pupil. And he was only there because it would have been a burlesque to put him any lower, though in strict justice, as far as his knowledge was concerned, he would have been in his right place in the Upper Third. But he had to stop in the Lower Fifth, and even there was an absurd sight, being six feet high and very large in every way, and having a distinct moustache, which, owing to its being black, could not be hidden. What a scissors could do he did; but it was there, and grew by night, and could not be concealed. He was a very finely made chap, and had magnificent muscles; but such was his awkwardness and stupidity that he couldn’t even use these muscles properly, and he was no earthly good even in the gym. At games he failed utterly, though he tried hard; but he was too slow even for a full-back at “footer,” and couldn’t get down quick enough for a “goaley”; in fact, rapid movement seemed utterly beyond his power. At cricket he was also an object of utter scorn, for despite his hands, which were huge, he couldn’t hold the simplest catch; and despite his reach, which was that of a six-foot chap, he had not the humblest idea of timing a ball, or the vaguest notion of how to play a stroke. In fact, such was his unworthiness that he could only have played in the third eleven, and as that was naturally composed of kids of eleven and twelve, it would have been an outrage to see him in it. Bradwell meant well, but he was rather barred, not from dislike, but simply because he had, as it were, grown up before his time, and had a kid’s mind in a man’s body. In fact, he fell between two stools, in a manner of speaking, because, to the Sixth and the masters, he was a thing of nought, while to those who had a mind like his own, he was grown up and no use in any way.
I was the only one at Merivale who understood his weird case, and when he first came, I let him fag for me; but he was awful as a fag, and such was his over-anxiety to please and shine that he never did either. I had, in fact, to chuck him. At sixteen years and eleven months of age he led rather a lonely life; but when the War broke out, he said he was very interested in it, and asked me sometimes if I would be so good as to explain military matters to him. Which I did in the simplest words possible, as anything like regular military terms would have been far beyond him. On hearing that aeroplanes have great difficulty in descending by night, he invented a scheme of stretching strong nets with a big mesh on poles ten feet above the ground, spread over half a mile of landing-place, to catch them. This showed mind in a way; but he never appeared to have any real martial instinct, and when once a girl in Merivale handed him a white feather, he stopped and took off his hat and said:
“I quite understand what you mean, but I shan’t be seventeen for a fortnight yet.”
This the girl naturally refused to believe, and the “Turbot” came to me and complained about it.
As a matter of fact, I rather backed up the girl—not for giving “Turbot” a white feather, which is a vulgar and silly thing to give anybody, because you never know, as the great case of Fortescue showed—but because she didn’t believe “Turbot” when he said he was only just about to be seventeen. To look at him, he might easily have been married, which shows appearances are very deceptive. But, anyway, I said:
“You can’t blame a flapper for thinking you are of age to join the Army, Bradwell. Anybody would think so, and lots of younger-looking chaps than you have said they were eighteen, and been passed without a murmur, though their birth certificates would have given them away. But anybody six feet high and with a clearly visible black moustache, and with your muscles, would pass the authorities, and you may bet that many have.”
He merely goggled, and said no doubt I was right.
I must tell you that “Turbot” had no father or mother, and, in fact, nobody but a single, oldish aunt who lived at Plymouth. But he had a guardian, who sent him to Merivale when his family unfortunately died; and at first he stopped at Merivale in the holidays. But once the aunt took him for a fortnight at Easter; and she appeared to like him, for, after that, he always went to her. The guardian did not, however, like “Turbot,” and “Turbot” would have been quite content to stop at Merivale in the holidays, rather than spend his time with the guardian, who had no friendly feeling for him. In fact, you may say that “Turbot” was a duty rather than a pleasure to the guardian.
Then, at the beginning of the autumn term, in the first year of the War, “Turbot’s” aunt wrote to Dr. Dunston and asked if “Turbot” might spend Saturday till Monday with her, because it was going to be his birthday; and the Doctor gave permission.
So “Turbot” went, and naturally was not missed in any way till Monday morning. Then at roll-call before chapel, the “Turbot’s” well-known bleat was not heard, and it was soon perceived that he’d done something very much out of the common.
Nothing had been heard from his aunt, apparently, and so a telegram was dispatched to her, and, as no reply came to it, Dr. Dunston began to worry. He then sent off a telegram to the guardian, and the excitement decidedly thickened. After dinner the Doctor sent for me, as head boy, and told me that the guardian had heard nothing whatever about “Turbot.”
“I may tell you, Travers,” he said, “though there is no reason to repeat it, that Bradwell is not persona grata with the gentleman who stands to him in loco parentis. That is unfortunate for Bradwell, because he may lack friends in the future, being a boy without any mental ability, or that charm and power to please we occasionally find in the stupid lad. His guardian, however, evinces no uneasiness at the disappearance of Bradwell, and my knowledge of human nature inclines me to doubt if the individual in question will much care whether Bradwell returns or does not. I speak, of course, in confidence. But he is a busy man, and has a large family of his own, with its concomitant anxieties. He sends his own boys to Harrow, and it is not for us to judge his motives in so doing, or whether they are guided by disinterested desire for the future welfare of an obscure attorney’s sons, or influenced by that spirit of snobbishness from which few Englishmen are entirely free.
“Now, I shall ask you this afternoon, Travers, to undertake a little mission which I can safely trust to you. We are, as you know, very short-handed, and to spare a master is almost impossible. I will therefore invite you to go as far as Plymouth, call at No. 10 Mutley Plain Villas, and ask to see Miss Mason, the maternal aunt of Bradwell, and his sole surviving relative. It is a somewhat delicate duty, and you must regard it as a compliment that I seek your aid. Here is half a crown for your return railway fare. You will alight at Mutley Station, and should catch the five-thirty train back to Merivale. The lady has not responded to my telegram, hence my desire, before putting the matter in the hands of the police, to learn all she may be able to tell us. Present my card, and she will see you at once if at home. If not, wait until she returns.”
It was rather a responsible thing, and a great compliment to me. So I went, first putting on my best clothes and a new pair of gloves. Arrived at Plymouth, I got out at Mutley, and easily found Mutley Plain Villas, which were only a quarter of a mile from the railway. The house was small, but very neat in appearance, and the door-knocker, which was of highly polished brass, gave a loud tapping sound into the hall. There was no sign of the “Turbot.”
A servant of considerable age answered my knock, and when I asked her if Miss Mason was at home, she replied that she was. She told me to walk in, which I did. I then gave her Dr. Dunston’s card, and was shown into a neat drawing-room, which had a piano in it, and a pile of khaki wool on a sofa. There was also an illustrated newspaper in the room, and I sat down on a chair and read the illustrated newspaper until Miss Mason arrived.
Presently she came, and proved younger than her servant, though still not in reality young. She was unlike Bradwell in every way. Even her eyes did not resemble his, being black and small—you might say beady—and her mouth had thin lips, which revealed lustrous teeth, which might have been false ones, though, on the other hand, they might not.
“Curiously enough,” she said, “I was just writing a letter to Dr. Dunston when you arrived. Now I can send a message by you instead. Are you his son?”
“No, Miss Mason,” I answered. “I am Travers, the head boy at Merivale School.”
“How interesting!” she said. “And what are you going to do in the world, Travers?”
“I leave next term—this is my last term, in fact—and I am then going to try for Woolwich,” I said.
“That means the Army, of course,” she answered. “I hope you will pass well.”
I then thanked her for this kind wish, and said I hoped so, too.
“Owing to the War,” I explained, “there is no very great difficulty in passing into Woolwich at present, and I hope to get on quickly, and take my place in the fighting-line before the War is over.”
She approved of this.
“Quite right,” she said. “I never wanted to be a man before the War, but I do now.”
She spoke in a very martial and sporting way, and rang for tea.
This was good of its kind, and when I had eaten pretty well everything, after handing her each dish first, she asked me if I would like an egg, and, of course, I said I would. Then she ordered the old servant to boil two eggs; and the old servant did so, and I ate them both. We talked of the War, and, funnily enough, I quite forgot all about the “Turbot” till a clock chimed on the mantelshelf the hour of five.
This, as it were, reminded me of my mission.
“I must soon go back to the station,” I said, “so perhaps you will now be so kind as to tell me about ‘Turbot.’”
“And who is ‘Turbot’?” she asked.
So I had to explain that we were all called fish, owing to a silly joke, and I also hoped that she would not think that I meant anything rude to her nephew by mentioning him in that way. She was not in the least annoyed, and said:
“Ralph came to me on Saturday, and he left me on Sunday morning.”
“Do you know where he has gone?” I asked.
And she said: “I haven’t the slightest idea where he has gone, Travers.”
“That’s very serious,” I said, “because your nephew’s guardian hasn’t the slightest idea, either.”
Her lips tightened over her dazzling teeth at the mention of the guardian, and I could see she didn’t like him. She spoke in a sneering sort of voice and said:
“Ah! Really?”
Then, feeling there was nothing more to discuss, I got up and cleared.
“Let me know if anything transpires,” she said, and not happening to remember exactly what “transpire” meant, I merely said that no doubt the Doctor would tell her all that might happen in the future about Bradwell.
She shook hands in a kindly manner and saw me to the gate. And such was her friendly spirit that she picked a small blue flower and gave it to me to wear.
“Put it in your buttonhole,” she said, which I did do until I was out of sight, and could chuck it away without hurting her feelings.
The Doctor didn’t seem to like what I had to say, and evidently thought I hadn’t got it right.
“His aunt appears as callous as his guardian,” said the Doctor. “I am to understand that he went out on Sunday morning and did not return, and that Miss Mason has not the slightest idea where he has gone to?”
“That’s what she made me understand, sir,” I said.
“I fail to credit it,” answered the Doctor. Then he dismissed me, rather slightingly, and sent for Brown, who always does the detective business at Merivale.
There was a good deal of quiet excitement about it, and, of course, we all thought “Turbot” would be run to earth in a few hours, or days, at most. But he never was; and though the police looked into the matter, and hunted far and wide, they never even got a clue, because apparently there wasn’t one to get. In fact, “Turbot” vanished off the face of the earth as far as Merivale was concerned; and it was a nine days’ wonder, as the saying is, and no light was ever thrown upon it till long afterwards. The aunt was cross-examined by the police; but she knew nothing, and cared less, as Brown said, for he cross-examined her also. All she could say was that “Turbot” had gone out early, and not come home in time for church, as she naturally expected a boy brought up at Merivale to do. Which was one in the eye for Merivale. As for the guardian, he offered a reward of ten pounds for the recovery of “Turbot,” and no more, which showed the market value of “Turbot” in that guardian’s opinion.
The only person who really worried was the Doctor, and I believe he didn’t leave a stone unturned to rout up “Turbot.” But all in vain. He had entirely disappeared, and being so ordinary in appearance, without any distinguishing marks, he simply “vanished into the void,” as Tracey said, and we sold his cricket bat at auction, and one or two other things of slight value which we found in his school locker. But a portrait of his mother we did not sell, and I gave it to the Doctor, who sent it to the aunt, who was much obliged for it, and wrote to old Dunston with great thanks, and said she would keep it until the happy day when “Turbot” turned up out of the void again. And that, I believe, made the Doctor more suspicious than ever, for he always believed that Miss Mason knew more about the “Turbot” than she pretended. In fact, he told Mr. Fortescue that she was prevaricating, and Fortescue said it looked as though she might be. As a matter of fact, Fortescue had his own theory about “Turbot,” and though he never told anybody what it was till afterwards, then he told everybody because he proved to be perfectly right.
This was that Fortescue, who wrote such splendid War poetry, but was prevented from enlisting unfortunately by an illness of the aorta, which is part of the heart, and, when enlarged, is fearfully dangerous. But while he taught at Merivale, his soul was entirely in the War, and in his spare time he did good work, chiefly at the Red Cross Hospital in the town, where fifty wounded men were always on hand. When they got well, they went and others came; and sometimes, when the War slacked off, the numbers sank to thirty-two, or even thirty, and then, when it burst out more fiercely, they quickly rose to fifty again.
Milly Dunston was one of the workers there, but only for swank and the sake of the uniform. I believe she peeled onions and shelled peas, and cut up meat and so on in the kitchen; and sometimes she was allowed to go and see the wounded; but I never heard that they cared much for her until they knew she worked in the kitchen. Then they took interest in her, because she could tell them what they were going to have for supper that night, and what they were going to have for dinner next day, which, naturally, are things very important to the mind of a wounded hero.
Mr. Fortescue was well liked at the hospital, and took many cigarettes there, also books suited to the Tommies, and he got to be so popular that there was a fair fight for him; and if he favoured one ward, and didn’t go into the other for half the time, the other ward got vexed about it, for Tommy has a jealous nature in some ways, though so heroic in the field.
Then there came rather a bad cot case called Ted Marmaduke, and as soon as he arrived, he sent a special message to the school for me and for Fortescue; and Fortescue went to see him.
Of course, this happened long after I had left Merivale, and it was, in fact, my brother who wrote to me about it; for after six months at Woolwich, owing to luck and the War, and so on, I got a commission in the Royal Engineers, and went to France. And there I heard from Travers minor about the chap who wanted to see Fortescue. He had been wounded in the cheek and also in the leg, and his face was almost hidden; but his eyes were all right, and what was Fortescue’s amazement to see the eyes of Ted Marmaduke goggle in the old familiar way the moment he came to his bedside. For there lay the “Turbot,” and fearing that he was going to die, he had determined to tell somebody the truth, and not die anonymously, so to speak. And when he found he was at Merivale, of all places, naturally he thought of Fortescue and me. But I was gone to do my bit, so Fortescue went, and heard the true story of the wily “Turbot.”
He could only tell it in pieces, because it hurt him awfully to talk, and, in fact, he wasn’t allowed to talk much at a time. But what happened was this. He had gone to the aunt for his birthday, and told her in secret that he hated Merivale worse than ever, and was ashamed to be there, with a moustache and everything; and she was a very martial and fine woman, and entirely agreed with him. She had told him that he was just the sort they wanted in the Army, and that though he could not distinguish himself at school, that was nothing at such a time, and she felt positive that he would jolly soon distinguish himself in the Army, and do things at the Front that would make Merivale fairly squirm to remember how it had treated him. And such was the aunt’s warlike instinct that when he reminded her he was only seventeen, she scorned him for remembering it. “Go to the recruiting people,” she said, “on your seventeenth birthday, which is to-morrow, and when they ask you how old you are, say you’ll be eighteen on your next birthday, which will be true.” And he gladly did so. But the aunt was fearfully crafty as well as warlike, for when “Turbot” decided to go off and enlist at Plymouth under his own name, she pointed out that he would instantly be traced by Dr. Dunston, and ignominiously dragged back out of the Army to Merivale. So she advised him to take a train to the North of England, and enlist up there, which he did do. And he changed his name to Ted Marmaduke, and the enlisting people in the North never smelt a rat, and were quite agreeable to take him when he said he would be eighteen next birthday. And such was the fine strategy of the aunt that she expressly made “Turbot” promise not to write a line to her till he was under orders for the Front. Therefore, when she was asked if she knew where he was, she could honestly say she didn’t.
Of course, long before he came back wounded, he was entirely forgotten at Merivale, and when Fortescue discovered him in our Red Cross Hospital, and then confessed that he had always believed this was what “Turbot” had really done, the excitement became great, and many of the chaps asked to be allowed to go and see him, and some were allowed to do so.
But it was not till the “Turbot” had recovered, and was going back to fight, that Dr. Dunston forgave him; and he never forgave the aunt.
Yet that amazing aunt was more than a fine strategist; she was a prophet also, for Fortescue found out in the papers that Ted Marmaduke, of the 3rd Yorkshires, was promoted a sergeant, and had won the D.C.M. for splendid bravery in Gallipoli, just as his aunt had always prophesied he would. Of course, she came to see him at the hospital, but she didn’t come to Merivale.
When he got nearly right, the old “Turbot” took tea at Merivale, and the Doctor let the past bury the past, as they say, and made a speech, and hoped that the chaps would follow “Turbot’s” lead in certain directions, though not in all. But privately to the “Turbot” he said more than this. In fact, he dug up the past again, and reminded “Turbot” that he should not do evil that good may come.
And “Turbot” quite saw this, and said he never would again.
Then he went back to the wars once more, and had good luck, I’m glad to say, and before he’d been a soldier eighteen months, he got his commission. For though such a mug at school, the military instinct was in him all the time, and the War naturally brought it out. When he became Lieutenant Bradwell, his guardian tried to make friends again; but he scorned him, as well he might, though no doubt he will always be friendly with his crafty aunt, for you may say that he owed pretty well everything to her masterly mind.