The Children's Book

near enough to Herself, but this I cannot vouch for.

“Do you have a question?”

“One question? I have a thousand.”

“One. You must go quickly, not looking behind you, before the tide comes in and cuts off the mouth of the cave.”

“What is the worst thing I can meet down there?”

“The worst? The Dark Elf, and the great rat, are bad things. But the worst may be your own shadow, when you see him, if you recognise him.”

“That is bad, since I must seek him out.”

“It is bad. Go quickly now, and watch your steps.”

17

In September 1896 Tom put on his spanking new uniform, and got into the train, at King’s Cross, with crowds of other Marlowe boys. The family—Olive, Violet, Dorothy, Phyllis and Hedda—Violet carrying baby Harry—had come to see him off, and already he saw that they were an embarrassment. They were too many, too loud, too female, too agitated. His mother’s beauty made her remarkable in the wrong way. Dorothy’s scruffiness made her remarkable in another wrong way. They had had long discussions about how much of his hair must be cut off. It had been trimmed, once, and cousin Charles had said it wouldn’t do, it would be thought girly, and now it was trimmed close to his head, so that he felt exposed, and saw himself as a condemned felon. He wore a cap, sewed in segments of wine and gold felt, with a tassel and foolish little brim, that made his lovely face egg-shaped. He wore a blazer, in the same rich wine-red, with a unicorn embroidered in dull gold on the breast pocket. He was not allowed, as a new boy, either to do up the buttons of this garment, or to put his hands in his pockets. He had a wine-red tie with small unicorns on it, which he would be allowed to exchange for a knitted tie in two years, and a bow tie when he was eighteen. He had a stiff white rounded shirt-collar, which had to be buttoned—later again, it would be allowed to be unbuttoned, and later still he could wear a shirt with a pointed collar, like a man. His mother said she thought the presence of the imaginary unicorns might be a sign of imagination. Tom did not think so. When he got into the train, Hedda started to howl, and had to be taken away.

And so he went North. Marlowe was in the Yorkshire dales, just outside a market town called Fosters. It was hideous, built in grey stone slabs, imposing and imprisoning, with all sorts of anachronistic turrets and portcullis gates. Tom saw Julian Cain, and called out to him, across a quadrangle. Julian sauntered over—the boys cultivated a kind of vulpine lope—and said sotto voce that Tom must never use his first name, and must never speak to older boys unless he was spoken to. Tom said how could he know all these things? And Julian said he would learn them pretty quickly, or the archets would take it out of him. Boys who at Eton would have been prefects and fags, were at Marlowe archets and butts. Julian asked what house Tom was in, and was told Jonson House—the Houses were named for seventeenth-century dramatists, the heirs of Marlowe, Dekker and Jonson, Middleton and Ford, Webster and Turner (anglicised from Tourneur). Tom said he was to be Hunter’s butt. Hunter was the head archet of Jonson, blond and muscular, with a face like a knife. He was captain of the Second Eleven, and rowed stroke in the Jonson boat. Tom had formed an unfavourable impression of him, but dared not ask Julian what he was like, in case he was breaking some complex tabu. Julian knew what he was like, but dared not tell Tom. Tom would find out soon enough. Julian was in Ford House, whose head archet was a mild boy called Jebb, who was the best slow bowler in the whole school, and therefore did not have to keep proving himself. Julian looked at what had been done to Tom’s loveliness, to cram him into cap and blazer, and saw that it still shone out. The shaved nape of his neck was elegant and vulnerable. For Hunter’s butt, this presaged horrors. Keep out of Hunter’s way, Julian wanted to say, keep out of his way, my dear. Tom’s innocent mouth was perfection. It said “There is so much to learn, and no one tells you what it is.”

“They knock it into you,” said Julian. “As it was knocked into them.”

Julian, at sixteen, shared a study with two other boys. Tom, as a new bug, had no private place. Not even the jakes, where the boys stood and sat at a long open stool with regular holes in, and considered each other’s privates, furtively or openly. Not in the dorm, where he lay two feet away from a boy called Hodges and a boy called Merkel, both of whom had that smell both cheesy and acrid which permeated the whole school. Hodges asked him if he liked touching or being touched best, and Tom went fiery-faced and said, neither. He was, of course, being touched, by Hunter, who had his own gang of bloods, solid members of the rugger scrimmage, who played a kind of game of forfeits with the newbutts, which consisted of tearing off their garments, one by one, as they tested them on arcane school lore. “What do we call a creep who smarms at the archets.” “A sucky-bum,” said poor Tom, who knew that one. But they went on and on until they found things he didn’t know—that you must never say bacon and eggs, but always pigs and shelly, you must not say prep, but bogroll. What must you do when we beat you? Say thank you, because it’s good for you, or we’ll beat you a lot more. His underpants were taken before his socks and shoes, and they all handled him, one after another. The whole code of such places insists that it is foul and dishonourable to tell anyone of such happenings. Tom didn’t.

He bumped into Julian on a cross-country run in the Dales, for a short distance, and thought of speaking to him. But he looked at Julian and saw both that Julian knew what was happening, and that Julian, like everyone else, expected him to grin and bear it.

His letters home said that he was settling in, and had various duties like making the archets’ beds, and bringing them things from the tuckshop. He imagined a stolid, unimaginative small boy writing, and wrote what he imagined such a boy would write. Humphry remarked to Olive that his letters were dull for a boy with two writers for parents, and Olive said that it was just protective camouflage, she was sure, boys at school were not encouraged to show their feelings. He always wrote at the end “Thank you, Mama, for sending the story. It makes all the difference.”

Considering that there were six other children in the house, and Humphry of course, Olive missed Tom appallingly. He had something to do with her power to write good stories—real stories as opposed to pot-boilers—and she needed him. He was neither audience nor muse, exactly, but he was the life of the story. She went on writing Tom Underground for him, compulsively. She hoped he didn’t mind her having changed her hero’s name from Lancelin to Tom. Names are things over which writers sometimes have little control. Tom underground would neither act nor think, without his true name. The plot sprouted all sorts of delectable, frightening complications as Tom underground made his way inwards and downwards, along rushing underground rivers, along ledges beside plunging black funnels whose end could not be seen—or heard; if you dislodged a pebble, no sound of landing came back. Sometimes there were caverns lit by encrusted glittering jewels, which someone unknown had cut free of the rock and polished. Sometimes at a distance there were sounds of activities—whisking things that might be rats, or larger animals, trundling wheels of trucks in adjacent galleries, passing trains and troupes of gnomes and salamanders, from whom Tom concealed himself in a crevice, fearing their alien dark faces and spiked, filthy fingernails.

Time went on, and Tom’s stolid little letters continued to come. Thanks, Mater, for the delish fruitcake, which was much appreciated by the archets. Can you send more treacle cake, the Head Archet likes it. (So do I, when I get any.) Yesterday we went on a cross-country run in the Dales, by a trout-stream. It was soggy weather, we got