The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

'Come back, come back, O Orange Queen—'

he began again, but Dr. Kissing had seized him by the shoulders and was shaking him like a tin of paint.

''The stamp,' he demanded, holding out his hand. 'At once.'

'Bony turned out his trouser pockets, one after another.

''I can't seem to find it, sir,' he said. 'Something seems to have gone wrong.'

'He looked up each of his sleeves, ran a long finger round the inside of his collar, and a sudden transformation came over his face. In an instant he was a frightened schoolboy who looked as if he'd like nothing better than to make a bolt for it.

''It's worked before, sir,' he stammered. 'Lots and lots of times.'

'His face was growing red, and I thought he was about to cry.

''Search him,' Dr. Kissing snapped, and several of the boys, under the direction of Mr. Twining, took Bony into the lavatory where they turned him upside down and searched him from his red hair to his brown shoes.

''It's as the boy says,' Mr. Twining said when they returned at last. 'The stamp seems to have vanished.'

''Vanished?' Dr. Kissing said. 'Vanished? How can the bloody thing have vanished? Are you quite sure?’

''Quite sure,’ Mr. Twining said.

'A search was made of the entire room: The carpet was lifted, tables were moved, ornaments turned upside down, but all to no avail. At last Dr. Kissing crossed the room to the corner where Bony was sitting with his head sunk deeply in his hands.

''Explain yourself, Bonepenny,' he demanded.

''I—I can't, sir. It must have burned up. It was supposed to be switched, you see, but I must have. I don't. I can't.'

'And he burst into tears.

''Go to bed, boy!' Dr. Kissing shouted. 'Leave this house and go to bed!'

'It was the first time any of us had ever heard him raise his voice above the level of pleasant conversation, and it shook us to the core.

'I glanced over at Bob Stanley and noticed that he was rocking back and forth on his toes, staring at the floor as unconcernedly as if he were waiting for a tram.

'Bony stood up and walked slowly across the room towards me. His eyes were rimmed with red as he reached out and took my hand. He gave it a flaccid shake, but it was a gesture I found myself unable to return.

''I'm sorry, Jacko,' he said, as if I, and not Bob Stanley, were his confederate.

'I could not look him in the eye. I turned my head away until I knew that he was no longer near me.

'When Bony had slunk from the room, looking back over his shoulder, his face bloodless, Mr. Twining tried to apologize to the headmaster, but that seemed only to make matters worse.

''Perhaps I should ring up his parents, sir,' he said.

''Parents? No, Mr. Twining. I think it is not the parents who should be brought in.'

'Mr. Twining stood in the middle of the room wringing his hands. God knows what thoughts were racing through the poor man's mind. I can't even remember my own.

'The next morning was Monday. I was crossing the quad, tacking into the stiff breeze with Simpkins, who was prattling on about the Ulster Avenger. The word had spread like wildfire and everywhere one looked knots of boys stood with their heads together, hands waving excitedly as they swapped the latest—and almost entirely false— rumors.

'When we were about fifty yards from Anson House, someone shouted, 'Look! Up there! On the tower! It's Mr. Twining!'

'I looked up to see the poor soul on the roof of the bell tower. He was clinging to the parapet like a tattered bat, his gown snapping in the wind. A beam of sunlight broke through between the flying clouds like a theatrical spotlight, illuminating him from behind. His whole body seemed to be aglow, and the hair sticking out from beneath his cap resembled a disk of beaten copper in the rising sun like the halo of a saint in an illuminated manuscript.

''Careful, sir,' Simpkins shouted. 'The tiles are in shocking shape!'

'Mr. Twining looked down at his feet, as if awakening from a dream, as if bemused to find himself suddenly transported eighty feet into the air. He glanced down at the tiles and for a moment was perfectly still.

'And then he drew himself up to his full stature, holding on only with his fingertips. He raised his right arm in the Roman salute, his gown fluttering about him like the toga of some ancient Caesar on the ramparts.

''Vale!' he shouted. Farewell.

'For a moment, I thought he had stepped back from the parapet. Perhaps he had changed his mind; perhaps the sun behind him dazzled my eyes. But then he was in the air, tumbling. One of the boys later told a newspaper reporter that he looked like an angel falling from Heaven, but he did not. He plummeted straight down to the ground like a stone in a sock. There is no more pleasant way of describing it.”

Father paused for a long while, as if words failed him. I held my breath.

'The sound his body made when it hit the cobbles,' he said at last, 'has haunted my dreams from that day to this. I've seen and heard things in the war, but nothing like this. Nothing like this at all.