Chapter Text
“Oh yes, this’ll do.” Ellwood leant out of the window and took a great sniff of air. “This’ll do very nicely.”
“It’s not like you could do anything about it either way,” said Gaunt.
But seemingly nothing could dampen Ellwood’s spirits. He had gotten the bedroom he wanted for his final year at Preshute, and nothing could ruin the day. He pointed across Court excitedly.
“Look! Claremont’s grown a moustache over the summer!”
Gaunt joined Ellwood at the window and peered out. “Tried to, anyway,” he said.
“Oh, I bet the River House boys are positively hysterical,” said Ellwood.
It was a glorious room, Gaunt thought, as he looked out over the school. You could see everything: Fletcher Hall, Chapel, the whole lawn with its smart green pinstripes shining in the sun. You could even see Field House and the newly-built ‘Tower’ beyond, all the way to the distant cricket pavilion.
Gaunt craned his neck to look for the graveyard that was tucked away behind Cemetery House. He hadn’t had a chance to visit it since arriving that morning.
“I say, look here,” said Ellwood, hanging half out of the window with his feet dangling off the ground. Gaunt almost grabbed his tailcoat in alarm. “There’s a little ledge here, look!”
Ellwood’s glass-shiny shoes slammed back onto the floorboards, his smile glimmering with mischief.
“Elly…”
Ellwood hopped on to the jaunty little ledge. He looked back, pointing at the latest copy of the Preshutian sitting on his trunk. “Pass me that, will you?” he said, before disappearing out of sight.
Gaunt clambered after him. The roof sloped down to a shallow parapet, with Court three stories below.
“Budge up,” said Gaunt, perching clumsily beside Ellwood, who had already settled on the tiles and was using the Preshutian to sweep moss into the gutter.
“See?” said Ellwood, “Perfectly decent. Capital view.” He let out a wistful sigh.
Gaunt looked at him. How typical, for Ellwood to look so at home everywhere he went, even a crumbling old rooftop.
“Who did you have to bully to get this room, then?” Gaunt asked, pulling out his cigarettes. He offered one wordlessly to Ellwood. Ellwood took it carefully, avoiding touching Gaunt’s skin.
Gaunt shut the cigarette case with a snap.
“Upper Sixth, eh, Gaunto?” said Ellwood, ignoring him. “Wouldn’t it be fine to go out with a bang this year.”
Gaunt watched the cigarette smoke curl out of Ellwood’s beautiful mouth. They’d spent most of the summer together, either at Ellwood’s home in East Sussex or attending every society event London had to offer, but Gaunt had left for Germany in August, and hadn’t seen Ellwood since then. In his newly-tailored coat and prefect’s tie, it was like Gaunt was seeing Ellwood for the first time in years. He seemed more grown-up than ever, more elegant, a man of the world. And yet Gaunt could still see the bright-eyed young boy of thirteen, the one he’d found crying under a desk in Shell.
Don’t let them see you. Those words had held a fated meaning in Gaunt’s life ever since. All the way home from Munich, Sandys’ words had rattled around his head. You’ll have your shot at Ellwood next year, won’t you? With Maitland gone.
That had been two years ago.
—
June 1913 - Hundreds
“It is inevitable that the end of term should be hung-upon with an atmosphere of sadness,” came Maitland’s melodic voice, “but these last days are not without their particular glory.”
The atmosphere in the grand Hall was focused yet listless, a paradox only summer term could bring. Being forced to listen to Maitland speak for minutes on end made Gaunt’s mouth taste like acid. He’d had nothing to do with the man, and preferred it that way. Yet Ellwood’s sadness was so palpable that Gaunt felt a cloying dampness settle over the fine summer’s day.
“It is so seldom in life that the culmination of our success coincides with the finish of anything,” Maitland continued. “We don’t know when to stop; we cling too long to our laurels, and when the end finally comes they have begun to wither…”
Gaunt could feel his shirt sticking to his lower back. His armpits were itchy. The nap of his woollen trousers caught on the wooden pews when he shifted. Beyond the windows: the drone of heat and insects.
“We are continually mocked by time, which has plans for us we do not yet know. The heart that once loved has grown cold amid a world of commonplace...”
Gaunt felt Ellwood take a sharp breath beside him.
“And death” - Maitland paused for effect - “is an anti-climax for most of us.”
Gaunt frowned. He had the sudden impossible sense that his sister Maud was sitting somewhere in the room, dressed in a Preshute tailcoat and tie.
“But at school there is no dragging out of triumphs. All too soon the short five years fly past, and we stand on the threshold of life in the very flush of our pride. Just once in a while,” Maitland held out his arms, “We may finish in style.”
He gave a kind of bow as the school erupted into raucous applause, leaping to their feet and stamping on the benches. Even the housemasters beamed.
Gaunt chanced a sidelong look at Ellwood. He was smiling around at everyone, but Gaunt saw, beneath it all, the young boy he’d met at thirteen, wide eyes sad and afraid.
—
September 1914 - Upper Sixth
“What?”
Ellwood was looking at him dubiously, one elegant eyebrow cocked.
“What?” Gaunt echoed.
“You’re looking at me.”
“Is that a crime, now?” Gaunt said, more curt than he’d intended. He flicked his cigarette over the edge of the roof. It missed, landing limply in the gutter.
“I signed you up for Debating Society,” said Ellwood.
“I’m already in Debate.”
“Yes, but I signed you up to debate me.”
Gaunt glared at him. “Again? Ellwood, I have nothing to say on ghosts-”
“No, no, not that one.”
“Then which?”
Now it was Ellwood’s turn to hide.
“You’re always full of things to say about the war… I thought you might like to grace someone else’s ears with your pearls of wisdom for once.”
“Boring you, am I?” said Gaunt, stung.
“Not at all,” said Ellwood. “That’s rather my point.” He took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked it deftly over the parapet. “Why should I be the only one who gets to hear all your brilliant ideas?”
Gaunt scoffed.
“Besides, who else was going to take me on?” Ellwood finished, as though that settled the matter. Gaunt didn’t bother to reply. It was true that half the school would have agreed with anything Ellwood said, whether they believed it or not. No one seemed to remember that Debate Society was about debating, not asserting your true position.
“Maybe you should argue against the war, then we’ll see how sharp your skills are,” said Gaunt, as Ellwood clambered over him.
“Devil’s advocate?” said Ellwood incredulously, disappearing back through the window. “Actually, I’d pay good money to see you stand on the bench and pretend you’re all for King and country, now that war has actually broken out. Do you suppose we jinxed it?”
“You, not me,” said Gaunt, landing heavily back inside Ellwood’s room. “And I am for King and country.”
“Speaking of country,” said Ellwood, shoving boxes off his bed and flopping face down, “What are you doing next summer?”
Gaunt frowned. “The summer session at Oxford,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He leant against Ellwood’s desk, crossing one foot over the other. He felt gangly, his limbs too tall for the elegant room.
“Yes, yes, Oxford,” said Ellwood, “But before that. After that.” He waved his hand around airily. “Around that.”
“Nothing special, probably,” said Gaunt. “I’m not one for lounging on beaches, eating shellfish.”
Ellwood smiled, his face pressed into the pillow. “Oh, I don’t know. I can see you scantily-clad on the sand, reading Ovid to the Mediterranean sea.”
Gaunt felt his face growing hot. “Ovid?!” he said, pressing his hands into the warm wood of Ellwood’s desk. “When’s the first Debating meet, then?” he added, because the air in the room was thick with something.
“Oh, soon,” said Ellwood. “Sometime.” He paused. “Henry…?”
“Mmm?”
Ellwood sat up. “What are you doing next summer?”
Gaunt looked at him. As usual when talking to Ellwood, his voice came out softly without his permission.
“I don’t know, Elly. I thought I’d try to get through this year first.”
Ellwood got such a wistful look on his face that Gaunt would later spend all supper wondering if he’d said something wrong.
“Let’s go to the graveyard,” Ellwood said, leaping up. “I want to see if they’ve torn down your old beech yet.”