it off my chest. What is there to be afraid of?”
He paused.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
The lines from his face seemed to melt away and he looked, for a moment, like a lost little boy.
“What about at the school?” I suggested. “Your time there?”
“Ah, yes, the school—Winterborne Abbey, a truly splendid place. Really quite magical. Surrounded by woods, in a hidden valley. Named after the medieval abbey next to it, now used as the school chapel. In fact, the abbey is full of fine sculpture and fascinating pieces, relics and such like.”
He was beginning to waffle. But I felt that I couldn’t interrupt him. Anything he said was material.
“You know that for years Winterborne had been a private house. But before then a village once stood on the land. A proper settlement, you know, with three public houses, a high street, common land. But then around 1780, this chap—something of an upstart, I should imagine—bought the land, decided he didn’t like the view or the smell or the people and cleared it all out. He shifted the village a mile or so away and had it rebuilt for his estate workers. Then he employed Capability Brown to landscape the valley and had a house built for himself. Quite an achievement, I suppose.”
“So you had a happy time there?”
“Oh yes, the boys were a delight to teach. So full of curiosity, eager to learn, a great sense of intellectual freedom about them. They sucked up information like little sponges, the dear things.”
“You must have had your favorites.”
“You’re right there, Adam. I did, yes.”
“So you say you felt similar to me? Didn’t your relationship with the other teacher—the woman—work out?”
“No, it didn’t, for one reason or another. And then I fell in love.” As he said this the muscles in his face seemed to go into a kind of spasm. “Oh, for God’s sake, man, spit it out,” he said to himself. “It’s only Adam, that’s all. He wouldn’t say anything, would you Adam?”
He turned to look at me. “I fell in love…with a pupil, with one of my boys…his name was Chris—Christopher Davidson. He was not one of the younger boys, so please don’t think I’m like that.”
“What did he look like?”
Crace narrowed his eyes as if by doing so he could conjure forth an image of the boy.
“Blond hair, a beautiful color, like ripened corn.”
“How did you meet? I mean, how did you, you know—”
“Become intimate?”
“Yes.”
“He was a scholarship boy, only there because his father got a job as the school’s organist. Parents didn’t have a bean. But he had a natural aptitude for poetry and language, almost an instinctive ability to read underneath the words, if you know what I mean. I recommended that he read English and try for either Oxford or Cambridge, and we met up after school for regular tutorials. His parents did not have any books in the house and yet they produced this angel of a son.”
“So what happened?”
“I still find this terribly difficult to talk about, Adam. I’m not sure—”
“Look, I find what you are saying really helpful to me. It may even—”
“I’ll try, but I’m just warning you—”
“Don’t worry. It might even help you to—”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
He took another deep breath.
“We spent more and more time together—it was totally above board. I was intrigued by him, and I suppose he must have looked up to me. Dreadful thing happened with his father, lost him, poor thing.”
“And then?”
“Surely, Adam, you’ve got the gist of it, haven’t you? For God’s sake, boy, what do you want? Blood? The next thing I know, you’ll be getting a tape recorder out or taking a sworn statement from me.”
Do not blush, I told myself. Don’t laugh awkwardly. Just look as normal as possible.
“What happened then is that we fell in love. Okay? That’s what happened, Adam. We left the school soon after Chris turned eighteen. We moved to London, and
He paused.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
The lines from his face seemed to melt away and he looked, for a moment, like a lost little boy.
“What about at the school?” I suggested. “Your time there?”
“Ah, yes, the school—Winterborne Abbey, a truly splendid place. Really quite magical. Surrounded by woods, in a hidden valley. Named after the medieval abbey next to it, now used as the school chapel. In fact, the abbey is full of fine sculpture and fascinating pieces, relics and such like.”
He was beginning to waffle. But I felt that I couldn’t interrupt him. Anything he said was material.
“You know that for years Winterborne had been a private house. But before then a village once stood on the land. A proper settlement, you know, with three public houses, a high street, common land. But then around 1780, this chap—something of an upstart, I should imagine—bought the land, decided he didn’t like the view or the smell or the people and cleared it all out. He shifted the village a mile or so away and had it rebuilt for his estate workers. Then he employed Capability Brown to landscape the valley and had a house built for himself. Quite an achievement, I suppose.”
“So you had a happy time there?”
“Oh yes, the boys were a delight to teach. So full of curiosity, eager to learn, a great sense of intellectual freedom about them. They sucked up information like little sponges, the dear things.”
“You must have had your favorites.”
“You’re right there, Adam. I did, yes.”
“So you say you felt similar to me? Didn’t your relationship with the other teacher—the woman—work out?”
“No, it didn’t, for one reason or another. And then I fell in love.” As he said this the muscles in his face seemed to go into a kind of spasm. “Oh, for God’s sake, man, spit it out,” he said to himself. “It’s only Adam, that’s all. He wouldn’t say anything, would you Adam?”
He turned to look at me. “I fell in love…with a pupil, with one of my boys…his name was Chris—Christopher Davidson. He was not one of the younger boys, so please don’t think I’m like that.”
“What did he look like?”
Crace narrowed his eyes as if by doing so he could conjure forth an image of the boy.
“Blond hair, a beautiful color, like ripened corn.”
“How did you meet? I mean, how did you, you know—”
“Become intimate?”
“Yes.”
“He was a scholarship boy, only there because his father got a job as the school’s organist. Parents didn’t have a bean. But he had a natural aptitude for poetry and language, almost an instinctive ability to read underneath the words, if you know what I mean. I recommended that he read English and try for either Oxford or Cambridge, and we met up after school for regular tutorials. His parents did not have any books in the house and yet they produced this angel of a son.”
“So what happened?”
“I still find this terribly difficult to talk about, Adam. I’m not sure—”
“Look, I find what you are saying really helpful to me. It may even—”
“I’ll try, but I’m just warning you—”
“Don’t worry. It might even help you to—”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
He took another deep breath.
“We spent more and more time together—it was totally above board. I was intrigued by him, and I suppose he must have looked up to me. Dreadful thing happened with his father, lost him, poor thing.”
“And then?”
“Surely, Adam, you’ve got the gist of it, haven’t you? For God’s sake, boy, what do you want? Blood? The next thing I know, you’ll be getting a tape recorder out or taking a sworn statement from me.”
Do not blush, I told myself. Don’t laugh awkwardly. Just look as normal as possible.
“What happened then is that we fell in love. Okay? That’s what happened, Adam. We left the school soon after Chris turned eighteen. We moved to London, and
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