surprise. For Guy Bancroft had spent most of his life freed from the rigid social conventions of boys’ public schools or suburban social circles. An only child, he had grown up as the veritable apple (his joke) of his father’s eye and, after a short, unsuccessful spell at British boarding school, was regathered to the family bosom and carted, along with their luggage, from tropic to subtropic, as Guy Bertrand Bancroft (Senior), astutely recognizing the appetite of deprived Britons for nonindigenous fruit, swiftly built up his import business, finding channels to satisfy their increasing passion.
Guy had subsequently spent his childhood wandering the huge fruit estates of the Caribbean where his father had initially based himself, exploring the deserted beaches, making friends with the black workers’ children, educated sporadically by tutors when his father remembered to hire them. Guy didn’t need formal education, the father would exclaim (he was very fond of exclaiming. It may explain why Guy the younger was rather quiet). What good did 1066 and all that ever do him? Who cared how many wives Henry VIII had? (the king could hardly have kept track himself). Everything he’d learned was in the School of Hard Knocks. Graduated (the boy’s mother used to raise her eyebrows comically at this point) from the University of Life. No, the boy would learn far more left free to roam wild. More about geography—compare and contrast the stepped crop fields of central China with the vast, open agricultural acres of Honduras—more about politics, more about real people and their cultures and beliefs. Math he could learn from the accounts. Biology—why, look at the insect life!
But they all knew the real reason. Guy Senior just liked having him around. Late and much longed for, the boy was all he’d ever wanted. He didn’t understand those parents who wanted to pack their offspring off to stuffy old private schools where they would learn stiff upper lips and snobbishness and likely be bugger—“Yes, darling,” his wife would interrupt firmly at this point. “I think you’ve made your point.”
Guy told them this over a succession of family meals. He left out the bit about buggery, but Celia had told Lottie that when they lay in bed, talking in the darkness. Well, Celia talked. Lottie had pretended unsuccessfully to be asleep, believing that her only hope of sanity lay in being unable to flesh out the vision of Guy into any kind of human reality.
They were not the only ones talking about Guy. Mrs. Holden had been quite disconcerted by his casual mention of his black friends, and she’d asked Dr. Holden repeatedly afterward whether he thought “that was all right.”
“What are you worried about, woman?” said Dr. Holden irritably. “That it’ll rub off?” Things were different out there, he said eventually, when Mrs. Holden’s face had stayed pinched and hurt beyond even its usual time frame for such things. The boy probably didn’t have many opportunities to meet his own. And besides, Susan, times were changing. Look at the immigration. (He had rather wanted to read his newspaper in peace.)
“Well, I just wonder if it betrays a little . . . laxity on behalf of his parents. How’s a child supposed to grow up knowing what’s what if they’re only mixing with . . . staff?”
“So remind me to fire Virginia.”
“What?”
“Well, we can’t have Freddie and Sylvia talking to the girl, can we?”
“Henry, you’re being deliberately obtuse. I’m sure Guy’s family are perfectly fine. I just think . . . his upbringing sounds . . . a little unusual , that’s all.”
“Susan, he’s a fine young man. He has no tics, no obvious deformities, his father is extremely wealthy, and he wants to take our troublesome young flibbertigibbet off our hands. As far as I’m concerned, he could have been brought up playing the bongo drums and eating human heads.”
Mrs. Holden hadn’t known whether to
Guy had subsequently spent his childhood wandering the huge fruit estates of the Caribbean where his father had initially based himself, exploring the deserted beaches, making friends with the black workers’ children, educated sporadically by tutors when his father remembered to hire them. Guy didn’t need formal education, the father would exclaim (he was very fond of exclaiming. It may explain why Guy the younger was rather quiet). What good did 1066 and all that ever do him? Who cared how many wives Henry VIII had? (the king could hardly have kept track himself). Everything he’d learned was in the School of Hard Knocks. Graduated (the boy’s mother used to raise her eyebrows comically at this point) from the University of Life. No, the boy would learn far more left free to roam wild. More about geography—compare and contrast the stepped crop fields of central China with the vast, open agricultural acres of Honduras—more about politics, more about real people and their cultures and beliefs. Math he could learn from the accounts. Biology—why, look at the insect life!
But they all knew the real reason. Guy Senior just liked having him around. Late and much longed for, the boy was all he’d ever wanted. He didn’t understand those parents who wanted to pack their offspring off to stuffy old private schools where they would learn stiff upper lips and snobbishness and likely be bugger—“Yes, darling,” his wife would interrupt firmly at this point. “I think you’ve made your point.”
Guy told them this over a succession of family meals. He left out the bit about buggery, but Celia had told Lottie that when they lay in bed, talking in the darkness. Well, Celia talked. Lottie had pretended unsuccessfully to be asleep, believing that her only hope of sanity lay in being unable to flesh out the vision of Guy into any kind of human reality.
They were not the only ones talking about Guy. Mrs. Holden had been quite disconcerted by his casual mention of his black friends, and she’d asked Dr. Holden repeatedly afterward whether he thought “that was all right.”
“What are you worried about, woman?” said Dr. Holden irritably. “That it’ll rub off?” Things were different out there, he said eventually, when Mrs. Holden’s face had stayed pinched and hurt beyond even its usual time frame for such things. The boy probably didn’t have many opportunities to meet his own. And besides, Susan, times were changing. Look at the immigration. (He had rather wanted to read his newspaper in peace.)
“Well, I just wonder if it betrays a little . . . laxity on behalf of his parents. How’s a child supposed to grow up knowing what’s what if they’re only mixing with . . . staff?”
“So remind me to fire Virginia.”
“What?”
“Well, we can’t have Freddie and Sylvia talking to the girl, can we?”
“Henry, you’re being deliberately obtuse. I’m sure Guy’s family are perfectly fine. I just think . . . his upbringing sounds . . . a little unusual , that’s all.”
“Susan, he’s a fine young man. He has no tics, no obvious deformities, his father is extremely wealthy, and he wants to take our troublesome young flibbertigibbet off our hands. As far as I’m concerned, he could have been brought up playing the bongo drums and eating human heads.”
Mrs. Holden hadn’t known whether to
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