was now being taught. His sudden enthusiasm for Scouting, strange though it may have seemed at the time, was undoubtedly accepted with considerable relief.
I once talked to a retired colonial officer who had served in Fiji for the last three of the seven years that Mat spent there. He had known about Mat chiefly because he had been concerned as an official with the arrangements of the boy’s higher education; but that had not been the only reason. He had recalled with amusement that, even as Mat was winning a scholarship and applying, with the help of Government House, for the grants which would enable him to live as a student in London, his name was being submitted for the honour of King’s Scout.
‘I’ll bet they didn’t know that at the London School of Economics,’ he said, then chuckled again. ‘Do you know, there was a time when that boy was actually accused publicly by the parents of another, older boy of sorcery and weaving spells. Itwasn’t a proper court case because they were both minors and because there was no law dealing with junior witch doctors, but there had to be an investigation of the complaint and I was told off to handle it. Know what the cheeky young bugger did?’
‘Mat Williamson you mean?’
‘Yes. At the enquiry, he handed me, very respectfully, a list of the questions that he would have addressed to the other boy’s parents had he been the defendant in an adult court of law. As, under the circumstances, he was not allowed to ask them, would I please do so? Well, it sounded such a reasonable request and he looked so solemn and upset that, like a bloody fool, I agreed. Should have looked more carefully at the questions first, of course. The parents’ complaint was that, as a result of the spell, their boy had suffered agonizing stomach cramps for a week and that the spell had defeated all medical attempts to relieve the pain. That list of questions was like a medical cross-examination, only worse because it gradually became like a parody of a real one. Began all right or I wouldn’t have started on it. What had been the diagnosis of the District Nurse? Colic. Had she prescribed medicine? Yes, but it hadn’t worked, and so on. Then he really cut loose. What about bowel movements? What had the faeces looked like? Liquid or solid? Small or large? Round or sausage-shaped? Was there accompanying wind? What did it smell like? I wouldn’t have gone on but for one thing. Every other question made evidential sense. Had the boy had such attacks before? How often? Real questions. But it was the others that counted. You know, those people have rather a broad sense of humour. They began to laugh and that was that. Nothing much I could do. It wasn’t a court of law, but whenever I hear of a case being laughed out of court, I think of that list of questions. If I could have found the little monster guilty of something, I’d have done so cheerfully.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘Of course not. I was too busy trying not to laugh myself. But afterwards I gave him a ticking-off. Not that he cared. Too clever by half, young Williamson. And I’m not saying that just because he made an ass of me and also won a scholarship. Lots of those very bright teacher’s pets are emotionally immature. He wasn’t. He had the sort of insights that a great many so-called adults never begin to acquire. He was also a bit cruel. He’d know exactly what was going through some other fellow’s mind and use the knowledge to frighten him by dressing it up in that magical hocus-pocus of his. Cruel, as I say, but funny. As for the Boy Scout stuff, that was funny, too, if you looked at it from where he stood. Tribalism, that’s what he saw, with lots of stern rituals and the chance to exercise a natural talent for leadership. A very spry lad, and a very deep one, that.’
‘As a matter of fact he still quotes Baden-Powell.’
He sniffed. ‘They say that the Devil still quotes the scriptures, I believe. I’d say