"It's out of the question, sir," said the political scientist who ran a current-affairs programme on TV.
"Out of the question to do what is fully within our rights and in conflict with no law?"
"I'm afraid that in this case we'll have to bow to the opinions, the prejudices if you like, of .... outsiders," said Powle.
"Good God," said Dollymore. "What a world it's become."
"You're proposing that no action be taken at all, Master?" asked Wynn-Williams.
"Not necessarily. Are there any suggestions?"
There were none for half a minute. Then a natural scientist of some sort asked where Goodchild's grave was in relation to the others and was passed a marked plan of the churchyard. On examining it he said,
"As one might have expected it's at the end of a row and it also happens to be near the yew hedge. One might be able to plant a section of hedge, or transplant one, better, so that the intruding grave is as it were segregated from the others."
This suggestion was debated at some length; in the end it was agreed upon. But Roger Dollymore hadn't finished yet. He said defiantly,
"It'll be all very well until the autumn."
The writer in residence, who had often declared that he had done no writing at all as yet and had no plans for doing any while in residence, and who was wearing a red-and-black upper garment the material of which had been fashioned by human ingenuity, and who had uttered a loud yelp of deprecation on hearing Dollymore's first proposal for the treatment of the offending cadaver, said, "What happens in the autumn then?"
Dollymore said as to an imbecile, "The leaves fall."
"And?"
"And cover the ground."
"So?"
"So somebody has to clear them eh-way."
"Like?"
"Like? Like?"
"I mean who, you know."
"Oh who. Well not the sexton is what I'm suggesting."
"Why not?"
"Because his responsibility is to us, not to Mr .... Goodchild or his relations. He must have nothing to do with that grab and it'll be an ugly sight by Christmas."
"I think we can probably come to some compromise arrangement there," said the Master with a confident smile. "Now—Garden Committee to report on the south lawn."
So it went. Nearer and nearer came 12: Admission of Women, and step by step Jake's anxiety mounted, some of it now detaching itself and identifiable as anxiety about his anxiety. What the bugger was wrong with him? He hadn't had a hangover for thirty years but he could have sworn that today's was a radical departure. Well, thirty years were thirty years, weren't they?
Finally, by way of closed scholarships, a report from the Wine Committee, a discussion of a vile sculptured thing some people wanted put in the front quad and stuff like the recommendation from the historian of drama (the one who put on plays full of naked junior members of the university torturing one another) that the library should start a sexism section, 12 arrived. It opened innocuously enough with a summary of what the other colleges had done in the matter of admitting women and what their policies for the future were, as far as these could be discovered or inferred, all ably presented by young Whitehead. And it went on, if not innocuously then at any rate not leading to physical violence, with Dollymore back in the limelight outlining what he saw as the case against admission. Quite radiant with hypocrisy he led off with the point made by Smith in Jake's hearing a couple of weeks earlier, that to let women into men's colleges reduced the status of the women's colleges. After that he mentioned the harm he thought would be done the academic performance of Comyns undergraduates by the distraction from their studies he thought they would suffer. Then he unwisely stressed the opposition of the college staff to the scheme, unwisely because it was hard to think about the college staff without thinking first and foremost of Ernie, and if there was anything that could have united that motley Governing Body it was that whatever Ernie was opposed to you were for. As his final argument he dilated on the incompatibility between a mixed college and the kind of intimate communion which members of Comyns had enjoyed for seven centuries; undergraduates came and went, but Fellows lived their lives here. "All that," he ended, the dramatic effect heightened rather than the reverse by his bleating tones, "all .... 'this' .... would be lost—for ever."
There was a general murmur of appreciation of a case well put or at least strongly felt even if not necessarily found convincing. "Thank you, Senior Tutor," said the Master. "Now I call on Mr Richardson to put the other view."
"We are dealing here with an example of something we have all encountered more and more often over the last twenty or thirty years: a trend." Jake spoke a little inexpressibly because most of his attention was concentrated on getting the words out with their syllables in the right places. "I would say two things about trends. One is that while many or most may be undesirable and on those grounds to be resisted, a trend is not undesirable per se. The other is that while no trend can be said to be irresistible until it is altogether dominant, there are trends to which resistance seems likely or very likely to be vain. In such cases it may be better, more advantageous, to yield at once rather than fight on. So we don't resist a policy of admission just because admission is the trend, nor do we resist it if we have no or virtually no chance of winning. In my view that chance disappeared five years ago or more if it had ever existed. I therefore appeal to the anti-admission party to yield at once, thereby giving itself the chance of doing what it would no doubt call salvaging something from the wreck rather than being finally compelled and so losing the option.
"Such is the pragmatic case, and discussion there will turn on the resistibility or irresistibility of the trend. But before we come to that let me briefly state the human case. I see it as divided into three. One, from what we were hearing earlier, both men and women undergraduates are overwhelmingly in favour of admission in general. As with trends, this is not sufficient grounds for resistance. Two, when they arrive here these young people still have some growing-up to do, and to be able to do it in close daily proximity to members of the opposite sex is a clear and considerable benefit." (There was a faint stir of rallying, chaffing etc. at this but Jake didn't notice it.) "Three, admission to men's colleges is the only way so far devised of providing more places for women while leaving relatively intact the present collegiate and university structure."
It was done. He found he was panting and leaned forwards over the table, head lowered, while he tried to recover his breath unnoticed. There was a handy interval before and while Dollymore asked if he might ask a question, was told he might and asked it.
"I'll take up Mr Richardson's 'relatively' intact collegiate structure in a minute; for now I'd like him to tell me if he would whether he regards the provision of more places for women as a, as a clear and considerable benefit."
"Indeed I do," said Jake, grinding it out. "Mr Whitehead's figures show clearly the disparity against women."
"I take that point: women candidates are competing for a proportionately smaller number of places. What assurance have we that to increase that proportion will reveal a similar or comparable increase in the proportion of those found acceptable?"
"I'm afraid .... I suppose...."
"More fundamentally, doesn't Mr Richardson's clear and considerable benefit rest on what I will persuasively call the faith that academically acceptable women are as numerous or about as numerous as their male counterparts?"
Jake's fists were tightly clenched under the table. "In posse if not in esse."
"A dangerous concession, surely, but let that go. May we hear some evidence for this academic parity or approximate parity?"
"The view I'm advancing can't be supported by figures or by self-sustaining facts, only by an adequate number of individual indications that woman is the intellectual equal of man, that her powers of observation, analysis, induction and so forth are on a level with his, and that her admittedly inferior performance numerically .... er .... results from a numb
er of .... social factors of which one is that they can't, I mean she can't get into a university as easily as a man."
The writer in residence spoke. "Look, are you trying to tell us—" He checked himself at something said to him by the philosopher who was co-editor of a London weekly paper, then went on, "Sorry, got it wrong. Is—what?—is Mr Richardson trying to tell us he believes that? About women being equal to men? Does he believe it?" He looked round the room as if pleading for enlightenment. "I mean, you know, like really 'believe' it?"
"I think—" began the Master but Jake rode over him. He didn't know or care whether the writer in residence was trying to do more than, demonstrate the impartiality of his contempt and/or simply draw attention to himself: he (Jake) saw in him a slight physical resemblance to the little bastard from Teddy Hall, who was little in worth, not size, but who by some association led him to think of Chris at the Workshop and even of Rosenberg. Rage and dizziness struck him together.
"Of course I don't believe it, you...." He stopped just in time to avoid technically calling the Master what he had been about to call the writer in residence. "I was asked to put a case and I put it, that's all. No doubt they do think, the youngsters, it's be more fun to be under the same roof, but who cares what they think? All very well for the women no doubt, it's the men who are going to be the losers—oh, it'll, it'll happen all right, no holding it up now. When the first glow has faded and it's quite normal to have girls in the same building and on the same staircase and across the landing, they'll start realising that that's exactly what they've got, girls everywhere and not a common-room, not a club, not a pub where they can get away from them. And the same thing's going to happen to us which is much more important, Roger's absolutely right, all this will go and there will be women everywhere, chattering, gossiping, telling you what they did today and what their daughter did yesterday and what their friend did last week and what somebody they heard about did last month and horrified if a chap brings up 'a topic' or an 'argument'. They don't mean what they say, they don't use language for discourse but for extending their personality, they take all disagreement as opposition, yes they do, even the brightest of them, and that's the end of the search for truth which is what the whole thing's supposed to be about. So let's pass a motion suggesting they bugger off back to Somerville, LMH, St Hugh's and St Hilda's where they began and stay there. It won't make any bloody difference but at least we'll have told "em what we think of "em."
Only then, when he had in a sense finished, did Jake become aware of just how hard Lancewood had been squeezing his arm, of the pantomime of apology, helplessness, agreement and doubtless more that the writer in residence was putting on, and of what sort of silence had fallen. The Master thanked him with preternatural composure but Jake felt he couldn't very well stay after what he had said and how he had said it, matters on which he was already not quite clear. His headache drove and twisted at his brows. He asked to be excused, hurried out and stood in the main SCR with both hands on the back of a chair. Lancewood was only a couple of seconds behind him.
"I'll just see you over to your rooms."
"No I'm all right, you go back."
"Don't be silly, it'll only take a second."
"No Damon, if you don't go back straight away they'll think there's something really wrong. Tell them, say it's side-effects of some new pills. Please, Damon."
"If you're really sure. But we'll talk later."
"Yes. Yes, we will. Thanks."
As Jake approached his staircase he met Ernie coming out of it. The porter gave one of his fiercest winks.
"There you are after all, sir," he said. "I told your visitor you probably wouldn't be arraigned for a bit, with the College Meeting and all, but she said she'd wait if that was allayed, and
I couldn't find it in my heart to say her nay. She really does you credit, Mr Richardson, at your time of life—take a bay!"
"What? Oh yes."
He hurried into his sitting room, unable to venture even a surmise.
"Hallo, Jake," said a strange girl in a green trouser-suit.
21—I Can Help You
The next moment he saw it wasn't a strange girl at all but Kelly, smiling, coming up and shaking hands. It bothered him, made him think himself senile, that even with the trouser-suit due he hadn't recognised her at first, though he tried to cover this.
"Kelly, how nice to see you. What are you doing in Oxford?"
"Paying a call on you, Jake. Actually I've been staying with an aunt in Woodstock, so I thought I'd look you up on my way back to London."
"Jolly good idea, I could do with a bit of lively company. I've just come out of a meeting of such boredom...."
"You don't look well, Jake. I know one isn't supposed to say such things, but you don't."
"Had a rotten night. I feel as if I hadn't slept a wink."
"Bad luck. Of course if you're used to sleeping with someone else it is that much more difficult on your own."
"Yes," he said, keeping to himself the fact that his troubles had come about in the opposite way. "How did you track me down?"
She smiled again. "Oh, I'm good at that sort of thing. Remember how I ran you to earth in Burgess Avenue?"
"Finding me here must have been a damn sight more difficult."
"Not really, Jake. Not to me."
"You're a clever girl." He looked at his watch. "We could go out and have some tea soon."
"It's a little early, isn't it?"
"I suppose it is, but I've got to be back here at five o'clock to talk to some undergraduates."
"Can't you put them off?"
"Not possible, I'm afraid."
"You could ring them up," she said coaxingly, nodding towards the telephone on his desk.
"They're not in the same place, they're all over Oxford. I couldn't hope to reach them in the time."
"Oh, what a bore."
"I'm sorry, but if you'd let me know you were coming...."
I still wouldn't have done anything about it, he finished in his mind. At her remark about the demerits of sleeping alone a little alarm-bell of uneasiness had sounded there; it continued to purr away as he came to recognise that she was talking and behaving in an entirely different style from the one she had used at Burgess Avenue the previous Saturday. No cheerful confidence or confidingness now, no long eager speeches; instead, languor with a querulous edge to it. Above all, the Kelly of Saturday would never have tried to get him to cancel his seminar, would on the contrary have offered to leave at once in case he had preparations to make. So he had been half justified in not recognising her straight away. He had meant what he had said about being glad to see her; he only hoped that the uneasiness would turn out to be misplaced, that things were going to take a turn for the better after the last twenty hours or so, that she was no more than tired or perhaps shy without Brenda's diluting presence. Ah!-Saturday—Kelly would certainly have—
"How's Brenda?"
"Oh .... she's fine, thanks."
"I bet she doesn't come here much, does she? No, I thought not, she wouldn't be able to stand it and quite frankly I'm surprised you can, Jake. I mean look at this, pretend you haven't seen it before and look at it properly." Kelly indicated the padded chair she had just got up off. "Isn't it absolutely revolting?"
"I know it's not very nice, but I don't spend much time here, so...."
"What happens when you entertain?—oh of course you're going to tell me you don't entertain. I can't understand how a cultivated man like you can bring himself to live in such, well I can't call it squalor because it isn't actually dirty or damp or anything but it's pretty damn slummy you have to admit. Not even a picture to take your eyes off it. And honestly these curtains, you'd have thought .... Oh I say that really is something. How gorgeous."
Jake joined her at the window where she was apparently admiring the buildings on the far sides of the quad. "Yes it is pretty good, isn't it?"
"What is it, early eighteenth century?"
&n
bsp; Christ, he thought mildly. "Yes, about then."
"It must make up for a lot, having that out there in front of you all the time. What's the other way?"
She turned and made for the open bedroom door, past which daylight was to be seen. He followed her.
"There's not a great deal, but...."
"Do you mind?"
"No, go ahead."
The bedroom window showed a stretch of wall and part of the rear quad of Jesus College. Kelly looked appreciatively at them for a few moments and started to back to the sitting room, or so Jake thought till he made to follow her and found she had shut the door and was facing him with her back to it.
At first he felt only mild surprise and puzzlement. "What...."
"Jake, listen to me, this is important and we don't have very much time. We haven't known each other very long but I feel we appreciate each other and I don't know about you but I can say I trust you. It's an old-fashioned expression but I wish you well, and that's good because I can do something for you, I can help you with your problem. You might not think so but I've had a lot of experience, you could almost call it training. You put yourself in my hands and it'll all work out. You just leave everything to me and I mean everything. Okay? Right, let's go."
All this was said in such a friendly, reasonable tone that Jake couldn't believe she meant what he knew she meant until she crossed the room, a matter of no more than a couple of strides, quick ones in this case, and dosed with him, her arms round his neck and what Ed and Rosenberg would call her pubic area pushing into his. Jake had had to evade or discourage amorous females before, though admittedly none as forceful as this, and without Ed and Rosenberg and all that, and in particular without Eve, he would probably have done better than do what he did do, which was to pull Kelly's arms away and thrust her from him and call on her in a frightened voice to leave him alone, leave him alone.
She showed her teeth; as he had noticed before they were good enough teeth, white and regular, but this time he saw something about the way they were set in the gums that told him beyond all doubt who it was she had reminded him of on Saturday. He was horrified and got ready to defend himself, crouching with his balls tucked between his thighs, but she didn't come at him, didn't even throw anything at him, perhaps because there wasn't a lot to throw, no ashtray, no water-jug or tumbler and again no pictures. All she did was shove the bedside lamp on to the floor, which did no more than knock the shade off its frame, and abuse him verbally. She used not only what is often called foul language in great copiousness and diversity but also foul ideas, and produced surprising variations on the themes of old age and its attendant weaknesses. After some minutes she stopped all at once in mid-incivility and seemed taken by a fit of violent shivering. By degrees she moved to the side of the bed and sat down on it with her hands on her knees. Then she started to weep.
Jake's Thing Page 21
