Copyright
First published in paperback in the United States in 1984 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
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Copyright © 1976 by Philip Larkin
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ISBN: 978-1-59020-962-2
Contents
Copyright
Introduction
Begin Text
To
JAMES BALLARD SUTTON
INTRODUCTION
I
An American critic recently suggested1 that Jill contained the first example of that characteristic landmark of the British post-war novel, the displaced working-class hero. If this is true (and it sounds fair trend-spotter’s comment), the book may hold sufficient historical interest to justify republication. But again, if it is true, I feel bound to say that it was unintentional. In 1940 our impulse was still to minimize social differences rather than exaggerate them. My hero’s background, though an integral part of the story, was not what the story was about.
As a matter of fact, the Oxford of that autumn was singularly free from such traditional distinctions. The war (American readers may need reminding) was then in its second year. Conscription had begun with the twenties and upwards, but everyone knew that before long the nineteens and the eighteens would take their turn. In the meantime, undergraduates liable for service could expect three or four terms at the most: if they wished then to become officers, they drilled with the un-uniformed Officers’ Training Corps half a day a week (later they got uniforms and drilled a day and a half a week).
Life in college was austere. Its pre-war pattern had been dispersed, in some instances permanently. Everyone paid the same fees (in our case, 12s. a day) and ate the same meals. Because of Ministry of Food regulations, the town could offer little in the way of luxurious eating and drinking, and college festivities, such as commemoration balls, had been suspended for the duration. Because of petrol rationing, nobody ran a car. Because of clothes rationing, it was difficult to dress stylishly. There was still coal in the bunkers outside our rooms, but fuel rationing was soon to remove it. It became a routine after ordering one’s books in Bodley after breakfast to go and look for a cake or cigarette queue.
With new men coming up every term, too, there was hardly any such thing as a freshman, and distinctions of seniority blurred. Traditional types such as aesthete and hearty were pruned relentlessly back. The younger dons were mostly on war service, and their elders were too busy or too remote to establish contact with us—often, in fact, the men of one college would share a tutor with another, whom they would never see socially at all. Perhaps the most difficult thing to convey was the almost-complete suspension of concern for the future. There were none of the pressing dilemmas of teaching or Civil Service, industry or America, publishing or journalism: in consequence, there was next to no careerism. National affairs were going so badly, and a victorious peace was clearly so far off, that effort expended on one’s post-war prospects could hardly seem anything but a ludicrous waste of time.
This was not the Oxford of Michael Fane and his fine bindings, or Charles Ryder and his plovers’ eggs. Nevertheless, it had a distinctive quality. A lack of douceur was balanced by a lack of bêtises, whether of college ceremonial or undergraduate extravagance (I still remember the shock during a visit to Oxford after the war of seeing an undergraduate in a sky-blue cloak and with hair down to his shoulders, and of realizing that all that was starting again), and I think our perspectives were truer as a result. At an age when self-importance would have been normal, events cut us ruthlessly down to size.
II
I shared rooms with Noel Hughes, with whom I had just spent two disrespectful years in the Modern Sixth, but my tutorial-mate was a large pallid-faced stranger with a rich Bristolian accent, whose preposterous skirling laugh was always ready to salute his own outrages. Norman had little use for self- or any other kind of discipline, and it was not uncommon, on returning from a nine o’clock lecture, to find him still in his dressing-gown, having missed breakfast by some ninety minutes, plucking disconsolately at a dry loaf and drinking milkless tea. To learn where I had been (Blunden, perhaps, on Biography) did nothing to raise his spirits: “That bugger’s a waste of time … I’m better than that bugger.” His eye falling on his empty cup, he would pitch its dregs messily into the grate, further discouraging the fire, before reaching again for the teapot. “A gentleman,” he would aphorize with dignity, “never drinks the lees of his wine.”
Norman at once set about roughing-up my general character and assumptions. Any action or even word implying respect for qualities such as punctuality, prudence, thrift or respectability called forth a snarling roar like that of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion and the accusation of bourgeoisisme; ostentatious courtesy produced a falsetto celestial-choir effect, ostentatious sensibility the recommendation to “write a poem about it”. For a few weeks I uneasily counter-attacked along predictable lines: all right, suppose it was hypocrisy, hypocrisy was necessary, what would happen if everybody … After that I gave it up. Norman treated everyone like this: it made no difference to their liking for him. Indeed, his most hilarious mockeries were reserved for himself. Like the rest of us (excepting perhaps Noel), he was clearer about his dislikes than his likes, but while we were undergoing a process of adjustment Norman’s rejection of his new environment was total. At first this strengthened his influence over us: as time went on, it tended to cut him off. Not in fact until he was with a Friends’ Unit in Poland after the war did he seem to be doing what he wanted.
We quickly invented “the Yorkshire scholar”, a character embodying many of our prejudices, and conversed in his flat rapacious tones in going to and from our tutor, Gavin Bone. “You’re gettin’ the best education in the land, lad.” “Ay, but you must cut your coat according to your cloth.” “Had tea wi’ t’ Dean on Sunday—I showed him I’d been reading his book.” “Never lose a chance to make a good impression.” “What play have you written about?” “King Lear. You see, I’ve DONE King Lear.” “Ay.” “Ay.” This comedy probably gave Norman more emotional release than myself, for he had been through the hands of the late R. W. Moore at Bristol Grammar School, but I was sufficiently acquainted with the climate of the scholarship year to enjoy keeping the game going. I cannot imagine what Gavin Bone thought of us. Already in failing health (he died in 1942), he treated us like a pair of village idiots who might if tried too hard turn nasty. The highest academic compliment I received as an undergraduate was “Mr. Larkin can see a point, if it is explained to him”.
During these first two terms our friends were mostly outside College; Norman had a group in Queen’s, while I kept up with other Old Coventrians or enjoyed jazz evenings with Frank Dixon of Magdalen and Dick Kidner of Christ Church. At the beginning of the Trinity Term, however, Norman, who had been idly looking over the notice-board in the lodge, hailed the mention of a newcomer, name of Amis.
“I met him at Cambridge on a school.… He’s the hell of a good man.”
“How is he?”
“H
e shoots guns.”
I did not understand this until later in the afternoon when we were crossing the dusty first quadrangle a fair-haired young man came down staircase three and paused on the bottom step. Norman instantly pointed his right hand at him in the semblance of a pistol and uttered a short coughing bark to signify a shot—a shot not as in reality, but as it would sound from a worn sound-track on Saturday afternoon in the ninepennies.
The young man’s reaction was immediate. Clutching his chest in a rictus of agony, he threw one arm up against the archway and began slowly crumpling downwards, fingers scoring the stonework. Just as he was about to collapse on the piled-up laundry, however (Oxford laundries were at that time operating a system described by James Agate as collecting every two weeks and delivering every three, so that the place was generally littered with bundles in transit one way or the other), he righted himself and trotted over to us. “I’ve been working on this,” he said, as soon as introductions were completed. “Listen. This is when you’re firing in a ravine.”
We listened.
“And this when you’re firing in a ravine and the bullet ricochets off a rock.”
We listened again. Norman’s appreciative laughter skirled freely: I stood silent. For the first time I felt myself in the presence of a talent greater than my own.
No one who knew Kingsley at that time would deny that what chiefly distinguished him was this genius for imaginative mimicry. It was not a BBC Variety Hour knack of “imitations” (though in fact he had a very funny imitation of the man who used to imitate a car driving through a flock of sheep doing his imitation); rather, he used it as the quickest way of convincing you that something was horrible or boring or absurd—the local comrade (“Eesa poincher see … assa poincher see”), the Irish tenor (“the sarn wass dee-cli-neeng”), the University CSM (“Goo on, seh”), a Russian radio announcer reading in English a bulletin from the eastern front (“twelf field mortars”), his voice suffering slow distortion to unintelligibility followed by a sudden reversion to clarity (“a-berbera mumf mumf General von Paulus”). As time went on, his scope widened: “remind me”, a post-war letter ended, “to do Caesar and Cleopatra for you.” Films were always excellent material: the gangster film (with plenty of shooting), especially a version entirely peopled with figures from the University Faculty of English; the no-work film (this was largely silent); the U-boat film (“Wir haben sie!”); and one that involved Humphrey Bogart flashing a torch round a cellar. One day after the war Kingsley, Graham Parkes and Nick Russel were strolling along to The Lamb and Flag when a motor-cyclist clearly with the same destination propped his machine against the kerb near by. When he had got some distance across the pavement towards the arch, Kingsley (I gather for want of something better to do) made his motor-bike-failing-to-start noise. The man stopped dead in his tracks and stared at his machine narrowly. Then he walked back and knelt down beside it. Some minutes later he entered the pub with a subdued expression on his face. Kingsley’s masterpiece, which was so demanding I heard him do it only twice, involved three subalterns, a Glaswegian driver and a jeep breaking down and refusing to restart somewhere in Germany. Both times I became incapable with laughter.
From this time on my friends all seemed to be in College, and a photograph taken on the sunny lawn the following summer reminds me how much our daily exchanges were informed by Kingsley’s pantomimes. In the foreground crouches Kingsley himself, his face contorted to a hideous mask and holding an invisible dagger: “Japanese soldier,” my note says, but I have forgotten why. Edward du Cann is withdrawing the safety pin from an invisible hand-grenade with his teeth (In the Rear of the Enemy, one of Kingsley’s Russian documentaries); Norman and David Williams are doing the “first today” routine,1 Wally Widdowson has a curiously stiff thumbs-in-belt stance (“Russian officer”—was this part of In the Rear of the Enemy?), and David West (“Roumanian officer”) is attempting to represent a contemporary saying that every Roumanian private had a Roumanian officer’s lipstick in his knapsack. The rest are engaged in the eternal gang warfare.
This is not to say that Kingsley dominated us. Indeed, to some extent he suffered the familiar humorist’s fate of being unable to get anyone to take him seriously at all. Kingsley’s “serious side” was political. In those days of Help For Russia Week, when the Hammer and Sickle flew with the Union Jack in Carfax, he became editor of the University Labour Club Bulletin and in this capacity printed one of my poems. (A second, much less ambiguously ambiguous, was denounced by the Committee as “morbid and unhealthy”.) In his contentious mood he could be (intentionally) very irritating, especially to those who thought party politics should be suspended until the war was over. Sometimes he was the target of delighted laughter and violent abuse in the same evening and from the same people. I shared his convictions to the extent of visiting the club’s social room in the High once or twice for coffee after closing time.
About jazz we had no disagreement. Jim Sutton and I had built up a small record collection at home and had brought it to Oxford (he was at the Slade, then exiled to the Ashmolean), so that we need not be without our favourite sound. There was not much live jazz to be heard at Oxford in those days until the Oxford University Rhythm Club was set up in 1941 and provided public jam sessions, but on the advice of Frank Dixon I had found a number of scarce deletions in Acott’s and Russell’s (then separate shops) and in one or other of our rooms there was usually a gramophone going. Kingsley’s enthusiasm flared up immediately. I suppose we devoted to some hundred records that early anatomizing passion normally reserved for the more established arts. “It’s the abject entreaty of that second phrase.…” “What she’s actually singing is ick-sart-mean.…” “Russell goes right on up to the first bar of Waller. You can hear it on Nick’s pick-up.” “Isn’t it marvellous the way Bechet …” “Isn’t it marvellous the way the trumpet …” “Isn’t it marvellous the way Russell …” Russell, Charles Ellsworth “Pee Wee” (b. 1906), clarinet and saxophone player extraordinary, was, mutatis mutandis, our Swinburne and our Byron. We bought every record he played on that we could find, and—literally—dreamed about similar items on the American Commodore label. Someone recently conscripted into the Merchant Navy had reputedly found his way to the Commodore Music Shop in New York, where the “proprietor” had introduced him to “one of the guys who helped make these records”; yes, leaning against the counter had actually been … Long afterwards, Kingsley admitted he had once sent Russell a fan letter. I said that funnily enough I had also written to Eddie Condon. We looked at each other guardedly. “Did you get an answer?” “No—did you?” “No.”
At the end of every term somebody left. Sometimes it was a false alarm: Edward du Cann disappeared in December 1942, waving cheerfully from the back of a taxi, but he was back next term, when he promptly swallowed a pin and was rushed to hospital. But more often it was permanent. Norman was commissioned in the Artillery and ironically found himself in the kind of regiment where revolvers were fired in the mess after dinner. Kingsley was commissioned in the Signals, where within an hour a major reprimanded him for having his hands in his pockets. Friends remained plentiful, but contemporaries were becoming scarce. I lost touch with the freshmen, among whom it was reported there was “a man called Wain”. Years afterwards John told me that our acquaintance at this time was limited to a brief bitter exchange at lunch about Albert Ammons’s Boogie Woogie Stomp and the poetry of George Crabbe. If so, it was a great opportunity lost.
None the less, it was almost my last term before I met Bruce Montgomery. In a way this was surprising: among the handful of undergraduates reading full Schools in the humanities friendship was generally automatic. In another it wasn’t: Bruce’s modern languages-Playhouse-classical music-Randolph Hotel ambience conflicted sharply with my own. Of course, I had seen him about, but it hardly occurred to me that he was an undergraduate, not in the same sense that I was. Wearing an air raid warden’s badge and carrying a walking-stick, he stalked alo
ofly to and fro in a severe triangle formed by the College lodge (for letters), the Randolph bar and his lodgings in Wellington Square. In his first year he had been partnered at tutorials with Alan Ross; having observed that their tutor’s first action was to wind up a small clock on his desk, they took advantage of his lateness one morning to wind it up for him. The tutor was an energetic man and I always understood that the result was disastrous. But now Alan had long since gone into the Navy and Bruce, like myself, was something of a survivor. This did not make me less shy of him. Like “Mr. Austen”, he had a grand piano; he had written a book called Romanticism and the World Crisis, painted a picture that was hanging on the wall of his sitting-room, and was a skilled pianist, organist and even composer. During the vacation that Easter he had spent ten days writing, with his J $$$-16 nib and silver pen-holder, a detective story called The Case of the Gilded Fly. This was published the following year under the name of Edmund Crispin, launching him on one of his several successful careers.
Beneath this formidable exterior, however, Bruce had unsuspected depths of frivolity, and we were soon spending most of our time together swaying about with laughter on bar-stools. True, I could make little of Wyndham Lewis, at that time Bruce’s favourite writer, and my admiration for Belshazzar’s Feast was always qualified, but I was more than ready for John Dickson Carr, Mencken and Pitié Pour les Femmes. In return I played him Billie Holiday records and persuaded him to widen his circle of drinking-places. One night the Proctor entered one of these and I was caught by the bullers at a side door: Bruce, on the other hand, simply stepped into a kind of kitchen, apologized to someone he found ironing there, and waited until the coast was clear. “When will you learn,” he reproved me afterwards, “not to act on your own initiative?”
I sometimes wonder if Bruce did not constitute for me a curious creative stimulus. For the next three years we were in fairly constant contact, and I wrote continuously as never before or since. Even in that last term, with Finals a matter of weeks away, I began an unclassifiable story called Trouble at Willow Gables, which Bruce and Diana Gollancz would come back to read after an evening at The Lord Napier. Possibly his brisk intellectual epicureanism was just the catalyst I needed.
Jill Page 1
