Loxton and I chatted briefly about the undertone of competitiveness, after I found him sitting at the empty table in the kitchen with the beginnings of a shopping list. That he should already be thinking of what we needed was more of a surprise to me than his doing supper; the sudden picture of the tedium – and loneliness – of bachelor life made me think of my uncle, alone in his fussy little flat, surrounded by newsprint. Did Loxton cook for himself, in his place in Park Town, or did someone come in to do such things for him? Perhaps that was why he was such a regular in Hall: it might satisfy a more complex need for nourishment. Either way, he looked frail on his own, methodically planning ahead while the messy business of real life happened elsewhere. Another thing that might have been comic if it hadn’t been a little sad.
He accepted my offer to make him a cup of Nescafé and, as I pottered about learning where things were, we talked a bit about how people were settling in. He was disappointed that Martin hadn’t arrived in time for the walk, which of course had been too short, but that could be remedied tomorrow; he had noted the closeness of Gloria and Chloe, which threatened to set them apart – one didn’t get that with the men, he claimed, even those who had been at school together, which those two had not; Jim had indeed chosen the study but was in there on his own – we should watch that, as people shouldn’t work in isolation; and so on. Was there anything I wanted to report?
I joked that on my floor, as the Dean had foretold, there’d already been a fuss about the bathrooms and a change in the sleeping arrangements. It turned out much the same had happened below. Tyler, who was now sharing with Rupert, had suggested they be gallant and swap with Mei and Lyndsey so the girls got the view from the front of the house. Loxton thought this most appropriate. I was amused that Rupert’s own switch, presumably to avoid being at the rear, had misfired. And it was a relief to know that Tyler would not, now, be underneath me as I padded about. Would it have bothered me if Loxton had been directly below? Possibly, but not in the same way.
Curiously, Loxton didn’t comment on my miscalculation about the loos. Perhaps he was more generous than I thought.
I said goodnight to the students in the hall and set off up that sturdy panelled staircase, passing the door to the housekeeper’s empty suite – shut to avoid draughts – and then crossing the landing on the first floor, wondering what to say if anyone was not fully dressed. It was almost disappointing to get past Tyler and Rupert scot-free.
Once in the servants’ stairs to the attic – as narrow and dark as the ‘cupboard’ outside the kitchen – I paused a moment. I could hear the talk in their room, which meant either of them, if they were listening out, would hear me making my way up that second resonant funnel, only a thin screen of lath and plaster and a few layers of wallpaper away. And though you couldn’t hear precisely what was being said, we’d all get attuned to these things and there’d soon be little privacy. So I didn’t linger.
All the doors on the landing were closed apart from my own, which was ajar. Anyone could have peered in and seen my suitcase lying wide open – my simple cotton underwear, which had caused the Dean to mock, tossed in like an afterthought, in full view. It was too long since I’d bought anything lacy; by now I should have kitted myself out in something special, like Jenny, whose silky knicker drawer always seemed to reflect the state of her relationships, burgeoning as she went from this lover to that, so that it was a kaleidoscope of fancy pairings; whereas I was always mixing simple bras and pants, and could never be bothered to match the colours. It would be a shame to be discovered in any of my lazy offerings: almost better to be braless and brazen.
I began unpacking my clothes – another jumper, jeans, a cord skirt and that pinafore dress with the enormous pockets – stashing them in the gloomy recesses of the small Victorian wardrobe with my sole change of shoes. There was little else to sort. A novel went onto the bedside table. My briefcase and the walking boots were downstairs. Other than that there was just my towel and my washbag, the latter as much of a giveaway as the rest of my luggage: a messy assortment of toiletries mixed with a few items of make-up, mostly from Boots. I stared at them blankly, trying to remember why I didn’t have a separate bag for ‘doing your face’, as Mum called it, but nothing much was ever done to mine, and Jenny’s tiny Mary Quant set, an expensive present even for her, was almost unused.
There was a moment’s loneliness. Whom would I talk to when all this was over, with no Casanova in sight, unless you counted the Dean? And while I was here? Not Loxton, for sure. I almost envied the students who were doubling up, who could end the day chatting companionably to their roommates. If Jenny had been there she would have been giggling about something or other: Hugh’s asexual gangliness, Martin’s innuendo, Lyndsey and her notions. We would have laughed about me getting ahead in the van, analysed the insouciant snobbery in Eddie’s little spat with Jim, discussed the moments when my confidence faltered at everything again being new.
Above all, Jenny would have teased about sex. We’d have played the game that had amused us as schoolgirls and had kept us sane through our undergraduate years when presented with a choice of male talent: ‘If you had to do it with one of them, which one would you choose?’ When we first played in our teens, it was a matter of who we could imagine snogging; later we progressed to who we might screw. The game was never about being seduced – we always had the initiative and there was no question that the chosen bloke was bloody lucky to be under consideration at all. If none of them took our fancy, we pictured them naked except for their socks. It always made us smile.
Hypothetical, of course, given that they were students, but Barnaby was good looking – or maybe I’d choose Tyler, although it was hard to say why, when he was the opposite of rugged. Jenny would have gone for Rupert straight away.
Sunday
Light, streaming through the dormer windows, roused me early – a reminder to close the curtains. So for a second day running there was time to spare, to lie in bed looking and listening. What a treat.
It was what you’d call a pretty room, with old-fashioned sprigged wallpaper dotted about with prints in walnut frames, an oval mirror over the diminutive grate reflecting a glimpse of the sky; to my left a small chest of drawers and a dressing table; to my right a small wardrobe and the door. But what really interested me were the sounds. Nothing as yet from my own floor, which was hardly surprising, but something must have carried up the stairs or through the flues to wake me – a creak as somebody tiptoed around, or a door banging in a draught, perhaps. Looking out, I saw Loxton with a tall figure – probably Hugh; Rupert was too languid, surely, to be up at this hour; Tyler I would have recognised – striding along the track near the crest of the hill. True to form, Loxton was taking an early walk.
I decided to stake my claim on the bathroom. Gloria would probably dawdle: if anyone had an air of entitlement, she did; all those years of boarding school, yet it wouldn’t occur to her that anybody else might also need the loo. The other girls would be using it too, unless they mucked in with Martin, Eddie and Jim. So there could be four of us wanting it at the same time.
Overnight the room had acquired signs of the other users. There were already two towels – a luxurious creamy one, bath-size (presumably Gloria), and a skimpy bottle-green one with gold edging (which might be Priyam, whose clothes often had touches of filigree), plus a mucky cotton washbag in a psychedelic print (which would be Chloe). The surprise was a zip-up leather box, on the floor beneath the sink, spewing bits of shaving kit (Martin muscling in on the girls?) and far too many toothbrushes (who else?).
I didn’t dally. Once done – remembering how exposed I’d been on New Year’s Day, returning ‘the morning after’ in full view of anyone who cared to see – I removed all signs of my presence. No point encouraging gossip.
Carreck Loose was waking up. On our floor, there was intermittent chat and water was running again. From downstairs, there were sounds of other people: the odd voice calling – one that might
have been Tyler; footsteps scampering; doors opening and closing. Time to brave them all; find out the breakfast routine.
The walkers beat me to the kitchen and it proved to be Hugh who’d accompanied Loxton. It seemed he wasn’t the kind of student who rose late, looked dishevelled and grunted a greeting; no, he’d been to church, though it wasn’t the right one, and now he was rueing the mud on his trousers and cleaning his shoes. As if God would have cared!
Loxton was formal, rhetorical. ‘Good morning, Dr Addleshaw. Did you sleep? Hugh, here, says he was woken. He’s not sure which was worse – having a bad dream or it being six o’clock.’
I said something innocuous about sunlight banishing anxieties and set about making coffee. Loxton wouldn’t be used to seeing women who’d just got out of bed. It was important to put him at ease, or the mixed event might be doomed.
Unlike the previous evening, the table wasn’t laid. Instead, cutlery, and the blue-and-cream crockery Loxton called ‘Cornishware’, had been put out in piles, along with boxes of cereal and anything that you might want to spread on a slice of toast. Comfortable self-service.
‘Brown or white, Dr Addleshaw?’ Hugh asked, as his own slices popped up tanned from the machine, smelling of Hovis.
‘No, keep them – I’m fine, thanks. I’ll help myself later.’
Loxton had The Times on his knee, neatly folded to quarter the back page, and was doing the crossword. ‘We’re always a day behind, at breakfast: no deliveries,’ he explained, flapping the paper for emphasis. ‘As for the crossword, we have a rule: no peeking and no one else fills it in, but you’re all welcome to help.’ And he resumed work. He was incredibly quick, pausing occasionally to sip his tea as he considered a clue and then putting his mug down to write in small, tidy capitals, much easier to read than his script. The upper half of the puzzle was already filled in.
He read out a clue – ‘Sixteen across: “Kidnapped man? Rocket engineer we hear.” Nine letters’ – and gave three of them.
Why hadn’t the Dean warned me when he mentioned Loxton’s work on codes? I was no good at crosswords – my uncle was always ribbing me about it when he came to stay – so this might be embarrassing. At least Hugh was swift with the answer.
‘Good.’ There was silence while Loxton filled in two of the down clues single-handed. By this time, some of the others had joined us.
‘Twenty-one across: “Meant mischievous Matilda, perhaps, and what she did,”’ Loxton called out, again without looking up, before adding, ‘Dr Addleshaw, perhaps?’
I looked at him crossly, convinced he’d done it on purpose, relieved that Tyler wasn’t down to see me stuck. A chair scraped the floor as Eddie settled next to Martin with a not-so-mumbled greeting; the rest of them watched me expectantly. Thankfully Lyndsey, her pale face colouring with enthusiasm, piped up with the answer before the gap became embarrassing. I don’t think she was making a point, or even trying to be helpful – mostly, she seemed blithely untouched by the stuff of other peoples’ lives. Her complete lack of artifice on this, as on everything else – looking as if she might not know what clothes she’d put on, making absolutely no attempt to charm – was almost comforting. What did Loxton make of that, I wondered – an ‘English rose’ who failed to do what was expected of the breed? Or was he just impressed by her brain?
By the time the rest had arrived, it seemed we were all focused on Loxton’s dratted puzzle. I suppose it acted as a kind of decoy, removing the need for anyone to have a proper conversation, though of course some of us did, and certainly it introduced an element of shared endeavour, even though we didn’t all contribute. You could say nothing, occupying yourself with the kettle or the toaster, and nobody noticed; or you could ‘chat amongst yourselves’, as Tyler was doing with Priyam about some legal issue that interested them both, and ignore the crossword altogether. But you were always aware of it, there in the background like a big piece of furniture, getting in the way.
As for having women there, would it have been so different when it was just men? Probably not. Martin’s cry of ‘Watch out, women about!’ was only a joke. It wasn’t as if anyone was making a thing of it, arriving for breakfast dressed like a dolly bird. Only Gloria oozed sexuality, and she was in jeans – she didn’t even have to try.
‘Last one – well, it’s two words,’ Loxton announced, and read out a conundrum that made no sense to me but clearly did to Rupert, who got both parts immediately. Loxton checked his watch and noted something in the margin.
‘Twenty-two minutes: we’ll have to do better than that.’ But he said it less with regret than with anticipation of the challenge. The crossword would feature every morning whether I liked it or not; an integral part of domestic routine.
It was also clear that, for Loxton, completing the puzzle marked the end of the period before work. If he could have gone straight to his desk, with the world temporarily tidied, I’m sure he would have done so; a table to clear and crockery to wash were obstacles between him and the most important thing. At home he wouldn’t have to worry about such trifles – but then of course there’d be the lonely business of working on his clues and sorting himself out solo. The thought put a slightly different complexion on the tersely determined way in which he used the game to gather company about him. Perhaps that was part of the reason for his attachment to the Reading Party: it gave him companionship – a substitute for family life; it was probably the closest he got to intimacy.
But the students would be different. If they weren’t minded to move to their desks on the dot of nine, I’d have to do my duty and chase. Hugh should be okay – there was a rumour that he’d brought an alarm clock – and Jim was probably strict in his disciplines. Hard to imagine the same of Rupert or Eddie, who looked the type to amuse themselves as long as they could manage – and Barnaby and Martin were surely too genial to be timekeepers. As for Tyler, I couldn’t decide. It was as if the extra couple of years – or being a foreigner – made him inscrutable. He’d be a hard worker, when he chose to settle, but then he didn’t defer, so he might not take orders: that combination could go either way.
Easier to speculate about the women. Priyam probably worked to the clock: she would be matter of fact about rhythms. Mei might fear letting herself go – the Dean suggested her discipline neared the pathological. We already had a steer on Lyndsey – she might drift into gear mid-morning, or get up to see in the dawn and then fade in mid-afternoon: that could be difficult. And if Chloe lived up to her reputation, she would be unruly – active when it was dark and quiet; tired and crotchety in the day. As for Gloria, whatever her patterns, I would hesitate to tell her what to do or when.
It wasn’t going to be straightforward.
And yet there they all were, rising without a challenge, calling to whoever was holding things up to ‘get a move on’. No one demurred or said they needed to do this or that before they settled at their desks. How did Loxton do it? It was a little miracle!
That first day I found it difficult to get started, which was embarrassing, given that I was meant to set an example. There were so many distractions: wondering how the historians were getting on, what exactly Tyler was reading, whether Eddie would come to the village when he was meant to. Or maybe I just happened to have an ‘off’ day. Whatever the case, it was unnerving not to be able to settle, and I didn’t want the Warden as well as Loxton on my back.
Around eleven I gave up and turned my attention to leaving without disturbing the other three, who were still heads down, seemingly absorbed. I’d chosen my spot so as not to encroach, but inadvertently it suggested the position of invigilator. Would they chat as soon as I left?
In fact, they barely noticed me, whereas Eddie made a show of huffing from his sofa as I entered, shut his book and chucked it onto the shamble of belongings that constituted his ‘desk’.
All was quiet as we walked through the hall. I felt again uncomfortably like a prefect, although nothing was amiss and Eddie wasn’t being hauled in fron
t of anyone, least of all by me.
‘Promised I’d help with the dogsbodying!’ I whispered.
There were carriers in what must have been the old scullery – a dark and icy space next to the servants’ stairs, lit by a small window above a large china sink. It looked like a wartime recycling centre – pickling jars lining the shelves, paper bags hanging from pegs, milk bottle tops here, string there; everything carefully stored. Loxton would have a field day, being of the era and a fusspot to boot.
Eddie scribbled at the kitchen table as I checked the pantry shelves. Just as well – Gloria may have volunteered to cook with Rupert, but their list was remarkably vague; if we’d relied on that, there’d have been hardly any supper at all. He’d bragged that he’d never peeled a potato: probably true, I thought, banging about – there were plenty who hadn’t. And she was so casual. If you offered to help, you should do it properly; having asked to come, you should pull your weight.
The Reading Party Page 9
