I’d been aware of his presence, yes. He was a participant in all College activities, as if he didn’t want to miss out on the traditions, but he was so tall and distinctive that anyone would notice him. It’s true that I was forever spotting him going into Hall, running up and down his stairs or walking slowly round the gardens, but that was no different from Eddie. I’d registered he usually he had a companion, though it was rarely the same person, and that he didn’t seem to have a girlfriend, though there were plenty of girls around – but I noticed such things about many of the students I knew – and we’d known each other since that very first collision.
As for running into each other in the Lodge, collecting our post; that happened with plenty of people. He had regular letters from home and abroad – those blue airmail envelopes with their striped corners appeared as dependably as any normal ones that I received – and standing there, flicking through, vaguely chatting, was unavoidable. We’d never say anything much – it was surprising what you overheard in the Lodge; people forgot that anyone might be listening in, porters included – and certainly we’d shared no more than I did with anyone else. It was just pleasantries.
Other than that, the collision itself and the walk with the bicycle, there was nothing. So the only thing that might seem out of the ordinary, given that I didn’t teach him and we didn’t share a staircase, was that indefinable ease, the thing that had turned those inconsequential chats into little pinpricks of pleasure dotted across the year.
But how had she latched on to that?
Perhaps it was something to do with our second evening, when Tyler and I had sat and talked so long – another pinprick treat. Gloria had seemed put out, like Mum was at Christmas when two of our guests turned out to have a shared past. So that was one possibility.
And there’d been that business of Mei rushing off to the loo, and the way Tyler and I had joined forces in suggesting Gloria make amends. That had been another.
Well, she’d got her own back. She’d asked if Tyler was taking a social history paper. I’d explained that no, that wasn’t an option with PPE. ‘But I thought …’ she’d begun, and left an awkward gap. Stupidly, I’d filled it with the business of the collision, then stopped for fear of ‘protesting too much’.
She hadn’t said anything, but I’d felt her disapproval. It was that boarding-school mentality again: she drew such hard lines around things – teachers and pupils, male and female, them and us. No wonder she was suspicious.
If so, I thought, swinging my legs out of bed, to hell with it. Gloria got away with lots of things – why shouldn’t I, on something so minor? Since when was mere talking ‘off limits’?
It was only later, as I paused on our own landing, that I thought through again and twigged. Of course! It had been Gloria with the parcel in the Lodge, flashing by with the long hair, when Tyler embarrassed me with talk of my book. And if it had been Tyler on the stairs outside my room – which would account for me recognising his footsteps later on – his visiting wouldn’t have made sense to Gloria, standing below, unless I’d been teaching him.
But why would Tyler have come to see me?
When I arrived downstairs, mind made up about where to park myself for the day, Priyam was in the pantry checking for stores while Hugh read out a recipe from his seat at the kitchen table.
‘I thought you thought domesticity was for women,’ I teased.
‘Well, men can repent their sins,’ Hugh replied. ‘Actually, I like cooking.’
‘Never! And what are you making?’ I asked, expecting to hear of some minor contribution to the evening meal. But it turned out that Priyam and Hugh were planning to bake together. A Johnnie and Fanny Cradock in the making, then, ready to perform.
‘Hot cross buns before Good Friday? You renegade!’ I teased.
‘I know, three weeks ahead! But it’s wet and they’re easy to make and we thought it would be fun,’ he said, and got up with the All Colour Cook Book in hand and walked around the table. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’ he asked, slipping a postcard from the dresser into the groove of the spine.
‘Fine by me. But you, a Catholic! I bet you didn’t have them early at Ampleforth.’
‘You’d be surprised. Of course some of the monks said such liberties destroyed the point. Lyndsey’s like that: she says if she believed, she’d have to be a Catholic, because they do it properly. High Church wouldn’t be enough. But I think any church is better than no church. Anyway, Priyam’s a Muslim.’
‘Don’t blame it on me!’ Priyam called out. ‘I’m not responsible for your transgressions!’
By then the kitchen was filling up and we could have a vote on the teatime menu. It was won by the irreligious contingent – hot cross buns it was to be.
Rupert had been flicking through the back of the cookery book, where there was a section on matching drink with food. Already we’d learnt that you didn’t have to have beer with curry, you could have ‘a low-tannin wine with generous fruit’, whatever that meant. Now he turned his attention to the buns.
‘Much more intriguing is you knowing how to bake, Hugh,’ he said ‘Or owning to knowing how to bake.’
‘And why not! Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. It’s a perfectly proper skill.’
‘Not in my home it isn’t; not for blokes. Anyway, why pick baking? Why not some other thing?’
This was interesting: another squabble in the making and Rupert again in the thick of it. Hugh looked at him as if deciding whether or not to answer seriously, but it was Martin who retaliated with, ‘Well, it’s better than arsing around with half-baked views on wine!’
The vigour seemed to take Hugh by surprise. In fact the whole episode prompted another shift in my picture of the individuals and the group. Hugh might make pat assumptions about having a study and the like, but he wasn’t really a male chauvinist, whereas Martin liked to pretend he was and Rupert was genuinely well on the way. And the unexpected alliances and enmities between the students were disconcerting. People who appeared to have little in common would turn out to be remarkably at ease, and spikiness would emerge where it was least expected. It was awkward, not being one of their number. That’s why it was comforting having Tyler there: he was in a similar position, being that bit older than the rest. You could see it in his face, sometimes, if you caught him watching – that look of remoteness. He too was neither completely in nor out.
After that we moved on. Mei took it upon herself to gather orders for the shops, and Loxton, arriving with the paper, to do – of course – his crossword, announced that he would accompany her, which freed me up for the morning. There was a discussion about how we might spend the afternoon if it continued to drizzle, Loxton being fussed about people getting wet. Priyam and Hugh offered to cook supper too – and why not curry, since Rupert had mentioned it. If they could find what she needed, she would teach Hugh to make a proper masala, and they could get underway while they finished the buns. Martin suggested an outing to the pub after supper, if we ended up being in all day. He looked to me rather than Loxton for confirmation that that would be okay, which was interesting. The Dean had cautioned – he’d harped on Martin’s capacity for booze – but it all seemed fairly benign to me.
And so it continued as we settled for the morning session. Loxton braved the rain to check supplies in the wood store; the students went back to their desks, with minimal changing of places; and I went to collect my pile of papers from the grand piano. How curious, I thought, flicking the edges: the first two evenings they’d gone back with me to the attic, whereas this time I’d left them out overnight, where anyone might leaf through. How trusting of me, with nosy parkers like Rupert around; how relaxed I must feel.
Tyler was already at his post in the library – he was turning out to be scrupulous in his habits, almost at the expense of joining in – but he barely acknowledged me: a mere lifting of the fingers from their place on his book. My rhetorical ‘Mind if I join you?’ was addressed more to Hugh and
Lyndsey, who smiled as they resumed their seats.
There was a subtle change from my last visit, hard to identify. I scanned the table and chairs, wondering whether Loxton had spread himself out differently from me, and then realised it was the light: the room was brighter, the door into the study now wide open.
I tiptoed over and paused inside, remembering the discussion about the three linked spaces and puzzling why such a small one warranted such a big window – something to do with the elevation, perhaps. Jim was already at the desk, with that view of the pines. The other door was ajar, muffled talking from beyond.
‘Would you like this closed again?’ I asked softly, enjoying the warmth of a patch of sunlight.
‘No, it’s okay, thanks,’ he said, raising his head.
I pointed at the other door. ‘That one?’
He gestured with his hands to suggest open but not too open. So Carreck Loose was doing Jim good; he was thawing. We shared a smile.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, I think. I’m doing well with Collingwood, though it’s not my idea of history.’ There wasn’t much scope to lower his voice, but it dropped a fraction. ‘This place is better than I expected. You were right – not snobby at all, really.’
‘Cool beans.’
His voice dropped further. ‘Eddie’s a bit of an arsehole – he’s got loads of those socks, pink ones too – but you get used to him.’
‘That’s a relief too. So he’s not spoiling it for you?’
He shook his head and reverted to a normal whisper. ‘Anyway, I’ve got this, which I like – on my own, but not completely.’
I nodded. ‘I’m on my travels. I’ll be working in there next!’ And I doffed my head to the morning room, where the talking was turning to laughter, barely suppressed.
He grinned – the first proper grin I’d had from him privately – and I walked through.
Chloe and Gloria had been joined by Eddie, who was struggling to do a yoga tree on the sofa, his sneakers gaping abandoned on the floor, sky-blue socks prominently on display. You had to smile – the peacenik wobbling on one leg, arms tilting from the horizontal like a spaced-out scarecrow – but Loxton’s injunctions had been clear, so I tapped the glass of my watch, grimacing in sympathy.
‘Freak me out!’ Chloe shot forth. ‘Not you too? You were meant to be on our side!’
She huffed theatrically as she took up her William James. Unlikely she’d find much to enjoy in a nineteenth-century psychologist, but at least she was making a gesture.
Eddie unfolded his legs. ‘Okay, okay. We know. Just a little high now we’re on our own again.’ He sat down on his cushion and retrieved the books that had fallen to the floor.
Gloria started flicking pages to find her place. She pressed on the gutter and pulled that peacock concoction she wore around her, feigning concentration.
I moved into the cold air of the hall, pulled the door to, paused and listened. Was there still silence? Apparently so.
With Loxton in the drawing room, there was no need to include it in my rounds, so I crossed to the dining room. Rupert, Priyam and Martin were in near identical poses to those of our first day. How constant we were, how set in our patterns! If you caught any of us from behind, you would recognise the postures; we were all indomitably ourselves, even doing nothing.
Patrol over, I returned to my place, quickly becoming oblivious of the students – even of Tyler, though of course I knew he was there, chewing his cheeks as he read, sending that little ripple down his jaw.
In no time at all, it seemed, Loxton tiptoed across the carpet to speak to me. He and Mei were off to shop – anything else we needed? I thought of the mild Mei stuck on her own with Loxton and wondered whether to go too, but two tutors to one quiet eighteen-year-old might also have overwhelmed. Hugh may have had a similar thought or been fussed about his cinnamon and mixed peel; anyway, he offered to join them and – oddly – Loxton agreed.
Probably Loxton recognised a youthful, unpolished version of himself: clever, kind, but a little gauche. And Hugh would like being needed – he had that air of suffering a deficit of friendship. But Loxton was gruff and Hugh wasn’t – and it was hard to imagine he ever would be, because, baker or not, he’d marry and have children in good time. Loxton, by contrast, would have suffered a slow and lonely accretion of gruffness, unnoticed until it was too late.
I needn’t have worried about Mei. When we assembled in the kitchen it was clear the shopping trip had been a success, though they’d struggled to find yoghurt or any of Priyam’s spices. Maybe no one ate curry in Cornwall.
The table looked immaculate, which Loxton credited to Mei, and we had a new salad – chicory and chopped segments of orange – which he said reflected Hugh’s culinary expertise, causing much speculation about the standard of cuisine we might expect that evening. We made a few appreciative noises as we tucked in – lunch was now a mere pause in the rhythm of the day, not to be fussed over excessively – and everybody was easy, good-humoured.
It was when we’d moved on to fruit, perhaps lulled by the benevolent mood, the sight of sunlight glinting on the sea and the hedgerows, and the sound of Priyam kneading Hugh’s dough, that the students revived the plan for a trip to the pub. It gathered momentum gradually, through discreet discussion of venues and routes – some favouring a trip to the harbour, which meant wheels, while others preferred the village, which could be managed on foot. I doubt Loxton even noticed: he was reading the paper, two students leaning over the newsprint alongside him. Still, when the coastal path was suggested, he raised his head to say it was out of the question. If we went at all, we would have to be sensible; it would be dark, after all.
Rain having given way to a gusty day and the grass having dried off, we decided to play football while Hugh and Priyam waited for the dough to rise again. Roughly half of us piled into the narrow conservatory which, as the boot room overflowed, was functioning as a second back door and a further repository for our outdoor clothes. The rest of us lingered in the spice-scented warmth just inside the door from the kitchen on the pretext of waiting for space to change our shoes. And then we too were outside, jogging down the slope that led to the first field, trying simultaneously to button our clothes and avoid the longer tussocks, enjoying the sharpness of the air and the freedom to stretch and shout.
Chloe and Martin opted to be goalies, operating between brightly coloured scarves. I’ve no idea whose side the rest were on: it didn’t seem to matter. Soon we were all running across the tufty, springy grass like children, stumbling and picking ourselves up, yelling at each other, trying to be heard against the wind. At some point the bakers took themselves off to see to their buns – Rupert lobbing the ball at Hugh’s back as he departed – and the two teams coalesced afresh. At another, I realised there’d been a swap, for Chloe was in amongst us at our end of the notional pitch, aggressively tackling me and the more adroit Jim, her ruby Dr Martens flashing in and out between our legs, laces flying, getting her own back – and yes, there was Barnaby in her place between the markers, still in his Guernsey, still looking like a younger version of Alan Bates, who’d been my heartthrob since I saw The Go-Between, thumping his gloved hands together and running on the spot to keep warm. Eddie played referee, whistling through his fingers because he couldn’t hack it with a blade of grass.
Perhaps that was when I registered that Loxton was neither with the bakers nor with us, and that Tyler wasn’t there either. Of course Loxton wasn’t the type to sprint anywhere, let alone scramble around a makeshift pitch – he was far too precise and interior a person. But as a youth? Maybe cross-country running, when he might have turned the exercise into a test of navigational skills. As for Tyler, I wanted to see how he dealt with something closer to a contact sport – how physical he might be. He’d have played basketball at home – you could imagine him leaping to shoot. But here, mucking around on a slope with a ball you couldn’t hold, how would Mr Suave do?
And then,
at the very moment of thinking of them, there they were – two little figures, so far away they were almost colourless, moving smoothly across the slope of the meadows in the distance, the descent to the sea a few hundred yards to their left, the world inland to the right.
When we arrived back in the cinnamon-filled kitchen – hot, breathless and pink-cheeked – to flump down on the chairs, there was no one hovering about as a reminder of why we were all there. Instead the exercise, the cold air, the fooling around and the grappling of laughing bodies made a combustible mix of excitement that a flash of rebellion would easily ignite. By the time the buns were on the table to absorb the adrenaline and calm us with their stodginess, the vague idea of an outing after supper had become a coherent plan to drive to the village and play darts over a round or two of beer.
Loxton and Tyler returned just too late to hear what was afoot, but in time to appreciate the bakers’ achievement. The ribbons of paste crossed the surface as they should; the glaze was suitably sticky; the raisins hadn’t burnt. Yes, the dough was a bit brittle around the edges and certainly it was a curious colour, but it tasted good. And what a contented feeling it was, to sit after strenuous activity having a second helping and savouring hot tea, surrounded by people you liked, planning an escapade! Even that dignified pair looked as if they might be loosening up, wiping butter from their fingers.
All those buns did us good.
Loxton had told the students that seven hours’ reading was plenty. Of course he assumed they were good hours, but the wonder of it was that at Carreck Loose those two stints – the four hours in the morning and the three after tea – so often were productive. You ate, played and slept well; then you had the work you’d brought and nothing else, so you got on with it. If by chance you failed to get absorbed immediately, some quality of the place would gradually envelop you.
The Reading Party Page 14
