The Reading Party

by Fenella Gentleman

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Rupert,’ I said. ‘He’s a show-off and he likes to discomfort – he does it with everyone. And I’m sure Eddie and Lyndsey have their own troubles. Besides, women are always comparing, especially with men. It’s a lousy habit. We should do things our own way.’

  I handed her my clean but crumpled hankie and we talked about feeling as if you were on the outside and how far that might be part of the human condition, or at least the female condition – and though, for much of the time, it wasn’t clear to me whether she was still talking about her peers or whether the conversation was really about her family or the pressure of work, it seemed to be helping.

  Eventually we got back to the birthday and a plan emerged. She would make contact again, so her parents knew she’d been thinking of them. No point in finding a phone box and reversing charges – her mother wouldn’t chat in the shop. A telegram – those frightening blue-and-white envelopes with the Post Office crest – suggested bad news from abroad, so that was no good. But a card could happily be read out. She could use one of the shots of the harbour that I’d picked up in Mevagissey and point out the harbourmaster’s original house, grandly standing watch; if we posted it that morning it would arrive the next day. Besides, we’d be back in Oxford the following afternoon: if she was quick she could get the fast train and be home by suppertime. I would track down her scout and sort out anything to be left behind.

  Problem solved, at least in the short term, we stayed there companionably for a few more minutes, propped against our pillows, sharing chat about ambitions, families and the demands they make. After she’d gone I realised that for the best part of an hour I hadn’t thought about Tyler at all.

  The rest of them were nearly done by the time we arrived for breakfast, the table a mess, the crossword all but complete. Hugh – ever domesticated – was at the sink with a pinny on; Mei by his side with a tea towel, passing crockery to Jim to put away.

  At the far end Chloe stood holding forth about some scheme in the making, involving hidden treasure, while Lyndsey sat with a dictionary of quotations, scribbling clues onto folds of paper piled by her plate. Eddie, across the table, was turning one of the cereal packets on its corners, tapping absently. Tyler, too, appeared to be gazing at nothing in particular; he certainly didn’t look at me.

  Somewhere in the middle Gloria and Rupert were in a huddle over the remnants of an earlier paper, discussing why we’d got involved in Concorde if landing rights were going to be such a problem. At the near end, screened from the rest by a box of Weetabix, were Martin and Barnaby, reading aloud about a competition.

  They were all so absorbed that Priyam and I got away with an absent-minded exchange of greetings. No one seemed to notice us cutting it fine. There was a vague shifting of chairs to let us through, but no questions, let alone any jokes about sardines – they must have exhausted the subject. Loxton said nothing at all.

  We snuck past the washers-up and sat down in the gap opposite the newsreaders, pulling bowls and spoons towards us. Tyler was uncomfortably near, but there was no alternative: I would have to pretend.

  Chloe raised her voice again to flag that this would be no ordinary treasure hunt, which made Lyndsey protest that she was just having fun with some quotations – she couldn’t have been more like the Dean’s parody. But for once, Chloe’s need for attention had an upside – it gave us a kind of cover.

  ‘Haven’t we had this conversation before?’ Barnaby looked around the faces as he lifted a teapot.

  Chloe spun round between the end of the table and the step down into the conservatory and then wobbled back, bumping into the chairs as she passed. What was she up to, I wondered. She would have had no truck with ballet as a child – hard to imagine her in a tutu. It was Lyndsey who talked of whirling like the gulls, who would shut her eyes on a walk so she could sway with the elements.

  ‘Yup,’ Chloe said, steadying herself with a hand on the cross bar of Rupert’s chair. ‘And if we can have hot cross buns and Easter eggs ahead of time, why can’t she have an Easter hunt? Besides, nearly all the clues are done, aren’t they Lyndsey?’

  If there was an edge of mockery, Lyndsey didn’t pick it up. She smiled as she scanned a few more pages. ‘Two to go. Here’s a good quote.’ She lifted the book up for Chloe to see, indicating something down the bottom of the page with her index finger. I knew that finger from the day in the library: it usually had ink on it, and a little compression with a ridge on the side from gripping her fountain pen. Tyler’s hands had always been clean, the skin above the knuckles dusted with that fairish hair, the nails shapely and almost flat. Attractive hands, undeniably male.

  Eddie made a lunge for the dictionary, prompting Lyndsey to lift it out of reach. Chloe grasped it and spun again, in my direction, trailing a thin wisp of smoke. If she weren’t careful, she would slip, or drop the cigarette.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Eddie said.

  ‘Oh, get lost! I’m just helping Lyndsey. You’re the one who’s trying to look.’

  ‘But you’re such fun when you’re cross!’ He grabbed again at the book and then checked himself as Loxton stood up.

  ‘Well, you can’t have it.’ Chloe dropped onto the soles of her feet again. ‘Anyway, you’re meant to be helping with the shopping list. Is it done, Dennis?’ And she bent across the table, giggling into his face as she plucked the piece of paper away. The gesture had such a familiar edge, she might have been winding up her dad.

  I waited for Loxton to remonstrate, but he seemed remarkably relaxed. All things considered, he was surprisingly tolerant of certain kinds of exuberance. Maybe invading his bed wasn’t such a heinous offence.

  Eddie shrugged theatrically and pushed his chair away. ‘In that case, if there is no further need for my services, I’m off to do my duty in the drawing room.’ He turned to me. ‘Where have you got to on your rounds, Sarah? Will I be free to misbehave?’

  ‘Not in one of those yogi poses!’

  Across the table Tyler joined the chuckles – that rumble of his, turning at the back of his throat, causing me to look at him. A confident smile beamed my way but took in several others. Perhaps that, too, wouldn’t be so awkward after all.

  Until that moment I hadn’t thought about where to sit that day. But, taking things off the table, it struck me that a large surface would be preferable to spreading myself across the floor. The library was out – it would be too distracting – so that meant the dining room.

  In fact, it was the same group of us at that huge expanse of polish: Martin, Priyam and Rupert – who had returned from the morning room, it wasn’t clear why – and me. We were even in the same places. Remarkable, the way people stuck to a spot – they might have been in one of the University libraries. But something had put me on a more relaxed footing with the students; I was no longer the invigilator. Martin looked up and winked as I came in; Rupert, who never made way for anyone, silently shifted a pile of books; Priyam said, ‘You’re back!’ and then covered her mouth with her hand.

  I spread my papers generously, so they drifted down the table rather than fencing me off at the end, and picked up the index cards for my lectures. This time, perversely, concentration was a doddle. It was as easy to slip into the right mental landscape as it was to slip back into that comfortable chair. At some point Priyam must have left to join Eddie and Loxton on the final trip into town, but I was oblivious. At odd moments I noticed the clock ticking in the hall – had it always ticked? – but not as an irritation. I raced on, immersed in the lilt of my eight linked arguments, until Martin suddenly appeared by my side with a cup of Nescafé.

  ‘You forgot again,’ he whispered.

  Christ, the tea round!

  ‘What about the others?’ I whispered back, thinking of all the workers deprived of their morning cuppa.

  But Martin and Gloria had done them all.

  For a few minutes my mind flitted around, wondering whether Gloria had made it up with him and what made us call
it a tea break when most people drank coffee or needed a fag. I teetered on the edge of daydreaming – did Tyler take his with or without sugar; how would he hold a cigarette? – but was pulled back by a change in the light and a shifting of bodies; outside, a hawk hovered over the slope leading to the bay. After that, oblivion again until my stomach told me it was time to eat.

  *

  In the kitchen there was an air of things drawing to a close. The table was laid with mementoes of earlier meals bulked out with chunks of pork pie. Somebody had pureed leftover vegetables – would that really have been Loxton? It could hardly be anyone else – instead of serving up our favourite variety of Campbell’s condensed soup. Even the big fruit bowl looked less abundant than usual.

  We sat down after the usual crescendo of bitty talk as people caught up with each other. By the Rayburn Loxton ladled his soup, with Lyndsey carefully sending the bowls on their journey down the table. At the far end of the kitchen units, one of the boys cut bread into teetering piles of thick slabs that diminished rapidly as the breadboard lurched from hand to hand.

  Was it rowdier than usual? It certainly felt so. Speculation began at my end of the table about what Loxton would be serving up that evening – Priyam trying to keep it a surprise while Eddie provoked (‘What can you make with onion, milk, a lot of potato and a few scraps of fish?’). Down the other end they were discussing Lyndsey’s treasure hunt, which was devoid of gold, as she’d forgotten to add chocolate to the shopping list, and which might not be a hunt at all because she hadn’t got round to hiding the clues. Somewhere near the middle elderly hands reached over the heads and set down two litre bottles of the cider we’d spurned at the pub.

  ‘What’s this?’ Martin examined the label ostentatiously. He turned to Loxton. ‘Are you going soft on us? It’s eight per cent – just think what disasters might befall us!’

  From the other side of the table, Tyler caught my eye – something beneath the surface glistening. Immediately I knew things were all right. It was a wonderful feeling.

  Loxton produced one of his little smiles, not as tight as it used to be – had it really changed, or had I misremembered? – and said something about doing a rough calculation and finding we were in credit. He was prepared to relax the rules, he said, looking at me, although I’d had nothing to do with it, so long as we kept to a glass each and walked it off afterwards. There was a murmur of approval and the sound of tumblers being pushed forwards while Martin poured.

  Emboldened by the general bonhomie, I stood up and raised my own, catching a whiff of bruised apple as the air moved. ‘To Dennis, Keeper of the Kitty!’

  Almost instantly, everyone was on their feet, sending chairs rocking but just failing to topple. There was a clinking of thick glass – ‘To Dennis’ – and then more scraping on that infernal sticky lino as we all sat down again.

  I should have known Loxton would need to return the courtesy. Briefly his tumbler touched the table; then he rose and held it aloft again. ‘To Sarah, fomenter of fun and, if I may say so, most fetching of Fellows!’

  They must all have joined in – it was very noisy. I wasn’t sure which pleased me more: Loxton’s teasing endorsement or Tyler cheering with the rest of them.

  When the banter had subsided, Lyndsey disappeared into the conservatory to retrieve the pile of quotations. At some point it had been decided that, instead of waiting for a trail of paper clues to be set up outside, they would be read out in sequence over coffee, leaving time for a last proper walk. So we sat on in the kitchen with our mugs of Nescafé, chatting over the debris of the meal, waiting for Lyndsey to hand out the pieces of paper. Now it was she who did little pirouettes as she went round the table, hair flaring out with each spin like a small girl dancing between guests on a special occasion – putting napkins on laps or doling out Christmas crackers, say. If she’d whispered in someone’s ear and then sped on, giggling, I wouldn’t have been surprised, but she didn’t. Even so, she might have been half her age.

  Chloe may have been piqued that Lyndsey had reclaimed the game. In any event, she now looked sullen, refusing to engage. Lyndsey carried on twirling regardless, her long thin arm rising and falling as she completed her circuit. After that, it took no time at all for the rest of us to blunder our way through her quotations, trying to work out where the clues were meant to lead to. It was all a bit chaotic, for nobody paid attention to the notional sequencing, but it caused great hilarity. As expected, Rupert was omnivorous in the references he picked up, but Hugh was the best at recognising the sources. Even that success wasn’t enough to win Lyndsey over – Rupert got one of those remote smiles, but Hugh got nothing, no prize at all. There was awkwardness between them now, and yet they’d seemed so comfortable at the start of the week; it was hard to fathom.

  Still, as we set off on our walk they were vaguely together – Lyndsey tripping along the crust of the farm track as Hugh trudged dutifully through the sodden bit. In fact there were a number of now familiar allegiances: Martin and Rupert, with Gloria between them; Eddie and Chloe just behind; Jim and Mei with Barnaby; Priyam, Tyler, Loxton and I at the rear. No one dawdled because there wasn’t time; instead we maintained the kind of pace of which Loxton approved.

  Tyler sent a few inconsequential words in my direction as we started out – enough to make me wonder what on earth I’d been worrying about, as he clearly wasn’t embarrassed – and then began leaning sideways to talk to me behind the backs of the other two. It didn’t really work. As the four of us got into a comfortable rhythm we gradually drifted into pairs, with Loxton and Priyam walking slightly ahead, chatting companionably as they so often did, while Tyler and I kept pace in their wake, trying to avoid the wild daffs. It was just enough of a gap to allow a semi-private conversation – not that we said anything revealing. I mentioned switching from my article on Ivy Williams to my lectures on women’s suffrage; Tyler said he’d finished the John Rawls treatise; and we had a happy exchange about the pattern of our mornings – so innocuous, easy and free of intensity that I’m sure we would happily have chatted for the rest of the walk. But we lost each other at a gate between the fields, when the challenge of negotiating a wet patch caused the various groupings to merge. Suddenly an expanse of glutinous mud, pockmarked by absent cattle, lay between us.

  When we all started off again I found myself next to Barnaby, with whom – apart from that evening over supper – there’d always been a respectful distance, perhaps because I’d been tutoring him. For a few minutes the switch was unwelcome, but Barnaby seemed on the point of opening up. Tyler could wait, I thought, suddenly certain. If you totted them up, we’d had several long talks and, at the very least, there was Gloria’s jibe about hobnobbing to take into account; it might look suspicious if we disappeared again into a space of our own.

  So Barnaby and I navigated the narrow coastal path companionably, talking in little bursts, first one and then the other walking ahead, and gradually something unlocked. There he was, on our last day, revealing his love of using his hands, whether it was gripping an oar, furling a sail or planing a piece of wood. And the surprise of it was all the greater because he admitted that this was probably more important to him than what he was currently doing. As he put it, he’d been climbing the mountain because it was there and everyone expected him to; he’d now realised that while the views might be marvellous at the summit, he didn’t have to go up if he didn’t want to – climbing didn’t have to be his thing.

  How did we get to such a place in such a short time, I wondered, when we reached the end of the outward lap, comfortably apart from the rest of the gang. This, too, was a conversation we’d never have had in Oxford, one that took its cue from the days of doing ordinary things together. Without that intimacy we could never have sat so happily chatting on the clifftop, watching the birds lifting in the slipstreams and the waves thrashing through the fallen rock, listening to the wheeling and the pounding, enjoying the taste of sticky salty air on our faces. We saw a cormorant
flap idly across the surf, dip down and resurface some distance away, and tried to distinguish the harsh trilling of the terns from the sounds of other wildlife. Only the shouts from the rest of our group caused us to set off again.

  By the time we got back to the house, it was clear that Barnaby had had some kind of crisis that year without me or my colleagues being properly aware of it. Giving up rowing had been a trigger, he said. He’d missed being taken out of himself at the start of each day, the peace of the river, the uncomplicated friendships, and his mind had slackened with his body, leaving him listless. But mostly it was down to feeling at odds with a cerebral existence. And perversely, as he described it, our tutorials and the Reading Party had helped him find a way out of that inertia, of feeling terribly tired and dull. First there was the contrast of the few aspects of History that he enjoyed and the many parts he did not, and then he’d had some sort of epiphany sharing with Hugh, who was so patently cut out to be an academic. And realising that he did not want to be a schoolteacher or go into the professions had relieved the pressure; meant he was less terrified of flunking. After all, Finals weren’t everything; they wouldn’t define who he was. Too many people had presumed to tell him what he should do with his life. If he’d known how to listen to the voice inside, he’d have realised that he should make things – boats, probably. He would become a craftsman, pass something on, if he could find someone prepared to teach him. That would be enough.