by Alan Judd
‘Thank you.’
‘Almost too good. I hope you won’t go off the boil before first night.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’ She hitched her bag over her shoulder and left.
Robert climbed into bed that night feeling drained. Everything seemed to demand of him though he suspected that at bottom he demanded everything of himself. His concerns were real enough, they existed, yet they felt like diversions. He avoided asking himself from what.
The play had begun like a love affair in which all seemed possible, then the drudgery of rehearsal took over and the original inspiration fragmented into a hundred petty concerns, none so petty as not to demand his attention. He knew now with despairing certainty that it would not work as it should but all he could do was to trudge stubbornly on, hoping without hope that what had inspired him would still somehow be bodied forth on the stage. Then there was the quiet cancer of Schools, now another day closer, another day without his opening a book. Thoughts of Anne and the baby brought sharper pains but, unlike Schools, there was no finality about them, they led nowhere. He was no more sure about what he felt than about what he wanted. He did not trust his own reactions to anything.
He longed more for respite than for sleep. It was as if he had been wrestling with something for so many years that he no longer knew how to stop. As sleep crept over him he heard his own voice asking aloud which way he should go. An answering voice, not his own, spoke his name and asked which way he wanted.
He woke instantly and lay in the dark with his heart beating fast. It had been a glancing touch, the brush of a wing, no more. He waited vainly for something else. The curtains over the small window were light and still in the darkness. He got up and looked out. There was no moon and the rooftops were jumbled and angular. A maverick bell chimed once. He sat in his armchair in darkness and silence, waiting, but nothing happened. Then he thought that nothing would happen, that it was for him to initiate. He switched on the light, sat at his desk and rapidly completed the application for the theological college. He returned to bed fully awake yet more at peace now than for months and fell quickly into a deep dreamless sleep.
It was still with him the next morning, a cleansing sense of calm and purpose. He determined to work and gathered together his Old Testament books. It was easier than the New; the Yahweh of the Old was an acceptable mystery, but the God of the New was a demand for which few were ready. To love and obey meant a revolution in oneself and hardly anyone wanted that, any more than they wanted to give everything away or love their neighbours. He would come to that later, perhaps.
He sorted out his essays, put them by the books, then sat staring before reassembling everything into a neat pile. A change of scene was needed. Robert often said he was oblivious to his surroundings and certainly he made no attempt to impose his personality upon his room. There was no decoration of any sort, his clothes were jumbled in a trunk in the corner, his books stacked on the floor. He spent so little time there that it was hard not to suspect that it depressed him. Yet it was clear that he liked homeliness. He would sit and talk in other people’s rooms for hours, especially Tim’s. Sometimes he claimed he lacked the homely touch, at others that he could not be bothered.
There was a note on his door to call Tim. It was unlike Tim to be up so early but Robert found him sitting barefoot in his armchair drinking tea and reading the New Yorker by the subdued light of his brass table lamp. His stereo system was playing a recording of bird song which he always said was better than anything nature could produce.
Tim pointed at the mantelpiece. ‘Chetwynd’s been in already. Said he couldn’t rouse you. Left you that.’
It was a reproduction of a seventeenth-century French painting in which two red-haired, bare-breasted sisters were at their toilette. One tweaked the other’s nipple while in the other hand she held a wedding ring, her fingers forming an identical gesture.
‘Said he owed you a favour,’ continued Tim. ‘Said he’d paid for it too. Tea?’
Robert shook his head. ‘I’m going to work.’
‘Really, or are you just trying to make me feel bad?’
‘Go and count the gargoyles.’
Tim sat with the empty cup in his lap. He held the big teapot waveringly in one hand. ‘How are Dr and Mrs Barry?’
‘Well, well.’
‘My, my.’ He poured the tea shakily. ‘With you working I’m going to have to think of something else to do.’ Some of the tea missed the cup but he continued pouring and grinning. ‘It’s hot, you know, really hot. I am in real pain.’
Robert left the painting where it was and headed for the Bodleian. The college library was nearer but he wanted to walk. It was already hot.
He went to Duke Humfrey’s Room in the Old Bodleian, where he had first seen Anne. It was cool and quiet, smelling of old volumes and old wood. By Oxford standards it was still early and there were plenty of empty desks. He set out his books and papers and again studied them for a few minutes before deciding to go to George’s Café in the covered market for coffee and a read of the paper. Then he would get down to work. He had had no breakfast and, having established a place in the library, he felt it possible to go elsewhere with an easier conscience. Days had passed like that.
The covered market was a bustling cheerful place where butchers displayed hanging game and stuffed animals and where the smell of ground coffee spread everywhere from a shop in the corner. George’s sold tea and sweet Camp coffee in large mugs. The walls were covered by posters of plays, concerts and meetings. It was filled in the mornings by working people having what some still called their elevenses and by undergraduates at breakfast.
He was passing the grocer’s when he saw Suzanne. Looking at her dark hair and quick pale features again, he began to see Tim’s point. She smiled when she saw him – ‘showing the gap’ was what Tim called it. ‘You look as if you’ve just fallen out of bed,’ she said.
‘Coffee in George’s. Want some?’
Her features showed struggle. ‘All right, if it’s quick. Liz is giving a dinner party and I’m doing some of her shopping because she’s got an essay crisis. I’ll join you there.’
Waiting for her was one of the few periods in the last year or so when he felt he had some control over his life. He had deliberately created a situation in which he now had choice. He could either do what he ought – work – or do something quite different. The thought was mildly exhilarating, though he recognized the element of self-deceit. He had been making the choice without acknowledging it for most of the past year. He was making it now.
When Suzanne came she pushed up the sleeves of her loose white blouse and held her mug of coffee in both hands. She talked of a summer holiday in Greece. He remembered Tim saying she had told him she did not know what she was going to do.
‘Tim’s coming to see you this morning,’ he said, spontaneously changing what he had been thinking. ‘He’s probably on his way now. He’s going to suggest a pub lunch in Wytham and a walk.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I must work. Anyway, I told him I wouldn’t see him till after Schools.’
‘He’s asked me, too. We’re going in the new car I’ve got. Old car, rather. It won’t take long. We’ve all got Schools. We can all work first.’
She put down her coffee and sat back. ‘The disarming thing about you, Robert, is you’re so obvious.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, I could button up my blouse or sit at another table. Whichever makes you more comfortable.’
‘I can see you better as you are.’
She laughed and pushed back her hair with both hands. ‘I suppose I could work this evening instead. I wasn’t going to.’
Books lay open on Tim’s desk but he was on his knees with a screwdriver doing something to one of the stereo speakers. His coffee apparatus was gurgling. He took the news with a resigned grin and tossed the screwdriver into the air, watching it fall point first on to Ryle’s Concept of the Mind.
‘So now it takes someone else to chat up my woman for me. She wouldn’t have said yes if it had been just me.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t realize she’s your woman.’
‘Not much chance she’s going to find out with you there.’
‘I’ll push off by myself while you two go for a walk. I’ll take a book.’
‘Very convincing.’ He got up and retrieved the screwdriver. ‘Why don’t we take the BMW? I don’t trust your Jag. I was listening to it when the bloke delivered it.’
‘I want to try it out. Anyway, I’ve got to move it. It’s in the dons’ car park.’
‘If it moves.’
There was still time to work. To help fill it Robert went to the porter’s lodge but there was only a letter from home. It was in his father’s carefully sloping handwriting, asking if he had heard from the theological college. The vicar, who had sent a reference, had been asking after him. The vicar had said again that they should be very proud of him and had told his mother that they should travel down to see him get his degree. When would that be? His father would need to know so that he could get the day off.
Robert pushed the letter hurriedly into the back pocket of his jeans. His father would have written it painstakingly on the kitchen table between tea and the television news and would have posted it when he started work at five the next morning. Robert pushed it deeper into his pocket, as if to stifle it. Letters from home brought with them an unbearable sadness and sweetness, an innocence that made him tender and hopeless.
As he turned to go he saw Hansford peering over the top of the letter rack, the only man in college who could.
‘Robert.’
‘What?’
Hansford indicated by facial contortion that he wished to speak outside. In the quad he took Robert by the arm and led him to the shade. ‘Seen Orpwood today or heard anything?’
‘No.’ Robert was anxious to get to work now.
‘They’re planning something.’
‘Aren’t they always?’
‘This is different. That Iraqi chap’s speaking at the Union tonight. We’re demonstrating against it – peacefully, of course. I think they’re planning a bit of violent disruption.’
‘Well, the police will be there.’
‘No, more personal than that. Look what I found in my pigeon-hole.’ He held out a piece of lined paper on which was written in untidy print, HANSFORD IS A FACIST. POLITICAL DINOSAURS REMEMBER MUSSOLINI.
Robert was thinking that it might take time to start the Jaguar. The battery wasn’t very good. ‘Dinosaurs lasted much longer than we have. Nothing to worry about if that’s what they think of you.’
‘But they’re mad, this lot. They don’t know about the dinosaurs. They only know about the meat hook.’
‘Childish malice.’
Hansford shook his head. ‘Children are vicious.’
He wanted Robert to examine the handwriting but Robert said he had to rush and promised to keep his eyes open. He was stopped after a few yards by Hansford’s voice, now at normal volume.
‘You haven’t by any chance lost your bike, have you? Had it pinched or anything?’
Robert put his hand to his head. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Lent it to someone the other day and can’t remember who.’
‘It’s blue, isn’t it? Straight handlebars and no mudguards, with a broken saddle and the three-speed whatsit hanging off?’
‘Sounds about right. Where is it?’
‘Down near the station. I’m going down there. I’ll bring it back. I can wheel it alongside mine while I’m riding.’
‘You sure?’
‘No problem. See you.’
Hansford mounted his own bike, which he made look small and frail. Robert waved goodbye. He always felt guilty for not liking Hansford more and because of that pretended to like him more than he did.
In winter the White Hart was quiet and had a fire but in summer it was hard to get even a seat in the garden. They made do with a low wall. Suzanne and Tim had salad, Robert his usual pie and beans.
‘Didn’t you say you were going to wash your hands?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ He went to the gents and tried to get the oil off. The battery had been low, as expected, and the carburetters had flooded. He’d had to take out the plugs and dry them, then had been further delayed by an altercation with the Domestic Bursar about parking places. He had had to feign contrition. On the way Tim had calmly remarked that it wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
‘Can’t do any better without Vim or Swarfega,’ he said, rejoining them.
‘It’s nice here. It was a good idea.’ She smiled and looked at them both. ‘Whose ever it was.’
‘Better without all these people. Makes you want to machine-gun them.’
‘That’s very sweet of you. Sorry – men don’t like being called sweet, do they?’
‘He’s just had to be nice to the Bursar,’ said Tim.
‘Poor thing.’ She talked about the history of Wytham. Tim said that each time anyone told him about Oxfordshire he resolved to learn something for himself and that he also made the same remark each time.
The conversation was pleasant but dissatisfying, as if they were skirting the issue. Robert had no precise idea what the issue was, only an urge to say or do something decisive or get away. He noticed for the first time how much Suzanne moved her shoulders when she spoke, so that they seemed to rise and fall with the stress patterns in her sentences. He looked at her as if she were at rehearsal. Tim made little effort, seemingly content with his salad, but his silences betrayed tension and self-consciousness. Robert was about to say that he would go off and read while they walked when Suzanne abruptly stopped speaking. They both looked at her.
‘You’re neither of you listening to a word I’m saying,’ she said. ‘What are you thinking about?’
Tim smiled insincerely. ‘I was thinking of Horace Walpole’s, “This world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” ’
Suzanne sat back and laughed helplessly. One hand shielded her eyes against the sun, the other held her stomach as if in pain. When she recovered she lent forward and touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re so funny when you’re trying to be serious.’
Tim continued to smile. ‘I was wondering about the feelers who ceased to feel.’
‘No one ceases to feel.’
‘You think not?’
‘Of course not. They just feel differently.’ She stood.
‘I’ll get another drink.’
Tim stood. ‘I’ll get it.’
She took the glasses. ‘You can’t be profound and masterful at the same time. You’ll give me hiccoughs.’
Afterwards the three of them wandered up the lane towards the woods. Robert took Heaton’s The Hebrew Kingdoms, saying he would go off by himself and read in a field. Before they reached the bend, though, the quiet was shattered by a black Ford Escort with lowered suspension, wide wheels, darkened windows and an oversized exhaust. It roared up behind them and shot past within inches of Robert’s arm. The tyres squealed on the corner as it accelerated out of sight. Tim swore, something he very rarely did.
When they rounded the bend they saw the car turning at the top of the hill. It stopped for a minute or two, then started rapidly back down towards them.
‘It’s coming back, the horrible thing,’ Suzanne said and stepped to the side of the road.
Robert was about to follow but saw that Tim had not. Tim’s narrowed gaze was fixed on the car. Robert did not attempt to catch his eye but stayed beside him. He sensed in Tim a careless indifference and himself felt a sudden excitement. The car was suddenly much closer. Suzanne said something but the two of them continued walking. The car flashed its lights. Robert looked up from the glare to the sky. Tim looked straight ahead.
There was another loud squeal and the car skidded to the side, almost into the ditch. When Robert looked again there was still smoke coming from its tyres. In
side were two young men and he realized there might be a fight. He didn’t want that, his initial anger was gone, so he stared at the car as if he might want a fight. Tim continued walking with the same determined, blank expression as before. From close-to Robert could see that the men were very young, perhaps no more than seventeen. They did not look pugnacious. The driver scowled and made a V-sign through the windscreen, then drove off more slowly.
They walked on without speaking until the sound had died away.
‘What was that supposed to prove?’ Suzanne asked quietly.
Robert glanced at Tim. ‘I think we were angry with them.’
‘You might have died.’
‘We shall anyway,’ said Tim.
‘They were dangerous,’ Robert added.
She looked away. ‘It’s you two that are dangerous.’
Robert finally left them at the top of the hill, insisting against Suzanne’s protestations of disbelief that he really was going to read.
Tim and Suzanne went on across the field at the top and strolled into the green depths of the woods. There were high beech trees, each a towering, spreading, many-levelled universe. The trunks were massive and smooth, the boughs strong and gentle. The tallest thing in man’s kingdom and a sensible thing to worship, Tim thought; had there been anything he wanted to worship. Suzanne talked about the natural history research that was done in the woods and pointed to the nets, markers, wire baskets and other contraptions. Tim was interested.
They circled back towards Wytham and came into a high field where Tim climbed the barbed-wire fence with the aid of a branch, then helped her over, keeping hold of her hand. The wood was behind them and on either side. Before them the field sloped steeply at first, levelling off towards the village. Highland cattle, red, shaggy, wide-horned beasts, grazed near the priory at the bottom. Beyond were the towers and spires of Oxford, dominated now by modern buildings. The heat was aggressive.
He found a patch that looked clear of thistles and suggested they sat. When they lay down she let him kiss her. They looked solemnly into each other’s eyes and, finding nothing to say, kissed again. He lay back on the grass, the warm weight of her head on his arm, the sun hot on his eyelids. The grass was prickly.
