by Alan Judd
‘Such self-effacement is never honest. You nearly always have breakfast, don’t you? At least it’s better here than in most colleges. I’ve eaten in nearly all. No one notices. They don’t realize the meal tokens are different. I take precautions, of course. There’s usually a list of people who live out in each lodge and I select a name in advance. The only problem is women.’ They paused beneath the copper beech. ‘At breakfast, I mean. They ruin it by talking. They have to, it’s a compulsion, like dogs peeing. It doesn’t matter what about, if they see each other they have to speak. I avoid the mixed colleges.’
‘Not so easy now.’
‘No. So please thank God, if your studies ever puts you in touch, for sparing this one. Though I’m told there are elements in the SCR anxious to fall in with the fad. The Chaplain is against it, of course. Quite properly. One needs a refuge. The President is torn between his natural horror of the sex and his desire to appear liberal. Not even the women’s colleges are for it. No one actually wants it. It’s simply fashion.’
They stood looking back across the garden. The sky was again monotonously blue and the morning sun sparkled in the famous stained-glass windows of the chapel. A gardener watered roses. From not far away came the sound of traffic, acceptably muffled by the intervening walls.
Chetwynd nodded towards the chapel. ‘That’s what I want to talk about. Rather, what’s beneath it. The crypt. With your help I want to move in this morning.’
‘You’re going to live in it?’
‘It’s the noise in the New Building. If I stay a night longer I shall take an axe to every sound system and hifi in the place. Not that the college authorities would seriously object but the destructive urge, once indulged, is insatiable. I’d start on the furniture, move on to the people, then the buildings and finally myself – a grand finale, running round like a decapitated chicken, spouting blood and swiping at everything. But I don’t want it yet.’
‘Better move into the crypt, then.’
‘Easier, that’s all. I often run away from temptations. That’s why I gave you the revolver and the bullet.’
‘We’ve still got them.’
‘I hope you have. And don’t do anything silly. I shall probably want them back.’ They headed for the New Building. ‘I’ll leave some things in my room to make it look occupied but the important stuff I’ll take.’
It was not difficult to move him since he did not have much, though what there was was tidy and cared for. Many of the books had clearly been stolen.
‘This,’ said Chetwynd, holding a large illustrated history of the piano, ‘was Blackwell’s pride and joy. The display copy, especially mounted and guarded. Five days of planning. My greatest achievement. I steal mainly from Blackwell’s because I hate them. They’re so pleased with themselves and so hot on shoplifters. I steal from other shops only if they offend me. Libraries I never touch, a despicable crime. If only the Bodleian would appoint me as custodian I would reduce their losses dramatically. I can always tell a thief.’
He explained that he had discovered a way into the crypt via a lavatory under the stairs adjoining the chapel. The wall opposite the toilet had a door which looked like a cupboard but actually opened on to stone steps.
‘What happens if someone’s in the loo when you want to come in or out?’ asked Robert.
‘When I’m in I’ll lock the lavatory door from the inside. Those in need will find another. If someone’s using it while I’m out I’ll wait for him or her to finish. I shall only ever be seen entering or leaving the loo. Perfect explanation. Also, when I’m in I shall have the loo to myself, something I’ve always cherished. Nothing like a leisurely evacuation. One of the greatest physical pleasures.’
‘I wish I had one to myself.’
‘You can use this if you give me sufficient notice.’
‘I’m not sure I’m that regular. It depends what I eat.’
‘Train yourself. I do. I have the main one at 10.30 and sometimes a subsidiary at 6.45.’
Robert smiled. ‘Being with you makes me feel quite normal.’
‘It’s not being with me. I suspect you always feel normal to yourself. I never do, you see, which is why I talk, talk, talk but rarely act. I fear to act. You, on the other hand, are capable of acting. Everything feels normal to you because it’s you that’s doing it – yes?’
‘Too early. Ask later.’
The crypt was used as a lumber room for old college furniture discarded in favour of newer, less comfortable fittings. They cleared a space in a corner and positioned camp-bed, desk and chair. The space was invisible from the main entrance, which was in any case practically never used. A 60-watt bulb gave enough light for reading.
‘If I’m absent on the morning of my first paper,’ Chetwynd said, ‘you will know where to find the body. But don’t tell anyone. Leave it so that future generations may find a skeleton bent over Beowulf. On the nights before Schools my ghost will wail through every quadraphonic in the New Building.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘This keeps me sane. Look to yourself.’
Robert left Chetwynd to settle in and went to Tim’s room. Tim was sitting at his desk, wearing only a small white towel. His body was very thin and white, his expression distant and abstracted. The curtains were drawn as usual and the room was lit only by the brass lamp.
‘You working?’ asked Robert, surprised.
‘Wondering why I don’t. Been sitting here all night.’
Robert started to withdraw. ‘Okay. See you.’
‘Don’t go.’ Tim got up and began slowly assembling his coffee apparatus. ‘And I won’t work today because I sat up all night. And I won’t work this evening because we’ve got that supper at Dr Barry’s.’ He emptied the water out of the window, looking down afterwards to see if anyone was beneath.
Robert realized with a start that he had forgotten about the supper arranged weeks earlier as one of a series for Schools candidates. He could not imagine how he could have let it slip his mind. ‘Chetwynd’s moved into the crypt because of the noise in the New Building. Don’t blame him. I’d hate it, wouldn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘The noise. Hate it.’
‘Suppose so.’
Tim was still withdrawn and lethargic. His movements were mechanical, his eyes dull and hopeless.
‘Something worrying you?’ Robert asked, expecting to hear about Suzanne.
Tim smiled thinly. ‘Nothing worries me.’ He smiled again, more humorously. ‘That’s what’s been worrying me all night. Once I get talking I stop worrying.’
Eventually the college bell rang for midday. Tim opened the curtains a few inches. ‘If you’ve got no striptease with Gina lined up come out to a pub in the country. Another pub. No companions this time. I want to fill up with petrol on the way back.’
‘I must learn some lines before rehearsal.’
‘Was that the work you said you were going to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring them with you.’
They headed north until turning off the main road towards Great Tew, a thatched village in decay. The landlord had lived in a large house hidden by trees. He could not afford to maintain the village but refused to sell houses to weekenders or to people unconnected with it. Unable to afford to repair or to buy, many of the tenants had moved away and their homes had fallen into ruin. Some remained and prospered, others just got by. A few cottages were in good condition with trim thatch, repointed brickwork and well-stocked gardens. Others such as the pub were intact in the front but collapsing at the back. Many more were derelict, with cracked and bulging walls and collapsed roofs. Chicken scratched amongst damp broken floorboards, the gardens were hopelessly overgrown, wells and rusty water pumps lurked in the grass. The village stocks were dilapidated but complete. The impression was of a place visited by plague or famine.
Conversation in the bar, murmured and softly accented, stopped when they entered. The villagers were wary of newsm
en, council officials and do-gooders. Talk resumed when Robert and Tim took their cheese rolls and Guinnesses to the window.
Afterwards they followed a track past a ruined smithy, then took a footpath across the field at the back. They passed well-stocked flowering gardens better preserved than their cottages and were followed for a part of the way by a black bantam. Robert, picking up a stick to throw, accidentally frightened it. At the bottom of the field a few fly-pestered cattle were tucked into the hedge. They gazed mournfully, their tails twitching. Robert took off his shirt. His shoulders were red from doing the same when punting.
‘One day soon we’ll wake up and there’ll be a Schools paper,’ said Tim. ‘What then?’
‘It’ll be too late to worry.’
‘It’s the bit before it’s too late that worries me.’
‘Something worries you then.’
‘I don’t believe they’re all-important but I can’t convince myself they’re utterly trivial. And I hate anything in-between.’
Robert threw his stick into the hedge. ‘ “Because thou art lukewarm and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth.” ’
Beyond the hedge was a house so tumbled down it was hard to distinguish it from the overgrown bank. Brambles merged with the roof, grass grew in the gutters, weeds through the walls. Robert sat on the kitchen step and went through his lines. Tim prompted from within, sitting on the floor against the old black kitchen range. Bits of plaster had fallen from the ceiling and as Tim read he rubbed them into the floorboards with the palm of his hand. After a while Robert put his copy down and recited the lines with his head in his hands. The sun slanted across the doorstep on to his bare back. During one unusually long pause, when Tim was about to prompt, Robert spoke without looking round. ‘Have you ever lost sleep over anyone?’
Tim stopped moving his hand amongst the plaster. ‘No.’
‘Eaten less food?’
‘No.’
‘Ever met anyone you thought you couldn’t live without?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think you could feel that strongly about anyone?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Which means no.’
Tim picked up a handful of plaster and threw it over Robert’s head and shoulders. Some stuck in his hair. ‘Suzanne still has a teddy bear. I feel quite strongly about that.’
They followed a track past a farm and back to the village. There was a butcher open three mornings a week and a general store and post office. Through the store’s small window they could see sweets, bicycle pumps, wool, batteries, paraffin, bacon, hairclips and packets of Rizla Greens. Tim bought a local paper. He was served by an old lady with whom he exchanged appropriate remarks about the weather while stroking the fluffy cat that was sitting on a box of chocolates. In the back room an old man slept in an armchair by an open stove.
‘What did you do that for?’ asked Robert when he came out.
‘Nothing. I just like going into those places.’
They filled up with petrol on the ring road. By the time they got back the afternoon was almost over. Tim walked along to the covered market. It was shutting when he got there, filled with the noise and bustle of people going home. He lingered by the shoe shop in the Turl, wondering about leather boots. Robert went for his run.
Chapter 8
The supper with Anne and Dr Barry was early, partly so that Anne should not be late to bed and partly to accommodate Robert’s having to go to rehearsal. Tim forecast that it would be like a condemned man’s last meal, though Schools were still over a week away.
He lay long in his bath and dressed slowly afterwards, savouring the solitude. When Robert arrived, apparently brisk and cheerful, he adapted to what he thought Robert in cheerful mood would want. It was a process requiring neither consciousness nor effort, but it made him aware of the inevitable falsehood in any of his dealings with others.
‘This may turn out to be better than we thought,’ Robert said. ‘I found out who the other guests are – Hansford and Orpwood. Could end up with blood on the carpet.’
‘And rival petitions circulating the table.’
Robert did not look forward to seeing Dr Barry. He had told no one about the Bursar’s secretary but the thought continued to make him sad, not simply on Anne’s behalf but generally. Nor had he told Tim that he had seen Suzanne at the Union with David Long. He felt a growing sense of hopelessness, which was why he had made himself breezily purposeful.
When they arrived they found the lodgers out and Anne upstairs. Dr Barry, looking harrassed, was carrying chairs through the dining-room windows to the lawn. His manner was as breezy as Robert’s.
‘Her idea, ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘Everything neatly set up in the house, easy, comfortable, no logistical problems, and suddenly it has to be on the lawn. Has to be – the weather may break soon, the last chance this summer, more difficult to eat out when the baby comes, you lot will prefer it and God knows what else.’ He lowered his voice and stood very close, a habit he had that made nearly everyone uncomfortable. ‘One of the spin-offs of the interesting condition. Great importance attaches to trivia, other things pass them by altogether. Same with sex. One moment you’re accused of being unloving and ignoring them and the next they’re begging to be left alone. Not that there’s much sex in marriage, anyway. You wait and see.’
Hansford arrived wearing a blazer and school tie, Orpwood a bright blue tie and tweed jacket in which he looked uncomfortable. His shirt collar was considerably larger than his thin neck.
Anne came slowly down the stairs, in a pink dress that looked like a night gown. She did not glance at her husband. ‘We’re eating in the garden. Hope that’s all right.’
The guests expressed appropriate pleasure. There was a slight pause, then everyone tried to move in unison through the dining room windows. Anne smiled at Robert when the others had gone out, but turned away quickly as if to forestall him. Over drinks Orpwood talked earnestly to Dr Barry about standardization of markings.
Hansford edged Robert away from the others. ‘See – he’s got a blue tie on,’ he said, nodding at Orpwood. ‘Nearly asked him if he was defecting.’ He bent to the waist with suppressed laughter.
Next it was Orpwood who attached himself to Robert, just as the food was being brought out. ‘No idea he was coming,’ he said of Hansford. ‘Do you think old Barry did it deliberately? I mean, he can’t not know.’ He sipped his white wine with nervous haste. ‘This isn’t bad, though, is it? I don’t often have wine, usually beer. Not that I’ve anything against it. If it’s wet I’ll drink it. How about you?’
Robert’s glass was already empty. He had noticed several times recently that he was the first to finish. ‘Same with me, I suppose, except that it varies a bit depending on where I am and who I’m with.’
‘That’s because drinking’s a social convention. Nothing to do with thirst.’ Tim and Hansford were helping bring out plates and food. Orpwood watched warily. ‘Do you think we ought to give a hand?’
‘No need at the moment. We can help clear up.’
Orpwood looked relieved. ‘Good idea. Don’t let me forget.’
He drew closer, his back to the others. ‘Someone told me they’ve got girl lodgers here.’
Robert was careful not to smile. ‘I suspect they’re out tonight. I don’t think we’re missing much.’
Orpwood nodded knowledgably. ‘Very likely not.’
They sat at a garden table and ate rice, salad and lukewarm meat. It had never occurred to Robert that Anne might not be a good cook. He had never thought of her as having to do anything like that. Nor, he realized as he munched a tasteless piece of lettuce, had he ever thought of her as a person who ate and digested like other people, a person in whose stomach were acids and foul juices, whose kidneys, bladder and long intestine functioned unceasingly and were warm and stinking. She ate heartily, laughing and talking, her brown eyes shining. He hated what he was thinking but would not let go of
it, and wilfully imagined the gastric slime.
Conversation moved from the role of ceremony in public life to the importance of gesture, public or private. It was becoming rather like a tutorial. Hansford and Orpwood, subdued by convention, competed in labyrinthine reasonableness without once addressing each other directly. Tim made occasional forays, once or twice catching Robert’s eyes and not quite suppressing a smile. Anne argued earnestly and with unusual abruptness. Robert thought of cancer cells, silently mutating. It was like thinking something forbidden. There could be no hope, no change but for the worse, nothing would last. He looked up into the branches of a poplar. Its leaves shimmered and trembled against the limitless evening sky.
As in the tutorial, it was Dr Barry who recalled him. ‘What do you think, Robert?’
‘About what?’
Everyone laughed except Tim, who smiled slightly.
‘Jan Palach, or rather his self-immolation during the Prague Spring in 1968 when the Russians marched in. Are such gestures useful, futile, virtuous, foolish, brave?’
‘Futile,’ interrupted Anne firmly.
‘In that case only, or at all times and in all places?’
‘Always. You don’t help anything by doing away with yourself. It’s much better to try to do something about whatever it is.’ She spoke doggedly with her head down, addressing her empty plate. ‘Or you just have to put up with it and try to do good in some other way.’
‘I agree,’ said Hansford, holding up his hand as if defending her. ‘Unless you can see your death will help in some way – no greater love than this and all that – it’s a waste of time. I must say I don’t fancy it myself very much, not the way he did it, anyway.’
‘That’s not really agreeing,’ said Anne quietly.
Dr Barry ignored her and looked at Orpwood, whose words tumbled out. ‘Well, no, but I mean I basically agree with the proposition that the gesture is futile unless it leads to a concrete result which I can’t see happening in the kind of case we’re talking about. And if it did it wouldn’t be a gesture, it would be – you know – a means to an end.’
