by Alan Judd
‘Fine. Much as usual.’ Dr Barry reached for the jug. The wariness in his eyes persisted. ‘You don’t approve of me, do you?’
Robert knew there had been no meeting. For a few moments he experienced a sensation of great power and clarity, but he shrank from indulging it. ‘It’s up to you what you do.’
He let Dr Barry take the jug. Dr Barry’s eyes had lost their wariness but retained a quick nervous perception. ‘It takes marriage to face you with your faults,’ he said. ‘Before that they’re simply characteristics. I believe St Paul said something similar about sin and the law, but you’d know all about that.’ He smiled tentatively. ‘I hope I can rely on your discretion.’
Robert thought of the doubt about the baby. He nodded and said nothing.
Dr Barry put the freesias in the jug. ‘There, that’s perfect. I’ll leave them on the table here. Whatever she thinks about gesture, Anne’s a woman where flowers are concerned. She’ll love you for them.’
‘Tim got them. They’re his.’
Dr Barry laughed. ‘So much for gesture. Cock-eyed as everything else.’
Chapter 9
All the college boats improved their positions during Eights Week. The first eight bumped Keble to become Head of the River. Dinner in hall was noisy and prolonged, with much sconcing. The captain of rowing was carried to the JCR bar where celebrations continued into the early hours. Damage was paid for by the rowing club, which had also to pay for that caused in Keble during a midnight raid. A chemist who had never been known to drink was found unconscious in the quad.
The official celebrations were two nights later. Quieter members of college who could spent the night away. Everyone said it was hard on those with Schools approaching but it was pointed out that some of the rowers were also in that position. Although it was no longer possible to get a fourth class degree, the belief that it would have been honourable persisted in some quarters.
Robert’s rehearsal started late that night. He had meant to work beforehand but instead spent the time trying to alter the blocking in the final act. But he wasn’t concentrating and what he did was really only tinkering. Eventually, unwilling any longer to endure their silent reproach, he decided to take his unopened books back to the college library. It was not locked until midnight and once, during his first year when he worked hard, he had studied until 11.30 and had then lain down by the Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society. He had had to wait until morning to be let out by the porter.
The library and the wide wooden stairs leading to it were deserted when he went in. He lingered over books he was supposed to have read long ago, books that the Chaplain now said might be worth a final glance, until the shouting in the quad, distant at first, grew alarmingly closer. He went quickly to the door. The shouting was already at the bottom of the stairs, but out of sight, round the corner. It was obviously the rowing club, intent perhaps on sacking the library. He had started down when the shouting was drowned by the sudden revving of an engine, deafening in the confined space. There was a crash which shook the stairs, followed by laughing and swearing and shouting. He hesitated, then continued down.
Rounding the corner he saw a red-haired man whose name he did not know on a motorbike which pointed up to the stairs. Man and bike were held upright by a dozen or so dinner-jacketed and dishevelled companions. He knew most of them and they roared a mixture of challenge and greeting. The man on the bike grinned. He kick-started it and let out the clutch.
There was another concussing noise. The bike leapt a couple of steps then reared up like a horse, stalled and toppled sideways. The rider fell amongst his supporters and the bike crashed against the wall and lay still, the front wheel pointing upwards and spinning by itself. The shouting and guffawing began again.
No one remarked on Robert’s attitude at the time but several remembered it later. He made no effort to get out of the way but stood, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other hanging limply at his side, as the bike leapt towards him. It fell short but he couldn’t have known it would. He was unflinching. Only after the bike had fallen did he move to the side of the stairs and try to slip past the scrum. It was then that Hansford saw him.
Hansford bellowed across the few feet that separated them. His bow tie was missing, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist and one of his jacket pockets torn. His hair fell straight forward on to his face and his mouth gaped open. ‘Robert!’ he shouted again. ‘Give us a hand!’
Robert stepped round the bike and Hansford clapped him heavily on the shoulder. ‘Good you’re here. Bloody good.’
‘Nice to be here.’
‘Chap’s trying to get the bike upstairs.’
Robert saw it was an elderly Enfield. ‘Pity to spoil that. They’re rare.’
‘Won’t spoil it. Going to put it in the library. Give us a hand.’
‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do.’
‘Bunch of idiots tonight. All pissed. Can’t get anything right.’
The rider remounted to the accompaniment of shouted instructions. Hansford leaned confidentially towards Robert, breathing alcohol. ‘This is not the end of it tonight. Going to do more.’
‘What?’
‘Orpwood look out.’ He added something else which was lost in the roar of the engine and then fell to, pushing on the back of the saddle before the rider was ready to go.
Robert left unnoticed and was soon out of sight. The engine revved furiously for a few seconds, there was another crash and then more shouting.
Much later, after rehearsal that night he walked back to college with Gina. He knew the others in the cast would notice but no longer minded.
‘Do you have any aims?’ she asked after a while.
‘What?’
‘Anything you want to achieve. Aims for life.’
‘Finishing the play.’
‘No job?’
‘Haven’t thought about it.’
‘It’s too late, even if you did. Schools? Do you want a first?’
‘Too late, even if I could.’
‘No aims at all, then?’
‘Afraid not. Is that disgraceful?’
She smiled. ‘It’s one thing I like about you. It’s different from everyone else here. Most people are ambitious. Except, the odd thing is, you’re not that different. You’re the sort of person that normally has aims, much more than most people. And you enjoy being ruthless, as you did with Malcolm.’
‘Do I?’
‘Don’t say you didn’t. It thrilled you. But it’s hard to imagine you without an aim. I don’t know what will become of you; you won’t just do nothing.’
‘I’ll keep you informed.’
‘That won’t be easy. I’m going to Italy for the summer.’
He almost said he would go with her, though he had no money, but the moment passed.
Books and papers littered his staircase. Turning the corner, they came upon records, cassettes, clothes and a broken lampshade. They had to climb over a mattress. On the landing outside Orpwood’s room they found the bedframe.
Orpwood stood just inside the door, his dark eyes bulging and dazed. ‘It’s those rowing bastards,’ he said flatly. ‘Hansford and his lot. I’ve only just got back but I know it must have been them. It’s probably revenge for Hansford’s windows, but I didn’t do that. I know who did, but it wasn’t me and I didn’t put them up to it. If they’ve broken my stereo I shall bloody—’ he trailed off, sounding near to tears.
‘We’ll give you a hand to clear up,’ said Robert.
‘No, I can do it, thanks.’
‘It won’t take long with three of us,’ said Gina.
Orpwood relented and became less apathetic the more they did. He cast surreptitious glances at Gina and by the time his room was restored to something like order he was aggressively cheerful.
‘Hansford and his crowd will pay for this. You have to play them at their own game sometimes. But it’s basically a political struggle and this is just the beginning.’ The t
hought obviously pleased him. ‘Yes, it’s all got to be seen in a politicial perspective. Do you want coffee?’
Robert hesitated. ‘No, thanks, we’re – we’re going upstairs.’ Gina was starting to laugh. ‘Give us a shout if you need any help in the night,’ Robert added with forced carelessness to cover his own further embarrassment.
Orpwood smiled. ‘Thanks. Cheers.’
Feeling awkward made Robert desire Gina more. She paused at his door and he put his hand on her waist.
‘I know now what it is you remind me of,’ she said. ‘A labrador.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s quite endearing. Good-natured and clumsy.’ She entered and sat in the armchair. ‘Tell me about your former lady-love.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘No, so you might as well tell me. You know you’d like to.’
‘What makes you think that?’
She leaned back and lightly pushed her skirt down over her knee. ‘Come on.’
‘She’s called Anne, and she’s now married to Dr Barry and she’s having a baby.’
‘Was Dr Barry the reason you broke up with her?’
‘Partly.’
‘What’s she like in bed?’ Her tone was natural with no hardness or affected nonchalance.
‘That’s not really the point.’
‘Of course it is. Everything else follows from that. You wouldn’t have gone on seeing her if it was awful.’
‘It’s not the whole point.’
‘It is for you.’
He grinned. ‘You have a pretty cynical view of human nature.’
‘We were talking about you.’ She picked up a paper from his desk. ‘What’s this doing here?’
It was his application for theological college which he had left unfolded. She laughed at his discomfort.
‘I wasn’t going to send it, anyway,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Don’t lie, you’re hopeless when you’re lying. Why do you want to do it? It sounds so unlike you. Listen.’ She began reading aloud from one of his answers. ‘Neglect of the Church’s spiritual mission—’
He snatched the form from her, tearing it. She watched with a serious and momentarily tender expression. ‘You’re so silly sometimes,’ she said. ‘You behave more like a fool than you are.’
He shrugged and sat on the floor not far from her chair. She slipped off her shoes and raised one foot so that she could just touch him on the chin with her toe. ‘Wondering what to say next?’
He took hold of her heel and squeezed it until she cried out for him to stop. He took it again, more gently. ‘I think we should do it on High Table.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing her look surprised.
‘What on earth for?’
He didn’t know. ‘So I can think of it when I have dinner and see the President slurping his soup.’
She smiled indulgently. ‘You were probably a very nice little boy. It’s a pity. Now you’re just a labrador.’
They crossed the quad furtively. From somewhere in the New Building came the sound of the rowing club carolling quieter members of the college. The tall doors of the hall were unlocked, as Robert had feared and hoped. Once inside they stood still. There was enough light to make out the long tables and benches with High Table on its raised platform at the end. The portraits were darker patches on the dark walls. It was like the chapel, which he could have suggested instead. There was the usual smell of polish and communal cooking.
‘There’s no chance of the rowdies bursting in on us, is there?’ she asked.
‘They won’t come here. There’s no one to wake.’
‘Why are we whispering?’
‘I don’t know.’ His normal voice was startlingly loud.
‘Now you do,’ she whispered.
They climbed on to High Table beneath the eyes of the founder.
‘You should have brought some cushions.’
‘It’s not that hard.’
‘It is.’
She twisted out from under him. ‘I’ll go on top.’
She hitched up her skirt. It occurred to him that the rowing club might after all burst in, intending perhaps to pile all the tables to the ceiling or lay them out for breakfast in the quad. Or the President might return in search of his pipe lighter.
It was hurriedly done and she got off with a relief that had little to do with the sexual. He lay as he was, wondering whether he would confess this to Tim or Chetwynd. A floorboard creaked.
‘Come on,’ she said.
They did not talk normally until outside. He felt more relieved that he would have admitted and took her hand, but she snatched it away almost immediately to light a cigarette. She threw the lighter back into her bag. ‘Try doing that with someone you love.’
‘You are jealous.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ She put her arm through his. ‘It’s late. Take me home.’
On his way back from her house he ran into Hansford who was walking away from college, very dishevelled, his movements abrupt and hesitant, his direction uncertain.
He stopped when he saw Robert. ‘All bloody stupid really, no harm intended.’ His face was heavy and sorrowful and oddly blotchy. ‘Orpwood’s room. Bloody mess.’
‘I saw it. Postscript to your dinner?’
‘Wasn’t me, though. Other blokes.’
‘But you put them up to it?’
‘No, no. Other blokes, really. All pissed. They went off. I stayed in the library. Came out for a walk. Wanted to get out.’
‘I helped him clear up.’
‘Good, good.’ Hansford stood in bovine passivity, lumpish and crumpled.
‘See you,’ said Robert.
Hansford turned and walked with him. ‘Me that has to watch out. They’ll be after me now.’
‘Assassination squads?’
‘Depends on Geneva. If talks fail, political chaos, what have they got to lose? Give them what they want. No holds barred. Do anything. Should’ve got my gun. Keep thinking about your escape route.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
The main gates were locked, and rather than walk round Robert suggested they climb the wall by the President’s lodgings. It was one of his favourite spots and he had become quite adept. Hansford was not. It was amusing the first few times to watch him graze his hands and knees but it soon became wearisome. Robert suggested he went round to the back gate after all but Hansford was determined.
Eventually Robert braced himself against the wall and formed a footrest with his hands. After one or two false starts Hansford got his foot in place and heaved himself up. His knee caught Robert on the lip and made it bleed a little.
Hansford straddled the wall like a dummy. After increasingly irritated advice from Robert he lowered himself down the other side. Robert climbed with gratifying agility. The President’s door was only a few feet away.
‘Move back and I’ll jump.’
Hansford did not move and so Robert jumped to one side of him, at which point Hansford moved. Robert tried to change direction and fell amongst the President’s dustbins. There was a prolonged clanging. He lay sprawled amongst the upturned bins, blood on his lips and pains in his shin and arms. Hansford laughed.
The President’s porch light came on and two windows were lit. One opened abruptly, framing the President’s stocky figure. He wore a blue dressing-gown and his sparse hair stood up in tufts. Robert tried to rise, trusting his weight to the remaining upright bin, but it was empty and he pulled it over with another clang.
The President spoke crisply. ‘Mr Stevens, Mr Hansford – if either of you makes any more noise tonight I shall be forced to recognize you both. Goodnight.’ He closed the window firmly and the lights went out.
Hansford suppressed his laughter until they were out of earshot. ‘Bloody funny,’ he kept saying. ‘Don’t you think? Bloody funny.’
Robert wiped the blood from his mouth. His leg hurt and he limped. They crossed the dons’ car park and h
e saw that the windscreen of the Jaguar was now all but covered with sticky labels threatening imminent removal.
‘Sorry I made such a cock-up of that wall,’ said Hansford, more sober now. ‘Never was exactly agile. I ought to practise if I’m going to use that escape route.’
‘You ought.’
‘It may be too late. They might come for me tonight.’
‘I’d stay awake if I were you.’
After they parted Robert slept quickly and deeply. Some hours later, though, he woke abruptly, convinced there was someone else in his room. He lay still, eyes open, fearful, not breathing. Someone sat on the edge of his bed.
‘Forgive me. It’s terrible to wake anyone at any time but I am in need.’
Chetwynd’s voice was low and quiet with the too precise pronunciation that indicated drunkenness. ‘I have two needs. The first is conversation. I shall make no demands. I need only to know that someone is listening.’
Robert heard him go to the window where he pulled back the curtain a few inches. It was not sunrise, but a pale stealthy light crept into the room. The clock on the chair ticked loudly, its hands at ten to four.
Chetwynd was wearing full subfusc, his gown properly on his shoulders, his mortarboard horizontally on his head. The tassle of his cap dangled before his left eye. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed again.
‘You know this is the first day of my Schools? Of course you don’t. Why should you? I’m prepared as if for ritual disembowlment – in the matter of dress, that is.’
Robert sat up. ‘You been up all night?’
‘I’ve drunk my way through to alcoholic clarity. My fear is that it might not last until I get to the examination. I write better when drunk.’
‘Five and a half hours to go.’
‘That’s the other reason I came. No more whisky. Do you have any? I shan’t drink here. I’ll go back to the crypt.’
‘No.’ Robert never had any food or drink of his own. ‘Tim has on the bookshelf in his outer room. The door won’t be locked.’
‘I know he has but I wanted to ask and I know you better. I never take from friends. You’ve given the perfect reply. I shall repay him.’
Robert remembered the revolver. ‘What happens if you sober up halfway through?’
