The Noonday Devil

by Alan Judd

  The tea was cold.

  ‘How’d it go?’ Tim asked drowsily.

  ‘Not bad for first night. It’ll get better.’

  ‘When should I see it?’

  ‘Give it two more nights.’

  Tim drank and proffered the bottle. Robert shook his head. ‘Tea’s fine.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Seen Suzanne?’

  ‘Not since we three went to Wytham. Something about that day put her off, more off than she was.’

  Robert again remembered her with David Long outside the Union. ‘It was our not getting out of the way of that car. Too self-destructive. Women don’t like that.’

  ‘Thought it might have turned her on. You know, sympathy, save a soul and all that. Wish I were an anguished monk. She’d prefer that.’

  ‘You still could be.’

  ‘Wouldn’t believe me. Wouldn’t believe anything I said. Probably wouldn’t believe anything I did, either. Always say there’s some other reason. Don’t blame her.’ He smiled. ‘But we send letters and notes daily. She’s coming to the Merton Ball with me.’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘If she doesn’t change her mind. Have some whisky.’

  ‘Tea’s fine.’

  Tim leaned forward holding the bottle unsteadily. ‘Please.’

  Robert emptied his tea back into the pot and held out his cup.

  ‘To Hansford.’ said Tim. ‘I hear he’s up and in a wheelchair.’

  ‘And to the cat.’

  ‘I’d forgotten the cat.’

  It was raining harder. ‘I want to walk. Come with me? Make sure I get back, you know.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Tell you when we get there.’ He took a silver hip-flask from his cupboard and filled it with whisky. ‘Bottle’s a bit ostentatious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you rich or very rich?’

  ‘Family money plus two rich stepfathers, plus shares in the distillery.’

  They walked for about twenty minutes in the steady rain. Tim took regular swigs from the flask. Robert had one every other time. When Tim stopped to pee in the shadow of Magdalen Wall Robert leaned against the lamp-post, pressing the back of his head against it and looking up at the rain.

  Tim emerged haltingly from the shadow. ‘Feels like I peed in my pants.’

  ‘Maybe you did.’

  ‘Not sure it was even me that peed. Never trust what I feel.’

  They climbed back in the way Robert had come with Hansford, this time avoiding the dustbins. The Jaguar was still in the don’s car park and yet more notices had been stuck on it. There was only one small part of the windscreen uncovered.

  ‘I suppose I could move it now.’

  ‘If it’ll start.’

  ‘Gate’s locked.’

  Robert moved off but Tim remained by the car, his hand on the roof. He looked very pale. ‘I’m going to throw up.’

  ‘Don’t do it there, do it on the grass.’ said Robert quickly.

  Tim shook his head. ‘Can’t move.’

  Robert took him round the waist, keeping himself behind, then moved him carefully across the grass to the cherry tree. He propped him up against it and stepped back. ‘Go on, then.’

  Tim bent but did not retch. His pallor showed even in the dark. He shook his head again. ‘Can’t. Want to but can’t.’

  ‘Put your finger in your throat.’

  Tim tried a couple of times, ineffectually. ‘Squeamish.’

  Standing to one side, Robert took him by the hair and with his other hand poked his fingers into his mouth. Tim’s abdomen contracted immediately. Robert took out his hand and Tim vomited. Robert held him by the collar until he was finished. Tim wiped his chin with grass. ‘Friendship. Thanks.’

  Robert wiped his own fingers with grass though there was no need. ‘Do the same for me one day.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Chapter 11

  The talks in Geneva continued for the rest of the week. There were no press releases beyond details of at what times meetings had taken place and how long they had lasted. Radio and television journalists had to make do with interviewing each other while the newspapers ran such headlines as, ‘World Leaders Talk on Brink of Doom’, ‘War or Peace – Latest’, ‘World: Is End Near?’ and ‘Crisis: EEC to Meet Soon’. The hot weather continued.

  Once the play had started Robert had more time to himself. There were no more rehearsals and each day revolved around the evening performance. He seemed to find even the ordinary routines of life an effort. He avoided conversation, didn’t bother to collect his Times and moved the Jaguar only as far as the space behind the kitchens, where it began to collect more notices. The President sent a letter threatening action. Meanwhile, he spent much of each day dozing on the grass of the Fellows Garden, his books beside him. In the late afternoons he went for runs that were longer and harder than ever.

  Tim, on the other hand, seemed to be forever preparing for work – he journeyed to and from the library, carried books to and from his room, cleaned his bicycle, started the BMW, polished it, made lists, visited the Bodleian – but was not once seen to do any. Early on the last night of the play he appeared in Robert’s room wearing a double-breasted dinner jacket.

  ‘Have a nice play.’

  ‘Have a nice ball.’

  ‘I’m trying hard not to let it distract me from our first papers the day after tomorrow. Like hell I am. How’s Gina?’

  ‘Acting well.’

  ‘And the real Gina? Or is that too subtle a distinction?’

  ‘Tell you next week.’

  ‘At the moment I don’t feel there’s going to be a next week.’

  Tim made a minute adjustment to his bow-tie, then produced his hip-flask.

  ‘You’re drinking more than you did,’ said Robert.

  Tim poured carefully into the outer cup. ‘If you’re up to it tomorrow afternoon, why don’t we meet Chetwynd outside Schools? It’s his last paper. I want to see how he coped. If he can do it we can. Possibly.’

  ‘Give him his gun and his bullet.’

  ‘I’m getting fond of that gun. Take it out and feel it now and then. Good luck tonight.’ He handed Robert the cup and swigged from the flask.

  Suzanne’s dress was of long black silk, high-necked and sleeved and tightly waisted. The cuffs and neck were edged with white lace and a red rose was pinned above her breast. Her hair just failed to conceal two very small gold earrings, each with a tiny pale blue stone. She looked thinner in the face and nervous.

  She held up part of the dress for Tim to see. ‘I hope this is all right. It’s very old.’

  ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  ‘It belonged to my grandmother and I altered it.’

  ‘It really is beautiful.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like some sherry or something, or had we better go?’

  ‘We’d better go.’

  ‘I bought the rose because I knew it wasn’t safe to rely on you.’

  She took a black woollen shawl and they set off arm in arm for Merton. He felt happier than for months. It was remarkably simple – the touch of a woman’s arm. He even encouraged her to talk of Schools, which she had just finished.

  Eventually she said, ‘Don’t make me talk about Schools. I shall go on about them all evening and spoil everything. Tell me what you’ve been doing. I’m so happy I could fly.’

  The ball was smaller than most, and better. A band and disco alternated in the Great Hall, and food was so arranged that there were no queues. The sitting out rooms, recently vacated by people who had gone down early, had uneven floors and oak beams and were reached by narrow winding wooden staircases. They had never danced together and agreed to do so straight away so as not to go on feeling awkward about it.

  It was disco music, and convention demanded a form of on-the-spot jogging independently of each other. Tim called it monkey-scratching and imitated the s
olemn or vacuous expressions of the other dancers. She didn’t realize he was imitating them and when he smiled to show that he was she smiled back awkwardly.

  ‘I’m happy, that’s all,’ he said.

  A slower number meant they could do a sideways shuffle that they both pretended was a waltz. Her body was warm through the silk dress. ‘Do you remember my telling you not to come and see me again?’ she asked.

  ‘Vividly.’

  She laughed. ‘I really meant it, you know. I really did.’

  ‘I really believed you.’

  ‘How’s Robert?’

  ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so unworried about Schools.’

  ‘I’d like a drink.’

  There were people they knew but no one to whom they felt obliged to talk. The night was one of the shortest of the year and they spent much of it dancing. In the dawn they wandered along the top of the garden wall that overlooked Christ Church meadows. There was a heavy dew and a white mist hung low over the Thames.

  She leaned against the wall, her back to the meadow. ‘I wonder if our fate has been decided.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The summit conference. It was going on all night. Don’t you pay any attention to the news?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, it’ll be all right.’

  She smiled. ‘It will, will it?’

  ‘The world will go on. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.’

  ‘We might not go on with it.’

  ‘We won’t anyway.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ She kissed him lightly and they walked farther along the wall. The willows by the river loomed out of the mist. She clasped his arm and pressed her head against his shoulder.

  ‘Shall we go home?’

  Logic Lane, the High and Magdalen bridge were peopled by dawdling couples, the long dresses of the girls and the black jackets of the men sharp and clear in the early light. The hazy sun picked out yellows and browns in the grey stonework. At the bridge itself a noisy party had stolen one of the punts and was trying to take it downstream without a pole, using champagne bottles to steer. Each time it wobbled the men roared and the girls squealed, holding up their dresses.

  The curtains were drawn in her room and it was nearly dark. She turned towards him with a deliberate smile that made her look, for a moment, quite unlike herself.

  He woke a few hours later, his arm and shoulder painfully stiff. With great care he removed them from beneath her head. She had slept deeply and he badly in the narrow bed. It had been good, they had been closer than ever, closer than he had thought they could be, but too late. In his heart he was indifferent, cold and incapable. It was not that he no longer wanted her but that he no longer wanted.

  He got up quietly and peered through the curtains at yet another cloudless day. He sorted out their scattered clothes into separate heaps, laying her dress carefully on the window seat, then moved silently round the room gathering cups, tea, kettle.

  Asleep, she looked vulnerable and girlish. When he had made tea he woke her by touching her shoulder. ‘Powdered milk. Sorry.’

  She propped herself up on her elbow, blinking and rubbing her bleary eyes. Her features now were pasty and slack. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  She groaned. ‘I’m supposed to be at David Long’s lunch party in an hour.’

  He had to be careful not to show his relief. He put on his black trousers and white shirt and went out to get milk, realizing from the shop girl’s smile that he had forgotten to comb his hair. On the way back he decided to get a new BMW when Schools were over. It was refreshing to think of such things. When he returned they had cereal and more tea.

  She showered and put on a skirt and blouse. He felt unreachably distant, sorry for her, guilty, anxious to be away, and so was more than normally affectionate. She put on more make-up than usual.

  The lunch party was at Exeter. He walked with her, his dinner-jacket over his shoulder and his bow-tie hanging from his pocket.

  ‘We must look very obvious,’ she said.

  ‘May as well flaunt it.’

  ‘You enjoy that, don’t you?’

  They kissed goodbye outside the college. ‘We shouldn’t see any more of each other until your Schools are over. You must give yourself a chance.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Tim, don’t be so stupid. You’ve got to try.’

  He said he would come for tea after the first day. She said no. He argued with growing force as fear of his own selfishness gripped him. Minutes before he had been glad at the thought of getting away but now he insisted on seeing her as soon as possible. She relented while he was in mid-sentence, smiling suddenly and laying her hand affectionately on his arm. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  It was the only arrangement he made for anything after Schools.

  Chapter 12

  The last night of The Changeling was not as good as the one before. The cast was anticipating the sensation of climax and did not concentrate fully. But the audience was the most responsive they had had, and the applause prolonged. Everyone was exhausted and exhilarated, and celebrations began before the set was struck. The cast party was to be held on stage.

  Michael Mann’s Isis review had been more generous than Robert had hoped. There was some just criticism of the madhouse scenes, but Michael had concluded that the essence of the play, the central relationship, had come over powerfully and well. Malcolm had reviewed the play for Cherwell, without malice but without mentioning Robert.

  ‘And I meant it,’ Michael Mann said on stage afterwards, grinning and putting his hand on Robert’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s good.’ Robert caught Gina’s eye. ‘Glad you said it worked, but it’s nice to know you meant it, too.’

  ‘Did you really think so?’ asked Gina.

  Michael’s smile made his eyes disappear. ‘Really.’

  He turned again to Robert. ‘Good news about Anne.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby. She’s had it. I ran into Dr Barry then I went up to see her. She’s looking well.’

  One of the flats came down with a crash and there was a cheer. Wine appeared and there was another outbreak of kissing and embracing. Robert went through the motions of participation until he came back to Gina. She was still wearing her gown and was starting to take off her make-up.

  ‘Well, we got away with it,’ he said. ‘Though that’s not as it should be.’

  ‘It’s the way most things are, isn’t it?’

  He stood as if waiting for something. ‘It’s hard to believe I’m starting Schools the day after tomorrow. I won’t really believe it until I’m sitting there.’

  She shook her hair. ‘Why didn’t you go and see Anne?’

  ‘I can’t, with this party.’

  ‘You could if you slip away now.’

  ‘And come back later, yes.’ It was what he had wanted but he still did not move. ‘And tomorrow, let’s do something. You and me. Go out of Oxford. I’ll come round.’

  With both hands she gathered her hair behind her neck and spread it again.

  He ran back to college for the Jaguar. It was likely he had missed visiting hours, but he would try anyway. The engine turned reluctantly. He swore at the battery and gave it a rest while he peeled off the Bursar’s ‘No Parking’ stickers. He thought of Tim’s BMW but Tim was at the ball. He thought of a taxi but there was the cash problem and by now he was locked into an obstinate struggle with the Jaguar, cursing the absence of starting handles on cars of post-1950s design.

  The engine fired unexpectedly on the last turn of the tired battery and he set off for the hospital amid clouds of blue smoke and near-constant misfiring. No florists were open. He braked hard when he saw roses in a garden in Summertown. His first thought was to steal them but he resolved to be honourable and to try to buy them from the owner. There was no one in. He considered theft but someone next door was looking through the f
ront window. He ended up with a faded box of Black Magic from a nearby pub.

  At the hospital he gave her name to the girl at reception who said she had no record. She made a telephone call, then another, breaking off to say, ‘You’re Dr Barry, are you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re her husband?’

  ‘No. I’ve just come to see her. To see if she’s all right. I’m a friend.’

  ‘He wants to know how she’s getting on,’ the girl said into the receiver. ‘They’re just checking. Sorry to keep you. We’re not supposed to let any more visitors in, really.’

  He leaned against the desk and picked at a splinter of wood. Hospitals horrified him. He dreaded being told it had been a difficult birth.

  The girl put down the telephone. ‘Yes, she’s in Ward Three. Straight through and second left and up the stairs.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is what?’

  ‘The baby.’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask.’

  Two men walked briskly out through the swing doors, one laughing loudly.

  ‘She’s okay, is she?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. All quite normal, I expect. You weren’t present, then?’

  ‘Present?’

  ‘At the birth. You know, a lot of people are. It’s the fashion nowadays.’

  He found the ward at the second attempt and stood clutching his Black Magic in the entrance, unable to see her because there were so many women. It was her smile that pulled his eyes back to her. She was a third of the way down, propped up in bed in a red nightgown, her brown hair unpinned and spread over her shoulders. She continued smiling at him. As he approached she closed the book she was reading and put it on the bedside table.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ve never felt better.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘Eight pounds eight ounces of bouncing boy.’

  ‘Really?’

  He stood, grinning and nodding.

  She pointed to the chair. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

  Flowers were on the table, on the locker, on the floor: mostly roses. It looked as if she’d been placed among them for filming. Many people must have been already. He pushed the Black Magic along the bed, feeling inadequate and grubby. ‘I only heard just now and came straight up. All the florists were closed. This was all I could find.’