by Alan Judd
‘Thank you. I’ve been told I must eat a lot.’ She put the box prominently on the table.
‘I’ll bring you some flowers tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry – you bought some the other day, remember? When I didn’t want to talk to you.’
‘Yes, well, sorry about that.’
‘Don’t be. You’re very sweet.’
He felt clumsy and superfluous. ‘How was it?’
‘Much better than I’d thought. Very quick and easy. Almost too quick. I nearly didn’t make it to the hospital. David drove me. I think he was more frightened than I was.’ She laughed.
‘Lucky he was there.’
‘Yes, it was.’
He clasped his hands and looked at the floor. ‘What are you going to call him?’
‘I’m not sure yet, I keep thinking. I think James or Michael. Perhaps Michael James.’
A nurse called for visitors to leave. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow. What’s a good time?’
‘You have to go now. You can see him on the way out. Ask the nurse to show you.’
He stood. ‘He’s not in here, then?’
‘No, not yet. You’d know it if he was.’
‘I’ll bring a little present or something when I come tomorrow.’
‘No, don’t. Please don’t come tomorrow.’
‘Why not?’ He knew he sounded abrupt.
Her expression was direct and thoughtful. ‘I’d rather you didn’t come at all, Robert.’ she said quietly. ‘I’m very fond of you but it would be better if you stayed away. Please understand.’ The nurse was hurrying people out. The woman in the next bed stared with uninhibited curiosity. ‘It’s David,’ she continued, seeing him unmoving.
‘But he’s not jealous. He doesn’t mind, does he?’ He thought of the Bursar’s secretary. It would be so easy. ‘He doesn’t mind, does he?’ he repeated challengingly.
She shook her head. ‘It’s not just him, it’s me as well. I’m very fond of you, Robert, I really am, but I’m going to be very taken up. There’s not much of me to go round. Perhaps after a couple of months.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Come and see me then.’
‘Whose is it?’ he asked slowly.
Her smile did not fade entirely. ‘Robert, you don’t really mind, you don’t really care, do you? Not in your heart of hearts. Do you? It doesn’t make a difference to you. Nobody does.’
He stared and said nothing.
‘He’s mine,’ she continued. ‘That’s what matters.’
He turned and walked back down the ward.
‘You want to see the baby?’ the nurse asked pleasantly. She led him to a side ward where there were babies in cots and pointed at one which had ‘Baby Barry’ written on a disk tied to his ankle. ‘He’s quiet now, but he’s going to be a handful, that one. Full of life.’ She left him. The baby was surprisingly small. He had a few wisps of dark hair, his head was turned to the side and his eyes were closed. Robert bent and with great care touched the baby’s temple with his finger. It was soft and warm. The baby did not open his eyes.
‘Come along now, please,’ called another nurse. ‘Visitors out, please.’
He left the hospital and walked fast, at first towards and then on past the Jaguar. An American he knew was cycling in the other direction and shouted across the street but Robert kept walking.
It was not that he neither knew nor cared where he went though that was an impression he might have been content to give. Woodstock was eight or ten miles away and it took determination rather than carelessness to walk there. Nor did he forget about the Jaguar; rather, he decided to abandon it.
The northward sprawl of Oxford and the incessant headlights made for a walk that was neither enjoyable nor peaceful but that did not matter. By the time he reached Woodstock he was gratifyingly weary. He trudged through the streets of Cotswold stone buildings, then through the gates and into the grounds of Blenheim Palace. He left the drive and headed across the grass into the dark. The confidence and scale of the palace and grounds had long appealed to him, and he and Tim had once unsuccessfully applied for a flat there. They would have enjoyed the address.
The night was warm, the grass damp. His shoes and socks were soon soaked. There was a crescent moon and once his eyes had adjusted he could see surprisingly far. From down by the lake came the muted calls of ducks and moorhens and occasionally the sounds of other birds he could not identify.
He trod a wide circle round the back of the palace in search of somewhere to sleep. Wet now as well as weary, he felt as he imagined vagabonds felt as he crept cautiously into a wooden shed. Having established there were no large beasts he lay down on a pile of paper sacks that smelt of animal food. He dozed fitfully, disturbed by the rustlings of small creatures, the discomfort of his bed and, towards dawn, the cold.
By daylight the vagabond sensation had not lost all its appeal but he needed no further taste of it. He walked down through the wet grass to a secluded part of the lake. The morning was still and unbroken. He stripped and stepped determinedly into the cold water, having to wade some way out, treading mud and leaves, until it was deep enough to swim. It was very cold and not at all enjoyable but when he dressed afterwards he felt a temporary warmth and vigour. A herd of Sussex bullocks, with glistening red-brown coats and breath steaming from their wide nostrils, gazed incuriously as he loped through the grass towards the town, shoes and socks in his hands and his trousers rolled up to his knees.
There was no answer to his knock on Gina’s window. He thought she might still be in bed and he knocked loudly on the door.
It was opened by a fair-haired man from Hertford, eating toast. ‘Gone down,’ he answered immediately. Robert stared. ‘Gone down, gone home.’ The man swallowed. ‘She packed late last night and left first thing this morning. Back next term.’
The aptness almost made him smile. Her timing was always perfect. He knew before asking that there would be no message. He would have liked to congratulate her.
‘The college will have her address,’ the man added.
Robert walked slowly away, feeling now that the last strand had snapped. It was a matter neither for regret nor relief. Already it felt inevitable, part of a process. The pity was that he would have liked to talk to her about it.
At lunchtime in the porter’s lodge he found another letter from his father and a note from the Bursar. He left the latter in his pigeon-hole and took his copy of The Times. The headlines announced that the two super powers were on the point of agreement. There was worldwide relief and bishops gave thanks. He reflected that it might have been better for Hansford to have joined the army after all.
He ran into Tim in the quad. Their exchange of explanations was brief and spare.
‘I’m starving,’ Robert said.
‘Pubs are open.’
‘Bath first.’
‘Join me down there. It’s Chetwynd’s last paper, remember? We could meet him. I’ve got some champagne.’
Robert threw Tim The Times as they parted. ‘Celebrate that while you’re waiting. Good news about the world.’
‘What?’
‘It’s been saved.’ Tim looked blank. ‘The summit. No nuclear war.’
‘Great.’
On his door was a note from the Chaplain asking about his application for theological college. The application form was still in pieces on his desk. He started idly putting them together but then, with one movement of his arms, swept them into the waste paper bin.
Chapter 13
There was already a crowd of several hundred by the side entrance to the Schools building. Those who had finished their last papers were met by friends, often with champagne. The crowd blocked the lane because the Bulldogs allowed no one through the wrought-iron gates.
On this day the crowd was particularly boisterous, perhaps because of the good news from Geneva. Three harassed policemen tried to keep people from spilling on to the High. Bulldogs, to cheers and jeers, strove energetically to keep others from climbin
g the gates and railings.
At 5.30 the doors opened and the gowned figures poured out. There was a cheer, followed by champagne corks and a reciprocal launching of mortar-boards into the air. Chetwynd had not known he was to be met and was at first confused, then for once, embarrassed.
He recovered quickly. ‘How kind. This is the nearest I shall get to celebrating my own funeral.’ The champagne popped and frothed. He poured it into his mortar-board. ‘Will you take communion with me?’ He held it delicately by two corners, drank and passed it round. They were jostled by the crowd and finished with wet faces and shirts. When the cap was empty he put it back on his head.
They pushed their way onto the High. The three policemen had good-naturedly given up any serious attempt to control the crowd. The rush hour traffic was halted in both directions as undergraduates wandered through it and over it in peaceful anarchy.
Chetwynd talked. ‘I was there for every damn paper. God alone knows how. My last answer was a verse imitation of Tennyson. I can’t even remember the questions. Give me the bottle. We’ll need another.’
‘At least you did it,’ said Tim. ‘If you can, maybe we can.’
‘Masturbation is the answer. A private and irrefutable assertion of self against the world. It takes the edge off anxiety and everything else, especially feelings of the heart. But not too often otherwise it’s monotonous and depressing. It also helps cope with sitting next to women in subfusc. Your papers start tomorrow afternoon, don’t they? Hours away. We must drink deeply.’
‘I was going to work,’ said Tim.
‘Robert?’
‘So was I.’
Chetwynd grinned. ‘You are admirable and hopeless, both of you.’
They walked through Magdalen and along Addison’s Walk, then followed the footpath up to the Cherwell Boathouse where Chetwynd bought wine.
They took a punt upstream to the Victoria Arms, sat in the garden and drank beer. On the way back Chetwynd recited The Ancient Mariner in a fluctuating French accent.
They had more wine at the boathouse, called for a taxi which didn’t come, called another and went to the Elizabeth for dinner. Tim paid by credit card. He seemed relaxed and remote, careless of everything.
Robert was equally careless but showed it by arguing energetically and arbitrarily with Chetwynd about subjects that did not matter to him – impressionism, capital punishment, Buster Keaton, pacifism – until Chetwynd became maudlin and talked with uncharacteristic incoherence about the death of his father, the vicar.
‘Learn to love necessity,’ he concluded abruptly, as if sober.
‘Why?’ asked Robert.
‘It’s all there is.’
They stayed late and left only after Chetwynd was rude to one of the waiters whom he said was homosexual and trying not to be. They walked back arm in arm.
‘We’ll lay you out in your crypt,’ said Tim.
‘Come down by all means but don’t lay me to rest. Help me to pack. Tonight I’m driving to Shropshire.’
‘You’re drunk, you can’t.’
‘I am and I can. I must leave Oxford tonight. I want to leave it as I am now. I shall never come back. This is how I want to remember.’
He parked his Ford van illegally in the quad and they helped him pack. There was not much.
The Chaplain found them. ‘Dark deeds in the night, gentlemen? I thought you were sacking the chapel.’ He stood a few yards off, smiling enigmatically but speaking with a heartiness that seemed foreign to him. He asked the sorts of questions about Schools that everyone asked, then shook hands with Chetwynd. ‘Do keep in touch.’ He turned to Tim and Robert. ‘Good luck tomorrow. Come and have a night cap when you’ve finished here if it’s not too late.’
‘He looked awkward,’ said Tim when he had gone. ‘As if he didn’t really want to invite us.’
‘Because of what we’re doing,’ said Robert.
‘No. Because he stays and we go,’ said Chetwynd ‘Different worlds now. We shared his, now we’re leaving it. Intimations of mortality.’
‘Talking of which,’ Robert struggled with his jeans pocket. ‘Your bullet, look, and your gun. We’d better get it.’
Chetwynd stared at the little bullet. ‘Keep them both. Throw them into the Cherwell.’
‘You think you won’t need them now Schools are over?’
Chetwynd still stared at it. ‘No more gestures. If I want to do it I shall jump over a cliff. Otherwise I shall rot in my vicarage and go mad more quietly than here. This place has always been bad for me. It’s not real but it hurts.’ He held up his hand. ‘Goodbye. You have helped make it endurable. No formalities. Better to part when drunk. The college has my address, if ever you are inclined. Live well and be selfish.’
The starter motor grated but worked at the fifth or sixth attempt. They watched him edge uncertainly round the quad and out through the lodge, knocking over the blackboard.
The Chaplain seemed a little surprised when they called, as if he had not really expected them. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, waving his hand, again with unusual heartiness.
They had brandies. Tim sat in the same chair as when he had come to talk about the President’s sermon, slowly turning the brandy round in its large glass. Robert stood looking at the books, his back towards the others.
The Chaplain raised his glass. ‘We should toast our mutual friend, Chetwynd, an –’ he hesitated over the word and smiled – ‘original man.’
Robert drank without looking round. The Chaplain glanced at his back. ‘Accidie, Robert?’
Robert raised his glass in acknowledgement.
‘Translate for Tim,’ the Chaplain continued.
‘Sloth.’
‘More precisely, that state of negligence and indifference in which a man may neither work nor pray. One of the Seven Deadly Sins. “Sloth” does not quite do it justice. I was reminded the other day by your application, Robert, or lack of it.’
Robert turned and smiled without humour. ‘I plead guilty to accidie.’
‘Makes very little difference how you plead.’ The Chaplain’s blue eyes twinkled at Tim. ‘It’s that noonday devil again, you know. Very catching.’
‘I was trying to think of the other six,’ said Tim.
The Chaplain laughed, ‘One is all you need. Like love in the Beatles song.’
When they left he walked out with them into the quad. The night was relatively cool. Broken clouds scurried over the chapel roof. ‘Well, your last night, gentlemen – before Schools, I mean. Good luck.’
Tim put his hands behind his head and stretched. The quad was deserted. Only three lights were on in the Old Building.
Robert turned to the Chaplain. ‘Which of the Seven is yours?’
‘Pride.’
‘What do you do about it?’
‘Pray,’ The Chaplain spoke quickly, his slim face visible only in outline. ‘It’s all you can ever do. Even if you can’t mean it you must do it. It’s all there is.’
‘That’s what Chetwynd said about necessity.’
‘Prayer reveals the necessary. One small step towards God.’ He held up his hands as if in blessing. ‘Good luck with your papers. May Norrington be with you.’ He laughed briefly and turned away.
The sun was subversive of all endeavour and it was hard for anyone to remain inside. For those with Schools the weather was cruel.
Tim lay in the Fellows Garden for much of that last morning. Various people spoke to him. They found him relaxed and, they thought, needlessly modest about his chances. He had a good mathematical mind and would certainly have no trouble with the logic but he was quoted as saying that the chapter headings now read like epitaphs to what he once had known. At least, he had known what was thought to be right and thought to be wrong about Hume on causality but he had never entered into it and made it his own, had never understood why Hume thought as he did and why he was both right and wrong.
Robert’s paper was on Isaiah and Deuteronomy though he sat reading
Ecclesiastes. It was hard to see anything Christian in the book but it told men how to live and how little to expect and he liked it for that. He turned then to Job, again using the King James’s version. The translation from the Hebrew was narrower than the Greek but seemed more essential. It was the simple strong prose of men who believed and who were unafraid to name things. Yet ultimately it was not their style that drew him but their faith. The style embodied the faith.
Later, in a spasm of thoughtfulness, he went out and bought two red carnations, giving one to Tim.
‘Traditionally they should be white, red only on the last day,’ said Tim, who knew about such things.
‘May as well go down with flags flying.’
They lunched together in Hall, already in dark suits and polished shoes. Robert had broken the elastic on his clip-on white bow tie and had had to borrow a proper one, which Tim had to tie for him. They decided to be late. There was always a nervous crush of people outside the Schools building waiting for the doors to open and they were determined to avoid it. Candidates were allowed to be up to thirty minutes late for each paper.
‘Flags flying,’ Tim had said when asked why they were dawdling over lunch.
The examination began at 2.30 and they passed through the porters lodge five minutes after that, wearing gowns, carnations in their buttonholes. In the lodge there was a letter for Robert in a woman’s hand. He must have seen but he did not take it out. His car had been towed away from outside the hospital that morning though it was not clear whether or not he knew. They walked in step, hands behind their backs, slowly enough for their gowns to hang straight. On the High they were filmed by Japanese tourists.
‘Feels like a real execution,’ said Tim.
There was a solitary figure outside the entrance to Schools. When they got closer they saw it was Orpwood. His gown was half off one shoulder, his face was white and he was either sweating or crying. He was turning the pages of a book desperately and hopelessly and leant against the wall for support.
