Crampton Hodnet (5 page)

As she went in through her gate she saw a young woman, wearing a scholar’s gown over a wine-red tweed suit, propping up her bicycle against the laurel bushes. That must be Miss Bird going for a tutorial with Francis, she thought intelligently. What a pretty girl she is.

‘Do come into the drawing-room and get warm,’ said Mrs. Cleveland pleasantly, as they went into the house together. ‘It isn’t quite half past five yet.’

Barbara Bird followed her. As always before her tutorial she had that half-terrifying, half-thrilling shakiness at the knees and a sinking feeling inside. Her hands, clutching her essay on ‘What seem to you to be the main features of the Metaphysical style in poetry?’, were damp with sweat. But as she entered the drawing-room she seemed outwardly composed, a tall, dark girl with beautiful eyes who looked somehow older than her twenty years.

‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, moving a bundle of Anthea’s dressmaking off the sofa. ‘I’m sorry this room’s so untidy, but somehow it always is, especially when anyone calls. You know how it is,’ she laughed.

Barbara laughed too. If only Mrs. Cleveland weren’t quite so nice, she thought. And yet she obviously wasn’t the right wife for Francis. She was older than he was and didn’t seem to be any sort of an intellectual companion to him. One couldn’t imagine them reading poetry together, she thought, this being her main idea of a happy marriage.

‘Have you time for a cigarette?’ asked Mrs. Cleveland, offering a packet of Gold Flake.

‘Thank you, I have a few minutes,’ said Barbara, thinking that a cigarette might be a good thing to steady her nerves. ‘I believe Mr. Cleveland has somebody else before me this evening.’

‘Yes, it’s Michael or Gabriel. I never can remember which is which, except that one is dark and the other fair. They always say exactly the same sort of things.’

Barbara sat on the edge of the sofa and smoked nervously. At last there was a knock at the door and Michael bounded into the room. ‘Oh, Birdikin,’ he said, addressing Barbara, ‘do go quickly and soothe poor Mr. Cleveland. I hadn’t done my essay and he was
heartbroken
. He needs womanly comfort.’

If only he really did need me, thought Barbara, who had indulged in all the usual dramatic dreams about saving his life or ministering to him when he was romantically ill. She collected her things and started on the familiar walk to his study. Past the oak chest with the flowers in a pewter jug—bronze chrysanthemums today—and the willow-pattern plates on the wall behind it, round the little bend, then up the stairs with the worn beige carpet, whose tread had to be altered every spring because it was wearing so thin. Along the little passage where Mrs. Cleveland had hung all the pictures they didn’t like but couldn’t give away for fear of offending the donors, and then there was the study door, and behind it Mr. Cleveland—Francis—was waiting to stand up and say ‘Good evening, Miss Bird, and what have you got for me today?’

Barbara reminded him of the subject of her essay and sat down.

‘Oh, yes. Well, let’s hear what you’ve made of it.’

He always said this and then waited for her to read. Sometimes he sat in a chair smoking a cigarette, or paced about the room, or stood and looked out of the window. Today he stood with his back to her, looking out of the uncurtained window at the Banbury Road, with its ceaseless stream of dark, shining cars.

Barbara began to read in a clear, colourless voice. Not even when she read the lines of Donne that always made her think of her tutorials—

For love all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere

—did she show any feeling.

She finished reading and there was a pause. ‘That’s all,’ she said, her voice trembling a little. This was the worst moment of the whole evening, when the essay was finished and she was waiting for his verdict. Her mouth was dry inside and she could feel her heart beating. Her eyes strayed nervously round the room, noticing little things which had suddenly become important. An invitation card on the mantelpiece, a volume of Saintsbury’s
Caroline Poets
upside down in a bookcase, some cake crumbs on the desk, a cobweb in one corner of the ceiling. She looked up at Francis in desperation.

He was completely taken aback. At one moment she had been no more than one of the better-looking young women, who had just read him an extremely good essay, and then suddenly he found her beautiful dark eyes looking at him in such a way that he was startled into asking himself how long it was since any woman had looked at him like that. He thought of his colleagues in the Senior Common Room at Randolph: old Dr. Fremantle, Lancelot Doge, Arthur Fenning, Arnold Penge… . One couldn’t imagine a woman gazing at any of
them
in such a way.

Francis felt rather pleased with himself and leaned forward a little, as if to make some attempt at returning the passionate glance. But, as so often happens, the moment had passed. He was too late. Barbara was looking down at her hands now, examining her nail polish with a critical frown.

‘Well, Miss Bird,’ he said, feeling rather flat, ‘that was a slippery subject, wasn’t it, but you grasped it pretty well. Yes, pretty well,’ he repeated, trying to remember what the essay had been about.

‘I’m glad it was all right,’ said Barbara, her voice faint with relief now that the tension was broken.

‘There are one or two points that we might discuss,’ he went on, as the subject of the essay came back to him. ‘But have a cigarette.’ He pushed the box towards her. ‘The yellow ones are Russian; people seem to like them.’

Barbara took just any cigarette and lit it, her hands still trembling a little. She always enjoyed the discussion which followed her essay. It was the one time when she and Francis seemed to have so much in common, she thought simply.

That look, he thought, making mechanical jokes about Wordsworth’s colloquialisms; had he imagined it? If he had, he must be getting peculiar in some way. Elderly or middle-aged dons were known to be peculiar. But she was a very beautiful girl. Why had he never noticed that before? It had somehow never occurred to him that there
were
beautiful female undergraduates. Well, now you know, said a chirpy voice inside him. What are you going to do about it?

It was the last Sunday of Michaelmas term. Mr. Cherry was sitting happily in the Clevelands’ drawing-room, telling a sympathetic audience about his political views. How different coming to tea here was from going to Miss Doggett’s! he thought. People were listening to him as if even a Socialist had a right to his own opinion, and one young man in corduroy trousers was actually agreeing with him. The only person who wasn’t listening was Anthea, and she kept fidgeting and looking at the clock until at last, just before six, she got up and slipped quietly from the room.

Going to see Simon, thought Mrs. Cleveland. Of course it would never do to say anything, mothers nowadays knew nothing, absolutely
nothing
, but she couldn’t help thinking it rather a pity that Anthea saw so much of Simon. Of course he was a
nice
boy, she hadn’t really anything against him, except the vague fear that he might make Anthea unhappy. It would be so much better if they could just be
friends
, thought Mrs. Cleveland, peering anxiously into the teapot and hoping that nobody would ask for more tea, though young women nowadays didn’t seem to be content with that. It was either being in love or nothing. After all, Anthea was only nineteen and there were in Oxford so many other more
suitable
people. A vague company of dull but steady men rose up before the anxious mother’s eyes, young dons who wouldn’t at all mind acquiring a wife so long as the courting and marrying of her didn’t disturb their research in the Bodleian. It was an excellent thing for a husband to have something like research to occupy his time. After the first year or two of married life one no longer wanted to have him continually about the house. Mrs. Cleveland hardly noticed now whether her husband was there or not, and she was too busy doing other things ever to stop and ask herself whether she was not perhaps missing something. The best she could say of Francis was that he gave her no trouble, and she thought that that was a great deal more than could be said of many husbands.

But Anthea, hurrying along St. Giles’, could hardly be expected to have arrived at this enviable state of “calm of mind, all passion spent”.

This evening, she thought solemnly, as she stepped into the lodge of Randolph College, we won’t spend all our time lying on the sofa. I’ll show Simon I’m
intelligent
. We’ll really talk about something. She wasn’t sure what—perhaps the Foreign Policy of His Majesty’s Government, she thought, stepping into a puddle and splashing her stocking. That was the sort of thing they were always debating at the Union. She reached the bottom of the staircase where Simon’s rooms were and started to climb the worn stone steps. She stood for a moment outside the doorway with his name painted over the top, knocked, went in, and the next thing she knew she was in his arms.

The room was dark except for the glow of the fire, for Simon understood the value of a romantic atmosphere. He was also a very tactful young man and had put away all his photographs except those of his mother, his aunt Constance and his friend Christopher. Outside in St. Giles’ it was raining, and the comforting sound of the Salvation Army band playing hymns made a dear and familiar Sunday evening background for lovers. At this hour time seemed to stand still. In the half-darkness Anthea could see the
Sunday Times
spread out on the floor. A flame leapt up in the fire and illuminated the headlines. Something about the Foreign Policy of His Majesty’s Government.

The Salvation Army went on playing half-recognized hymns, the rain fell softly but steadily, and from different parts of Oxford came the sound of the various bells calling people to evensong. After a time the smell of cooking rose up in the quadrangle of Randolph College, rough young voices were heard down below and on the stairs, and a bell began to ring, a loud bell that disturbed the young men and the young women who had come to tea with them. Lights were turned on to reveal the happy lovers blinking like ruffled owls, the honey toast lying cold and greasy on a plate in the fireplace, the tomato sandwiches curled up at the edges, and the Fuller’s walnut cake a crumbly mess because it had been roughly cut by inexperienced hands.

Anthea and Simon got up from the sofa and stood looking out of the window at the wet, shining quadrangle, crowded now with hurrying figures in gowns.

‘Simon!’ called a loud raucous voice from below. ‘Are you coming into hall?’

‘Oh, God, it’s Christopher,’ said Simon, looking down at a group of young men under his window. He drew Anthea into a more prominent position and kissed her hand. He was the only one of his set who had a young woman in love with him.

The young men shuffled off, and Simon and Anthea went downstairs and out into the street. They walked along holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, completely unconscious that there were other people on the pavement.

Thank goodness for love, thought Miss Morrow, as she slipped past them, with a hand up to shield her face.

‘That was Anthea Cleveland and her young man,’ she explained to Mr. Latimer, who was walking just behind her. ‘I think we’d better slip along Parks Road. We’re less likely to see anyone there.’

‘All right, though Parks Road is usually so deserted that if we
do
meet anyone we know they’re all the more likely to notice us,’ said Mr. Latimer.

‘What a good thing the vicar was preaching tonight,’ said Miss Morrow, hurrying along. ‘Though of course he’ll wonder what’s happened to you.’

‘I wonder what I ought to tell him,’ said Mr. Latimer thoughtfully.

‘Why, the truth, of course,’ said Miss Morrow, as if the possibility of a clergyman’s doing anything else had not occurred to her.

‘The truth?’ said Mr. Latimer doubtfully.

‘Yes, I think he’d understand. Say that you took advantage of Miss Doggett’s being away from home to go for a walk on Shotover. That you walked right over the other side and then discovered that you couldn’t possibly get back by half past six, even if you got a bus straight away. And then no buses seemed to come and it started to rain and it was seven o’clock before you were back in Oxford,’ Miss Morrow finished up triumphantly.

‘But it sounds so silly. It makes me out to be such a feeble, inefficient sort of creature,’ said Mr. Latimer, protesting.

‘Well, men
are
feeble, inefficient sorts of creatures,’ said Miss Morrow calmly, ‘but you can lay the blame on me if you like. Women are used to bearing burdens and taking blame. I have been blamed for everything for the last five years,’ she continued, ‘even for King Edward VIII’s abdication.’

‘Oh, I can’t bring
you
into this,’ said Mr. Latimer, in a shocked tone of voice.

‘Why ever not?’ asked Miss Morrow, genuinely surprised.

‘Well… .’ Mr. Latimer hesitated. ‘There might be a scandal. People might talk. You know what I mean,’ he went on quickly, sensing a mocking quality in her silence. ‘When people think of us walking about on Shotover Hill in the
dark
they might easily take it the wrong way.’

‘But it wasn’t dark then,’ said Miss Morrow, aggravatingly literal. ‘It didn’t get dark till we were on the road trying to get a bus. You really have the most curious ideas. If you think anyone could make up a scandal about
me
, you flatter me.’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said with sudden irritation. ‘I’m only looking at the facts and imagining how other people might interpret them. You can’t be so unworldly as to be ignorant of what I mean.’

‘I still think you flatter me,’ said Miss Morrow, striding along with her arms full of berries and branches. ‘Companions to old ladies are supposed to be essentially unworldly. To imply the contrary is surely a compliment. It conjures up pictures of silver fox furs, and perfumes to suit every occasion, and reading
Vogue
instead of the
Church Times
.’