The bell had stopped ringing.
And Morse walked out into Radcliffe Square; thence across into the King's Arms in Broad Street, where he ordered a pint of bitter, and sat down in the back bar, considering so many things - including a wholly unprecedented sense of gratitude to the Tory Government for its reform of the Sunday licensing laws.
I'd seen myself a don,
Reading old poets in the library,
Attending chapel in an MA gown
And sipping vintage port
by
candlelight
(John Betje
man,
Summoned
by
Bells)
In the Hilary
Term, in Lonsdale College, on Sunday evenings only, it had become a tradition for the electric lighting to be switched off, and for candles in their sconces to provide the only means of illumination in
the
Great Hall. Such a procedure was popular with the students, almost all of whom had never experienced the romance of candlelight except during power-cuts, and particularly enjoyable for those on the dais whereon the High Table stood, consta
ntly
aware as they were of flickering candles reflected in the polished silver of saltcellars and tureens, and the glitter of the cudery laid out with geometrical precision at every place.
On such evenings, no particular table-plan was provided, although it was
the
regular custom for the visiting preacher (on this occasion a black bishop from Central
Africa) to sit on the right side of the Master, with the College Chaplain on the left. The other occupants of High Table (which was usually fully booked on Sunday evenings) were regularly those who had earlier attended the Chapel service, often with their wives or with a guest; and in recent years, one student invited by each of the Fellows in rotation.
That evening the student in question was Antony Plummer, the new organ scholar, who had been invited by Julian Storrs for the very good reason that the two
of
them had attended the same school, the Services School, Dartmouth, to which establishment some members
of
the armed forces were wont to send their sons whilst they themselves were being s
hunted from one posting to anoth
er around the world - in former colonies, protectorates, mandated territories, and the few remaining overseas possessions.
Plummer had never previously been so honoured, and from his new perspective, seated between Mr and Mrs Storrs, he looked around him lovingly at the gilded, dimly illuminated portraits of the famous alumni - the poets and the politicians, the soldiers and the scientists -who figured so largely in the lineage of Lonsdale. The rafted timbers of the ceiling were lost in darkness, and the shadows were deep on the sombre panelling of the walls, as de
ftly
and deferentially
the
scouts poured wine into the sparkling glasses.
Storrs, just a
little
late in the proceedings perhaps, decided it was time to play the expansive
host.
'Where is your father now, Plummer?'
'Last I heard he was running
some
NATO exercise in Belgium.'
'Colonel now, isn't he?'
'Brigadier.'
'My goodness!'
"You were with him in India, I think.'
Storrs nodded: 'Only a cap
tain, though! I followed my fath
er into the Royal Artillery there, and spent a couple
of years trying to teach the nati
ves how to shoot Not much good at it, I'm afraid.'
'Who — the nati
ves?'
Storrs laughed good-naturedly. 'No -
me.
Most of 'em could have taught me a few things, and I wasn't really cut out for service life anyway. So I opted for a gender life and applied for a Fellowship here.'
Angela Storrs had finished the bisque soup, and now complimented Plummer on the andiem through which he had conducted his largely female choir during the Chapel service.
"You enjoyed it, Mrs Storrs?'
'Er, yes. But to be quite
tru
thful,
I prefer boy sopranos.' 'Can
you
say why
that
is?'
'Oh, yes! One just
feels
it, that's all. We heard the Faure
Requiem
yesterday evening. Absolutely wonderful -especially the "In Paradisum", wasn't it, Julian?'
'Very fine, yes.'
'And you see,' conti
nued Angela, 'I would have
known
they were boys, even with my eyes shut. But
don
't ask me
why.
One just
feels
that sort of thing, as I said. Don't you agree? One shouldn't try to
rationalize
everything.'
Three places lower down the table, one of the other dons whispered into his neighbour's ear
'If that woman gets into the Lodge, I'll go and piss all over her primroses!'
By coincidence, colonialism was a topic at the far end of the table, too, where Denis Cornford, his wife beside him, was listening rather abstractedly to a visiting History Professor from Yale.
'No. Don't be too hard on yourselves. The Brits didn't treat the natives all that badly, really. Wouldn't you agree, Denis?'
'No, I wouldn't, I'm afraid,' replied Cornford simply.
‘I
haven't made any particular study of the subject, but my impression is that the British treated most of their colonials quite abominably.'
Shelly slipped her left hand beneath the starched white tablecloth, and ge
ntly
moved it along his thigh. But she could feel no perceptible response.
At the head of the splendid oak plank that constituted the High Table at Lonsdale, over the roast lamb, served
with
St Julien
93,
Sir Clixby had been seeking to mollify the bishop's bitter condemnation of the English Examination Boards for expecting Rwandan refugees to study the Wars of the Roses. And soon after the profiteroles, the atmosphere seemed markedly improved.
All the conversation which had been criss-crossing the evening - amusing, interesting,
pompous, spiteful -ceased abruptl
y as the Master banged his gavel, and the assembled company rose to its feet.
Benedictus benedicatur.
The words came easily and suavely, from lips that were sli
ghtly
over-red, sli
ghtly
over-full, in a face so smooth one might assume that it seldom had need of the razor.
Those who wished, and that was most of them, now repaired to the SCR where coffee and port were being served (though wholly informally) and where the Master and Julian Storrs stood side-by-side, buttocks turned towards the remarkably realistic gas fire.
'Bishop on his way back to the railway station then?' queried Storrs.
'On his way back to
Africa,
I hope!' said the Master with a grin. 'Bloody taxi
would
have to be late tonight, wouldn't it? And none of you lot with a car here.'
'It's this drink-driving business, Master. I'm all in favour of it. In fact, I'd vote for random checks myself.'
'And Denis there - hullo, Denis! - he was no help either.'
Cornford had followed their conversation and now edged towards them, sipping his coffee.
‘I
sold my old Metro just before Christmas. And if yo
u recall, Master, I only live th
ree hundred yards away.'
The words could have sounded light-hearted, yet somehow they didn't.
'Shelly's got a car, though?'
Cornford nodded cautiously. 'Parked a mile away.' The Master smiled. 'Ah, yes. I remember now.'
Half an hour later, as they walked across
the
cobbles of Radcliffe Square towards Holywell Street, Shelly Cornford put her arm dirough her husband's and squeezed it. But, as b
efore, she could feel no percepti
ble response.
But she went on pleading in her distraction; and perhaps said things that would have been better left to silence.
'Angel! — Angel! I was a child — a child when it happened! I knew nothing of men.'
'You were more sinned against than sinning, that I admit'
'Then you will not forgive me?'
'I do forgive you, but forgiveness is not all.'
'And love me?'
To this question he did not answer
(Thomas Hardy,
Tcss of the d'Urbervillle
s)
'Coffee?' she
suggested, as Cornford was hanging up his overcoat in the entrance hall.
'I've just had some.'
'I'll put the kettl
e on.'
'No! Leave it a while. I want to talk to you.'
They sat together, if opposite is together, in the lounge.
'What did you do when the Chaplain invited us all to confess our manifold sins and wickedness?'
The measured, civilized tone of Cornford's voice had shifted to a sli
ghtly
higher, yet strangely quieter key; and the eyes, normally so kindly, seemed to concentrate ever narrowingly upon her, like an ornidiologist focusing binoculars on an interesting species. 'Parrdon?'
'"In thought, word, and deed" - wasn't that the formula?'
She shook her head in apparent puzzlement. 'I haven't the faintest—'
But his words cut sharply across her protestation. 'Why are you lying to me?'
'What—?'
'Shut up!' The voice had lost its control.
'You've been unfaithful to me! I
know that.
You
know that. Let's start from there!'
'But I haven't—'
'Don't lie to me! I've put up with your infidelity, but I can't put up with your
lies!’
The last word was hissed, like a whiplash across his wife's face.
'Only once, really,' she whispered.
'Rece
ntly
?'
She nodded, in helpless misery. 'Who with?'
In great gouts, the tears were falling now. 'Why do you have to know? Why do you have to torture yourself? It didn't mean anything, Denis! It didn't
mean anything.'
'Hah!' He laughed bitterly. 'Didn't you think it might mean something to
me?'
'He just wanted—'
'Who was it?'
She closed her eyes, cheeks curtained with mascara'd tears, unable to answer him.
'Who was it?’
But
still
she made no answer to the piercing question. 'Shall I tell
you?'
He knew - she realized he knew. And now, her eyes still firmly shut, she spoke the name of the adulterer.
'He didn't come here? You went over to the Master's Lodge?'
Yes.'
'And you went to his bedroom?' Yes.'
'And you undressed for him?' Yes.'
You stripped naked for him?' Yes.'
'And you got between the sheets with him?' Yes.'
'And you had sex? The pair of you had sex together?' Yes.'
'How many times?'
'Only once.'
'And you enjoyed it?’
Cornford got to his feet and walked back into the entrance hall. He felt stunned, like someone who has just been kicked in the teeth by a recalcitrant shire-horse.
'Denis!' Shelly had followed him, standing beside him now as he pulled on his overcoat
You know
why
I did it, Denis? I did it for
you.
You
must
know that!'
He said nothi
ng.
'How did you know?' Her voice was virtually inaudible.
'It's not what people say, is it? It's the
way
they say it. But I knew. I knew tonight
...
I knew before tonight.'
'How
coul
d
you have known? Tell me! Please!'
Cornford
turned up the catch on the Yale lock, and for a few moments stood there, the half-opened door admitting a draught of air that felt bitterly cold.
'I
didn't
know! Don't you see? I just hoped you'd deny everything - even if it meant you had to lie to me. But you hadn't even got the guts to
lie
to me! You didn't even want to spare me all this pain.'
The door banged shut behind him; and Shelly Cornford walked back into the lounge where she poured herself a vast gin with minimal tonic.