20
DAVID IN OXFORD
Mrs. Pillington’s lodgings, where David had found rooms for his final year, were in a row of grey stone houses, sharp-gabled, small-windowed, in one of those deceptive Oxford lanes which slip away from the street, twist over rounded cobblestones, promise a short cut to the unsuspecting stranger, and bring him up—just as he is congratulating himself on his astute sense of direction—against high stone walls.
Mrs. Pillington was considered a fairly decent sort by most of the undergraduates who had taken lodgings with her. She was Yorkshire by birth, and she remembered her husband, now that he was dead, with a good deal of pleasure. She had been thoroughly educated in bringing up three outsize sons (two in the Navy and one a policeman in London), and a pretty daughter who had now left Oxford, with virtue intact, for a job in Reading Hospital. She provided substantial meals at very little more than what you might expect to pay; the rooms were dusted almost every day; and the College regulations were stretched as far as they would go without actually being broken for those who, she had decided, were “nice and agreeable.” Those she disapproved of—well, that was a different story. Mr. Pomfrey, for instance, even if he did have the most expensive room on the first floor, also had a taste for slightly tarnished blondes. So he was kept very strictly to the regulations, and he was reported to the authorities for the least infringement. And Mr. Wichell, on the first floor back, would not have his room next term no matter what he offered to pay: the esoteric tastes he shared with his small group of friends had decided that. But Mr. Fillerton, on the second floor front, was another sort altogether, and so was Mr. Bosworth, on the second floor back, even if they did like parties, loud gramophone records, too many beer-bottles lying about, and a lot of misplaced objects all over the room. Men, she had discovered in the last twenty years, were peculiar: even more peculiar than Mr. Pillington had been. And if no man could be a hero to his landlady, he could at least be classified as normal or undesirable.
Today was the last day of February, complete with grey sky and a feeling of dampness hanging in the raw air. Mrs. Pillington had gone out into the small back garden to see what damage the heavy rain had done that morning. She was wearing her late husband’s galoshes and a shapeless tweed coat which had once belonged to her youngest son. She was bending over one of the narrow flower beds, a stiff, square-shaped figure, quite unconscious that “her Mr. Bosworth” was watching her from his high window. He was waiting for Fenton-Stevens to come to see him. They had meant to walk out to the Rose Revived this afternoon, but the weather had postponed that idea to a day when the view could be enjoyed. They had compromised with beer and a talk in David’s rooms at five o’clock.
David had stopped his work promptly on the hour, added a lump of coal to the fire in the small black grate, and searched for that new number of transition which he had promised to lend Fenton-Stevens. (George always borrowed the books and magazines which he thought he ought to read, and left them lying about his room.) Then he had walked over to the window and looked over the garden’s high grey wall.
In a few weeks there would be a sprinkling of green over these black skeletons of trees, now dripping so mournfully that the sodden earth underneath was perforated with little holes like a nutmeg-grater. And the stone walls would come to life, with their particles of quartz and mica reflecting the spring sunshine, turning their cold colour to a golden grey. A movement from the garden below caught David’s eye, and he watched Mrs. Pillington with a smile as she tried to straighten the stalks of the first few crocuses which the malicious sparrows had pecked, so that the heavy yellow and purple heads had fallen forward with broken necks on to the black earth. She took a large handkerchief out of the coat’s deep pocket, wiped the muddied petals, and propped the flowers against their stiff spear-like leaves. Then she suddenly hurried down the muddy path to the house. That must have been George arriving.
David turned away from the window and opened the door. He heard George’s leisurely footsteps mounting the steep wooden stairs. They had not seen much of each other this year. George had increased his clubs and activities in an attempt to enjoy everything while it could still be enjoyed. Next year he would spend abroad, cramming hard for the Foreign Office examinations as well as acquiring a Touraine accent in French. He had given up all hope of getting a First at Oxford, and had decided that a decent Second would just carry him through. David, on the other hand, had cut down most of his activities beyond debating at the Union and paying occasional visits to the Music Rooms in Holywell: this year he would make sure of that damned First, and next year he could relax and enjoy himself with the Fairbairn job assured. It was a difference of technique based entirely on the little black figures in a bank account. But George’s broad grin, his easy way of strolling into David’s sitting-room, his casual greeting, the way he selected the more comfortable armchair quite naturally, all proved he certainly did not feel a stranger.
“Sorry I’m late, old boy,” he said cheerfully, stretching his legs over the hearthrug and reaching for his pipe in his pocket.
“That’s all right. I had some odds and ends of work to clear up. What will you have? You look pretty thirsty.”
George’s face was still a deep red in colour. “I am. Beer, I think. I fixed up a game of squash with McIllwain when our walk had to be put off, and he chased me all round the court. Too good for me. I’ve been trying to cool off in the tub ever since. Still have a boiled-lobster look, I’m afraid. Thanks.” He took the beer-glass and looked at David more critically. “You aren’t playing enough squash this term.” He frowned towards the desk: too many damned books and papers there. And a large photograph. His interest quickened.
“Oh, I get a game when I need it. I’ve been doing a lot of walking instead. I like fresh air.”
“I’ve seen you several times in the distance keeping up with old Chaundler. He covers the ground at a surprising rate, doesn’t he? I wonder if I’ll be able to do ten miles in two and a half hours when I’m his age. To be perfectly frank, I’d hate to do it even now. And what do you talk about, anyway, when you are tearing along beside him? About his book? Eight years on the loom, isn’t it? And probably another eight to go. Not my cup of tea at all.”
“No, not about his book,” David said. “Walter doesn’t talk much about himself ever.” He paused, and then, as George was still waiting, he added on impulse, trying to keep his voice very diffident, “We’ve been talking a good deal about the possibilities after June is over, and what I should do.”
“I thought Chaundler was quite determined to have you in the F.O., wasn’t he?”
“In a way, yes. But something else is brewing at the moment.”
George stared, and then recovered sufficiently to say with a smile, “Is it connected with your work, or are you going to branch out as a film magnate or a hat-designer?”
David smiled too. “It’s connected with economics all right. Edward Fairbairn is behind it.”
“Oh!” George was obviously impressed. Not that he altogether approved of Fairbairn—one of those brains which never would leave well enough alone, always finding out things that called for reforms and that kind of unnecessary monkeying about. Still, it was a name that made you sit up and take notice. “That might work out very well for you,” he said.
“With luck.”
“Well, here’s luck and plenty of it!” George raised his glass of beer. “Is Chaundler with you or against you in this?”
“He’s with me—after we talked it over together.” Chaundler had been told about Penny. That had been a difficult ten minutes; but, as it turned out, it had been an argument that Chaundler had listened to with a good deal of unexpected sympathy. David had wondered then if Chaundler had not been faced with something of the same kind of problem when he had become a don: it was only quite recently that the colleges had relaxed the monastic tradition that made them insist on the junior dons’ remaining unmarried for several years. That might be the full explanati
on of the photograph in MacIntyre’s study in Inchnamurren. It was strange how well you could know someone, and yet not know of the tragedies in his life, of the regrets which, though buried away, were still strong enough to affect his judgments.
“He must have been disappointed,” George was saying. “He likes to pick out future diplomats and mould them into shape. That’s rather his thing, isn’t it? He has quite a small collection of his young men now in the F.O., and they all do well. A bit on the radical side, of course. That’s why he takes no interest in me, I suppose.”
There was a pause. David kicked the lump of coal on the fire to break it up into small warm fragments. George’s eye travelled to the photograph on the desk, and this time—with David’s back half turned—he could look at it long enough to recognise it. He cleared his throat and said, “I was at Fane’s party in town last Saturday. Do you remember Penelope Lorrimer? She was there. She is looking simply marvellous these days. An absolute peach.”
David turned round and smiled. “Yes, isn’t she?”
George waited, but David’s smile only broadened. George cleared his throat again, reached for the bottle of beer, and became intent in pouring it foamlessly into the tilted glass. He looked up in surprise as David began to laugh. “Well, what’s wrong?” he asked, with a touch of indignation.
“Nothing at all. I was only admiring your tact.”
George said, “I may as well admit that it is being severely strained at the moment. Frankly I am curious.” He rose and went over to the desk and studied the photograph quite openly. “Very nice, too. But what’s the idea of hiding her away from your friends?”
“Instinctive self-protection,” David answered. “I’ve watched you, old boy. You’ve a wonderfully absorbing technique with pretty girls.”
“Rot,” George said, but he was pleased all the same. “It certainly didn’t work on Saturday, anyway. Asked her to dinner. She turned me down flat.”
“Did she?” David was delighted, and he couldn’t hide it.
“You are pretty far gone, aren’t you?” George said. “That’s the trouble about taking things too seriously, you know. I’ve warned you before about that.” He kept a half-joking note in his voice, but he glanced sharply, worriedly, at David. After all, there was a big difference for a man between falling in love and being seriously in love.
“Hello, I see you’ve got that new edition of Housman.” He picked up the book from the desk. Nice type and paper that would be something safe to talk about. And then he saw the written inscription: “To D., with all my love, P.”
David, standing beside the fireplace with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece, was watching him at the desk with an undisguised smile. For George’s tact had failed him for once: his amazement was quite plain. Only for a moment, though. When he turned away from the desk he was being interested, in his charming way, in the room.
“You’ve made yourself comfortable here, haven’t you?” George asked, and David agreed. The room might be shabby, but it was comfortable. “My own digs are getting on my nerves,” George went on. “They are so damned convenient for everyone to find. Can’t settle at all to get any work done. People keep dropping in, you know. The traffic is almost as bad as it is outside in the High.”
“Well, you are sort of a convivial chap,” David said. “And an address in the High has its advantages too,” he added ironically.
“It is central,” George admitted, “and the food is decent. It has its points.” He conceded them so readily that David knew George’s first criticism was not to be taken too seriously. It had only been George’s way of trying to compliment David on his rooms, of trying to make David feel that expensive lodgings were something not to be envied. It was only by such small self-depreciations that George ever showed he had a touch of guilt that he should have life made easier for him than the majority of men at Oxford. And it was all completely unconscious. His whole upbringing had prepared him to take every helping of double whipped cream for granted. But every now and again the little touch of self-depreciation showed some deeply buried subconscious realisation. (A visit abroad was always “a little holiday.” Gadgets, such as his open touring car, were always picked up for “an absolute song.” He was now looking for a flat in London where he could escape from the family: “just a small place, probably in some mews.” He would no doubt decide on a flat, converted from a chauffeur’s house in central Mayfair, and everyone would be told exactly what it once had been.)
“When I came here,” George was now saying, “I had the idea of asking you to lunch on Sunday.” He looked towards the photograph. “Can that be managed?”
“I’m afraid not,” David said definitely.
“That is what I expected. Fane said that it was your day for wenching.”
“What does he know about it?” David asked angrily.
“Oh, he has seen you regularly at the George, I believe. He remembered that detail towards the end of his party. His mother seemed quite amazed. I think Eleanor was too.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“This invitation to luncheon. It is a command performance really. Eleanor telephoned today to say that she and Carol Fane were coming up here next week-end. She wanted to see you particularly.”
“I’m sorry,” David said, with no disappointment at all, “but I’m afraid I am engaged all this week-end.”
They both laughed, and George said, “If you ask me, Eleanor only had her competitive instinct aroused by seeing Penelope.”
“Did they meet?”
“Not actually. But they saw each other. Penelope said she was in a frightful hurry and couldn’t meet Eleanor. Didn’t seem to notice her at all. Very remote, I thought. But some people are like that.”
“Yes,” David agreed. Some people are like that. But not Penelope Lorrimer. He was delighted: his vanity was ridiculously flattered. For Penny knew about Eleanor Fenton-Stevens. He had told Penny, and Penny had never brought up the subject again. And that was a sign, he had thought, that Penny really practised the peculiar belief she had—that jealousy was stupid, unnecessary, and crippling. It had often made him feel still worse when he was going through one of his bad spasms of jealousy. Sometimes, too, he had wondered how anyone could be deeply in love without being jealous. Now, as George’s politely surprised voice still echoed in his mind, David knew that Penny had her own way of acknowledging jealousy. He was pleased out of all proportion to the size of this crumb of comfort.
George watched his friend’s face thoughtfully. He is far gone, George thought, with a mixture of amazement and worry.
“Well,” he said, and he was not referring to Eleanor’s party, “I see that is that.”
“Yes,” David said. “That’s that.”
George pretended to be studying the ring of foam which had collected in his glass, in spite of all his precautions. “Look, old man, I’d like to meet Penelope. Properly. I hardly know her. I’d like to see her some time. After all—” he halted in embarrassment.
“After all, what?” David asked bluntly. There was a particularly keen look in his eye which was disconcerting.
“Oh, nothing... Even if I did think you were taking everything a little too seriously it wouldn’t have the least effect on you, would it?”
“You are bloody well right,” David said cheerfully.
“Well, at least when I do meet her again I’ll have enough sense not to ask her out to dinner.”
“You are bloody well right there too,” David said vehemently.
George hid his surprise, but it remained with him after they had begun to talk about other things, about the recent crop of plays at the Repertory Theatre, about the newest Marx Brothers’ film showing at the Super, about the latest story concerning the Proctor and his bulldogs. It was a story about Pomfrey downstairs. George insisted on telling it, and David, who had heard it two days ago, kept a tactful silence. In any case, everyone was going to hear it being told (and told not so well as one could
tell it oneself) for the next week or so.
George had just reached the climax, when two visitors arrived: Burns, American, tall, and smiling, with a loose tweed suit and fair hair cut so very short that to the unaccustomed British eye he seemed to be permanently astounded; Marain, thin and dark, with a gentle voice and savage phrases.
Marain switched on the light. “Or do you prefer to be romantic?” he asked.
George halted in embarrassment. He liked Burns, decent chap, played a good game of lacrosse, even if it was the sort of thing that girls played at school. But Marain was another cup of tea. Too bitter a brew for George. He couldn’t swallow Marain. Strange taste in friends David had. That was the trouble with David. You never knew whom you might meet in his rooms. No doubt Burns and Marain had come to talk politics: Marain talked of little else.
“Do go on,” Marain was saying, with that smile of his that George never could stand.
George eyed the mocking face. Marain always gave him a feeling of being challenged. He had lost interest in telling the story, but he was determined to finish it now. He cleared his throat. “Pomfrey,” he began, and then wished he had not accepted the challenge. He cursed himself for the nervousness which paralysed him for a moment. “Pomfrey,” he went on evenly, “was strolling down the High last Saturday with one of his blondes from Reading.” (His voice, his face, his comfortably sprawling body seemed extremely controlled and confident, so that Burns, watching this specimen of young animal, thought of him as the typical example of unjustified English superiority which irritated all foreigners to the point of pushing them into print about it.) “A silly thing to do, really, because she is well known. He was stopped, of course, by one of the bulldogs with upraised bowler. The Proctor came up and said, ‘Mr. Pomfrey, would you introduce your companion to me?’ Pomfrey said, ‘This is my sister.’ The Prog recovered his breath. ‘Mr. Pomfrey, you know this woman is on the University black-list.’ And Pomfrey said gently, ‘Yes, we know. Mother and I are frightfully upset about it.’”