Crampton Hodnet (22 page)

There was a pause.

After a while Francis said, ‘You haven’t kissed me properly today. Come here.’ He held out his arms to her.

‘Oh, but I
have
kissed you,’ she protested. ‘I kissed you when you came in.’

Francis sighed. Barbara was in some ways a little unsatisfactory. These beautiful walks and understanding talks between intelligent people were all very well, but he was beginning to get just a little bored with them. It was a tiring business trailing around Oxford in the hot weather pretending to be more misunderstood and illused than one really was, he thought, with a sudden flash of honesty. Barbara was a sweet girl and he was very fond of her, but he could not help feeling that the affair was beginning to drag a little. Because, when one came to think of it, almost anyone could give sympathy and understanding—Miss Morrow, Miss Nollard and Miss Foxe, even Margaret. Indeed, sympathy and understanding were a great stand-by for a plain-looking woman who could never hope to be more to a man than A dear sister. But Barbara was young and pretty, and it was surely not surprising that he should expect a little more from her than from, say, Miss Morrow. Could it be, he wondered, that she was not quite what she seemed? Those dark glances, so full of passion, from those beautiful eyes: could it be that they were just her natural way of looking at everybody? There was nothing in the invaluable
Cambridge History of English Literature
—nothing, indeed, in the whole Bodleian, even—to provide the answer to this question.

‘You’re so provoking,’ he said peevishly. ‘I don’t know what to make of you.’

‘How do you mean?’ she asked, gazing at him soulfully.

‘You look so amorous and really you’re just a cold fish,’ he said shortly.

No woman, however much she values her virtue, likes to have it described in such unromantically blunt terms, and so it was only natural that Barbara should protest.

‘Oh, but I’m not cold,’ she assured him. ‘It’s only that I prefer a more romantic setting than this.’

Francis brightened up a little. ‘Let’s go on the river this evening,’ he said. ‘It should be romantic there. We’ll go from Magdalen Bridge. I always think that’s the nicest part.’ And the farthest away from North Oxford, he added to himself.

‘Oh, I’d love that,’ said Barbara quite enthusiastically.

A beautiful evening on the river. Perhaps a bottle of wine, thought Francis boldly. Niersteiner…. Simon Beddoes always took a bottle of Niersteiner on the river. Age could sometimes learn a thing or two from youth. Respectable Oxford dons were naturally a little rusty in some things. They had forgotten the details of these romantic episodes: what one ought to eat and drink; even, sometimes, what one ought to say. Well, that was natural. One couldn’t imagine even brilliant men like Arnold Penge, Lancelot Doge, or Arthur Fenning being much good at this sort of thing. Thinking of them, he had a sudden desire to go into Randolph and have a gossip with them. He felt he would like to boast and say, ‘Ah, you’ll never guess what I’i. going to do this evening’. But of course one must be discreet. It would never do to give anything away.

Opposite Randolph he stopped and began to cross the road. There was a good deal of traffic in St. Giles’, and he stood on an island looking up at the fagade of the college.

‘Ah, Cleveland,’ said a deep, rumbling voice. ‘You are pondering on the vicissitudes of human life. I can see that.’

Francis turned and saw Dr. Fremantle standing beside him.

‘I wasn’t really thinking about anything,’ he said, as one usually does on such occasions.

‘But you are gazing at our Victorian-Gothic facade,’ said Dr. Fremantle. ‘And you are seeing the green creepers that now cover it, and you are thinking that they must soon turn red and brown until at last they die. Am I not right?’

‘I’m afraid my thoughts were less exalted,’ Francis admitted, as they walked across the road together.

‘
Ah
.’ Dr. Fremantle put a wealth of expression into that single sound. ‘I am apt to forget that the Fellows of Randolph are not all old men,’ he said. ‘Some of them are still able to enjoy the pleasures of this life instead of preparing for the next. I don’t suppose there will be many pleasures there, or at least hardly comparable with those of this world. You are a lucky man, Cleveland. You don’t have to waste your time thinking exalted thoughts.’

‘Well, I should hardly have thought it was a waste of time,’ said Francis, feeling like an undergraduate.

‘It is an occupation for old people,’ said Dr. Fremantle shortly, ‘for Olive and me, together. Now you can see what sort of an occupation it is,’ he added with a short bark of laughter. ‘Are you going away?’ he asked.

‘Yes, eventually,’ said Francis. ‘The usual family holiday.’

‘You look rather depressed,’ said Dr. Fremantle in a fatherly tone. ‘Do you know what I should prescribe for you?’

‘What?’ asked Francis politely.

‘A weekend in Paris,’ declared Dr. Fremantle. ‘But you shouldn’t go alone. Perhaps you have a friend who could go with you?’

‘Edward Killigrew or Lancelot Doge?’ suggested Francis vaguely.

‘Well, yes, Edward Killigrew and mother,’ said Dr. Fremantle. ‘That would be quite a family party. But it was hardly what I meant.’

‘No, I guessed that,’ said Francis knowingly. In another minute, he thought, noticing the twinkle in the old man’s eye, we shall begin quoting Limericks to each other.

Paris … Francis thought as he walked home. The word had so many associations, and each time somebody said it one imagined something different. Dr. Fremantle’s jovial yet secret voice conjured up a picture of the Continent in the days of King Edward the Seventh: the Entente Cordiale, black silk stockings and garters and rather naughty jokes. Miss Doggett’s shocked pronunciation of the name made it into a dark, wicked city where one might have an “unpleasant experience” and where it was essential to get the name of a good, respectable hotel from Cook’s. Simon Beddoes’s caressing voice gave the impression of a place where he knew a little hotel, where it was always spring and one was always on honeymoon, though not necessarily
monsieur et madame
, except in the hotel register. Paris, when Francis had said it, had hitherto been just the capital of France, where he and Margaret had once lost their luggage and passed an uncomfortable night on the way to somewhere else. But now he began to think of it differently. Barbara had said that she liked a romantic setting. What city in the world was more romantic than Paris, provided one didn’t lose one’s luggage?

When he reached his own gate he saw Miss Morrow scuttling away from it.

‘Good evening,’ he called out. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Morrow, who had not been able to think of any adequate reason why she should be hanging round the Clevelands’ gate. She could not very well explain that Miss Doggett had told her to watch for Francis’s return and to notice whether he brought Miss Bird with him.

‘When are you going away?’ he asked.

‘Oh, soon, I hope,’ she said. ‘Oxford’s so depressing now.’

‘You ought to go to Paris,’ said Francis surprisingly.

‘Paris? What should I do in Paris?’ said Miss Morrow.

‘Oh, you might have some interesting experiences there,’ he said vaguely.

Miss Morrow shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid nothing would happen to me,’ she said regretfully. ‘I shouldn’t even have the sort of experience my cousin Bertha had.’ She paused and then laughed suddenly. ‘I must be off now,’ she said. ‘Good-bye!’ She felt quite guilty at having nothing to report to Miss Doggett, almost as if it were
her
fault.

But later in the evening she
did
see a most extraordinary sight. She was going out about nine o’clock to post some letters, when she noticed Mr. Cleveland hurrying out of his gate. That in itself was nothing extraordinary, and she would have thought nothing of it, had he not been carrying a bottle of wine. It struck her as so very odd that she could not resist waiting to see where he went. But after she had seen him get on a bus she was really none the wiser. He might be going anywhere or nowhere. All the same, the whole affair seemed a little suspicious—rather Crampton Hodnet, was how she put it to herself. Oh, yes, distinctly Crampton Hodnet. She supposed she ought really to tell Miss Doggett. But what good would that do? Unless one could do positive good by telling a thing, one ought to keep quiet, thought Miss Morrow stoutly. She would not tell Miss Doggett.

She went back to Leamington Lodge, thinking vaguely about Omar Khayyam. How very odd Mr. Cleveland had looked carrying that bottle! She could hardly help laughing to herself.

How did one carry a bottle easily and nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be carrying? Francis wondered. He felt so foolish with it in his hand, and yet it would have looked even more odd if he had tried to hide it under his coat. He was glad when he and Barbara and the bottle were all safely together in a punt, where it did not seem quite so much out of place.

It was an ideal evening for the river. There was a warm breeze that stirred the leaves above them, and as it grew darker an enormous, unnatural-looking moon came out. Faint music could be heard in the distance and occasionally voices: towns-people, Americans, foreigners, the usual vacation inhabitants of Oxford.

‘Of course I’m not really much good at punting,’ said Francis apologetically, ‘but I dare say I can get it along.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve never learnt properly,’ admitted Barbara.

‘Ah, you’ve always been taken on the river by some accomplished young man,’ he said gallantly.

‘Yes, I suppose I have, really,’ agreed Barbara, lying back on the moss-green cushions. She liked this picture of herself surrounded by admirers. The cold-fish remark was still rankling a little. He would soon find out how wrong he had been, she thought boldly. ‘How nice to have a bottle of wine,’ she said. ‘That’s essential for a romantic river party.’

‘Yes, I thought it would be a good idea,’ said Francis.

‘“
The viol, the violet, and the vine”,’ quoted Barbara in a dreamy voice.

‘This seems to be a nice place to tie up,’ said Francis, pointing to a tree-shaded bank.

‘Oh, yes. How do we fix it?’

‘I’ll stick the pole into the mud,’ he said, ‘and there’s a rope at the other end that ought to be tied to something.’

Barbara got up and walked along the swaying floor of the punt. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a convenient branch here if I can reach it.’

‘Mind you don’t fall in,’ said Francis jokingly.

Barbara stretched out towards the branch with the rope in her hand ready to tie it, but at that moment the punt suddenly lurched away and there was a cry and a splash. She had fallen into the water.

‘Barbara!’ Francis dithered about, encumbered by the long, awkward pole. At last he flung it onto the bank and, without really thinking what he was doing, floundered into the water after her. He splashed round the punt and eventually found her. She was in no danger. She even appeared to be swimming. There had been no need for him to jump in at all, he thought with sudden annoyance, but the next moment this unworthy thought was chased from his mind as he put his arms around her and helped her back into the punt. Barbara, who was of course soaked to the skin, shivered convulsively and drew nearer to him.

He kissed her and she responded with more warmth than she had ever done before.

Dear
Francis, she thought, jumping into the water to save me. Of course she hadn’t really needed saving, but his action had somehow turned a ridiculous mishap into a romantic episode. There was something beautiful about that. She felt that they were very close to each other.

‘Barbara,’ he said in a rather odd, high voice, ‘how would you like to go to Paris with me?’

‘Paris
….’ She looked up at the dark tangle of branches above their heads. ‘Oh, Francis, it would be
divine
.’ Little shivers passed all over her. If they weren’t careful they were both going to catch cold, she thought, but had no wish to spoil the romance of the moment by pointing out that they ought to hurry home and take hot baths. For it was a romantic moment. It seemed to Barbara the most romantic moment she had ever known in her whole life.

‘We shall get pneumonia if we don’t hurry home,’ said Francis at last.

‘Oh, look, the poor bottle of wine. We never had it,’ said Barbara. It lay abandoned among the cushions, still unopened. Looking at it, Francis suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to bring a corkscrew… .

As he let himself into the house, Ellen was just going up to bed.

‘Good night, Ellen,’ he said.

‘Good night, sir.’

She glanced at him, but without interest. Evidently she saw nothing unusual in the fact that he was carrying a bottle of wine and had evidently fallen into the river. She had always thought him a bit touched anyway. 

Francis woke up with the feeling that it was a special day. This was, for him, a most unusual feeling. He couldn’t remember having experienced it for years. All days were so much alike, or should be, giving the same lectures and tutorials, seeing the family or the undergraduate faces that had looked vaguely the same for the past twenty years, so much so that some dons could scarcely have told you what year or even what season it was, unless their wives had made them put on woollen underwear, when they would realise that it must be time for a certain set of lectures which were given only in the winter term.

But today was different. Why? he wondered. And then he remembered. He sat up in bed in a panic. He was going to Paris with Barbara. What on earth had made him think of doing such a thing? He sat up in his blue-striped poplin pyjamas and remembered. Dr. Fremantle, the evening on the river, the bottle of wine … he saw that it was still there, unopened. It looked curiously out of place standing on the dressing-table in his respectable, almost monastic, bedroom.

He got up and went down to breakfast. There was nothing from Margaret. Well, he hadn’t written either. He felt angry and defiant, and bitter against his family for their neglect. He was altogether in a good mood to appreciate the little note that Barbara had written him. He hadn’t thought of doing anything like that. It was an omission, like the corkscrew.