The Book and the Brotherhood (3 page)

A little later Rose and Gerard made their way to Levquist’s rooms just off the cloisters. Rose felt, but would not of course admit it, a little tired. They found Jenkin Riderhood in possession. Jenkin, who had clearly been drinking for some time, quickly put down the bottle of champagne. Jenkin, a little younger than Gerard, was an old friend, one of the original ‘set’ which included Sinclair, Duncan, Marcus, Robin, who had been close friends as undergraduates at the college. Of the survivors Jenkin was, or perhaps just seemed, the least successful. Duncan Cambus had been having a distinguished career, first as a diplomat, then in the Home Civil Service. Gerard had reached greater heights, tipped for the highest office in his department, when he had suddenly, quite lately, many felt unaccountably, taken an early retirement. Robin, now defected to Canada and rarely heard from, was a well-known geneticist. Sinclair had decided to be a marine biologist, and was about to visit the Scripps Oceanography Institute in California when his glider crashed. Rose had intended to go with him, Gerard was to follow, together they were going to discover America. At Oxford Gerard, Duncan and Jenkin had all done ‘Greats’, Greek and Latin, ancient history and philosophy, and had all got their ‘firsts’. Rose, who came of a Yorkshire family, with Anglo-Irish connections on her mother’s side, had studied English literature and French at Edinburgh. She had done a variety of things, never achieving anything which could be called a career, taught French at a girls’ school, worked for an Animals’ Rights organisation, been a ‘women’s journalist’, tried to write novels, returned to part-time journalism and ecology. She did unpaid social work and occasionally went to (Anglican) church. She had a small annuity from a family trust which she felt she might have been better off without; she might have tried harder. Her friend Jean Kowitz, with whom she had attended a Quaker boarding school, had been at
Oxford where, through Rose, she got to know Gerard and the others, including Duncan Cambus whom she later married. Jean was a clever academic who should, Rose felt, have ‘done something’ instead of just being a wife. Jean and Duncan were childless. Jenkin Riderhood was, and had always been, a schoolmaster. He was now senior history master in a London school. He had never applied for a headship. He was a diffident solitary man, easily pleased by small treats. He knew a number of languages and liked going on package tours. He was known to have had some romances (that seemed to be the word) with girls at Oxford, but his later sex life seemed to be non-existent, was at any rate invisible.

Jenkin said, ‘I’ve just been to look at my old rooms. There was an undergraduate there writing an essay. He called me “sir”.’

‘I’m glad he had such good manners,’ said Rose, ‘they don’t all.’

‘What’s it like out there?’

‘A forest in Ancient Egypt,’ said Gerard. ‘I hope the champers is holding out?’

‘Bags of it. Piles of sandwiches too.’

Jenkin, who was sweating and flushed with drink, brought forward a plate of cucumber sandwiches and began to mop up with a napkin some of the champagne which was swimming about on the table. He was stout, not tall, and looked fidgety and bulgy in his evening dress which was old and made for a considerably slimmer Jenkin. He had however retained his boyish look and clear soft complexion and could be better described as chubby. His faded strawy blond hair hung down about his head, still concealing a small bald patch. He had streaky blue-grey eyes, a pursed-up thoughtful often-smiling mouth and longish teeth. His face was saved from being cherubic by a rather long substantial nose which gave him an animal look, sometimes touching, sometimes shrewd.

‘I’m sorry Pat couldn’t come,’ said Gerard, pouring some champagne for Rose. Jenkin was to have been, in Gideon’s absence, Patricia’s partner.

‘Oh I’m OK,’ said Jenkin, ‘loving it. Damn! Sandwiches
should bloody stay together.’ His cucumber had leapt out onto the floor.

‘Did Violet say why she couldn’t come?’ said Rose.

‘No, but one knows why. She doesn’t want to see a lot of happy laughing young people. She doesn’t want to see a lot of happy laughing us.’

‘Who is to blame her?’ murmured Jenkin.

‘She was probably glad to be asked,’ said Rose. ‘She may not have wanted to see Tamar being so happy. Parents can love their children and envy them too.’ She added, ‘We must do something about Violet.’ This was often said.

‘I didn’t spot Tamar and Conrad, did you?’ said Gerard. ‘I forgot to tell them to come up here for drinks.’

‘They won’t want to be with us!’ said Rose.

‘They look so young, the young, don’t they,’ said Gerard. ‘Ah,
la jeunesse, la jeunesse
! All those clear smooth transparent unspoilt unworked faces!’

‘Not like ours,’ said Jenkin, ‘scrawled over with passion and resentment and drink!’

‘You two look like children,’ said Rose, ‘at least Jenkin does. Gerard looks like –’ Wanting to avoid some ridiculous comparison she left the sentence unfinished.

‘We were children
then
,’ said Gerard.

‘You mean we were Marxists,’ said Jenkin. ‘Or we imagined we were Platonists or something. You still do.’

‘We thought that we could live some really civilised alternative society,’ said Gerard, ‘we had faith, we believed.’

‘Jenkin still believes,’ said Rose. ‘What do you believe in, Jenkin?’

‘The New Theology!’ said Jenkin promptly.

‘Don’t be silly!’ said Rose.

‘Don’t you mean the New Marxism,’ said Gerard, ‘isn’t it much the same thing?’

‘Well, if it’s new enough –’

‘New enough to be unrecognisable!’

‘I never go to church,’ said Jenkin,’ ‘but I want religion to go on somehow. There’s a battle front there, where religion and Marxism touch.’

‘Not yours,’said Gerard, ‘I mean not your battle. You don’t want to fight for Marx! That mix-up is totally incoherent anyway.’

‘Well, where is my battle? I’d like to be somewhere out at the edge of things. But where is the edge?’

‘You’ve been saying this sort of thing for years,’ said Gerard, ‘and here you are still.’

‘Jenkin is a romantic,’ said Rose, ‘so am I. I’d like to be a priest. Maybe it will be possible in my lifetime.’

‘Rose would make a marvellous priest!’

‘I’m against it,’ said Gerard. ‘Don’t eat all the sandwiches.’

‘You agree to being called a sort of Platonist?’ said Rose to Gerard.

‘Oh yes!’

‘That’s what you’re going to write about, now you’ve retired?’

‘You’ll write about Plotinus, like you said?’ said Jenkin.

‘Possibly.’ Gerard evidently did not want to talk about this, so the other two dropped the subject.

Rose put down her glass and went to the window. She could see the floodlit tower, the moon risen and now small, a concise circle of silver, lights in the trees by the river. Her heart heaved within her as if it were some huge thing which she had swallowed and wished to regurgitate. She suddenly wanted to sob with joy and fear. The slim pinnacled tower, in the fierce light against the dark blue sky, resembled a picture in a Book of Hours. It also reminded Rose of something, some kind of theatre, some time, perhaps many times, when she had seen illumined buildings at night and heard superhuman voices, such as the one which she now instinctively expected to hear, telling her in slow ringing tones some picturesque piece of history or legend.
Son et lumière
in France, England, Italy, Spain. A memory came of something in French, some unplaced piece of poetry, perhaps not even heard correctly.
Les esprits aiment la nuit, qui sait plus qu’une femme donner une âme à toutes choses
. That can’t be right, she thought, what a ridiculous idea
anyway. Of course she did, herself, in a way, do just that, endow all sorts of silly senseless things with ‘souls’, certainly not with any exalted gesture worthy of being announced to the world by a godlike voice beside a magic tower. In her, it was more like superstition, or some sad overflow of wasted love. Breathing deeply she turned round, leaning back against the sill and smiling her faint smile.

The two men looked at her with affection, then at each other. Perhaps Gerard at any rate knew something of what she was feeling, he knew and did not know. Rose understood how little he wanted her, ever, to fail to be her calm self.

Jenkin said, ‘What about some more champagne? There’s a shocking number of bottles stashed away.’

‘Where are Jean and Duncan, I thought they might be here,’ said Rose, as the champagne cork hit the ceiling.

‘They were earlier,’ said Jenkin, ‘Jean hauled him off, she couldn’t bear not to be dancing.’

‘Jean’s such an athlete,’ said Rose. ‘She can still stand on her head. Do you remember how she stood on her head in a punt one day?’

‘Duncan wanted to stay and drink, but Jean wouldn’t let him.’

‘Duncan’s drinking too much,’ said Rose. ‘Jean’s wearing that red dress with the black lace that I like so. She has her gipsy look.

‘You look stunning, Rose,’ said Jenkin.

‘I love you in that dress,’ said Gerard, ‘it’s so
intensely
simple, I like that wonderful dark green, like laurel, like myrtle, like ivy.’

Rose thought, it’s time for Jenkin to ask me to dance, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t like dancing, but he’ll have to. And Gerard will dance with Jean. Then I shall dance with Duncan. That’s all right. I feel better. Perhaps I’m a little drunk.

‘It’s time I went to see Levquist,’ said Gerard. ‘Would you like to come, Jenkin?’

‘I’ve already beer.’

‘You’ve already been?’ Gerard’s indignant tone was activated from the remote past. An old pang of indestructible
timeless jealousy seared his heart with the speed of fire. It burned with an old pain. How they had all coveted that man’s praise, far away in that short golden piece of the past. They had coveted his praise and his love. Gerard had carried off the famous prize. But what he really wanted was to be praised and loved the most. It was hard to believe now that Jenkin had been his nearest rival.

Jenkin, who knew exactly what Gerard was thinking, began to laugh. He sat down abruptly spilling his drink.

‘Did he ask you to translate something?’ said Gerard.

‘Yes, the brute. He planted me in front of a piece of Thucydides.’

‘How did you manage?’

‘I said I couldn’t make head or tail of it.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He laughed and patted my arm.’

‘He was always soft on you.’

‘He always expected more of you.’

Gerard did not dispute this.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t say I was going to see Levquist,’ said Jenkin, serious now, ‘so that we could go together. But I knew that he’d play that old trick on me. I don’t mind failing, but I’d rather you weren’t there.’

Gerard found this explanation entirely satisfactory.

‘How you men do live in the past!’ said Rose.

‘Well, you were remembering Jean just now,’ said Jenkin, ‘standing on her head in the punt. It was May Morning.’

‘Were you there?’ said Rose. ‘I’d forgotten. Gerard was there, and Duncan – and – and Sinclair.’

The door flew open and Gulliver Ashe blundered in.

Gerard said at once, ‘Gull, have you seen Tamar and Conrad? I quite forgot to tell them about coming up here.’

‘I saw them,’ said Gulliver. He spoke clearly but with the careful solemnity of the drunk man. ‘I
saw
them. And at that very moment Conrad rushed off, leaving her alone.’

‘Leaving her
alone
?’ said Rose.

‘I conversed with her. Then I too left her. That is all that I can report.’

‘You
left
her?’ said Gerard, ‘how could you, how perfectly rotten! You left her standing by herself?’

‘Her escort not being far off, I presumed,’ said Gulliver.

‘You’d better go and look for her at once,’ said Gerard.

‘Give him a drink first,’ said Jenkin, hauling himself up from his chair. ‘I expect Conrad’s turned up again.’

‘I’ll have a word with him if he hasn’t!’ said Gerard. ‘Fancy leaving her alone even for a moment!’

‘I expect it was a call of nature,’ said Jenkin, ‘he rushed in behind the laurels, the myrtle, the ivy.’

‘It was
not
a call of nature,’ said Gulliver. He could see from the behaviour of his audience that they did not yet know his great news. ‘Do you know? Well, obviously you don’t. Crimond is here.’

‘
Crimond? Here
?’

‘Yes.
And
he’s wearing a
kilt
.’

Gulliver took the glass of champagne offered to him by Jenkin and sat down in the chair Jenkin had vacated.

Their dismay was even greater than Gull had hoped for. They stared at each other appalled, with stiffened faces and indrawn lips. Rose, who rarely showed her emotions, had flushed and put a hand to her face. She was the first to speak. ‘How
dare
he come here!’

‘It’s his old college too,’ said Jenkin.

‘Yes, but he must have known –’

‘That it’s our territory?’

‘He must have known we’d all be here,’ said Rose, ‘he must have come on purpose.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Gerard. ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed about. But we’d better go and find Duncan and Jean. They may not know –’

‘If they do know they’ve probably gone home!’ said Rose.

‘I bloody hope not,’ said Jenkin. ‘Why should they? They can just keep away from him. God!’ he added, ‘and I was just looking forward to seeing the old coll and getting quietly plastered with you lot!’

‘I’ll go and tell them,’ said Gulliver. ‘I haven’t seen them, but I expect I can find them.’

‘No,’ said Gerard, ‘you stay here.’

‘Why? Am I under arrest? Aren’t I supposed to look for Tamar?’

‘Duncan and Jean may come here,’ said Rose, ‘hadn’t someone better be – ?’

‘Yes, all right, go and look for Tamar,’ said Gerard to Gulliver. ‘Just see she’s OK and if she’s alone dance with her. I expect that boy has come back. Why did he rush off?’

‘He went to gape at Crimond. I don’t see what all the fuss is, about that man. I know you quarrelled with Crimond about the book and all that, and wasn’t he keen on Jean once? Why are you all so fluffed up?’