The Book and the Brotherhood (7 page)

‘Of course I won’t, and of course you’re right. But, my God, what
cheek!
’

‘What are you going to do about the book?’ said Rose, changing the subject, as Jenkin stepped on her foot.

‘We, Rose. You’re on the committee too.’

‘Yes, but I don’t count. You and Gerard must decide.’

‘We can’t do anything,’ said Jenkin. He was worrying about Duncan wandering around like a miserable dangerous bear.

Conrad Lomas appeared from nowhere, making his way across the dance floor, thrusting the insensate couples aside.

‘Where’s Tamar? Have you seen her?’

‘We should be asking you that!’ said Rose.

Gerard, alone in Levquist’s rooms, where the curtains were still pulled against the light, looked gloomily at the chaotic scene, used glasses and empty bottles perched everywhere, on the mantelpiece, on the chairs, on the tables, on the bookcases, on the floor. How can we have used so many glasses, he thought. Of course one loses one’s glass oftener and oftener as the evening goes on! And damn it, there are no sandwiches left, or only one and it hasn’t got any cucumber in it. He ate the limp piece of bread, then poured himself out some champagne. He was tired of the stuff, but there was nothing else to drink. Jenkin had claimed to have hidden a bottle of whisky in Levquist’s bedroom ‘for later’, only Gerard did not feel strong enough to search for it.

He fervently hoped that Levquist’s scout would be able to clear up the mess before Levquist returned after breakfast. He must remember to tip the man. Then he recalled with anguish that he had, in the electric storm of his visit to Levquist, forgotten to thank him for the loan of the room, a notable privilege since other distinguished old pupils were certainly also in the field. He began to plan a gracefully apologetic letter. Levquist would of course have observed the omission and probably derived malicious pleasure from it. He then reflected upon the interesting fact that ever since ‘that business’, now so far in the past, Levquist had never, in meetings with Gerard or Jenkin, mentioned Crimond’s name, although he usually referred to the others, and Crimond too had been his pupil and one of the group. Someone must have told him. Gerard then wondered, not for the first time, whether Crimond kept up any sort of friendship with Levquist. Perhaps he had been to see him
this very evening
! How horrible, how somehow poisonous it was, Crimond being here. Gerard shared Rose’s reaction of: how dare he! To which Jenkin had rationally replied: why not? But dancing with Jean… Gerard had noticed with displeasure how the whole episode, in so far
as it could be called that, seemed to have excited Jenkin. Gerard found it shocking, sickening, thoroughly ill-omened and bad. He wondered if he were drunk, then, how drunk he was. The telephone rang. He lifted the receiver. ‘Hello.’

‘Could I speak to Mr Hernshaw, if he’s there?’

‘Pat –’

‘Oh Gerard – Gerard – he’s gone –’

Gerard reassembled his thoughts. His father was dead.

‘Gerard, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s died. We didn’t expect it, did we, the doctor didn’t say – it just happened – so – suddenly – he – and he was dead –’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes, of course! It’s five o’clock in the morning! Who do you think I could get to be with me?’

‘When did he die?’

‘Oh – an hour ago – I don’t know –’

Gerard thought, what was I doing then? ‘And were you with him –?

‘Yes! I was asleep with the doors open – about one or so I heard him moaning and I went in and he was sitting up and – and mumbling in a ghastly high voice, and he kept jerking his arms and staring all round the room, and he wouldn’t look at me – and he was white, as white as the wall, and his lips were white – and I tried to give him a pill but – I tried to make him lie back, I wanted him to sleep again, I thought if he can only rest, if he can only sleep – and then his breathing – became so awful –’

‘Oh God,’ said Gerard.

‘All right, you don’t want to know – I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages, ever since, the porter kept telephoning various rooms, I just got a lot of drunks. Are you drunk? You sound as if you are.’

‘Possibly.’ He thought, of course Levquist has no telephone over there – but that was earlier anyway – what was I doing? Watching Crimond dance? Poor Patricia. He said, ‘Bear up, Pat.’

‘You are drunk. Of course I’m bearing up. What else can I do. I’m just half mad with grief and misery and shock and I’m all by myself –’

‘You’d better go to bed.’

‘I
can’t
. How long will it take you to get here, an hour?’

‘I can do it in an hour,’ said Gerard, ‘or less, but I can’t leave immediately.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘I’ve got a lot of people here, I can’t just leave them, I can’t go without telling them and God knows where they all are at the moment.’ He thought, I can’t go without seeing Duncan.

‘Your father’s dead and you want to stay on dancing with your drunken friends.’

‘I’ll come soon,’ said Gerard, ‘I just can’t come at once, I’m sorry.’

Patricia put down the receiver.

Gerard sat with closed eyes in the silence that followed. Then he started saying, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’, and hid his face in his hands and panted and moaned. Of course he had known it was coming, he had calmly mentioned it to Levquist, but
this
was unlike anything which cowardly imagination could have schooled him with beforehand. He had known what he did not will to imagine, the
fact
, the irrevocable
fact
. Love, old love, sensibilities and dimensions and powers of love which he had forgotten or never recognised, came speeding in from all the far-spread regions of his being, hot with pain, crying and wailing with the agony of that severance. Never to speak to his father again, to see his smiling welcoming face, to be happy in his happiness, to experience the absolute comfort of his love. He felt remorse, not because he had been a bad son, he had not, but because he was no longer a son, and there was still so much to say. A
place
wherein he himself
was
as in no other place had been struck out of the world. Oh my father, oh my father, oh my dear father.

He heard steps upon the stairs and hastily rose to his feet and rubbed his face although there were no tears on it. He turned a calm gaze to the door. It was Jenkin.

Gerard decided instantly not to tell Jenkin about his father.
He would tell him later when they were driving back together to London. He did not want to start to tell and then be interrupted by one of the others. Better to say nothing. Jenkin would understand.

Jenkin, who constantly read Gerard’s mind, had been aware that Gerard disapproved of what he might have thought of as Jenkin’s excitement, even glee, at the little bit of drama promised by the evening. He also felt that Gerard had thought poorly of Jenkin’s appreciation of Crimond’s flying kilt. Jenkin was bothered too by his
gaucherie
with Rose, his inability to dance well, and his abrupt dismissal of her question. He too was not at all sure how drunk he was. When Rose declined the next dance saying she was tired, Jenkin made a quick circuit looking for Duncan but did not find him. He pursued a white-clad figure who looked like Tamar, but who vanished on his approach. Tamar had by this time finished her dance with Duncan and been sent away by him with a vague, ‘Well, off you go, and enjoy yourself.’ She did not feel any urge or duty to stay with him, he was clearly very drunk and either did not want her to continue seeing him in this condition or had quite forgotten that she had no partner. She started to walk about aimlessly in conspicuous spaces hoping that someone she knew would see her. About the cashmere shawl, she had given up hope, perhaps someone had stolen it.

Gerard, who constantly read Jenkin’s mind, was aware of the little cloud that hung over his friend and hastened to dispel it. ‘My dear fellow, do you think you could find the whisky you alleged you hid? I’m fed up with this stuff.’

They went into Levquist’s neat student-like bedroom with its narrow iron bedstead and washstand with basin, water jug, and soap dish, and Jenkin began foraging in Levquist’s bedclothes. The bottle of whisky was found, and a carafe of water on the bedside table, handy because there was of course no bathroom or running water. Gerard tidied the bed. They took these trophies back into the main room and dosed two champagne glasses with whisky.

‘It’s day out there, can’t we pull the curtains?’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Gerard, ‘how ghastly!’ He pulled back the curtains and let in the dreadful cold sunlight.

‘I couldn’t see Duncan anywhere, but I gather a lot of people are in the deer park.’

‘They’re not supposed to be.’

‘Well, they are.’

Heavy uncertain footsteps were heard on the stairs. ‘That must be Duncan,’ said Jenkin, and opened the door.

Duncan blundered in and made straight for an armchair and fell into it with a crash. He stared up blankly for a moment. Then passed his hand over his face as Gerard had done earlier, frowned, and gathered himself. With an effort he sat up a little.

‘Good heavens, you’re soaking wet!’ said Jenkin.

It was so. Duncan’s trousers and part of his jacket were drenched with water, muddy too, and muddy water was dripping darkly onto the carpet.

Duncan noticed this and said, ‘Christ, what will Levquist say!’

‘I’ll deal,’ said Gerard. He fetched two towels from the bedroom, gave one to Duncan, and with the other began to mop up the pool on the carpet, while Duncan dabbed at his clothes.

‘I’m sloshed,’ said Duncan. Then he explained. ‘I fell in the river. Crazy!’

‘I’m sloshed too,’ said Jenkin sympathetically.

‘Is that whisky? Can I have some?’

Jenkin poured out a small whisky and filled the glass up with water. Duncan took it with an unsteady hand.

More footsteps were heard on the stairs. It was Rose. She came in and saw Duncan at once. ‘Duncan, dear, there you are, I’m so glad!’ She could not think what to say to him next, so exclaimed, ‘So you’re all onto whisky, are you, no I won’t have any! What’s that mess on the floor?’

‘I fell in the Cher,’ said Duncan. ‘Idiotic old drunk!’

‘Poor darling! Gerard, put the electric fire on. And stop doing that, you’re only making things worse. Give me the towel. See if there’s any water in the jug in the bedroom.’

There was. Rose, tucking up her green dress, on her knees, began an artful operation with little doses of water and careful use of the towel, blending the muddy stain into the fortunately fairly dark and ancient carpet. ‘I’m afraid we’re messing up Levquist’s towels, but the scout will replace them. Don’t forget to tip him, Gerard.’

Someone was running up the stairs, stumbling in his haste, and now bursting open the door. It was Gulliver Ashe. Not immediately noticing Duncan he cried out his news. ‘There’s been such a to-do down there, they say that Crimond has thrown a man into the Cherwell!’ Then he caught sight of Duncan and the water scene and put his hand over his mouth.

‘Go away, Gull, would you,’ said Gerard.

Gull reeled away down the stairs.

Gulliver had lost Lily Boyne; he was sorry about this, he had enjoyed dancing with her, yet he was not absolutely sorry since he had come to realise that although he had drunk nothing recently except a glass of champagne which he had discovered on the grass, he was once more feeling very drunk, and a little sick, and also extremely tired. Lily, who had in the course of dancing divested herself of her white blouse, which she had rolled up and thrown away among the dancers (where it was caught and appropriated by a young man) revealing a just decently extensive and lacy petticoat beneath, had also at last declared herself ‘flaked’ and gone to sit down. Gull had gone out to attend to a natural need and coming back had found her gone. It was after this that he had heard some people talking about Crimond. Expelled from Levquist’s rooms he now began to wander, first round the cloister where he managed to acquire, although he didn’t really want it, a glass of beer, and then out onto the main lawns between the tents.

It was now full daylight, the terrible inquisitional finalising daylight had come, sending away the enchanted forest and all the magic of the night and revealing a scene, more resembling a battlefield, of trampled grass, empty bottles, broken glasses,
upturned chairs, errant garments, and every sort of unattractive human debris. Even the tents, in the relentless sunshine, looked dirty and bedraggled. The blackbirds, thrushes, tits, swallows, wrens, robins, starlings and innumerable other birds were singing loudly, the doves were cooing and the rooks were cawing, and, nearer now, in the big trees of the deer park, came the hollow repetitive cry of the cuckoo. Dance music continued unabated however, sounding in the more open space of the high cloudless blue sky and surrounded by all that bird song, diminished and unreal. A queue was forming for breakfast, but a considerable number of people seemed unable to stop dancing, possessed by ecstasy or by a frenzied desire to maintain the enchantment, and to postpone the misery to come: remorse, regret, the tarnished hope, the shattered dream, and all the awful troubles of ordinary life. Gull would have liked some breakfast, the idea of bacon and eggs was suddenly extremely attractive, but he did not fancy waiting in the queue by himself, and he felt a more urgent and immediate need to sit down, preferably to lie down. He decided to rest for a short time and to come for the grub later when the crush was less. The desecrated littered grass was also scattered here and there with prostrate human figures, mostly male, some fast asleep. Making his way between these Gulliver even passed, though of course did not recognise, Tamar’s cashmere shawl, now a stained screwed-up bundle, which had been used by someone to deal with a disaster to a bottle of red wine. A faint mist was hanging over the Cherwell. He found his way through the archway and out into the deer park. The park had been declared, for ecological and security reasons, out of bounds to the dancers. Now however, presumably since the dance was nearly over, the bowler-hatted guardians had melted away and couples were strolling here and there in the groves of trees. In the distance, in misty green glades, deer wandered and rabbits ran impetuously to and fro. Gulliver staggered on a little way, breathing the delicious fresh rivery early morning air and appreciating the untrodden grass. Then he sat down under a tree and fell asleep.