The Day Gone By (31 page)

I wasn't offered anything as a result of those exams., although I learned afterwards that I had been considered for an exhibition at Merton. (The group of colleges involved was, I think, Christ Church, Oriel, Merton and Corpus Christi.) But I enjoyed doing the papers. This was for real, and it was encouraging to find that I
could
do them; and if I was any judge, do them reasonably well. Some of the results were posted up before we left Oxford. I remember hearing this while I was chatting among a little group of other candidates, and was unwise enough to enquire where the list might be seen. ‘Oi wouldn't wurry!' said the moist sugar chap banteringly. Well, he must at any rate have had some money, that moist sugar chap, for next year he was up at Christ Church as a commoner.

I didn't feel particularly dashed by not getting anything, and Hiscocks had nothing but praise when we went over the paper together and I told him what I'd tried to say. The next scholarship exam. was for Worcester College, on its own. The college was lucky enough to be second in line that year - to have second pick of the candidates. Hiscocks was calm and assured. ‘The - er - field will be much clearer now, Adams.'

It so happened that at this time I stumbled into another of my periodic and virtually unavoidable rows with Mr Arnold about some slip-up over leave to go to a school society meeting, or something like that. It was his way not to impose a penalty or punishment at the time of the offence and be done with it, but to go on remembering it against you and accordingly to withhold the next two or three requests you might have to make. ‘Well, in view of what you've done recently, I don't see why I should give you leave to go out on Sunday, do you?'

A little before I was due to go up again for the Worcester scholarship exam., I was suddenly summoned by the housemaster. ‘Mr Hiscocks wants you to go and see him this evening. I said I had no alternative but to refuse permission.' Here he became a little incoherent. ‘Your recent conduct - you people - But you've
got
to go, it seems,' he spat out, like a man thwarted beyond endurance. ‘Somebody from Worcester College, or something.' I waited. ‘You'll be back by quarter to eight and if you're not back by quarter to eight you'll be beaten. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, sir.'

I got down to Hiscocks, who was openly frustrated and annoyed that I couldn't stay as long as he wanted. I was apprehensive of the housemaster's anger and threat, and made it ‘twenty to eight', to be quite sure. ‘The person from Worcester' turned out to be an old boy named Jimmy Gilman, a friend and fellow-historian who had gone up to Worcester the year before. (Did Mr Arnold know this? If not, why not? If so, why didn't he tell me?) Hiscocks had actually got Jimmy to come and give me the low-down on the dons of Worcester, their predilections, fads and foibles. He did so, most penetratingly and helpfully, for half an hour or more, until I felt I had cut it as fine as I could and must race back to the house. Mr Arnold did not, of course, bother to enquire whether all had gone well.

I had one final briefing from Hiscocks a day or two later. He had nice rooms, down at Lord's Farm, some way from College, but muddy of access in winter. Just as I was leaving to go out into the snow, he turned his head and looked at me over the back of the sofa. ‘Do well at Worcester, Adams. It's a nice place: you'd like it.'

From the very start there was something propitious about the Worcester enterprise. The College, the beautiful quad., Dr George Clarke's library building, the gardens approached down a tunnel (like Alice), the lake, the playing fields - everything delighted me. As luck would have it, they lodged me in the De Quincey rooms - the finest undergraduate rooms in College. It was still bitterly cold, but when we got into hall the next morning, to start on the first paper, I found my place was near the fire, the only source of heat in the big room.

The papers might have been made for me. It was almost uncanny. ‘Examine the Spanish connection as a factor in the reign of James I.' ‘What restraints were placed upon the power of the monarchy at the Restoration, and how effective were they?' ‘Estimate the contribution of Prussia to the defeat of Napoleon.' ‘Compare and contrast Mazzini and Cavour as leaders of the Risorgimento.' Time was the only problem, and the invigilator had to stand over me and begin ‘I'm afraid -' before I reluctantly parted with my European history answers.

The English essay was a brute. There was only one subject and no more. ‘Character and intellect'. It wasn't my sort of thing at all, but I had an honest stab at it. (‘Never start writing for at least an hour, Adams: longer, preferably.')

The general paper came last, on a dark, freezing afternoon. I couldn't believe my eyes as I read through the questions. ‘Write a short appreciation of
one
of the following styles of English architecture: Norman; Early English; Decorated; Perpendicular.' ‘Must epic deteriorate as civilization advances?' ‘Of what use are museums?' ‘Compare any two of the following:- Bach and Handel; Reynolds and Gainsborough; Keats and Shelley; Trollope and Dickens.' And there, at the foot of the page, ‘What measures would you take to avoid a slump?'

As it fell out, this exam. spanned the end of term at Bradfield, so I was returning home direct from Worcester. My mother, who loved to go out in the car whenever she could (she didn't drive), had been driven to Oxford by Thorn to take a look round, have tea and return home with me. She was early - the exam. hadn't finished - but in spite of the cold she set out to have a walk round the College. As she was thus engaged, in some way or other she ran into and became acquainted with the medieval history tutor, Vere Somerset. Vere Somerset was a bachelor, at this time in his mid-forties, I suppose: something of an aristocrat (a connection of the family of Beaufort) and passionately fond of music. As I was to learn, he enjoyed arranging social occasions for his students and getting to know them. My mother, who had been a pretty girl, was always up for a little light flirtation, and what with my father's illness and our financial decline, must during the last year or two have come to feel rather deprived socially. Anyway, she and Vere Somerset took a shine to each other, and it was he with whom she had tea. A little later, in the early evening, I underwent a fascinating viva voce. All I can remember of it is that they were plainly well-disposed towards me, and that I had a friendly altercation with Mr Pickard-Cambridge, the distinguished philosopher, about the merits of Tchaikovsky as a composer. (I was pro-Tchaikovsky: Mr P.-C. courteously suggested that in time I would get tired of him. I can't say that I ever have.)

We were home in time for dinner, and I found my father coherent and convalescent. I knew intuitively that he had stopped drinking whisky (I expect he had been badly frightened), but he was ready enough to go two hundred yards up the road with me to the village pub. and have a beer or two. We didn't talk about his illness, but I could tell he was as glad to see me again as I was to see him. He had retired from work, and I had the feeling that now that he would soon be recovered, he was likely to find time hanging on his hands. My brother was at home, but my sister - now teaching at the Frances Holland in London - hadn't yet arrived for Christmas.

I didn't have to wait long for news from Worcester. A day or two later my mother received a short letter from Mr Somerset in his own hand. It said how much he had enjoyed their meeting at the College, and then went on to tell her that it was intended to elect her son to an open scholarship the following day. In a P.S., he added ‘I enjoyed your son's remarks on Keats and Shelley.' (I can't remember saying anything very original.)

Here was a go! My kind, serious-minded, responsible brother at once began worrying his head about ways and means. The scholarship (Worcester awarded two history and two classical scholarships annually) was worth £100 a year. At that time, it was generally reckoned that a student could manage in a modest way on about £240 a year. Where was the other £140 to come from? My brother set about the business of applying to the County Council for an auxiliary (county) scholarship.

A day or two later came the official invitation from the College, offering me the scholarship. It was necessary for me to accept formally in writing. At the same time arrived my sister - the arrival of whom I had been awaiting eagerly.

I had always respected and admired my sister. Her own fine university achievement had made me dare to hope that one day I might be able to manage something of the sort. During my time at Bradfield, although I had achieved certain academic successes, she had never spoken a word of praise or congratulation. At last, I thought, I knew why. It was because, as I now perceived, these had been relatively trifling, parochial matters, not really worth remark by a scholar of her standing. She had been waiting to see whether I was capable of doing something worthwhile in the real world. Now I had. Now, at last, she - the only knowledgeable, discriminating person, apart from Hiscocks and Hunt, whose praise was worth having - would say what she had been keeping back for something that really deserved it.

She showed up in her usual door-slamming, kick-off-your-shoes style. I waited happily while she had a drink and a meal. Afterwards, while she was reading the paper, my mother said something about the scholarship.

‘Well,' said my sister, ‘I do think someone might have taken the trouble to ring me up and tell me.' A little later she went out somewhere. She didn't allude to the matter again.

It still hurts, after all these years. But little by little I came to realize that her saying nothing was due not to deliberate unkindness, but to a sort of emotional inhibition which made it impossible for her to find or to come out with words of warmth or compliment. There are people - they are usually clever people - who have this limitation. Years later, I was to work for a brilliant civil servant, David Nenk, in the Ministry of Education, who had the same impediment. Anyway, my mortification was eased by a telegram which arrived that evening. ‘Congratulations and best wishes Hiscocks.' (Nothing from Mr Arnold, of course.)

My brother's representations to the Berkshire County Council were successful. They awarded me a grant of £90 a year. The other £50 would be found somehow. I rather think Aunt Lilian came down with the ready. Good for her! The more immediate question was whether I should now leave Bradfield or remain there until the end of the summer term. Once again, I had no views of my own and was quite content to wait until others had decided for me. My sister and Hiscocks met and talked it over: their decision was that on balance I would gain more by staying at Bradfield. Hiscocks remained of the view which he had put into writing for the authorities at Worcester. ‘As a historian he is immature but capable of good work.' (‘It's always better, Adams, not to - er - lay it on too thick.') I could do with two more terms of Hiscocks.

I had no objections. As the winner of an open scholarship, I now rated the privileges of a full blood; that is to say, in all respects those of a house - though not a College - prefect. This was certainly one step towards putting down the housemaster. I began to meditate on other possibilities. Two were open to me during the coming Lent term. I could try to get my fives colours and I could try to win the Denning, as it was called - the College prize for English literature.

Both were distinctly chancy. The fives team consisted of only two pairs, which meant that, logically, only four people stood to win their colours. Michael Paine, the head prefect of the Close, was an outstanding athlete and easily the best fives player in the school. He had taught me virtually all the skill I had — really because he wanted a decent partner for the house to win the fives doubles cup. (He himself would win the singles.) In another house there was a boy called Henry Joy whom I knew I couldn't beat. That left two places, and the aspirants were myself and two other boys called John Hoare and David Martin. What actually happened in the event was that I began that term in the College second pair with John Hoare; then David displaced me; but towards the end of the term, David went sick and I played the last two or three matches in his stead. Exceptionally, the term ended with five colours, Paine, Joy, Hoare, Martin and myself.

The Denning was recognized as an arduous business, on account of the work involved and the hot competition. No one
had
to enter for the Denning prize: you chose to do so only if you coveted glory. There were several set books - novels and poetry — on which to be examined, and there was also a paper on general knowledge of English literature. This was unusual inasmuch as it was held in the College library and you could go to the shelves and look up anything you wanted. It was a matter not of memory but of what you knew.

My principal competitors were a boy called Francis - no mean poet - and an even better poet named Michael Rivière, who had a really keen mind. After all this time I remember only two things about the syllabus. The first is that one of the set books was Sir Thomas Browne's
Religio Medici.
This happened to be one of my father's favourites. He bought me a beautiful annotated copy and himself ‘talked through' the book with me. That was one paper on which I surely knew what song the sirens sang. The second is that the general paper included a question something like ‘Write an appreciation of any distinguished Victorian poet.' I waded in with Tennyson, on whom at the time I had a great crush. I remember quoting ‘Lady Clara Vere de Vere' as evidence that he possessed a social conscience! Heaven knows how I won the Denning, but I did.

The pleasant thing about these last two terms at Bradfield was that no one - not even Hiscocks - was particularly demanding about work. Nothing more could really be required of me, and by this time I had absorbed enough proficiency to satisfy without taking too much trouble. This was largely, of course - as it is with any job - a business of knowing what to concentrate on and what didn't matter. (No wasted energy.) In leisure time there were plenty of exciting discoveries to be made, such as Gerard Manley Hopkins and - a novelist who was currently hitting the high spots - Ernest Hemingway. Mr Hunt was engaged to be married to a charming girl called Catharine Cohen, who sometimes took me out in her car on wild-flower expeditions. I was always hoping that we might find a rare orchis, such as the Bee orchis or the Military orchis, but we never did: and indeed I never have. The twayblade is the best I have ever done from that day to this.