On this occasion Quiggin walked back with me towards my college, though without relaxing the harsh exterior he had displayed when we had first met at Sillery’s. He seemed chiefly concerned to find out more about Mark Members.
‘Where does his stuff appear?’ he asked.
‘What stuff?’
‘His poems have been published, haven’t they?’
‘The one I read was in Public School Verse.’
‘Why “Public”?’ said Quiggin. ‘Why “Public” School Verse? Why not just “School Verse”?’
I was unable to answer that one; and suggested that such a title must for some reason have appealed to the editors, or publisher, of the volume.
‘It is not as if they were “public” schools,’ said Quiggin. ‘They could not be less “public”.’
I had heard this objection voiced before, and could only reply that such schools had to have a name of some sort. Quiggin stopped, stuck his hands into his pockets (he was still wearing his black suit) and poked his head forward. He looked thin and unhealthy: undernourished, perhaps.
‘Have you got a copy?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I borrow it?’
‘All right.’
‘Now?’
‘If you like to come with me.’
We undertook the rest of the journey to my rooms in silence. Arrived there, Quiggin glanced round at the furnishings, as if he did not rate very highly the value of the objects provided by the college to sit, or lie, upon. They were, indeed, shabby enough. Standing by the bookcase, he took out the copy of Public School Verse, which he had lighted upon immediately, and began to run rapidly through the rest of the books.
‘Do you know Members well?’ he asked.
‘I’ve met him once, since we were at Sillery’s.’
This encounter with Members had been at a luncheon party given by Short, where Members had much annoyed and mortified his host by eating nearly all the strawberries before the meal began. In addition, he had not spoken at all during luncheon, leaving before coffee was served, on the grounds that he had to play the gramophone to himself for half an hour every afternoon; and that, unless he withdrew at once, he would not have time for his music owing to a later engagement. Short, for a mild man, had been quite cross.
‘I understand that Members is a coming poet,’ said Quiggin.
I agreed that Iron Aspidistra showed considerable promise. Quiggin gloomily turned the pages of the collection. He said: ‘I’d be glad to meet Members again.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to answer that he was almost certain to do this, sooner or later, if their homes were so close; but, as Quiggin evidently meant there and then, rather than in the vacation, I thought it wiser to leave the remark unmade. I promised to let him know if a suitable occasion should arise, such as Members visiting my rooms, though that seemed improbable after his behaviour at Short’s luncheon party.
‘Can I take The Green Hat too?’ asked Quiggin.
‘Don’t lose it.’
‘It is all about fashionable life, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes.’
I had myself not yet fully digested the subject matter of The Green Hat, a novel that I felt painted, on the whole, a sympathetic picture of what London had to offer: though much of the life it described was still obscure to me. I was surprised at Quiggin asking for it. He went on: ‘In that case I do not expect that I shall like it. I hate anything superficial. But I will take the book and look at it, and tell you what I think of the writing.’
‘Do.’
‘I suppose that it depicts the kind of world that your friend Stringham will enter when he joins Donners-Brebner,’ said Quiggin, as he continued to inspect the bookshelf.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well you must have heard that he has taken the job that Truscott was talking about at Sillery’s. Surely he has told you that?’
‘What, with Sir Magnus Donners?’
It was no use pretending that I knew something of this already. I was, indeed, so surprised that only after Quiggin had gone did I begin to feel annoyance.
‘I should have thought he would have told you,’ said Quiggin.
‘Where did you hear this?’
‘At Sillery’s, of course. Sillery says Stringham is just the man.’
‘He probably is.’
‘Of course,’ said Quiggin, ‘I knew at once there would be no chance of Truscott thinking of me. Not good enough, by any manner of means, I suppose.’
‘Would you have liked the job?’
I did not know what else to say: the idea of Quiggin being the sort of man Truscott was looking for seeming to me so grotesque.
Quiggin did not bother to reply to this question. He merely repeated, with a sniff: ‘Not good enough by a long chalk,’ adding: ‘You might come and see me some time in my college, if you can find the way to it. You won’t get any priceless port, or anything like that.’
I said that I was not particularly fond of port; and began to give an account of my likes and dislikes in the matter of wine, which Quiggin, with what I now see as excusable impatience, cut short by saying: ‘I live very quietly. I can’t afford to do otherwise.’
‘Neither can I.’
Quiggin did not answer. He gave me a look of great contempt; as I supposed, for venturing, even by implication, to draw a parallel between a lack of affluence that might, literally, affect my purchase of rare vintages, and a figure of speech intended delicately to convey his own dire want for the bare necessities of life. He remained silent for several seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he could ever bring himself to speak to me again; and then said gruffly: ‘I’ve got to go now.’
As he went off, all hunched up on one side with Public School Verse and The Green Hat under his arm, I felt rather ashamed of myself for having made such a thoughtless remark. However, I soon forgot about this, at the time, in recalling the news I had learnt about Stringham, which I wanted to verify as soon as possible. In general, however, I continued to feel an interest in Quiggin, and the way he lived. He had something of the angry solitude of spirit that held my attention in Widmerpool.
Stringham, when I next saw him, seemed surprised at the importance with which I invested his decision.
‘I thought I’d told you,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact it isn’t finally fixed yet. What awful cheek of your friend Quiggin, if I may say so.’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘The man is a closed book to me,’ Stringham said. ‘And one that I confess I have little temptation to open. Bill Truscott, on the other hand, was rather impressed.’
‘With Quiggin?’
‘Curiously enough.’
‘Will you work with Truscott?’
‘I shall be the other personal secretary.’
‘Did Sillery put up the suggestion?’
‘He is very keen on it. He agrees one’s family will have to be consulted.’
‘Will your family raise difficulties?’
‘For once,’ said Stringham, ‘I don’t think they will. My mother will at last see hopes of getting me settled in life. Buster—most mistakenly—will suppose this to be the first step on the stair to a seat on the Donners-Brebner Board. My father will be filled with frank astonishment that I should be proving myself capable of earning a living in any capacity whatsoever.’
‘What about a degree?’
‘Bill Truscott reports Sir Magnus as demanding who the hell wants a degree these days; and saying all he needs is men who know the world, and can act and think quickly.’
‘Strong stuff.’
‘I suppose I can take lessons from Bill.’
‘Then you won’t come up next term?’
‘Not if I can avoid it.’
Sillery’s part in this matter was certainly of interest. He might have been expected—as Stringham himself agreed—to encourage as many undergraduates as possible to remain, for as long as possible, within his imme
diate range. Later on, however, I began to understand something of his reasons for recommending this course. If Stringham remained at the university, it was probable that he would fall under influences other than—and alien to—Sillery’s. Even if he remained Sillery’s man, he was obviously a person who might easily get involved in some scrape for which Sillery (if too insistent on taking Stringham under his wing) might be held in some degree answerable. Placed in a key position in Donners-Brebner—largely due to Sillery’s own recommendation—Stringham could not only supply news of that large concern, but could also keep an eye on Sillery’s other man, Truscott. In due course Sillery would no doubt find himself in a position to renew acquaintance in most satisfactory conditions. In short, power without responsibility could hardly be offered to Sillery, within this limited sphere, upon cheaper terms. Such a series of crude images would scarcely have suggested themselves in quite this manner to Sillery’s mind—still less did I see them myself in any such clarity—but the apparent paradox of why Sillery threw in his weight on the side of Stringham’s going-down became in due course comparatively plain to me.
‘Anyway,’ said Stringham, ‘you’ll be in London yourself soon.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then we’ll have some fun.’
Somehow, I felt doubts about this. Life no longer seemed to present quite the same uncomplicated façade as at a time when dodging Le Bas and shirking football had been cardinal requirements to make the day tolerable. Although I might not feel, with Stringham, that Peter Templer was gone for good, Peter certainly seemed now to inhabit a world that offered limited attractions. The sphere towards which Stringham seemed to be heading, little as I knew of it, was scarcely more tempting to me. Perhaps Widmerpool had been right in advocating a more serious attitude of mind towards the problem of the future. I thought over some of the remarks he had made on this subject while we had both been staying at La Grenadière.
As it turned out, Mrs. Foxe did not show the complacence Stringham had expected in agreeing, at once, that he should cease to be a member of the university. On the contrary, she wrote to say that she thought him too young to spend all his time in London; even going so far as to add that she had no desire for him to turn into ‘something like Bill Truscott’: of whom she had always been supposed to approve. However, this was an obstacle not entirely unforeseen; in spite of Stringham’s earlier hope that his mother might decide on the spur of the moment that a job was the best possible thing for him.
‘Of course that’s Buster,’ he said, when he spoke of the letter.
I was not sure that he was right. The tone of his mother’s remarks did not at all suggest arguments put forward at second-hand. They sounded much more like her own opinions. Stringham reasserted his case. The end of it was that she decided to come and talk things over.
‘Really rather good of her,’ said Stringham. ‘You can imagine how busy she must be at this time of year.’
‘Do you think you will persuade her?’
‘I’m going to rope in Sillery.’
‘Take her to see him?’
‘Have him to lunch. Will you come and play for my side?’
‘I can’t play for your side, if I don’t want you to go down.’
‘Well, just keep the ring then.’
This was about the stage when I began to become dimly conscious of what Short was trying to convey when he spoke of Sillery’s influence, and his intrigues; although, as far as it went, a parent’s discussion of her son’s future with a don still seemed natural enough. Sillery, I thought, was like Tiresias: for, although predominantly male, for example, in outward appearance, he seemed to have the seer’s power of assuming female character if required. With Truscott, for instance, he would behave like an affectionate aunt; while his perennial quarrel with Brightman—to take another instance of his activities—was often conducted with a mixture of bluntness and self-control that certainly could not be thought at all like a woman’s row with a man: or even with another woman; though, at the same time, it was a dispute that admittedly transcended somehow a difference of opinion between two men. Certainly Sillery had no dislike for the company of women in the way of ordinary social life, provided they made no personal demands on him. I was anxious to see how he would deal with Mrs. Foxe.
Meanwhile, I continued occasionally to see something of Quiggin, although I came no nearer to deciding which of the various views held about him were true. He was like Widmerpool, as I have said, in his complete absorption in his own activities, and also in his ambition. Unlike Widmerpool, he made no parade of his aspirations, on the contrary, keeping as secret as possible his appetite for getting on in life, so that even when I became aware of the purposeful way in which he set about obtaining what he wanted, I could never be sure where precisely his desires lay. He used to complain of the standard of tutoring, or how few useful lectures were available, and at times he liked to discuss his work in great detail. In fact I thought, at first, that he worked far harder than most of the men I knew. Later I came to doubt this, finding that Quiggin’s work was something to be discussed rather than tackled, and that what he really enjoyed was drinking cups of coffee at odd times of day. He had another characteristic with which I became in due course familiar: he was keen on meeting people he considered important, and surprisingly successful in impressing persons—as he seemed to have impressed Truscott—who might have been reasonably expected to take amiss his manner and appearance.
The subject of Quiggin came up at one those luncheons that Short, who had a comfortable allowance, gave periodically. Mark Members, in spite of his behaviour on the earlier occasion, was again of the party (because Short regarded him as intellectually ‘sound’); though Brightman was the guest of honour this time. Two undergraduates, called respectively Smethwyck and Humble, were there, and perhaps others. Short was inclined to become sentimental after he had eaten and drunk a fairly large amount in the middle of the day, and he had remarked: ‘Quiggin must find it hard to make two ends meet up here. He told me his father used to work on the railway line outside some Midland town.’
‘Not a word of truth,’ said Brightman, who was the only don present. ‘Quiggin is in my college. I went into the whole question of his financial position when he came up. He has certainly no less money than the average—probably more with his scholarships.’
‘What does his father do then, Harold?’ asked Short, who was quite used to being contradicted by Brightman; and, indeed, by almost everyone else in the university.
‘Deceased.’
‘But what did he do?’
‘A builder—keen on municipal politics. So keen, he nearly landed in jail. He got off on appeal.’
Brightman could not help smiling to himself at the ease with which he could dispose of Short.
‘But he may have worked on the railway line all the same.’
‘The only work Quiggin the Elder ever did on the railway line,’ said Brightman, becoming more assertive at encountering argument, ‘was probably to travel without a ticket.’
‘But that doesn’t prove that his son has got any money,’ said Humble, who did not care for Brightman.
‘He was left a competence,’ Brightman said. ‘Quiggin lives with his mother, who is a town councillor. Isn’t that true, Mark?’
A more vindictive man than Short might have been suspected of having raised the subject of Quiggin primarily to punish Members for his former attack on the strawberries; but Short was far too good-natured ever to have thought of such a revenge. Besides, he would never have considered baiting anyone whom he admired on intellectual grounds. Brightman, on the other hand, had no such scruples, and he went on to say: ‘Come on, Mark. Let’s hear your account of Quiggin. You are neighbours, according to Sillers.’
Members must have seen that there was no way of avoiding the subject. Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he said: ‘There is a disused railway-siding that was turned into allotments. He probably worked there. It adjoins one of the reside
ntial suburbs.’
There was a general laugh at this answer, which was certainly a neat way of settling the questions of both Quiggin and Brightman himself, so far as Members was concerned. Smethwyck began to talk of a play he had seen in London, and conversation took a new course. However, the feelings of self-reproach that contact with Quiggin, or discussions about him, commonly aroused in me were not entirely set at rest by this description of his circumstances. Brightman’s information was notoriously unreliable: and Members’s words had clearly been actuated by personal dislike. The work on the railway line might certainly have been of a comparatively recreational nature: that had to be admitted in the light of Mark Members’s knowledge of the locality; but, even were this delineation of the background true, that would not prevent Quiggin from finding in his life some element chronically painful to him. Even though he might exaggerate to himself, and to others, his lack of means in relation to the financial circumstances of his contemporaries, this in itself pointed to a need for other—and deeply felt—discontents. It was possible that, in the eyes of Quiggin, money represented some element in which he knew himself deficient: rather in the same way that Widmerpool, when he wanted to criticise Stringham, said that he had too much money: no doubt in truth envying the possession of assets that were, in fact, not material ones. It was some similar course of speculation that seemed to give shape to Quiggin’s character and outward behaviour.
Short’s luncheon took place the day before I was to meet Mrs. Foxe again, and I thought over the question of Quiggin on my way to Stringham’s rooms.
‘This may be rather a ghastly meal,’ Stringham said, while we waited for his mother, and Sillery, to arrive.
Sillery appeared first. He had cleaned himself up a little for the occasion, trimmed his moustache at the corners, and exchanged his usual blue bow for a black silk tie with white spots. Stringham offered him sherry, which was refused. Like many persons more interested in power than sensual enjoyment, Sillery touched no strong drink. Prowling about the room for a minute or two, he glanced at the invitations on the mantelpiece: a London dance or two, and some undergraduate parties. He found nothing there that appeared to interest him, because he turned, and, stepping between Stringham and myself, took each of us by an arm, resting his weight slightly.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 1 Page 20