Jill

by Philip Larkin

  He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels in front of the fire, hands in his pockets. All was ready—too soon, of course.

  But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a girl’s quick steps round the cloisters. Eight minutes at the very least early? Compliment or accident? He sat down, stood up. No, perhaps it was no one for him. They drew nearer. He fixed his eyes on the door, seriously, his hand moving in surprise round the bow tie he was wearing. The feet mounted the steps, approaching the door.

  Two knocks.

  “Come in.”

  Elizabeth entered.

  He blinked. His first thought was that she had called to see Christopher, and that he must get her out of the way as soon as possible. But she did not seem surprised to see him. She released the doorknob, and holding her handbag in both hands, addressed him:

  “Oh, hullo, John. I just wanted to talk to you a moment.… Gillian said you asked her to tea.”

  “Yes, I——”

  “Well, I think it would be better if she didn’t come.” She paid no attention to the tea table, keeping her eyes fixed on him and speaking rather more loudly than usual and without her customary trailing vowel sounds. “You see, her people are really awfully strict and would be very annoyed if they found out. I thought you knew all that.”

  “But—she said——”

  “Well, she’s only a kid, and didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Really, you ought to have known.… I thought you knew how things stood.”

  Cold air from the door reached John’s face.

  “Well, I—I’m sorry.…”

  “When she told me, I thought it was some kind of a joke you or someone were trying to play.… But even if it isn’t, I’m afraid it’s not possible for her to come. I should have thought you’d have guessed that.”

  And in the hesitant interval after this she suddenly turned and went out, closing the door behind her, with no farewell.

  In a couple of minutes there was a fresh noise of six stumbling feet outside, and the door burst open to admit Eddy Makepeace. Patrick Dowling and Tony Braithwaite. Tony and Eddy gripped him jovially by the arms and slapped his back. Patrick went round the sofa to the little table that held the food.

  “Bad luck, old man!” cried Eddy. “Bad luck. A damn noble attempt. We saw her come in. Did she take your pants down and smack your bottom?”

  “What did she say?” asked Tony. “I knew she’d jump on it.”

  “But you should have let us in on it,” protested Eddy. “I didn’t hear till lunch-time. If we’d known, we could have fixed everything, got her out of the way and all the rest of it.”

  “I thought she was ill,” said Tony.

  “Supposed to be.” Pat’s mouth was full. “Not too ill, it seems.”

  “The interfering sow,” said Eddy indignantly. “You know, Pat, all respects, but your sister is the hell of a bitch. A nosy bitch, that’s what she is.”

  “Still, it was a sound attempt,” said Tony Braithwaite. “We must try it again sometime. I think it would be wonderful if we could really get her right from under her nose.”

  “I like annoying her,” said Eddy. “I don’t know why, but I love it.”

  “Tony, put the kettle on,” Patrick directed. “Don’t forget to fill it, either, like last night. We might as well help John out with all this stuff—lettuce, John?”

  He extended the plate. John opened his mouth and made a queer noise: it began as a polite refusal, but owing to the fact that he had been breathing unusually, it ended as a semi-articulated cry, shaken with a curious blubbering vibrato. He had not meant to utter it, but once he had done so it was of course impossible for him to remain in the room, and he crossed to the door and went out, leaving Patrick staring after him in mock (and the other two with real) surprise.

  It seemed that the next few days passed quickly, but the lengthening of time only increased the pain he felt, as if each day were a weight added to a load slung from a hook in the flesh. He spent them in trying to enlarge the periods during which he forgot the events of that Saturday afternoon. He did not succeed very well. All his life he had imagined people were hostile to him and wanted to hurt him; now he knew he had been right and all the worst fears of childhood were realized. He was used to humiliating memories, but these seemed different, they had really existed. Because of them his daily habits turned completely round: he made every effort to avoid finding Jill, not to go in any place where she might be. He even kept out of his own room, but in any case it had grown loathsome to him. The memory lay on his mind like an enormous boulder, and he felt that the passage of time would erase it hardly as fast as such a boulder would be worn away by the continual dripping of water. The weight of it stunned, drugged him. He went about, as people thought, in a dream.

  It seemed impossible that anything should shift it, yet, at lunchtime on the fourth day, Whitbread did so, a few casual remarks by him making it seem as flimsy as a paper decahedron. Whitbread was the only person John had regularly spoken to that week, and then it was at mealtimes, and usually about food. And now, having placed sufficient cold meat and salad in his mouth to last him for a minute or two, Whitbread wheeled his large dormouse-like head in John’s direction, blinking, as if uncertain how to start.

  “D’you hear the one o’clock news, Kemp?” John looked round, startled, and Whitbread repeated his question. “No,” said John. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh.” Whitbread paused to manœuvre the food in his mouth. “I thought perhaps you had. They dropped a packet on your town last night, it seems.”

  “What, you mean on Huddlesford?”

  “Ay. I think it was pretty serious, from what they said.”

  “What, you mean a real air-raid—like Coventry?”

  “A heavy and concentrated attack, they said. It has to be pretty strong before they mention it at all.” Whitbread’s eyes widened slightly as he swallowed, and he collected some more food together with his knife and fork. John had stopped chewing. “I thought perhaps—if you have anyone there——”

  “My parents are there——” John turned to Whitbread. “What did they say? Tell me what they said!”

  “Oh, it was the usual stuff, you know.… Heavy and concentrated attack, damage to schools, hospitals, churches, residential areas—like they always say, you know.… The fires are under control——”

  “Did they say whereabouts was damaged?”

  “No, well, they never say that.”

  “Not at all—no hint?”

  “Residential areas.… I expect they went for the station and factories and the centre of the city.…” He looked doubtfully at John. “Do you live anywhere near the station?”

  “No, not at all.”

  John got up, leaving his food, and went trembling out into the sun. They said a thousand people were killed outright in a raid like that, not counting the wounded and those that died afterwards. It was not possible for his parents to have escaped. What was he going to do? An icy pocket of misery had suddenly enveloped him, cutting him off from the pale lemon light of the sun that slightly warmed the air, and the pigeon waddling across his path. He remarked the soft silky grey feathers. His mind was struggling under the impact of the news, as an unwary bather caught by a wave will be swept along with waving arms and legs. Each time he thought his parents were dead, he believed it a little more. And it was all over now, settled one way or the other, and he did not know. How could he find out? He longed for confirmation.

  The first thing he thought to do was to go to the Post Office and send home a telegram of inquiry. The girl behind the bars counted the words as if it were an ordinary message. As he paid he asked when it would be delivered. She did not know.

  “It depends, you see, on the telephone services.… They’re out of action. They might be out three or four days, it all depends.”

  “There’s no quicker way?”

  “Not at present, no.”

  He pocketed the change, thinking of his telegram arriving a
t his wrecked house, and being undelivered, wandering perhaps like his letters to Jill. In the midday sunshine the first edition of papers was being sold, and he hastened to the corner to buy one, but the last copy was bought just as he arrived. The chalked placard read Heavy Raid on Northern Town, and when he found another paper-seller who had also sold out, hers said Heavy Raid on Huddlesford. The knowledge that Whitbread had told the truth settled down like an iron mould on his mind; he walked back to the College filled with dread. Everyone was just leaving the Hall, coming out into the sun with their hands in their pockets, the sharp sunlit folds of their trousers creasing and uncreasing. As they deployed they carried on their conversation in shouts. The porter, Herbert, stood watching from the lodge door.

  “Herbert, who’s got the key to the shed at the bottom of the rugger ground?”

  “Can’t hear you, sir!” The porter put one hand to his ear and when the young man came up, continued: “Didn’t they learn you to come and ask what you want to know properly where you was brought up?”

  Whitbread caught John up as he was walking wretchedly into the cloisters.

  “Here, Kemp, if I were you I’d get leave to go home for a couple of days.”

  John was touched by the concerned note in his voice.

  “D’you think I could?”

  “Of course you could, man. Go and catch Rivers now.”

  “I’ve just sent a telegram. But they say it won’t be delivered for days——”

  “No, the lines will all be taken up with official calls.”

  “They may let me know.”

  “I should go and see for yourself.”

  “Yes, but——” John was conscious of being badgered towards action he did not want to take.

  “Well, hang it, man,” exclaimed Whitbread, “you’ve got to know!”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  He had to know: if they were dead, he had to know as soon as possible: if he delayed, and then found that out, it would be unbearable. Yet he felt a great unwillingness to do anything: he had learnt that action usually left him worse off than better.

  “I should go and see Rivers now, and get there tonight.”

  John licked his lips unhappily.

  “No, it’s too late to go today. I’ll wait till tomorrow morning, and then go, if I’ve heard nothing.”

  “I should go and see him now in any case. He might be able to help.”

  Reluctantly, John fetched his gown and paid a call on Rivers, the Senior Tutor. He was out. John drifted up to Whitbread’s room, which was on the same staircase, biting his lips.

  “Well?”

  “He wasn’t in.”

  “Oh, wasn’t he?” Whitbread had already sat down at the desk where his books were, though the clock showed only a quarter to two. “Try again in an hour’s time. You can bring your books and work here, if you like.”

  “I say, would you mind? Shouldn’t I interrupt you?”

  “It’d take more than you to do that,” said Whitbread, with a grin, squaring his elbows.

  So John fetched some books and crouched in the tiny window seat, moving after a short time to an armchair near the fire. He kept quiet, but did little work. Three times he called on Rivers and each time he was out. Once he went to the lavatory. Whitbread worked on steadily and imperturbably: his calm was encouraging: he worked exactly as John used to work at school. Outside, the clear November day clouded. John went to see if there was any post for him, but there was not.

  At half-past four they brewed strong tea and toasted bread on knives before the fire. “You know, what I like about Oxford is that there’s a place for everyone,” said Whitbread. “You and me, now. My dad was always saying that if I got to college I’d have no friends, everyone’d look down on me. But I used to tell him I knew I’d find some decent fellows—like yourself, now—fellows in similar circumstances who’d be prepared to be friendly. I used to tell him, all over the country there are fellows like me trying to better themselves. There’ll be enough of them there.” He turned round the piece of bread he was toasting. “But he wouldn’t have it, you know. Said they’d all be Eton and lah-di-dah.” He laughed.

  “Well, Warner——”

  “Warner!” Whitbread sat back scoffingly. “He’s nobody. He hasn’t got the breeding of a back-streeter.”

  “Well, he’s rich enough,” said John.

  “Is he? I never see him throwing much money away, and he cadges a good deal. He’d cadge off anyone—he’d cadge off you, if you were fool enough to let him, and I’ll wager he wouldn’t pay you back. Oh, I’ve got no time for his sort.”

  John spread some beef extract on his dry toast. “He’s decent enough.”

  “Well, I’ve no time for him.” Whitbread spoke impressively. “I get sick of his sort. It’s not as if he were any real class, either: now, someone of consequence, from Eton or Harrow, say—I can respect them. Someone of breeding. Money makes a difference, and it’s no use saying it doesn’t. But these fellows like Warner, trying to jump into the class above them, coming from tinpot public schools like Lamprey, where they only learn bad language and dirty habits——”

  “He rather amuses me,” said John, lamely.

  “Ay, well, maybe he does. But bad manners don’t amuse me, I’ve seen too much of the real thing. Him and his actress mother and shady father.”

  “Is she an actress?”

  “Yes! Was at one time, anyway. But what does it mean, him coming here?” Whitbread interrogated the air with a piece of bitten toast. “If he’d had to do what I did—if he’d had to do a quarter of what I did——”

  He went on to describe his schooldays, the struggle he had to stay on after taking the School Certificate, the hours of study, the hostility of his two elder brothers (both electrical engineers), who said he was a drag on the family, and was trying to get above himself. One night they had torn up some of his notebooks. After that he always kept a second, skeleton set of notes and references, for fear they should do it again. “They never did, though. And when I got my scholarship, we all shook hands when they came home from work, and they apologized. Nothing succeeds like success.” Whitbread grinned gnomishly. “Eh, wasteful! You’re burning that bread. Give it a scrape.”

  John obeyed. “You had a harder time than I did. I should never’ve thought of trying for a scholarship, if it hadn’t been for my English master.” He paused, thinking. “Why, I should never have dreamed of it.”

  “Ay, well, that’s your trouble, Kemp,” said Whitbread. “You don’t push yourself enough. It’s no good being clever if you can’t put yourself over. Now, I’m not that clever, but I’m going. That’s my philosophy. And I’ve got this far, anyway.” He stared proudly round the small garret.

  “Mother and Dad were decent about it, too,” said John. He looked into the fire, chewing, and his face went hard as he remembered. Putting down his empty teacup, he got up. “I think I’ll go and see if Rivers is back yet. Thanks awfully for the tea—I hope I haven’t been a nuisance or anything——”

  “Not at all!”

  The Senior Tutor had just at that moment come in and was hanging his hat and overcoat in a small closet. He washed, listening to what John had to say through the open door, and came back, rubbing his hands together and switching on the reading lamp that stood on his desk. He was a tall, stooping man, and with an air of vagueness and inattention, and his deep voice was uneven in clarity.

  “You mean you want leave of absence for one night,” he said, pulling out his fountain pen and taking up a printed form. “Are you sure that one night will be enough?”

  “Oh, I hope so; yes, sir.”

  Rivers filled in the form roughly, disregarding the dotted lines. He handed it to John with a smile of extreme kindness.

  “Well, if you find it isn’t, send me a wire or something. It will be all right.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “When are you going? Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow.”

&
nbsp; “Right.” Rivers’s cheek twitched in an embarrassed way, but he did not say anything more, only smiled, so John withdrew. He walked back to his room, examining the pass: Rivers must consider the air-raid as serious, for such passes were notoriously difficult to get. Now that it was all settled, he felt resigned and to a certain extent relieved. There was nothing, to do now but wait for the morning. He looked apprehensively at the darkened sky. The servant had put up the black-out in their room, and there John found Christopher just back from the cinema, crouching on the fender-seat to warm his hands. The gold signet ring he wore glinted intermittently in the firelight.

  “Hallo, brother,” he remarked softly. “How’s tricks?” He made no mention of the Huddlesford raid, and for this John was glad, though, as a matter of fact, Christopher had not heard about the raid, and if he had would not have connected John with it. When he had warmed himself, he went into the bedroom, whistling loudly, to change his shirt and tie.

  “Care for a drink?” he suggested casually when he returned.

  “I’d sooner not leave College, thanks,” said John stiffly. “I’m expecting a message.”

  “Well, let’s have one here.”

  Christopher took out a bottle and a pair of glasses. John, sitting on the sofa, watched him fill each small glass to the brim, the light shining through, and thought how often he had sworn to hate Christopher for ever. It all made no difference. Such things were no more than the wind blowing first one way, then another. Nothing was altered by them. He took up the glass.