“This must be it,” said Mrs. Kemp, as they approached the College, coming as nervously as their son had first done up to the gates that he had entered so many times now. They hesitated timidly, reading the rules concerning the entrance of visitors to the College which hung framed outside. As they stood there the Chaplain came out, stared at them and walked quickly away.
“Go on, Joe, you ask in there,” urged Mrs. Kemp. Joe stepped deferentially into the Lodge, taking his cap off again, catching sight of the porter peering round the inner door.
“I want to see John Kemp—I’m his father,” he said.
The porter used the telephone. Finally he told Joe that he could go straight across to the dispensary, where the nurse was waiting for them.
“And where would that be, could you——?”
The porter told him, Joe listening attentively and nodding his head. Mrs. Kemp waited outside, looking at the green baize notice-boards which now, at the beginning of the vacation, were nearly empty. She searched for a reference to her son, and did not find one. One notice, referring to the activities of a literary society, had been signed by Patrick Dowling as secretary.
Joe did not quite follow the porter’s directions, but did not like to ask him to repeat them, so they set off across the quadrangle hoping that they would find another person later on who would help them. The wind blew. Most of the rooms were empty now and their shuttered windows looked blank: only the ground-floor rooms were still in use for people who for one reason or another had not immediately gone down when term ended. In the mid-afternoon the place was deserted.
“Old!” said Mrs. Kemp, pointing to one wall where “1610” was carved on a stone plaque.
Inside the Founder’s quadrangle they paused, at a loss. “He said, to go through another arch,” said Joe uncertainly. “Into t’Garden quad, or something.”
“Here’s a student—ask him,” whispered Mrs. Kemp, clasping her handbag tightly.
It was Christopher, who came striding quickly along from his own room dressed in his overcoat and porkpie hat, carrying a suitcase and looking neither to right nor left. He had just taken a final look round his rooms before leaving them; John’s few belongings, noticeable at last, were pathetically scattered about. Christopher’s trunks had gone off in advance. He stopped impatiently as Mr. Kemp moved into his path.
“Excuse me, is the Garden quadrangle—how do I find it?”
“Through there.” Christopher pointed with his free hand. “There, you see? That third archway.”
“Thank you, and where would the dispensary lie then?”
“The dispensary? Oh——” Christopher frowned: “Second doorway on the right. At the end of the passage.”
“Thank you—thank you, sir,” said Joe Kemp, relieved. “I’m greatly obliged—greatly.”
Christopher walked away without answering to the Lodge, not troubling to realize who had just spoken to him. At the Lodge he was met by Elizabeth, who had gone for a taxi while he cleared up his room. She had no hat, and, though the day was not unduly cold, wore a fur coat.
“At last.”
“Did you get one? Good girl.”
She took his free arm. Without once mentioning the matter she had managed to convey to him that when they once got to London she would be willing to become his mistress, and things were easy between them now.
He put his bag down at the Lodge to find two half-crowns for the porter, who emerged, knowing that Christopher was going to tip him.
“Well, so you’re off, then, sir?” he said, looking round the empty quadrangle. “Going to leave us in peace?”
“That’s right, Herbert. A release from my arduous studies. Drink my health while I’m away.” He gave the man five shillings.
“Well, thank you, sir. Thank you very much. You going to keep ’im in order, miss? I don’t know what ’e’ll do without the Dean to look after ’im, I don’t really. ’E’ll be like a lost dog.”
Elizabeth grinned. “And talking of lost dogs,” said Christopher, “has the College started keeping pets?”
He indicated a small white dog that came wandering aimlessly round into the porch, going by the wall, sniffing with dropped head.
“It must ’a’ got in from the street,” said the porter, annoyed. “’Ere! This isn’t the place for you.”
The dog shrank from his formal threatening tone and sidled up to them. Christopher glanced at his wrist watch and picked up his bag. Outside, their taxi was swinging in a long arc into the kerb.
“Time we were going,” he said. “Farewell, Herbert, a long farewell.”
Elizabeth, her handbag tucked under her left arm, stooped, holding out one hand, making a coaxing noise. “Come on, then,” she said wheedlingly.
The dog looked up at her and began to growl.
1 James Gindin, Postwar British Fiction (Cambridge University Press, 1962).
1 Not Kingsley’s invention, but see his story “The 2003 Claret”, in The Complete Imbiber (Putnam, 1958).
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