The Pupil

by Caro Fraser

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Julia, laughing at him laughing. Anthony told her. Then he kissed her again, and this time it seemed even better than before. He was aware that she had somehow wrapped one of her legs round the back of one of his, as though to bring him even closer, and he slid his thigh between hers and gathered her against him, as though to absorb her, to melt her into him with kissing.

  It stopped eventually, as even drunken kissing must, and Julia tried to look at her watch. She stepped back into the street and squinted at her wrist.

  ‘My God, it’s half past two! The last tube went ages ago,’ she moaned. They walked on further, growing chillier and less light-headed with each step. They didn’t talk much this time, and to make the silence comforting, Anthony took her hand; its warmth filled his. At last they found a cruising taxi, and Anthony put Julia into it. She gave him the briefest of kisses before closing the door, but it was enough to remind Anthony of their moments in the doorway of the shop. He wished he could find that doorway; it would be sacred for ever. He watched her cab speed off into the night, leaving him in a deserted street somewhere in the West End. He had a vague idea of the direction in which they had been walking, and he headed off east. He knew it was probably four or five miles to his home, and he had no money for a cab, but in his exhilaration he felt as though he could walk tirelessly for ever.

  I’m in love, thought Anthony. This is what it’s like.

  The next morning, Anthony didn’t so much wake up as regain consciousness. The walk home and two Anadin Extra and four glasses of tap water had helped, but things were still looking bad. He didn’t lift his head from the pillow; it seemed better to leave it there. He discovered he was thinking solicitously of his head as though it were an object detached from his body. He rolled his eyes experimentally; they seemed to be attached to little fiery strings that reached into the back of his brain, and his eyelids felt as though they had dried out into some kind of thin sandpaper. His tongue filled his mouth entirely and, disgustingly, still tasted vaguely of Cointreau. The thought of Cointreau made him feel ill. Maybe he could be sick, he thought hopefully. But the very notion of climbing out of bed and making the effort inclined him against the idea. He would just lie there for a bit and maybe things would get better.

  He wondered what time it was and tried to squint at his clock radio without moving his head; the fiery cords behind his eyeballs tugged painfully at the back of his skull. Twenty-five past eleven. Downstairs, his mother began to hoover. Please God, don’t let her come and hoover in my room, he thought.

  He closed his eyes and suddenly remembered Julia. His heart jolted painfully in his chest. He groaned and rolled onto his back, thrusting the pillow over his face. No, it was all right. He hadn’t done anything irretrievably awful, he discovered, as he pieced together his scattered recollections. He took the pillow off his face and found that breathing helped. They’d just talked. And kissed. That had been fantastic. He tried to relive the kiss, but the bumping of the vacuum cleaner on the stairs told him that his mother was heading towards his room to hoover at him in protest at his late arrival home the night before. Whenever his mother wished to register her disapproval of any of his social activities, she would come and hoover round his bed the following morning. It seemed to Anthony to be quite the most vindictive thing a person could do.

  He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom with gentle, careful steps, bent over like an old man.

  It wasn’t until the following Monday morning that he found the cigarette packet in his inside jacket pocket. On it, Julia had written her telephone number.

  David had been right about the run-up to the Christmas vacation, Anthony discovered. Although people continued to work as hard as ever during the day, there was a general air of hilarity around the Temple and in the City.

  On the day of the chambers party, however, Anthony silently reminded himself of his resolution, made in the wake of the previous Friday night’s proceedings, never to drink champagne again and never even to look at a Cointreau bottle. But as the party grew closer, he felt his resolve weaken. And when he was actually standing in Sir Basil’s room with Edward and the other members of chambers, it vanished altogether. It would not look good, he decided, if he were to refuse the glass of champagne which Sir Basil proffered with a benevolent festive smile.

  The conversation was desultory and somewhat slow; only the members of chambers and two High Court judges, themselves former members, were present. It was understood that the hoi polloi were not to show up at the party until six o’clock. It was five-thirty and all the typists were crowded into the Ladies, applying fresh make-up and squirting perfume hopefully over themselves.

  After a while, Anthony was approached by Sir Basil.

  ‘Well, Anthony,’ he said, shaking Anthony’s hand. ‘I don’t really think we’ve had the chance of a proper conversation since you joined us, have we?’ Sir Basil had heard, to his agreeable surprise, that Edward had acquitted himself well in a piece of work performed for Leo Davies, whom Sir Basil regarded as one of the more demanding members of chambers. He felt, therefore, that he could afford to be gracious to Anthony, who would now necessarily be leaving them at the end of his pupillage.

  ‘Do you feel you’re profiting from being with us?’ he asked. The word ‘us’ sounded rare and exclusive when uttered by Sir Basil. Anthony sensed very strongly his position as an outsider.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied hastily, ‘Michael’s a very good pupilmaster. I’m very lucky.’

  ‘And where do you think you will be looking once you leave us?’ The baldness of the question startled Anthony. He knew that Edward, as Sir Basil’s nephew, must be something of a favourite, but he had not realised that the matter was already so completely decided. It took him some seconds to recover. In the intervening silence, Sir Basil murmured something about ‘excellent vol-au-vents’ and then said, before Anthony could speak, ‘I have some very good friends in 3 Dover Court – lots of civil litigation. Perhaps that would suit you, mm? We’ll have a little talk next term. Merry Christmas.’ And he sailed off to join another little knot of people.

  Anthony felt wretched. He realised that his dismay must have shown on his face, because Michael stepped over and said lightly, ‘What’s up?’

  Anthony recounted his conversation with Sir Basil. ‘It was just a bit of a surprise,’ he added. ‘I mean, there’s another three terms to go, and I wasn’t sure that Edward was all that keen …’ He realised that this must all sound rather self-pitying. Michael sighed and squinted sadly at his champagne glass. The old man really picked his moments, he thought.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘this isn’t really the time or place, but we’ll have a talk about it soon. I know he’s the big chief, but technically it’s not his decision. We all have a say, you know.’

  Anthony nodded, unconvinced. He felt that his hopes had been utterly dashed. If Sir Basil wanted Edward as the next tenant, and if Edward wanted to stay – well, that seemed to be that. Michael, for his part, was angry with Sir Basil. He knew that Anthony had exceptional ability and that if he were given the chance, he would make the most of it. He knew a little of Anthony’s background and circumstances and he wanted, for reasons that he himself could not fathom, to see him free of those beginnings. Anthony was his protégé, just as Edward was Sir Basil’s. He hadn’t doubted Leo’s word when he had praised Edward’s work, and so far Jeremy had voiced no complaints about his pupil, but what he had seen and heard of Edward did not convince him that he merited the tenancy, and all its possibilities, as much as Anthony. Things would always be easy for Edward, but Anthony’s ambition was solitary, and Michael wanted to help him achieve it.

  There was not, however, a great deal to be done that evening. It didn’t help Anthony’s frame of mind to have to watch Edward, whom he sincerely liked, at his jovial ease amongst the rest of the guests. After a decent interval, Anthony decided to take his leave and go home.

  As he made his way downstairs, Mr Slee p
ut his head round the door of the clerks’ room and uttered words that made Anthony’s blood run cold.

  ‘Oh, Mr Cross, your father’s here. Just on my way to tell you.’ Unfortunately for Anthony, he and Sir Basil had decided to leave the party at the same time, and Anthony heard Sir Basil’s voice on the stairs behind him.

  ‘Your father, Anthony? Why, you must take him upstairs to meet a few people. It is a party, after all.’ To give him his due, Sir Basil spoke purely out of kindness. He knew that his few words with Anthony earlier must have indicated that he regarded the matter of the next junior tenancy as one which was now closed, even though he assumed that Anthony could never seriously have been under any illusions on the matter.

  To Anthony, the words sounded almost malicious. But he knew that Sir Basil’s preconception of his father must be of an ordinary professional man. Sir Basil tended to assume that most people’s fathers were of that kind; that men should follow any other bent seemed to him to be beyond understanding. Like Michael’s sloppiness of dress, he suspected that it was done from anti-authoritarian motives.

  Anthony smiled in a vague way in Sir Basil’s direction and then went into the clerks’ room. His father was standing beside the wooden counter. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, boots, a T-shirt and a combat jacket. His head had not been shaved for some three or four days – nor, for that matter, had his face – and the strange tuft of hair sprang up from the centre of his head like a piece of chewed string. Normally his father’s appearance would not have struck Anthony as being particularly out of the ordinary, but in the austere, civilised setting of barristers’ chambers he looked incongruous, dreadful. Anthony felt mortified. His eyes met those of Mr Slee, but Mr Slee’s face was blandly devoid of any expression. Mr Slee knew what he knew and he saw what he saw.

  Anthony greeted his father unenthusiastically, noticing that Chay was not wearing his usual saintly, supercilious smile. He was not smiling at all. His face looked even thinner than usual and his expression was one of mingled anger and humility, slightly watered down – the expression that one glimpses fleetingly on the faces of vagrants in the street. Anthony was aware that Sir Basil had entered the clerks’ room behind him and was now exchanging a few words – rather loudly it seemed – with Mr Slee before leaving.

  Sir Basil had seen and digested Anthony’s father in a matter of seconds. He had come into the clerks’ room out of mild curiosity, and with every intention of meeting Mr Cross as a matter of civility. He did not now think that such civility was required. Sir Basil put on his overcoat and left, without addressing Anthony or his father. As he made his brisk, businesslike way across King’s Bench Walk to his car, he reflected that it would have been utterly impossible, even if the circumstances had been different, to have countenanced giving a tenancy at 5 Caper Court to a young man with a father such as that. Most extraordinary, he thought. Young Cross seemed really quite a decent young man; but then, one never knew.

  Back in chambers, Anthony was exchanging words with his father.

  ‘You’ve been what?’ said Anthony.

  ‘Busted,’ repeated Chay in low tones. ‘It was at a club last week. It was only two ounces,’ he mumbled apologetically.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Anthony quietly. Mr Slee reappeared from the inner sanctum where he had been discreetly busying himself.

  ‘I’m just shutting up shop now, Mr Cross. I’m a bit late for the party.’ And he smiled his knowing, deferential smile.

  ‘Right,’ said Anthony with a sigh. Taking his father by the arm, he escorted him out into the night. Behind them, Mr Slee turned the lights off in the clerks’ room and locked the door. They walked in silence through Caper Court and up Middle Temple Lane.

  ‘We’d better find a pub,’ said Anthony.

  When they were sitting down with their drinks, Anthony looked across at his father, who glanced guiltily up at him as he sipped his pint. Anthony felt as though their roles were reversed; he felt like a troubled parent with an exasperating child, and Chay had assumed an air of superficial guilt, which would vanish just as soon as some solution were found to the problems he had created.

  ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ said Anthony at last. ‘Why did you just turn up like that?’

  ‘Sorry if I don’t meet the high standards of your acquaintances,’ responded Chay, sulkily. ‘The phone’s been cut off.’

  ‘Oh, great. How did that happen?’

  ‘No more bread. I really hoped I’d have got to the States before the last of it ran out. I’ve only got my Giro now.’

  ‘What about Grandpa?’ Chay’s father was still known to make the occasional handout to the son he despised.

  ‘No chance. Not after last time.’ There was a silence.

  ‘Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t put up bail for you, you know.’

  Chay shook his head. ‘No – Graham did that. No, I need somewhere to stay for the night. The electricity’s been turned off, too. It’s freezing in the flat.’

  ‘What about Graham? Can’t he put you up?’

  Chay shrugged. ‘He’s gone to France for Christmas.’

  And no one else in their right mind will have you, thought Anthony. What the hell was he going to do with him? There seemed to be only one solution.

  ‘I’m just going to ring Mum and tell her I won’t be home tonight,’ said Anthony, rising from the table. ‘Then we’ll go round to Bridget’s.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The business with Bridget was not easy. Anthony knew it wasn’t going to be.

  ‘Well, how long’s he going to be staying for?’ hissed Bridget in the gloom of her hallway. She was huddled into a blue candlewick dressing gown, and the sound of the television came from her living room.

  ‘Not long, I promise,’ hissed back Anthony.

  ‘I’m not staying here on my own with him!’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Anthony placatingly. ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘You’re moving in?’ Anthony gazed into her pleased brown eyes; she smelt faintly of Oil of Ulay and Horlicks. Julia had smelt of champagne and cigarettes.

  ‘Yes,’ he heard himself say. ‘I’ve been meaning to ring you.’

  ‘Oh, Anthony, that’s wonderful.’ He gave her a perfunctory kiss as the lavatory flushed and Chay emerged. He was quite himself. Bridget had known Chay since she had first known Anthony and had tended, since their first acquaintance, to treat him like a tiresome teenager.

  ‘Come on,’ she said crossly to him, ‘I’ll find some sheets and you can make up the spare bed.’ He followed her meekly down the hallway to Claire’s old room.

  That night Anthony lay in Bridget’s bed, unable to sleep. He had no notion of what he was going to do with his father. Tomorrow he would have to go and get some of his belongings from home and make a show of moving in with Bridget. She wouldn’t put up with his father otherwise. He would smooth over any difficulty with his mother by explaining this to her. He wouldn’t mention Chay’s arrest. He would make it appear as though the whole thing were purely a temporary arrangement. It was going to have to be. He glanced at Bridget sleeping tidily next to him, then thought of Julia. He hadn’t seen her since that Friday night, and he hadn’t rung her because he couldn’t see the point. He had no money. He couldn’t even take her out for a drink. God, he wanted to see her. Maybe he should just ring her, just to talk, to make sure that she hadn’t forgotten him. No, no point in that. He sighed deeply in the darkness. The next instalment of his scholarship money wouldn’t come through until next term, and he had very little left of the earnings from his holiday job. All he could do was think about her, her silken blonde head, her long legs, the special smell of her skin. Her mouth. He tried to summon back what he could recall of their long, drunken kiss, but the sound of snoring came from Chay’s room down the hallway, and reality blotted out the memory.

  The following evening, Anthony went home to collect his other suit, a bundle of shirts, and some underwear.

  ‘You’re not t
aking very much,’ remarked Judith, as she rolled up pairs of socks for him. It was part of her ‘good-parenting’ policy not to interfere too much in her sons’ affairs, but she could not help making this remark to gain some extra reassurance.

  ‘I told you, Mum – I’m not staying long. Just until Dad goes abroad.’ Not that there was much chance of that now, with a court case coming up. He hadn’t told Judith about that. Quite what was to happen over the next few weeks, Anthony could not imagine.

  The next difficulty that arose was the question of what to do with Chay over Christmas. Bridget wanted to go home to her parents in Gloucestershire, and Judith wanted Anthony to be at home for Christmas.

  ‘I’m not having your father staying in my flat on his own!’ said Bridget heatedly, when the matter came up for discussion. In fairness to Chay, he had been self-effacement itself. He had padded about in his hessian and velvet boots, had cooked bland, inoffensive little vegetarian messes, done his washing at the launderette, and been quiet and unobtrusive. So much so, that he had managed to become a most irritating presence in the flat.