by Susan Price
"Yes, sir. It was one o'clock before I woke up - There didn't seem much point in coming to see you at that hour, so I went to bed."
"I quite understand," Mr. Grace said. "Uptake, let us bind the Devil, let us be daringly honest. I know as well as you that this story you have told me is, at best, but half the truth. But you also know, as well as I, that I cannot prove your story to be entirely false, especially as your friends, with a misguided sense of loyalty, all professed to know nothing at all about your whereabouts. There was not one of them who would say definitely that your hair was dark or red, in case you had dyed it when you returned - And as a Christian, I must always suppose it possible that you did forget, and that you were asleep; but I doubt it, Uptake, I doubt it, and if you are so much as suspected of breaking bounds again, I shall feel justified in treating the suspicion as proven fact. Remember that, Uptake. On Thursday you will be birched for disrespect. Now go in to your breakfast before you're too late."
As had been arranged, I went back to the Bear to meet Dick Hobson two days later, but this time I did not leave college until after I had reported to the tutor at six o'clock. Then I slipped round the dining-hall, climbed the wall, and went down through the streets to the tavern.
The actors and their attendant admirers were already there. I stood at the back of this crowd, looking over heads and shoulders at Dick until, finally, he noticed me. ''Here he is - " He waved his hand in a circle, as a substitute for my name, which he had forgotten. "Let him come through."
I edged round people, climbed and stumbled over legs until I reached the place that had been made for me next to Dick. "Have you got the rest of the play?" Dick asked. I nodded, and took it from inside my jacket, where I had put it to keep it dry from the drizzle outside.
Dick took the papers from me, and gave me in exchange the first half of my play, which he had been reading, "You read that, and I'll read this," he said, and turned half away from the crowd round the table, holding the papers on his knee. He seemed able to concentrate easily, but I found it difficult. I could not help but listen to the talk going on all round me, nor could I ignore the variously curious and malicious people who leaned over my shoulder to read what I had written. Despite these distractions I saw, as I turned the pages, that many alterations had been made to my play; whole speeches were encircled with red rings, entrances and exits had been changed about, and scribbles made in the margins. I was still anxiously reading and trying to understand exactly what had been altered, when Dick turned round.
"I thought it would end like that,” he said. "It's too long." He took a crayon from his pocket, flipped over some pages and encircled another speech. "You're to understand," he began, and then went on for a long time about the alterations he had made - why he had made them, why his actors couldn't do this and would prefer to do that; what he thought audiences wanted less of, and what they really wanted more of, and the great importance of shortening a play's running time. "It's got to finish while there's still daylight, and what you've got to understand - er - Thing, is that, with a play, you can't turn back a page or so to find out what's happening. You've got to keep it clear who's doing what to who, and why; so keep these speeches short. Put in less about the spheres and - Thing, are you listening? - more explanation . . . Let's have more about the assassin. Now, he's interesting, but you hardly give him anything to say. And the heroine could do with fleshing out a bit."
"I know," I said. "You want it then?”
"Well . . . You make those alterations, and we'll see."
I took the half he’d been holding and looked at the fresh red lines and circles on it, trying to remember what he’d been saying. "You want me to - cut out the speeches? And the heroine. . . ?''
"Look," he said quickly. "Er - what's your name?'' I told him. "Look, Chris; it just means making a few simple changes here and there. Read it through and you'll think I've improved it."
I was thinking more clearly by then. "You made alterations to the first half without even reading the second!''
"Believe me, Nicholas, I've read and acted in more plays than you'll ever write."
"Christopher," I said.
"Who - ? Oh, Chris! You go away and rewrite it for me, Chris, and I'll give you - give - How much were you expecting?"
But I wasn't that stupid. I wasn't going to name a price lower than the one he would have offered himself, so that he could generously agree to give it to me. "I hadn't thought very much about that side of it," I said.
"Oh, but you must have some idea - after all, you didn't write it for love, did you? What price do you put on your masterpiece, eh?"
"That's for you to say, Mr. Hobson,'' I said.
"Well, I had thought of offering..." He drew in a hissing breath, "Oooh... twelve crowns?" The hint of a question in his voice should have warned me, but I was thrown off-balance by the sudden idea of owning that much money, sixty times my weekly allowance, more money than I had ever had in my hand.
"Twelve crowns - " I said.*
"That's very generous. You're unknown, just a student. Can you rewrite it, that's the question?"
"I don't - " I said vaguely; but I couldn't choose words for an answer while I was totalling up sixty weeks of shilling allowances and all that I could buy with it: books, presents, fruit, theatre-entrances. . .
Dick was reaching into his pocket. "You know the gentleman who was here the other night?" he asked.
"Brentwood?''
"Yes - Master Edmund Brentwood."
"Oh," I said. "What about him?"
Dick put a coin on the table. "He told me to give you that - 'to help and encourage you,' he said. It'll encourage you to rewrite the thing, won't it?"
I looked at the coin, a crown. "I don't want his money," I said. "I've done nothing to earn it."
"God help us, that's a tune that'll soon change," Dick said. "If he wants to encourage you, let him. He can afford it."
"But if I take his money, I shall have to write to please him," I said.
"Godstrewth, you'll have to write to please somebody, won't you? Why not write to please somebody that's rich?" He slid the coin across the tabletop to me. "Here's a bit of advice. If you want to make a living as a writer, learn to accept gifts of money with grace; then you might be given some more."
I sat and sulked at the coin for a while, but I couldn't deny the truth of what he said, and I reached out and picked it up. "Thank you," I said. "I have to be back by nine - er - I'll look through the play again and see if I agree with your suggestions."
"Oh, you do that," Dick said, and smiled slyly. I left the tavern and returned to college, where I arrived in time to report, and my truancy was not discovered.
I found that all the alterations Dick Hobson had suggested for my play improved it, which was irritating, but I soothed my ill-temper by spending my crown. By the time I had finished the rewriting, making some changes myself but mostly fitting Dick's suggestions more naturally into the story, I had long spent every penny of it. I spent it on my friends, repaying them for the drinks and meals they had bought for me, and I spent it on sixpenny play-sheets, and books when I could afford them, and on food for myself: cheese and milk, for instance, which the college did not supply. And I bought some ribbons and sweets, and sent them off to Hawksmere for my sisters and stepmother, with a letter explaining how I had come by the money for the presents, and adding that I was well and happy, and hoping that they were the same. The play, when I had finished it, I took down to the Bear and left with Dick Hobson. I think it was two days afterwards that he sent a message asking me to come and see him.
I went to the Bear to meet him at about four, confident that I should be back at college in time to report. He had a drink waiting for me when I arrived, and dropped my play beside it, into a pool of the spilled beer. "Very good," he said. "I told you I'd improved it, didn't I? I thought you did very well; it's much better now than it was."
"Well?'' I said, shaking droplets from the manuscript.
"Oh, we won't be putting it on for a while yet; we've better plays to put on for now, and we shall have to find a minute to learn the words. I'll let you know when we're going to do it."
"I don't care if you never perform it," I said. "I was asking about payment."
"What's the matter? In debt already?''
"No not in debt, but I've spent that crown."
"Tch-tch, spent it all? All right; I'll pay you - How much did we agree on?" He reached into his pocket.
"Twelve crowns," I said.
"Sign this then." He pulled a ragged little document from an inside pocket, put it on the table in front of me, and handed me a crayon. I took the crayon, but read the document before signing. It stated that Christopher Uptake willingly and freely sold his play The Hawksmere Joiner to Richard Hobson for the sum of twelve crowns.
While I was writing my name, Dick counted out my money on to the table: eleven crowns - fifty-five shillings.
I poked the coins with the crayon. "Twelve,'' I said. “Twelve crowns!''
"And what about the crown you've had already?'' Dick asked. "What game do you think you're playing?''
"I thought that was a present from - ''
"No! Naturally he meant that crown to come out of our fee - an advance."
"You said it was for encouragement and now you're saying it was in part-payment!'' I said. "You're trying to cheat me!''
He glanced round and dropped his voice. "Chris, don't shout our business about," he said. "I'm not trying to cheat you." His voice rose to its normal level again, and took on a wheedling tone. "You should know I wouldn't try to cheat you; I'm not like that, Chris. Be reasonable. You were promised twelve crowns; you admit that yourself. You've had one and spent it; now there's the other eleven." Having corrected my reasoning, he became more authoritative. "If you think you're going to take me for more than I owe you, you'd better think again, my boy; I'm a slyer old fox than you are. Take the money or leave it. I can buy a dozen plays like yours at half the price I'm paying you."
I didn't know whether to throw the money at him, laugh out loud, ask why he was paying twice the price necessary for something so easily found elsewhere, or to be satisfied with fifty-five shillings and let him win. It took me several difficult minutes to decide but, before I had, I began to laugh in any case, and as soon as I began to laugh, I lost. I picked the money up, wished him goodbye, and left him. I knew that he had cheated me, but what could I do? I reached the college, climbed the wall at a spot where foot and handholds had been worn in the stone, and made my way round the buildings towards my room. Nearly everyone else was in the chapel; I could hear them singing the final hymn. I opened the door of my room, and saw the tutor sitting at my table, looking through one of my play-sheets.
I stopped in the doorway. He looked up, his finger keeping his place in the play. "Good evening, Uptake,'' he said. "Are you going to tell me where you have been?'' I did not answer. He waited, then went on, "You have not been in the chapel, any more than you were in the chapel this morning, or yesterday. Where were you, Uptake?''
"At a tavern, sir," I said, since I had to answer.
"Which tavern? There are a good many, I believe."
"It's called the Old Bear, sir."
He nodded. "And were you there yesterday too?"
"No, sir. Yesterday I was here - in this room."
"Really? Here? What were you doing?''
I sighed. "I was writing."
"And what were you writing?''
"A play, sir."
"A play! I might have guessed. There will be serious consequences; you understand that?"
"Yes, sir."
"The Dean will have to be informed."
"Yes, sir."
"I think it inevitable that you will be expelled.''
"Oh, yes, sir," I said. "At least you haven't wasted your time."
He stood, dropping my play on to the table. "What?''
My face flushed red and I found that my tongue wouldn't sound the words I wanted to say clearly. "I mean - you waiting - you were waiting - you were - ''
"It was my duty to discover your whereabouts, Uptake. You will not go to the dining-hall this evening. You will stay here. What is the name of your room-mate?"
"Kaye, sir."
"Kaye will be found another place to sleep until you are gone." I stepped aside, and he passed me, turning in the doorway. "I expect the Dean will send for you in the morning," he said, and drew the door closed after him.
I sat on my bed, feeling chilled and shaky. Later, I heard people coming to the other rooms in the building from the dining-hall. I got up and locked my door against them. There was some knocking on it shortly afterward, and curious voices saying, "Chris?'' but I didn't answer even when my room-mate came knocking and asking if he could come in and fetch some of his things. He went away after a while.
I lay on my bed and thought of how the tutor had planned to catch me out, and wondered why I had mattered so much to him. He didn't like me, I knew, but I didn't like him either, and I wouldn't have wasted my time in laying traps for him. Then I thought about the interview I would have to go through the next day with the Dean, and of what I should do - actually do - when I was expelled and put outside the college gate.
But, after a while, I was unconvinced by my own gloom. Whatever powers had brought about my tragic downfall, they had waited until after I had sold a play. That was lucky. It meant that I wouldn't have to wait until I failed my examinations to leave the University. I couldn't think why I hadn't seen it like that before; everything was working out in my favour.
I got up from my bed and dragged one of the thin blankets from it. I spread it on the floor and piled on it all my books and plays, the manuscript of the new play I had begun, my pens and ink, my candles, my spare shirt and stockings, my razors and cup and spoon; then I tied up the four corners of the blanket to make a bundle and was about to lift it up when I saw how dark it was outside the window. I lay on the bed again.
I dozed the rest of the night away. I heard mice running about on the floor, and I heard the rainstorm that came during the night. In the very early, cold, morning I heard the church bells ringing in the town. There was a little light in the sky then, so I took up my bundle, left my room and passed out through the single gate in the thick wall.
While I had been a student I had learned to be doubting, inquisitive and atheistical, so I cannot say that my time had been completely wasted, but why they called a place so narrow, where all imagination and speculation were suppressed, a "University'' has puzzled me ever since.
PART TWO
THE TOWN
The Town
I went to see Dick Hobson at his theatre, and asked his advice. He answered me with another question: Was I still writing? Yes, I said; I intended to make my living as a writer. As soon as I said that, he became helpful, and gave me the name and address of another writer who, he said, would be only too glad to have someone share his room and pay half of the rent.
I took my bundle, and, in trying to find the address I had been given, passed from the main streets into narrow lanes which were ankle-deep in mud and muck left from the last rainstorm, and where old food and manure were heaped, decaying, against the walls of the houses. The people I met in these lanes looked at me as if I was an unusual sight, and the children formed up into troops and followed me, until I offered the leading child a half-penny to guide me; then the other children went away.
My guide led me by even worse ways than I had found for myself - by damp, cold alleys where the walls were crumbling away in the wet, and pools of green water lay underfoot; by tiny yards made filthy by pigs and chickens, where the stink almost made my stomach throw up its contents, though I had long ago become used to the normal stink of the town. I covered my mouth and nose with my hand again, and tried not to retch. I had to become used to this stench too.
The house I wanted stood in one of these dirty, puddled yards. I gave the boy his promised halfpenny and ducked through a
low, open door into a hallway very nearly as muddy as the yard outside. I looked in through another open doorway and asked the woman in that room if this was the house where Mister George Childes lived. She directed me to a room upstairs, and I knocked at the door.
George Childes opened it. and I told him who had sent me and why. He invited me in, and asked me if I thought I could tolerate sharing the room; if I could, he was willing for me to move in immediately.
I looked round. The room had a table, a chair, a fireplace with cooking pots on the hearth, a bed, a wash-basin and jug, a food-hutch, a chamber-pot, many books piled on the floor in corners, and a window. Even in College, where our furniture had been sparse enough, I had not been asked to share a bed, but then, my college room had not had a fire. I counted out my share of the rent onto the table and moved in.