by Alan Judd
They dozed briefly and he had a succession of vivid and confusing dreams. When he opened his eyes he had to close them immediately because of the brilliance of the sky. He kissed her again. She responded at first but when he put the tip of his tongue between the gap in her teeth her body stiffened and she moved her head away.
‘Do you want us to get out of the field?’ he asked.
She squinted against the sun. ‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t trust you.’
‘Why not?’
She sat up and shook her hair. ‘Do you think Robert’s really reading?’
She had never been subtle about not answering questions, tending simply to look away and change the subject. He could imagine her as a little girl doing the same with precocious seriousness. ‘No idea.’ He lay on his back again, feeling suddenly hopeless. ‘Do you fancy him?’
‘He’s fanciable, I suppose, in some ways, but not for me. Why?’
‘You talk about him.’
She smiled. ‘I talk about you but what does that mean?’
‘Would you have come today if it had been just me inviting you?’
She turned away and sat with her arms around her knees, staring down at the priory. ‘The trouble is, you never discuss ideas.’
‘What do you mean? What ideas?’
‘You’re not intellectual. I don’t mean you’re not intelligent. You’re just not intellectually interested.’
The accusation must have stung him because he mentioned it later more than once. He seemed to feel that the lack she spoke of was not merely intellectual. At the time he remarked facetiously that Shakespeare, too, never discussed ideas.
She look irritated. ‘It’s intellectual stimulation that makes me want to make love with someone. That’s what excites me.’ He mentioned platonic love and laughed. She looked more irritated. ‘There’s something about you and Robert, something missing. Like with that car.’
After leaving them Robert had walked in a wide semicircle back towards the village. He had not stopped to read but had kept planning to stop at places still ahead of him, changing his mind once there and carrying on with the walk. He again had the teasing sense of choice – that he could stop whenever he liked, if only he chose – and again the sense of a choice already made.
Eventually he headed for the churchyard by the priory. The priory was a stone building, long since converted into flats. Behind it was a large, low-walled garden and beyond and upwards stretched the high fields that Tim and Suzanne were lying in. Before it was a gravelled yard used as a car park and path to the church. As Robert was crossing the yard the big priory door opened and Dr Barry came out with the Bursar’s secretary. She was a short, lively girl whom he did not at first recognize in jeans and a flimsy pink blouse. He and Dr Barry saw each other immediately. Dr Barry looked thrown for a moment, shifty and almost fearful. He glanced down, then up again, his quick eyes and smile now prepared. Robert remembered that the Bursar’s secretary had a flat in the priory.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ Dr Barry said. ‘And a book in hand, too.’
It was the Bursar’s secretary who looked the more surprised. She smiled diffidently.
‘I was going to read in the churchyard,’ said Robert.
Dr Barry said something about an elegy and he and the girl both laughed.
Robert smiled, to show he was not ill-disposed. He felt calm and unassailable.
Dr Barry looked about as if he had just arrived. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Ideal for a drink and a walk.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘It’s worth the journey,’ said the Bursar’s secretary. ‘Much better than staying in town.’
They walked over to Dr Barry’s Ford. Dr Barry got in while she stood with her arms folded. Robert resumed his walk towards the church. As the car drew away the Bursar’s secretary waved goodbye once, briefly, then hurried back inside. Robert caught Dr Barry’s eye, unsmiling. Now Barry raised one hand from the wheel, as if in acknowledgement.
Robert did not mention the meeting to Tim and Suzanne when they returned. The Jaguar started easily but would not idle and twice stalled at traffic lights. Suzanne insisted on sitting in the back but talked most of the time whereas Tim, apart from an occasional comment, was mostly silent. He became more lively, however, after she had put her hand on his shoulder to explain something.
As they drew up outside St Hilda’s they saw Orpwood dodging between the parked cars. He had an armful of Stop the War leaflets advertising the meeting at the Union that night and was placing them under windscreen wipers. He moved quickly, stooping and furtive. He approached the Jaguar without at first realizing there was someone in it.
When he saw them he stopped. ‘You don’t mind one, do you? They’re not stick-on, so they don’t mess up the windscreen.’ His eyes flickered across to Suzanne.
‘I do, yes. I’ve just bought it,’ said Robert.
‘It’s yours, is it? Looks a bit flash for you.’ He stood back admiringly. ‘Does it use much petrol?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’
The door opened and shut. Suzanne was already on the pavement. ‘It’s horribly flash and he can’t afford it. Thanks for a lovely lunch, both of you. Don’t crash it on the way back. Bye.’ She kissed Tim on the cheek through the open window then walked quickly through the gates.
‘Couldn’t give me a lift back to college, could you?’ asked Orpwood. ‘I’m more or less finished here.’ He got in. ‘They go a bit, these things, don’t they? My brother-in-law’s got a new one. Right capitalist fat-cat but it’s a great car. You coming to the meeting tonight?’
They both said they were not.
‘Should be lively. The fascists are planning a demo and the pigs will be out in force.’
‘Sounds like a confrontation situation,’ said Tim laconically.
Orpwood nodded seriously. ‘We hope it will be. It’s all to our advantage, see, even if we get beaten up. Contributes to the breakdown of law and order.’
‘That’s what you want, is it? So you can replace it with your own law and order?’ Tim spoke now with unusual sharpness.
‘Well, that’s over-simplifying it, but yes. You’re not interested in all this, are you? I thought you two were apolitical.’
‘Are there any apoliticals in your terms?’
‘Not really, they’re all right-wing.’
They stopped at the traffic lights by Magdalen. Robert turned and grinned. ‘Ought you to be seen in a car like this with us?’
Orpwood laughed harshly, as if he lacked practice. ‘No one will look for me in it. Who was that girl?’
‘Suzanne Walker. Does history.’
‘Not bad, is she?’
‘Not bad.’
‘You seem to get around with the women, Robert.’
‘It’s Tim who gets around with her.’
Tim gazed out of the window. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’
Orpwood continued unabashed. ‘Wish I had more time, really, but it’s difficult when you’re politically involved. Then there’s work, of course.’
He was convulsed by a hay-feverish sort of sneeze. It occurred to Robert that he was probably one of the many virgin men in Oxford. ‘What about Jan Simpson? You must see quite a bit of her.’
Orpwood shook his head quickly. ‘Diff cult with people you see a lot of. Then there’s the time problem.’
‘Yes, the time problem,’ Robert murmured.
Chapter 7
Robert was early and stood alone in the seeming vastness of the Newman Rooms. The Changeling was allowed an extra rehearsal because Marat-Sade had had to close. He contemplated the litter of scaffolding, chairs, props and flats left by the failed production and for the first time was seriously frightened. It seemed impossible that the scrappy bits of rehearsal could ever come together in a coherent whole, that the blocking and lighting would work, that the set would not be dwarf
ed, that people should pay to come in and stay until the end. He wished he were somewhere far away where no one knew him.
He paced slowly in the gloom, his notes under his arm. By not switching on the lights he kept the world from him for a while. The props for Marat-Sade lay all over the floor. The production had ended in such confusion and hopelessness that no one had been in all day to clear up. People said the lunatic scenes were abysmal. Thinking of that made his stomach feel hollow.
He sensed rather than heard a presence and turned to see Gina sitting on the upturned bath used in Marat-Sade. She had drawn up her knees and was resting her chin on them, watching. It was just possible to make out that she was smiling.
‘I didn’t know you were here. Were you here when I came in?’ His voice sounded rudely loud.
‘I followed you in. Don’t worry, you didn’t talk to yourself.’
‘It’s unlike you to be early.’
‘And you.’
He sat on the other end of the bath. ‘I can’t see how it will work in here. It could be a nightmare.’
‘You chose to dream.’
‘But it’s so big and there’s so little time.’ He was relieved to talk. ‘It frightens me.’
‘Do you regret doing it?’
‘Not quite. Not yet.’
‘There might be more problems with Malcolm. I saw him this afternoon. He was fractious.’
‘Well, it was you that got us through it last time. You may have to do it again.’ She turned her head away as he looked at her. He noticed how small and white her clasped hands were. ‘It’s like being in church here,’ he added.
She gave a short soft laugh. ‘Is there something you want to confess?’
The door banged open, there were voices and lights. Antonio and Franciscus appeared; others were locking bikes. Lollis had an essay crisis and wanted to leave early. Malcolm had sent a message saying he would be late. The lights man said his plan was hopeless, the new set designer was despondent, the stage manager frantic. Robert cajoled, persuaded, bullied, postponed, brought forward, abandoned, inspired, decided.
Once rehearsal was under way he spared neither himself nor the cast. They had by now developed a group personality. He could sense a growing appetite for recognition and independence, though there was still a deep desire to be led and a leader who did not lead would be destroyed. He tried to keep one step ahead by demanding more than they expected to give, which entailed pretending to more confidence and purpose than he had.
The trouble with Malcolm began with the lines following the stabbing of Alonzo. He was overly dramatic and theatrical and they had to go through the scene four times. Malcolm became tired, querulous and brittle. Robert stopped him half way through the fifth. ‘Still too mannered. You should be thinking aloud, telling us your thoughts, not making a speech up about them. Stop haranguing. You’re not playing Mark Anthony.’
The last remark was careless. Malcolm threw up his hands and turned with the very staginess Robert had been criticizing. ‘All right, if you’re so bloody marvellous you do it. Show us.’ Everyone was silent. Robert sat with his elbows on his knees and his notes spread on the floor between his feet. He was weary of everything. He would have liked to walk out and bother with nothing, not the play, not Schools, not whether he lived or died. Instead, he spoke as reasonably as he could.
‘I can’t, Malcolm, I’m no good. But you can. That’s why you’re doing it. Have another go.’
Malcolm folded his arms and glanced at the others for support. ‘Not till you demonstrate. You’ve got such a clear idea you must be able to demonstrate. I’m sure you want to, don’t you, rather than sit there and criticize?’
Robert did not want to. If he did badly Malcolm would be jubilant; if he did well, pride would prevent Malcolm from emulating him, even if he could. But the point was to get the play done. If he were to do anything at all it had to be that. He got up slowly.
Everyone stood back. Malcolm’s smile was mocking but uneasy. The murdered Alonzo, who had been squatting on the floor, lay down again. Robert told him to get up. ‘We’ll take the scene from the beginning, where De Flores lets you in.’
He did not know all of De Flores’s lines but was fairly confident of this and the next scene with Beatrice. They went through his welcoming of Alonzo, his relieving him of his sword and then stabbing him three times. The disputed lines followed the stabbing but Robert stopped when he reached them.
‘Let’s do the stabbing again. I’d lost momentum.’
He threw himself into it. After sitting and watching for so long, action and movement were exhilarating. When it came to the disputed lines, those accompanying the severing of the dead Alonzo’s finger, he was already breathless. It was easy and natural to do them as if thinking aloud.
He could tell from the faces of the others that it was at least not bad. To his surprise, he had enjoyed it. He felt good. ‘Like that,’ he said to Malcolm. Malcolm’s face was tense and livid. ‘You don’t need me, then.’
‘Of course we do.’
‘Well, you can do without.’
Malcolm turned and walked quickly towards the door, tripping against the bath on his way. Robert did not call after him. He would see him tomorrow, tell him how much he was needed, flatter and coax him, whatever was necessary. The thing now was to get on with it.
‘Act Three, Scene Three,’ he said crisply. ‘I’ll play De Flores in Scene Four.’ The outer doors banged shut. They went through the second scene again, twice through the third then moved on to the fourth. This was the crucial scene with Gina in which Malcolm had given trouble before. Acting opposite her was something Robert had often thought about but never expected. It was quite different from talking to her, not because she became another person but because she was Gina concentrated, distilled, no longer diffused by social context. She was by turn ambivalent and intense, not distracting from the words she spoke but seeming to inhabit them indefinably, like mist among trees. It was the words and it was her; the two could not be separated.
Robert fumbled his lines and several times had to start again. He tried to be harder on himself than he had been on Malcolm, getting the others to criticize him. He did not know the play as well as he thought.
As they went on he realized why Malcolm was so reluctant to look at Gina on stage. Hers was a daunting acting intelligence, powerful, flashing, swift as a blade. Malcolm’s defence had been to avert his eyes and try to act his own part independently. Robert realized he had to engage her fully in order not to be overwhelmed. He devoured her with his eyes, his movements he made predatory, his manner calculating and passionate. He felt her respond and when, twice, she had to prompt him she did it softly and quickly as if as keen as he to continue.
Afterwards he felt both drained and excited. He went over to her. ‘Sorry. I thought I knew it better than I did.’ He wanted her to say something complimentary.
‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘I might be a few minutes late.’ She picked up her bag.
‘It’s tiring, isn’t it? Takes it out of you.’
She smiled as she walked away. ‘Don’t worry, you were all right. Better than Malcolm.’
It was a balmy night. Old Tom chimed sonorously in Christ Church tower. For a moment Robert thought he had forgotten his bike. He felt like a walk and headed up towards Carfax.
There was a police van parked and several policemen standing around outside the Union building. Robert was not a member, unlike Tim who sometimes slept in the leather armchairs in the library or took solitary tea in the Gladstone Room. As Robert approached he decided he would try to get in, less because he wanted to hear the debate than because he was excluded. He felt restless and unready for sleep. All the entrances would be guarded and so he walked to the main door. There was a desk just inside where passes were to be shown.
A man and a girl he knew slightly came out and he greeted them with unusual effusiveness. Someone at the desk asked for his pass bu
t he pretended not to hear. He asked the couple whether it was worth his while going in, what had happened so far, who had spoken, whom they had seen in the audience.
While they were talking one of the policemen came in and addressed the officials at the desk. Robert walked on through. He climbed the stairs to the gallery, which was so packed he had to push his way forward to see the floor.
There was an air of excitement but it felt like excitement caused by something that had happened already, like goals at a football match. On the floor below a dark-haired serious-looking man with glasses was listening expressionlessly to the present speaker, a woman from a part of the hall Robert could not see. He assumed the man was the Iraqi. The woman was declaiming stridently about the Zionist-American axis. He pushed further forward and saw it was Jan Simpson. Her face looked paler than normal in the bright lights and her cropped brown hair shone with recent washing. He looked for Orpwood but recognized only Hansford, who was wearing a smart three-piece suit with a gold watch chain and was whispering to the man next to him. Someone said the press and radio had been there but had left after the Iraqi’s speech. It was hot and people shifted uncomfortably.
Jan Simpson’s voice was shrill and determined. She shouted small squads of words, pausing after each volley as she built up to her climax.
‘The only peace is socialist peace! Peace is impossible with capitalism. Capitalism means oppression. Capitalism is inherently racist. In the Middle East and everywhere. We have our central heating and our comfortable cars. Millions have no food. But the day is coming soon when the people will rise up. They will demand rights for all people. Freedom and equality! Capitalism is against the march of history. It is doomed. It must not and cannot survive. It must and shall be destroyed. As long as one person is oppressed we are all in chains. We must fight, fight, fight!’
Her young face was white and excited. After a pause she continued in a lower key. Robert had begun to push his way out when he noticed a man hunched over the balcony at the front, apparently in rapt attention, his elbows on the rail and his head in his hands. Disturbed by the movement, the man glanced round and Robert saw it was Chetwynd. Chetwynd raised both eyebrows, making a face as if he were doing a comic turn, and beckoned with his head. As Robert pushed his way down Jan Simpson was interrupted by one of Hansford’s group who objected that she had strayed from the subject of the motion. Robert and Chetwynd were squeezed shoulder to shoulder.