by Alan Judd
‘This is wonderful,’ whispered Chetwynd. ‘Absolute sincerity, inoperable naïvety. That once was me. I weep for my lost innocence. As if our wonderful workers would lift one fat finger to get themselves less heating and worse cars, poor deluded bitch. I could listen to her all night.’
‘What was the Iraqi like?’
‘Predictable press-fodder. This is the best bit because it shows what’s really at issue, step by step, personal guilt to generalised guilt to intolerance to totalitarianism. Shows it, doesn’t say it. They don’t know they’re doing it.’
Jan Simpson was concluding with a passionate appeal for peace, socialism and disarmament. ‘I’m going,’ said Robert. ‘See you.’
Chetwynd grabbed his arm. ‘Will you support me if I speak? I don’t mean second me, I mean physically. I want to stand on the balcony. Will you hang on to me?’
‘What do you want to say?’
‘Anything, everything, the word is with me tonight. Are you my friend?’ He gripped Robert’s arm hard. His brown eyes shone and he grinned with feigned mania.
‘All right, but don’t get right up or I shan’t be able to hold you.’
The man next to Hansford was preparing to speak. Chetwynd clambered hurriedly on to the balcony. He got one knee up, then the other foot, gripped Robert round the shoulders and raised his other arm theatrically. Robert held him by the forearm and hips, like a rugby player holding a team-mate aloft. The side of his face was pressed hard enough against Chetwynd’s corduroys for him to feel the bony thigh.
‘One law for the Lion and the Ox is oppression!’ Chetwynd shouted in a very deep voice, his arm still held high. ‘Equality for all is the oppression of each!’
There was silence. The floor became rows of upturned faces and the people nearest him and Robert pushed themselves back. ‘The marriage of equality and freedom is the great lie of our time. There’s only one just system – the individual for his own sake. The common good equals common oppression. Every murderer’s excuse for genocide!’
He fired off his words like shot in exaggerated imitation of Jan Simpson.
‘Who talks of the people has contempt for people. Who loves the masses hates the individual. The socialist pulse beats to a totalitarian heart. Behind this lady’s call to freedom is the will to power. Politics is love of power. The more political, the more power.’
Waving his free arm made him wobble and he had to clutch Robert’s shoulder tightly, almost dragging him forward. After the first shock of the interruption people began to protest. The President called for order, Jan Simpson stared, one of her friends shouted something, one of Hansford’s shouted something back. The Iraqi gazed with the same lack of expression as before.
Chetwynd looked down at Robert. ‘Okay for round two?’
There was more shouting from the floor. People were on their feet, kicking their chairs back. Some called for Chetwynd to shut up or get out, others called for order. Chetwynd leaned dangerously far forward and Robert braced himself against the balcony. ‘Two kinds of people!’ shouted Chetwynd. ‘Those who love others – those who hate and fear them. Haters love ideology. Who defines man ideologically hates and fears what he is. To categorize is to control, to control to deny. The essence of socialism is the desire to control. That is the sum of all your creeds!’
He bellowed the last sentence against growing protest. The debate had broken up. People tried to get down the stairs from the gallery while others tried to get up. Chetwynd bent his face to Robert. ‘This is orgiastic! Can you stand round three?’
‘Don’t move about so much.’ Robert braced himself again and once more Chetwynd leaned forward. He was greeted by uproar from below. He waved his arm defiantly, his knee slipped and he toppled over. Robert was jerked so far forward that he could feel himself following. He held Chetwynd by his corduroys and one arm. Chetwynd swayed wildly, one hand on the balcony, the other round Robert’s neck.
There were gasps from below and Chetwynd’s legs flailed as he struggled for leverage. Robert, his eyes tight shut, pushed his knees against the balcony and tried to heave back. The muscles of his right arm quivered and he could feel his grip slipping. Chetwynd now had him by the hair. He clenched his teeth, gripped and heaved, but Chetwynd’s struggles made it worse. He knew he could not go on. He would either have to let go or be pulled over. The corduroys seemed to burn his fingers. For a moment he thought he really was going over but then Chetwynd got one foot back on the ledge. After a few seconds he got greater purchase with an elbow and a knee. Robert heaved once more but too much this time. Chetwynd’s weight came on top of him and they both tumbled to the floor of the gallery, panting and sweating. There was a great cheer.
Robert had banged his head on a bench and felt weak and shaky. ‘Told you not to bloody wave,’ he gasped.
Chetwynd grimaced. ‘Your knee is in my crotch. Don’t do anything. Let me move first.’
They disentangled carefully and got up. The confusion below had increased. The ‘Stop the War’ chant began, opposed by some uncoordinated heckling.
‘I intended only a gesture,’ said Chetwynd. ‘This is a bonus.’
When they went to leave they found people jammed like tea leaves on the narrow stairs. Some slapped Chetwynd on the back. Others stared. Most made room.
‘Anonymity from now on,’ Chetwynd continued. ‘Police make me nervous. I’ll use the window rather than risk being mobbed in the street. Thanks for your support.’
Chetwynd had the vanishing knack and Robert soon lost sight of him. People streamed out into the street where two mobs had formed. They were chanting at each other, separated – quite acceptably to both, it appeared – by the police. Robert took the exit which led by a narrow passage to St Aldate’s.
As he squeezed through the door he saw Suzanne and David Long in the crowd a few yards ahead. Her dark hair caught his eye and he could tell by the movement of her head that she was laughing. He could neither move back nor closer, but was forced to keep pace with them. They looked as if they might be holding hands.
When she reached the end of the alley she turned to face Robert, as abruptly as if someone had called her. She half smiled, made to turn back, then smiled fully before turning again and continuing.
Once in St Aldate’s he stood with his back against the wall but he had lost sight of her. She would head down towards Carfax. It would be easy to catch her and speak but he didn’t want that. He stared at the receding heads, stared obstinately until rewarded by a glimpse, a flash of her eyes from across the road. When he left he felt something of the sadness he had felt on finding Dr Barry with the Bursar’s secretary.
Back at college he found Hansford at the bottom of Tim’s staircase, apparently doing nothing. ‘Come and see what they’ve done,’ said Hansford as if continuing rather than beginning a conversation.
They went up to his room, which was lit by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling. The lampshade was dented and tilted, two of the four window panes were broken and glass and papers were scattered across the desk and floor.
‘See what I mean? I knew they’d do something. I said so, do you remember? They’ve got it in for me.’
‘Orpwood and his crowd?’
‘Who else? They didn’t get their way this evening so they took it out on me.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘His lights are out and his door’s locked. It might not actually have been him but it’s a pound to a penny it’s his crowd. Suppose I should be grateful it was only stones. Could have been petrol bombs.’ He picked up one of the small rocks normally used as a border for the rose garden. ‘But these are bad enough. What if it had hit me on the topper when I was in bed? That could have been it. Curtains for Hansford.’
Robert nodded. Hansford had no need of a more responsive audience. He put his hands on his hips, pushing back the pockets of his pinstripe jacket. ‘I must say, though, you and Chetwynd made a pretty good spectacle. Just about brought the house down. I didn’t get what
he was on about, but Jan Simpson didn’t seem to like it so it must have been basically okay. Actually, anything would have been okay after her appalling drivel. Did you plan it?’
‘No. Nor did he.’
‘Queer cove.’
‘Yes.’
Hansford described the events afterwards, which amounted to no more than chanting and mutual abuse. At least the Iraqi had been left no doubt that he wasn’t welcome, though public opinion was probably of little account in his book. Thanks to Chetwynd, however, the debate was likely to make more news than it would have since it broke up in disorder and no vote had been taken. He wondered if there were a precedent. Pity most of the press had gone by then.
Robert turned to go. ‘Thought any more about your shotgun?’
‘Had a word with one of the lawyers about it and he said you’re not allowed to shoot people even in self-defence. Said I could end up doing a turn instead of my attackers. No wonder the bloody country’s going to the dogs.’
‘Appalling.’
‘I’m getting a baseball bat.’
‘Better than nothing.’
‘I’ll see the Bursar in the morning about this mess – make sure I don’t have to cough up for the damage myself. Could you vouch for my not being here at the time, if necessary? I mean, not provoking it. I know you can’t really but you know what I mean.’
Robert yawned. ‘Yes, fine.’
‘Thanks. It’s good to know one has friends.’ Hansford stared with embarrassing sincerity. ‘Want a drink? At least they didn’t smash that.’
‘Another time, thanks. I’m knackered.’
‘Did you see your bike?’
He had forgotten again. ‘No, where?’
‘I put in the racks by the lodge. Couldn’t see anything wrong. Nothing pinched.’
‘Probably because there’s nothing left on it to pinch. Thanks very much, though.’
‘That wouldn’t stop some of them these days. They just pinch things because they’re not theirs. Sure you won’t have a quick sniffle? I can’t offer a selection like Tim but I nicked some of the old man’s brandy last vac.’
Robert accepted because he was embarrassed at having forgotten the bike. They made a rough clearance of the mess and sat. Hansford talked about the international situation and Schools, the latter subject providing Robert with the impetus to leave. Leave-taking was prolonged, however, by further discussion of Hansford’s personal security. Robert again described the escape route up to the next floor although, as he later pointed out, he had never done it himself and being anxious to go he may have exaggerated its ease.
A light came from under the door of his room. When he opened it he saw Gina sitting by the window, reading his copy of James Hogg’s The True Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner. She had brushed her hair and changed into a long dark skirt, a white blouse and a wide black belt with gold buttons.
He remained by the door. She smiled but did not put down the book. ‘I was thinking you must be with some lady love.’
‘I might have been bringing her back.’
‘I thought of that, too, but assumed she’d prefer her own room to yours. It’s so cheerless, like a barracks. Why do you live like this?’
‘I’ve got used to it. I don’t notice.’
‘Of course you notice. You’re just a poser.’
‘Well.’ He shrugged and sat on the floor with his back against the wall.
She laughed. ‘There, look at you now, ignoring the chair. If you really didn’t notice you wouldn’t bother to do that. You’d sit on it because it’s the easy and obvious thing to do.’
‘But I like sitting like this.’
‘Back to the wall?’
He asked what she thought of the book and then started talking rapidly about sin.
She soon looked bored. ‘Are you going to let Malcolm back or do De Flores yourself?’
‘Is that why you came?’
‘Malcolm’s getting worse as he gets more frightened. You’re better.’
‘But I’m not an actor. I’m not really any good.’
‘You don’t need to be. You just need to be adequate. You are that.’
‘Thanks.’ Taking over Malcolm’s part would mean a great deal of extra work. Acting opposite Gina would be a challenge, of course, but he felt he had challenge enough already and did not seek more. ‘I’m not sure about directing and taking on De Flores. Not sure I’ve got the time and energy.’
‘Modesty ill-becomes you.’ She put down the book, uncrossed her legs and came over to him. She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers round one of his. ‘Come on.’
She led him into the bedroom where the light from the main room came through the half-open door. He leaned against the wall whilst she undressed and neither helped nor resisted when she undressed him. He felt detached and calm but his heart beat treacherously fast. She embraced him and they half stumbled on to the bed.
Their lovemaking was ardent and repeated, impersonal, without affection. There was no sense that it was him she was making love with but there was an unexpected satisfaction in being reduced almost to anonymity. Nor did he afterwards feel the remoteness and loneliness that commonly followed coition, along with the thought that it was impossible ever to be fully honest. He felt pleasantly tired, curious about her, free for once of pretence.
‘So it wasn’t about Malcolm.’
‘It will mean a lot of extra work for you, doing De Flores.’
‘I haven’t said I would.’
‘You don’t know the lines yet.’ She pulled the sheet up over them both.
He was beginning to think about Anne again when Gina popped herself up on her elbow and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Why don’t you make some coffee while I get dressed?’
‘You’re going?’
‘You weren’t going to ask me to stay, were you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, stop pretending.’ She leaned with both forearms on his chest. ‘You fool no one but yourself, you know.’
‘If I do it completely it doesn’t matter. I’ll never know.’
‘You’re not that good at it.’ Her hair touched his face and the full length of her body pressed warmly down upon him. He put his arms around her. For a while there was an intimacy that was lacking in their lovemaking.
‘White, no sugar,’ she said.
‘I haven’t any milk.’
‘Find some or I shan’t come again.’
When he left the bed he kissed her on the cheek. She drew sharply back. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Habit, I suppose. I usually do.’
‘That’s what it felt like. Don’t.’
There was some milk on the ledge in the washroom. When he returned she was brushing her hair. He liked the easy familiarity with which she already seemed to use his rooms, though aware that it was perhaps the transience that made it acceptable. He put on jeans, jersey and plimsoles and walked down the stairs with her. Visitors were not allowed after midnight and the lodge was shut so they headed for the unlocked back gate.
‘Time was when you’d have had to climb the wall,’ he said. ‘It must have been more fun then.’
‘If I had to climb out I’d be staying.’
‘Then be thankful it’s open.’ He paused at the gate. ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he added belatedly.
They talked a little about the play, then walked in companionable silence. At her doorstep he was about to kiss her goodnight when she stepped back.
‘Tomorrow at seven?’
‘What?’
‘The rehearsal.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. Seven.’
She smiled. ‘Goodnight, De Flores.’
It was still warm and he enjoyed the walk back. The rough texture of the jersey on his skin made him feel carefree and vigorous. Not even the perfunctory cheep of a bird sounding the knell on another night’s sleep could dispel his euphoria. He ran up the stairs three at a time.
Unless he overslept Robe
rt regularly had breakfast in hall. He liked the routine and it was never crowded. Only alternative places were laid, and no one spoke. People ate slowly and poured tea from a two-gallon pot. On the way he would pick up his copy of The Times from the lodge. He read very little of it but his pleasure was in finding it in the lodge each day with his name written in blue biro. He couldn’t afford the paper, and often talked of stopping it.
The news was again of the latest developments in the Middle East. Reporting them must have become difficult by then, partly because everyone was waiting and nothing was happening and partly because, despite the danger and urgency, the story had run for over a month and was boring. The Soviet ambassador had been summoned to the White House and there was speculation about a meeting between the Soviet and American leaders. At home a Government spokesman denied rumours of petrol rationing. At the same time the Department of Transport asked motorists not to keep their tanks topped up since this would create an unnecessary shortage in advance of a possible real one. Tim had already spoken of topping up. The thought of doing so reminded Robert that the Jaguar was back in the dons’ car park and he still hadn’t found anywhere else to put it.
At the bottom of the wide wooden staircase leading out of hall he saw Chetwynd standing like a carving, one arm folded across his stomach and the other pressed against his cheek. He looked tired and drawn and showed no recognition until Robert was level with him.
‘A word with you, please.’
They fell in step around the quad but Chetwynd said nothing until they reached the soft turf of the Fellows’ Garden.
‘Thank you for what you did in the shop, and the Union.’
‘Thank you for the painting. Tim’s kept it in his room but I’ll get it back sometime. Maybe you’ll save me from something one day.’