A Question of Upbringing (24 page)

‘I’m sorry to have landed you in all this,’ Peter said.

‘You must come for a drive with us sometime,’ said Stringham. ‘Anyway, we’ll meet soon.’

But I knew that they would not meet soon; and that this was a final parting. Peter, I think, knew this too. A crescent moon came from behind clouds. The others disappeared from sight. Stringham said: ‘What a jolly evening, and what nice friends Peter makes.’ The clocks were striking midnight at different places all over the town as I stepped through the door of my college. The rain had cleared. Moonlight gave the grass and towers an air of unreality, as if all would be removed in the morning to make way for another scene. My coat hung on me, shapeless and soggy, the damp working down through the cloth to my shoulders.

This incident with Templer’s car had two results, so far as Stringham was concerned: it brought an end to his friendship with Peter, and it immensely strengthened his desire to go down as soon as possible from the university. In fact, he was now unwilling even to consider the possibility of staying in residence long enough to take a degree. It was one of those partings of the ways that happen throughout life: in this case, foretold by Peter himself. No doubt Peter, too, had guessed that something had ended, and that his prophecy had come true, while the rain dripped down on all of us, through the branches of that big elm, while we stood in the shadows of the ditch regarding the stranded Vauxhall.

When I say that their friendship came to an end, I do not mean that Stringham no longer spoke of Templer; nor that, when he talked of him, it was with dislike: nor even, in a sense, with disapproval. On the contrary, he used to refer to Peter as frequently as he had done in the past; and the story of the drive, the crash, Ena and Pauline, Brent and Duport, was embroidered by him until it became a kind of epic of discomfort and embarrassment: at the same time, something immensely funny in the light of Peter’s
chosen manner of life. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt whatever that metamorphosis had taken place; and, sometimes, it was almost as if Stringham were speaking of a friend who had died, or gone beyond the sea to a place from which he would never return. Once he said: ‘How appalling Peter will be in fifteen years’ time’; and he never spoke, as formerly he had done, of arranging a meeting between the three of us in London.

I was even aware that, in an infinitely lesser degree, I could not avoid being unfavourably included by Stringham in this reorientation; which, almost necessarily, affected anyone who was at once a friend of Peter’s and a fellow undergraduate, fated to remain up for at least three years: both characteristics reminding Stringham of sides of life from which he was determined to cut away. Besides, for my own part I shared none of this sense of having seen the last of Peter; though even I had to admit that I did not care for the idea of spending much of my time with his present acquaintances, if Brent and Duport were typical representatives of his London circle. The extent to which Stringham had resolved to settle his own career was brought home to me one morning, through the unexpected agency of Quiggin, next to whom I found myself sitting, when attending one of Brightman’s lectures, at which I had not been appearing so regularly as perhaps I should.

On this occasion Quiggin walked back with me towards my college, though without relaxing the harsh exterior he had displayed when we had first met at Sillery’s. He seemed chiefly concerned to find out more about Mark Members.

‘Where does his stuff appear?’ he asked.

‘What stuff?’

‘His poems have been published, haven’t they?’

‘The one I read was in
Public School Verse.’

‘Why “
Public"?’
said Quiggin. ‘Why “
Public” School Verse?
Why not just “
School Verse”?’

I was unable to answer that one; and suggested that such a title must for some reason have appealed to the editors, or publisher, of the volume.

‘It is not as if they were “public” schools,’ said Quiggin. ‘They could not be less “public”.’

I had heard this objection voiced before, and could only reply that such schools had to have a name of some sort. Quiggin stopped, stuck his hands into his pockets (he was still wearing his black suit) and poked his head forward. He looked thin and unhealthy: undernourished, perhaps.

‘Have you got a copy?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I borrow it?’

‘All right.’

‘Now?’

‘If you like to come with me.’

We undertook the rest of the journey to my rooms in silence. Arrived there, Quiggin glanced round at the furnishings, as if he did not rate very highly the value of the objects provided by the college to sit, or lie, upon. They were, indeed, shabby enough. Standing by the bookcase, he took out the copy of
Public School Verse
, which he had lighted upon immediately, and began to run rapidly through the rest of the books.

‘Do you know Members well?’ he asked.

‘I’ve met him once, since we were at Sillery’s.’

This encounter with Members had been at a luncheon party given by Short, where Members had much annoyed and mortified his host by eating nearly all the strawberries before the meal began. In addition, he had not spoken at all during luncheon, leaving before coffee was served, on the grounds that he had to play the gramophone to himself
for half an hour every afternoon; and that, unless he withdrew at once, he would not have time for his music owing to a later engagement. Short, for a mild man, had been quite cross.

‘I understand that Members is a coming poet,’ said Quiggin.

I agreed that
Iron Aspidistra
showed considerable promise. Quiggin gloomily turned the pages of the collection. He said: ‘I’d be glad to meet Members again.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to answer that he was almost certain to do this, sooner or later, if their homes were so close; but, as Quiggin evidently meant there and then, rather than in the vacation, I thought it wiser to leave the remark unmade. I promised to let him know if a suitable occasion should arise, such as Members visiting my rooms, though that seemed improbable after his behaviour at Short’s luncheon party.

‘Can I take
The Green Hat
too?’ asked Quiggin.

‘Don’t lose it.’

‘It is all about fashionable life, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes.’

I had myself not yet fully digested the subject matter of
The Green Hat
, a novel that I felt painted, on the whole, a sympathetic picture of what London had to offer: though much of the life it described was still obscure to me. I was surprised at Quiggin asking for it. He went on: ‘In that case I do not expect that I shall like it. I hate anything superficial. But I will take the book and look at it, and tell you what I think of the writing.’

‘Do.’

‘I suppose that it depicts the kind of world that your friend Stringham will enter when he joins Donners-Brebner,’ said Quiggin, as he continued to inspect the bookshelf.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well you must have heard that he has taken the job that Truscott was talking about at Sillery’s. Surely he has told you that?’

‘What, with Sir Magnus Donners?’

It was no use pretending that I knew something of this already. I was, indeed, so surprised that only after Quiggin had gone did I begin to feel annoyance.

‘I should have thought he would have told you,’ said Quiggin.

‘Where did you hear this?’

‘At Sillery’s, of course. Sillery says Stringham is just the man.’

‘He probably is.’

‘Of course,’ said Quiggin, ‘I knew at once there would be no chance of Truscott thinking of
me.
Not good enough, by any manner of means, I suppose.’

‘Would you have liked the job?’

I did not know what else to say: the idea of Quiggin being the sort of man Truscott was looking for seeming to me so grotesque.

Quiggin did not bother to reply to this question. He merely repeated, with a sniff: ‘Not good enough by a long chalk,’ adding: ‘You might come and see me some time in my college, if you can find the way to it. You won’t get any priceless port, or anything like that.’

I said that I was not particularly fond of port; and began to give an account of my likes and dislikes in the matter of wine, which Quiggin, with what I now see as excusable impatience, cut short by saying: ‘I live very quietly. I can’t afford to do otherwise.’

‘Neither can I.’

Quiggin did not answer. He gave me a look of great contempt; as I supposed, for venturing, even by implication,
to draw a parallel between a lack of affluence that might, literally, affect my purchase of rare vintages, and a figure of speech intended delicately to convey his own dire want for the bare necessities of life. He remained silent for several seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he could ever bring himself to speak to me again; and then said gruffly: ‘I’ve got to go now.’

As he went off, all hunched up on one side with
Public School Verse
and
The Green Hat
under his arm, I felt rather ashamed of myself for having made such a thoughtless remark. However, I soon forgot about this, at the time, in recalling the news I had learnt about Stringham, which I wanted to verify as soon as possible. In general, however, I continued to feel an interest in Quiggin, and the way he lived. He had something of the angry solitude of spirit that held my attention in Widmerpool.

Stringham, when I next saw him, seemed surprised at the importance with which I invested his decision.

‘I thought I’d told you,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact it isn’t finally fixed yet. What awful cheek of your friend Quiggin, if I may say so.’

‘What do you think of him?’

‘The man is a closed book to me,’ Stringham said. ‘And one that I confess I have little temptation to open. Bill Truscott, on the other hand, was rather impressed.’

‘With Quiggin?’

‘Curiously enough.’

‘Will you work with Truscott?’

‘I shall be the other personal secretary.’

‘Did Sillery put up the suggestion?’

‘He is very keen on it. He agrees one’s family will have to be consulted.’

‘Will your family raise difficulties?’

‘For once,’ said Stringham, ‘I don’t think they will. My
mother will at last see hopes of getting me settled in life. Buster—most mistakenly—will suppose this to be the first step on the stair to a seat on the Donners-Brebner Board. My father will be filled with frank astonishment that I should be proving myself capable of earning a living in any capacity whatsoever.’

‘What about a degree?’

‘Bill Truscott reports Sir Magnus as demanding who the hell wants a degree these days; and saying all he needs is men who know the world, and can act and think quickly.’

‘Strong stuff.’

‘I suppose I can take lessons from Bill.’

‘Then you won’t come up next term?’

‘Not if I can avoid it.’

Sillery’s part in this matter was certainly of interest. He might have been expected—as Stringham himself agreed—to encourage as many undergraduates as possible to remain, for as long as possible, within his immediate range. Later on, however, I began to understand something of his reasons for recommending this course. If Stringham remained at the university, it was probable that he would fall under influences other than—and alien to—Sillery’s. Even if he remained Sillery’s man, he was obviously a person who might easily get involved in some scrape for which Sillery (if too insistent on taking Stringham under his wing) might be held in some degree answerable. Placed in a key position in Donners-Brebner—largely due to Sillery’s own recommendation—Stringham could not only supply news of that large concern, but could also keep an eye on Sillery’s other man, Truscott. In due course Sillery would no doubt find himself in a position to renew acquaintance in most satisfactory conditions. In short, power without responsibility could hardly be offered to Sillery, within this limited
sphere, upon cheaper terms. Such a series of crude images would scarcely have suggested themselves in quite this manner to Sillery’s mind—still less did I see them myself in any such clarity—but the apparent paradox of why Sillery threw in his weight on the side of Stringham’s going-down became in due course comparatively plain to me.

‘Anyway,’ said Stringham, ‘you’ll be in London yourself soon.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Then we’ll have some fun.’

Somehow, I felt doubts about this. Life no longer seemed to present quite the same uncomplicated facade as at a time when dodging Le Bas and shirking football had been cardinal requirements to make the day tolerable. Although I might not feel, with Stringham, that Peter Templer was gone for good, Peter certainly seemed now to inhabit a world that offered limited attractions. The sphere towards which Stringham seemed to be heading, little as I knew of it, was scarcely more tempting to me. Perhaps Widmerpool had been right in advocating a more serious attitude of mind towards the problem of the future. I thought over some of the remarks he had made on this subject while we had both been staying at La Grenadière.

As it turned out, Mrs. Foxe did not show the complacence Stringham had expected in agreeing, at once, that he should cease to be a member of the university. On the contrary, she wrote to say that she thought him too young to spend all his time in London; even going so far as to add that she had no desire for him to turn into ‘something like Bill Truscott’: of whom she had always been supposed to approve. However, this was an obstacle not entirely unforeseen; in spite of Stringham’s earlier hope that his mother might decide on the spur of the moment that a job was the best possible thing for him.

‘Of course that’s Buster,’ he said, when he spoke of the letter.

I was not sure that he was right. The tone of his mother’s remarks did not at all suggest arguments put forward at second-hand. They sounded much more like her own opinions. Stringham reasserted his case. The end of it was that she decided to come and talk things over.

‘Really rather good of her,’ said Stringham. ‘You can imagine how busy she must be at this time of year.’