And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (14 page)

London

18 November 1931

Sir,

As I trust you will readily appreciate, words almost fail me to express the most profound satisfaction and pleasure afforded to me by the reflection that so great an adornment of our College should have deigned to speak so fondly of me, and should have conveyed to me by way of your most welcome letter such delicate feelings of affection for me. You are, sir, without fail, on your next meeting with Mr Blunt, to communicate to him most urgently my reciprocal feelings of warmth and intimacy, and my intention to visit him as soon as my labours permit me to come to Cambridge. I hope that I may do so before long, so that I may gratify my keen desire to see your goodself as well as Mr Blunt, and perhaps to accompany you on your journey to Lancashire upon the conclusion of your first year of study. In any case, there are few men alive I esteem so highly as Mr Blunt, who, I daresay, will within a few years achieve such fame among artists as no man in England has been enabled to boast of in recent times. Your harmonious intercourse with such a man can bring you nothing but benefit in your studies and in the good opinion in which you will yourself be held in college.

As for my own studies, they progress well. During my sojourn in London, I have been gratified to learn from two gentlemen of my acquaintance that, upon their recommendation, the gentlemen of the Reform Club have seen fit to elect me a member. I dined in the company of several such gentlemen last evening to celebrate my election, and found the food and wine and the company to provide the greatest satisfaction. As I know you, sir, to be a man of a liberal disposition, nay sir, I have heard it said, a man of even more radical opinion than the merely liberal, I may perhaps be so presumptuous as to suggest that you yourself may find that Club to be a satisfactory haven for you when you have occasion to visit London. If this suggestion meets with your approval, I will urgently importune certain well-disposed gentlemen on your behalf.

I remain, sir, your most humble and obedient servant,

Sam Johnson

Folded inside was a note from Roger himself, as it were.

Dear James,

I am sure it is unnecessary for me to point this out, but for the avoidance of doubt, my use of the word ‘intercourse' in the accompanying letter is to be interpreted in its 18th century sense of general social contact, the sense in which Johnson used it, as opposed to the more specific meaning it tends to be given today.

Fondly,

Roger

21

In the spring term I devoted myself mostly to my studies and to chess. I was selected to represent the University for my Half Blue, and played alongside Hugh Alexander against Oxford. I just failed to qualify for the British Championship, but it was to be my last failure to do so for many years. I went with Donald to meetings of CUSS, which seemed to become ever more radical as the year wore on. I saw Anthony several times in college, and we spoke cordially enough. He confided in me that his appointment to a Fellowship now seemed to be assured, and he always asked after Roger. I often thought back to our first conversation, but as the spectre of examinations approached, I immersed myself in my books, with the welcome result that my name appeared in the First Class Honours list. I was awarded a scholarship for my second year which entitled me to remain in my college room rather than move to digs outside college.

* * *

I spent most of the summer at home, leaving only for a week to play in a chess tournament, which I won with some ease. On my return I found that my parents had organised a garden party on the lawns of the Manor, and invited friends from far and wide. Roger was about to leave for his year abroad; he was leaning towards South America. I was expecting to spend most of my time in Germany and France during the next two summers, to work on my linguistic skills, and I am sure my parents felt there was no way of knowing when they might have the two of us together again for long enough to plan a party of this kind.

The party took place on a Sunday afternoon in late August. It was a blazing hot day, with a threat of thunderstorms. The men wore white jackets and cravats; the women wore brightly-coloured cocktail dresses and hats, high heels without stockings, and strings of pearls. The staff had set up a makeshift bar on a long trestle table, to the left of the French windows as you went out on to the lawn, partially covering the former site of the finishing line for the leaf races. There, they made Pimms cocktails and dry martinis, and uncorked bottles of champagne. Three further tables had been erected farther into the garden, on which every form of food capable of being eaten on a stick was piled high on huge white plates, and at various points across the lawns there were smaller wooden tables and chairs rented for the day. It was all very last-days-of-the-Raj, and I could not help sensing an unspoken anticipation of the end of an era.

We had new near neighbours, a Doctor and Mrs Williamson. Doctor Williamson had recently opened his practice in Clitheroe, and my parents had heard good reports of him. The Williamsons brought with them their daughter Bridget. She was eighteen; she had light brown hair and a freckled face, and mischievous eyes. She wore the prettiest yellow dress with matching hat and shoes. I couldn't take my eyes off her.

At about 5.30, when the party was in full swing, the heavens opened without warning. The air was still and humid. Then suddenly, from nowhere, a lone black cloud appeared and hovered over our lawn, showing no sign of moving on. The staff made frantic efforts to rescue some of the food, but there was thunder now, and lightning, and my father ordered everyone indoors in the interests of safety. The guests had in any case bolted for the house as the first drops fell, laughing as though the storm had been ordered up specially for them, as part of the entertainment. All except Bridget.

As I dashed through the doors out of the rain, I turned back towards the garden for no real reason, and to my astonishment saw her; she was almost at the end of the first lawn, just as it narrows and leads through a pair of short privet hedges to the second lawn. She had cast off her hat and shoes, and she was walking slowly in a circle, her face and arms uplifted to the sky. No one else seemed to have noticed her. Turning up the collar of my coat, I ran through the torrential rain, calling her name.

‘Bridget! Come in! There's lightning around. It's dangerous so near the trees.'

She smiled and stopped in her tracks. She waited for me to reach her, then she took my hands in hers and, without a word, she began to run away from the house to the far end of the garden, pulling me after her. The storm had made it so dark now that the house was barely visible – only the lights in the dining room indicated where it was. The lawns were in complete darkness. We stopped just before the line of poplar trees which marked the end of the garden and the beginning of the grounds of the estate. She raised my hands to join her own, saluting the sky and the elements, and we stood together, silent in the rain, being one with the storm and with each other.

‘I've always wanted to do that,' she confessed quietly after some time. ‘Wasn't it incredible, to look into the face of nature like that? I've ruined my dress, haven't I? Mother will kill me, but it's been worth it.'

‘I was worried about you,' I replied, not knowing what else to say.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't want anyone to be worried. I knew I would be all right.'

After some time, the black cloud began to move away over the roof of the house, and the sky grew a little lighter.

‘I suppose we should go back,' she said. ‘But would you please kiss me first?'

I nodded. My senses were overwhelmed. Her face was astonishingly beautiful in the grey and yellow light that followed the storm. Her perfume mingled with the scent of the rain, and of the newly-cut, drenched grass, and of the electricity left over in the air after the departure of the thunder, and of her wet body and hair. As I held her I was aware of her strength and her fragility, of the suppleness of her body to which the dress now clung like a rag pulled from the sea, revealing the shape of her small breasts and slender thighs. And I saw the water and blades of grass which had half covered her beautiful bare feet.

We kissed long and intensely, a first time for me, and I sensed for her also. She touched me briefly, very intimately, as she ended the kiss and we walked in silence back to the house, holding hands until we were almost at the French windows.

‘I'm sure you think I'm a bit strange,' she said. ‘Actually, you must think I'm completely mad.'

Actually, I didn't know what to think. All I knew was that I was hopelessly in love with her.

‘I am quite normal, really,' she added. ‘I'm going to study anthropology next year, at Bristol.'

Oddly, no one even seemed to realise that we had been gone. The staff had rescued the bar, if not the food, and the party was still in full flow. Only Roger gave me a knowing look as Bridget gave my hand a final squeeze before making her way to the kitchen to ask my mother if she could borrow a towel and something to wear until it was time to go home. I went to my room, to change, and to try to regain my equilibrium. Just then, the world felt shaky. It was another moment after which my life was not the same but, as with all such moments, I would not fully understand that until much later.

22

Almost as soon as I had returned to Cambridge for my second year, I received another of Anthony's invitations. Stiff white card, printed college coat of arms, precise small handwriting in black ink. Sherry in his rooms, at six. Anthony had by now been elected to his Fellowship and was a familiar figure in Trinity, but despite his connection with Roger I had not really expected to see a great deal of him, except in the impersonal setting of dinner in hall.

I had expected to spend my extra-curricular time on chess and the Socialist Society. Donald and I helped to man the CUSS stall for Freshers' Week that year, and we were surprised at the strong level of interest, not only from the new crop of undergraduates, but also from second- and third-year men. We signed up a good batch of new members. The feeling was growing that socialism represented the way forward, both to tackle social injustice at home, and to prepare a response to the ominous rumblings of fascism in Europe. There was also a feeling that, if the Labour Party continued to be ineffectual, a new approach to socialism might be necessary. There were already some who were turning their eyes towards the Soviet Union to provide a model.

The Treasurer of CUSS for that year was a Trinity economist, H A R Philby, known to everyone as Kim. Kim was a gregarious man with an infectious sense of humour and a taste for the good life. He was extraordinarily charming, and when I spoke to him, I somehow had the feeling that I not only had his full attention, but was the only person important to him at that moment. He was also one of those men with apparently limitless energy who seemed to move seamlessly from work to party and back to work, without drawing breath or pausing to re-charge his batteries. In some ways he was an unlikely socialist, but I took that simply as an indication of how widely socialism was being embraced across the university spectrum. I had met him several times during my first year, and had liked him immediately. This year, I would see much more of him. He asked me to give him a hand with the Society's books, claiming that economists usually made terrible accountants, and were not to be relied on to keep a sound set of accounts. I had an – admittedly rudimentary – understanding of book-keeping from conversations at home with my father and Mr Bevan about the estate, and Kim easily charmed me into giving him an hour or two every week. He provided the drinks and would never accept a penny for them from me.

I met Guy as I was walking up the staircase to Anthony's rooms.

‘Oh God, has he invited you as well?' he began. ‘I might have known. I find these sherry evenings a bit of a bore myself. It would be nice to have something a bit stronger, wouldn't it?'

‘You look as though you've had something a bit stronger already,' I commented.

He giggled.

‘Well, I see there's no pulling the wool over your eyes, is there, my dear? But come on, let's be honest, a glass or two of the real stuff is the only way to fortify yourself for an evening with Anthony.'

I must have raised my eyebrows, or given some other sign of dissent, because he went on hurriedly.

‘Don't get me wrong, my dear. I love Anthony madly, desperately, as we all do. But he's not exactly the life and soul of the party, is he? I see you're not convinced. Anyway, James, it is good to see you again, especially on such a special occasion.'

I knocked on the door.

‘What's special about it?' I asked. ‘I didn't see mention of anything particular on the invitation.'

He tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

‘You'll see,' he replied enigmatically.

Anthony welcomed us with the familiar warm sherry, which drew a knowing grin from Guy as we seated ourselves in front of the fireplace. On the hearth were a tea pot, two tea cups, two small plates, and a discoloured old toasting fork lying beside the gas ring. Several circles of crumbs provided evidence of the recent consumption of crumpets. We drank for a while, Guy taking two glasses of sherry to my one, as Anthony went through the formalities of asking about Roger, about my accomplishments in chess, and about my studies. Guy seemed content to drink in silence and slip gradually ever further down the sofa. Eventually, Anthony refilled our glasses and came to the point.

‘I have asked you here today,' he announced, ‘because it is my intention to propose both of you for membership of a certain Society. I have mentioned it to Guy already, James, but I haven't had the chance to talk to you for any length of time, so I am afraid I am rather springing it on you. But I only have limited time for the nominations. The Society I refer to is usually known as the Apostles.'

I am sure that my surprise was quite obvious to him. I had heard of the Apostles from Roger, who had given me the distinct impression that he had kept his distance from it during his time at Cambridge. He had painted it as a rather effete group of men from privileged backgrounds who liked to spend their Saturday nights in pretentious philosophical debates on subjects about which no one in the real world cared.

‘The Society was created in 1820,' Anthony continued. ‘Membership is in theory open to men from any college, though in practice the membership has generally been drawn from Trinity and King's. It started as a debating society much like any other, and indeed was originally called the
Conversazione
Society. But before too long, it acquired a rather radical reputation.'

‘They questioned the authority of the Church of England, no less,' Guy interrupted, rather drunkenly from the sofa. ‘Imagine the balls on those men. I do imagine that sometimes, actually.'

Anthony was clearly displeased by the interruption, but he was in a serious mood now, and did not intend to be deflected.

‘They did eventually reach that position,' he agreed. ‘But they were far more radical than that. At that time, of course, all Fellows were required to be Church men, and to subscribe to the Thirty-Nine Articles. But the Society created a space in which everything could be questioned – not only the Thirty-Nine Articles, but every religious tenet, even the very existence of God. The rule was that each man was entitled, and indeed expected, to speak with complete candour, holding nothing back, even his most intimate feelings.'

‘I'll sign up for that,' Guy said, holding up a hand. ‘Bring me the form.'

‘I need hardly say,' Anthony continued, ‘that in those days that was an extremely radical agenda. Any man who was interested in a Fellowship was taking his academic life in his hands merely by participating in such a debate. If the debates provided evidence of other personal proclivities, it might have spelled the end for any of the members. So a tradition arose of secrecy. Members were not permitted to discuss the Society's proceedings with anyone outside the Society. At times, the rule was that the very existence of the Society should be kept secret, though that was, of course, impracticable, since everyone already knew that it existed.'

‘By “personal proclivities”,' Guy said. ‘Anthony means being queer. He's not telling you that because he doesn't want to put you off. But it's a requirement for membership. Women are unapostolic, phenomenal, as they say in the Society. They have a rule that any member seen in intimate embrace with a woman is to be ritually castrated in the presence of the entire membership. Quite right too.'

‘Guy, for God's sake, shut up,' Anthony said. The harsh tone of his voice took both of us aback. Anthony was usually well able to ignore Guy's snide interventions during casual conversation, but there was a time and place, and he had had enough for one night. The message was not lost on Guy. With a quick raising of the eyebrows in mock horror, he lowered himself into a position in which he was almost lying on the sofa, his left leg protruding awkwardly sideways, hanging in the air. But I could not help smiling inwardly. That was the other thing Roger had hinted at about the Apostles, though, of course, without Guy's absurd exaggeration.

‘The Society still insists on discretion,' Anthony continued. ‘There is no longer a threat from the Church, but that does not mean that there is no threat. Completely free debate is still too often seen as a danger to well-structured social order. It is vital that it should continue and, if it is to continue, it is vital that the members have confidence that their candour will not be exposed or abused. For similar reasons, membership is by unanimous election. Any University man may be proposed as a member, but any member may blackball him, and even a single blackball is fatal to his application.'

‘When do the Society's meetings take place?' I asked, because I felt the need to ask something.

‘Every Saturday evening, in the room of one of the members,' he replied. ‘The meetings always follow more or less the same pattern. One member, called the Moderator for the week, prepares an essay on a subject of his choice, or one assigned to him by the other members, and he is called to the Hearthrug, as we say, to read his essay, which is then debated. A vote is taken, whereby the proposition is agreed to, or not agreed to. The traditional sustenance is “whales” – sardines on toast – with whatever a member may care to drink.'

He paused to refill our glasses, opening a new bottle.

‘Members have an obligation to attend every meeting unless physically absent from Cambridge.'

He paused to take a long drink.

‘But, in due course, if after a number of years that obligation becomes too onerous, a member may become an Angel, or take wings, as we say. He still remains a member and may attend meetings whenever he wishes, but is no longer subject to the obligation. There is also an excellent annual dinner in London, by the way, open to both members and angels. That is why I am proposing you both now. I have decided to take my wings quite soon.'

This revelation brought Guy back to life. He sat up quickly and stared at Anthony.

‘But my dear chap, you can't do that,' he protested. ‘You are the quintessential Apostle. The Society will fall apart without you.'

Anthony smiled thinly.

‘That's very flattering, Guy, but completely untrue. Many more distinguished men than I have taken their wings without doing any harm to the Society. Besides, I plan to attend meetings whenever I can. But I am beginning to see that my academic interests are bound to take me away from Cambridge more and more. Art is a worldwide study and I must be out in the world to study it. Before that happens, I would like to leave my mark on the Society by having one or two new members of my choice elected. I think both of you would be admirable additions to the Brethren.'

I looked at Anthony blankly.

‘I'm not sure why you think so in my case,' I said. ‘I am a linguist and a chess player. I'm not really philosophically inclined.'

‘It's not a question of one's area of study,' he replied. ‘Apostles come from all fields of study. We have had some very distinguished scientific members, as well as economists, historians, and so on. It's more to do with your personal qualities. To be elected you must be
apostolic
; in other words, you must have the qualities of candour, discretion, and intellectual inquiry necessary to the Society's work. I think you have those qualities. They have already propelled you from being a scion of an aristocratic family to being a leading member of the Socialist Society. Your views on chess have progressed from its being a mere game, fit only for entertainment, to a radical art form in its own right – an art form of benefit to Society, even perhaps with the potential to change Society. I must confess that I do not yet entirely understand that concept. But on any view, you have already made a considerable intellectual journey, and I am quite sure that it has a long way further to go. I, therefore, wish to become your
Father
; I want you to become my
Embryo
, and allow me to guide you to your
Birth
. I am speaking the language of the Society, you understand.'

At that moment I simply put whatever reservations I had about the Apostles aside. I felt flattered that someone of Anthony's eminence, as I saw it then, should go out of his way to want me as a member of a Society which was clearly of great importance to him. What if some of the subjects they debated were of little practical use? If elected, I might have some influence in choosing subjects which mattered more.

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘Why, on the other hand, I am putting Guy forward, I cannot begin to explain.'

Guy smiled broadly and raised his glass in a toast.

‘It's because my boyish charm is so irresistible,' he said.

Anthony returned the smile.

‘That must be the reason,' he replied.

* * *

I have no idea what electioneering went on behind the scenes; what promises were made or inducements offered; what horse-trading was done; what compromises arrived at late at night. I was later to learn that elections could be prolonged affairs, involving a good deal of antagonism, spite, and rancour. The Society's records, held in the
Ark
– a trunk kept in a member's room – told that in years gone by, the process had often dragged on for months and done considerable damage to relationships between members. A blackball is a source of enormous, though transient, power; many members must have yielded to the temptation to use it, or threaten to use it, to gain some personal advantage or to advance some agenda of their own. In addition, like all university societies, and despite its pretensions, the Apostles were a group of emotionally immature young men, often still trapped in a schoolboy mentality and given to fits of moodiness, sulking, grudges, and irrational jealousies. But by 1932 some degree of discipline and order had been imposed, and it was understood that it was bad form to use a blackball unless a candidate seemed clearly unapostolic, or there was a serious reason to exclude him. Anthony never seemed to be in doubt that both Guy and I would be elected, and so we were. How much we owed to his personal standing in the Apostles, which was very high, and how much to his political dealings, I have never known and have never cared to know.