The Pupil (7 page)

I’m in love, thought Anthony. This is what it’s like.

The next morning, Anthony didn’t so much wake up as regain consciousness. The walk home and two Anadin Extra and four glasses of tap water had helped, but things were still looking bad. He didn’t lift his head from the pillow; it seemed better to leave it there. He discovered he was thinking solicitously of his head as though it were an object detached from his body. He rolled his eyes experimentally; they seemed to be attached to little fiery strings that reached into the back of his brain, and his eyelids felt as though they had dried out into some kind of thin sandpaper. His tongue filled his mouth entirely and, disgustingly, still tasted vaguely of Cointreau. The thought of Cointreau made him feel ill. Maybe he could be sick, he thought hopefully. But
the very notion of climbing out of bed and making the effort inclined him against the idea. He would just lie there for a bit and maybe things would get better.

He wondered what time it was and tried to squint at his clock radio without moving his head; the fiery cords behind his eyeballs tugged painfully at the back of his skull. Twenty-five past eleven. Downstairs, his mother began to hoover. Please God, don’t let her come and hoover in my room, he thought.

He closed his eyes and suddenly remembered Julia. His heart jolted painfully in his chest. He groaned and rolled onto his back, thrusting the pillow over his face. No, it was all right. He hadn’t done anything irretrievably awful, he discovered, as he pieced together his scattered recollections. He took the pillow off his face and found that breathing helped. They’d just talked. And kissed. That had been fantastic. He tried to relive the kiss, but the bumping of the vacuum cleaner on the stairs told him that his mother was heading towards his room to hoover at him in protest at his late arrival home the night before. Whenever his mother wished to register her disapproval of any of his social activities, she would come and hoover round his bed the following morning. It seemed to Anthony to be quite the most vindictive thing a person could do.

He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom with gentle, careful steps, bent over like an old man.

It wasn’t until the following Monday morning that he found the cigarette packet in his inside jacket pocket. On it, Julia had written her telephone number.

David had been right about the run-up to the Christmas vacation, Anthony discovered. Although people continued to work as hard as ever during the day, there was a general air of hilarity around the Temple and in the City.

On the day of the chambers party, however, Anthony silently reminded himself of his resolution, made in the wake of the previous Friday night’s proceedings, never to drink champagne again and never even to
look
at a Cointreau bottle. But as the party grew closer, he felt his resolve weaken. And when he was actually standing in Sir Basil’s room with Edward and the other members of chambers, it vanished altogether. It would not look good, he decided, if he were to refuse the glass of champagne which Sir Basil proffered with a benevolent festive smile.

The conversation was desultory and somewhat slow; only the members of chambers and two High Court judges, themselves former members, were present. It was understood that the hoi polloi were not to show up at the party until six o’clock. It was five-thirty and all the typists were crowded into the Ladies, applying fresh make-up and squirting perfume hopefully over themselves.

After a while, Anthony was approached by Sir Basil.

‘Well, Anthony,’ he said, shaking Anthony’s hand. ‘I don’t really think we’ve had the chance of a proper conversation since you joined us, have we?’ Sir Basil had heard, to his agreeable surprise, that Edward had acquitted himself well in a piece of work performed for Leo Davies, whom Sir Basil regarded as one of the more demanding members of chambers. He felt, therefore, that he could afford to be gracious to Anthony, who would
now necessarily be leaving them at the end of his pupillage.

‘Do you feel you’re profiting from being with us?’ he asked. The word ‘us’ sounded rare and exclusive when uttered by Sir Basil. Anthony sensed very strongly his position as an outsider.

‘Yes,’ he replied hastily, ‘Michael’s a very good pupilmaster. I’m very lucky.’

‘And where do you think you will be looking once you leave us?’ The baldness of the question startled Anthony. He knew that Edward, as Sir Basil’s nephew, must be something of a favourite, but he had not realised that the matter was already so completely decided. It took him some seconds to recover. In the intervening silence, Sir Basil murmured something about ‘excellent vol-au-vents’ and then said, before Anthony could speak, ‘I have some very good friends in 3 Dover Court – lots of civil litigation. Perhaps that would suit you, mm? We’ll have a little talk next term. Merry Christmas.’ And he sailed off to join another little knot of people.

Anthony felt wretched. He realised that his dismay must have shown on his face, because Michael stepped over and said lightly, ‘What’s up?’

Anthony recounted his conversation with Sir Basil. ‘It was just a bit of a surprise,’ he added. ‘I mean, there’s another three terms to go, and I wasn’t sure that Edward was all that keen …’ He realised that this must all sound rather self-pitying. Michael sighed and squinted sadly at his champagne glass. The old man really picked his moments, he thought.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘this isn’t really the time or place, but
we’ll have a talk about it soon. I know he’s the big chief, but technically it’s not his decision. We all have a say, you know.’

Anthony nodded, unconvinced. He felt that his hopes had been utterly dashed. If Sir Basil wanted Edward as the next tenant, and if Edward wanted to stay – well, that seemed to be that. Michael, for his part, was angry with Sir Basil. He knew that Anthony had exceptional ability and that if he were given the chance, he would make the most of it. He knew a little of Anthony’s background and circumstances and he wanted, for reasons that he himself could not fathom, to see him free of those beginnings. Anthony was his protégé, just as Edward was Sir Basil’s. He hadn’t doubted Leo’s word when he had praised Edward’s work, and so far Jeremy had voiced no complaints about his pupil, but what he had seen and heard of Edward did not convince him that he merited the tenancy, and all its possibilities, as much as Anthony. Things would always be easy for Edward, but Anthony’s ambition was solitary, and Michael wanted to help him achieve it.

There was not, however, a great deal to be done that evening. It didn’t help Anthony’s frame of mind to have to watch Edward, whom he sincerely liked, at his jovial ease amongst the rest of the guests. After a decent interval, Anthony decided to take his leave and go home.

As he made his way downstairs, Mr Slee put his head round the door of the clerks’ room and uttered words that made Anthony’s blood run cold.

‘Oh, Mr Cross, your father’s here. Just on my way to tell you.’ Unfortunately for Anthony, he and Sir Basil had
decided to leave the party at the same time, and Anthony heard Sir Basil’s voice on the stairs behind him.

‘Your father, Anthony? Why, you must take him upstairs to meet a few people. It is a party, after all.’ To give him his due, Sir Basil spoke purely out of kindness. He knew that his few words with Anthony earlier must have indicated that he regarded the matter of the next junior tenancy as one which was now closed, even though he assumed that Anthony could never seriously have been under any illusions on the matter.

To Anthony, the words sounded almost malicious. But he knew that Sir Basil’s preconception of his father must be of an ordinary professional man. Sir Basil tended to assume that most people’s fathers were of that kind; that men should follow any other bent seemed to him to be beyond understanding. Like Michael’s sloppiness of dress, he suspected that it was done from anti-authoritarian motives.

Anthony smiled in a vague way in Sir Basil’s direction and then went into the clerks’ room. His father was standing beside the wooden counter. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, boots, a T-shirt and a combat jacket. His head had not been shaved for some three or four days – nor, for that matter, had his face – and the strange tuft of hair sprang up from the centre of his head like a piece of chewed string. Normally his father’s appearance would not have struck Anthony as being particularly out of the ordinary, but in the austere, civilised setting of barristers’ chambers he looked incongruous, dreadful. Anthony felt mortified. His eyes met those of Mr Slee, but Mr Slee’s face
was blandly devoid of any expression. Mr Slee knew what he knew and he saw what he saw.

Anthony greeted his father unenthusiastically, noticing that Chay was not wearing his usual saintly, supercilious smile. He was not smiling at all. His face looked even thinner than usual and his expression was one of mingled anger and humility, slightly watered down – the expression that one glimpses fleetingly on the faces of vagrants in the street. Anthony was aware that Sir Basil had entered the clerks’ room behind him and was now exchanging a few words – rather loudly it seemed – with Mr Slee before leaving.

Sir Basil had seen and digested Anthony’s father in a matter of seconds. He had come into the clerks’ room out of mild curiosity, and with every intention of meeting Mr Cross as a matter of civility. He did not now think that such civility was required. Sir Basil put on his overcoat and left, without addressing Anthony or his father. As he made his brisk, businesslike way across King’s Bench Walk to his car, he reflected that it would have been utterly impossible, even if the circumstances had been different, to have countenanced giving a tenancy at 5 Caper Court to a young man with a father such as that. Most extraordinary, he thought. Young Cross seemed really quite a decent young man; but then, one never knew.

Back in chambers, Anthony was exchanging words with his father.

‘You’ve been
what
?’ said Anthony.

‘Busted,’ repeated Chay in low tones. ‘It was at a club last week. It was only two ounces,’ he mumbled apologetically.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Anthony quietly. Mr Slee reappeared from the inner sanctum where he had been discreetly busying himself.

‘I’m just shutting up shop now, Mr Cross. I’m a bit late for the party.’ And he smiled his knowing, deferential smile.

‘Right,’ said Anthony with a sigh. Taking his father by the arm, he escorted him out into the night. Behind them, Mr Slee turned the lights off in the clerks’ room and locked the door. They walked in silence through Caper Court and up Middle Temple Lane.

‘We’d better find a pub,’ said Anthony.

When they were sitting down with their drinks, Anthony looked across at his father, who glanced guiltily up at him as he sipped his pint. Anthony felt as though their roles were reversed; he felt like a troubled parent with an exasperating child, and Chay had assumed an air of superficial guilt, which would vanish just as soon as some solution were found to the problems he had created.

‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ said Anthony at last. ‘Why did you just turn up like that?’

‘Sorry if I don’t meet the high standards of your acquaintances,’ responded Chay, sulkily. ‘The phone’s been cut off.’

‘Oh, great. How did that happen?’

‘No more bread. I really hoped I’d have got to the States before the last of it ran out. I’ve only got my Giro now.’

‘What about Grandpa?’ Chay’s father was still known to make the occasional handout to the son he despised.

‘No chance. Not after last time.’ There was a silence.

‘Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t put up bail for you, you know.’

Chay shook his head. ‘No – Graham did that. No, I need somewhere to stay for the night. The electricity’s been turned off, too. It’s freezing in the flat.’

‘What about Graham? Can’t he put you up?’

Chay shrugged. ‘He’s gone to France for Christmas.’

And no one else in their right mind will have you, thought Anthony. What the hell was he going to do with him? There seemed to be only one solution.

‘I’m just going to ring Mum and tell her I won’t be home tonight,’ said Anthony, rising from the table. ‘Then we’ll go round to Bridget’s.’

The business with Bridget was not easy. Anthony knew it wasn’t going to be.

‘Well, how long’s he going to be staying for?’ hissed Bridget in the gloom of her hallway. She was huddled into a blue candlewick dressing gown, and the sound of the television came from her living room.

‘Not long, I promise,’ hissed back Anthony.

‘I’m not staying here on my own with him!’

‘I know, I know,’ said Anthony placatingly. ‘I’ll be here.’

‘You’re moving in?’ Anthony gazed into her pleased brown eyes; she smelt faintly of Oil of Ulay and Horlicks. Julia had smelt of champagne and cigarettes.

‘Yes,’ he heard himself say. ‘I’ve been meaning to ring you.’

‘Oh, Anthony, that’s wonderful.’ He gave her a perfunctory kiss as the lavatory flushed and Chay emerged. He was quite himself. Bridget had known Chay since she
had first known Anthony and had tended, since their first acquaintance, to treat him like a tiresome teenager.

‘Come on,’ she said crossly to him, ‘I’ll find some sheets and you can make up the spare bed.’ He followed her meekly down the hallway to Claire’s old room.

That night Anthony lay in Bridget’s bed, unable to sleep. He had no notion of what he was going to do with his father. Tomorrow he would have to go and get some of his belongings from home and make a show of moving in with Bridget. She wouldn’t put up with his father otherwise. He would smooth over any difficulty with his mother by explaining this to her. He wouldn’t mention Chay’s arrest. He would make it appear as though the whole thing were purely a temporary arrangement. It was going to have to be. He glanced at Bridget sleeping tidily next to him, then thought of Julia. He hadn’t seen her since that Friday night, and he hadn’t rung her because he couldn’t see the point. He had no money. He couldn’t even take her out for a drink. God, he wanted to see her. Maybe he should just ring her, just to talk, to make sure that she hadn’t forgotten him. No, no point in that. He sighed deeply in the darkness. The next instalment of his scholarship money wouldn’t come through until next term, and he had very little left of the earnings from his holiday job. All he could do was think about her, her silken blonde head, her long legs, the special smell of her skin. Her mouth. He tried to summon back what he could recall of their long, drunken kiss, but the sound of snoring came from Chay’s room down the hallway, and reality blotted out the memory.

The following evening, Anthony went home to collect his other suit, a bundle of shirts, and some underwear.

‘You’re not taking very much,’ remarked Judith, as she rolled up pairs of socks for him. It was part of her ‘good-parenting’ policy not to interfere too much in her sons’ affairs, but she could not help making this remark to gain some extra reassurance.

‘I told you, Mum – I’m not staying long. Just until Dad goes abroad.’ Not that there was much chance of that now, with a court case coming up. He hadn’t told Judith about that. Quite what was to happen over the next few weeks, Anthony could not imagine.

The next difficulty that arose was the question of what to do with Chay over Christmas. Bridget wanted to go home to her parents in Gloucestershire, and Judith wanted Anthony to be at home for Christmas.

‘I’m not having your father staying in my flat on his own!’ said Bridget heatedly, when the matter came up for discussion. In fairness to Chay, he had been self-effacement itself. He had padded about in his hessian and velvet boots, had cooked bland, inoffensive little vegetarian messes, done his washing at the launderette, and been quiet and unobtrusive. So much so, that he had managed to become a most irritating presence in the flat.

‘Why not?’ said Anthony. ‘He can look after the place for you, see that you don’t get burgled.’

‘What? He’ll probably invite a load of his hippy friends over, and I’ll come back to find syringes and the furniture all broken.’

‘Well, that’s hardly likely,’ said Anthony. ‘He hasn’t got any friends. Not any with enough money for drugs, at least.’

Chay chose that moment to make his entrance. He came in looking gentle and Jesus-like, and carrying two Safeway’s bags full of groceries and wine, bought with his dole money. He had thought that regular small offerings of this kind might obviate the need to pay Bridget any rent.

‘Thought I’d make us some supper,’ he said, taking his bags into the kitchen, giving them his kindest, wisest smile.

‘He can’t do any harm,’ said Anthony in a low voice. ‘And it really will be safer if someone’s staying here while you’re away.’ There was something in this.

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ grumbled Bridget.

That night Anthony made love to Bridget out of some strange sense of duty. It was what people who lived together did, and he couldn’t stay there on false pretences. But weren’t these utterly false pretences? He stroked Bridget’s hair absently and wished she were Julia. God, this was awful – this was probably the worst, the most duplicitous thing he had ever done in his life. He’d just made love to Bridget, without wanting to, knowing that she expected it, and because he felt he had to say some sort of ‘thank you’ for letting Chay stay in the flat over Christmas. And all he could think about was some girl he’d kissed once and who probably wouldn’t even remember his name if she saw him again.

Anthony was quite wrong about Julia, but far too inexperienced in the ways of the world to realise the beneficial effects of his apparent lack of interest.

Julia was a young woman who was intensely aware of her own worth. She came from a wealthy family, she was clever and beautiful and charming, and she led much the same sort of life as Edward Choke, expecting pleasure as her due. Unlike Edward, however, she was intelligent and single-minded, and was prepared to work hard to achieve her pleasures. But she was also very vain, as beautiful, intelligent young women invariably are, and her vanity had been wounded by the fact that Anthony had not taken the trouble to call her. At first, she had not really cared very much whether or not he did – he had been exceptionally pleasant to kiss, but then so were a lot of men, all just as attractive as Anthony. But as the days went by, and he didn’t ring, the thing began to nag at her. Her irritation was compounded by the fact that she saw him once or twice round the Temple, although he failed to see her; the sight of the back of his unheeding head added to the impression that he had not thought of her since that Friday night, and was not likely to do so in the future.

This idea was more than Julia could bear. She was not accustomed to indifference. Men paid attention to her, sought her out; now she was being ignored. She had anticipated that she would see him from time to time in the bar, and intended on any such occasion to act coolly and distantly by way of retribution. But the opportunity never came; she found herself going there in the evening in the hope that he might appear, turning to glance at each tall, dark-haired figure that came in. It was never Anthony. Once or twice she had been about to ask Edward about
him, but she succeeded in maintaining the appearance of rigid indifference that was her code. Julia found herself, uniquely, wounded and confused.

Anthony, unaware of any of this, spent the larger part of Christmas worrying about Chay, and what to do with him. He went round to Bridget’s flat every other day over the holiday to make sure that he hadn’t sold her furniture, and would find Chay drifting around in his preoccupied way, eating muesli, meditating, or rubbing ointment into the fading scorch marks on the soles of his feet. He seemed happily unperturbed by the prospect of the court case coming up in a few weeks’ time. It perturbed Anthony, however. Things couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. He couldn’t go on living with Bridget, that much was certain.

But three days after the start of the Hilary term, Chay resolved matters by disappearing. It was Anthony who noticed that his father’s few belongings had vanished from the spare room. And it was Bridget who discovered that the seventy pounds that she had tucked away in her tights drawer had vanished, too.

‘Your bloody father!’ she stormed.

‘He must have done a bunk,’ said Anthony lamely. ‘I’ll pay you back.’ Bridget was not impressed by this unlikely offer.

The couple of days following Chay’s disappearance were passed in stony rage on Bridget’s part and perplexity on Anthony’s. Then Anthony received a telephone call from Chay in chambers. He was in the States, he said, with Jocasta.

‘We’re preparing to go into retreat,’ he told Anthony in holy tones.

‘But you’re on bail!’ exclaimed Anthony. ‘Graham’s going to have to pay out if you don’t show up in court!’

‘Look,’ said transatlantic Chay calmly, ‘he’s a friend. It’s cool. I’ll be with him in spirit. Don’t tell him where I am,’ he added quickly. ‘He might accidentally tell the police. I’ll square it with him when I see him.’

‘What about Bridget’s seventy pounds?’

Either Chay didn’t hear him or decided to ignore the question. ‘Got to go. Peace.’ And he hung up.

As he put the receiver down, Anthony discovered that he felt quite relieved. Thank God he was gone. At least he was off Anthony’s hands. He could stay in America, for all he cared, although that, unfortunately, seemed unlikely. The police could extradite him if they wanted to, although that was even unlikelier. After the last few weeks, Anthony felt he’d had enough of his father. He was no longer interested. Now he could concentrate on his work. And, oh, joy of joys, it came to him suddenly that he wouldn’t have to go on living with Bridget. In a week’s time his scholarship money would come through, and he could ring Julia. If she still remembered him.

Anthony’s phone call to Julia could not have been more perfectly timed. After four weeks of wounded pride and faint nervous tension, Julia’s original idle supposition that he would certainly ring had been replaced by an avid wish that he would. The obscure object of desire had become clouded by longing itself.

She felt her heart tighten as she recognised his voice. ‘Oh, Anthony,’ she said as casually as she could, ‘How have you been? Good Christmas?’

‘Not bad. A bit – busy. What about you?’

He’d been busy, had he? With whom, she wondered.

‘Oh, so-so. Lots of parties.’

‘Great.’ There was a pause. ‘Listen, I wondered if you were doing anything on Saturday. Whether you’d like to go out, or something.’ He found himself wishing that he could sound less clumsy, less offhand.

‘Saturday,’ she said thoughtfully. She had already been invited to a dinner party, but now she dismissed it from her mind. ‘No, I don’t think I’m doing anything.’

‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty. Where do you live?’ She gave him her address in Kensington. ‘I thought we might go out to dinner,’ he said, ‘but I don’t really know any restaurants in your area. Why don’t you think of somewhere and book it?’ God, he shouldn’t be asking her to do that; it sounded as though he really didn’t care where they went.

‘All right, if you like,’ she said, thinking that he might at least show a little less indifference about the whole thing.

‘Right.’ Anthony wished he could think of something else sensible to say. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday, then. Bye.’ He hung up. Julia sat looking at the phone. He’d been abrupt, almost casual; but at least he’d called.

The problem with Bridget was one he kept putting off. Nothing had been said since his father had left, but it was clear that Anthony hadn’t moved into the flat quite as
wholeheartedly as Bridget had imagined he would. Now, as he told his first downright lie, Anthony resolved that he would tell her the next day that he would not be staying.

‘Why on earth is your pupilmaster taking you out to dinner?’ asked Bridget, as Anthony shaved on Saturday evening.

‘He’s not. I said, invited me
round
to dinner.’

‘Oh. Does he know you live with me?’ Anthony met her eye in the mirror.

‘I haven’t mentioned it.’ He rinsed his razor and pulled out the plug, wiping round the basin with a cloth.

‘That’s my facecloth! Don’t use that!’ She made an exasperated little noise as she snatched it from him. Anthony thought with dread, and not for the first time, what it would be like to be married to her. ‘Don’t you think you should? It would be nice to go to things together.’

In view of what he intended to tell her the next day, this made Anthony feel like a complete heel. And since, buried beneath what he admitted was a veneer of guilt was an irrepressible, surging joy at the thought of seeing Julia that evening, he felt that he was behaving as badly as it was possible to behave. But he hadn’t
wanted
to get himself into this situation. It had been forced on him. In response to Bridget’s remark, Anthony made a non-committal noise into the towel as he dried his face.

With a mounting sense of guilt, Anthony changed into the new red silk shirt that his mother had given him for Christmas, and a tolerably new pair of brown corduroys.

‘You look very nice,’ said Bridget in a small voice, as she watched him from the bedroom doorway. He felt he
could say nothing, and gave her a fleeting kiss as he brushed past her to fetch his jacket from the hall. I’m a brute, he thought, as he checked his pockets for keys and change, and rummaged in his mind for something conciliatory and kind to say. He turned and smiled at her.

‘Don’t wait up,’ he said, and left.

It took him the better part of an hour to get to Kensington, and he arrived at Julia’s fifteen minutes late. The flat stood in a large, quiet, tree-lined street, whose houses, all now converted into expensive flats, were imposing Victorian buildings set back from the road. The air was cold and sharply still, and the solitary sound of his footsteps on the pavement made Anthony’s throat tighten with nervousness. He pressed the doorbell and a buzzer buzzed; he let himself into the cavernous hallway and mounted the stairs to the second landing.

The girl who opened the door was not Julia but her flatmate, another blonde, but tall, and with ragged hair and a chilly smile.

‘Hi, I’m Lizzie,’ she said in a lazy voice. ‘Come in. Julia’s busy fixing herself.’ She sauntered into the living room and Anthony followed her, introducing himself as he went.