Jill (5 page)

No one would think that two people lived here, he thought, looking round the room. Christopher had laid a leather writing-wallet on the desk, a fancy stone ashtray on the mantelpiece and a pair of silk cushions on the sofa. His wool-lined slippers were by the coal-scuttle: John had left his own under the bed because they were badly worn. It was strange how other people’s clothes grew seasoned, bettered, by use: his only became tattered and worn out. He looked around the room for evidence of his own presence, but found very little. It was hardly better in the bedroom. At least he had a bed to himself, with his pyjamas folded neatly on top of it, but Christopher’s scarlet bathrobe was the first thing to catch the eye, and his towels, and in the cupboard his bright scarfs and shirts.

Out of curiosity he began to inspect Christopher Warner’s things, to try to deduce his character from them. Who was he? He was rich and from London. There were a few hairs on his
comb, and his hair-brushes were in a leather case. John snapped and unsnapped the catch. The pockets of his jackets hanging behind a curtain were empty, but the clothes bore the tab of a tailor in London and John felt the cloth and the leather buttons with interest. His two drawers were not enlightening: as well as the shirts and light underwear, there was a jumble of socks and silk ties, collars, a set of studs and cuff links, a pile of white linen handkerchiefs. There were also a few unopened packets of razor blades and four contraceptives. He felt as alarmed as if he had found a loaded revolver.

Drifting into the sitting-room, he glanced along the bookshelf, where Christopher had roughly stacked a number of things, including a few books. They were a complete Shakespeare,
The Shropshire Lad
, an
Omnibus of Humour
, a book by Siegfried Sassoon, and one or two detective novels. Inside the covers was written “Christopher R. W. Warner” in a huddled, sloping hand, not without character. On the top of the books lay a squash racquet in a press, and there were also five or six notebooks, stamped “Lamprey College” in thick Gothic letters, one of which John opened, his eye catching the words:

Thus we see that in creating the character of Shylock, Shakespeare’s original intention was deflected, and instead of a comic moneylender, he produced a figure of tragic significance.

The awareness that he himself had written something very like that gave John a strange thrill, part rivalry and part kinship, with a dash of disappointment that something he had in the past prided himself on knowing should be the common property of any stranger.

Behind the books he found a pack of cards, a newspaper and a pair of rubber shoes.

The letter-case would probably tell him more, he decided, and, crossing to the desk, he switched on the reading lamp. But it contained, besides sheets of notepaper, envelopes and blank postcards, only one letter and a photograph of a girl in a white dress, with “To Christopher with love” written across the white part. He looked at it wonderingly. The letter ended “With love to you, my darling” and was unsigned, but after
reading it through he concluded it was from Mrs. Warner, Christopher’s mother. It was dated the 9th October from a house in Derbyshire, Where she was apparently staying with friends, playing golf and watching it rain. Elspeth had finally gone into the WRNS. John noted the extravagant, well-formed writing, and, putting the letter back and closing the wallet, crossed to a little triangular shelf in one corner of the room where Christopher had put a double photograph of his parents. The picture there showed her as dark and boldly attractive, not at all as old as she must be. She had the same broad jaw as Christopher, and a friendly look that coincided with the style of her letter, which was as casual as if Christopher were her equal, merely a friend or a friend of the family, quite unlike the kind of letter John associated with parents. Although, of course, he had hardly ever received one, as he had never been away from home for any space of time before.

He then gave up the search for he did not know quite what, knowing only it had not been successful. Christopher Warner seemed as distant and as hostile as ever; John had been looking for a sign of kinship, and had not found it, and also for a sign of weakness—a diary or some sentimental letters—that would compensate him for the business of his china. In fact, the weakness would have been kinship. But he paused, at a loss in the big room, seeing his face in the large mirror over the fireplace, and behind it the photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Warner in the double frame. This reminded him that he had not written to his own parents since arriving, and he sat down at the desk to do it, glad of the job.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I arrived here safely after four o’clock. I am at present sitting in my room, which I am sharing with a man called Warner: it is quite big, and in the Founder’s Quadrangle. My china has also arrived safely, and has already been used. Nothing has started yet, as term doesn’t officially start till Sunday.

Hope you are both well.

Your loving son,

John.

As an afterthought he added:

The sandwiches were very nice.

Then he addressed the envelope:

                        
Mr. and Mrs. J. Kemp,

                              
48, King Edward Street,

                                    
Huddlesford,

                                          
Lancashire.

He stamped it with a blue stamp. The room was quite silent apart from the flapping of the flame among the coals, and as he tried to sit reading the quietness rang in his ears, making him grow tense for the least sound. He fancied he could even hear the electric light burning. Time crawled by at an intolerably slow speed, every minute seeming four times as long as usual: he did not know if he wanted Christopher Warner to come back or not; it was not so much that he wanted to see him again, but that if he did it might show he had some comradely feeling, even that he wanted to compensate for the wounds they had inflicted during the afternoon. At length he threw
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
aside, and opened the door to listen to the night outside, advancing cautiously down the steps into the cloistered quadrangle. Looking up from the stone enclosure, he could see the sky full of innumerable trembling stars, and all he could hear was extravagant sounds at a distance—drunken howling from a far street, something that might have been a revolver shot, and, from somewhere in the College itself, the hysterical crying of a jazz record. Close to all was quiet: the slightest of winds breathed over the grass and around the stone pillars, while from the Master’s garden came the restless sound of trees. He wondered if a time would ever come when these things would assure him and seem pleasant.

He went to bed at half-past nine, quite unable to endure it any longer. Because the day had tired him, he went to sleep sooner than he had imagined, despite the unfamiliar smell of the sheets; but towards midnight he was startled out of sleep by a tremendous crash in the next room. His terrified thought was that a gang had come to rag and bully him, and he started
up shaking in bed, but almost immediately the bedroom door burst open and Christopher lurched in, switching on the light. His dark hair was disordered and he wore a savage expression on his face, and he took no notice of John at all. The first thing he did was to use the chamber-pot noisily, breathing hard as if he had just run a race; then he pulled off his tie and jacket and the rest of his clothes. When he was in his pyjamas, he leant over the slop-pail and vomited copiously three times, and at last climbed into bed, where, after turning and mumbling a good deal and giving a loud belch like the ripping of canvas, he subsided into sleep.

Whatever John had expected, he had not expected this, and he lay shuddering with fear and horror for several minutes in the dim light, until he realized he must switch it off. With infinite caution, refusing to look at the pail or even at Christopher Warner, he slid out of bed and pushed the switch gently down, plunging the room into blackness which made Christopher’s heavy breathing and occasional snorts sound terrifying to him.

Whatever wretchedness he felt, crouching there in the dark and trying to recapture sleep, was quite overlaid by fear. His heart kept beating fast lest Christopher should rouse up again, and come lurching over to him, and when at last he did sleep, his dreams were full of pursuits and brutal attacks. At every steady chiming of the hour from the College clock he stirred uneasily.

When the servant called them at half-past seven the next morning, John had already been awake for nearly two hours, lying listening to the squealing of castors and the to-and-fro sound of the carpet-sweeper as the man cleaned the sitting-room, and earlier than that hearing nothing but the faraway crowing of a cock and watching the light grow round the edges of the shutters. He had examined in his mind all the events of
the day before, for they were startlingly vivid compared with the rest of his memories: the rest of his life seemed only a passing thought, that counted for nothing.

The shape of his clothes on a chair depressed him: the sound of snoring and heavy breaths from Christopher’s bed scared him. He did not want to go any further with this new life. Already he was fearing what would come next: he feared being formally called, he feared breakfast, he feared all that still lay before him, measuring it against the trifle he had already experienced. How much pleasanter it would be to go back, though the past was even by this time unemphatic and twilit. Yet the only remembrance that came to his mind was one afternoon, months ago, when his mother had gone out to the doctor, leaving him an egg to boil for his tea: he had placed the egg on the kitchen table, looking round for a saucepan, and, before he could stop it, the egg rolled over the edge and smashed on the brick floor.

However, when the man had taken down the shutters and John had got up, washed in cold water and dressed, his fear had diminished a little, and he looked doubtfully at the bed where Christopher Warner slept. He had not awoken and still lay in deep sleep, his mouth ajar, his black hair tousled and the stubble thick on his jaw. As John stood by him, the stale smell of beer was noticeable, and he looked so different that John could not but feel that their acquaintanceship of the day before was a mirage, and here was a complete stranger. Should he wake him? He hesitated uncomfortably, hearing in his mind Christopher Warner’s sharp voice inquiring: “Why the hell didn’t you wake me for breakfast?”

“Warner,” he said nervously.

No answer.

“Er—Warner,” he repeated, touching his shoulder tentatively. “Wake up.”

There was slow movement in the bed: Christopher grunted. His mouth shut. His eyes opened, and he began struggling to get his hand up to rub them.

“Eh? … urrh … ah. What’s the time?”

“I—I don’t know. It must be nearly breakfast time.”

Christopher stared at the wristwatch he still wore, and after a second’s thought he began to wind it, as if mentally composing an answer.

“Thanks. I won’t get up for breakfast.”

“Oh—er—sorry——”

“All right!” said Christopher reassuringly, turning over with his face to the wall, while John withdrew, flushing at his own stupidity.

John ate his breakfast among a crowd of self-conscious freshman scholars, speaking to no one. For some reason he could not take his eyes off Patrick Dowling, who was also a scholar, but who sat at the commoners’ table, wearing a smart and townified lounge suit, and when Patrick happened to catch his eye he did not return John’s half smile.

After breakfast he handed in his ration book at the Bursary, looked at the notice-board till he found a mention to himself, and then drifted back to his room. Christopher was now lying awake, and called:

“That you, Kemp? What time is it now?”

“Er—it’s about nine.”

“My watch has stopped. Do you think you could give me a glass of water?”

“Yes, of course——”

John filled a tooth-glass and handed it to him. “Thanks,” said Christopher, his forehead wrinkling as he drank. “Ah, that’s better. Did I cat last night?”

“Er—I beg your——”

“Did I cat? Was I sick?”

“Yes, you—er—were——”

“I thought I should be.” Christopher handed back the empty glass and lay silent a moment. “We got into a pub about half-past nine, you know, and I got some pints. And as soon as I’d had one mouthful, ‘Eddy,’ I said, ‘this beer’s piss.’ And he agreed. And I said: ‘If there’s one thing that makes me cat, it’s pissy beer.’ I wonder how he got on.” He pursed his lips in resignation, then yawned. “What did you say the time was?”

“About nine——”

“Oh, God!”

The bed creaked as he sat up on the edge of it, feet searching independently for slippers, one hand scratching his dark head. John was comforted by his mildness and went back into the other room, where a strong fire glowed in the grate and a few bars of sunlight fell on to the worn carpet.

“We—er—we’ve got to see our Tutor this morning.”

“What?”

“I—there’s a notice—we’ve got to see our Tutor——”

“Oh hell and damnation! When?”

John thought he said “Where?” and replied:

“In his rooms, at eleven.”

“I’m meeting some people at eleven.”

When Christopher came out of the bedroom, he was wearing his scarlet bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. He crossed to the fire and crouched before it.

“What a blasted nuisance. Where does he live, d’you know?”

“No—in College somewhere——”

“Oh, God, I should hope so. I don’t want to have to be chasing all over the town for him.”

“We’re the only two freshmen reading English,” said John, vaguely passing a hand over his hair and looking down at the fender. Christopher paid no attention, and eventually sat back on the sofa until he had finished his cigarette. Then he lit another one, and went out of the room, taking his shaving things and a bath-towel. As he slammed the door, he burst into roaring, theatrical song: