The Book and the Brotherhood (2 page)

Tamar had not failed to notice Gulliver’s indecision about asking her to dance. She would have refused but felt hurt at not being asked. She clutched her embroidered cashmere shawl closely about her, crossing it upon her breast and humping it up high about her neck. The day had been cloudlessly hot, the evening was warm, but there was now a slight breeze and Tamar felt chilly, she tended to feel the cold. Her white evening dress swept the grass upon which she imagined that she could already feel the dew. She reached the marquee where the lights had been turned up, since the pop group were knocking off for refreshments, and the dancers were standing about upon the wooden floor talking. She could not see Conrad anywhere, but soon noticed a closely packed group of young people, like a swarm of bees, in one corner where a high-pitched voice with a slight Scottish accent was holding forth. Tamar did not like Crimond, she was frightened of him, but she had had occasion to meet him very rarely, and, since the row with Gerard and the others, never. It did not occur to her to go over to the group of worshippers and join Conrad. She sat down for a while on one of the seats round the edge of the tent and waited. She noticed Lily Boyne, who had been reported as being with Crimond, sitting alone on the other side. Lily had taken off one of her sandals and was examining it, now smelling it. Tamar, who did not want to talk to Lily, hoped that Lily would not notice her. Of course she knew Lily Boyne, who was a friend, at any rate a sort of friend, of Rose Curtland and Jean Cambus, but Lily made Tamar feel
ill at ease, slightly made her shudder. In fact Tamar
disapproved
of Lily and so preferred not to think about her. When the loud music and the flashing lights started up again Tamar moved out into the dark. The deep vibrating beat of the music upset her, she wanted very much to dance.

Tamar was poised ready to fall in love. It is possible to plan to fall in love. Or perhaps what seems like planning is simply the excited anticipation of the moment, delayed so as to be perfected, of the unmistakable mutual gesture, when eyes meet, hands meet, words fail. It was thus, in these terms, in this expectant state of being, that Tamar had allowed herself to look forward to this evening. She had in fact met Conrad, who had been at Cambridge and was soon returning to America, only a few times, and usually in company. On the last occasion, seeing her home, he had kissed her ardently. Her cousin Leonard Fairfax, who was in America studying art history at Cornell, had introduced them by letter. Tamar had let herself like, then more than like, the tall American boy. but had as yet made him no signal. She had dreamt about him. Tamar was twenty, at the end of her second year of studying history at Oxford. She was apparently grown up, but her shyness and her appearance made others, and indeed her herself, think of her as younger, naive, not quite an adult. She had had two love affairs, the first inspired by anxiety, the second by pity, for which she blamed herself severely. She was a puritanical child, and she had never been in love.

Rose Curtland was dancing with Gerard Hernshaw. They were in the tent where ‘sweet’ old-fashioned music was being played, waltzes, tangos, and slow foxtrots, interspersed with eightsome reels, Gay Gordons, and ambiguous jigs which could be danced to taste. The sound of the famous pop group was now audible in the distance. In yet another tent there was traditional jazz, in another ‘country music’. Rose and Gerard, who were good dancers, could cope with all these, but it was an evening for nostalgia. The college orchestra was playing Strauss. Rose inclined her head gently against Gerard’s blackclad shoulder. She was tall but he was taller. They were a good-looking couple. Gerard’s face, describable as ‘rugged’,
had been better characterised by his brother-in-law the art dealer as ‘cubist’. There were a number of strong dominant surfaces, a commanding bone structure, a square even brow, a nose that appeared to end in a blunt plane rather than a point. But what might have seemed a hard set of mathematical surfaces was animated and harmonised by the energy which blazed through it, rendering it into an ironic humorous face, whose smile was frequently a mad and zany grin. Gerard’s eyes were a metallic blue, his curly hair was brown, now less than it used to be the colour of an undimmed chestnut, but still copious and ungreying although he was now over fifty. Rose’s hair was blond and straight, plentiful and rising up sometimes into a fuzz or aureole. Looking lately into her mirror Rose had wondered if all those lively light brown locks were not,
all together
, changing into a light grey. She had dark blue eyes and a positively pretty slightly
retroussé
nose. She had kept her figure and was wearing a simple very dark green ball dress. Rose had a conspicuous air of calmness which annoyed some people and comforted others. She often wore a faint smile, and was wearing one now, although her mingled layers of thought were by no means entirely happy. Dancing with Gerard was an icon of happiness. If only she could experience that sense of eternity in the present about which Gerard sometimes talked. She ought to be able to be happy now simply because of Gerard’s firm arm round her waist, and the so slight but authoritative movements of his body whereby he led her. She had looked forward to this evening ever since Gerard had announced his plans for his friends. It was he who had arranged the presence of Tamar and Conrad. But now that what she had wanted was here she was allowing herself to be wilfully absent. She smiled a little more, then sighed.

‘I know what you’re thinking about,’ said Gerard.

‘Yes.’

‘About Sinclair.’

‘Yes.’

Rose had not just then been thinking about Sinclair, but the thought of him was so profoundly associated with the thought of Gerard that she felt no qualm in assenting. Sinclair was
Rose’s brother, ‘the golden boy’, so long dead. Of course she had thought about him earlier that evening when entering the college, remembering that other far off summer day when she had come visiting her undergraduate brother at the end of his first year, and Sinclair had said to her, ‘Look, that tall chap over there, that’s Gerard Hernshaw.’ Rose, a little younger than Sinclair, had been still at school. Sinclair’s recent letters had been full of Gerard, who was two years his senior. Rose inferred from the letters that Sinclair was in love with Gerard. It was only on that day in Oxford that she realised that Gerard was equally in love with Sinclair. That was all right. What was not so all right was that Rose had promptly fallen for Gerard herself, and remained, after all these years, hopelessly, permanently, in love. The extraordinary affair which she had had with Gerard less than two years after Sinclair’s early death was something they never spoke of afterwards, perhaps, such was their curious discipline, never even in their thoughts turned over, as one turns over memories, reworking, refurbishing, exposing to air and change. It lay rather in their past as a sealed package which they sometimes very gently touched but never, alone or together, envisaged opening. Rose had had other lovers, but they were brief shadows, she had had proposals of marriage, but they did not interest her. Now, feeling the pressure of Gerard’s hand upon hers very slightly increase, she wondered if he were now thinking of
that
. She did not look up, removing her head from the place where it had momentarily rested against his shoulder. After Sinclair left Oxford he and Gerard had lived together, Gerard working as a journalist, Sinclair continuing his studies in biology and helping Gerard to found a left-wing magazine. After Sinclair’s glider crashed into that hillside in Sussex, and after the very brief dream-interlude with Rose, Gerard gave up left-wing activities and went into the Civil Service. He lived at that time with various men, including Oxford friends, Duncan Cambus, who was then in London, and Robin Topglass, the geneticist, son of the birdman. Robin later married a French Canadian girl and went to Canada, Duncan married Rose’s schoolfriend Jean Kowitz and went into the diplomatic service. Marcus
Field, probably not one of Gerard’s lovers, became a Benedictine monk. Gerard had always had plenty of close men friends, such as Jenkin Riderhood, with whom he had no sexual relations; and in more recent years seemed to have settled down to living alone. Of course Rose never asked. In fact she had stopped worrying about the men. It was the women she was afraid of.

The waltz had ended and they were standing together in the pleasant relaxed rather limp attitude of people who have suddenly stopped dancing. Rose said, ‘I’m so glad Tamar has met such a nice boy at last.’

‘I hope she’ll grab him and hold on.’

‘I can’t see her doing anything so vigorous. He’ll have to do the grabbing.’

‘She’s so gentle,’ said Gerard, ‘so simple in the best sense, so pure in heart. I hope that boy realises what a remarkable child she is.’

‘You mean he might find her dull? She’s not a bright young thing.’

‘Oh, he couldn’t find her
dull
,’ said Gerard, almost indignantly. He added, ‘Poor girl, always in search of a father.’

‘You mean she might prefer an older man?’

‘I don’t mean anything so banal!’

‘Of course we’re impressed by her,’ said Rose, ‘because we know her background. And I mean rightly impressed.’

‘Yes. Out of that mess she’s come so extraordinarily intact.’

‘The illegitimate child of an illegitimate child.’

‘I hate that terminology.’

‘Well, I suppose people still think in these terms.’

Tamar’s mother Violet, never married, was the child of Gerard’s father’s deplorable younger brother Benjamin Hernshaw, also never married, who abandoned Violet’s mother. Tamar, who, it was said, only survived because Violet could not afford an abortion, was the result of an affair with a passing Scandinavian which was so brief that Violet, who claimed to have forgotten his name, was never sure whether he was Swedish, Danish or Norwegian. Upon Tamar’s waifish charm, her mousy hair and big sad grey eyes, no particular
theory could be rested. Violet herself had resolutely taken the name Hernshaw and had passed it on to Tamar. Violet’s ‘messy life’, looked so askance at by Patricia, even by Gerard, had continued during Tamar’s childhood, but without any comparable accidents.

‘Violet was remarkably attractive to men,’ said Rose. ‘She still is.’

Gerard said nothing to this. He looked at his watch. He was wearing, of course, the black and white rig deplored by Gulliver Ashe, and which suited him so well.

Rose thought, I’m still jealous of any woman who comes near him, even poor little Tamar whom I’m so fond of! Sometimes she thought, I’ve wasted my life on this man, I’ve waited though I’ve known I’m waiting for nothing, he has accepted so much and given so little in return. Then she would think, how ungrateful I am, he has given me his precious love, he loves me and needs me, isn’t that enough? Even if he does think of me as a sort of ideal sister. All the same, now he’s retired from the Civil Service, he says to write things, he says to start a fresh phase of life, to perfect himself or something, he could suddenly start some mad new thing like loving women – and coming to me for advice! Then she thought, what nonsense! – and after all, haven’t I been happy?

‘How’s your father?’ she asked.

‘Not well – but not – actually dying. Of course there’s no hope, it’s just a matter of how long.’

‘I’m very sorry. Patricia didn’t think it was a crisis?’

‘No, he’s a bit worse, and we couldn’t get hold of the nurse. Pat’s very good with him, she’s an angel of patience.’

Rose had seen little of Gerard’s father in recent years, he had been living in Bristol, in the house in Clifton where Gerard had been born. Only lately, after becoming ill, he had moved to Gerard’s house in London. There was a bond between him and Rose which also made them ill at ease together. Gerard’s father had so much wanted Gerard to marry Rose. Just as Rose’s father had so much wanted Sinclair to marry Jean Kowitz. If Sinclair had survived he would have had the title. As it was it went to the Yorkshire Curtlands
(second cousins, the grandfathers had been brothers), who were also to inherit Rose’s house when Rose was gone. We are all without issue, thought Rose, all those hopeful family plans frustrated, we shall disappear without trace!

‘Surely Patricia and Gideon haven’t decided to
settle
in that upstairs flat you made for your father?’

‘No, it’s just that their lease is up, they’re house-hunting.’

‘I hope they are! When is Gideon back from New York?’ Patricia’s husband, Gideon Fairfax, art dealer and financial wizard, now spent much time in that city.

‘Next week.’

‘You said they were trying to get you out and take over the whole house!’

‘Well, Pat keeps saying I don’t need all that space!’

The existence of the new ‘upstairs flat’ had put ideas into Rose’s head. Why should not she, and
no one else
, occupy that flat? Rose had for years cherished, perhaps in some dusty abandoned but persisting part of her mind still cherished, the hope that ‘in the end’, and ‘after all’, she might marry Gerard. Later this idea became more modestly that of ‘sharing a house’, of being
with him
, in some sense in which, for all their closeness, and their generally acknowledged closeness, she certainly was not now.

They had moved to the edge of the crowded floor, and Rose knew that in a moment Gerard would suggest that they return to ‘the room’, that is to the quarters of Professor Levquist, Gerard’s old classics tutor, which Levquist had lent to Gerard and his friends to be their base during the dance. (Levquist’s family, originally Baltic Jews called Levin, had adopted the Scandinavian suffix as protective coloration.) Rose said, to delay him, ‘Have you decided anything about the book?’ She was not referring to any book being written by Gerard, there was as yet no such thing, but to another book.

Gerard frowned at the unwelcome question. ‘No.’

The waltz music began again. Hearing the fast familiar strain they smiled and moved together. Soon Gerard was whirling Rose round and round, tightening his hold, shifting his grip, moving his left hand up her arm, then embracing her
round the waist with both arms and lifting her swift feet from the floor.