The Cruellest Month Page 4

  I crossed the street and went into Michael’s college, which is directly opposite. He wasn’t in his room and there was a piece of paper pinned to the door which read ‘Out to Lunch’ (a rather esoteric joke based on an American phrase that had caught his fancy), so I left a note in his pigeonhole reminding him to come to the Stirlings on Sunday and gave myself up to the pleasure of walking through Oxford on a sunny day in spring.

  Chapter Four

  I stood a little way off to enjoy the scene. It was the sort of picture that gets into tourist brochures: green grass, white figures moving in their timeless ritual, old trees with the fresh new growth of spring upon them and the pavilion, with its three gables and cupola splendid against the blue sky. Not many people were actually watching the cricket, just a scattering of enthusiasts around the edge of the field – there were a few undergraduates but most of the spectators were elderly. One of these elderly gentlemen seemed almost too good to be true – put there by some advertising man to add authentic English charm and eccentricity. He wore a cream alpaca jacket and a panama hat tipped forward over his eyes, his hands were resting on a walking stick and a dog was sleeping at his feet. One of the nice things about Oxford is the survival (taken for granted and unremarked upon) of such specimens of a bygone age. As I moved nearer to get a closer look at this particular one, I had the strangest feeling that I knew him and when I stood beside the bench where he was sitting I found myself calling out, in a much louder voice than I had intended, the name ‘Fitz.’

  He looked up, not startled, indeed with a glance of calm appraisal that seemed to imply that he was used to being hailed by strange females in just such away. With a gesture that I remembered well, he raised his panama hat courteously.

  ‘Madam.’

  ‘Oh, Fitz, how lovely to see you, after all these years – I didn’t know you were back in Oxford!’

  I sat down on the bench beside him and the dog, a King Charles spaniel, raised its head from a contemplation of its master’s feet to look at me suspiciously.

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember me – it’s been – oh goodness – over thirty years! I’m Sheila Prior, Rupert Drummond’s friend.’

  He replaced his hat carefully (I was pleased to see that he still had his abundant hair, though its dark brown was now heavily streaked with grey) and looked at me with his head to one side.

  ‘Sheila Prior?’ He suddenly smiled and, raising his hand in a dramatic gesture declaimed:

  ‘What nymph should I admire or trust,

  But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?’

  A middle-aged woman sitting on an adjacent bench glanced at him sharply and the dog uttered a single disapproving bark.

  ‘My dear Chloe, how singularly pleasant to see you again.’

  Rupert and Fitz had always called me Chloe, after the lady in Matthew Prior’s poems. It felt very strange to hear the name once more and a rush of memory and pain brought quick tears into my eyes. To hide them I bent to stroke the dog who nudged my hand approvingly with its head.

  ‘It’s simply marvellous that you should be in Oxford again. When did you get back? Where are you living? What are you doing?’

  ‘To answer your questions de suite or seriatim, if you prefer: I returned (with the utmost thankfulness, I may say) from the Americas last year; I am living once more in Norham Gardens with Elaine (you may recall my sister Elaine); as to what I am doing, I suppose that splendidly vague word “research” would describe it in general terms.’

  A short spatter of applause made us turn our heads towards the cricket as the University bowler finally man-aged (to his own surprise as much as the batsman’s) to dislodge a member of the County side who had looked set to stay there for the next two days. Shaking his head with disbelief the batsman began his long walk back to the pavilion to brood about his averages and Fitz stood up.

  ‘Let us take a turn about the Parks. Pippa here gets stiff if we sit for too long – and, to tell the truth, so do I.’

  It seemed inevitable that Fitz should have named his dog from a poem by Browning.

  ‘Does she really believe that all’s right with the world?’ I asked as we strolled across the grass towards a path.

  ‘When she is with me, most certainly,’ Fitz replied firmly. ‘She was Elaine’s dog – her name was Iseult, because, if you please, she had white paws – but when she attached herself to me – animals seem to do so – I felt obliged to give her a name that could be used in public without excessive embarrassment.’

  He paused in apparent contemplation of a particularly fine may tree in full bloom.

  ‘And what, my dear Chloe, are you doing in Oxford? I had heard – I cannot for the moment remember from whom – that you had returned to your seaside town and settled down to be a wife and mother.’

  ‘I did, but Peter – that’s my husband – died a couple of years ago and now my son is up at Oxford. I too am engaged in a little mild research in the Bodleian. At this precise moment I’m walking across the Parks to LMH, which is where I left my car this morning.’

  ‘Then perhaps, since it is on your way, so to speak, you will allow me to give you a glass of Madeira and you can tell me about this research,’ he emphasised the word ironically and I was once again a very junior member of the Fitzgerald Circle, clutching an exquisite glass of old Bohemian crystal and trying unsuccessfully to defend an unfashionable and (to Fitz) unacceptable predilection for the works of Arthur Hugh Clough.

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  We left the Parks by the Norham Gardens gate and turned into the drive of one of the large Gothic houses near by.

  ‘This must surely be the only house in North Oxford that hasn’t been split up into flats,’ I said.

  ‘I am afraid that is so. Though even we,’ he hesitated and lowered his voice as if about to impart some shameful secret, ‘even we have been obliged to take in a lodger!’ He turned and looked at me as if to assess the effect of this shocking revelation.

  ‘Goodness.’ I said feebly. I frequently found myself employing this useful but inane exclamation when I was with Fitz.

  ‘When I was away in America it seemed unsuitable that Elaine should be virtually alone in the house – we had only one elderly servant – so Professor Mortimer – you may perhaps remember him – a mediaevalist – unsound on The Knight of the Tour Landry but perfectly adequate for the purpose we required, became our lodger. He died five years ago and since then our top floor has been occupied by Dr Marshall who is a physicist.’ He made it sound like some exotic (and probably dangerous) animal. ‘Fortunately we see very little of him. Like most of his kind he is very rarely at home. Apparently they have to – let me see, what is the phrase? – “book time on the laser” at the Clarendon Laboratory, frequently in the small hours of the morning. He also disappears for long periods to work on – can it be? – the electromagnet at Berne!’

  Still talking he walked up the broad flight of steps, opened the heavy front door and led the way into another world.

  I could hardly believe it, but nothing had changed since I last stood in that hall over thirty years ago. The walls were still panelled with dark wood, relieved by insets of De Morgan tiles, and a fine staircase of carved oak, with its red and blue Turkey carpet, led up to a landing whose stained-glass window featured Burne-Jones angels with lute and lyre.

  Professor Edward Fitzgerald, named after the poet (a distant kinsman, Fitz would admit reluctantly) had also been a mediaevalist, but it was his wife who had been obsessed by the Arthurian legends – not from the pure Malory source, which might have been acceptable to her husband, but the Tennysonian version with all its romanticism and Pre-Raphaelite overtones. Not only had she insisted on calling her three children Elaine, Arthur and Lancelot, but she had furnished the house, a perfect specimen of Victorian Gothic, with wallpapers and fabrics from the workshops of William Morris and hideously uncomfortable wooden furniture, heavily decorated and sparsely upholstered from the same source. To my amazement, as we
went into the drawing room I saw that here too nothing had changed. The wallpaper was faded as were the chair covers and curtains, which were also darkened with dust and age. The walls were still covered with a multitude of pictures, one of which I now realised was actually a genuine Millais and another an Arthur Hughes. The heavy painted dresser and corner cupboard stood where they had always stood, foursquare, defying time and change. The chairs, however, looked as uncomfortable as ever.

  Fitz took some glasses and a bottle from the corner cupboard and I perched on the extreme edge of a sage-green chaise-longue with a wooden back on which was depicted a bemused Sir Galahad clutching a vessel of indeterminate shape, which I took to be the Holy Grail.

  ‘This,’ said Fitz, handing me one of the beautiful Bohemian glasses which also seemed miraculously to have withstood the passage of time, ‘is a rather delightful little Sercial, which I discovered in Sainsbury’s.’

  Such was the impact of Fitz’s personality that for a moment I thought he was referring to the late, great George Saintsbury’s cellar book and not the supermarket.

  ‘Sainsbury’s! Fitz – I can’t imagine you in there!’

  ‘But, my dear Chloe, the supermarket is the modern Eldorado – I discovered that in America – treasures of the Indies and, indeed, beyond – quite splendid! I do believe that shopping in supermarkets is the last great pleasure of old age. But, come, tell me what you are working on now. I greatly enjoyed your paper on Mrs Oliphant in old Robertson’s Festschrift – a thoroughly scholarly piece of work and blessedly free of jargon.’

  I glowed with pleasure, as I always did at any rare praise from Fitz, and told him about my work on wartime women writers. He made several helpful suggestions and I began to feel that I was back in time, discussing my essay with my tutor – except that my tutor had never provided a glass of Sercial, delightful or otherwise.

  ‘But do tell me about your own research, Fitz. Is it still Browning?’

  Fitz was considered to be one of the great Browning experts, but he hadn’t published anything for a consider-able time and it was expected that some monumental work on The Ring and the Book or some of the more difficult works was in the course of preparation, as they say.

  ‘I have been taking a little holiday from Browning – something a little more frivolous – a study of Henry James in England. There, what do you think of that?’

  ‘I am sure, Fitz, that you are the only person in England who would regard Henry James as light relief! But it sounds splendid – all the Lamb House period, I suppose?’

  ‘Partly – though London as well. Actually, with regard to the Lamb House period, I am working quite closely with an American who is writing a book about E.F. Benson in Rye. There is a certain amount of over-lapping – however, he is an old colleague from my Harvard days so we were able to reach an amicable agreement. He is working in the New Bodleian at present – you may have come across him in Room 45 – his name is Chester Howard.’

  I explained to Fitz that we had exchanged a few words that very day.

  ‘I refuse to make any trite comment about the smallness of the world,’ he said. ‘You will find him agreeable I am sure.’

  ‘Aren’t you working in the New Bodleian?’ I asked. ‘I’d have thought that the James material would be there.’

  ‘Indeed it is, but I have been engaged for the last month on the tedious exercise of revising my 1963 edition of Browning’s plays, writing a new Introduction and so forth, which meant that, sadly, I had to leave my new project and return to my old haunts – Duke Humfrey and the Upper Reading Room.’

  ‘How sad – we won’t be sitting side by side in Room 45. It is a pleasant place to work – blissfully warm. And, of course, my dear godson Tony Stirling is in charge there which is cosy. Do you remember Betty Rochester? She was up with me and read English too.’

  ‘No face springs to mind.’

  ‘Well, she married a doctor and lives in Woodstock (I always stay with her when I’m in Oxford) and her son Tony is my godson and works in Room 45.’

  ‘As you say – cosy,’ he replied gravely.

  Something made me add, ‘Poor Tony – he had a terrible experience the other day. You may have heard about it. A woman who works in the library died – some shelving fell on top of her – Tony found her.’

  Fitz put his glass down on a black enamelled papier-mâché table decorated with stylized roses. It wobbled slightly as though the legs were uneven and he put out his hand to steady it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘the accident in the Bodleian. I certainly heard about that. How distressing for your poor godson to make such a disagreeable discovery – not what one expects to find in one of the Great Libraries.’

  ‘To make it worse it was someone he knew quite well, Gwen Richmond. Did you ever come across her? She was up at St Hughes just before the war.’

  ‘Yes, I knew her. She was at one time a friend of Elaine. Can I offer you a little more Madeira?’

  ‘No thank you, it was delicious, but I’m driving. Had you seen her lately?’

  ‘Seen? Gwen Richmond? No, not for many years. It was not a continuing friendship.’

  ‘No, of course not. She went abroad didn’t she?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  There was a stiffness about his tone, more than his usual formality, which made me change the subject.

  ‘How is Elaine?’

  ‘She is in excellent health. Still, I regret to say, painting those appallingly whimsical faeries.’

  Elaine was a talented artist who had made a name for herself as an illustrator of children’s books, especially fairy stories – very elegant and stylised, a sort of English Kay Neilson. I had always loved her work and Michael’s bookshelves, even now, held many of her books.

  ‘Does she still have her studio in that enormous room upstairs?’

  ‘As you see, nothing is changed. She is not here today, she had to go to London for some exhibition – artists lead such a mouvementi life don’t you find? However, I am sure she would very much like to see you. Perhaps you would come to dinner – or luncheon if you would prefer?’

  ‘That would be absolutely wonderful. But I must be going. I’m sorry,’ I suddenly remembered something, ‘I ruined your afternoon’s cricket!’

  ‘It was a singularly dull match, but I find that sitting quietly there is an aid to digestion. Now you must give me your number and I will telephone you when I know what Elaine’s plans are.’

  When I got up to go he came with me to the door.

  ‘Now, where exactly is your motor; would you like me to come with you to find it?’

  ‘No, dear Fitz, it’s only a little way up the road. It’s been wonderful seeing you again, like old times. If only Rupert…’

  ‘Ah, Rupert...’ He stood still, his hand upon the wrought-iron latch of the door.

  ‘That was a long time ago. Do the years decrease the pain? I wonder.’

  He opened the door and I went down the steps. At the bottom I turned to wave goodbye and regarded with affection the tall figure, leaning slightly on his stick. Really, like the house, he had hardly changed at all – a little stooped with age, though I felt that the walking stick (ebony with a silver knob) was an affectation rather than a necessity – and all those years in America had not changed the deep, drawling voice. Indeed, it was now almost a caricature of the old-fashioned academic. In a gesture that I remembered well, Fitz lifted his hand in a kind of benediction, which used, in the old days, to be accompanied by a murmured ‘Bless you, my child’, and went back into the house.

  As I sat in the usual endless traffic jam that brings Oxford to its knees every afternoon from four-thirty onwards, I had time to think about my extraordinary day. The excitement of seeing Fitz again after so long – and how splendid that he knew Chester Howard, it seemed a most happy coincidence. And Gwen Richmond being a friend of Elaine. Thoughts of Gwen Richmond turned my mind to Tony and Pamela and the mystery (it hardly seemed too strong a word for it) of
their relationship. As I edged slowly up the Woodstock Road towards the Pear Tree roundabout I wondered if I might be able to talk to him about it this evening. I was sure that he had something on his mind, something more than the shock of finding Gwen’s body. It must be to do with the library since Pamela seemed to be part of it. I worried away at the problem but could come to no conclusion. Then I was finally past the roundabout, and the traffic, like water let out of a sink, swirled away in front of me and I had to concentrate on my driving.

  When I got in Betty was in the sitting room rather shamefacedly putting a dish of cat food on top of the piano.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but when Tony’s out Cleo will only eat her food up here!’

  ‘Oh.’ I was disappointed. ‘Is he out this evening?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just us. Robert’s got a BMA meeting in Oxford and Tony’s seeing some friends.’

  I wondered if Tony’s friends were, in fact, Pamela, but I somehow had the feeling that Betty knew nothing about her, so I didn’t ask.

  ‘I’ve made some chilli,’ Betty said, ‘and I thought we could have it on our knees because I’ve videoed an old Dirk Bogarde film for us.’

  Betty and I shared a passion for old British films of the forties and fifties and as we sat watching the black and white images of half-forgotten actors on the screen I suddenly felt a great wave of affection for her. In spite of all her new and (to me) alien interests, she was still one of my oldest and dearest friends, someone I was comfortable with, who would pick up my allusions and references, and with whom I shared so many memories.

  As if catching my mood Betty said, ‘Do you remember how gorgeous we thought he was in Esther Waters?’

  ‘Oh, that was a heavenly film!’

  We ate our chilli, which was excellent (Betty is a very good cook when she can be bothered) and watched the film in an atmosphere of happy nostalgia.

  I went to bed early, before Robert or Tony had returned, because it really had been quite a day, what with Fitz and Tony and Pamela. Just before I fell asleep, I found myself wondering if Chester Howard would be in the Bodleian tomorrow.