“It isn’t finished yet,” said Laura. She had gone near to him; she was speaking with impatience and passion.
“They’ve made a very pretty job of it, I think they deserve to be congratulated,” cried Howard.
“For God’s sake,” said Laura, “you’re not giving up like that!”
“I should like to know—”
“You’re not giving up,” she said. “We’ve got to start again, that’s all.”
“You know nothing about it.”
He spoke to her roughly — but there was none of the suspiciousness with which he would have spoken to anyone else that night. Between them there flared up — so ardent as to make it out of place to watch — a bond of sensual warmth, of consolatory warmth.
“It’s not finished yet, is it?” she appealed to Martin.
“No,” he said. He spoke to Howard. “Laura’s right. I suggest we cut the inquests and see about the next step.”
Martin’s manner was business-like but neither enthusiastic nor friendly. He was no saint. He had none of the self-effacingness of those who, in the presence of another’s disaster, don’t mind some of the sufferings being taken out on themselves. He didn’t like being accused of treachery. He would gladly have got Howard out of sight and never seen him again. Martin had himself taken a rebuff, more than a rebuff, in the Seniors’ verdict that night.
“You’ve got a formal method of appeal,” said Martin. “You can appeal to the Visitor, of course.”
“Oh, that’s pretty helpful,” said Howard. “That’s your best idea yet. Do you really think a bishop is going out of his way to do any good to me? And when I think of that particular bishop — Well, that ought to be the quickest way of finishing me off for good and all.” He said it with his paranoid sneer.
A bite in his voice, Martin replied: “I said that it was the formal method. I mentioned it for one reason and one reason only. You’re probably obliged to go through the whole formal machine before you bring an action for wrongful dismissal. I still hope we can get this straight for you without your bringing an action.”
“Do you?”
Martin’s tone kept its edge, although he went on without being provoked: “But after what’s happened, I couldn’t blame you if you went straight ahead. I don’t think any of us could.”
Howard looked startled. He was startled enough to go in for a practical discussion: did Martin really advise him to see a solicitor straight away? No, Martin replied patiently, but it was only fair to say that most men would think it justified. How did one start going about an appeal to the Visitor? Howard went on, beginning to look tired, confused, and absent-minded, his eyes straying to his wife, as though it was she only that he wanted.
Martin continued to reply, ready to bat on about procedure. It was Howard who said that he wasn’t going “to do anything in a hurry”, that he had “had enough for one night”. He left the room with his arm round Laura, and once more the two of us, watching them, felt like voyeurs.
After the door had closed behind them, Martin sat gazing into the grate. At last I said: “Were you prepared for this—?” I pointed to the slip of paper with the Seniors’ verdict.
“I wish I could say yes.”
He answered honestly, but also in a rage. Despite his caution and his warnings — or perhaps because of them — he had been totally surprised, as surprised as any of us. He was furious with himself for being so, and with the men who caused it.
“There’ll have to be a spot of trouble now,” he said, able, since the Howards went, to let the anger show. People often thought that those who “handled” others, “managers” of Martin’s kind, were passionless. They would have been no good at their job if they were. No, what made them effective was that they were capable of being infuriated on the one hand, and managerial on the other.
Vexed as he was, Martin did not lose his competence. There were two tasks in front of him straight away, first to prevent any of his party doing anything silly, second to keep them together. Without wasting time, he said that we had better walk round and see Skeffington; he had heard him say that he was going to dine at home.
When we got to the bottom of the staircase, Martin looked across the court. The chapel door was open wide, a band of light poured on to the lawn; a few young men, gowns pulled round them, were hurrying away from evensong.
“It isn’t anything special in the way of festivals, is it?” said Martin, nodding towards the chapel.
We paused for an instant. There was no sign of Skeffington coming round the path; there was only the chaplain, shutting the door behind him.
Not there, said Martin. We went through the screens, bustling and jostling with young men, some pushing early into the hall, some swinging off with beer-bottles. In the second court there were lights in old Winslow’s rooms.
“I wonder what he thinks he’s doing,” I said.
“He’s never had any judgment,” said Martin. “He took you all in, but he never had much sense.”
I was thinking, as Martin unlocked the side door, how I had seen Winslow in his full power, a formidable man: and how the stock exchange of college reputations went up and down, so that Martin, nine years younger, saw him only as a failure. On that stock exchange, Brown’s reputation had kept steady since my time, Crawford’s had climbed a bit, Nightingale’s had rocketed — while men whose personalities filled the college when I was there, Winslow, Jago, had already been written off long before their deaths.
We crossed to the row of cottages and Martin pulled at the hand bell of Skeffington’s. There was no answer, although from the living-room, faintly lit, came a sound of voices. Martin pulled again. Suddenly lights sprang up behind the curtains, and substantial steps came to the door. It was Mrs Skeffington. As she opened the door, her face was reddened, her manner flustered. She said: “Oh, it’s you two, is it? I’m afraid you’ve caught me on the wrong foot.”
Martin asked if Julian was there.
No, she was alone, he had gone off for a meal at a pub.
Could we come in, since Martin wanted to leave a message for him?
“You’ve caught me on the wrong foot,” Mrs Skeffington repeated, as we sat there in the living-room. I thought I knew why she was so embarrassed. It wasn’t, or at least not immediately, because Julian had gone off alone. She had lived a long time with a marriage which had worn dry, so that she had forgotten how to conceal it, if indeed she had ever tried. No, it was something much sillier. She had been sitting by herself in that little parlour, with a tray in front of her, scrambled eggs on toast and a good stiff whisky: and the sound of voices which we had heard in the lane outside came from the television set. It was now safely turned off, but Mrs Skeffington looked like a great, chapped-cheeked schoolgirl caught in the act: her hearty, brickdropping, county assurance had dropped from her quite. She couldn’t believe that men like Martin and me would have spent such an evening. She had an impression, which filled her with both ridicule and awe, that her husband’s colleagues spent their entire existence at their books. She was certain that if we saw what she had been enjoying, we should despise her. With dazzled relief, she realised that we were not going to question her or comment. She poured out whiskies for us both, drank her own and helped herself to another. She drank, it seemed to me, exactly as her brothers would have done after a day’s hunting.