‘I think that must be Maison Blanc,’ said Mark. Then, casually, ‘James, would you do me a favour and give them their money?’
He drew a few notes from his wallet and passed them to me.
‘That ought to cover it,’ and, as I walked out, he called behind me, ‘Let me know if it’s not enough!’
Downstairs, the delivery men carried the boxes through to the kitchen, loading some into the refrigerator. I looked at the notes Mark had given me. It was almost double the cost of the food. I paid the men, giving them an extra £10 each for their trouble.
Upstairs, Jess and Emmanuella were playing Scrabble. Mark suggested they might find it interesting to make this strip Scrabble.
Quietly, I said, ‘Mark, your change.’
He frowned at me and at my closed fist, bunched around the money.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘Keep it, or throw it in the lake. I don’t care.’
None of the others showed any interest in this exchange. I felt my hand bunch around the money, the £50 notes stiff in my palm.
‘But Mark, it’s …’ I extended my arm minutely towards him.
‘I said don’t worry about it.’
I thrust my hand into my pocket, feeling the notes and coins tumble around my keys and my packet of chewing gum. Feeling the power of the transaction.
I took my penal collections in the fifth week in a small study next to Dr Strong’s rooms. He left the door open between the two rooms and, as I struggled through questions on heat exchange and Onsager reciprocal relations, I could hear Dr Strong making little noises as he worked. For a man so strangely silent in company, he was fairly vocal when alone. He made a bipping, questioning sound when reading, with an occasional long hmmmm, along with a variety of hums, whistles, stampings and puffings. I looked out of the window into Garden Quad, where first years whose names I didn’t know were eating lunch, then, with a force of will, drew my attention back to the question paper. I had worked to the point of exhaustion for this exam. I had skipped lectures and arrived at tutorials with an even more dismal level of preparation than usual. I had stayed up late and woken early and studied and striven and blotted out all thoughts other than ‘If I fail this exam, they’ll send me down.’ And, to my surprise, I found that the questions were clearer than I’d thought and ways of approaching them came more readily to my mind.
Time passed. At 3 p.m. Dr Strong knocked on the door, half-smiled and held out his hand for my script. As I stood to leave, he cleared his throat.
‘How is your, ahem?’ he said.
‘My …’
He motioned to my leg.
‘How is it these days?’
‘Oh!’ I was startled that Dr Strong had taken any notice of me. ‘It’s, um, it’s sort of settled down. I sometimes have to use my stick, but often it’s all right. At least it doesn’t hurt all the time any more. Only if I knock it.’
‘Ahhh-aa,’ said Dr Strong.
He beamed at me and we stood in silence for a few moments. I was unsure whether I was meant to respond any further or leave quietly.
At last I said, ‘Well, I should be off.’
Dr Strong nodded.
‘Mind out with your, ahm, your, ahm, mind out on the stairs. They’re steep,’ he said.
Downstairs, still slightly dazed from the exam, I went to the lodge to check my pigeonhole. Next to the glass-panelled room where the porters sat doing their crosswords was the tiled antechamber lined from floor to ceiling with dark-wood pigeonholes. The room smelled, for some reason, unpleasantly of sweat. I riffled through the Sr — St section, pulling out the few letters addressed to me. Among them was a pale green envelope with the St Benet’s crest. It was a note from Father Hugh.
Dear James,
I have a small matter I hope to discuss with you. Nothing that need be in the least alarming. Do pop by for a sherry — I should be in any weekday from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.
My very best wishes,
Fr Hugh
I had nothing else to do so I walked over. Father Hugh appeared entirely delighted with my presence, gave me sherry and offered me a seat. I sat. I drank. The sherry was very good. Father Hugh sat down, spreading his legs a little wider than I was entirely comfortable with, although nothing untoward was visible.
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he said. ‘How are things?’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘not too bad.’
I suddenly wondered if he was going to make a pass at me. One did hear things, even then, about Catholic priests.
‘My girlfriend,’ I continued swiftly, ‘is in the University Orchestra. She was rehearsing a lot last term, but …’ I struggled to think of a way to finish this sentence that didn’t alert Father Hugh to my having had no reason to start it, ‘not so much this term,’ I concluded.
‘Mmm, girlfriend,’ said Father Hugh, ‘I sometimes wonder if you students settle down too early, but I suppose —’ he took a sip of sherry — ‘better too early than too late.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I said.
‘Well, James,’ said Father Hugh, ‘I wonder how you think things are with our mutual friend.’
I pushed my lips out noncommittally.
‘I suppose you should ask him that,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ said Father Hugh, leaning forward, ‘but you know I always say: one gets the best reflection from still water.’
‘Is it Mark’s mother who wants to know?’ I said. I did not like this way of handling things.
Father Hugh steepled his fingertips.
‘We’re all concerned about Mark, James. All of us here at Benet’s, Mark’s family … I sometimes think … well —’ he leaned forward confidentially — ‘I sometimes think it was a mistake to take him out of Ampleforth. I met him several times when he was a young boy, you know. Such a happy child, and of course his family have so many friends. You know it was my predecessor, Father Anthony, who arranged his parents’ annulment. So sad. It affected Mark, of course it would. But I wonder if he would have been better left where he was instead of being dragged off across the world. He needs stability, James.’
‘He has stability,’ I said. ‘We’re stable. We’re his friends.’
‘Ah yes, friends,’ said Father Hugh, ‘but you can’t, forgive me, live in that house with him forever, can you? And then where will he go?’
I shrugged. The question seemed ridiculous to me. Where would any of us go? We’d get jobs and rent flats and hope that we could find someone to love us forever and raise a family or at least pursue our careers. Nothing was certain, everything was possible.
‘I shouldn’t think Mark would ever have trouble making friends,’ I said.
Father Hugh drank a little more sherry.
‘Yes, I suspect you are correct there, James. He is a very charming young man. He has certainly made an impression here at Benet’s. I suppose you know, though, that he is not quite stable?’
He spoke the last words quickly, fixing me with his gaze to give me to understand that they were not lightly spoken. It was certainly more than I’d ever heard anyone else in Mark’s life say.
I looked around the room. Over the cold marble fireplace hung another of those graphic and discomfiting figures of the dying Jesus. The limbs were tortured, straining to get away from the nails, the mangled hands curled around the wounds. Again and again, this same loving attention to the lineaments of suffering and the life lived, the death attained, only for others.