‘Cabals versus the open air,’ said Winslow, and Nightingale smiled. Despard-Smith was not prepared for the waves of temper that were sweeping up.
‘I cannot remember any p-precedent in my long association with the college,’ he said.
Suddenly Pilbrow began speaking with great speed and earnestness: ‘The college can’t possibly have a meeting about a new Master… When the man who ought to be presiding is condemned… I’ve never known such an extraordinary lack of feeling.’
He finished, after his various starts, with complete lucidity. But the college had a habit of ignoring Pilbrow’s interventions, and Chrystal and Winslow had both begun to speak at once when Jago quietened them. His voice was not an orator’s: it was plummy, thick, produced far back in his throat. Yet, whenever he spoke, men’s glances turned to him. He had his spectacles in hand, and his eyes, for once unveiled, were hard.
‘I have no doubt,’ he said, ‘that we have just listened to the decisive word. This is not the first time that Mr Pilbrow has represented to some of us the claims of decent feeling. Mr Deputy, the Master of this college is now lying in his Lodge, and he has asked you to preside in his place. We know that we must settle on someone to succeed him, however difficult it is. But we can do that in our own way, without utterly offending the taste of some of us by insisting on doing it in this room — in a meeting of which he is still the head.’ When he sat back the room stayed uncomfortably still.
‘That settles it,’ said Roy Calvert in a clear voice.
‘I moved the next business ten minutes ago,’ said Chrystal, staring domineeringly at Despard-Smith. ‘I believe Mr Brown seconded it. Is it time to vote on my motion? I’m ready to wait all evening.’
The motion was carried by seven votes to four. For: Pilbrow, Jago, Brown, Chrystal, myself, Calvert, Luke. Against: Winslow, Crawford, Nightingale, Getliffe.
Neither Despard-Smith nor Gay voted.
11: View from Roy Calvert’s Window
At hall after the meeting, Winslow was grumbling about Jago’s last speech — ‘high-minded persons have a remarkable gift for discovering that the requirements of decent feeling fit in exactly with what they want to do’. I thought about how we had voted. The sides were sorting themselves out. Nightingale had voted with the opposition: was that merely a gesture of suspiciousness against Chrystal and Brown? He was the most uncomfortable of bedfellows. Despard-Smith would presumably vote for Crawford. What about old Gay? He might do anything. I fancied Pilbrow would decide for Jago. It looked encouraging.
Two days afterwards, a note came round: ‘Those who are not disposed to vote for the Senior Tutor may like to discuss candidates for the Mastership. I suggest a meeting in my rooms at 2.30 on Friday, Jan. 18. G H W.’
Winslow had had his note duplicated in the bursary, and sent it to each fellow. There was a good deal of comment. ‘The man’s got no manners,’ said Chrystal. ‘He’s always doing his best to make the place a beargarden.’ Brown said: ‘I’ve got a feeling that the college won’t be a very happy family for the next few months.’ Jago said: ‘I shall manage to hold my tongue — but he’s being needlessly offensive.’
Although Roy Calvert and I were waited on by the same servant, his rooms were to be found not in the first court proper, but in a turret over the kitchen. His sitting-room commanded a view of the second court and the staircase up which Winslow’s visitors must go. I arrived there after lunch on the Friday afternoon; Roy was standing at his upright desk, reading a manuscript against a lighted opalescent screen.
‘I’ve kept an eye across the way,’ he said. ‘No one has declared himself yet.
‘I need to finish this,’ he went on, looking back at the screen. ‘There’s a new martyr in this psalm.’
He read for a few minutes, and then joined me by the window. We looked across, through the mist of the raw January afternoon, to the separate building which contained the sets not only of Winslow, but also of Pilbrow and Chrystal. It was a building of palladian harmony; Eustace Pilbrow had lived in it for fifty years, and said that it was still as tranquil to look at as when he saw it for the first time.
It was twenty-five past two.
‘High time the enemy appeared,’ said Roy.
Just then Winslow came lounging along the path from the first court. He wore no overcoat, but, as usual when in college on business, a black coat and striped trousers. As he lounged along, his feet came down heavily at each step; one could guess from his gait that he had unusually big feet.
‘He’s declared himself, anyway,’ said Roy. ‘He’d be sold if no one else turned up.’
Roy was on edge in his own fashion, though he was not given to anxiety. Waiting for critical news of his own, he felt instead of anxiety a tingle of excitement. He felt it now, watching for news of Jago’s chances.
We saw Winslow disappear in the mouth of his staircase.
‘He’s extremely tiresome.’ Roy smiled. ‘But I like the old stick. So do you.’
A moment later, Despard-Smith, in clerical hat and overcoat, walked across the front of the building from the third court.
‘That was only to be expected,’ I said.
‘If he weren’t able to express his view,’ said Roy, ‘it would be nothing short of catastrophic.’
Francis Getliffe came quickly the way Winslow had come, in his long plunging strides.
‘Now he ought to know better,’ said Roy.
‘He’s got some good reasons.’
‘He’s getting stuffier as he gets older.’
The half-hour struck. Very slowly, along the same path, came Gay. One foot shuffled slowly in front of the other; he was muffled up to the throat, but his cheeks shone very red, his beard very white.
‘How in God’s name did he decide?’ I cried in disappointment.
He took minutes to make his way across the court. He was almost there when we saw Nightingale come along from the third court and join him.
‘Judas?’ said Roy.
They talked for a moment; we saw Nightingale shake his head and walk away in our direction.
‘Apparently not,’ I said.
Then, from the first court, Crawford walked smoothly into view. He was late, he was moving fast, but he gave no appearance of hurry. Roy whistled ‘Here comes the bride’ until he slipped up Winslow’s staircase.
‘I wonder,’ said Roy suddenly, ‘if old Winslow is still hoping. I wonder if he expects to be asked to stand this afternoon.’
‘People hope on,’ I said, ‘long after they admit it to themselves.’
‘Just so,’ said Roy. ‘In this case until they’re seventy.’ (Under the statutes, seventy was the retiring age for the Master.)
No one else came. The court was empty.
‘Is that the whole party?’ said Roy. ‘I believe it is.’
We waited, and heard the quarters chime. We waited again. ‘If this is all, old boy,’ cried Roy, ‘it’s in the bag.’ We still stood there, looking over the court. The mist was deepening. An undergraduate brought in a girl, and they passed out of sight towards the third court. All of a sudden a light shone from Winslow’s room. It made the court seem emptier, the afternoon more raw.
‘They’ve only collected five,’ said Roy. ‘Not many. They’ve lost face.’
Crawford came out again into the court. Again quickly but without hurry, he walked towards the first court. We could see down on to his face as he approached. He looked utterly impassive.
‘Asked to retire,’ I said.
‘I wonder what he thinks his chances are,’ said Roy. He added: ‘One thing — Winslow knows the worst now. His last chance has gone.’
‘I’m sorry for some of our friends,’ I said, ‘if they sit next to him tonight.’