Paddy's Second String
Today is my father's 109th birthday (and the 100th of our cousin Kathleen, who didn't make it either). Appropriately, Radio Four chose to celebrate with a discussion of the Putney Debates courtesy of In Our Time. Also appropriately, I have a Labour party meeting, and I've just finished off the last slice of Christmas cake, and the first tomato seedling has forced its way through the earth in my seed tray.
Some of you will remember that I've posted some of his writing or portraits in previous years.
So, after last year's picture gallery, I thought I'd go back to some fiction; this is a short story about love, or not, among Oxford students, which he appears to have written for publication in the Manchester Guardian in 1928, a few years after he left Oxford himself.
Second String
Out of breath, he stepped sidelong into the shadow of Logic Lane, and let the rest of them run on up the High. He didn't want them. He didn't want them to want him. It was his weakness that he always gave people the impression that he liked them better than he did: part weakness, part politeness. And there was a bit of the pose in it. Preach love of humanity, and you must display, if you cannot feel, some affection for men and women. Besides, if people are relying on your opinion of them you can't just let them down.
Half-past ten. He decided to go back to his rooms and work before going to bed. His landlady, letting him in, remarked that a gentleman was waiting to see him upstairs: had called half an hour ago and said he would wait. He thanked her and went upstairs.
He didn't, at first, recognise the man who was waiting for him. Then he remembered him as one Craig, a Corpus man, whom someone had once introduced.
Craig said "It is Harper, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Harper. "You're lucky. I might have been out till twelve."
"I'd have waited," said Craig. "I had to see you."
"Brandy or beer?"
"Thanks, brandy. It's about Enid Somers."
"Oh, I've heard her mention you. Charming person, isn't she? What about her?"
"She's going to marry me," said Craig with a gulp.
"That's very interesting. Congratulations. You've done well. You both go down this year, I think?"
Craig rose to his feet. "Harper," he said, "I want to thank you very much. You take it marvellously. We were afraid you might be upset."
"And why?"
"Enid gave me to understand that I was, in some sense, cutting you out. She was a bit penitent. She'll be round to see you herself to-morrow. I'm awfully grateful that you didn't -"
He tailed off. Harper stood motionless, and the beer he was pouring out of a bottle went on running until the head mounted and overflowed.
Yes, of course. No, what the devil - why should Enid think he wanted to marry her? He didn't. He hadn't even said so. He liked her very much, of course, thought a lot of her; they had occasional passages of superficial affection. But he never felt like that. The worst of a reputation for keeping your feelings hidden was that people suspected you of feelings you hadn't got, because you didn't show them.
Craig was embarrassed by his silence, sipped, and said nothing.
So Enid thought he thought like that about her. Well, she'd be disappointed, no doubt. But she had her consolation: Craig there, the beloved, the accepted, looking a bit bewildered and sipping good brandy.
But why should she be disillusioned? Why, now that it was all over anyway, shouldn't he fall in with Craig's suggestion and her belief? What harm if he admitted, grudgingly, that yes, well, he had hoped - but never mind, that was all over? He couldn't bleakly tell Enid that he never loved her at all. Craig had indicated his niche - the creditable, comfortable position of resigned hopeless suitor.
"Oh, well..." he said, with an expression which began as a faraway smile and ended as a grimace. Craig shook his head. "Thank you very, very much," he said and went. Harper thought, he might have asked me to be best man, but perhaps they haven't named the day.
Enid came round next morning. Harper looked up from among lexicons, and said "Hullo" non-committally.
"Tom was round last night?" she said.
She said "I asked him to come first. I was a bit frightened, you see. He was very much impressed with your - well - magnanimity." He bowed his head slightly. She went over and sat on the table by him. "My dear," she said, and he replied cheerfully "Well, God be with you."
"Hope you will be too, often."
"Just round the corner, always; waiting for the whistle."
She laughed, kissed his forehead, and went out gravely.
So Harper settled down comfortably to the position of second string. He came to accept and even to like Craig, though seeing little of him: with Enid he maintained a jocular intimacy. In time he could almost believe that the intervention of Craig had been a blow. He achieved a cosy wistfulness.
It lasted six months in all.
On a fine June afternoon Craig called again. Harper was working; he pushed his notes aside and bade Craig sit down; but he didn't.
Craig said "Enid and I decided last night that we can't possibly marry," or words to that effect.
Harper was sympathetic, inquiring.
"Why, no, nothing spectacular. We weren't the right kind for each other. We should have seen it before. We just made a mistake, quite a common mistake. Best to remedy it now, not too late." Presently he said "I feel a brute. Enid is cut up. I think she'd like you to go round and see her."
"Of course," said Harper. "I'll go and see her. This afternoon."
"Thanks. That's good," said Craig. With his hand on the door he turned to say, with a brave try at gay magnanimity, "Best of luck."
It occurred to Harper that the first string had snapped. Enid would be expecting him to go and see her, to say "Enid, dearest, will you, after a decent interval, marry me?"
One could bolt, of course. His passport was still valid. But one gets hauled back, and, besides, he had a chance of a First in Finals. It wasn't worth sacrificing a First. And one can't let people down so.
He strolled over to the college lodge, and took up the telephone vaguely. "St. Hugh's? Yes, I want to speak to Miss Somers, please." Then, "Enid? Tea, half-past, at the Gateau? Good. So long."
He walked out into the June sunshine, and the world was hard, brittle, full of spilled sunlight and vehicular noises. Tea with Enid at half-past four. An hour. Time to go to the Union, read the "New Statesman," the "Field," the commercial pages of "Truth," wash, brush hair.
"Oh, well..."
After that it abashed him to hear Enid saying "It's marvellous, my dear; they've offered me a job at Salonika University, an English lectureship, I'm going straight out in August, three years, the letter came by this morning's post..." She ran on, while he laughed at her headlong talk and approvingly crunched a macaroon.
P. J. M.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
Some of you will remember that I've posted some of his writing or portraits in previous years.
So, after last year's picture gallery, I thought I'd go back to some fiction; this is a short story about love, or not, among Oxford students, which he appears to have written for publication in the Manchester Guardian in 1928, a few years after he left Oxford himself.
Second String
Out of breath, he stepped sidelong into the shadow of Logic Lane, and let the rest of them run on up the High. He didn't want them. He didn't want them to want him. It was his weakness that he always gave people the impression that he liked them better than he did: part weakness, part politeness. And there was a bit of the pose in it. Preach love of humanity, and you must display, if you cannot feel, some affection for men and women. Besides, if people are relying on your opinion of them you can't just let them down.
Half-past ten. He decided to go back to his rooms and work before going to bed. His landlady, letting him in, remarked that a gentleman was waiting to see him upstairs: had called half an hour ago and said he would wait. He thanked her and went upstairs.
He didn't, at first, recognise the man who was waiting for him. Then he remembered him as one Craig, a Corpus man, whom someone had once introduced.
Craig said "It is Harper, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Harper. "You're lucky. I might have been out till twelve."
"I'd have waited," said Craig. "I had to see you."
"Brandy or beer?"
"Thanks, brandy. It's about Enid Somers."
"Oh, I've heard her mention you. Charming person, isn't she? What about her?"
"She's going to marry me," said Craig with a gulp.
"That's very interesting. Congratulations. You've done well. You both go down this year, I think?"
Craig rose to his feet. "Harper," he said, "I want to thank you very much. You take it marvellously. We were afraid you might be upset."
"And why?"
"Enid gave me to understand that I was, in some sense, cutting you out. She was a bit penitent. She'll be round to see you herself to-morrow. I'm awfully grateful that you didn't -"
He tailed off. Harper stood motionless, and the beer he was pouring out of a bottle went on running until the head mounted and overflowed.
Yes, of course. No, what the devil - why should Enid think he wanted to marry her? He didn't. He hadn't even said so. He liked her very much, of course, thought a lot of her; they had occasional passages of superficial affection. But he never felt like that. The worst of a reputation for keeping your feelings hidden was that people suspected you of feelings you hadn't got, because you didn't show them.
Craig was embarrassed by his silence, sipped, and said nothing.
So Enid thought he thought like that about her. Well, she'd be disappointed, no doubt. But she had her consolation: Craig there, the beloved, the accepted, looking a bit bewildered and sipping good brandy.
But why should she be disillusioned? Why, now that it was all over anyway, shouldn't he fall in with Craig's suggestion and her belief? What harm if he admitted, grudgingly, that yes, well, he had hoped - but never mind, that was all over? He couldn't bleakly tell Enid that he never loved her at all. Craig had indicated his niche - the creditable, comfortable position of resigned hopeless suitor.
"Oh, well..." he said, with an expression which began as a faraway smile and ended as a grimace. Craig shook his head. "Thank you very, very much," he said and went. Harper thought, he might have asked me to be best man, but perhaps they haven't named the day.
Enid came round next morning. Harper looked up from among lexicons, and said "Hullo" non-committally.
"Tom was round last night?" she said.
She said "I asked him to come first. I was a bit frightened, you see. He was very much impressed with your - well - magnanimity." He bowed his head slightly. She went over and sat on the table by him. "My dear," she said, and he replied cheerfully "Well, God be with you."
"Hope you will be too, often."
"Just round the corner, always; waiting for the whistle."
She laughed, kissed his forehead, and went out gravely.
So Harper settled down comfortably to the position of second string. He came to accept and even to like Craig, though seeing little of him: with Enid he maintained a jocular intimacy. In time he could almost believe that the intervention of Craig had been a blow. He achieved a cosy wistfulness.
It lasted six months in all.
On a fine June afternoon Craig called again. Harper was working; he pushed his notes aside and bade Craig sit down; but he didn't.
Craig said "Enid and I decided last night that we can't possibly marry," or words to that effect.
Harper was sympathetic, inquiring.
"Why, no, nothing spectacular. We weren't the right kind for each other. We should have seen it before. We just made a mistake, quite a common mistake. Best to remedy it now, not too late." Presently he said "I feel a brute. Enid is cut up. I think she'd like you to go round and see her."
"Of course," said Harper. "I'll go and see her. This afternoon."
"Thanks. That's good," said Craig. With his hand on the door he turned to say, with a brave try at gay magnanimity, "Best of luck."
It occurred to Harper that the first string had snapped. Enid would be expecting him to go and see her, to say "Enid, dearest, will you, after a decent interval, marry me?"
One could bolt, of course. His passport was still valid. But one gets hauled back, and, besides, he had a chance of a First in Finals. It wasn't worth sacrificing a First. And one can't let people down so.
He strolled over to the college lodge, and took up the telephone vaguely. "St. Hugh's? Yes, I want to speak to Miss Somers, please." Then, "Enid? Tea, half-past, at the Gateau? Good. So long."
He walked out into the June sunshine, and the world was hard, brittle, full of spilled sunlight and vehicular noises. Tea with Enid at half-past four. An hour. Time to go to the Union, read the "New Statesman," the "Field," the commercial pages of "Truth," wash, brush hair.
"Oh, well..."
After that it abashed him to hear Enid saying "It's marvellous, my dear; they've offered me a job at Salonika University, an English lectureship, I'm going straight out in August, three years, the letter came by this morning's post..." She ran on, while he laughed at her headlong talk and approvingly crunched a macaroon.
P. J. M.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.