The Philosopher's Pupil (62 page)

For all of Wednesday and most of Thursday John Robert remained barricaded in his house, not answering the door-bell. He sat and struggled with his colossal hurt pride and with his anger, anger against Tom, against George, and against fate, which somehow included the two girls. He grieved over his Ennistone, his childhood home, his sacred place in which he had had faith, now spoilt and blackened and made forever uninhabitable. And
over there,
at the Slipper House which he had been so childishly pleased to give to Hattie, all was suspect, besmirched, irrevocably ruined; so much so as even to make him reluctant to find out ‘what had really happened'. He had not questioned Tom carefully, partly because he was so extremely angry and partly because he had made up his mind early on that Tom would tell any lie to protect himself. His rage against Tom was intensified by the knowledge that his own perfectly asinine policies had introduced the boy into the scene in the first place. His anger against George, and his conviction that George was the real villain, was from an older and deeper source. John Robert had received George's long letter at the Institute on Tuesday morning and had already tossed it unopened into the waste-paper basket before he looked at the
Gazette.
After he had seen the articles he retrieved the letter and tore it up unread into small pieces. All this time, as he remembered and reflected, the philosopher sat quiet, motionless, in the upstairs room where he had been conceived and born, upon the iron bedstead, moved from the next-door room, upon which he had slept as a child. He did not dare to sit downstairs for fear someone might look at him through the window. Throughout Wednesday, after Tom's departure, and for most of Thursday he sat and digested and regurgitated his rage. He knew the girls would do nothing till he came. It did not occur to him that it was cruel to keep them waiting.

Hurt vanity automatically brings with it the resentment that demands revenge: to reassert one's value by passing on the hurt. ‘I am not to be trifled with. Someone will suffer for this.' Certainly John Robert wanted to run to the
Ennistone Gazette
office, drag the editor into the street and kick his ribs in; this was abstract compared with what he felt about the two McCaffreys. Wild ideas of punishing Tom (thrashing him or ruining his university career, or ‘dragging him through the law courts') soon faded, however. There was nothing he could do to Tom. Equally, and indeed all the more so as it appeared on reflection, there was nothing he could do to George. Of course he could go round to Drudsdale and smash his fist into George's face. But if he were to run at George like a mad dog and savage him and break up his house, would this not be doing exactly what George wanted? George had been attempting for years to attract John Robert's attention, to provoke a ‘happening' which would establish a ‘bond' between them. George had wanted to
occupy
John Robert's mind; he had been, as the philosopher was vaguely aware, hurt and maddened by John Robert's calm coldness, by the evident fact that John Robert not only did not care about him, but did not think about him. This policy, which was effected without effort, was not totally uncoloured by malice. The tiny corner of John Robert's mind which
was
aware of George had experienced a fleeting satisfaction as he had thrown away George's unopened letter and completely forgotten George in the next moment: a serene oblivion which had unfortunately not lasted long. But
now
- it appeared that George had won. John Robert was now as obsessed with George as George was with John Robert. The fatal connection, now running through Hattie, had tied them together at last.

John Robert did not, when he was able to think, doubt that the loathsome unread letter had contained impertinences about the girl. (Herein he displayed his lack of understanding of George's character.) He pictured the bland round face, the boyish short-square-toothed smile. He conceived of writing to George. But could any words that existed express what he wanted to say? Now at last, when he had made out just what a victory his enemy had won, he felt that nothing would serve, nothing would do except to kill George. Nothing else at all ever would make the world right again.

While John Robert Rozanov was sitting on his bed at 16 Hare Lane, Tom McCaffrey was sitting on his at Travancore Avenue. Like John Robert, Tom was imprisoned, tortured and paralysed. He could not leave Ennistone, that was impossible. He wrote a letter to his tutor saying that he was ill. He was in fact ill, he had a feverish cold. (He thought, that's Bobbie Benning's cold. I shouldn't have put on his bear's head. I could feel it was all damp and noisome inside.) He was also, he felt, well on the way to becoming mentally ill. It was Tom's first experience of demons. Demons, like viruses, live in every human organism, but in some happy lives never become active. Tom was now aware of the demons and that they were
his
demons. He stayed on in Ennistone because he could not leave behind the problems which could only be solved here, even though it was also impossible to solve them. He stayed secretly because he took John Robert's threats seriously. Tom could not imagine how John Robert could ‘do him harm' but he was taking no chances. He had never before been at the receiving end of vindictive hatred, and he was very shaken by it. He did not doubt John Robert's strong active ill-will. So, although he stayed in Ennistone, he did not, for the rest of Wednesday and most of Thursday, set foot outside, and when darkness fell he pulled the heavily lined curtains carefully and turned on, at the back of the house, one well-shaded lamp. On Wednesday night he went to bed early and dreamt about Fiona Gates. (He had been hurt by John Robert's sneer at his mother.) In the dream Fiona appeared as a ghost with long trailing hair, wearing a white shift or petticoat. She seemed to be unable to speak, but held out her hands to him in a piteous gesture as if begging him for help. He thought, she's so young, so
young.
He woke in distress just after midnight and lay upon his bed tossing and turning in paroxysms of misery and remorse and resentment and fear.

The resentment, almost amounting to rage, was the most demonic constituent of Tom's spiritual illness. It was so unusual, so unnatural, for him to feel even ‘cross' with anybody. Now he felt angry with John Robert, with Hattie, with George, with Emma, with himself. He puzzled and puzzled over how on earth John Robert's ‘plan' for him and Hattie could have become general knowledge. It was inconceivable that Hattie had talked about it. He was himself to blame for having told Emma. But he had told no one else. Emma, although he denied it, must have told somebody. Perhaps he had told Hector with whom he had become (Tom felt jealous about this) rather friendly. A letter to Tom from Hector had arrived at Travancore Avenue on Tuesday morning asking him, when he was back in Ennistone, to get in touch with Hector at once. Tom ignored the letter, but later wondered if
that
were the reason for it. Emma had told Hector and Hector had talked. Hector was acquainted with the
Ennistone Gazette
man, Gavin Oare, and had given him an interview about the play … Tom wondered if he should go and see Hector, but the idea of clarification was in itself appalling; and the idea that Emma had lied to him and betrayed him was sickeningly painful.

The chief traitor was of course himself. He ought never to have agreed to John Robert's crazy idea. He did so, not even for a lark, but because he was
profoundly flattered.
Having agreed, he ought to have kept his mouth shut. And having almost at once realized that it was ‘no go', he ought to have written to John Robert to say so and have
got himself out
of the whole awful mess. He ought to have stayed in London and
got on with his work
(how attractive the decent idea of getting on with his work seemed to him now) instead of hanging around Ennistone having ambiguous adventures. In these thoughts, Tom vacillated to and fro, between seeing himself as guilty of the most disgraceful treachery, and seeing himself as the helpless victim of a monster. Who could deal with a man like Rozanov? Rozanov had trapped him into this ghastly and
ridiculous
business, and was now blaming him unjustly without even listening to an explanation. The scene at the Slipper House had not been Tom's fault, only Rozanov had been determined to see it as some sort of conspiracy. And Rozanov had dared to threaten Tom, to revile him and
hate
him. How could that be?

Upon the figure of Hattie an even more ambiguous and intense light was falling. What exactly had happened that night? At first, and under his guilty hat, Tom had assumed that Hattie was simply an innocent girl, affronted by what must have seemed to her (though it was really an accident) a thoughtless and cruel jape, and then by George's intolerable intrusion. In this mood Tom felt very painful remorse: why on earth had he ever invented that ‘party at the Slipper House', why had he actually led all those drunken people thither? It really seemed like a contrivance of the devil: a fateful devil lurking in the unconscious darkness of his own mind. And he wanted very much to run to Hattie and explain and apologize and be forgiven. Then, as resentment filled up the scale again on the other side, he began to wonder: why had George suddenly turned up like that? Was Diane Sedleigh involved? He had seen her in the garden. Why was
she
there? He recalled now having heard that Pearl was related to Ruby who was related to Diane. Was Ruby involved? And Pearl? And … Hattie …?
Was
Hattie an innocent maiden affronted by vulgar jesters? Had Diane brought George to Hattie? Had Hattie herself invited George? Had she for some time
known
George, and was this the reason why she had been so offensively cold to Tom? With this hellish brew bubbling in his mind Tom tried to go to sleep again on Wednesday night. On Thursday morning he telephoned the Slipper House. Someone, he thought it was Pearl, said ‘Yes?', and after he had said ‘It's Tom,' put the phone down.

Tom had not seriously thought of attempting to see Hattie on Wednesday because in another part of his crazed mind he felt that he had indeed promised John Robert not to; and in any case he was afraid of John Robert finding out, he was afraid of John Robert's reprisals. On Thursday he was a good deal less sure that he had promised anything and a little less afraid. After the telephone call he wanted very much to run round to the Slipper House, but he did not dare to. Suppose he were to meet John Robert there? But he went on wanting to go. He wanted more and more, more than anything in the world, to see Hattie, to explain that he was innocent, and to know by looking at her clear pale face that she was.

Thursday afternoon went slowly, slowly by, and Tom continued to hide. The telephone rang but he was afraid to answer it. His days had already lost their sense, he could not read, he could not sit, the concept of ‘having a meal' no longer existed. He drank a little whisky and tore bits off a stale loaf. He considered going to London, but he
could not
leave Ennistone without somehow removing these agonizing hooks and thorns from his heart. He had to ease the misery, though since he scarcely knew what it was he could not think clearly what to do about it. At last he suddenly thought, I'll go and see William Eastcote, I'll tell him
everything
and ask him what I ought to do. After all, Bill the Lizard is John Robert's friend, he's the only person in Ennistone that John Robert can tolerate! He might even explain to John Robert, intercede for me. Why ever didn't I think of this before? It was evening, not yet quite dark. Tom selected one of Greg's overcoats and one of Greg's tweedy hats and slunk out into Travancore Avenue.

At Eastcote's house, number 34 The Crescent, there seemed to be something happening. A number of lights were on and the door was open. A car was parked outside. Tom thought, oh hell, he's got visitors. I must go back. Feeling intensely disappointed, he stood uncertainly at the bottom of the stone steps which led up to the door. Then he saw Anthea passing across the hall. At the same time he realized that he was standing in the light from the door and might be recognized by someone passing by. He went up the steps and into the house, closing the door behind him.

The hall was empty, full of the coloured beautiful things familiar to Tom since his childhood, when he had felt that these rugs and these tapestries and these huge bowls which Rose Eastcote used to fill with flowers existed somehow of necessity, composing an exotic place where very gentle tigers lived. The scene reassured him with a whiff from a safe authoritative world. But he felt at once that something was wrong. There was an odd silence, then lowered voices and padding. Anthea Eastcote came out of her uncle's study. She was crying.

She saw him and said, ‘Oh Tom, how wonderful of you to come.' She came up to him and put her arms round him, pressing her face into Greg's coat.

Tom put his arms round her shoulders, pressing her against him, and moving his chin about in the mass of sweet-smelling brown-golden hair. He stared over her shoulder, feeling her heart beat and his own.

Dr Roach came out into the hall. He said, ‘Oh Tom, dear chap, you're here, that's good, that's good.'

Dr Roach came forward and detached Anthea, who was now quietly sobbing, and propelled her into the drawing-room. She sat down on the sofa covering her face. He said to her, ‘Sit quiet with Tom. I'll bring you a draught.' He said to Tom, ‘He went off peacefully about an hour ago. He didn't suffer at the end. He knew us. He said, “Pray always, pray to God.” Those were his last words. A saint if ever there was one.' There were tears in the doctor's eyes. He went out of the room.

Tom sat down beside Anthea. He knew now that William Eastcote was dead. He hugged Anthea, murmuring, ‘Oh darling, darling, don't grieve so, I love you so much — '

The doctor came back and gave Anthea a whitish drink in a glass. She stopped sobbing and moved a little away from Tom and drank the white stuff down slowly. Dr Roach, with a hand on Tom's shoulder, said, ‘I'm glad you got to know so soon. I made several telephone calls - the news must be flying around. What a wonderful life, that's what we must say to ourselves, mustn't we. How terribly we shall all miss him. But what a wonderful life, what a wonderful man, not just a comforter but a living evidence of a religious truth. Anthea dear, hadn't you better lie down upstairs for a while?'