Charles Snow - The Masters

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.’

‘I’d better get there early,’ said Roy. ‘I can look after myself.’ I smiled. We gazed, as the afternoon darkened, at the one window lighted in the quiet building. At last Roy turned away. ‘That is that,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty remarkable, old boy. We seem to be home.’

‘I think I’d better tell Arthur Brown,’ I said. Roy’s telephone stood by his bedside, and I went there and talked to Brown. ‘How do you know how many turned up?’ I heard Brown saying, cautious and inquisitive as ever. ‘How can you possibly have found out?’

I explained that we had been watching from Roy Calvert’s window. Brown was satisfied, and asked for the names again. ‘Our party seems to be hanging together,’ he said. ‘But I think, to be on the safe side, I’ll give a little luncheon soon. I say, Eliot, I’m sorry about old Gay. I should like to know who got at him. We’ve let them steal a march on us there.’

‘But it’s pretty good,’ I said.

‘I must say it looks perfectly splendid.’ For a second Brown had let himself go. Then the voice turned minatory again: ‘Of course, you’ll remember it’s much too early to throw your hats in the air. We haven’t even got a paper majority for Paul Jago yet. We must go carefully. You mustn’t let people feel that we think it’s safe. It would be a wise precaution if you and Calvert didn’t let on that you know who turned up this afternoon.’

I told Roy, who gave a malicious chuckle.

‘Good old Uncle Arthur,’ he said. ‘He must be the only person on this earth who regards you as an irresponsible schoolboy. It gives me great pleasure.’

He rang down to the kitchens for tea and crumpets, and we ate them by the fire. When we had finished and I was sitting back with my last cup of tea, Roy glanced at me with a secretive grin. From a drawer he produced, as though furtively, a child’s box of bricks. ‘I bought these yesterday,’ he said. ‘I thought they might come in useful. They won’t be necessary unless Winslow shows us a new trick or two. But I may as well set them out.’

He always had a love for the concrete, though his whole professional life was spent with words. Another man would have written down the fellows’ names, but Roy liked selecting fourteen identical bricks, and printing on them the names from Royce to Luke. The brick marked Royce he put by itself without a word. His expression lightened as he placed the two bricks Jago and Crawford together. Then he picked out Gay, Despard-Smith, Winslow, and Getliffe, and arranged them in a row. He left the other seven in a huddle — ‘until everyone’s in the open. It ought to be a clear majority.’