Charles Snow - The Affair

“That’s exactly what I should have expected.” Crawford said it with dignity and authority.

“I don’t think I ought to conceal from you, in fact I’m sure I oughtn’t,” said Nightingale, “that in the heat of the moment Skeffington didn’t take entirely the same view. He gave to one piece of evidence an importance that I couldn’t begin to, and I think, if I have to take the words out of his mouth, that he would have felt obliged to include it, if he were re-writing his own report. Well, that’s as may be. But even if that happened, I am quite sure that in the final result it wouldn’t have had the remotest effect on the Seniors’ findings.”

“Which means,” said Crawford, “that we should have been bound to take the same action.”

“Inevitably it does,” said Nightingale.

“Of course,” said Clark.

Crawford had settled himself, his hands folded on his paunch, his eyes focused on the wainscot.

“Well, this is a complication we could reasonably have been spared,” he said. “I am inclined to think the Bursar is right, Martin has done us a service by bringing up the subject. Speaking as Master for a moment, there is one thing I should like to impress upon you all. I should also like to impress it on Skeffington and our other colleagues. In my judgment, this college was remarkably lucky to avoid a serious scandal over this business. I never took the violent personal objection to Howard that some of you did, but a piece of scientific fraud is of course unforgivable. And any unnecessary publicity about it, even now, is as near unforgivable as makes no matter. We’ve come out of it internally with no friction that I know of. And externally, better than any of us could have hoped. I do impress on you, this is a time to count our blessings and not disturb the situation. In my view, anyone who resurrects the trouble is taking a grave responsibility upon himself. We did justice so far as we could, and as the Bursar says, we have every reason within the human limits to believe that our findings were the right ones. Anyone who tries to open it all over again is going to achieve nothing except a certain amount of harm for the college, and a risk of a good deal more.”

“I’d just like to ask again, as I’ve asked you all in private often enough,” said Nightingale, “if this man felt he had been hard done by, why in Heaven’s name didn’t he bring an action for wrongful dismissal?”

“I agree with every word you’ve both said,” Clark broke in. He was hunched round to ease the weight on his leg. His smile was sweet, a little helpless, a little petulant. All of a sudden I realised that, just as Martin had said, he was a man of formidable moral force. “Except, if I may say so, personally I think worse of the man responsible for it all. I always thought it was a mistake to elect him, and I was sorry that our scientific friends got their way. I know we all kept off the question of his politics. Politics is becoming a taboo word. I’m going to be quite frank. I should have to be convinced that, in present conditions, a man of Howard’s politics can be a man of good character, as I understand the term. And I am not prepared to welcome such men in the name of tolerance, the tolerance that they themselves despise.”

“I wish I’d had the courage to say that earlier,” Nightingale broke out.

Martin had not spoken for a long time. In the same tone, neither edgy nor over-concerned, in which he had made his first approach, he said: “But that isn’t really the point, is it? The real point is what the Bursar said about the evidence.”

Clark replied: “What the Bursar said settled that, didn’t it?”

The curious thing was, I thought, that Nightingale, Clark, and Martin liked one another. When we went into the drawing-room there was no sign of argument on any of them. In fact, there had not been a word of disagreement spoken.

As the college clock struck the half-hour, it must have been half past eleven, Martin and Irene, Margaret and I, were walking up Petty Cury on the way home. In the empty street, Martin said softly: “I got even less change than I reckoned on.”

He had spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, but when Margaret said: “The Nightingales know all about it, don’t they?” he turned on her: “How did you hear that?”

“I wanted to see what she and Hanna were thinking—”

“You talked about the Howard business, did you?”

“Of course—”

“You told them that Skeffington was worried?”

“Naturally.”

“Can none of you be trusted?” Martin broke out.

“No, I won’t take that—”

“Can none of you be trusted?” He had quite lost his temper, something so rare for him that Irene and I glanced at each other with discomfort, a discomfort different from just looking on at her husband and my wife snacking. As his voice sharpened, his face lost its colour: while Margaret, whose hot temper had risen to meet his cold one, was flushing, her eyes snapping, looking handsome and less delicate.

“Has everyone got to talk the minute you get hold of a piece of gossip? Has that fool Skeffington got to blurt out the whole story before any of us have had a chance to have a look at it? Has none of you any idea when it’s useful to keep your mouths shut?”

“Don’t you realise Connie Nightingale is a good sort? She and Hanna will have some influence—”

“They’ll have that, without your talking to them before the proper time.”

“Why should you think no one else can judge the proper time?”

“Just from watching the mess you’re all getting into.”

“I must say,” said Margaret violently, “you seem to assume this is a private game of yours. I’m damned if that is good enough for me. You’d better face it, this isn’t just your own private game.”

Speaking more quietly than she had done, but also more angrily, Martin said: “It might be more convenient if it were.”

THE next morning, the 28th, Martin was as controlled as usual. Without fuss, without making an explicit apology to Margaret, he did apologise to her, by asking if she could bear to sit round and join the “conference” with Julian Skeffington. “I remember that you’ve shown an interest in the matter,” Martin permitted himself to say, unsmiling but bright-eyed.

Skeffington was due at ten o’clock: Margaret and I had to go back to London that afternoon. It was a bright morning, the sunny interval in the warm cyclonic weather, and the children were playing in the garden. The air was so mild that we left the French windows open, and from the end of the long lawn we could hear them shouting, as they chased each other through the bushes. On the grass there shone a film of dew, gossamer-white in the sunshine, with firm black trails of footsteps across it, like a diagram in a detective story.

When Skeffington came in, punctual to the first stroke of ten, he gazed round the room with what looked like distaste or pity for our sloppiness. Where we had had breakfast in the garden end of the big double room, Irene had not yet cleared away; I was wearing a sweater instead of a jacket. Himself, he stood there beautifully groomed, blue tie pinned down, hair smooth, skin ruddy. Before we had moved from the table he was into his problem.

“I’ve got to admit it,” he told Martin, “I can’t come to terms with some of those chaps of ours.”

“Who in particular?”

“I was dining in the combination room last night, there were only one or two chaps there, I told them that Howard’s case would have to be re-opened.”

“You did, did you?” said Martin.

“I didn’t see any point in beating about the bush,” said Skeffington. “Well, one of those chaps — they were both very junior — said that meant getting a majority of the college. Do you know what he said then?”