Charles Snow - The Affair

“Don’t speak like that to me!” Martin broke out. Then, getting back his usual tone, he said: “Look, this isn’t going to get us anywhere—”

“What I want to know is, why wasn’t I asked to talk to that Court again, after they said they’d probably want me? I want to know, who stopped that? I suppose you’re all pleased by the masterly way you’ve handled things. It’s not important to be fair, all that matters is that everything should look fair.”

Howard did not seem to have noticed the flash of Martin’s temper. For him, everyone was an enemy, everyone was a part of “them”, most of all those who had pretended to be working on his side. His voice changed. “I’m positive, if I could explain how I wrote that paper, if I could explain quietly and sensibly and not get panicked, then the Court would see the point.” He was looking ingenuous and hopeful, as though the issue were still in the future and the Court could still be influenced. He was caught up by one of those moments of hope that come in the middle of disasters, when time gets jangled in the mind and it seems that one still has a chance and that with good management one is going to emerge scot-free and happy.

Another splinter of mood: he began to shout again. “By God, they wanted to get me! I should like to have heard what they’ve been saying this last fortnight. I should like to know whether it’s just a coincidence that you happened to be here,” he said to me, with the same jeering courtesy that he had used to Martin. “But I don’t suppose they wanted any extra help. They were determined to get me, and one’s got to hand it to them, they’ve made a nice job of it.”

“It isn’t finished yet,” said Laura. She had gone near to him; she was speaking with impatience and passion.

“They’ve made a very pretty job of it, I think they deserve to be congratulated,” cried Howard.

“For God’s sake,” said Laura, “you’re not giving up like that!”

“I should like to know—”

“You’re not giving up,” she said. “We’ve got to start again, that’s all.”

“You know nothing about it.”

He spoke to her roughly — but there was none of the suspiciousness with which he would have spoken to anyone else that night. Between them there flared up — so ardent as to make it out of place to watch — a bond of sensual warmth, of consolatory warmth.

“It’s not finished yet, is it?” she appealed to Martin.

“No,” he said. He spoke to Howard. “Laura’s right. I suggest we cut the inquests and see about the next step.”

Martin’s manner was business-like but neither enthusiastic nor friendly. He was no saint. He had none of the self-effacingness of those who, in the presence of another’s disaster, don’t mind some of the sufferings being taken out on themselves. He didn’t like being accused of treachery. He would gladly have got Howard out of sight and never seen him again. Martin had himself taken a rebuff, more than a rebuff, in the Seniors’ verdict that night.

“You’ve got a formal method of appeal,” said Martin. “You can appeal to the Visitor, of course.”

“Oh, that’s pretty helpful,” said Howard. “That’s your best idea yet. Do you really think a bishop is going out of his way to do any good to me? And when I think of that particular bishop — Well, that ought to be the quickest way of finishing me off for good and all.” He said it with his paranoid sneer.

A bite in his voice, Martin replied: “I said that it was the formal method. I mentioned it for one reason and one reason only. You’re probably obliged to go through the whole formal machine before you bring an action for wrongful dismissal. I still hope we can get this straight for you without your bringing an action.”

“Do you?”

Martin’s tone kept its edge, although he went on without being provoked: “But after what’s happened, I couldn’t blame you if you went straight ahead. I don’t think any of us could.”

Howard looked startled. He was startled enough to go in for a practical discussion: did Martin really advise him to see a solicitor straight away? No, Martin replied patiently, but it was only fair to say that most men would think it justified. How did one start going about an appeal to the Visitor? Howard went on, beginning to look tired, confused, and absent-minded, his eyes straying to his wife, as though it was she only that he wanted.

Martin continued to reply, ready to bat on about procedure. It was Howard who said that he wasn’t going “to do anything in a hurry”, that he had “had enough for one night”. He left the room with his arm round Laura, and once more the two of us, watching them, felt like voyeurs .

After the door had closed behind them, Martin sat gazing into the grate. At last I said: “Were you prepared for this—?” I pointed to the slip of paper with the Seniors’ verdict.

“I wish I could say yes.”

He answered honestly, but also in a rage. Despite his caution and his warnings — or perhaps because of them — he had been totally surprised, as surprised as any of us. He was furious with himself for being so, and with the men who caused it.

“There’ll have to be a spot of trouble now,” he said, able, since the Howards went, to let the anger show. People often thought that those who “handled” others, “managers” of Martin’s kind, were passionless. They would have been no good at their job if they were. No, what made them effective was that they were capable of being infuriated on the one hand, and managerial on the other.

Vexed as he was, Martin did not lose his competence. There were two tasks in front of him straight away, first to prevent any of his party doing anything silly, second to keep them together. Without wasting time, he said that we had better walk round and see Skeffington; he had heard him say that he was going to dine at home.

When we got to the bottom of the staircase, Martin looked across the court. The chapel door was open wide, a band of light poured on to the lawn; a few young men, gowns pulled round them, were hurrying away from evensong.

“It isn’t anything special in the way of festivals, is it?” said Martin, nodding towards the chapel.

We paused for an instant. There was no sign of Skeffington coming round the path; there was only the chaplain, shutting the door behind him.

Not there, said Martin. We went through the screens, bustling and jostling with young men, some pushing early into the hall, some swinging off with beer-bottles. In the second court there were lights in old Winslow’s rooms.

“I wonder what he thinks he’s doing,” I said.

“He’s never had any judgment,” said Martin. “He took you all in, but he never had much sense.”

I was thinking, as Martin unlocked the side door, how I had seen Winslow in his full power, a formidable man: and how the stock exchange of college reputations went up and down, so that Martin, nine years younger, saw him only as a failure. On that stock exchange, Brown’s reputation had kept steady since my time, Crawford’s had climbed a bit, Nightingale’s had rocketed — while men whose personalities filled the college when I was there, Winslow, Jago, had already been written off long before their deaths.

We crossed to the row of cottages and Martin pulled at the hand bell of Skeffington’s. There was no answer, although from the living-room, faintly lit, came a sound of voices. Martin pulled again. Suddenly lights sprang up behind the curtains, and substantial steps came to the door. It was Mrs Skeffington. As she opened the door, her face was reddened, her manner flustered. She said: “Oh, it’s you two, is it? I’m afraid you’ve caught me on the wrong foot.”