Anthony Powell - A Question of Upbringing

Sillery was not at all discomposed, indeed he seemed rather flattered, by these efforts on the part of Members and Quiggin to stay and make themselves better known to Truscott; but he was none the less determined that they should not stand between him and the particulars of why Sir Magnus Donners wanted a young man; and what sort of a young man Sir Magnus Donners wanted, He made a sweeping movement with his hands, as if driving chickens before him in a farmyard, at the same time remarking to Stringham: “You must come here again soon. There are things I should like to discuss interesting to ourselves.”

He turned quickly, to prevent Quiggin from taking too many of his books, and, at the same time, to say something to the depressed undergraduate called Paul. Stringham and I went down the stairs, followed by Mark Members, who, having failed to prolong his visit, seemed now chiefly interested in escaping from Sillery’s without having the company of Quiggin thrust upon him. All three of us left the college through an arched doorway that led to the street. Rain had been falling while we were at tea, but the pavements were now drying under a woolly sky.

“What very Monet weather it has been lately,” said Members, almost to himself. “I think I must hurry ahead now as I am meeting a friend.”

He disappeared into a side street, his yellow tie caught up over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets and elbows pressed to his sides. In a moment he was lost to sight.

“That must be a lie,” said Stringham. “He couldn’t possibly have a friend.”

“What was Truscott after?”

“He is rather a hanger-on of my mother’s,” said Stringham. “Said to be very bright. He certainly gets about.”

“And Sir Magnus Donners?”

“He was in the Government during the war.”

“What else?”

“He is always trying to get in with my mother, too.”

I had the impression that Stringham was himself quite interested in Bill Truscott, who certainly suggested the existence of an exciting world from which one was at present excluded. We strolled on through the empty streets towards Stringham’s college. The air was damp and warm. At the top of the stairs, the sound of voices came from the sitting-room. Stringham paused at the door.

“Somebody has got in,” he said. “I hope it is not the Boys’ Club man again.”

He stood for a moment and listened; then he opened the door. There was a general impression of very light grey flannel suits and striped ties, which resolved itself into three figures, sitting smoking, one of whom was Peter Templer.

“Peter.”

“Bob Duport and Jimmy Brent,” said Peter, nodding towards the other two. “We thought we would pay a call, to see how your education was getting along.”

He was looking well: perhaps a shade fatter in the face than when I had last seen him; and, having now reached the age for which Nature had, as it were, intended him, he was beginning to lose the look of a schoolboy dressed as a grown man. I should have known Duport and Brent anywhere as acquaintances of Peter’s. They had that indefinable air of being up to no good that always characterised Peter himself. Both were a few years older than he; and I vaguely remembered some story of Duport having been involved in a motor accident, notorious for some reason or other. That affair, whatever it was, had taken place soon after he had left school: during my own first year there. He was built on similar lines to Peter, thin and tall, with sandy hair, dressed in the same uncompromising manner, though on the whole less successfully. Brent was big and fat, with spectacles that seemed to have been made with abnormally small circles of glass. Both, it turned out, were business friends, working in the City. They accepted some of Stringham’s sherry, and Brent, whose manners seemed on the whole better than Duport’s, said: “What do they rush you for this poison?”

The sum was not revealed, because, almost at the same moment, Duport, who was examining The Pharisee’s rider, in one of the pictures, that had followed Stringham to this room, remarked: “I’ve never seen a jock on land, or sea, sit a horse like that.”

“Put your shirt on him when you do, Bob,” said Peter. “You may recoup a bit on some of those brilliant speculations of yours that are always going to beat the book.”

“How long are you staying?” asked Stringham, before Duport had time to defend his racing luck.

“Going back to London after dinner.”

I saw that any change that I might have suspected of taking place in the relationship between Templer and I Stringham had by now crystallised. It was not that they no longer liked one another, or even that they had ceased to take pleasure in each other’s company, so much as the fact that each had grown out of the other’s habit of mind: and, in consequence, manner of talking. Stringham had become quieter than he had been at school; though he was, at the same time, more than ever anxious for something new to happen at comparatively short intervals, in order that his attention should be occupied, and depression kept at arm’s length. Peter had changed less: merely confirming his earlier attitude towards life. I did not know to what extent, if at all, he was aware of any difference in Stringham. He knew Stringham well, and I could imagine him describing — and laughing over — the warming-up process that seemed to be required that evening: a warming-up that never took place so far as Stringham was concerned. I could, equally, imagine Stringham laughing at the way in which Peter was already shaping along the lines that Stringham had himself so accurately foretold.

“We might all have dinner together,” Stringham said. “That was the idea.”

In the restaurant, Stringham and I talked to Peter, rather fragmentarily: mainly on the subject of Stringham’s stay in Kenya. Duport and Brent grunted to each other from time to time, or, occasionally, to Peter: no sense of fusion quickening the party. Peter told us about his car, recently bought second-hand, and considered a bargain.

“I must take you for a proper run in her,” he said, “before we go back.”

“Don’t forget I want to look in at the Cabaret Club before we hit the hay,” said Brent.

Duport said: “He’s got a girl there who owes him some money.”

“I wish she did,” said Brent: but without elucidating further that cryptic aspiration.

The Vauxhall was, in fact, clearly the foundation of this unpremeditated visit. Peter wanted to try the vehicle out. He continued to assure us how cheap the price had been, inviting admiration of its many good points. This car was adapted for speed, having had the windscreen removed; but it had all the appearance of having passed through a good many hands since the days of its first owner. It certainly put Stringham’s two-seater in the shade, and perhaps slightly irritated Stringham on this account. Peter was immensely pleased with the Vauxhall, the purchase of which seemed in some way to have involved Brent. As the evening wore on, Brent’s personality became in other respects more determinable. For example, he talked incessantly of women. Peter and Duport treated this preoccupation as something not to be taken at all seriously, making no attempt to hide their concurrent opinion that Brent’s attempts to make himself agreeable to girls were entirely unsuccessful: all of which Brent took in fairly good part. His voice managed to be at once deep and squeaky; and he spoke repeatedly of a woman called Flora, who appeared in some manner to have behaved badly to him. On the whole he was undoubtedly preferable to Duport, whose demeanour was aggressive and contradictious. I was not surprised when Duport announced: “Couldn’t stand my place at all. Got sent down my first term. Still it looks worse here.”