Peter Carey - Oscar and Lucinda

Oscar and Lucinda

Wardley-Fish unbuttoned his overcoat and, by plunging his hands in his pockets, held the heavy garment out away from his chest. He looked like a rooster. He jiggled sovereigns in his pockets just as he had instructed Oscar not to. The stable hand looked towards this noise expectantly. He suggested that Madding Girl was a "jam."

Oscar knew this information was worth nothing, but had he shared this opinion with WardleyFish it would not, of course, have been listened to. For this was what Wardley-Fish most enjoyed about the track-the whispered conversations, the passing of "tips for tips," the grubby low-life corners, the guilt, the fear of damnation, the elation, it all dissolved together in the vaporous spirit of his hip-flask. He took off his overcoat and gave it to Oscar.

"Come on, Odd Bod, we will be just in time to see them in the paddock." They ran then, Wardley-Fish in front. He had big buttocks and thick thighs. Oscar could imagine him sitting on a horse. He ran heavily, but quickly. Oscar came behind with his knees clicking painfully, his borrowed coat flapping around him, and was-with his wild red hair in its usual unruly state-such a scarecrow that some aging Mohawks called out after him. He did not mind. He was intoxicated.

This intoxication was quite different from Wardley-Fish's. Oscar had no guilt at all. He knew that God would give him money at the races and thereby ease the dreadful burden that the Strattons had placed upon themselves. Now they would be released. God would do this just as He had told Moses to divide the land among the tribes of Israel: "According to the lot shall the possession thereof be divided between the many and the few." The Almighty would be Oscar's source of

"information."

"Look at her," said Wardley-Fish when Madding Girl was brought into the ring. Madding Girl was in a lather of sweat. It had a white foam inside its hind legs. The horse showed a peculiar look in its eye.

"Look at her," said Wardley-Fish. He took Oscar by the coat sleeve and dragged him so quickly forward that Madding Girl reared, danced sideways, turned, and then backed back, perhaps deliberately, towards them so they had to step back into the whiskered crowd or else have their feet crushed.

"Look at the backside," said Wardley-Fish.

It was difficult to avoid it.

"That, Odd Bod, is the first thing to look at in a horse, and when the track is wet, it's a day for a powerful bum like that one."

I

Epsom Downs

Oscar remembered how lonely and lacklustre he had felt this morning. He had been cold, and miserable. Now he was warm inside Wardley-Fish's coat. He was a boy comforted by the sweetsour wrappings of a larger man, the tweed-prickly armour of an elder brother, uncle, father. He was "looked after" and was content-in the mud of Epsom-as a dog curled inside an armchair. He grinned at Wardley-Fish.

"See. You have caught the germ," said Wardley-Fish who saw in the grin the symptoms of his own hot condition. "You should not be here. I am corrupting you." But Oscar did not feel at all corrupted. God had already spoken to him. Sure Blaze would win this race. Tonight he would have the money to pay his buttery account. He would buy long woollen socks and send two guineas and some coffee to Mr and Mrs Stratton. Perhaps he could open an account at Blackwell's. He would like to purchase his own copy of Mr Paley's Evidence.

"Look at you," said Wardley-Fish. "You look like a grinning scarecrow." Oscar frowned. He had no sense of humour about his appearance. In fact he never had any real idea of it. He thought himself "quite plain and average" in build and physiognomy, and as for clothes, he now imagined himself quite reasonably, if humbly, dressed.

"Of course," he said at last, "I am wearing your coat. Doubtless it creates an odd effect." Wardley-Fish looked at the Odd Bod's wild red hair, his neat triangular face, his earnest prayingmantis hands clasped on his breast and-just when he began to laugh-saw that Oscar was not joking. The Odd Bod imagined himself quite normal.

When they pushed through the crowd towards the paddock, Wardley-Fish was still laughing. He could not stop himself. He laughed while he made his bets. Oscar watched him, smiling. He thought the laugh to do with betting. Wardley-Fish placed his bets in total disregard for the system, going from bookmaker to bookmaker, laying everything on Madding Girl with tears streaming down his face.

My great-grandfather watched him long enough to see how a bet was made and then, selecting Perce Gully, he laid three guineas on Sure Blaze at 9–1.

My great-grandfather won his first bet. In the case histories of pathological gamblers you find the same story told time and time again.

3 °Covetousness

When Mr Stratton entered the comfortable rooms of his Oxford friends-and he was better connected than you would think, and better liked than yo^ might imagine-he was like a dog in front of a fire, having crawled ihto a chair it knows forbidden it, but lying there anyway, farting, whizing, affecting deafness. How he loved Oxford. How he loathed Hennacombe. How cruel was the contrast between them. He did not think his distinguished friends any better than himself. He drank their brancty with a clear conscience. He ate like a horse and allowed himself to accept small "loans"-a crown or two, nothing substantial, although Mr Temple liked to claim it would have been sufficient for an Oxford mansion had Stratton not frittered it all away on train tickets. Once he hiad been differentiated from his friends by his tendency towards High Seriousness. Now he was "poor Stratton" and they made the little loans as imarks of gratitude, that it was he, not they, who had allowed himself lto be mired in Devon by means of an unfortunate marriage-for it vvas Betty Stratton (the daughter of the controversial don) whom they blamed for the poor chap's predicament.

Hugh Stratton iwas not an Oxford Scholar but was a Scholar of Oxford. And as lonelly civil servants in Hong Kong may know more about the goings on in Knightsbridge than anyone who really lives there, so it was with Hutgh Stratton and Oxford. When he brought Oscar up to undergo his interview with Hawkins (the Provost of Oriel) he was also able to bring the news of a certain controversy about the election of Merton Fellowss/ which had travelled to Hennacombe more quickly than it had acros$s the slippery red cobbles of Merton Street. Yet for all this inntimacy with Oxford and its colleges, Hugh Stratton felt himself cast oi)ut. He could not so much as enter the echoing gatehouse of Oriel, coould not even glimpse the lovely bright grass of the front quad, withoout thinking, "I cannot stay." He emerged int

Covetousness

looking down on him. His shabby clothes proclaimed him a poor clergyman with no place here. He had red mud caked on his trouser turnups and the gentlemen of Oriel, encountering him as he cut across to the chapel, averted their eyes from him, but not so much, he imagined, as not to note the fine red capillaries that had begun, just this year, to show on his nose and cheeks. When he brought Oscar through these portals he stopped him here, in the middle of the path across the quad, to tell him that he was jealous of him. But as he did it with a wistful smile upon his face, Oscar had no way of guessing the extent of it. The young man understood him as he might understand any older man pining for his youth. He did guess the jagged edges of this jealousy which had lacerated Hugh Stratton, more on every day that passed, none more than at this moment when they stood inside the quad. One would stay. One would be cast out. But jealousy was not the only serpent stirring the muddy waters of Hugh Stratton's unhappy soul. He could attempt to lay it by admitting it, but the other he could not even admit-the dreadful guilty truth was that he had made no provision for the cost of this education. When his wife had raised the question he had waved his handkerchief as if it were nothing but a march fly to be sent away. "I have told you. He can be a servitor."