I had myself not yet fully digested the subject matter of The Green Hat, a novel that I felt painted, on the whole, a sympathetic picture of what London had to offer: though much of the life it described was still obscure to me. I was surprised at Quiggin asking for it. He went on: “In that case I do not expect that I shall like it. I hate anything superficial. But I will take the book and look at it, and tell you what I think of the writing.”
“Do.”
“I suppose that it depicts the kind of world that your friend Stringham will enter when he joins Donners-Brebner,” said Quiggin, as he continued to inspect the book shelf.
“How do you mean?”
“Well you must have heard that he has taken the job that Truscott was talking about at Sillery’s. Surely he has told you that?”
“What, with Sir Magnus Donners?” It was no use pretending that I knew something of this already. I was, indeed, so surprised that only after Quiggin had gone did I begin to feel annoyance.
“I should have thought he would have told you,” said Quiggin.
“Where did you hear this?”
“At Sillery’s, of course. Sillery says Stringham is just the man.”
“He probably is.”
“Of course,” said Quiggin, “I knew at once there would be no chance of Truscott thinking of me. Not good enough, by any manner of means, I suppose.”
“Would you have liked the job?”
I did not know what else to say: the idea of Quiggin being the sort of man Truscott was looking for seeming to me so grotesque.
Quiggin did not bother to reply to this question. He merely repeated, with a sniff: “Not good enough by a long chalk,” adding: “You might come and see me some time in my college, if you can find the way to it. You won’t get any priceless port, or anything like that.”
I said that I was not particularly fond of port; and began to give an account of my likes and dislikes in the matter of wine, which Quiggin, with what I now see as excusable impatience, cut short by saying: “I live very quietly. I can’t afford to do otherwise.”
“Neither can I.”
Quiggin did not answer. He gave me a look of great contempt; as I supposed, for venturing, even by implication, to draw a parallel between a lack of affluence that might, literally, affect my purchase of rare vintages, and a figure of speech intended delicately to convey his own dire want for the bare necessities of life. He remained silent for several seconds, as if trying to make up his mind whether he could ever bring himself to speak to me again; and then said gruffly: “I’ve got to go now.”
As he went off, all hunched up on one side with Public School Verse and The Green Hat under his arm, I felt rather ashamed of myself for having made such a thoughtless remark. However, I soon forgot about this, at the time, in recalling the news I had learnt about Stringham, which I wanted to verify as soon as possible. In general, however, I continued to feel an interest in Quiggin, and the way he lived. He had something of the angry solitude of spirit that held my attention in Widmerpool.
Stringham, when I next saw him, seemed surprised at the importance with which I invested his decision.
“I thought I’d told you,” he said. “As a matter of fact it isn’t finally fixed yet. What awful cheek of your friend Quiggin, if I may say so.”
“What do you think of him?”
“The man is a closed book to me,” Stringham said. “And one that I confess I have little temptation to open. Bill Truscott, on the other hand, was rather impressed.”
“With Quiggin?”
“Curiously enough.”
“Will you work with Truscott?”
“I shall be the other personal secretary.”
“Did Sillery put up the suggestion?”
“He is very keen on it. He agrees one’s family will have to be consulted.”
“Will your family raise difficulties?”
“For once,” said Stringham, “I don’t think they will. My mother will at last see hopes of getting me settled in life. Buster — most mistakenly — will suppose this to be the first step on the stair to a seat on the Donners-Brebner Board. My father will be filled with frank astonishment that I should be proving myself capable of earning a living in any capacity whatsoever.”
“What about a degree?”
“Bill Truscott reports Sir Magnus as demanding who the hell wants a degree these days; and saying all he needs is men who know the world, and can act and think quickly.”
“Strong stuff.”
“I suppose I can take lessons from Bill.”
“Then you won’t come up next term?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
Sillery’s part in this matter was certainly of interest. He might have been expected — as Stringham himself agreed — to encourage as many undergraduates as possible to remain, for as long as possible, within his immediate range. Later on, however, I began to understand something of his reasons for recommending this course. If Stringham remained at the university, it was probable that he would fall under influences other than — and alien to — Sillery’s. Even if he remained Sillery’s man, he was obviously a person who might easily get involved in some scrape for which Sillery (if too insistent on taking Stringham under his wing) might be held in some degree answerable. Placed in a key position in Donners-Brebner — largely due to Sillery’s own recommendation — Stringham could not only supply news of that large concern, but could also keep an eye on Sillery’s other man, Truscott. In due course Sillery would no doubt find himself in a position to renew acquaintance in most satisfactory conditions. In short, power without responsibility, could hardly be offered to Sillery, within this limited sphere, upon cheaper terms. Such a series of crude images would scarcely have suggested themselves in quite this manner to Sillery’s mind — still less did I see them myself in any such clarity — but the apparent paradox of why Sillery threw in his weight on the side of Stringham’s going-down became in due course comparatively plain to me.
“Anyway,” said Stringham, “you’ll be in London yourself soon.”
“I suppose so.”
“Then we’ll have some fun.”
Somehow, I felt doubts about this. Life no longer seemed to present quite the same uncomplicated façade as at a time when dodging Le Bas and shirking football had been cardinal requirements to make the day tolerable. Although I might not feel, with Stringham, that Peter Templer was gone for good, Peter certainly seemed now to inhabit a world that offered limited attractions. The sphere towards which Stringham seemed to be heading, little as I knew of it, was scarcely more tempting to me. Perhaps Widmerpool had been right in advocating a more serious attitude of mind towards the problem of the future. I thought over some of the remarks he had made on this subject while we had both been staying at La Grenadière.
As it turned out, Mrs. Foxe did not show the complacence Stringham had expected in agreeing, at once, that he should cease to be a member of the university. On the contrary, she wrote to say that she thought him too young to spend all his time in London; even going so far as to add that she had no desire for him to turn into “something like Bill Truscott:” of whom she had always been supposed to approve. However, this was an obstacle not entirely unforeseen; in spite of Stringham’s earlier hope that his mother might decide on the spur of the moment that a job was the best possible thing for him.
“Of course that’s Buster,” he said, when he spoke of the letter.
I was not sure that he was right. The tone of his mother’s remarks did not at all suggest arguments put forward at second-hand. They sounded much more like her own opinions. Stringham reasserted his case. The end of it was that she decided to come and talk things over.