Holland was disappointed with Oxford too, but it didn’t affect him so badly. The war would be over in a matter of months, he said. The European powers simply couldn’t afford to fight on any longer; economists had established this. They had done their duty in volunteering: it wasn’t their fault if they weren’t required. They should make the best of the opportunities Oxford presented. In the first term Holland had formed a group called Les Invalides, consisting of himself, Felix, Taubmann — another consumptive — and two of the more agreeable American Rhodes scholars. They met once a week to discuss anything that was unconnected with the war. But despite the energetic debates on futurism, emancipation of women, the Ballet Russe and Strindberg (Holland’s new idol) and the copious amounts of alcohol they consumed, it was clear that all their efforts amounted to little more than a despairing gesture.
Then had come the news of Gabriel’s capture. First a telegram with black borders saying he was missing in action. This had thrown the entire household into total hysteria, Cressida told him later. Happily, it was swiftly followed by a cancelling telegram. A state of ignorance persisted for a further ten days before the news came that Gabriel had been taken prisoner. Henry Hyams, through his connections at the War Office, managed to ascertain that Gabriel was in fact in a German hospital. During the Christmas vacation a letter arrived from one Major Bilderbeck GSO II (Intelligence), informing them in minute and immaculate handwriting that Gabriel had been severely bayonetted in the abdomen and would have to spend many months under intense medical care if he was to pull through. There was something about the tone of the letter that convinced everyone at Stackpole that it contained nothing but the truth: no hopes raised, none dashed. At least they knew Gabriel was alive (just) and where he was. But for some reason, discovering the details of Gabriel’s plight had an adverse effect on the major. His shock at what he thought was the death of his son was transformed by the news of his wounds into a bleak despair rather than relief. Life in the house became well-nigh intolerable. Many sullen and poisonous looks were directed at Felix as if he were somehow responsible for Gabriel’s dreadful plight. As a result Felix had chosen voluntarily to return to Oxford a week before the start of term where he’d paced the damp January streets in a mood of some depression himself. One morning he numbly accepted two white feathers from a group of stern old ladies in the High without even a glance. He found himself standing some ten minutes later in the Botanic Gardens looking moodily at the swollen brown river, the white feathers still clutched in his hand as if he were posing for some late Victorian painting entitled ‘A Coward’s Remorse’. An old gardener had woken him from his dream when he edged up and reassuringly said, “Don’t you go minding them daft women, sir.”
Holland’s return had boosted his spirits but by then the cold sore had fastened its mysterious but implacable grip upon his face. However, this term Holland seemed less preoccupied with Oxford life as his London one had acquired a new dimension in the shape of a ‘mistress’. She was, according to Holland, an artist’s model, a morphineuse in addition, and someone who made his life hell. She didn’t give a damn for polite society, Holland said, and he was writing some excellent poetry.
With a sigh Felix pushed away his untouched poached eggs. Nothing in his life was going as planned; all his hopes of the past summer had proved vain and ephemeral. University was boring and lifeless. Gabriel was at death’s door in an enemy hospital, the girl he loved didn’t care for him, he was heavily in debt, he had no interest in his studies, he had failed his exams, his family regarded him as a subversive malingerer and his face was disfigured by a loathsome suppurating ulcer.
Dwelling on these misfortunes in turn, Felix slowly got dressed. He had a tutorial at ten with Jock Illiffe, his tutor, an ancient and decrepit don whose rooms were unbearably overheated and stank of cat. There were two of these creatures, fat and fluffy, who had scattered their hairs over every seat and cushion in the room. One week, as an experiment, Felix read to the dozing Illiffe, and the cat that warmed his lap, the same essay he’d declaimed the week before. As on the prior occasion, when Felix had finished reading, Illiffe had opened his eyes, leant back and said, “Well, yes, that seems pretty much to be the ticket.”
Felix still had half a translation to do for the morning’s tutorial but decided there and then that he was going to cut it. Illiffe only realized he was due to take a tutorial if the tutee actually went to the trouble of presenting himself. It was the sole blessing that the war had conferred, Felix admitted: the college had become very slack. It was not difficult to ignore the innumerable petty regulations that cluttered up and interfered with one’s life.
What should he do then? There was a leccer — he corrected himself—lecture in All Souls. Holland deplored Oxford slang. He had ridiculed Felix one day when he’d inadvertently talked about going to a debate in the Ugger, as the Union was commonly known. But the lecture was as unappealing as Illiffe’s tutorial. He could read a novel in the Junior Common Room? Very dull. He’d been doing that all term anyway. What about a walk? Up the Banbury Road to Marston. There was a barmaid there in a pub that had caught his and Holland’s eye the other week. But no, it was still raining. Perhaps he could go and stare at the nurses who were billeted in Merton? Perhaps he should pack up his gear? Term ended the day after tomorrow. This thought depressed him even further. Reading between the lines of his mother’s regular letters, it seemed that his father was taking Gabriel’s capture very hard indeed. God alone knew what kind of Easter vac. he would have.
He belted his overcoat and stood undecided at his door. He walked slowly down the staircase. On the first landing a voice called out. “Hey, Cobb. Hang on a tic. Want a word.” Felix waited outside the room from where the summons had issued. It belonged to a man called Cave-Bruce-Cave, who had joined up immediately war was declared and had his left hand blown off within hours of arriving in France. Reluctantly he’d returned to Oxford to complete his degree. Gave, as he was known for convenience’s sake, was a large fresh-faced man who with limited resources did his utmost to preserve the atmosphere of mindless ragging and frivolous high jinks that had thrived in Oxford’s pre-war days. His missing hand had been replaced by a crude wooden one, and his favourite trick was to set fire to it in restaurants.
“Yes, Cave,” Felix said.
“Look what I’ve got,” Cave said. On his table was a wire cage containing what looked like half a dozen rats squirming and cheeping.
“Rats,” Felix said. “So what?”
“Rat hunt, Cobby. Bit of fun for the end of term. Let ‘em loose in the quad and hunt them down with hockey sticks. I’ve got some of the chaps from the OTC coming over. Fancy a bash?”
“No thanks,” Felix said. “I’m busy.”
“Oh. Where are you off to?”
“Going to see Holland,” Felix improvised.
“Great stuff. Can I come along too?”
“No,” Felix said. Holland liked to use Cave as butt and victim of his jokes. Cave seemed to enjoy being teased by him. “See you later.”
He stepped out of the college doorway and wandered down to Broad Street. The rain had stopped but it was a cold raw day. At the cab stand in the middle of the Broad the cab horses stood with heads bowed and manes dripping. The small wooden stand was covered in posters. “IF YOU CANNOT JOIN THE ARMY TRY AND GET A RECRUIT”
Felix felt a guilty unease which he knew Holland would scold at. He agreed with Holland’s views on the war, he just didn’t have his single-minded conviction about them. In the past he had found that a strong belief in something had proved no impediment to a sudden recantation if and when it proved more convenient. It wasn’t his fault that the army was being so fussy. He only had a slight astigmatism in one eye that manifested itself whenever he was tired or read for more than ten minutes without the aid of his glasses. Hardly a major disability, but it was enough to disqualify him. He had done his duty but he still felt his family’s suspicion: his father’s hatred — it wasn’t too strong a word — and the doubt of his brothers-in-law.