The Book And The Brotherhood

where each book was. Gerard had always recognised his friend as being, in some radical such metaphysical sense, more solid than himself, more dense, more real, more contingently existent, more full of being. This ‘being' was what Levquist had referred to when he said of Jenkin, 'Where he is, he is.' It was also paradoxical (or was it not?) that Jenkin seemed to lack any strong sense of individuality and was generally unable to 'give an account of himself'. Whereas Gerard, who was so much more intellectually, collected and coherent, felt sparse, extended, abstract by contrast. This contrast sometimes made Gerard feel cleverer and more refined, sometimes simply weaker and lacking in weight. At Oxford Jenkin had, as Levquist approingly remarked, 'cut out' philosophy, and followed linguistic and literary studies throughout his degree. As a schoolmaster lic had at first taught Greek and Latin, later French and Spanish. At the polytechnic, and at school, he also taught history. He was learned, but without the will and ambitions of A scholar. He came from Birmingham and Birmingham Grammar School. His father, recently dead, had been a clerk in a factory and a Methodist lay preacher. His mother, also a Methodist, had died earlier. Gerard had used to accuse Jenkin believed in God, which Jenkin denied. Nevertheless, something remained from that childhood which Jenkin believed in and which made Gerard anxious. Jenkin was a serious man, possibly the most deeply serious man whom Gerard knew; but it was not at all easy to predict what forms that seriousness might take.

'Gerard, do sit down,' said Jenkin, 'stop walking round the mom and rearranging things.'

'I like walking.'

'It’s your form of meditation, but it should be done in the i iprn air, you're not in prison yet. Besides, I'm here and you're bothering me.'

'Sorry. Don't cook the wine, how many times must I tell you.'

Gerard removed the wine bottle from the tiles and sat down opposite to his friend beside the fire in one of the upright invagrely upholstered wooden-armed chairs, rumpling with Isis feet a small Chinese rug which he had given Jenkin several Christmases ago. Jenkin leaned down and straightened the rug.

`Have you decided what you're going to write?'

`No,' said Gerard frowning. 'Nothing perhaps.'

^`Plato, Plotinus?'

`I don't know.'

`You once said you wanted to write on Dante.'

`No. Why don't you write on Dante?'

`You translated yards of Horace once. You could translate the whole of Horace into English verse.'

`Are you serious?'

'I love your translations. You don't want to write about your childhood?'

`Good God no!'

Or about us at Oxford?'

`Don't be silly, dear boy!'

`It could be a piece of social or political history. What about art? I remember that monograph you wrote on Wilson Steer. You could write about pictures.'

`Only frivolously.'

`A novel then, an intellectual philosophical novel!' `Novels are over, they're finished.'

`Why not just relax and enjoy life? Live in the present. Be happy. That's a good occupation.'

`Oh do shut up -'

`Seriously, happiness matters.'

‘I'm not a hedonist. Neither are you.'

‘I sometimes wonder- Well, it looks as ifyou'll have to write a philosophy book.'

`Let's leave this subject, shall we?'

Jenkin did not want, just now, to have an intense conversation with Gerard. There were just certain moves to be gone through, without, he hoped, raising certain subjects. Although he had known Gerard so well for so long he still attempted to manage or construct the conversations which he had with his awkward and sometimes sharp- tongued and touchy friend. Although he was, as they all were, very interested in 'what Gerard will do', he felt enough, for a sort of politeness, had been said. If he went on Gerard would become depressed or annoyed. It was obviously a painful topic. Jenkin mostly wed to tell Gerard about his plan for going on a package tour to Spain for Christmas. Of course Gerard would not want to come because he loved English Christmases. And Jenkin liked travelling alone. He began, 'I'm thinking of-'

‘Have you seen Crimond lately?'

Jenkin flushed. This was one of the subjects he wanted to keep off. Jenkin had no absolute objection to telling lies, but never told any to Gerard. He said truthfully, 'No, I haven't seen him again, not since -' But he felt guilty. He looked at Gerard, so sleek and collected in his bottle-green jacket, his sculptured face shadowed by the lamp, his eyes narrowed as lic looked down into the gas fire. Gerard was smoothing his thick dark curly hair, tucking it back behind his ears. He was wwring an almost inaudible sigh. What is he thinking? Jenkin wondered.

I hate it that Jenkin sees Crimond, Gerard was thinking. It weakens our position. Though heaven knows what exactly our position is. A position should be a strong point to move from. hut what move can we make? God, it's all got so horribly mixed up and messy.

'Of course we'll have Guy Fawkes as usual,' said Jenkin.

'Guy Fawkes. Of course. Gideon will want to send up all the rockets.'

'And then it'll be time for the reading party and then we'll he in sight of Christmas.' It's like talking to a child, thought Jenkin. The, once or twice yearly, reading parties at Rose's house in the country had been going on, with a number of longish intervals, ever since they were students. Rose and Gerard had recently revived the custom which had lapsed for a while.

'Oh yes – the reading party -'

`Will you invite Gulliver?'

'Yes.' Gerard frowned and Jenkin looked away. Gerard felt guilty before Jenkin about Gulliver Ashe. Jenkin had actually said, 'Don't lead him up the garden.' Gerard had, probably, undoubtedly 'encouraged' Gulliver, vaguely, not with anything in view, not for any good reason, not for any reason really except that he had looked rather beautiful when Gerard was feeling lonely. Of course nothing happened except that Gerard seemed to be 'taking him up' and making him a bit of a favourite. Gerard's interest had proved ephemeral; what remained were Gulliver's accusing glances, a resentful all having rights, a faint impertinence.

`Gull still hasn't got a job,' said Jenkin.

'I know!'

The summer and the autumn had changed many things Jenkin had been to a summer school and to Sweden oo it package tour. Rose had stayed with her father's relatiow, iii Yorkshire and her mother's relations in Ireland. Gerard had been to Paris, then to Athens to see an archaeological friend, Peter Manson, who was working at the British School. Tanta had unexpectedly given up the university and taken a job in a publishing firm which Gerard had found for her. Of couple Gerard had offered Violet financial help, he had offered it in his father's name, and Violet had rudely refused it. Gerard fill guilty about Tamar, he now felt he ought to have made nioisi, effort to discover what was going on. Violet said Tamar wan fed up with Oxford, Tamar confirmed this, Gerard, annoyed with Violet, failed to pursue the matter. He had been unhappy and preoccupied at the time, grieving about his father, dismantling and selling the house in Bristol, so full of childhood relics, feuding with Pat and Gideon, worrying about Crimond, worrying about Duncan. Duncan had ostentatiously taken no leave and worked throughout the summer. News of_. Jean and Crimond was sparse. They were said to be still living in Crimond's house in Camberwell. They were rumoured to have been to a conference in Amsterdam.

'I hope Duncan will come to the reading party,' said Gerard. 'Christ, I wish I knew what to do about him.'