Time for bed. Will I sleep? I thought I had learned in prison how to sleep anywhere in any conditions, but tonight I think I may find it hard to close my eyes. Thoughts wriggle round my head like little snakes nesting in a skull. What do I owe to dear Sam? What do I owe to myself? And whose patronage was the more precious, Linda Lupin's or Justin Albacore's? Which would a wise man put his trust in?
Goodnight, dear Mr Pascoe. At least I hope it will be for you. For me I see long white hours lying awake pondering these matters, and above all the problem of how I'm going to reply to Albacore's offer.
‘I was wrong!
I slept like a log and woke to a glorious morning, bright winter sunshine, no wind, a nip in the air but only such as turned each breath I took into a glass of champagne. I was up early, had a hearty breakfast, and then went out for a walk to clear my head and still my nerves before I read Sam's paper at the nine o'clock session. I left the college by its rear gate and strolled along beside the Cam, admiring what they call the Backs. The Backs! Only utter certainty of beauty allows one to be so throwaway about it. Oh, it's a glorious spot this Cambridge, Mr Pascoe. I'm sure you know it well, though I can't recall whether you're light or dark blue. This is a place for youth to expand its soul in, and despite everything, I still feel young.
I didn't see Albacore until I arrived in the lecture theatre a few minutes before nine and saw his cunicular nose twitch with relief. He must have been worrying that his 'straight talk' last evening had been too much for my weak stomach and I'd done a runner!
He'd arranged for me to have a plenary session and every chair was taken. He didn't hang about – perhaps recognizing more than I did at that moment just how nervous I was – but introduced me briefly with, mercifully, only a short formal reference to Sam's tragic death, while I sat there staring down at the opening page of my lost friend's paper.
Its title was, 'Looking for the Laughs in Death's Jest-Book'.
I read the first sentence – In his letters Beddoes refers to his play Death's Jest-Book as a satire: but on what? – and tried to turn the printed words into sounds coming from my mouth, and couldn't.
There was a loud cough. It came from Albacore, who had taken his place in the front row. And next to him, looking up at me with those big violet eyes I recalled from our sessions in the Syke, was his wife, Amaryllis Haseen.
Perhaps the sight of her was the last straw that broke what remained of my nerve.
Rising from my chair was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. I must have looked like a drunk as I walked the few steps to the lectern. Fortunately it was a solid old-fashioned piece of furniture, otherwise it would have shaken with me as I hung on to it with both hands to control my trembling. As for my audience, it was as if they were all sitting at the 'bottom of a swimming pool and I was trying to see them through a surface broken by ripples and sparkling with sun-starts. The effort made me quite nauseous and I raised my eyes to the back of the lecture theatre and stared at the big clock hanging on the wall there. Slowly its hands swam into focus. Nine o'clock precisely. The distant sound of bells drifted into the room. I lowered my eyes. The swimming-pool effect was still evident, except in the case of one figure sitting in the middle of the back row. Him I could see pretty clearly with no more distortion than might have come if I'd been looking through glass. And yet I knew that this must be completely delusional.
For it was you, Mr Pascoe. There you were, looking straight at me. For a few seconds our gazes locked. Then you smiled encouragingly and nodded. And in that moment everyone else came into perfect focus, I stopped trembling, and you vanished.
Wasn't that weird? This letter I'm writing must have created such a strong subconscious image of you that my mind, desperately seeking stability, externalized it in my time of need.
Whatever the truth of it, all nerves vanished and I was able to put on a decent show.
I even managed to say a few words about Sam, nothing too heavy. Then I read his paper on Death's Jest- Book. Do you know the play? Beddoes conceived it at Oxford when he was still only twenty-one. 'I am thinking of a very Gothic-styled tragedy for which I have a jewel of a name – DEATH'S JESTBOOK – of course no one will ever read it.' He was almost right, but as he worked on it for the rest of his short life, it has to be pretty central to any attempt to analyse his genius.
Briefly, it's about two brothers, Isbrand and Wolfram, whose birthright has been stolen, sister wronged, and father slain by Duke Melveric of Munsterberg. Passionate for revenge, they take up residence at the ducal court, Isbrand in the. role of Fool, Wolfram as a knight. But Wolfram finds himself so attracted to the Duke that, much to Isbrand's horror and disgust, they become best buddies.
Sam's theory is that the whole eccentric course of Beddoes' odd life was dictated by his sense of being left adrift when his own dearly beloved father died at a tragically early age. One aspect of the poet's search for ways to fill the gap left by this very powerful personality is symbolized, according to Sam, by Wolfram finding solace not in killing his father's killer but rather in turning him into a substitute father. Unfortunately, for the integrity of the play that is, this search had many other often conflicting aspects, all of which dominate from time to time, leading to considerable confusion of plot and tone. As for Death, he is by turns a jester and a jest, a bitter enemy and a seductive friend. Keats, you will recall, claimed sometimes to be half in love with easeful death. No such pussy- footing about for our Tom. His was a totally committed all-consuming passion!
Back to my conference debut. I finished the paper without too much stuttering, managed to add a few comments of my own, and finally took questions. Albacore was in there first, his question perfectly weighted to give me every chance to shine. Thereafter he managed the session like an expert ringmaster, guiding, encouraging, gentling, and always keeping me at the centre of things. Afterwards I was congratulated by everyone whose congratulation I would have prayed for. But not Albacore. He didn't come near me, though I caught his eye occasionally through the crowd and received a friendly smile.
I knew what he was doing, he was showing me what he could do.
And I discovered by listening and asking questions some interesting things about the set-up here. At God's the Master is top dog, the present one being a somewhat remote and ineffectual figure, leaving the real power in the hands of his 2i/c, the Dean. (The Quaestor, incidentally, is what they call their bursar.) Albacore in fact is presently deputizing for the Master, who's on a three-month sabbatical at the University of Sydney. (Sydney, for godsake! During an English winter! These guys know how to arrange things!) On his return he will be entering the last year of his office. Albacore naturally enough is in the van of contenders for his job, but, this being Cambridge, the succession is by no means cut and dried. A big successful book, appearing just as the hustings reached their height, would be a very useful reminder to the electorate (which is to say, God's dons – sounds like the Vatican branch of the Mafia, doesn't it?) that Albacore could still cut the mustard academically, and its hoped-for popular success would give him a chance to demonstrate that he had Open Sesames to the inner chambers of that media world where so many of your modern dons long to strut their stuff.
Oh, the more I got the rich sweet smell of it, the more I thought, this is the life for me! Reading and writing, wheeling and dealing, life in the cloisters and life in the fast lane running in parallel, with winters in the sun for those who made the grade.
But I wasn't going to rush into a decision as important as this. I slipped away back here to the Lodging to think it all through and there seemed no better way of doing this than pouring out all my thoughts and hopes to you. Like that vision I had of you this morning, it's almost like having you here in the room with me. I can sense your approval at the now final decision I have reached.
This quiet, cloistered but not inactive nor unexciting life in these most ancient and fructuous groves of academe is what I want. And if giving up Sam's research is the only way for me to get it, I'm sure that's what-he'd have wanted me to do.
So the die is cast. I'll stroll out now and post this letter, then perhaps catch one of the afternoon sessions. If I bump into Albacore, I won't give him any hint of the way I'm thinking. Let him sweat till tonight at least! Thanks for your help.
Yours in gratitude,
Franny Roote
On Monday morning, the mail had arrived just as Pascoe was about to leave.
He took it into the kitchen and carefully divided it into three piles – his own, Ellie's and mutual (mainly Christmas cards).
In his pile there were two envelopes bearing the St Godric's coat of arms.
Ellie was on the school run, which gave him a free choice of reaction and action.
