Young Hearts

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Michael had just finished his breakfast in the dining-hall the following morning, when George Saunders came in and sat down next to him. 'Where the devil did you get to last night, old boy?'

'I went for a walk.'

'Anything interesting happen?'

'Not particularly,' Michael lied.

'Kimberton and I have got a plan for your initiation into the Circle.' George, Maurice and James Albury currently represented the entire membership of 'the Circle', and each of them had performed rites of initiation, which took the form of acts of derring-do of various kinds.

'A plan?'

'Your task is to raid old Cummings's drinks cabinet and bring back the two bottles of Vega Sicilia that were given to him by that Spanish Cardinal chappie who came here to stay last summer,' George flashed Michael a wicked grin. 'How does the idea of that appeal to you?'

'But everyone knows Cummings's quarters are impregnable.'

'He's in the habit of leaving his window open at this time of year, you may be interested to learn,' George said. 'What's more, he'll be attending the annual ball on Saturday night, as he does every year.'

'I'll need a ladder.'

'Maurice has an idea as to where you can get one.'

Michael gulped down a mouthful of his tea as he tried to picture himself carrying out the raid. In many ways he was flattered to think that George should be so keen to have him in the Circle, since to be initiated into it was to join a truly select and elite group, whose members could, with some justification, perhaps, consider themselves to be la crème de la crème at Balliol.

'Not a word to a soul about this, mind you,' George said. 'No one knows about it, apart from you and me and Kimbers.'

'Of course not.'

George glanced down at his wristwatch. 'We'd better go or we'll be late for old Rusty's tutorial.'

They set off at a pace out of the building and across the quad, in the direction of Dr. Davis's room. It was pleasantly warm still, and the sun was shining, but there was nevertheless a hint of autumn in the air. Michael loved days like these. 'The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' he quoted as he went along.

They passed through the archway and climbed three flights of stairs, and Dr. Davis's study was at the end of the corridor. They walked in just as Dr. Davis was in the process of relighting his pipe. 'Good morning to you, gentlemen,' he said, 'do come in and make yourselves at home,' and George and Michael bade him good day in return.

Charles Farrington and Digby Driver were already there, sitting in easy-chairs with their books on their laps, whilst Cedric Wyatt and Orlando Bingham had splayed themselves out at either end of the sofa like unruly book-ends. Michael and George sat down in the two chairs that were yet to be taken.

. The room smelt of dust from all the books that were crammed onto the shelves, as well as of polish and tobacco, and the imposing visage of Dr. Davis's grandfather peered down his aquiline nose upon proceedings from the large oil-painting that was hanging on the wall over the fireplace. Out through the window the sun shone over the quad, casting shadows, and the blue sky framed the hallowed spires that struck Michael's youthful imagination, just then, as being like so many batons raised for the purpose of conducting the music of the spheres.

Dr. Davis – or 'Rusty', as he was affectionately known, on account of his ginger hair – applied himself once more to the task of trying to puff some life into his clay-pipe, as he relaxed back into his easy-chair, which was next to the large open fireplace; then he crossed his long legs, and grimaced as if in response to the onset of some sharp and sudden physical pain, before he took his pipe from his mouth and began to recite one of Blake's poems from memory.

Michael recognized the poem and knew therefore that it had as its theme the prevalence, in Blake's day, of venereal disease among prostitutes. What made the poem especially poignant was the fact that many of these prostitutes were children, and they only sold themselves as a final humiliating and despairing measure of defence against the depredations of poverty.

When he had finished reciting the poem, Dr. Davis looked over at George and said, 'Perhaps you might care to give us your thoughts on what Blake is trying to get at here, Mr. Saunders?'

George replied that it was quite obvious that the worm in the verse served as a 'metaphor for the male organ'.

'So you would argue that the intrusive male organ is the villain of the piece, then, would you?' Dr. Davis drawled.

'Mm, yes,' Charles Farrington said. 'One can't help feeling that would make for an interesting reading of the text.'

Just then, the door to the room opened and Maurice Kimberton burst in, looking all flustered and out of breath; and Michael struggled to keep a straight face, as Kimberton, who had about him something of the aspect of the bull in the proverbial china shop, mumbled his apologies, before Dr. Davis invited him to take a seat with an imperious wave of the hand.

The symposium on the war had already begun by the time Michael entered the lecture hall, along with Maurice and George, later that evening, and James Albury was at that moment making a speech.

Having talked of Otto Von Bismarck and the wars he waged with Denmark, Austria and France, which led in turn to the unification of Germany, and the Three Emperors' League of 1878, he was now speaking of how Turkey had become 'the sick man of Europe'. And Michael began to listen intently as James, who was looking rather dapper in the grey suit he was wearing, went on to speak about how, in the period leading up to the outbreak of war, the Balkans had been 'a powder keg at the heart of Europe that was waiting to explode'.

Michael was eager to hear what James was about to say next; but just then, his gaze happened to fall upon the girl he had saved from tripping over outside of the Chequers the night before, and so taken up was he with looking at her that he lost all interest in listening to the speech that James Albury was making. And so, he missed all of what James had to say about the origins of the war, for his only thought was of how he might find an opportunity to talk to this enchantress whose beauty had quite taken his breath away.

James carried on speaking for some ten minutes or so, and then Charles Farrington, a tall, burly, ginger-haired young man with a face full of freckles, stood up and said something or other, the import of which was also quite lost on Michael. But whatever it was that Farrington had said, his speech certainly had the effect of stirring up a large section of the audience, for no sooner had he finished speaking than a tall young man with black hair and an athletic frame, who was unknown to Michael, got to his feet and announced, in a furious tone of voice, that the previous speaker was not only a 'coward', but that his 'talk of pacificism was tantamount to treason' – at which point the audience turned itself into a screaming mob.

The following evening Maurice and George came over to Michael's room, and, talking excitedly and in hushed tones, they quickly ran through the plan of how Michael was to carry out the raid on Cummings's drinks cabinet. Then the conversation moved on to the theme of the annual ball, and George said that he fancied Celia Wickham would be there; and, aiming a wink at Michael, he let it be known that the aforesaid young lady was 'simply wild about Kimbers' and had been 'making a play for him for quite some time'.

Maurice blushed a little when he heard this; and, seeing his response, George continued to rib him all the more, until Maurice countered by suggesting that Lady Ottoline would surely be at the ball as well. What was more, Maurice said, it was rumoured, in certain quarters, that George had once 'been seen out with said young lady about the town'. George hastened to pour scorn on this 'idle rumour', at which point the conversation degenerated into a tickling match. Then when the tickling match had finished – neither man having managed to carry out his threat to tickle the other to within an inch of his life – the three of them went out and down the stairs.

They crossed the quad and entered the large ballroom, the walls of which were lined with young people sitting at tables drinking champagne or cocktails, and the air was full of the sound of the music that the band was playing and of animated chatter and laughter. A large chandelier hung from the middle of the high ceiling, and the dance-floor was filled with young couples. The young men were all dressed alike in evening suits, while the girls in their ball gowns were like flowers swaying in the breeze as they moved in time to the music.

Michael looked around the ballroom and, to his astonishment, there, right before his eyes, was the girl he'd happened to bump into outside of the Chequers the night before last. He had noticed her at the symposium on the war the night before, of course, where he'd been so taken up with her that he'd missed everything that was said… And who, of all people, should she be dancing a waltz with but that awful Charles Farrington fellow.

She was wearing an elegant, strapless ball gown made of white silk, and her bare arms and shoulders looked smooth and cool as marble. Her black hair was swept back over her head and tied in a pigtail, and this had the effect of emphasizing her wonderful bone structure, which could scarcely have been improved upon by a sculptor. She wore a pink orchid in her hair, at the back, where it was tied, and her cheeks glowed with rosy warmth, while her lovely blue eyes seemed to shine, Michael thought, with the calm radiance of sunlight falling on a remote highland lake.

And as though the musicians had taken note of Michael's rapturous mood and were in sympathy with him, the band stopped playing at that moment; and, seizing his opportunity, he went over and tapped Farrington on the shoulder. 'I say, how about giving another chap a chance,' he said. And then, when Farrington stood aside, Michael asked the girl if he might have the pleasure of the next dance.

The girl nodded her assent, but her beautiful blue eyes seemed to look at Michael without really seeing him. Then the band started to play the next piece, and he took her by the hand and waist and they began to move in time with the music. As they did so, the girl glanced about the room as if she were in search of someone, and Michael asked if anything was troubling her. She said that everything was quite all right, before she turned her head and looked at him. 'I say, haven't we met before?'

'Yes – outside of the Chequers the other night. If you recall, I was kind enough to prevent you from breaking your neck.'

'Oh yes, of course,' she smiled. 'I knew I'd seen you somewhere. How stupid of me.'

'Michael Roberts at your disposal.'

'Phoebe Markham.'

'I believe you told me you're at Somerville?'

'Yes, that's right. I'm reading English…What about you?'

'I'm reading English, too,' he said. 'I'm at Balliol.'

Michael found himself becoming nervous, so that his mind went blank and he could think of nothing more to say; and they continued to dance in silence until the music came to an end. Then that Kenneth Claymore chap came and asked for the next dance, damn him, and so Michael smiled and said goodbye to the girl with a little bow of the head.

How wonderfully enchanting she is, he thought. And just then, George came up to him. 'Cummings is here and he's left his window open as usual,' George whispered in his ear. 'So it's now or never.'

Having danced with, and enchanted, several young men that evening, Michael Roberts among them, Phoebe Markham was now dancing with James Albury, who had been courting her with intentions that were obviously serious for the best part of a year, and her face glowed with happiness. Phoebe thought that James looked very elegant in his evening suit, and she knew that, despite his diminutive frame, his was a character that concealed hidden depths men of far greater physical proportions could never hope to possess.

He appeared to have something on his mind right now, though, and was not quite his usual carefree self. When the music stopped she asked him if anything was wrong and he shook his head. 'Yes, it is,' she said. 'Is it something that I've done?'

'Perhaps I should walk you home.'

'What's the rush?' Indeed, the ball was not scheduled to finish for another hour or so.

'There's something I need to talk to you about, Phee.'

'In that case I can see that we'd better go.'

They went over to the cloakroom, and James helped her on with her coat, before he took her by the hand and they went out of the building and through the quad, and then walked on through the streets in the shadows of the town's towering spires, their footsteps beating a tattoo on the flagstones. They passed young couples and revellers as they went along, and they had not gone very far before it began to rain, so they took shelter in a shop doorway.

James held Phoebe in his arms, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. They kissed and then she said, 'Now, what was it that you needed to say to me that's so important?'

'The fact is, Phee,' James sighed, 'there are two things that I need to say to you, and I scarcely know how to begin.'

Phoebe gazed into his eyes, which were visible to her in the light of the streetlamp, and she felt that she could see intelligence and integrity and manly courage in them.

'You know the way I feel about the war, darling,' he said. 'Well, the fact is… I've decided to go and fight.'

Phoebe was too stunned to respond at first, so James asked her if she wasn't going to say something.

'When are you going to enlist?'

'I already have – yesterday,' he said. 'I didn't know how to tell you…I leave on Monday to start my basic training.'

Phoebe's heart was suddenly in her mouth, and tears came to her eyes. 'But why couldn't you wait until you were called up, like most of the other chaps that we know?'

James shrugged and averted his gaze, and Phoebe realized that this was difficult for him as well. It just seemed wrong somehow, he said, to be here malingering when there was a war to be fought. He couldn't respect himself any longer if he didn't go ahead and do his duty. And when she heard him say this, Phoebe threw herself on his neck once more and began to sob.

'Don't cry, my love,' he said. 'I know you wouldn't care for me if I weren't the way I am.'

Phoebe recognized the truth of these words as she gazed into James's eyes, and he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his fingers. 'This weekend could be the last time we see each other for quite some while, Phee,' he said. 'So I wanted to ask you if we might go down to Hove tomorrow, in order that I can ask your father for your hand – if you're agreeable to the idea of our getting married, just as soon as this war is over, that is?'

'Why yes, of course, James darling!' Phoebe cried, and they shared another passionate kiss.