Читать книгу An Advancement of Learning - Reginald Hill - Страница 7

If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.

SIR FRANCIS BACON

The Advancement of Learning

There had been a great deal of snow that December, followed by hard frost. A few days before Christmas a thaw set in, temperatures rose steeply, the snow became slush. The sun greedily sucked up the moisture till it saturated the air and impinged on all the senses.

Fog.

You could smell it in the great industrial towns, its edge of carbon and sulphur biting into the windpipe.

You could see it clearly wherever you looked. But it was all you could see.

You could taste it if you walked out in it without a scarf or kerchief wrapped round your mouth.

You could feel it, damp and greasy, on your skin. Almost under your skin.

And you could hear it. No sound passed through it that it did not muffle and crush and make its own.

It made driving difficult but not impossible. If you drove with care, if your motivation was strong and impelling, it was possible to get to your destination.

Flying was impossible.

Airport lounges filled. And overfilled. And over-spilled. Till the atmosphere of damp and smoke and noise and frustration was almost as bad as the fog outside.

Occasionally it raised itself off the ground. Sometimes long enough for a plane to taxi out on the runway. Sometimes long enough for a plane to get away, which made the waiting even more unbearable for those still crammed in the restaurants, bars and lounges.

Confusion breeds confusion. People found themselves separated from their baggage, their tickets, their passports and sometimes even other people. Some went home and bought a frozen turkey the next day. Some cancelled their flights at the airport, some claimed refunds later. Passenger lists became as scrappy as leaves from the Delphic oracle.

Finally a light wind breathed out of the southwest a couple of times and brought back the reassuring stars.

It was a warm wind. It blew gently over half of Europe, melting what remained of the great snows at sea-level.

Higher up, however, it proved more difficult. Which was good, for it was the snow that most of the thousands marching in still dubious queues across black, wet runways were seeking.

But sometimes the wind’s breath blew long enough and hot enough to loosen the grip which the long, frozen fingers of snow had fastened on the side of steep and deep.

Which was bad.

Merry Christmas.

The hot June sun glinted merrily on the placid blue sea, the long white sands, the unconscious sun-bathers and a little farther inland, the balding head of Douglas Pearl, solicitor, through the open windows of the long committee room. A neurotic motion to close the windows in the interests of security had been ignored by the chairman, who now waved Pearl and the girl who accompanied him to their appointed seats.

‘Forgive me, sir,’ said the solicitor, standing up immediately he and the girl had been seated, ‘but before we begin, may I formally establish that all those present are members of the governing body of Holm Coultram College of Liberal Arts and Education?’

‘Of course we are,’ said Captain Jessup, his grey eyebrows twitching in surprise.

‘And you, sir, are Captain Ernest Jessup, the Chairman of this body?’

‘I am indeed, sir,’ said Captain Jessup with greater acerbity, understandable as he and his questioner had played golf together only two days earlier.

‘And I take it, sir, that there is present here today a quorum of that body?’

‘You would not be here else,’ snapped the Captain. ‘Is that all?’

‘I think so, sir,’ said the solicitor, unperturbed. ‘In cases like this it is always as well to establish the standing in law of the body involved right at the beginning. There have been cases …’

‘I’m sure, I’m sure,’ said the Captain. ‘Let’s get a start. I may add I’m quite willing to accept that you are Douglas Pearl, solicitor, and that this is your client, Miss Anita Sewell.’

He smiled frostily at the girl who sat with her head bowed forward so that her long blonde hair hung like a curtain over her face.

‘Now,’ said the Captain. ‘As you all know, this meeting has been convened to hear the appeal of Miss Sewell against a decision of the Academic Board of the college.

‘The Academic Board at a meeting held on May 20th of this year decided that Miss Sewell should be instructed to withdraw from the college. In other words, my dear,’ he said, addressing the girl directly and in a kind voice, ‘you were dismissed.’

Pearl rolled his eyes upwards till the whites showed, a movement Captain Jessup did not miss.

‘The grounds for this decision were that Miss Sewell’s work in all subjects was of a standard sufficiently low to cause concern, and that in one subject, biology, she had sunk below a point from which it was possible for her to attain the lowest pass level by the end of her course. Miss Sewell was informed of this decision and the grounds of it. Later she decided to make use of her right of appeal to the Board of Governors, pending which appeal she has been, I believe, suspended.’

The girl nodded.

‘Now,’ said Captain Jessup, pressing his hands flat on the table before him. ‘Now. We have already seen the academic evidence on the basis of which Miss Sewell was dismissed.’

‘Suspended,’ said Pearl.

Jessup ignored him.

‘So I think the best interests of all would be suited if we passed straight on to the grounds of your appeal, my dear.’

Pearl coughed.

‘Miss Sewell has asked that I should lay out the general grounds of her appeal to start with, Mr Chairman. Then, under my advice, of course, she will be willing to answer questions.’

‘I see. Well, I suppose that’s in order?’ said Jessup. No one seemed disposed to question this.

‘Good. Then carry on.’

The solicitor shuffled a couple of papers in front of him. Under his polite, rather mild exterior there had long lurked a desire to try his hand at the kind of histrionic advocacy popular a century earlier. Magistrates’ courts offered little opportunity. Or encouragement. And looking at the row of attentive faces before him with Jessup’s challenging glare in the middle, he decided reluctantly that in the interests of both his own reputation and his client’s appeal this was not the time to start.

But he wasn’t too worried. What he had to say contained enough built-in drama to take the complacency out of their faces.

‘Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began quietly, ‘my client has been following a bipartite course at the College and the main ground of the Academic Board’s decision to instruct her to withdraw was failure in one part of the course, that concerned with biology. The main evidence to this effect was given by Dr Fallowfield, Senior Lecturer in that subject and Miss Sewell’s principal tutor.’

The girl stirred slightly at the name and with an almost unconscious movement of her left hand brushed the hair back from her face. She was very attractive.

Pearl paused for effect. Captain Jessup made a moue of distaste at even this slight bit of dramatic business and Pearl was glad he had tried no more.

‘Today her appeal comes before you,’ he went on flatly, avoiding any undue stress, ‘and it is based on two things. A piece of information and an allegation. The information requires no comment from this body, I feel. We live in a modern era. It is this: for the past two years, until last term in fact, Miss Sewell was the mistress of Dr Fallowfield, the lecturer I have just mentioned. It is with reluctance that my client reveals this. It is with greater reluctance that she asserts that Dr Fallowfield has deliberately falsified her assessment grades to bring about her apparent failure.’

The man on the ladder rested his elbow unselfconsciously on the shining brown breast.

‘We could saw her off at the ankles,’ he said reasonably. ‘That’d be easiest. Otherwise she’s likely to come apart almost anywhere.’

One of his mates guffawed. The man on the ladder shot him a disapproving glance.

Marion Cargo ignored him and concentrated all her attention on the eight-foot-high bronze nude which towered before her. She (Marion, not the bronze) was in her late twenties, as slim as the nude was Rubenesque, dressed in black slacks and a loose grey sweater, her only concession to the fact that she lectured in Art at the college being her ear-rings, two crystals dangling at the end of long silver chains.

‘There’s a solid block of concrete down there as a foundation, you see, miss,’ explained the man. ‘This thing’s set in it. Pretty solid too, I’d say, otherwise it’d have keeled over long since.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Marion. ‘But I’d rather the legs weren’t cut.’

‘No one’d know,’ assured the man. ‘We’ll dig the base out separate and they can be stuck back together later somehow if the thing’s not going for scrap. She might lose half an inch or so, but she can spare it, eh?’

He slapped the nude affectionately.

‘Like I say, who’d notice? No one, except the joker who made it, perhaps, wherever he is.’

He laughed.

‘That was me,’ said Marion calmly. ‘But it’s not just that. We’ll have to think of a way. I don’t want her cut. There are other reasons.’

She bent down and looked at the inscribed plaque set into the shallow platform on which the statue rested.

TO THE MEMORY OF

ALISON GIRLING

1916–1966

Her memorial is around you.

She was conscious of the overalled men regarding her with semi-amused eyes, but she made no attempt to brush the tears from her eyes before standing upright again.

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I don’t want her cut. There must be a way.’