Читать книгу The Impudence of Youth - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

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Miss Jane Pope travelled to Cambridge to see John James take his degree. She travelled up with the knowledge that all Yatley knew that not only had her beloved taken a first in the Natural Science Tripos, but that he had headed the list. To the greater part of Yatley the word Tripos meant nothing at all, but it did gather that J.J. Pope had done brilliantly, and was a scholar of great repute.

Mr. Larcombe came down and congratulated Jane.

"James will end up as a professor. Well, well, well!"

Mr. Larcombe was genuinely pleased, because, being a man of some healthy wisdom, he did respect accomplishment, and knew that without it the world would be just a piggery, whatever the urgists might say.

Mr. Cock, the rector, drifted into Jane's shop, and made his characteristic and melancholy mumbling. It seemed to him extraordinary that Jackie Pope should be what—he—Mr. Cock was, a Bachelor of Arts. So much for Christian sense and humility! Moreover, Mr. Cock had scraped a second class in the Classical Tripos.

"I hope, Miss Pope, it won't affect your nephew's, a'hem—head."

Aunt Jane answered him with a question.

"Did it affect yours, sir?"

"What?"

"Taking a degree."

Mr. Cock gazed at her, moon-eyed and sorrowful. Surely the woman should know that the conditions could not be compared, and that he, as the son of a Canon of Shrewsbury, had not suffered from inflation over, a'hem, a second class?

Aunt Jane felt sorry for him. He was a poor, spunkless thing.

"Don't you worry about James, Mr. Cock. He was born with a big head. So, you see!"

Mr. Cock did not see. A hereditary largeness of head did not prevent a young fellow from developing cerebral tumescence. Moreover, he was not really worrying about John James, for no one at the rectory was pleased by J.J.'s success.

"Well, I hope it will be—so."

"Big heads have a right to feel big," said Miss Pope, rather tartly.

So Miss Pope travelled up to Cambridge in a June that did not flame in journalese, but was just old John Dreary the English clerk of the weather. J.J. had found rooms for her, and she sat in the gallery of the Senate House and watched that little figure in its hired white rabbit-skin kneel down to be dubbed bachelor. Aunt Jane's face was proud and maternal. This, in a sense, had been her life's job, and she was watching the fruition of it.

J.J. and Aunt Jane walked back to St. Jude's, and climbed the stairs to the top floor. Miss Pope climbed them deliberately, for she was growing stout and short of breath. And there, in the narrow lobby, J.J. kissed her.

"Thank you, for everything."

"It's you who have done it, my dear."

"Not without you, Auntie."

"Well, I've enjoyed it, my dear, every bit of it."

Luncheon was laid. J.J. had given thought and affection to that lunch. There was cold salmon and cucumber, and a gooseberry tart and cream. Miss Pope had a wholesome liking for good food. But the most significant offering was half a bottle of white wine, and good white wine. It was the first bottle of its kind that J.J. had ever purchased.

J.J. had gone up to London to interview the Dean of St. Mark's Hospital, and Miss Pope, it being a Wednesday and early closing day, sat under the Blenheim Orange with her Post Office Deposit Book in her lap. It was not that she was considering ways and means, but rather the manner and the inspiration of her purpose. Two or three more years would have to pass before John James would be a qualified doctor, and though he had assured her that he could live on two pounds a week and probably make that money himself, Miss Pope was not for niggling.

Miss Pope smiled over her deposit book. It represented money and power, and money should be used. When she died, and she knew what J.J. did not know, that something was failing in her, all her money would be his. Why not equip him with a part of it now?

J.J. was to be back for tea. On a still day Yatley could hear the trains running in the valley, and Miss Pope heard the 3.25 go down to Dewhurst. In half an hour or so J.J. would be with her, and she rose and went in to put the kettle on, and cut her bread and butter. Raspberry jam? Yes, she would put out raspberry jam, and they would take their tea in the garden. J.J. liked to be out of doors, hatless, and often coatless, as though his large and active head and swift small body rebelled against anything that cramped and confined them. Miss Pope was carrying out the tea-tray when she heard the side door open and close.

"That you, John?"

"Yes."

"You're early, my dear."

"Mr. Larcombe gave me a lift."

"We're having tea outside. Come and help."

She knew at once by his face that the day had not been too good a day for him. He would display a kind of brittle gaiety that could be ironic when he had met obstruction or unfriendliness, but he was not one of those blind egoists who could not see when a woman was tired.

"You sit down. I'll do things. It's a bit stuffy to-day."

He had looked at her consideringly and affectionately, and she accepted his diagnosis.

"Yes, it's the heat, my dear, the first we've had this year. I always wilt a little."

"You go and sit down. I'll do gyp."

She returned to her chair under the tree, knowing that he liked doing these things for her. Well, wasn't that a comfort after all these years? Also, it is usual for the young to be so self-absorbed that they expect things done for them, not to do them. J.J. was quite a capable cook; he did not mind helping to wash up; he always cleaned his own boots, and made his own bed.

"Raspberry jam, Auntie!"

"Yes, I thought you'd like it."

"I do. Shall I pour out?"

"Yes, my dear, you can."

She watched his quick hands at work. Would he ever find a woman who could understand the significance of those hands? Miss Pope did not ask him questions; she waited; she could be wise in waiting. He always remembered that she liked two lumps of sugar.

"Help your glycogen, Auntie. Good stimulus."

"What's glycogen, my dear?"

"The sugar stored in your liver. I think the gentleman I met to-day must have had a liver."

"Oh, that's a pity."

"A rather natural reaction, perhaps. Ward had written to him about me. A mistake I imagine. People with hard-boiled heads don't like being prompted."

"Was he like that?"

"Yes, rather like a large white egg, and a little stale. Or a gander in a bad temper. Almost hissed at me. I think I put my foot in it."

"How?"

He was spreading raspberry jam on his slice of bread and butter.

"Well, like this. Ward must have spread too much jam on my reputation. I suppose these London chaps may feel prejudiced against someone who has been to Oxford or Cambridge. My friend the Dean was rather hoity-toity with me, and then I put my foot in it."

"How, dear?"

"I explained that I had to keep myself, or wanted to, and I asked him whether I could do some coaching. He snubbed me; said that if a lame duck needed help, his own men ought to have the preference in the matter of fees, and that, in a sense, I was only an interloper. Well, of course, that's true."

Miss Pope, sipping her tea, looked at him over her cup.

"Jealousy, maybe. You'll get it."

"Oh, I suppose so."

She nodded her head at him.

"Just laugh it off, my dear. Besides, we need not bother about your Dean. I've had an idea. You know, John, you'll be having all my money, so I am going to let you have some of it now."

He sat very still, regarding her.

"Call it a loan, Auntie."

"No. We don't lend to those we love."

"You have given me so much."

"Well, you've been my hobby."

"No, Auntie, I don't like the idea."

"Fudge, John. What's the use of money lying idle? I call this an investment. Don't flout me, my dear. I want you to feel independent. I want you to have a place to work in."

"Oh, just how?"

"Well, what you would call your lab. I expect you could get an extra room or something."

His face lit up. He sat a moment, staring at his teacup. Then he got up and kissed her.

J.J. took a week's holiday, and he spent it in London. So far as medical education was concerned, the close season was approaching when most students were dispersed upon holidays, and the eminent members of the staff were to be found in Switzerland, or Austria, or shooting grouse and partridges, or just lazing in the country. J.J. was not a person who needed educating. He had taken his anatomy and physiology at Cambridge, and was as ready for the second part of his M.B. as any man could be. Self-education was the thing, getting your eyes and ears and hands to work upon the diseased and the sick, and that was the life of a hospital. He had been appointed clinical clerk to Sir James Fraser, a very delightful gentleman whose weakness lay in a prejudice in favour of exteriors. J.J. appeared in every possible out-patient department, eyes, nose and throat, skins, children, medical and surgical. Members of the staff began to ask each other the question:

"Who is that funny little chap who turns up like a poor relation?"

"Fellow with the hydrocephalic head and infantile legs?"

"That's the man. Does he come to you?"

"Yes."

"I think it's a fellow named Pope. Down from Cambridge. Supposed to be something rather special."

"I had to snub him the other day."

"Oh, why?"

"Asked an infernal lot of questions, and had the cheek to argue about a point in chemistry."

When enthusiasm for the truth oversteps discretion, seniority is apt to take offence. Students were expected to stand or sit in a respectful circle and be mute. J.J. was still reading German, and one afternoon, in a little lecture upon a new synthetic product originating in Germany, the physician in charge of a particular out-patient department, misquoted the monograph on the subject. No doubt, it was very unwise of J.J. to pipe up and correct him.

"I think Bergman meant so and so, sir."

The junior physician was a rather florid and dramatic person, and his colour increased, and his eyes became angry.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I think Bergman——"

"And who the devil are you?" said the eyes of seniority.

"The German version, sir——"

"You read German?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps not very accurately."

The physician, having administered the snub, continued with the case in hand.

It was unfortunate that so early in his career J.J. Pope should have earned the reputation of being a prig. The member of the staff whom he had offended spoke openly of the incident to others in the hospital board-room. Who was this little fellow with the enlarged head who had the impertinence to argue with and correct his seniors? Sir James Fraser, under whom J.J. was clerking, was present during this conversation, and Sir James was not a lover of uppish young men who lacked both birth and manners.

"One of my clerks, I believe."

"I think a little reducing treatment is indicated, sir."

Much of this was in the future, and at the moment J.J. Pope was staying for a few nights in an obscure and stuffy Bloomsbury boarding-house, while he explored the neighbourhood for rooms and a possible private lab. He had five hundred pounds to his credit, Aunt Jane's investment in faith, and no one but J.J. knew how profoundly that gift had affected him. All that he was and had accomplished he owed to himself and to this ageing woman who had given him a strangely impartial and unclutching affection. Bloomsbury was veritable Bloomsbury in those days, still smelling of the Georges, Dickens, and Vanity Fair, and the droppings of cab-horses and the great beasts which drew the railway vans over thundering stone-sets. It was solid and solemn, if not wholly respectable. Even the Foundling Hospital had implications of its own. The great squares with their plane trees were as significant as their names: Brunswick, Bedford, Russell, Mecklenburg. The tall railings hedged a guarded privilege, prospects of propriety and peace, and rightly so. Bloomsbury was still mahogany, and soft black brick.

Unicorn Place accepted him. No. 7 was on the hospital lodging list, and the top-floor rooms were vacant at twenty-five shillings a week, including breakfast and a simple supper. Coal, of course, was extra, and only one meal was provided on Sundays. No. 7 was kept by a Mrs. Dally, and two tall grim daughters, Phoebe and Ophelia, and obviously those who had christened them had had no feeling for the future. If they had dallied, they were neither Phoebe nor Ophelia. The old lady was seen but rarely, rustling in black and coifed with a huge white cap. She looked exactly like an animated corpse.

It was Miss Phoebe who showed J.J. the rooms. She stood in the doorway, holding the brass handle of the mahogany door as though no unmarried woman should enter a room to be alone in it with a man. J.J. looked out of the window, and saw the trees of the Foundling Hospital and of Brunswick square, and obliquely a row of houses rising like a dark cliff. He could see a section of the hospital forecourt, and a part of one quaint white colonnade. There was space here, and a largeness of sky, and the umbrage of trees.

Meanwhile, he listened vaguely to Miss Phoebe's dry declaiming.

"Latchkeys are provided, but we like our young gentlemen to be in by ten. Twenty-five shillings a week, coal half-a-crown a scuttle. A hot bath twice a week, sixpence extra."

J.J. was more absorbed in the view than in her ordinances.

"Does Handel still play the organ at the Foundling?"

Miss Phoebe understood neither his puckishness, nor his lack of attention to business.

"I do not know the name of the organist. We sit under Mr. Spurgeon."

J.J. turned to explore the bedroom which opened from the sitting-room. So, they sat under Mr. Spurgeon? Miss Phoebe Dally did not look much of a cushion.

"I take it you do the catering?"

"Of course. Plain, good food, you understand."

J.J. had disappeared into the bedroom. This, most certainly, was a celibate show where giggles and shy encounters upon the stairs would not vex him. The bedroom was a mere slip of a room, with the bed and a vast mahogany wardrobe confronting each other like two tyrannies competing for space, but the window did not give upon the street, and J.J., being a countryman, liked to sleep in peace.

He reappeared.

"Plenty of cats, I presume?"

Miss Phoebe Dally's very stupid eyes were hard pebbles below her sandy eyebrows. Cats, indeed! This young man appeared to be a very odd and rather ridiculous person. Cats, indeed!

"I beg your pardon!"

J.J. smiled at her. The fanciful suggestion flitted to him that this creature was like a sandy cat in a gooseberry bush, glaring with ground-glass eyes.

"I mean in the gardens. You see, I read a great deal at night."

Miss Phoebe's reaction was instant, and concerned the gas.

"Late hours. We should have to charge extra for light."

"I could use candles, you know."

"We like the lights out at ten-thirty."

J.J. was to discover that one or other of the austere daughters patrolled the stairs at night to look for slits of light under the doors, but the view from the window of No. 7, and its Georgian atmosphere pleased him.

"I'll take the rooms."

"We like a deposit."

J.J. produced two sovereigns from a purse.

"Will that do?"

Her narrow, flat hand accepted the coins.

"Yes. When will you come in?"

"To-morrow."

"I take it the Dean sent you?"

"Yes. I can vouch for my own respectability."

Never once did she smile. In her drab life not even the dust danced when the sun shone.

J.J. said farewell without regrets to his Bloomsbury boarding-house. It was not a place to eat in, much less to sleep in. The boiled cabbage, soapy potato, red-edged meat regime had antagonised his fastidious stomach, and he had slept between a fat man who snored, and a faded cantatrice who had practised the high notes while going to bed at any strange hour. Cheese, good butter and bread, and fresh fruit seemed to J.J. so much more wholesome than the messes that frowsy cooks and kitchens concocted. No. 7, Unicorn Place was an improvement. He could sleep here, and the food was plain but good. The Dally family might be lean and acid, but it did possess a kind of austere pride, and like many of the unlovely people it was efficient and honest.

It took J.J. a week to discover his lab. He found it in Mortimer Mews, a stable and coach-house which had been converted into a workshop by a dentist's mechanic who had gone elsewhere. Gas had been laid on, and the place promised to suit him admirably. The two little rooms above were let to a young woman who owned a part share in a small millinery and hat-shop in Roper's Row. J.J. paid a deposit, and became a yearly tenant, with the promise that if the rooms above him became vacant he should be given the chance to take them.