The Book and the Brotherhood Read Online Free

Cambus whom she later married. Jean was a clever academic who should, Rose felt, have ‘done something’ instead of just being a wife. Jean and Duncan were childless. Jenkin Riderhood was, and had always been, a schoolmaster. He was now senior history master in a London school. He had never applied for a headship. He was a diffident solitary man, easily pleased by small treats. He knew a number of languages and liked going on package tours. He was known to have had some romances (that seemed to be the word) with girls at Oxford, but his later sex life seemed to be non-existent, was at any rate invisible.
    Jenkin said, ‘I’ve just been to look at my old rooms. There was an undergraduate there writing an essay. He called me “sir”.’
    ‘I’m glad he had such good manners,’ said Rose, ‘they don’t all.’
    ‘What’s it like out there?’
    ‘A forest in Ancient Egypt,’ said Gerard. ‘I hope the champers is holding out?’
    ‘Bags of it. Piles of sandwiches too.’
    Jenkin, who was sweating and flushed with drink, brought forward a plate of cucumber sandwiches and began to mop up with a napkin some of the champagne which was swimming about on the table. He was stout, not tall, and looked fidgety and bulgy in his evening dress which was old and made for a considerably slimmer Jenkin. He had however retained his boyish look and clear soft complexion and could be better described as chubby. His faded strawy blond hair hung down about his head, still concealing a small bald patch. He had streaky blue-grey eyes, a pursed-up thoughtful often-smiling mouth and longish teeth. His face was saved from being cherubic by a rather long substantial nose which gave him an animal look, sometimes touching, sometimes shrewd.
    ‘I’m sorry Pat couldn’t come,’ said Gerard, pouring some champagne for Rose. Jenkin was to have been, in Gideon’s absence, Patricia’s partner.
    ‘Oh I’m OK,’ said Jenkin, ‘loving it. Damn! Sandwichesshould bloody stay together.’ His cucumber had leapt out onto the floor.
    ‘Did Violet say why she couldn’t come?’ said Rose.
    ‘No, but one knows why. She doesn’t want to see a lot of happy laughing young people. She doesn’t want to see a lot of happy laughing us.’
    ‘Who is to blame her?’ murmured Jenkin.
    ‘She was probably glad to be asked,’ said Rose. ‘She may not have wanted to see Tamar being so happy. Parents can love their children and envy them too.’ She added, ‘We must do something about Violet.’ This was often said.
    ‘I didn’t spot Tamar and Conrad, did you?’ said Gerard. ‘I forgot to tell them to come up here for drinks.’
    ‘They won’t want to be with us!’ said Rose.
    ‘They look so young, the young, don’t they,’ said Gerard. ‘Ah,
la jeunesse, la jeunesse
! All those clear smooth transparent unspoilt unworked faces!’
    ‘Not like ours,’ said Jenkin, ‘scrawled over with passion and resentment and drink!’
    ‘You two look like children,’ said Rose, ‘at least Jenkin does. Gerard looks like –’ Wanting to avoid some ridiculous comparison she left the sentence unfinished.
    ‘We were children
then
,’ said Gerard.
    ‘You mean we were Marxists,’ said Jenkin. ‘Or we imagined we were Platonists or something. You still do.’
    ‘We thought that we could live some really civilised alternative society,’ said Gerard, ‘we had faith, we believed.’
    ‘Jenkin still believes,’ said Rose. ‘What do you believe in, Jenkin?’
    ‘The New Theology!’ said Jenkin promptly.
    ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Rose.
    ‘Don’t you mean the New Marxism,’ said Gerard, ‘isn’t it much the same thing?’
    ‘Well, if it’s new enough –’
    ‘New enough to be unrecognisable!’
    ‘I never go to church,’ said Jenkin,’ ‘but I want religion to go on somehow. There’s a battle front there, where religion and Marxism touch.’
    ‘Not yours,’said Gerard, ‘I mean not your battle. You don’t want to fight for Marx!