his tears. Jacqueline, robustly, ruthlessly, required him to be interested in things not himself. She dragged him to lectures, which after a time he heard; she bombarded him with her own problems, which his curiously apt mathematical mind solved ingeniously without his emotions needing to uncoil from their shell; she made him go on field studies trips when he could hardly drag one foot after the other; she involved him in her own passion for what was beginning to be generally known as ecological studies. When in spite of his pain he found he was interested, Jacqueline made him know he was interested, made him see he was alive. He sat with her once in a cave in a storm up on Saddle Moor: it was a cave with stony walls and a roof of dark earth, through which poked wiry roots of things clinging to the surface somewhere above. They made their way through airand nosed back into earth. They hung and twisted, out of their elements. As the storm raged, water began to soak through into the cave, streaking the earth with dark rivulets, shining in sudden drops and splinter-shapes on the rock face, dripping down the blind roots. He often dreamed of those dark patches, those few bright drops. That was how it was. It was Jacqueline’s tough exactitude that make him recognise that that was how it was, that the water was making its way in.
Marcus knows he is guilty of Stephanie’s death. He does not know what to do with this knowledge. He knows that the one person—apart from the dead—whom he has mortally hurt is Daniel, though he knows also that irremediable harm has been done to Will and Mary, and, beyond them, to Bill and Winifred. He does not think of Frederica as someone wounded by what happened. He knows that for him to sink into grief and guilt will do no good, so he does not, but this does not help. He thinks Daniel should not have rushed abruptly off to London, and thinks he should not blame Daniel for things, but think of his own blame. At the same time, he does his work well, very well, and is interested in his colleagues. He lives, and somewhere else he stays, as Daniel does, but differently, in that terrible place with that terrible knowledge.
Bill opens his letters, which have just arrived. One, in a brown envelope, he leaves till last, and then laughs when he reads it. It is palely typed, on official writing paper. Bill says, “This is from Alexander Wedderburn. They have put him on a government committee to study the teaching of English. It is to be called the Steerforth Committee, after its chairman, who is Philip Steerforth, you know, the anthropologist; they wouldn’t put an
English
specialist in charge of an English enquiry, not bloody likely. Our grammatical Vice-Chancellor is on the list, old Wijnnobel, I see, but not chairing it. Alexander was never more than a hit-and-miss teacher—well, he says as much here—he wants me to submit evidence to the committee because, he is kind enough to say, I am the best teacher he knows. He says he will be visiting schools and hopes to come by; he says he can pick the parts of the country he visits, and hopes to spend some time up here. I shall write to him about the wonders of Miss Godden’s Top Class writing projects. I may well write some evidence for him. It won’t do any good—I’ve never known one of these things
do any good
—but some good ideas, some sound principles, lying about in the Education Ministry, who knows?”
Daniel says he has seen Alexander, and Jacqueline asks if Alexander is writing any more plays. Nobody knows. Daniel asks Jacqueline about Christopher Cobb, the naturalist who runs the field station, and Jacqueline says he is away, at a pesticide conference in Leeds. Bill remarks that Cobb has become very vociferous about crop-spraying and seed-dressings, and Jacqueline says he has had to be, nobody understands what is being done to the earth. Only Marcus knows—and Marcus only partly—what happened to Jacqueline in 1961 and 1962, when they
Marcus knows he is guilty of Stephanie’s death. He does not know what to do with this knowledge. He knows that the one person—apart from the dead—whom he has mortally hurt is Daniel, though he knows also that irremediable harm has been done to Will and Mary, and, beyond them, to Bill and Winifred. He does not think of Frederica as someone wounded by what happened. He knows that for him to sink into grief and guilt will do no good, so he does not, but this does not help. He thinks Daniel should not have rushed abruptly off to London, and thinks he should not blame Daniel for things, but think of his own blame. At the same time, he does his work well, very well, and is interested in his colleagues. He lives, and somewhere else he stays, as Daniel does, but differently, in that terrible place with that terrible knowledge.
Bill opens his letters, which have just arrived. One, in a brown envelope, he leaves till last, and then laughs when he reads it. It is palely typed, on official writing paper. Bill says, “This is from Alexander Wedderburn. They have put him on a government committee to study the teaching of English. It is to be called the Steerforth Committee, after its chairman, who is Philip Steerforth, you know, the anthropologist; they wouldn’t put an
English
specialist in charge of an English enquiry, not bloody likely. Our grammatical Vice-Chancellor is on the list, old Wijnnobel, I see, but not chairing it. Alexander was never more than a hit-and-miss teacher—well, he says as much here—he wants me to submit evidence to the committee because, he is kind enough to say, I am the best teacher he knows. He says he will be visiting schools and hopes to come by; he says he can pick the parts of the country he visits, and hopes to spend some time up here. I shall write to him about the wonders of Miss Godden’s Top Class writing projects. I may well write some evidence for him. It won’t do any good—I’ve never known one of these things
do any good
—but some good ideas, some sound principles, lying about in the Education Ministry, who knows?”
Daniel says he has seen Alexander, and Jacqueline asks if Alexander is writing any more plays. Nobody knows. Daniel asks Jacqueline about Christopher Cobb, the naturalist who runs the field station, and Jacqueline says he is away, at a pesticide conference in Leeds. Bill remarks that Cobb has become very vociferous about crop-spraying and seed-dressings, and Jacqueline says he has had to be, nobody understands what is being done to the earth. Only Marcus knows—and Marcus only partly—what happened to Jacqueline in 1961 and 1962, when they
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