. from the migh t/ Of joy in minds that can
no further go, / As high as we have mounted in delight / In our
dejection do we sink as low. Which is why, dear Mr Pascoe, my old
leech-gatherer, I am sitting here propped up against my pillow,
penning these words to you. Have I done the right thing in giving in
to Albacore? In my last letter I was sure I had your approval. Now I
am equally certain that you with your strong principles and
unmoveable moral convictions will despise me for my venality. It's so
very important for me to get you to see my side of things. I am an
innocent abroad here, a pygmy jousting with giants. It is not always
given to us to choose the instruments of our elevation. You must have
felt this sometimes in your relationship with the egregious Dalziel.
You may well have wished on occasion that the glittering prizes of
your career were not in the gift of such a one. And by indignities
men come to dignities. And it is sometimes base.
So if I seem to be asking for
your blessing, it is beca...
Another
interruption!
What soaps my letters are turning
out to be, every instalment ending in a cliffhanger!
And this time
what a climactic interruption, fit to rank with those end-of-series
episodes of shows like Casualty and ER designed to whet
your what-happens-next appetite to such an edge that you will return
as hungry as ever after the summer break.
But I mustn't be frivolous. What
we have here isn't soap, it's reality. And it's tragic.
It was the fearful clamour of a
bell which distracted me.
I leapt out of bed and rushed to
the open window. Since my time in the Syke, I always sleep with my
window open whatever the season. Looking out into the quad I could
see nothing, but I could hear away to the right a growing hubbub of
noise and, when I thrust my head out into the night air and looked
towards it, it seemed to me that the dark outline of the building
forming that side of the quad was already being etched against the
sky by the rosy wash of dawn.
Except it was far too early for
dawn and anyway I was looking north.
Pausing only to thrust my feet
into my shoes and drag a raincoat round my shoulders, I rushed out
into the night.
Oh God, the sight I saw when I
passed from the Q's quad to the D's quad!
It was the Dean's Lodging, no
longer a thing of beauty but now crouched there, squat and ugly as a
marauding monster, with a great tongue of flame coiling out of a
downstairs window and greedily licking its facade.
I hurried forward, eager to help
but not knowing how I could. Firemen bearing hoses from the engine,
which seemed to have got wedged under a Gothic arch that gave the
only vehicular approach to this part of the college, some wearing
breathing apparatus, moved around me with that instancy of purpose
which marks the assured professional.
'What's happening for God's
sake?' I cried to one who paused beside me to cast an assessing eye
over the scene.
'Old building,' he said
laconically. 'Lots of wood. Three centuries to dry out. These places
are bonfires waiting to be lit. Who're you?'
I'm a . . .' What was I? Suddenly
I didn't know. I'm at a conference here.'
'Oh,' he said, losing interest.
'Need someone who knows who's likely to be in there.'
'I do know,' I said quickly.
He turned out to be the Assistant
Chief Fire Officer, a good-looking young man in a clean-cut kind of
way.
I told him that, as far as I
knew, Sir Justinian and Lady Albacore were the only inmates of the
Lodging and tried to indicate from my memory of our tour where they
were likely to be found. All of this he repeated into his
walkie-talkie. Behind him as we talked, I could see that the fire had
reached the upper storeys. My heart began to misgive me that we were
witnessing a truly terrible tragedy. Then his radio crackled with the
good news that Amaryllis was safe and well. But my joy at hearing
this was immediately diluted by the lack of any news about Justin.
It began to rain quite heavily at
this point, which was good news
no further go, / As high as we have mounted in delight / In our
dejection do we sink as low. Which is why, dear Mr Pascoe, my old
leech-gatherer, I am sitting here propped up against my pillow,
penning these words to you. Have I done the right thing in giving in
to Albacore? In my last letter I was sure I had your approval. Now I
am equally certain that you with your strong principles and
unmoveable moral convictions will despise me for my venality. It's so
very important for me to get you to see my side of things. I am an
innocent abroad here, a pygmy jousting with giants. It is not always
given to us to choose the instruments of our elevation. You must have
felt this sometimes in your relationship with the egregious Dalziel.
You may well have wished on occasion that the glittering prizes of
your career were not in the gift of such a one. And by indignities
men come to dignities. And it is sometimes base.
So if I seem to be asking for
your blessing, it is beca...
Another
interruption!
What soaps my letters are turning
out to be, every instalment ending in a cliffhanger!
And this time
what a climactic interruption, fit to rank with those end-of-series
episodes of shows like Casualty and ER designed to whet
your what-happens-next appetite to such an edge that you will return
as hungry as ever after the summer break.
But I mustn't be frivolous. What
we have here isn't soap, it's reality. And it's tragic.
It was the fearful clamour of a
bell which distracted me.
I leapt out of bed and rushed to
the open window. Since my time in the Syke, I always sleep with my
window open whatever the season. Looking out into the quad I could
see nothing, but I could hear away to the right a growing hubbub of
noise and, when I thrust my head out into the night air and looked
towards it, it seemed to me that the dark outline of the building
forming that side of the quad was already being etched against the
sky by the rosy wash of dawn.
Except it was far too early for
dawn and anyway I was looking north.
Pausing only to thrust my feet
into my shoes and drag a raincoat round my shoulders, I rushed out
into the night.
Oh God, the sight I saw when I
passed from the Q's quad to the D's quad!
It was the Dean's Lodging, no
longer a thing of beauty but now crouched there, squat and ugly as a
marauding monster, with a great tongue of flame coiling out of a
downstairs window and greedily licking its facade.
I hurried forward, eager to help
but not knowing how I could. Firemen bearing hoses from the engine,
which seemed to have got wedged under a Gothic arch that gave the
only vehicular approach to this part of the college, some wearing
breathing apparatus, moved around me with that instancy of purpose
which marks the assured professional.
'What's happening for God's
sake?' I cried to one who paused beside me to cast an assessing eye
over the scene.
'Old building,' he said
laconically. 'Lots of wood. Three centuries to dry out. These places
are bonfires waiting to be lit. Who're you?'
I'm a . . .' What was I? Suddenly
I didn't know. I'm at a conference here.'
'Oh,' he said, losing interest.
'Need someone who knows who's likely to be in there.'
'I do know,' I said quickly.
He turned out to be the Assistant
Chief Fire Officer, a good-looking young man in a clean-cut kind of
way.
I told him that, as far as I
knew, Sir Justinian and Lady Albacore were the only inmates of the
Lodging and tried to indicate from my memory of our tour where they
were likely to be found. All of this he repeated into his
walkie-talkie. Behind him as we talked, I could see that the fire had
reached the upper storeys. My heart began to misgive me that we were
witnessing a truly terrible tragedy. Then his radio crackled with the
good news that Amaryllis was safe and well. But my joy at hearing
this was immediately diluted by the lack of any news about Justin.
It began to rain quite heavily at
this point, which was good news
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