Jill by Philip Larkin Page B

until Mr. Crouch was forced to admit it was native to him and would never go. He could not advance a step without guidance. The poetry and good writing he studied seemed to mean nothing personal to him: at first Mr. Crouch was pleased with this (Jarrett having been insufferably boring on the subject of the Romantics), but later on he found it a leaden weight. There was no fun in teaching so matter-of-fact a mind, however swift it was to take and develop points that ordinarily the immature mind would miss.
    “The fact of the matter is,” thought Mr. Crouch to himself bitterly, “he could be a really efficient engineer with as just as little trouble and with probably more benefit to the community at large.”
    Aloud he said:
    “In any case, it would be experience.”
    “But an open scholarship, sir.… Surely at my age no one——”
    “Not in ordinary circumstances, no. But these circumstances aren’t, ordinary, surely you realize that. I think you’d stand a fair chance.”
    He questioned John about the progress he had made during the holidays, and decided to see the Headmaster next day.
    The Headmaster could not give him more than half his attention, for he was badgered by problems of blacking-out manywindows and of conducting a ballot among the parents regarding evacuation. “No, I don’t agree,” he flung back over his shoulder as he strode along a corridor. “My advice to anybody now is to get all the scholarships they can in the normal way, and then to go into the Army. Oxford’ll wait. It’s waited long enough.”
    Mr. Crouch shuffled obediently after him.
    “That’s true, sir, but I think he’s got the ability.… It’s only a question of this year instead of next—in his own interests I think it would be advisable for him at least to try.… And in any case, it would be experience.”
    “Does he want to? What does he say?”
    “Oh, he’s very keen, sir.”
    “Well, he can if he likes. I don’t advise it, but he can if he likes.” The Headmaster took out a carpenter’s rule and began measuring a window. “Tell me when you want the arrangements making. Twelve by five and a half.”
    John was irritated by the calm way Mr. and Mrs. Kemp received the news that he was to sit for a scholarship not in a year next spring, but next spring—in a little over six months.
    “Next March?” said Joe Kemp at tea. “Well, that’s a hustle-up.”
    “You’ll not be eighteen—eh, we’re all ’aving to change our plans.” Mrs. Kemp put the teapot down. “Take yer tea, John.”
    “Yes, but it’s not just a matter of time—I shan’t know enough. No one ever sits for an open scholarship till their third year——”
    “Nobbut clever ’uns,” grinned Joe, folding a piece of bread-and-butter to eat with his tinned fish.
    “You don’t understand, dad!” John’s nervousness became flecked with bad temper. “It’s a silly idea.… I don’t know what Crouch is thinking of.”
    “Eh, there’s no harm in trying,” said the father, munching.
    “But there’s no point ! … I can’t get a scholarship before I’ve even sat for Higher—no one ever has.”
    “You never know what you can do till you try.” Mrs. Kemptilted the bowl of fish. “Here, John, have some of the liquor.”
    He held out his plate resentfully. “Oh, you don’t understand. It’s all daft. I s’ll fail, so what’s the use of trying? As sure as I’m sittin’ here——”
    “Well, no one’ll think owt less of you for that,” said Joe Kemp in a reasoning voice. “An’ it’ll be practice.”
    The boy fell silent. Later, when the six o’clock news had been switched off, he renewed his complaints to his father, who was sitting comfortably in the armchair. Joe Kemp said nothing but things he hoped would comfort the boy, but privately he decided to have a word with Mr. Crouch, and later that evening called round to see him. Mr. Crouch was packing a suitcase; he was returning the next day to Watford. The Headmaster