Simon, looking back with the insight of more than a decade of student troubles, but it had been a first-class scandal, in those days. Two girls pregnant, a lecturer dismissed, rumours of grouped nude poses (the Young Spartans) and a threat of a withdrawn local grant. The very thought of it had driven the nice, good-natured Mr Phillips into a blind rage. And there lay Julie’s hopes, shattered. She was heartbroken. Her friends in the Coffee Bongo tried to cheer her up, telling her she wasn’t missing much, it was a lousy place, it was no good anyway, but the fact that it had produced a scandal made Julie pine for it all the more. She knew her father wouldn’t dare to stop her associating with her friends, but she had wanted to be one of them, she had wanted to be accepted.
(Odd, during the whole business, thought Simon, that he had not once bothered to ask himself whether or not she had any talent. He had simply assumed that she had not. And he had been wrong in that, as in so many other things.)
After her disappointment over the Art College, Julie had seemed to depend upon Simon more and more. And it was at this point, long before their marriage, that he began to feel himself trapped. He had thought her gay, insensitive, extrovert: he found her increasingly vulnerable, suffering, suspicious. He would willingly, at this point, have ditched her, swimming bath, tennis court, wealthy father and all, but it was too late. She wouldn’t let him go. She knew, somehow, with the horrible knowledge of one’s own limitations, that she couldn’t make the grade of those nonchalant dirty young men, that it was no good trying to get off with Mike Boyd or Johnny Featherstone: she knew that Simon Camish, with his Adam’s apple and his poor eyesight, was in her range. And so she clung to him and blackmailed
him. Simon alone knew the truth of her manoeuvres, and he was too chivalrous to impart it: so there he stood, indicted, judged, condemned by his own actions of mercenary motives. He well might feel for Christopher Vassiliou.
Time threw up some amusing patterns, though, in all the dirt. One of those bearded boys had made good, he had become a big name, a real pop hero: one of his works glowered now at Simon from the wall, across the room. He had made good and gone to the States, where he was doing even better. Julie had visited him, last week: he had taken her out to dinner, he had been delighted to see her again, she had been one of his first buyers.
It was all very well knowing now, about Julie, about oneself. It was then that one had needed to know. He had thought Julie warm and open: she had proved, like her father, irrational, bigoted and cold. The gaiety had revealed itself as a manic fear of solitude, the gregariousness as an inability to make any friends at all, the desire for a fast life as a symptom of a profound, irremediable crippling social ambition, founded on the insecurity of her own provincial background. It took Simon some time to work out what she must have suffered, at boarding school, as she trained her accent successfully to bridge the gap between her own and her father’s, as she tried to emulate the graces of more polished homes. Ironically, he had loved in her family the vulgarity that she had been set to leave. And she had left it with a vengeance. She had insisted that they should live in London, despite his plea that he could practise more fruitfully and usefully elsewhere: she had surrounded them with friends whose lack of friendship or any other kind of appeal had driven him out of the house for more evenings than he could count: she had spent money – at first her own, and then, gradually, as he had begun to acquire it, his – with an ease that made his hair stand on end. Whatever she had wished to reject in her background, it had not been its affluence. He really judged himself, now, for having ever admired the easy spending of money. A golden mean there might be, in such matters as in all, but the
(Odd, during the whole business, thought Simon, that he had not once bothered to ask himself whether or not she had any talent. He had simply assumed that she had not. And he had been wrong in that, as in so many other things.)
After her disappointment over the Art College, Julie had seemed to depend upon Simon more and more. And it was at this point, long before their marriage, that he began to feel himself trapped. He had thought her gay, insensitive, extrovert: he found her increasingly vulnerable, suffering, suspicious. He would willingly, at this point, have ditched her, swimming bath, tennis court, wealthy father and all, but it was too late. She wouldn’t let him go. She knew, somehow, with the horrible knowledge of one’s own limitations, that she couldn’t make the grade of those nonchalant dirty young men, that it was no good trying to get off with Mike Boyd or Johnny Featherstone: she knew that Simon Camish, with his Adam’s apple and his poor eyesight, was in her range. And so she clung to him and blackmailed
him. Simon alone knew the truth of her manoeuvres, and he was too chivalrous to impart it: so there he stood, indicted, judged, condemned by his own actions of mercenary motives. He well might feel for Christopher Vassiliou.
Time threw up some amusing patterns, though, in all the dirt. One of those bearded boys had made good, he had become a big name, a real pop hero: one of his works glowered now at Simon from the wall, across the room. He had made good and gone to the States, where he was doing even better. Julie had visited him, last week: he had taken her out to dinner, he had been delighted to see her again, she had been one of his first buyers.
It was all very well knowing now, about Julie, about oneself. It was then that one had needed to know. He had thought Julie warm and open: she had proved, like her father, irrational, bigoted and cold. The gaiety had revealed itself as a manic fear of solitude, the gregariousness as an inability to make any friends at all, the desire for a fast life as a symptom of a profound, irremediable crippling social ambition, founded on the insecurity of her own provincial background. It took Simon some time to work out what she must have suffered, at boarding school, as she trained her accent successfully to bridge the gap between her own and her father’s, as she tried to emulate the graces of more polished homes. Ironically, he had loved in her family the vulgarity that she had been set to leave. And she had left it with a vengeance. She had insisted that they should live in London, despite his plea that he could practise more fruitfully and usefully elsewhere: she had surrounded them with friends whose lack of friendship or any other kind of appeal had driven him out of the house for more evenings than he could count: she had spent money – at first her own, and then, gradually, as he had begun to acquire it, his – with an ease that made his hair stand on end. Whatever she had wished to reject in her background, it had not been its affluence. He really judged himself, now, for having ever admired the easy spending of money. A golden mean there might be, in such matters as in all, but the
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