contributed several poems to a university magazine and had initiated a private resolve to “make it” in an entirely different but unmistakably as equally a successful manner as his brother, by writing a magnum opus. After much heart-searching he had decided on a subject. Actually this had been suggested to him by a sympathetic tutor — “I had thought of working him up myself one day but I don’t suppose I shall ever get down to it, so I make you a present of him, Stacey.”
The “him” in question was the 17th century bibliophile Sir Robert Cotton, who had devoted his life to collecting books, but who, in 1629, had been accused of sedition and whose beloved library was taken from him, which had broken his heart. The tutor had envisaged a scholarly monograph, but Aubrey was after fame and as wide a public as possible. He thought in terms of an historical novel — of a high literary standard, of course, serious in intent, with leanings towards mysticism and tragedy. Sitting in the Bodleian, whose founder, Sir Thomas Bodley, had been Cotton’s friend, it was easy to envisage such a splendid achievement, but after he had gone down from Oxford the initial impulse had waned a little. Still, a sizeable pile of manuscript now lay in a drawer of the bureau which was his most prized piece of furniture, a present from his brother, who had always treated him with the greatest affection and generosity and for whom he felt a blend of devotion and envy but never ofresentment — that he kept for his parents.
A great literary work in the making could not support him so he had taken a teacher-training course and then a post as English master in a small sedate grammar school, where he had spent two uneventful years until it had been swallowed up by the neighbouring comprehensive. From that time on his troubles had begun. It was a completely different world demanding a robust self-confidence and the gift of establishing an easy relationship with the young. Aubrey possessed neither. Most of his pupils now came from a different background than his own, and he felt them alien to him, especially the girls, with their nonchalance and flaunting jokes and latent contempt, which grew in proportion to his own nervousness and inadequacy with them. Certain classes took on a nightmarish quality. He turned to his great work for comfort, but it was easier to plan it and to dream of it rather than to get down to the actual writing. He told himself that he must allow it to well up from his inner being — the sub-conscious, where all works of genius were conceived. But increasingly he seemed to need a stimulus to switch on: a glass or two of alcohol helped considerably. Now however, with this move, he hoped somehow that everything would take a turn for the better.
It was from this material that the innocent old Mrs Sanderson hoped to fashion a happy family group. There was indeed a common link between them, but this happened to be that none of them had experienced what it really meant to be a member of a family at all.
Letty was disappointed to learn that Harriet was not coming to the Lotus House for Christmas. She had planned her party to contain a Christmas tree with a child in mind. She could not help wondering at that delightful Mrs Royce apparently not longing for her little daughter to come home at once, as soon as the flat was habitable, especially for Christmas. Margot sensed this slight disapprovaland reacted to it immediately.
“You see, Mrs Sanderson, Harriet has all her little friends at Queensmead, which isn’t at all like an ordinary school, and they have a perfectly splendid time at Christmas, much better than she could have here, except for your lovely party, of course.” She also managed delicately to hint that it was Andrew who was not too anxious for Harriet’s company. It was now for the first time that Letty learned that Harriet was the child of a former marriage, though Margot did not think it necessary to divulge the
The “him” in question was the 17th century bibliophile Sir Robert Cotton, who had devoted his life to collecting books, but who, in 1629, had been accused of sedition and whose beloved library was taken from him, which had broken his heart. The tutor had envisaged a scholarly monograph, but Aubrey was after fame and as wide a public as possible. He thought in terms of an historical novel — of a high literary standard, of course, serious in intent, with leanings towards mysticism and tragedy. Sitting in the Bodleian, whose founder, Sir Thomas Bodley, had been Cotton’s friend, it was easy to envisage such a splendid achievement, but after he had gone down from Oxford the initial impulse had waned a little. Still, a sizeable pile of manuscript now lay in a drawer of the bureau which was his most prized piece of furniture, a present from his brother, who had always treated him with the greatest affection and generosity and for whom he felt a blend of devotion and envy but never ofresentment — that he kept for his parents.
A great literary work in the making could not support him so he had taken a teacher-training course and then a post as English master in a small sedate grammar school, where he had spent two uneventful years until it had been swallowed up by the neighbouring comprehensive. From that time on his troubles had begun. It was a completely different world demanding a robust self-confidence and the gift of establishing an easy relationship with the young. Aubrey possessed neither. Most of his pupils now came from a different background than his own, and he felt them alien to him, especially the girls, with their nonchalance and flaunting jokes and latent contempt, which grew in proportion to his own nervousness and inadequacy with them. Certain classes took on a nightmarish quality. He turned to his great work for comfort, but it was easier to plan it and to dream of it rather than to get down to the actual writing. He told himself that he must allow it to well up from his inner being — the sub-conscious, where all works of genius were conceived. But increasingly he seemed to need a stimulus to switch on: a glass or two of alcohol helped considerably. Now however, with this move, he hoped somehow that everything would take a turn for the better.
It was from this material that the innocent old Mrs Sanderson hoped to fashion a happy family group. There was indeed a common link between them, but this happened to be that none of them had experienced what it really meant to be a member of a family at all.
Letty was disappointed to learn that Harriet was not coming to the Lotus House for Christmas. She had planned her party to contain a Christmas tree with a child in mind. She could not help wondering at that delightful Mrs Royce apparently not longing for her little daughter to come home at once, as soon as the flat was habitable, especially for Christmas. Margot sensed this slight disapprovaland reacted to it immediately.
“You see, Mrs Sanderson, Harriet has all her little friends at Queensmead, which isn’t at all like an ordinary school, and they have a perfectly splendid time at Christmas, much better than she could have here, except for your lovely party, of course.” She also managed delicately to hint that it was Andrew who was not too anxious for Harriet’s company. It was now for the first time that Letty learned that Harriet was the child of a former marriage, though Margot did not think it necessary to divulge the
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