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Authors: C. P. Snow
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pain, certainly not to Mrs Pateman. I couldn’t speak frankly. With an effort, I said: “You’ve got to regard this as nothing more or less than a friendly talk. I can’t do much. I might be able to give you a little advice, simply because I know the rules of this game, but that’s all.”
Mr Pateman faced me with a set cunning look, which declared that he was not to be taken in. He assumed that I was a man of influence, he had an unqualified faith in what he called “pulling strings”. The more I disclaimed being able to act, the more convinced he was of my Machiavellian power.
Dick argued, so did his father.
I was becoming certain that he didn’t know much, nothing like the full story. Not that Dick had deceived him. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to hear. He was positive that he was right. Obviously his son was being badly used: which meant, and this was how he translated it, that he himself was being badly used. He was a churchgoer, he pointed out to me, assuming, with an air of pitying superiority, that I wasn’t. With a family in distress, I should have expected to feel protective, even though I hadn’t asked to be there, even though I didn’t like them. But Mr Pateman made that impossible. By some extraordinary feat of character or moral legerdemain, he took it for granted that all I had to do was my simple duty. So far as there was any pity flowing, he was pitying me.
It was a long time since I had met a man so self-righteous. And yet his son was self-righteous too. That was what had exacerbated the Court, that billiard ball impregnability in circumstances where self-righteousness didn’t appear to be called for. With a prepotent father like that, some sons would have been worn down. Not this one. There did not seem any tenderness, or even much communication, between them. They treated each other like equal powers, each censorious, each knowing that he was right.
The person I was curious about was Mrs Pateman, not bullied, but excluded from the talk. What could it be like to live here?
Mr Pateman made a practical point, as though I were responsible. If Dick had to transfer to another university (did Dick himself believe it would be all that easy, I was thinking? when was the right time to stop them hoping too much?) he wouldn’t be able to make a contribution to the housekeeping. As it was, he had been doing so out of his student grant.
“The grants are miserable, I suppose you know that,” said Dick, ready to argue another grievance.
“Take him away,” said Mr Pateman, “and he won’t be able to pay a penny. There’ll be nothing coming in.”
I had nothing to say on this topic, but Mr Pateman needed to finish it off. “It’s diabolical,” he said.
Soon afterwards a young woman came in, unobtrusively, slipping into the room. This must, I thought, be Dick’s sister, whom I had just heard of, but not more than that. Although she had only recently come in from work and could not have known of the Court result, she did not make any enquiry, nor even look at her brother. Instead, she was asking for jam. There wasn’t any jam today, said Mr Pateman. There must be jam, she was saying. She was sounding peevish when, with a grandiloquent air, Mr Pateman presented me. She was a small girl, not much bigger than her mother. She had fine eyes, but she turned them away from mine in a manner that could have been either shy or supercilious. In a delicate fashion, she was pretty: but, although she was perhaps only two years older than her brother, she had that kind of feminity which throws a shadow before it: her face was young, yet carried an aura, not really a physical look, of the elderly, almost of the wizened.
They called her Kitty. There was also a mention of someone named Cora: in the conversation I gathered that she and Cora shared, and slept in, the front room. It must have been Cora who had been playing records when I entered the house, which I had only just realised was so
Mr Pateman faced me with a set cunning look, which declared that he was not to be taken in. He assumed that I was a man of influence, he had an unqualified faith in what he called “pulling strings”. The more I disclaimed being able to act, the more convinced he was of my Machiavellian power.
Dick argued, so did his father.
I was becoming certain that he didn’t know much, nothing like the full story. Not that Dick had deceived him. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t even want to hear. He was positive that he was right. Obviously his son was being badly used: which meant, and this was how he translated it, that he himself was being badly used. He was a churchgoer, he pointed out to me, assuming, with an air of pitying superiority, that I wasn’t. With a family in distress, I should have expected to feel protective, even though I hadn’t asked to be there, even though I didn’t like them. But Mr Pateman made that impossible. By some extraordinary feat of character or moral legerdemain, he took it for granted that all I had to do was my simple duty. So far as there was any pity flowing, he was pitying me.
It was a long time since I had met a man so self-righteous. And yet his son was self-righteous too. That was what had exacerbated the Court, that billiard ball impregnability in circumstances where self-righteousness didn’t appear to be called for. With a prepotent father like that, some sons would have been worn down. Not this one. There did not seem any tenderness, or even much communication, between them. They treated each other like equal powers, each censorious, each knowing that he was right.
The person I was curious about was Mrs Pateman, not bullied, but excluded from the talk. What could it be like to live here?
Mr Pateman made a practical point, as though I were responsible. If Dick had to transfer to another university (did Dick himself believe it would be all that easy, I was thinking? when was the right time to stop them hoping too much?) he wouldn’t be able to make a contribution to the housekeeping. As it was, he had been doing so out of his student grant.
“The grants are miserable, I suppose you know that,” said Dick, ready to argue another grievance.
“Take him away,” said Mr Pateman, “and he won’t be able to pay a penny. There’ll be nothing coming in.”
I had nothing to say on this topic, but Mr Pateman needed to finish it off. “It’s diabolical,” he said.
Soon afterwards a young woman came in, unobtrusively, slipping into the room. This must, I thought, be Dick’s sister, whom I had just heard of, but not more than that. Although she had only recently come in from work and could not have known of the Court result, she did not make any enquiry, nor even look at her brother. Instead, she was asking for jam. There wasn’t any jam today, said Mr Pateman. There must be jam, she was saying. She was sounding peevish when, with a grandiloquent air, Mr Pateman presented me. She was a small girl, not much bigger than her mother. She had fine eyes, but she turned them away from mine in a manner that could have been either shy or supercilious. In a delicate fashion, she was pretty: but, although she was perhaps only two years older than her brother, she had that kind of feminity which throws a shadow before it: her face was young, yet carried an aura, not really a physical look, of the elderly, almost of the wizened.
They called her Kitty. There was also a mention of someone named Cora: in the conversation I gathered that she and Cora shared, and slept in, the front room. It must have been Cora who had been playing records when I entered the house, which I had only just realised was so
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