Free Jill by Philip Larkin

and extravagant, a life that was panoplied and trampling compared with his own: it seemed to him that in their schooldays they had won more than he would ever win during the whole of his life. At first ill-treated, they had lived to be oppressors whose savagest desire could be gratified at once, which was surely the height of ambition. Asthe picture grew in his mind, he ornamented it with little marginal additions, until in the end the thing was an unreal as a highly-coloured picture of an ancient battle, but he had no inkling of its untruth, and he looked on them with curious respect. The pimply Eddy; Christopher, dark and unshaven as a boxer; the selfish and smiling Patrick, and even Tony Braithwaite—all took on a picturesqueness in his eyes, as if they were veterans of an old war.
    Later in the evening, when nearly all the beer had been drunk, a quarrel broke out between Eddy and Christopher about money. Christopher insisted that Eddy owed him fifteen shillings, and he only contradicted Eddy’s denials with a perverse smile, lying back in his armchair and kicking Eddy repeatedly on the shin with each contradiction.
    “Chuck that,” said Eddy.
    “Give me that fifteen bob.”
    “I said chuck that, you——”
    Eddy leant forward suddenly and gripped Christopher’s ankle, jumping up and dragging him off his chair with a bump on to the floor. The others started up in alarm. Eddy, exerting all his force, managed to keep Christopher’s foot high in the air, grinning down at him the while.
    “There, you fool——”
    But with a sudden wrench and twist, Christopher got Eddy’s legs, and the two of them rolled furiously about the carpet, knocking over a half-full bottle. The air was full of their panting and oaths as they struck at one another with intent to hurt, for they were both rather drunk. John stood behind his chair nervously, while Patrick leant against the chimneypiece, hands in his pockets.
    Christopher was much the stronger and in a moment had a wrestler’s hold on Eddy, pushing his head down so that he was powerless, his neck and ears growing a deep crimson. With a sudden exultance Christopher threw his whole weight on the grip, and Eddy screamed, and Tony took a step forward, raising his hand, but in a few seconds the whole incredible scene had dissipated. Eddy squatted on the hearthrug, sticking his horseshoe tiepin into his tie again, saying, “God, Chris,you are a swine,” while Christopher stood before the mirror combing his hair, and John picked up three pennies and a propelling pencil that had fallen during the struggle. As he put them on the table, he noticed his own unused glass tankard: Christopher had not noticed he had taken one and had not offered him any beer.
    John always regretted they did not spend more time together. After their first tutorial he suggested timidly that they should walk round the gardens, but Christopher said rather abruptly that he was meeting some people, and left him. But it was nevertheless this regret that came first to his mind when their Tutor, the day after, sent him a note asking him to be good enough to call on him.
    “Come in, Mr. Kemp.” The Tutor smiled kindly, keeping one finger in the book he was reading. “Sit down. I wanted to ask you if perhaps you’d prefer me to take you alone in future.”
    “Alone?”
    “Alone, instead of with Mr. Warner.”
    “Why—er—no, I don’t think so, sir.” He was flabbergasted and spoke without thinking.
    “Are you sure? You don’t feel the present arrangement hinders you in any way?”
    “Oh, no, sir.”
    The Tutor covered his eyes for a moment with his hand and rubbed his forehead. His long body was clothed in a rough green tweed suit.
    “Well, as you please. It wouldn’t be any trouble.” He waited a few seconds, but John said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the brightly-polished fire-irons in the hearth. “All right, that’s all I wanted to say.”
    John left the room, and walked back round the