Free Jill by Philip Larkin Page A

cloisters, the shadows of the pillars falling across his path and his long black gown billowing out behind him. He met Christopher just lounging down the steps of staircase fourteen and told him eagerly what the Tutor had said.
    “I hope you put a stopper on it.”
    “Oh, I did, yes.”
    “Good show. I suppose he thinks if he gets us alone he can screw more work out of us.”
    “I’m glad you think I did right.”
    Christopher nodded briefly, and strolled off, keeping his hands in his pockets and his head erect. John watched him go, and then went into the rooms. He was trembling slightly as he hung up his gown behind the door, partly from the nervousness that any contact with authority produced, and partly with pleasure that he had done Christopher a service. If the empty days that meandered past had any object at all, it was to please Christopher and win his favour. Whenever Christopher entered the room, John could not help brightening up and getting ready to laugh: he did not expect to be included in the talk, but it seemed a great privilege simply to be allowed to listen to them as they stood talking casually, the collars of their coats turned up, discussing where they should go of an evening. He had a keen sensation of their presence, like the smell of a fine cloth or leather. The night before their second tutorial, when they had known each other for exactly a fortnight, Christopher took John’s notes and hashed up a careless rigmarole to present in the morning, sitting in the lamplight with a cigarette in his mouth. His pen moved quickly over the paper. When he had done, he pushed the papers aside with a sigh of relief.
    “Thank God that’s finished. White of you to lend me all this.” He studied his wrist-watch, yawning unconcernedly. “What about a drink?”
    John laid his pen very carefully down across his notebook.
    “A—er—where, d’you mean?”
    “Oh, somewhere out.” Christopher stood up and picked up his scarf from the top of the cupboard; he blinked at John in a way that suggested that he had only just realized who he was talking to. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, if you’re working.”
    “But of course—yes, of course!” John shoved his chair back, jumping to his feet. He bundled on his overcoat, keeping an eye on Christopher, as if he might suddenly disappear or the invitation be rescinded. Christopher crossed to the looking-glass and passed a hand over his hair from back to front: then, catchingsight of the small clock that stood on the mantelpiece, picked it up and wound it a few times.
    “Ready!” said John, by the door. There was a look on his face that fleetingly recalled the expression of a child who is being taken to a circus. As they walked round the cloisters and across the first quadrangle together, he regretted it was too dark for them to be seen. A light came on in the Master’s lodgings, but almost instantly a maid drew a heavy plush curtain across it, and there was no light anywhere. Christopher paused at the Lodge, where he found a postcard inviting him to play in a trial football match. He put it in his pocket.
    “We’ll go to the Bull, shall we?” he said. “Eddy might be there.”
    John did not want to see Eddy, but he was content to let Christopher go where he wanted, so they turned left on leaving the great gates. The bells were chiming for half-past six, and from the centre of the town came a mournful hooting of traffic, while from a taxi-rank near by a telephone rang persistently. The night air was cold. An aeroplane, bearing red and green pilot lights, flew diagonally across the sky.
    As they turned up a little alleyway, John wondered what the Bull would be like: it had figured prominently in the anecdotes he had heard, and he had always pictured it as a tiny den. He was surprised, therefore, to enter a dazzlingly bright bar, where the light glanced off the chromium fittings and the mirror behind the counter, and a powerful coke fire slumbered in the grate. The