Epilogue

I’D HAVE TRIED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE in any case. Whatever I’ve done, it wasn’t because of what he said or did. If anything influenced me from that summer it was what the Old Man said, not Meredith.

*   *   *

As for Kit, the verdict was suicide. In spite of what he’d written in his note to the coroner, the jury again insisted on padding the hard fact with ‘whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed’. I wasn’t there at the inquest and heard about it afterwards from Alan. Meredith had to give evidence and whatever he was feeling at the time he must have been as convincing as usual. A brilliant student, he said, probably the most brilliant he’d ever taught. The implication that brilliance may tip over into temporary madness probably wasn’t lost on the jury. He hinted, delicately, at an unhappy love affair, pointed out that Kit had been in great pain from an arm injury and had naturally been distressed at the death of his host just eleven days before he took his own life.

After that, Meredith disappeared. He kept to his decision, resigned his fellowship and didn’t go back to Oxford. It caused some comment in the first few weeks of the new term but not a lot of surprise. Meredith had always been regarded as a wild man and university affairs jogged on much more smoothly without him. Later – many years later after a lot of things had happened – I met him again unexpectedly and heard what he’d been doing, but that doesn’t belong with this story.

*   *   *

The rest of us, Alan, Nathan, Imogen, Midge and I, went back to our colleges in October and although some rumours must have circulated the policy seemed to be the less said, the better. Cumberland was a long way from Oxford, after all, and it had been such an unusually hot bright summer that – once the autumn mists had set in – it all seemed as far away as an ancient Greek myth. So we were allowed to stay and take our final exams. Midge and I managed to persuade Imogen not to give up her course to marry Alan at once. I think, secretly, she was more ready to listen to us than she admitted at first. We all needed time to recover. As it happened, the three of us did as well or better than Alan and a lot better than Nathan, who scraped a cheerful third. Alan and Nathan took their degrees. Women weren’t allowed to, of course, but at the time it worried us less than it should have done.

Imogen and Alan married in his college chapel two weeks after their finals. By then he’d been persuaded to accept the Old Man’s money so that they could set up their experimental school together. It went well. If you’re interested in advanced theories of education, you’ll have heard of it and probably read their book. But we lost touch, Imogen and I. Things were never the same between us again.

*   *   *

Midge and Nathan, on the other hand, are in touch all the time. I am honorary aunt to their children. So far the tally is three, plus two influential books on mathematics by Midge and a large number of beautiful and rather expensive pieces of furniture by Nathan.

*   *   *

After a while, when some of the rawness had worn off, I was curious enough to get news from Cumberland and found that Arthur Mawbray and Dulcie Berryman had got married and moved to Maryport with the baby. She was at least ten years older than he was and what with that and her reputation his father disowned him, but that didn’t matter because he had what he wanted at last. They used the interest from the Old Man’s money to buy Arthur his own fishing boat and named it The Prodigal Son. I’m sure the name’s considered highly appropriate at the methodist chapel where, I’m told, Mr and Mrs Arthur Mawbray and their four children are now frequent attenders.

*   *   *

What the Old Man would have thought of that I can’t imagine. But he should have been pleased by a generous act on the part of his great nephew. Alan went to the solicitor and had Sid, Bobbin, all the mares and the two Afghan hounds made over to Robin, properly done by a deed of gift with a red seal so that nobody could accuse the Gypsy boy of stealing them. Robin sold the mares – probably for a very good price – but kept Sid at stud. I’m told that in Cumberland they still speak of Sid’s prowess as a stallion with great respect, and his progency are galloping over green fields, winning awards and carrying on the bloodline all over the north of England and across in Ireland as far down as County Cork. If he’d wanted a memorial, I’m sure that would have pleased the Old Man more than anything.