The silent world of Nicholas Quinn (3 page)

stairs that led to the ground floor and to Bartlett's office. 'You really think we've made a bad mistake, Tom?'

Bartlett stopped and looked up at the tall, grey-haired theologian. 'Oh, yes, Felix. Make no mistake about that. We have!'

Roope pushed his way past them on the stairs and volunteered a vague 'Cheerio'.

'Er—goodnight,' said the Dean; but Bartlett remained darkly silent, and watched

Roope go before slowly walking down the few remaining stairs and entering his office.

Above his door was a twin-coloured light, similar to the sort found in hospitals, which

was operated from two switches on the desk inside. The first switch turned on a red

light, signifying that Bartlett was in session with someone, and did not wish to be (and

would not be) disturbed; a second switch turned on a green light, indicating that one

was free to knock and enter. When neither switch was depressed, no light showed,

and the conclusion thence to be drawn was that the room was empty. Since his

appointment to the Secretaryship, Bartlett had firmly maintained that if anyone wished

to discuss a matter of importance with him, he himself should have t1he courtesy to

ensure an uninterrupted, confidential chat; and his staff fully appreciated and almost

invariably observed the arrangement. On the very few occasions that the rule had

been infringed; Bartlett had displayed quite uncharacteristic anger.

Once inside the Secretary snapped down the red switch before opening a small

cabinet and pouring himself a glass of gin and dry vermouth. Then he sat down

behind his desk, opened a drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes. He never

smoked at meetings, but he lit one now, inhaled deeply, and sipped his drink. He

would send a telegram to Quinn in the morning: it was too late to send one now. He

opened his appointments folder once more and reread the information on Quinn. Huh!

They'd picked the wrong fellow—of course they had! All because of Roope, the bloody

idiot!

He put the papers away neatly, cleared his desk and sat back in his chair—a curious

half-smile forming on his lips.

WHY?

WHILST THE OTHER four took their seats in the upstairs lounge of the Cherwell Motel,

he walked over to the bar and ordered the drinks: two gins and tonics, two medium

sherries, one dry sherry—the latter for himself. He was very fond of dry sherry.

'Put them all down to the Foreign Examinations Syndicate, will you? And we shall be

having lunch. If you can tell the waiter we're here? Sitting over there.' His north-country accent was still noticeable, though less so than it had been.

'Have you booked a table, sir?'

He enjoyed the 'sir'. 'Yes. The name's Quinn.' He grabbed a handful of peanuts, took

the drinks over on a tray, and sat down with the other members of the History

Committee.

It was his third Revision meeting since joining the Syndicate, and there were several

others fixed for later in the term. He sat back in the low leather chair, drained half his sherry at a gulp, and looked out at the busy lunch time traffic along the A40. This was

the life! A jolly good meal to come, wine, coffee—and then back for the afternoon

session. Finish with a bit of luck about five or even earlier. The morning session had

been a concentrated, unremitting slog; but they'd done well. Question papers covering

the periods from the Continental Crusades to the English Civil War had now assumed

the final and definitive form in which they would appear before the following summer's

Advanced-level History candidates. Just the five papers left, from the Hanoverians to

the Treaty of Versailles; and he felt much more at home with the recent periods. At

school History had been his favourite subject, and it was in History that he had won

his exhibition to Cambridge. But after prelims he'd changed over to English, and it had

been as an English teacher that he had been subsequently appointed to the staff of

Priestly Grammar School, Bradford, only twenty-odd miles from the Yorkshire village

in which he was born. Looking back on it, he realized how lucky the switch to English

had been: the advertisement for the post with the Syndicate had stressed the need for

some qualification in both History and English, and he'd realized that he might stand a

pretty good chance, although even now he couldn't quite believe that he had landed

the job. Not th1at his deafness . . .

'Your menu, sir.'

Quinn had not heard the man approach, and only when the inordinately large menu

obtruded itself into his field of vision was he aware of the head waiter. Yes, perhaps

his deafness would be slightly more of a handicap than he'd sometimes assumed; but

he was managing wonderfully well so far.

For the moment he sat back, like the others, and studied the bewildering complexity of

permutations on the menu: expensive—almost all the dishes; but as he knew from his

two previous visits, carefully cooked and appetizingly garnished. He just hoped that

the others wouldn't plump for anything
too
exotic, since Bartlett had quietly mentioned to him after the last jollification that perhaps the bill was a
little
on the steep side. For himself, he decided that soup of the day, followed by gammon and pineapple would

not be beyond the Syndicate's means—even in these hard days. A drop of red wine,

too. He knew it would be red wine whatever happened. Many of them drank red wine

all the time in Oxford—even with Dover sole.

'We've got time for another drink, haven't we?' Cedric Voss, Chairman of the History

Committee, passed his empty glass across the table. 'Drink up, men. We shall need

something to keep us going this afternoon.'

Quinn dutifully collected the glasses and walked over to the bar once more, where a

group of affluent-looking executives had just arrived and where a five-minute wait did

nothing to quell the vague feeling of irritation which had begun to fester quietly in a

corner of his mind.

When he returned to the table, the waiter was taking their orders. Voss, after

discovering that the cherries were canned, the peas frozen, and the steak delivered

the previous weekend, decided that he would revise his original ideas and go for the

escargots and the lobster, and Quinn winced inwardly as he noted the prices. Three

times his own modest order! He had pointedly not bought a second drink for himself

(although he could have tossed another three or four back with the greatest relish) and

sat back rather miserably, staring at the vast aerial photograph of central Oxford on the wall beside him. Very impressive, really: the quads of Brasenose and Queen's and—

'Aren't you drinking, Nicholas, my boy?' Nicholas! It was the first time that Voss had

called him by his Christian name, and the irritation disappeared like a lizard's eyelid.

'No. I er—'

'Look, if old Tom Bartlett's been griping about the expense, forget it! What do you think it cost the Syndicate to send him to the oil states last year, eh? A month! Huh! Just

think of all those belly-dancers—'

'You wanted wine with your meal, sir?'

Quinn passed the wine list over to Voss, who studied it with professional avidity. 'All

red?' But it was more a statement than a question. 'That's a nice little wine, my boy.'

He pointed a stubby finger at one of the Burgundies. 'Good year, too.'

Quinn noted (he'd known it anyway) that it was the most expensive wine on the list,

and he ordered a bottle.

'I don't think one's going to be much good, is it? With five of us—'

'We ought to have a bottle and a half, you think?'

'I think we ought to have two. Don't you, gentlemen?' Voss turned to the others and his

proposal was happily approved.

'Two bottles of number five,' said Quinn resignedly. The irritation was

nagging away again.

'And open them straightaway, please,' said Voss.

In the restaurant Quinn seated himself at the left-hand corner of the table,

with Voss immediately to his right, two of the others immediately opposite,

and the fifth member of the party at the top of the table. It was invariably the

best sort of arrangement. Although he could see little of Voss's lips as he

was speaking, he was just about near enough to catch his words; and the

others he could see clearly. Lip-reading had its limitations, of course: it was

of little use if the speaker mumbled through unmoving lips, or held a hand

over his mouth; and absolutely useless when the speaker turned his back,

or when the lights went out. But in normal circumstances, it was quite

wonderful what one
could
do. Quinn had first attended lip-reading classes

six years previously, and had been amazed to discover how easy it was.

He knew from the outset that he must have been blessed with a rare gift:

he was so much in advance of the first-year class-that his teacher had

suggested, after only a fortnight, that he should move up to the second-

year class; and even there he had been the star pupil. He couldn't really

explain his gift, even to himself. He supposed that some people were

talented in trapping a football or in playing the piano: and he had a talent

for reading the lips of others, that was all. Indeed, he had become so

proficient that he could sometimes almost believe that he was in fact

'hearing' again. In any case, he hadn't completely lost his hearing. The

expensive aid at his right ear (the left was completely nerve-less) amplified

sufficient sound at reasonably close quarters, and even now he could hear

Voss as he pronounced the benediction over the escargots just placed

before him.

'Remember what old Sam Johnson used to say? "The fellow who doesn't

mind his belly can't be trusted to mind anything." Well, something like that.'

He tucked a napkin into his waistband and stared at his plate with the eyes

of a Dracula about to ravish a virgin.

The wine was good and Quinn had noticed how Voss had dealt with it.

Quite beautifully. After studying the label with the intensity of a backward

child trying to get to grips with the Initial Teaching Alphabet, he had taken

the temperature of the wine, lightly and lovingly laying his hands around

the bottleneck; and then, when the waiter had poured half an inch of the

ruby liquid into his glass, he had tasted not a drop, but four or five times

sniffed the bouquet suspiciously, like a trained alsatian sniffing for

dynamite. "Not bad,' he'd said finally. 'Pour it out.' Quinn would remember

the episode. He would try it himself next time. 'And turn the bloody music

down a bit, will you,' shouted Voss, as the waiter was about to depart. 'We

can't hear each other speak.' The music was duly diminished a few

decibels, and a solitary diner at the next table came over to express his

thanks. Quinn himself had been completely unaware that any background

music was being played.

When the coffee finally arrived Quinn himself was feeling more contented,