‘What is wrong with him?’

‘Touch of dysentery, someone said.’

‘Serious?’

‘I don’t think so.’

We parted company after arranging that Lovell should come and have a drink with us at the flat in the near future. The following day, I met Quiggin in Members’s office. He was in a sulky mood. I told him I had enjoyed his piece about St John Clarke. Praise was usually as acceptable to Quiggin as to most people. That day the remark seemed to increase his ill humour. However, he confirmed the news about Erridge.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently. ‘Of course it is true that Alfred is coming back. Don’t his family take any interest in him? They might at least have discovered that.’

‘Is he bad?’

‘It is a disagreeable complaint to have.’

‘But a whole skin otherwise. That is always something if there is a war on.’

‘Alfred is too simple a man to embroil himself in practical affairs like fighting an ideological war,’ said Quiggin severely. ‘A typical aristocratic idealist, I’m afraid. Perhaps it is just as well his health has broken down. He has never been strong, of course. He is the first to admit it. In fact he is too fond of talking about his health. As I have said before, Alf is rather like Prince Myshkin in The Idiot.’

I was surprised at Quiggin’s attitude towards Erridge’s illness. I tried to work out who Quiggin himself would be in Dostoevsky’s novel if Erridge was Prince Myshkin and Mona – presumably – Nastasya Filippovna. It was all too complicated. I could not remember the story with sufficient clarity. Quiggin spoke again.

‘I have been hearing something of Alf’s difficulties from one of our own agents just back from Barcelona,’ he said. ‘Alf seems to have shown a good deal of political obtuseness – perhaps I should say childlike innocence. He appears to have treated POUM, FAI, CNT, and UGT, as if they were all the same left-wing extension of the Labour Party. I was not surprised to hear that he was going to be arrested at the time he decided to leave Spain. If you can’t tell the difference between a Trotskyite-Communist, an Anarcho-Syndicalist, and a properly paid-up Party Member, you had better keep away from the barricades.’

‘You had, indeed.’

‘It is not fair on the workers.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Alfred’s place was to organise in England.’

‘Why doesn’t he go back to his idea of starting a magazine?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Quiggin, in a voice that closed the subject.

Erridge was in Quiggin’s bad books; a friend who had disappointed Quiggin to a degree impossible to conceal; a man who had failed to rise to an historic occasion. I supposed that Quiggin regarded Erridge’s imminent return, however involuntary, from the Spanish war in the light of a betrayal. This seemed unreasonable on Quiggin’s part, since Erridge’s breakdown in health was, after all, occasioned by an attempt to further the cause Quiggin himself had so energetically propagated by word of mouth. Even if Erridge had not fought in the field (where Howard Cragg’s nephew had already been killed), he had taken other risks in putting his principles into practice. If it was true that he was marked down for arrest, he might have been executed behind the lines. Quiggin had staked less on his enthusiasms. However, as things turned out there was probably a different reason that afternoon for Quiggin’s displeasure on Erridge’s account.

Erridge himself arrived in London a day or two later. He was not at all well, and went straight into a nursing home; the nursing home, as it happened, in the passages of which I had encountered Moreland, Brandreth, and Widmerpool. This accommodation was found for her brother by Frederica, ideologically perhaps the furthest removed from Erridge, in certain other respects the closest of the Tollands to him, both from nearness in age and a shared rigidity of individual opinion. The two of them might disagree; they understood each other’s obstinacies. When Erridge had settled down at the nursing home, his brothers and sisters visited him there. They were given a lukewarm welcome. Erridge was one of those egotists unable effectively to organise to good effect his own egotism, to make a public profit out of it. He had no doubt enjoyed unusual experiences. These he was unable, or unwilling, to share with others. Isobel brought back a description of a ragged beard protruding over the edge of sheets entirely covered by what appeared to be a patchwork quilt of Boggis & Stone publications dealing with different aspects of the Spanish predicament. Norah, who shared to some extent Erridge’s political standpoint, was openly contemptuous.

‘Erry always regards himself as the only person in the world who has ever been ill,’ she said. ‘His time in Spain seems to have been a total flop. He didn’t get up to the front and he never met Hemingway.’

Erridge, as Norah – and Quiggin before her – had remarked, was keenly interested in his own health; in general not good. Now that he was ill enough for his condition to be recognised as more than troublesome, this physical state was not unsympathetic to him. The sickness gave his existence an increased reality, a deeper seriousness, elements

Erridge felt denied him by his family. Certainly he could now claim to have returned from an area of action. Although he might prefer to receive his relations coldly, he was at least assured of being the centre of Tolland attention. However, as it turned out, he enjoyed this position only for a short time, when his status was all at once prejudiced by his brother Hugo’s motor accident.

Hugo Tolland had ‘come down’ from the university not long before this period, where, in face of continual pressure of a threatening kind from the authorities, he had contrived to stay the course for three years; even managing, to everyone’s surprise, to scrape some sort of degree. The youngest of the male Tollands, Hugo was showing signs of becoming from the family’s point of view the least satisfactory. Erridge, it was true, even before his father died, had been written off as incurably odd; but Erridge was an ‘eldest son’. Even persons of an older generation – like his uncle, Alfred Tolland – who preferred the conventions to be strictly observed, would display their own disciplined acceptance of convention by recognising the fact that Erridge’s behaviour, however regrettable, was his own affair. An eldest son, by no means beyond the reach of criticism, was at the same time excluded from the utter and absolute public disapproval which might encompass younger sons. Besides, no one could tell how an eldest son might turn out after he ‘succeeded’. This was a favourite theme of Chips Lovell’s, who used to talk of ‘the classic case of Henry V and Falstaff’. Erridge might be peculiar; the fact remained he would be – now was – head of the family. Hugo was quite another matter. Hugo would inherit between three and four hundred a year when twenty-one and have to make his own way in the world.

While still at the university, Hugo showed no sign of wishing to prepare himself for that fate. Outwardly, he was a fairly intelligent, not very good-looking, unhappy, rather amusing young man, who kept himself going by wearing unusual clothes and doing perverse things. Because his own generation of undergraduates tended to be interested in politics and economics, both approached from a ‘leftish’ angle, Hugo liked to ‘pose’ – his own word – as an ‘aesthete’. He used to burn joss-sticks in his rooms. He had bought a half-bottle of Green Chartreuse, a liqueur he ‘sipped’ from time to time, which, like the Widow’s cruse, seemed to last for ever; for only during outbreaks of consciously bad behaviour was Hugo much of a drinker. At first Sillery had taken him up, no doubt hoping Hugo might prove an asset in the field where Sillery struggled for power with other dons. Hugo had turned out altogether intractable. Even Sillery, past master at dealing with undergraduates of all complexions and turning their fallibilities to his own advantage, had been embarrassed by Hugo’s arrival at one of his tea parties laden with a stack of pro-Franco pamphlets, which he had distributed among the assembled guests. The company had included a Labour M.P. – a Catholic, as it happened – upon whom Sillery, for his own purposes, was particularly anxious to make a good impression. The story had been greatly enjoyed by Sillery’s old enemy, Brightman, who used to repeat it night after night – ad nauseam, his colleagues complained, so Short told me – at High Table.