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place firmly locked up. It’s a bad start for Oxford, in my opinion: it seems a gloomy, dirty, closed place. I feel I could find more kindred spirits at Abbey, it pains me to say. And Jesus, with all these mature men — like uncles, with their pipes and tweeds and facial hair — does not inspire. Perhaps Leeping is right: why do we want to waste three precious years of our life in these institutions?
     
     
12 February [1924]
     
    A morning and afternoon spent taking the History papers, which seemed to pass off well enough. I answered questions on Palmerston’s second government, the French Revolution and Walpole’s financial reforms (dull stuff but full of arcane facts) and I think I gave a fair account of myself. After the afternoon paper I was summoned to meet the History fellow, Le Mayne — p.l. le mayne, it said on his door. This was the ‘friend’ H-D had talked about. He was a pugnacious, stocky, bearded man, and he looked me over with what can only be described as a mixture of distaste and mild curiosity.
    ‘Holden-Dawes says we should take you come what may,’ he said. ‘Why?’
    ‘Why what?’
    ‘Why should we take you, Abbey boy?’
    I muttered a few platitudes — Oxford, distinguished college, huge privilege, the honour — but he cut me short.
    ‘You’re losing it,’ he said.
    ‘Losing what?’
    ‘What vestiges of good opinion I had of you — stimulated by James. Why do you want to read History at Oxford? Convince me.’
    I don’t know what came over me — perhaps it was the sense that all was lost already, perhaps it was Le Mayne’s abrasive indifference, not to say his overt dislike of me, so I said, regardless: ‘I don’t give two farthings for history. The only reason I want to come to this depressing place is that it will give me time — time to write.’
    Le Mayne groaned, threw his head back and stroked his beard.
    ‘Heaven preserve me,’ he said, ‘another bloody writer.’
    I thought about walking out but decided to play this one through.
    ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said suddenly, freshly audacious. ‘Please don’t expect an apology.’
    He was unperturbed and said nothing, glancing tiredly at me, and then shuffled through my examination papers.
    ‘Oh, all right,’ he said wearily. ‘You can go.’
     
     
    Later. Scabius told me that he had met three fellows and had even shaken the hand of the Dean of Balliol, Urquhart, himself. I had been in Le Mayne’s room about five minutes, if that. It seems to me that my Oxford career isn’t even going to get to the starting line. Before I came here Father wrote to say that there was always a job in junior management at Foley’s. I think I would rather slash my wrists.
     
     
13 February [1924]
     
    Peter and I found a public house down by the canal where we drank beer and ate bread and cheese before catching our train back to Norwich. Peter’s tutor had shaken his hand at the end of the interview and said he looked forward to seeing him in September. I saw Le Mayne cross the quad in the morning and he had looked right through me with no sign of recognition at all.
    Writing this on the train back, fighting against a mounting sense of depression. Ridout and Tothill are playing gin rummy. Peter is asleep, confidently asleep. If I don’t get in to Oxford, what will I do? Go to Paris with Ben? Join Father’s firm? It’s all too damnably frustrating. Thank God we had the foresight to set ourselves these challenges this term: it is almost shaming to say this, but, currently, the one thing in my life that I anticipate with some excitement is the prospect of the match tomorrow against O’Connor’s. Younger said he might come and watch. Could this be the first step?
     
     
14 February [1924]
     
    Scabius and the lubricious Tess held hands for a few minutes as they walked along some path somewhere after lunch. Peter says she took his hand but he didn’t dare do anything else, then she had to release it when they reached a stile