a crash course in monetary theory: we mean to write a book together. And there is a local trouble here we have to sort out.’
Eleanor wrote to the emoluments committee declaring that she had reduced the running costs of Bridport Lodge by forty-two per cent, producing figures to prove it, and when it came to difficult and embarrassing votes at Convocation, Senate and Academic Board level, as to whether or not Professor Darcy could be seen to be in his right mind, it was this document that swung the feeling of the various meetings in his favour. Men fall in love: it was their right to do so. To be open about these matters was clearly in the mood of new university thinking, thrusting and energetic, and the various governing bodies did what they could to adjust themselves gracefully. Even when Eleanor enrolled as an undergraduate to do a degree course in economics they did not flinch. And so eventually Professor Darcy’s stock rose, not fell, at the University of Bridport, thanks to his wife leaving him and him taking in, to share his bed and board, and publicity, a young woman half his age, already married to another.
As for Georgina, she went to live with her daughter, and said she wouldn’t take a penny from Julian. Nor did she try to sue him for possession of the matrimonial home—although, as Eleanor pointed out, the house went with Julian’s job, so she wouldn’t have stood much of a chance anyway. She showed little interest in reclaiming her clothes, jewellery, or personal effects. Georgina made it generally known that anyway she’d had it up to here with university life in general and Julian in particular: no one was to make a fuss. The first response antagonized the academic community, who felt as a result more kindly disposed towards Eleanor than they otherwise would: the second eased Julian of guilt.
One morning, as Eleanor and Julian sat at the polished mahogany breakfast table, sipping coffee, and spreading toast made with white sliced bread and Marks & Spencer marmalade, and looking out over the Dorset hills, to the glimpse of sea beyond, Eleanor wearing an Edwardian silk wrap from Oxfam and Julian in a dressing gown inherited from his father—both his parents, perhaps fortunately, for they were the most respectable folk and divorce unknown in the family, were deceased—Julian said, ‘Eleanor, what preparations have you made for the graduation ceremonies?’ and Eleanor said, ‘Why, are they very special?’ And Julian said, ‘Well, actually yes, they are the high spot in the annual university calendar. There are graduation dinners—we hold them here—garden parties in the grounds, teas likewise, concert suppers, around two hundred at each, I suppose; honour graduands to be fêted and so on. Georgina spent quite a lot of time and energy doing it.’
‘I think the university office should do it,’ said Eleanor.
‘Well, no,’ said Julian, quite firmly, and she saw for the first time the glint in his eye which unnerved governments and faculty boards. ‘I think it is your job. You could get in outside caterers,’ he added, and from an untidy drawer drew an untidy file, in spite of which untidiness he laid his hand unerringly upon the card he sought: ‘Highlife Caterers—Academic Functions a Speciality.’
Eleanor said, ‘Caterers are a wicked waste of money. I’ll do it myself.’
Word got round college and university that Ellen Parkin was going—to do the Graduation Week catering single-handed and many predicted her downfall. There would be poached egg on toast for tea, they said, instead of salmon canapés with caviar; Irish stew for dinner instead of filet mignon: bread and butter pudding for dessert and sweet sherry all round. There was glee at the prospect. Julian Darcy would realize his mistake and Eleanor would be out on her ear and plain Ellen again, and serve her right. A man who got rid of one woman would get rid of another. And would Bernard take her back? No one knew. No one had seen Bernard lately: his name no longer appeared on the college’s staff list. They assumed they’d know if he was dead, but no one much cared.
Bernard was in fact quite often seen by Eleanor and Julian. He would stand on the gravel drive in front of Bridport Lodge in the very early morning, unshaven and unkempt, staring up at their bedroom window. When he knew he had been seen he would slink away.
‘If only we had dogs,’ said Julian, ‘we could set