She glanced up quickly as if she’d been expecting to be asked this, but he couldn’t tell whether she was glad or sorry when it came. Then she turned her head away and he could see how thin the flesh was over her jawbone. ‘No, I wouldn’t have another shot at it,’ she said. ‘I don’t care about him any more; I don’t feel anything at all about him, one way or the other. So much so I feel now it was rather silly to have tried at all.’
This made Dixon decide that his apprehensions about the evening had been absurdly out of place. ‘Good,’ he said heartily. ‘Has he tried to get in touch with you or anything?’
‘Not a thing, not even so much as a phone message. Vanished without a trace. He might never have existed—as far as we’re concerned. I suppose he’s too busy with his popsy these days, like he said he’d be.’
‘Oh, he said that, did he?’
‘Oh yes, our Mr Catchpole was never one to beat about the bush. How did it go? “I’m taking her off to North Wales with me for a couple of weeks. I thought I ought to tell you before I went off.” Oh, he was charmingly frank about it, James; quite charming in every way.’
Again she turned away from him, and this time the tendons of her neck were prominent, together with the bones at the base. He felt a pang of alarm, which sharpened when he found he could think of nothing to say. As if searching for a text he examined her face, noting the tufts of brown hair that over-hung the ear-pieces of her glasses, the crease running up the near cheek and approaching closer than before to the eye-socket (or was he imagining that?), and the faint but at this angle unmistakable downward curve of the mouth. There was nothing there of conversational aliment; he felt for his cigarettes, but before he could use the offer of these as a means of breaking into her pose, she switched back to him with a little smile which he recognized, with self-dislike, as consciously brave.
She drained her glass with a quick gay movement. ‘Beer,’ she said. ‘Buy me beer. The night is young.’
While he was securing the barmaid’s attention and getting the drinks, Dixon wondered first how many more rounds of blue-label he might be expected to pay for, and then why Margaret, with her full lecturer’s salary uninterrupted by her absence from work, so rarely volunteered to stand him a drink. Finally, though this was no more welcome, he thought of the morning before Margaret had taken her overdose of sleeping-pills. He’d had nothing to do at College that day before a two-hour seminar in the afternoon, and she’d been free after a tutorial hour at ten. After coffee at sevenpence a cup in a recently-opened, and now flourishing, restaurant, they’d gone to a chemist’s where she’d wanted to buy a few things. One of the things had been a new bottle of the sleeping-pills. He could remember exactly how she’d looked dropping the bottle, in its sealed white wrapper, into her handbag and glancing up to say: ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do tonight I’ll be brewing up about ten. What about dropping in for an hour?’ He’d said he would, meaning to turn up, but in the event he hadn’t been able to get his next day’s lecture written up in time, nor, he realized, had the prospect of another conference about Catchpole seemed inviting when ten o’clock came. In the early evening Catchpole had called on Margaret to tell her he was finished with her, and at about ten she’d eaten the whole bottleful of pills. If he’d been there himself, Dixon thought now for the thousandth time, he’d have been able to prevent her, or, if too late for that, to get her to the hospital a good hour and a half earlier than that fellow Wilson had. He shied away from the image of what would have happened if Wilson hadn’t bothered to go up to Margaret’s room. What had actually happened was much more unpleasant than anything he could have predicted that morning. The next time he’d seen her was in the hospital a week later.
Pocketing the eightpence change from his two florins, Dixon shoved one of the stemmed glasses along to Margaret. They were sitting at the bar of the Oak Lounge in a large roadside hotel not far from Welch’s house. From this seat Dixon felt he could recoup himself a little for the expensiveness of the drinks by eating steadily through the potato crisps, gherkins, and red, green, and amber cocktail onions provided by an ambitious management. He began eating the largest surviving gherkin and thought how lucky he was that so much of the emotional business of the evening had been transacted without involving him directly. She’d said nothing about his recent non-appearance at the Welches’, nor had any disintegrating question or avowal been let fall.
‘By the way, James,’ Margaret said, holding the stem of her glass, ‘I want to say how awfully grateful I am to you for your tact these last couple of weeks. It has been good of you.’
Dixon alerted all his faculties. Conundrums that sounded innocuous or even pleasant were the most reliable sign of impending attack, the mysterious horseman sighted riding towards the bullion-coach. ‘I didn’t know I’d been all that tactful,’ he said in an uncoloured tone.
‘Oh, just the way you’ve been keeping in the background. You were the only one who took the trouble to work it out, that I might prefer not to be bombarded with kind inquiries, “and how are you feeling, my dear, after your unpleasant experience” et cetera. Do you know, old Mother Welch had people from the village who’d never even heard of me before, dropping in to ask how I was. It was really incredible. You know, James, they couldn’t have been kinder, but I’ll be awfully glad to get out of that place.’
It seemed genuine. She had been known to interpret some of his laziest or most hurtful actions or inactions in this light, though not, of course, as often as she’d interpreted some gesture of support as lazy or hurtful. Perhaps he could now begin to lead the talk somewhere else. ‘Neddy said something about you feeling ready to start work again soon,’ he said. ‘Of course, the exams’ll be on us before very long. Are you going to do anything at College before they start?’
‘Well, I shall see each of my classes once to answer any questions they may think worth putting. If the effort of thinking up questions won’t turn their poor little brains, that is. But I shan’t do any more than that this year, apart from marking the scripts. What’ll really bring me back to normality’ll be getting away from the Neddies, ungrateful as it may sound.’ She crossed her legs spasmodically.
‘How much longer are you thinking of staying there?’
‘Oh, not more than a fortnight, I hope. I want to get out before the summer vac anyway. It all depends how soon I can find somewhere to live.’
‘That’s good,’ Dixon said, his spirits rising as opportunity for greater honesty seemed to be approaching. ‘You’ll be there next week-end, then.’
‘What, for Neddy’s arty get-together? Yes, of course. Why, you don’t mean you’re coming, do you?’
‘Yes, that’s just what I do mean. The question was popped on the way down in the car. Why, what’s so funny?’
Margaret was laughing in the way Dixon had provisionally named to himself ‘the tinkle of tiny silver bells’. He sometimes thought that the whole corpus of her behaviour derived from translating such phrases into action, but before he could feel much irritation with himself or her, she said: ‘You know what you’re in for, do you?’
‘Well, fine talk mostly, I hoped. I can waffle with the best of them. What’s been laid on, then?’
She ticked the items off on her fingers. ‘Part-songs. A play-reading. Demonstration of some sword-dance steps. Recitations. A chamber concert. There’s something else, too, but I’ve forgotten it. I’ll remember in a minute.’ She went on laughing.
‘Don’t bother, that’s enough to be going on with. My God, this is really serious; Neddy must be going off his head at last. It’s absolutely fantastic. Nobody’ll come.’
‘You’re wrong there, I’m afraid: a chap from the Third Programme’s promised to turn up. And a camera team from Picture Post. Several of the more prominent local musicians will appear, including your pal Johns with . . .’
Dixon gave a throttled howl. ‘This can’t be right,’ he said, draining his glass chokingly. ‘No more fantasy, please. They can’t
fit a gang like that into the house. Or are they going to sleep on the lawn? And what . . .’
‘Most of them are just coming down on the Sunday for the day, according to Mrs Neddy. There will be boarders, though, apart from you. Johns is arriving on the Friday evening, probably driven down with you . . .’
‘I’ll strangle that little sod before I get into the same . . .’
‘Yes yes of course; don’t shout. One of the sons is coming too, with his girl. The girl might be rather interesting; a ballet student, I gather.’
‘A ballet student? I didn’t know there were such things.’
‘There are, apparently. This one’s called Sonia Loosmore.’
‘No, really? How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve heard nothing else from either of the Neddies for the last week.’
‘I can imagine that.’ Dixon began looking towards the barmaid. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me why I’ve been asked.’
‘They weren’t very clear about that. Just to join in, I suppose. There’ll be plenty of things for you to do, I’ve no doubt at all.’
‘Look, Margaret, you know as well as I do that I can’t sing, I can’t act, I can hardly read, and thank God I can’t read music. No, I know what it is. Good sign in a way. He wants to test my reactions to culture, see whether I’m a fit person to teach in a university, see? Nobody who can’t tell a flute from a recorder can be worth hearing on the price of bloody cows under Edward the Third.’ He put seven
or eight onions into his mouth and began crunching them.
‘But he’s exposed you to culture before now, surely.’
‘Not such a heavy concentration as this looks like being. My God, what the hell does he think he’s playing at? What’s it all in aid of ? I mean it can hardly be all just for my benefit.’
‘He’s got some idea of an article or a wireless talk on the provincial culture-group. You know, that stuff he came back from Manchester full of at Easter.’
‘But he can’t really think anyone’ll take him up, can he?’
‘Who knows what he really thinks? No, it’s probably just an excuse for doing it. You know how he loves that sort of thing.’
‘None better,’ Dixon said, again trying to catch the barmaid’s eye. ‘You’ll have to start finding out what he’s got lined up for me. So I can start thinking up reasons for not being able to do it.’
She laid her hand on his. ‘You can rely on me,’ she said in a soft voice.
Dixon said quickly: ‘But how’s he got hold of the B.B.C. type and the Picture Post people? He must have got someone interested.’
‘I gather both lots are contacts of Bertrand’s, or perhaps his girl’s. But don’t let’s talk about it any more. Can’t we talk about ourselves? We’ve got so much to say to each other, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, trying to stuff comradeliness into his tone. He brought out his cigarettes and, while lighting two of these and getting more drinks, he meditated on Margaret’s capacity of talking like this at no notice. He wanted to give an inarticulate shout and run out of the bar, not stopping until he was on board a city bus. Though silenced, he was grateful to notice, by the barmaid’s nearness, Margaret was yet managing to keep up the pressure by intimate glances, even touching his knee with hers. He converted his start at this into a glance upwards, to the clock above the counter. The thin red second hand swung smoothly round the dial, giving the illusion of time rapidly passing. The other hands pointed to five past nine.
While he was being given his change, Dixon studied the barmaid, who was large and very dark with a narrow upper lip and rather close-set eyes. He thought how much he liked her and had in common with her, and how much she’d like and have in common with him if she only knew him. With the maximum of deliberation he trousered his change, then picked up and shook a cigarette packet someone had left on the counter. It proved empty. At his side, Margaret heaved the sigh which invariably preluded the worst avowals. She waited until he had to look at her and said: ‘How close we seem to be tonight, James.’ A fat-faced man on the other side of her turned and stared at her. ‘All the barriers are down at last, aren’t they?’ she asked.
Finding this unanswerable, Dixon gazed at her, slowly nodding his head, half expecting a round of applause from some invisible auditorium. What wouldn’t he give for a fierce purging draught of fury or contempt, a really efficient worming from the sense of responsibility?
At last she lowered her eyes and might have fallen to scanning her beer for foreign matter. ‘It seemed almost too much to hope for.’ After another silence, she went on in a brisker tone: ‘But can’t we sit somewhere more . . . out of the public eye?’
Dixon said he thought this was a good idea, and they moved across the room, which was starting to fill up, to a vacant corner. Before sitting down, he excused himself and went out to the lavatory.
Out there, he thought how nice it would be if he could give up his dual role of conciliator and go right away from here. Five minutes would be ample for a vituperative phone-call to Welch and a short statement of the facts of the case to Margaret. Then he’d go and pack a few clothes and get on the ten-forty for London. As he stood in the badly-lit jakes, he was visited again, and unbearably, by the visual image that had haunted him ever since he took on this job. He seemed to be looking from a darkened room across a deserted back street to where, against a dimly-glowing evening sky, a line of chimney-pots stood out as if carved from tin. A small double cloud moved slowly from right to left. The image wasn’t purely visual, because he had a feeling that some soft unidentifiable noise was in his ears, and he felt with a dreamer’s baseless conviction that somebody was going to come into the room where he seemed to be, somebody he knew in the image but not in reality. He was certain it was an image of London, and just as certain that it wasn’t of any part of London he’d ever visited. He hadn’t spent more than a dozen evenings there in his life. Then why, he pondered, was his ordinary desire to leave the provinces for London sharpened and particularized by this half-glimpsed scene?
He walked thoughtfully out of the lavatory without bothering to close its door, which was fitted with a compressed-air delaying device. The cylinder of this having been unscrewed by some rioter, the door swung to at once behind him, just missing his rear heel. The effect, in that short and narrow passage, was like the discharge of a piece of ordnance. He seemed to catch a hoarse cry of alarm from inside the bar. More than ever it was the moment to dart into the street and fail to return. But economic necessity and the call of pity were a strong combination; topped up by fear, as both were, they were invincible. He went back through the polished door into the Oak Lounge.
3
‘Excuse me, Mr Dixon; have you got a minute to spare?’
First making his shot-in-the-back face, Dixon stopped and turned. He was leaving College after a lecture, and so had been hurrying. ‘Yes, Mr Michie?’
Michie was a moustachioed ex-service student who’d commanded a tank troop at Anzio while Dixon was an R.A.F. corporal in western Scotland. He now confronted Dixon near the porter’s lodge. As always, his manner seemed to be concealing something, though Dixon could never be sure what. He waited for a moment and said: ‘Have you got that syllabus together yet, sir?’ He was the only student Dixon had ever heard calling a member of the staff ‘sir’, and apparently reserved the title exclusively for Dixon.
‘Oh yes, that syllabus,’ Dixon said, playing for time. He hadn’t got it together yet.
Michie pretended to think his question needed amplifying. ‘You know, sir, the list of stuff for your special subject next year. You said you were going to distribute copies to the Honours people, if you remember.’
‘Yes, oddly enough I can remember having said that,’ Dixon said, then pulled himself together; he mustn’t antagonize Michie. ‘I’ve got the stuff ready in my digs, but I’ve not given it to the typist yet. I’ll try to have it ready for you early next week, if that’s all right.’
‘That’ll do beautifully, sir,’ Michie said fulsomely, his moustache writhing a little as he smiled. He began moving away down the drive, keeping his eyes on Dixon, trying, it seemed, to engineer a joint departure from College. A briefcase, swollen with the week-end’s reading, swayed in his loose grip. ‘If I could come along to your room some time and pick them up?’
Dixon stopped trying to stand his ground, and allowed Michie to draw him away towards the road. ‘If you would,’ he said. Fury flared up in his mind like forgotten toast under a grill. The getting together of the syllabus had been, of course, Welch’s idea; on receipt of it, the candidates for Honours in History were to ‘see whether they were interested’ in studying this new special subject, in preference to the old special subjects taught by the other members of the Department and examined in one of the eight papers required for B.A. Clearly, the more students, within reason, Dixon could get ‘interested’ in his subject, the better for him; equally clearly, too large a number of ‘interested’ students would mean that the number studying Welch’s own special subject would fall toa degree that Welch might be expected to resent. With an Honours class of nineteen and a Department of six, three students seemed a safe number to try for. So far, Dixon’s efforts on behalf of his special subject, apart from thinking how much he hated it, had been confined to aiming to secure for it the three prettiest girls in the class, one of whom was Michie’s girl, while excluding from it Michie himself. Added to Dixon’s dislike of thinking about work at all, the necessity of keeping Michie at arm’s length went far to explain his present discomfort.