This, of course, would give him time to collect his thoughts, and that, of course, was just what he didn’t want to do with his thoughts; the longer he could keep them apart from one another, especially the ones about Margaret, the better. For the first time he couldn’t avoid imagining what she’d say to him, if indeed she’d say anything, when he next saw her. He pushed his tongue down in front of his lower teeth, screwed up his nose as tightly as he could, and made gibbering motions with his mouth. How long would it be before he could persuade her first to open, then to empty, her locker of reproaches, as preliminary to the huge struggle of getting her to listen to his apologies? Desperately he tried to listen to Welch’s song, to marvel at its matchless predictability, its austere, unswerving devotion to tedium; but it didn’t work. Then he tried to feel pleased about the acceptance of his article, but all he could remember was Welch’s seeming indifference on hearing the news and his injunction, so exasperatingly like Beesley’s, to ‘get a definite date from him, Dixon, otherwise it’s not much . . . not much . . .’ He sat up and by degrees worked his feet to the floor.
There was an alternative to the Atkinson plan; the simpler, nicer one of clearing out at once without a word to anybody. That wouldn’t really do, though, unless he cleared out as far as London. What was going on in London now? He began to take off his pyjamas, deciding to omit his bath. Those wide streets and squares would be deserted at this time, except for a few lonely, hurrying figures; he could revisualize it all from remembering a week-end leave during the war. He sighed; he might as well be thinking of Monte Carlo or Chinese Turkestan; then, jigging on the rug with one foot out of, the other still in, his pyjamas, thought of nothing but the pain that slopped through his head like water into a sandcastle. He clung to the mantelpiece, nearly displacing the squatting Oriental, crumpling like a shot film-gunman. Had Chinese Turkestan its Margarets and Welches?
Some minutes later he was in the bathroom. Welch had left grime round the bath and steam on the mirror. After a little thought, Dixon stretched out a finger and wrote ‘Ned Welch is a Soppy Fool with a Fase like A Pigs Bum’ in the steam; then he rubbed the glass with a towel and looked at himself. He didn’t look too bad, really; anyway, better than he felt. His hair, however, despite energetic brushing helped out by the use of a water-soaked nail-brush, was already springing away from his scalp. He considered using soap as a pomatum, but decided against it, having in the past several times converted the short hairs at the sides and back of his head into the semblance of duck-plumage by this expedient. His glasses seemed more goggle-like than usual. As always, though, he looked healthy and, he hoped, honest and kindly. He’d have to be content with that.
He was all ready to slink down to the phone when, returning to the bedroom, he again surveyed the mutilated bedclothes. They looked in some way unsatisfactory; he couldn’t have said how. He went and locked the outer bathroom door, picked up the razor-blade, and began again on the circumferences of the holes. This time he made jagged cuts into the material, little inlets from the great missing areas. Some pieces he almost severed. Finally he held the blade at right angles and ran it quickly round the holes, roughening them up. He stood back from his work and decided the effect was perceptibly better. The disaster now seemed much less obviously the work of man and might, for a few seconds, be put down to some fulminant dry-rot or the ravages of a colony of moths. He turned the rug round so that the shaven burn, without being actually hidden by a nearby chair, was none the less not far from it. He was considering taking the bedside table downstairs and later throwing it out of the bus on his journey back when a familiar voice came into aural range singing in a way that suggested head-wagging jollity. It grew in volume, like the apprehension of something harmful or awful, until the locked bathroom door began to be shaken and its handle to be rattled. The singing stopped, but the rattling went on, was joined by kicking, even momentarily replaced by the thudding of what must be a shoulder. Welch hadn’t thought in advance that the bathroom might bear signs of occupation by another when he wanted to get back into it himself (why, in any case, did he want to get back into it?), nor did he soon realize it now. After trying several manoeuvres to replace his first vain rattling of the handle, he returned his attention to a vain rattling of the handle. There was a final orgasm of shakings, knockings, thuddings, and rattlings, then footsteps retreated and a door closed.
With tears of rage in his eyes, Dixon left the bedroom, first unintentionally treading on and shattering the bakelite mug, which must have rolled out from under something into his path. Downstairs, he looked at the hall clock—twenty past eight—and went into the drawing-room, where the phone was. It was a good job that Atkinson got up early on Sundays to go out for the papers. He’d be able to catch him easily before he went. He picked up the phone.
What gave him most trouble during the next twenty-five minutes was giving vent to his feelings without hurting his head too much. Nothing whatever came out of the receiver during that time except the faint sea-shell whispering. As he sat on the arm of a leather-covered armchair, putting his face through all its permutations of loathing, the whole household seemed to spring into activity around him. Footsteps walked the floor above his head; others descended the stairs and entered the breakfast-room; still others came from the back of the house and also entered the breakfast-room; far off a vacuum-cleaner whined; a cistern flushed; a door banged; a voice called. When it sounded as if a posse was being assembled immediately outside the drawing-room door, he hung up and left, his bottom aching from its narrow seat, his arm aching from rattling the receiver-rest.
Breakfast technics at the Welches’, like many of their ways of thought, recalled an earlier epoch. The food was kept hot on the sideboard in what Dixon conjectured were chafing-dishes. The quantity and variety of this food recalled in turn the fact that Mrs Welch supplemented Welch’s professorial salary with a good-sized income of her own. Dixon had often wondered how Welch had contrived to marry money; it could hardly have been due to any personal merit, real or supposed, and the vagaries of Welch’s mind could leave no room there for avarice. Perhaps the old fellow had had when younger what he now so demonstrably lacked: a way with him. In spite of the ravages wrought by his headache and his fury, Dixon felt happier as he wondered what foods would this morning afford visible proof of the Welches’ prosperity. He went into the breakfast-room with the bedclothes and Margaret a long way from the foreground of his mind.
The only person in the room was the Callaghan girl, sitting behind a well-filled plate. Dixon said good morning to her.
‘Oh, good morning.’ Her tone was neutral, not hostile.
He quickly decided on a bluff, speak-my-mind approach as the best cloak for rudeness, past or to come. One of his father’s friends, a jeweller, had got away with conversing almost entirely in insults for the fifteen years Dixon had known him, merely by using this simple device. Deliberately intensifying his northern accent, Dixon said: ‘Afraid I got off on the wrong foot with you last night.’
She looked up quickly, and he saw with bitterness how pretty her neck was. ‘Oh . . . that. I shouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you. I didn’t show up too well myself.’
‘Nice of you to take it like that,’ he said, remembering that he’d already had one occasion to use this phrase to her. ‘Very bad manners it was on my part, anyway.’
‘Well, let’s forget it, shall we?’
‘Glad to; thanks very much.’
There was a pause, while he noted with mild surprise how much and how quickly she was eating. The remains of a large pool of sauce were to be seen on her plate beside a diminishing mound of fried egg, bacon, and tomatoes. Even as he watched she replenished her stock of sauce with a fat scarlet gout from the bottle. She glanced up and caught his look of interest, raised her eyebrows, and said, ‘I’m sorry, I like sauce; I hope you don’t mind,’ but not convincingly, and he fancied she blushed.
‘That’s all right,’ he said heartily; ‘I’m fond
of the stuff myself.’ He pushed aside his bowl of cornflakes. They were of a kind he didn’t like: malt had been used in their preparation. A study of the egg and bacon and tomatoes opposite him made him decide to postpone eating any himself. His gullet and stomach felt as if they were being deftly sewn up as he sat. He poured and drank a cup of black coffee, then refilled his cup.
‘Aren’t you going to have any of this stuff?’ the girl asked.
‘Well, not yet, I don’t think.’
‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling so good?’
‘No, not really, I must admit. Bit of a headache, you know.’
‘Oh, then you did go to the pub, like that little man said—what was his name?’
‘Johns,’ Dixon said, trying to suggest by his articulation of the name the correct opinion of its bearer. ‘Yes, I did go to the pub.’
‘You had a lot, did you?’ In her interest she stopped eating, but still gripped her knife and fork, her fists resting on the cloth. He noticed that her fingers were square-tipped, with the nails cut quite close.
‘I suppose I must have done, yes,’ he replied.
‘How much did you have?’
‘Oh, I never count them. It’s a bad habit, is counting them.’
‘Yes, I dare say, but how many do you think it was? Roughly.’
‘Ooh . . . seven or eight, possibly.’
‘Beers, that is, is it?’
‘Good Lord, yes. Do I look as if I can afford spirits?’
‘Pints of beer?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled slightly, thinking she didn’t seem such a bad sort after all, and that the slight blueness of the whites of her eyes helped to give her her look of health. He changed his mind abruptly about the first of these observations, and lost interest in the second, when she replied:
‘Well, if you drink as much as that you must expect to feel a bit off colour the next day, mustn’t you?’ She drew herself upright in her seat in a schoolmarmy attitude.
He remembered his father, who until the war had always worn stiff white collars, being reproved by the objurgatory jeweller as excessively ‘dignant’ in demeanour. This etymological sport expressed for Dixon exactly what he objected to in Christine. He said rather coldly: ‘Yes, I must, mustn’t I?’ It was an idiom he’d caught from Carol Goldsmith. Thinking of her made him think, for the first time that morning, of the embrace he’d witnessed the night before, and he realized that it had its bearing on this girl as well as on Goldsmith. Well, she could obviously take care of herself.
‘Everybody was wondering where you’d got to,’ she said.
‘I’ve no doubt they were. Tell me: how did Mr Welch react?’
‘What, to finding out you’d probably gone to the pub?’
‘Yes. Did he seem irritated at all?’
‘I really have no idea.’ Conscious, possibly, that this must sound rather bald, she added: ‘I don’t know him at all, you see, and so I couldn’t really tell. He didn’t seem to notice much, if you see what I mean.’
Dixon saw. He felt too that he could tackle the eggs and bacon and tomatoes now, so went to get some and said: ‘Well, that’s a relief, I must say. I shall have to apologize to him, I suppose.’
‘It might be a good idea.’
She said this in a tone that made him turn his back for a moment at the sideboard and make his Chinese mandarin’s face, hunching his shoulders a little. He disliked this girl and her boy-friend so much that he couldn’t understand why they didn’t dislike each other. Suddenly he remembered the bedclothes; how could he have been such a fool? He couldn’t possibly leave them like that. He must do something else to them. He must get up to his room quickly and look at them and see what ideas their physical presence suggested. ‘God,’ he said absently; ‘oh my God,’ then, pulling himself together: ‘I’m afraid I shall have to dash off now.’
‘Have you got to get back?’
‘No, I’m not actually going until . . . No, I mean there’s . . . I’ve got to go upstairs.’ Realizing that this was a poor exit-line, he said wildly, still holding a dish-cover: ‘There’s something wrong with my room, something I must alter.’ He looked at her and saw her eyes were dilated. ‘I had a fire last night.’
‘You lit a fire in your bedroom?’
‘No, I didn’t light it purposely, I lit it with a cigarette. It caught fire on its own.’
Her expression changed again. ‘Your bedroom caught fire?’
‘No, only the bed. I lit it with a cigarette.’
‘You mean you set fire to your bed?’
‘That’s right.’
‘With a cigarette? Not meaning to? Why didn’t you put it out?’
‘I was asleep. I didn’t know about it till I woke up.’
‘But you must have . . . Didn’t it burn you?’
He put the dish-cover down. ‘It doesn’t seem to have done.’
‘Oh, that’s something, anyway.’ She looked at him with her lips pressed firmly together, then laughed in a way quite different from the way she’d laughed the previous evening; in fact, Dixon thought, rather unmusically. A blonde lock came away from the devotedly-brushed hair and she smoothed it back. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I don’t know yet. I must do something, though.’
‘Yes, I quite agree. You’d better start on it quickly, hadn’t you, before the maid goes round?’
‘I know. But what can I do?’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad enough. There are great pieces gone altogether, you see.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t really know what to suggest without seeing it. Unless you . . . no; that wouldn’t help.’
‘Look, I suppose you wouldn’t come up and . . . ?’
‘Have a look at it?’
‘Yes. Do you think you could?’
She sat up again and thought. ‘Yes, all right. I don’t guarantee anything, of course.’
‘No, of course not.’ He remembered with joy that he still had some cigarettes left after last night’s holocaust. ‘Thanks very much.’
They were moving to the door when she said: ‘What about your breakfast?’
‘Oh, I shall have to miss that. There’s not time.’
‘I shouldn’t if I were you. They don’t give you much for lunch here, you know.’
‘But I’m not going to wait till . . . I mean there isn’t much time to . . . Wait a minute.’ He darted back to the sideboard, picked up a slippery fried egg and slid it into his mouth whole. She watched him with folded arms and a blank expression. Chewing violently, he doubled up a piece of bacon and crammed it between his teeth, then signalled he was ready to move. Intimations of nausea circled round his digestive system.
They went in file through the hall and up the stairs. The ocarina-like notes of a recorder playing a meagre air were distantly audible; perhaps Welch had breakfasted in his room. Dixon found, with a pang of relief, that he could open the bathroom door.
The girl looked sternly at him. ‘What are we going in here for?’
‘My bedroom’s on the far side of this.’
‘Oh, I see. What a curious arrangement.’
‘I imagine old Welch had this part of the house built on. It’s better like this than having the bathroom on the far side of a bedroom.’
‘I suppose so. My goodness, you certainly have gone to town, haven’t you?’ She went forward and fingered the sheet and blankets like one shown material in a shop. ‘But this doesn’t look like a burn; it looks as if it’s been cut with something.’
‘Yes, I . . . cut the burnt bits off with a razor-blade. I thought it would look better than just leaving it burnt.’
‘Why on earth did you do that?’
‘I can’t really explain. I just thought it would look better.’
‘Mm. And did all this come from one cigarette?’
‘That I don’t know. Probably.’
‘Well, you must have been pretty far gone not to . . . And the table too. And the
rug. You know, I don’t know that I ought to be a party to all this.’ She grinned, which made her look almost ludicrously healthy, and revealed at the same time that her front teeth were slightly irregular. For some reason this was more disturbing to his equanimity than regularity could possibly have been. He began to think he’d noticed quite enough things about her now, thank you. Then she drew herself up and pressed her lips together, seeming to consider. ‘I think the best thing would be to remake the bed with all this mess at the bottom, out of sight. We can put the blanket that’s only scorched—this one—on top; it’ll probably be almost all right on the side that’s underneath now. What about that? It’s a pity there isn’t an eiderdown.’
‘Yes. Sounds all right to me, that. They’re bound to find it when they strip the bed, though, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but they probably won’t connect it with smoking, especially after what you did with your razor-blade. And after all, you wouldn’t have put your head right down the bottom of the bed to smoke, would you?’
‘That’s a point, of course. We’d better get on with it, then.’
He heaved the bed away from the wall, while she watched with arms folded, then they both set about the unmaking and remaking. The vacuum-cleaner could now be heard quite close at hand, drowning Welch’s recorder. As they worked, Dixon studied the Callaghan girl, despite his determination to notice nothing more about her, and saw with fury that she was prettier than he’d thought. He found himself wanting to make the kind of face or noise he was accustomed to make when entrusted with a fresh ability-testing task by Welch, or seeing Michie in the distance, or thinking about Mrs Welch, or being told by Beesley something Johns had said. He wanted to implode his features, to crush air from his mouth, in a way and to a degree that might be set against the mess of feelings she aroused in him: indignation, grief, resentment, peevishness, spite, and sterile anger, all the allotropes of pain. The girl was doubly guilty, first of looking like that, secondly of appearing in front of him looking like that. Run-of-the-mill queens of love—Italian film-actresses, millionaires’ wives, girls on calendars—he could put up with; more than that, he positively liked looking at them. But this sort of thing he’d as soon not look at at all. He remembered seeing in a book once that some man who claimed to have love well weighed up—someone like Plato or Rilke—had said that it was an emotion quite different in kind, not just degree, from ordinary sexual feelings. Was it love, then, that he felt for girls like this one? No emotion he’d experienced or could imagine came anything like so close, to his way of thinking; but apart from the dubious support of Plato or Rilke he had all the research on the subject against him there. Well, what was it if it wasn’t love? It didn’t seem like desire; when the last corner was tucked in and he joined her on her side of the bed, he was strongly tempted to put his hand out and lay it on one of those full breasts; but this action, if performed, would have appeared as natural to him, as unimportant and unobjectionable, as reaching out to take a large ripe peach from a fruit-dish. No, all this, whatever it was or was called, was something nothing could be done about.