Girl, 20

by Kingsley Amis

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’

  She was holding the paper in a rather awkward position, low down and close to her, so that I had to lean some way across to get a view of the paragraph she was pointing to. As I did so, I noticed at close range, but in adequate focus, that the front of the bed-jacket had fallen apart and that a nipple was protruding from inside the Norma-style nightdress.

  ‘A psephologist is a man who knows about elections,’ I said, stumbling a little over the last word and taking off my glasses.

  ‘Oh, darling . . .’

  The remainder of the day passed pleasantly enough. No further mention of my friend was made, a reticence I did my bit to sustain by not asking after the other bloke. We parted after confirming arrangements for the following evening. I began the week’s work with Weber, with actual physical addition to the words I had already written about him. After two hours and not quite a page of that, I switched to filling in some of the background – some of its remoter, mistier sections – that I might need for my sleeve-notes on the Mozart sonatas. Midday came at last; I put my books back on the shelves and made off.

  There was a lot of sun in Maida Vale and down Edgware Road. It shone on girls by the hundred, girls with prominent bosoms, prominent hips, prominent faces. A man like Coates would have said (I was nearly sure I had heard him say) that the fine weather brought them out, dismissing the knottier question of where they were the rest of the time. I knew better. Today’s contingent, at any rate, had been brought out by Roy, and not just in the sense that the always close connection between the subject of Roy and the subject of girls had sharpened my eyes; perhaps not in that sense at all, for I had noticed no sudden corresponding increase in the number of anti-American demonstrations or advertisements for Scotch. Most likely what was at work on me was nothing more than the usual tonic effect of going to see Roy. How unfair, I reflected as I walked along Piccadilly, that that sort of effect should so often be absent, if not actually inverted, when it came to meeting far worthier persons. But surely divine mercy was in operation too: except where music was concerned, no one in quest of worth would ever go anywhere near Roy.

  I reached Craggs’s. While I waited for the porter to finish doing something to a telephone switchboard at the far side of his emplacement, my eye fell on a notice saying that the Wine Committee had acquired a number of bottles of Dom Perignon 1959 and was in a position to offer them to members at £4 each; limit, 1 doz. per member. Below was a column of signatures of those wishing to avail themselves of the opportunity, with the quantity desired, and Roy Vandervane’s name – 1 doz. – led all the rest. I found something incongruous in this placing, but only until I realized that I was not, after all, looking at the correspondence page of a newspaper, where alphabetical arrangement saw to it that Roy seldom came higher than last but one of a number attacking exploitation of immigrant labour in California or proposed increases in the price of school meals.

  In due time, I found Roy in the Punch and Who Was Who nook with an opened bottle of champagne (not the Dom Perignon) and two glasses in front of him. He was wearing what could have been called a suit if the jacket had had visible pockets, and the tendency of his hair to seem an inch longer every time I saw him had been checked, if not reversed. Was this show of conventionality put on to conciliate Harold? Full morning-dress, with grey topper, white spats and ebony walking-stick, would hardly be adequate for that job.

  Roy looked ill at ease, though not gloomy. When we were drinking he asked me if I had any ideas on what Harold might have in store for him. I told him roughly what Coates had told me two days earlier (and had had nothing to add to when rung up an hour before).

  ‘Does he really think I give a fart what a rag like that – sorry, Duggers – says about me? He must be losing his touch, if he ever had one.’

  ‘He had and has one. What dirt can he dig up?’

  ‘Well . . . the previous divorce, and one or two episodes since, I suppose. But that’s all water under the bloody bridge. The only bit that could embarrass me is the Sylvia bit, and as I said the other day that’s the one thing he can’t use. Unless he’s gone off his head, of course.’

  ‘That is a possibility, yes. We’ll have to see.’

  ‘All a load of ballocks. Come the first week in September she can vote – not a right I can see her exercising much, admittedly – and she can marry who she likes,’ he said, pouring me more champagne with a casual and yet intent air.

  ‘You’re the one who’s off his head, talking of saying things the other day. She can’t marry you whatever—’

  ‘Because I’m married to someone else, remember? as the Yanks say. I do wish they wouldn’t, don’t you? Kitty’s agreed to a divorce if I ask her for one, with full co-operation, naturally, because that makes me seem more of a shit. QC buddy of mine tells me that means you can squeeze the whole thing into about four months. And there’s a change in the law coming along that’ll cut it down to half that. Anyway . . .’

  ‘Yes, anyway. Say you do marry her, what about Girl, 20? What about wanting to get away from normal, decent, God-fearing sex? What about ringing up the paraffin man? What about going down?’

  ‘Yes, I know. But it’ll take—’

  ‘It won’t hold her to you – you realize that? If she wants to be off she’ll be off whether she’s married to you or not.’

  ‘There I disagree. It’ll take her some time to get browned off with being Lady Vandervane and wife of controversial musician and maverick political figure Roy Vandervane. Without knowing she’s going to have that, she’d be away tomorrow. As it is, I think I can probably reckon on a couple of years and that’s a bloody long time when you get to my age. Not after it’s over; it’ll seem like about six weeks then; but from here it looks a lot, I can assure you.’

  ‘Oh, good. But what about Girl, 20?’

  ‘There is that. You get that. But as regards the going-down side of life, it’ll have to be Girl, 50 if the point comes up. I couldn’t take Girl much under that. I love Sylvia, but one of her’s enough.’

  ‘Is it worth all the mess, for a couple of years?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘She’s terrible.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. You should have been in the pub the other evening, one of these places where they keep a bloody great tower of pennies on the counter for the blind or something. About ten thousand of the buggers, I imagine, colossally heavy, but she managed to knock most of them off on to the floor. Ankle-deep, and over a surprisingly wide area, too.’

  ‘You mean on purpose.’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to say. On purpose or not on purpose doesn’t come in much when you’re dealing with her. She did tell me afterwards that one of the chaps behind the bar said something about her to the other one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She couldn’t hear what, but she could tell it was about her.’

  ‘And uncomplimentary.’

  ‘Or complimentary, as the case may be.’

  ‘You’re going about with her openly these days, then?’

  ‘More or less. There doesn’t seem much point in not. In a way there never was, I suppose, but a couple of months ago I didn’t really know what turn things were going to take. Not really. Part of getting older, Duggers, old lad, is doing more and more of those things which we do not want to do, and leaving undum more and more of those things which we want to do. Because there are fewer and fewer people round the place to do them with.’

  Roy poured the rest of the champagne. I visualized the wedding reception, to which he would invite me, and which I would attend, and at which he would be wearing either morning-dress (probably minus white spats) or a boiler-suit, according to mood, and in the course of which Lady Vandervane II would perform the ceremony of cutting the cake before pelting the guests with it and setting about them with the knife. The picture depressed me, to the point at which I could not find the energy to administer the supplementary verbal drubbing Roy probably felt
he ought to have. After two or three minutes of silence we drained our glasses and left, still in silence.

  Outside, I started to turn down the hill in the direction of the Retrenchment Club, but Roy prevented me.

  ‘I’ve got the car here,’ he said.

  ‘Just as quick to walk, surely.’

  ‘I don’t like leaving it where it is. May need to make a quick getaway, too.’

  The real reason for this trifling change of plan came into view (without for the moment defining itself) when I saw, pasted inside the rear window of the car, a printed strip saying SUPPORT RHODESIA and next to it a fairly efficiently hand-lettered one saying AND SOUTH AFRICAN APARTHEID. I decided immediately that it would be more rewarding to allow the explanation to emerge rather than to demand it on the spot; I could always ask later if necessary. While Roy was taking out his keys, I noticed the same exhortation on the windscreen. He got in, unlocked the nearside door and put on his head a bowler hat that had been lying on the passenger’s seat. I still held my peace.

  We left the alley in which the car had been parked at perhaps forty miles an hour, causing a van and a taxi to brake violently. Roy blew his horn and shouted and shook his fist at them. He did more of the same when we reached the corner of Piccadilly just as the amber light appeared under the red, and lowered his window to shout and shake his fist to better effect as we swept past a knot of pedestrians who, far from making any move to cross in front of him, showed every sign of being prepared to remain indefinitely where they were. Hooting steadily, he changed lanes several times, and with some risk, as we covered the short stretch along to Duke Street. Here he resumed his policy towards pedestrians, stepped it up, rather, while we negotiated the turn at a speed that gave him the opportunity of singling out individuals for abuse. None of them showed the least irritation or disquiet at these onslaughts, only incomprehension. Between times, I could sense Roy glancing at me as I sat beside him displaying lively interest in everything around me except what he was doing. When the Jermyn Street lights halted us, I studied the goods in the windows of Fortnum & Mason’s and Roy blew his horn. He stopped doing that at the sight of a nearby policeman, who approached, ran his eye over the windscreen sticker (with a hint of distaste, I thought), and spoke in at Roy’s open window.

  ‘Would you pull into the kerb, please, sir?’

  I foresaw a confrontation with the forces of repression being substituted for my lunch, but Roy did as he was told in silence.

  ‘You seemed to be getting a little impatient, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, officer, but I was in a great hurry for a most urgent appointment.’

  ‘These signal lights, like all others that I know of, are operated by a combination of mechanical and electrical systems, and are unaffected by the sound of any horn. May I see your driving licence, sir?’

  Roy handed it over without a word. The policeman inspected it at length, and also meditatively, as though he would remember this moment all his life, before passing it back.

  ‘I thought I recognized you, Sir Roy. I’ve seen you several times on television. Now you realize you’ve been infringing police regulations?’

  ‘Yes, officer, I do realize that, and I’m very sorry.’

  ‘All right, you can get on your way now, but I’d recommend refraining from excessive use of the horn in future. After all, it’s not what one would call good driving manners, is it, sir?’

  ‘No, officer. Thank you.’

  We drove off at a sedate speed. When we were coming down into St James’s Square, Roy removed his bowler and said,

  ‘Bloody fascist.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him so?’

  ‘He only let me go because he approved of these bloody slogans.’

  ‘Cock, and why didn’t you tell him he was a bloody fascist?’

  ‘Only this lunch. I would have at any other time. No, I suppose I wouldn’t, would I? It’s this respect for authority that’s dinned into us until it becomes a reflex. Conditioned response.’

  ‘And cowardice.’

  ‘Yes, a bit of that, too. Anyway, it isn’t time yet for challenging the system direct. This sort of tactic’ – he gestured – ‘pays off much better as things are.’

  ‘Tactic?’

  ‘Oh, socialist camp! The negative demonstration. You pretend to be one of the other side behaving crappily, or rather behaving as they actually would if they felt strong enough. Not a new idea, but I think I’m the first in the field with this particular application. I’m going to bring it up with the Anti-Racialiss Solidarity Executive. Just having the thing parked here in the middle of Clubland, saying what it says, will make some people angry in a useful way.’

  He had parked the thing within a few yards of the space it had occupied the last time we had met in Craggs’s, the day Penny had asked to be helped. Helped. What an idea. As we walked towards Pall Mall, I said,

  ‘I should have thought most of the people using this square would be more likely to be cheered up by seeing that somebody powerful enough to own that sort of car agrees with them.’

  ‘People like that don’t notice anything unless it’s rammed in front of their noses. Often not even then.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘And you probably wouldn’t know, but you don’t have to be all that powerful to own that sort of car.’

  The uncharacteristic malice here showed that I had registered a hit. Good. Well, goodish. Was Roy going off his head in more than a manner of speaking? As if in answer to my thought (or rather, I was sure, actually and quite non-uncharacteristically and reassuringly in answer to it) he burst into one of his bursts of offensive song while we were crossing the road.

  ‘Thah cawl shuh-eeds ahv eveneeng thahr mahn-tahl wahr uh- spraddeeng,

  Ahnd Mayoree, ahl smoileeng, wahs uh-leestneeng tah me . . .’

  This, being delivered molto largamente, lasted until we were well on to the far pavement, and excited the interest of an eminent Sovietologist who was coming down the steps of the Voyagers’ Club. Roy waved to him, deriving added power by grasping the forearm of the waving hand with the free hand and shaking it violently.

  ‘Another bloody fascist,’ he said to me jocularly, or in some way that half explained song and wave, perhaps also negative demonstration, possibly much more, as exercises designed to work off anxiety, divert it, outface it. ‘Think how many fascists and bastards in general’, he added in similar vein on the threshold of the Retrenchment, ‘have passed through these portals.’

  ‘I thought fascists and bastards in general were interchangeable.’

  ‘You did? You’re coming on. Right. That champagne at Craggs’s is bloody good stuff. Lead on to the fascist and bastard in general of the day.’

  We had entered a room several times the size of the house I occupied half of, opulent, classical and also strongly ecclesiastical in feeling, like an early Christian emperor’s orgy chamber. Soberly dressed men in twos and threes straggled across a marble floor to a battered tin cart from which drinks were unhurriedly being dispensed. Roy led the way to the rear of this queue.

  ‘Hadn’t we better inquire for him?’ I asked.

  ‘Bugger that. This was his idea. Let him find us.’

  He did when we were about halfway to the drinks cart. First he and Roy, then he and I, nodded at each other. Harold’s second nod led without a break into a glance at his watch.

  ‘Time’s getting on,’ he said. ‘This confounded insistence on ice in everything. A lot of stuff piled up. Do you mind if we have a drink at the table?’

  ‘No, I’d like that,’ said Roy. ‘But I’d like one here first as well, if I may.’

  Harold turned to me. ‘What about you?’

  He was mistaken if he thought Roy would bow to an adverse casting vote, as also if he expected me to declare against my principal in the smallest particular. ‘I must say I’d rather like one, too.’

  ‘You mean here as well as at the table?’

  ‘Yes, if that’
s all right.’

  After another, slower nod, Harold walked briskly away and out of one of the corners of the room.

  ‘Well played, Duggers. First round to us.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to annoy him unnecessarily?’

  ‘Yes. And anyway this is necessarily.’

  We got our drinks, but it was a technical triumph only. Harold came back as they were handed us, declined one himself, paid, and stood in silence rather more than a yard off. Although Roy defended stoutly by gossiping to me about musicians and others Harold would not have known even by name, the three of us were in the dining-room after a bare ten minutes. A good half of it was occupied by a central table covered from edge to edge with dishes of cold food that not only were clearly untouched but seemed also inviolable, as at some metropolitan form of harvest festival. We skirted all this and sat down in a corner under a full-length portrait of a duke or other nobleman who, whether or not he had been a fascist, certainly looked the nonpareil of a bastard in general. Menus were before us, and an order pad, complete with carbon paper and uncapped ballpoint pen, lay ready at Harold’s side. He led off without hesitation, wrote minutely on the pad and muttered (for publication, so to speak, rather than to himself),

  ‘Tomato salad. Steak and kidney pie. Marrow and French beans.’

  I noticed that all these items appeared on the clipped-in sheet on which the set lunch, a remarkably cheap package as it appeared to me, was laid out. I said I would have the same, and Harold wrote accordingly. Roy was finding it more difficult to come to a decision, frowning and cocking his head in a style he might have learnt from his wife. Finally he said,

  ‘Tomato salad . . . yes. Then . . . I think duckling and orange sauce. And a green salad.’

  ‘Three tomato salads,’ Harold made an emendation on the pad. ‘Duckling and . . . Where do you see that?’

  ‘Over here,’ said Roy with some force, hitting his finger at the à la carte section of the menu.

  ‘Oh. Oh, over there. Duckling,’ said Harold, in the tone, abruptly assumed, of a fanatical vegetarian. He made no move to write.