“Where’s the toilet paper?”
Hilary raises and twists her head, stupid with sleep. “Eh?”
“Toilet paper. I need to take some with me.”
“We’re out of it.”
“What?”
“I was going to get some today.”
Philip throws his arms into the air. “Marvellous! Bloody marvellous!”
“You could buy some yourself.”
“At six o’clock in the morning?”
“The airport might—”
“And the airport might not. Or I might not have time.”
“You can take what’s left in the downstairs loo, if you like.”
“Thanks very much,” says Philip sarcastically. He thumps down the stairs, two steps at a time. There is half a roll of pink toilet tissue in the downstairs cloakroom, suspended from a cylindrical roller attached by a spring-loaded axle to a ceramic holder screwed to the wall. Philip fumbles with this apparatus, seeking to remove the toilet roll from the roller. The front doorbell shrills. Philip starts, the toilet roll falls off the roller and unwinds itself across the floor of the cloakroom with amazing rapidity. Philip swears, tries to roll the paper up again, abandons the attempt, opens the front door to the taxi-driver, indicates his suitcase, runs to his study, stuffs a wad of A4 Bank typing paper into his briefcase, runs back to the hall, shouts an angry, “Goodbye, then,” up the stairs, snatches his raincoat from its hook and leaves the house, slamming the front door behind him.
“All right, sir?” says the taxi-driver, as Philip collapses in the back seat.
Philip nods. The driver lets in the clutch and engages bottom gear. The taxi begins to move—then stops abruptly, obedient to a cry from the direction of the house. For here comes Hilary, trotting down the garden path, in her nightie, just an old coat thrown over her shoulders, scarcely decent, clasping to her bosom an untidy bundle of socks and underclothing. Philip lowers the window of the taxi.
“You forgot to take them out of the drier,” Hilary says breathlessly, bundling socks, singlets and Y-fronts through the window and on to his lap. The taxi-driver looks on with amusement.
“Thanks,” says Philip grudgingly, as he clutches the clothes.
Hilary is grinning at him. “Goodbye, then. Have a safe journey.” She bends forward and offers her face at the window for a kiss, lips pursed and eyes closed. Philip can hardly refuse to respond, and leans forward to administer a perfunctory peck.
But then an extraordinary thing happens. Hilary’s old coat falls open, the neckline of her nightgown gapes, and Philip glimpses the curve of her right breast. It is an object he knows well. He made his first tactile acquaintance with it twenty-five years ago, tentatively fondling it, through the impeding upholstery of a Marks and Spencer’s fisherman’s knit jumper and a stoutly constructed Maidenform brassiere, as he kissed its young postgraduate owner goodnight on the porch of her digs one night after a Film Society showing of Battleship Potemkin. He first set entranced eyes upon its naked flesh on his wedding night. Since then he must have seen and touched it (and its twin) several thousand times—stroked it and kneaded it and licked it and nuzzled it, watched it suckling his children and sucked its nipple himself on occasion—during which time it lost its pristine firmness and satin texture, grew fuller and heavier and less elastic, and became as familiar to him as an old cushion, comfortable but unremarkable. But such is the mystery of desire—the fickleness and unpredictability of its springs and motions—that this unexpected glimpse of the breast, swinging free inside the loose folds of the nightgown, in a shadowy gap from which rises to his nostrils a pleasant smell of warm bed and body, makes Philip suddenly faint with the longing to touch, suck, lick, nuzzle, etc. it again. He does not want to go to Turkey. He does not want to go anywhere at this moment, except back to bed with Hilary. But of course, he cannot. Is it only because he cannot that he wants to so much? All he can do is to press his lips on Hilary’s more enthusiastically than he had intended—or than she expected, for she looks at him with a quizzical, affectionate, even tender regard as the taxi, at last, inexorably moves away. Philip looks back through the rear window. Hilary stoops to pluck from the gutter a stray sock, and waves it forlornly after him, like a makeshift favour.
Not many hours after Philip Swallow flew out of Heathrow on a Turkish Airlines DC-10 bound for Ankara, Persse McGarrigle flew in on an Aer Lingus Boeing 737 from Shannon, for it was the day of the Royal Academy of Literature’s prizegiving party.
The Annabel Lee was an old pleasure steamer that had once plied up and down the Thames estuary. Now repainted and refurbished, her paddles stilled and her smokestack unsullied, she was moored beside the Thames at Charing Cross Embankment, accommodating a restaurant, bars and reception rooms that could be hired for functions like this one. The London literati cooed their delight at the novelty of the venue as they alighted from their taxis or debouched from the Tube station and strolled along the Embankment. It was a fine May evening, with the river almost at flood, and a brisk breeze flapping the flags and pennants on the Annabel Lee ‘s rigging. When they got on board, some were not so sure it was a good idea. There was a distinct_ sensation of movement under one’s feet, and whenever a biggish craft passed on the river, its wash heaved the Annabel Lee up and down sharply enough to make the guests stagger on the plush red carpet of the main saloon. Soon, however, it was difficult to distinguish between the effect of the river and the effect of the booze. Persse had never been to a literary party before, but the main object seemed to be to drink as much as possible as fast as possible, while talking at the top of your voice and at the same time looking over the shoulder of the person you were talking to and smiling and waving at other people who were also drinking and talking and smiling and waving. As for Persse, he just drank, since he didn’t know a soul. He stood on the fringe of the party, feeling throttled in an uncustomary collar and tie, shifting his weight from one foot to another, until it was time to push his way back to the bar for another drink. There were waiters circulating with red and white wine, but Persse preferred Guinness.
“Hallo, is that Guinness you’re drinking?” said a voice at his shoulder. “Where did you get it?”
Persse turned to find a large, fleshy, pockmarked face peering covetously at his drink through horn-rimmed glasses.
“I just asked for it at the bar,” said Persse.
“This wine is like horsepiss,” said the man, emptying his glass into a potted plant. He disappeared into the crowd, and came back a few moments later, dragging a case of Guinness. “I don’t usually like bottled beer,” he said. “But Guinness, in my experience, is better bottled than draught in England. Different matter in Dublin.’
“I’m much of your opinion,” said Persse, as the man topped up his glass. “Would it be something to do with the water, I wonder.”
They had a learned technical conversation about the brewing of stout ale, illustrated by frequent sampling, for some time before they got round to introducing themselves. “Ronald Frobisher!” Persse exclaimed. “I’ve read some of your books. Are you getting a prize this evening?”
“No, I’m presenting one—Most Promising First Novel. When I started writing fiction there didn’t seem to be more than a couple of literary prizes, and they were only worth about a hundred quid each. Nowadays there are so many that it’s difficult to avoid winning one if you manage to publish anything at all. Sorry, didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your “That’s all right,” said Persse. “I understand your feelings. As a matter of fact I haven’t even published my poems yet.”
“That’s what I mean, see?” said Frobisher, opening another bottle of Guinness. He had an ingenious knack of using the top of one bottle to lever off the cap from another. “I mean, I don’t begrudge you your money—good luck to you—but the situation is getting daft. There are people here tonight who make a living out of prizes, bursaries and what have you. I can see the day coming when there’ll be a separate prize for every book that’s p
ublished. Best First Novel about a graduate housewife living in Camden Town with two young children and a cat and an unfaithful husband who works in advertising. Best travel book by a man under twenty-nine who has been round the world using only scheduled bus services and one pair of jeans. Best—”
As Frobisher was warming to his theme, a young woman came up and told him that he would soon be making the presentation of the Most Promising First Novel prize. He put down his glass. “Look after the Guinness,” he exhorted Persse, as he moved off.
Persse resumed drinking and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. But soon he saw a face that he recognized, and waved to it in the manner he had observed other guests using. Felix Skinner came over, trailing a buxom young woman with honey-coloured hair, and another couple. “Hallo, old man, what brings you here?” he said.
“I’ve come to collect a prize for my poetry.”
“I say, have you really?” Skinner exposed his fangs in a yellow smile. “Many congratulations. Sorry about the Shakespeare—Eliot book, by the way. This is my secretary, Gloria.” He pushed forward the buxom young woman who shook Persse’s hand listlessly. Her face was pale. “When are we going, Felix?” she said. “I’m feeling seasick.”
“We can’t leave yet, my dear, the prizes haven’t been given out,” said Felix, and turned to introduce the other couple. “Professor and Mrs Ringbaum, from Illinois. Howard is one of our authors.”
Howard Ringbaum nodded dourly at Persse. His wife smiled and hiccupped. “Thelma, cut it out,” he said, apparently without moving his lips. “I can’t help it,” she said, winking at Persse. “You could try drinking less,” said Ringbaum.
At the other end of the room someone banged on the table and began making a speech. “Frightful man, Ringbaum,” Skinner whispered into Persse’s ear. “We published one of his books about four years ago, I say published, we took the sheets for five hundred copies, had to remainder most of them, and on the strength of that he conned me into giving him and wife lunch today and I haven’t been able to get rid of them since. He bores the pants off you and she seems to be some kind of nymphomaniac—kept playing footsie with me in the restaurant. Damned embarrassing with Gloria there, I can tell you.”
At precisely that moment, Persse became aware of the presence of another’s leg against his own. He turned to find Mrs Ringbaum standing very close to him. “Are you really a poet?” she said breathily. The breath was heavily scented with gin.
“Yes, I am,” said Persse.
“Would you write a poem to me,” said Mrs Ringbaum, “if I made it worth your while?”
“One can’t produce poems to order, I’m afraid,” he said. He took a step backwards, but Mrs Ringbaum followed, glued to him like a ballroom-dancing partner.
“I don’t mean money,” she said.
“Thelma,” said Howard Ringbaum querulously from behind her back, “am I allergic to anchovies?” He was holding up a small sandwich with a bite-shaped hole in it. Persse took advantage of this distraction to put Skinner between himself and Mrs Ringbaum. “What was that you said about my book?” he asked Skinner.
“Oh, haven’t you had my letter? No? That’s Gloria, she’s been getting a little bit slack, lately. Well, I’m afraid we had a very negative report on your proposal. Ah, I see Rudyard Parkinson is making the biography award.”
A man with muttonchop whiskers and a plump, self-pleased countenance had mounted the platform and was addressing the assembled guests. It was a speech in praise of somebody’s book, though the smirk hovering round his lips seemed somehow to twist and devalue the sentiments they uttered, and to solicit knowing titters from his audience.
“Rudyard Parkinson… You’ve read his books, haven’t you, Howard?” said Thelma Ringbaum.
“Absolute crap,” said Howard Ringbaum.
Persse opened himself another bottle of Guinness, using Ronald Frobisher’s technique. “So you don’t want to publish my book after all?” he said to Felix Skinner.
“‘Fraid not, old man.”
“What did your reader say about it, then?”
“Well, that it wouldn’t do. Wasn’t on. Didn’t stand up. In a word.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” said Felix Skinner. “It’s confidential.”
There was a burst of applause, and flashlights blinked, as the biographer went up to receive his prize from Rudyard Parkinson. “He isn’t here tonight, by any chance?” said Persse wistfully. “Because if he is, I’d like to fight him.”
Felix Skinner laughed uncertainly. “No, no, he’s a long way from London. But a very eminent authority, I assure you. Ah, Rudyard, how very good to see you. Marvellous speech!”
Rudyard Parkinson, who had yielded the platform to Ronald Frobisher, smirked and brushed his whiskers upwards with the back of his hand. “Oh, hallo Skinner. Yes, I thought it went down pretty well.”
Felix Skinner performed introductions.
“This is a real privilege, Professor Parkinson,” said Howard Ringbaum, holding on to Parkinson’s hand and gazing raptly into his eyes. “I’m a great admirer of your work.”
“Kind of you,” Parkinson murmured.
“Howard! Howard, that’s Ronald Frobisher,” cried Thelma Ringbaum excitedly, pointing to the platform. “You remember, I was reading one of his books on the plane on the way over.”
“I recommend your book on James Thompson to all my students,” said Howard Ringbaum to Rudyard Parkinson, ignoring his wife. “I’ve written a few articles on the subject myself, and it would be a real pleasure to—”
“Ah yes, poor Frobisher,” said Parkinson, who seemed to prefer this topic of conversation. “He was up at Oxford when I was a young Fellow, you know. I’m afraid he’s burned himself out. Hasn’t published a new novel for years.”
“They’re doing one of his books on the telly,” said Gloria from somewhere behind and beneath them. All turned and looked at her with surprise. She was stretched out on a bench seat that followed the curve of the ship’s side, with her shoes off and her eyes closed.
“Yes,” said Parkinson, with a curl of his lip, “I daresay they are. I don’t possess a television receiver myself.”
A woman in the crowd in front of them turned and frowned, and someone else hissed, “Ssh!” Ronald Frobisher was giving a speech in a low undertone, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his corduroy jacket, his spectacles owlishly opaque under the lights.
“I can’t imagine that he has much to say that is worth straining one’s ears for,” murmured Parkinson. “As a matter of fact he looks distinctly squiffy to me.”
“By the way,” said Felix Skinner to him. “Did you, er, by any chance, get a book by, er, Philip Swallow, which I, er…”
“Yes, I did. Not at all bad. I’ve arranged to do it for the TLS, along with another book. Should be in tomorrow’s issue. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Oh, jolly good! I’m tremendously grateful.”
“I think it has important implications,” said Parkinson solemnly. “More than the author himself is aware of.”
There was another burst of applause as Ronald Frobisher handed an envelope to a smiling young woman in a fringe and homespun smock. The chairman who had opened the proceedings returned to the platform. “Now a number of awards and bursaries for young poets,” he announced. “That must be you,” said Thelma Ringbaum to Persse. “Hurry up.” Persse began to push his way towards the front.
“First, the Maud Fitzsimmons Bequest for the Encouragement of Anglo-Irish poetry,” said the chairman. “Is Persse McGarrigle…?”
“Here!” cried Persse from the floor. “Hold on, I’m coming.” A gust of laughter greeted his appearance on the platform, which Persse belatedly attributed to the fact that he was still holding a bottle of Guinness in his hand.
“Congratulations,” said the chairman, handing him a cheque. “I see you have brought your inspiration with you.”
“My inspiration,
” said Persse emotionally, “is a girl called Angelica.”
“And very nice too,” said the chairman, giving him a gentle push towards the steps. “And the next award…”
When Persse got back to his point of origin, he found Ronald Frobisher in angry confrontation with Rudyard Parkinson. “What would you know about literary creation anyway, Parkinson?” Frobisher was demanding. “You’re just a ponce for the Sunday papers. Once a ponce, always a ponce. I remember you poncing about the quad at All Saints—”
“Now, now, that’s enough,” said Felix Skinner, trying to interpose himself between the two men.
“Are they going to fight?” said Thelma Ringbaum excitedly. “Shut up, Thelma,” said Howard Ringbaum.
“Really Frobisher,” said Parkinson, “this sort of behaviour is bad enough in one of your novels. In real life it’s quite intolerable.” He spoke disdainfully, but backed away at the same time. “Anyway, I wasn’t the only reviewer who didn’t care for the last novel you wrote, what was it, ten years ago?”
“Eight. But you were the only one who made that crack about my old Dad, Parkinson. I’ve never forgiven you for that.” Holding an empty Guinness bottle by the neck, Frobisher made a lunge in Parkinson’s direction. Someone screamed. Felix Skinner pinned Frobisher’s arms to his sides, and Howard Ringbaum grabbed the back of his collar and pulled, throttling the novelist. Thinking that this was an unfair as well as excessive use of force, Persse laid a restraining hand upon Ringbaum. Thelma threw herself into the scuffle and kicked her husband enthusiastically on the ankle. He released Frobisher with a howl of pain, and turned indignantly upon Persse. The upshot of all this was that a few minutes later, Persse and Frobisher found themselves alone together on the Embankment, having been requested in pressing terms by the management of the Annabel Lee to leave the reception forthwith.
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