by David Lodge
Ruth was playing some kind of patience, sitting on a towel with her spindly legs crossed under her fat torso like a broody bird. She turned up a card and frowned.
– Jeeze, I need that like a hole in the head.
Timothy laughed.
– Whaddya laughing at, Timothy? Never hear anyone say that before?
– No.
– You’ll hear it again, I can promise you that, said Mel dourly.
– Wise guy, said Ruth.
– Say, is that right you’ve got a new car, Mel? said Greg.
– Yeah, that’s why he’s in such a lousy mood, said Ruth. Some limbless driver scratched his fender in the Hauptstrasse this morning.
Vince giggled.
– Ruth! A limbless driver, for God’s sake?
– That’s right. Some poor German bastard with his legs shot off, or his arms, or something. Had this car with special controls, you know? Mel didn’t notice. He jumps out of our car to blow this Kraut to about a thousand feet for scraping his fender – then he sees the guy is mostly hardware, steel claws and what have you. Mel collapsed like a balloon. Psssss! Like a balloon. Ruth chuckled hoarsely.
– I still say he shouldn’t be allowed on the roads, said Mel.
– Is it a brand new car, Mel? Kate asked.
– Yeah, a new Olds. Picked it up from Antwerp last weekend.
– We stayed in a great hotel in Brussels, said Ruth. What was the name of it, honey?
– The Metropole.
– Yeah, the Metropole. You been there, Maria?
– No, said Maria, smiling. Was it nice?
– It was fabulous.
– The bill was fabulous, said Mel.
– Well, it was worth it, said Ruth.
– How much, Mel? Greg asked.
– Thirty dollars a night.
– Wow! said Dot from under her straw hat.
– Each, Mel added.
– More wow, said Dot, lifting her hat off to stare. You been breaking the bank at Baden, or something?
– Talking of Baden, said Vince, Greg and I were thinking of taking a trip down there next weekend. What about it, Kate? Timothy would find it interesting.
In a few minutes they had made up a party for the following weekend. Only Maria was unable to come. She asked Ruth if she had liked Brussels, and the conversation turned to which was the most attractive European capital. Kath and Ruth chose Paris, Vince and Greg, Rome; Maria’s favourite was Vienna, and Mel’s Stockholm. Dot chose Lisbon, putting a stop to the argument, because no one else had been there.
There was a café in one corner of the swimming pool. Timothy collected orders for Coke, ice cream and coffee, and went off to get them with a five-dollar bill Vince gave him. When he returned with his loaded tray, he was surprised to see Don talking to Kate. The others were looking at him curiously. He had evidently just climbed out of the pool, for water was still coursing down his face and body, drawing the black hairs on his legs into straight lines, and forming a small damp patch on the grass. As Timothy came up, Kath began to introduce Don to the others. His skin was pale, almost as white as Timothy’s, and he looked conscious of his moist appearance, wiping his hand ineffectually on his bathing shorts.
– I’m afraid I’m making everybody wet, he apologized, but my towel’s over on the other side of the pool.
– Here! Vince tossed him a folded towel, which Don caught at the second attempt, nearly colliding with Timothy and his tray.
– Thanks! Oh, hi, Timothy. We meet again.
– Do you come here often, to coin a phrase? Greg asked Don. I know I’ve seen you before.
– You probably saw me over at G.H.Q. I used to work in the Orderly Room there.
– You mean, you’re a soldier?
– I was.
Kate intervened.
– Don has finished his service. He’s teaching at the Army School now.
Mel suddenly came to life.
– You just got your discharge from the Army?
– That’s right.
– Then the best years of your life are over, fella.
– That’s not the way I look at it, said Don with a smile.
– Of course he doesn’t, said Ruth scornfully. This is a cultured guy – a teacher, dincha hear?
– Sure I heard.
– So what should he get out of the Army?
– A free trip to Europe? Vince suggested quietly.
– The strings spoil it, Don said.
– Well, I learned a helluva lot in the Army, said Mel. But that was wartime. I guess it’s different now.
– Yeah, tell us what you did in the war, Daddy-oh, said Ruth. Tell us how you liberated Paris single-handed.
– Did you really fight in the war, Mel? Maria asked.
– Yeah, Ruth said. Mostly W.A.A.C.s, unarmed combat.
– I was with Patton’s army, said Mel.
– I tried to join the W.A.A.C.s, said Greg, but I failed the medical.
– I tried to join the W.A.A.F.s, and I really did fail the medical, said Kate. But am I glad now! She raised a Coke bottle to her lips and tilted it towards the sun.
– How’s that? Don asked her.
– Well, I shouldn’t be here, otherwise. I’d probably be darning my stockings and saving my clothing coupons and looking forward to a week at a holiday camp as the highspot of the year.
– You make England sound grim, Don said.
– Well, it is, isn’t it? You’ve just been there.
– Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like London.
– I’m glad somebody does, said Timothy. Nobody had a good word to say for it just now.
– Aw, isn’t that too bad, said Ruth, we’ve hurt Timothy’s feelings. Sure I like London, kid. It’s just that the food is so goddam awful and they don’t seem to have invented ice yet.
– Say, Timothy, what’s this Festival of Britain all about? said Greg.
– Jolly good.
– Worth making a trip to see it?
– I should think so, he replied guardedly.
Timothy had mixed feelings about the Festival. Taking their lead from the Daily Express, his family had tended to regard it as a prime instance of governmental folly, and enjoyed gloating over the successive scandals and setbacks of its preparation. But when he finally visited the Exhibition on the South Bank with a school party, all his scepticism and scorn had been swept away by a rush of wonder and delight, and he had gone back on several occasions. Now, in this exotic setting, so far from home, among these travelled, witty people, the Festival seemed to shrink again in significance. He tried to think of some feature that would appeal to his new friends.
– They have dancing in the open air in the evenings, he said.
– That’s right! said Dot. Girl I know was over in London a few weeks back. She said they were dancing in the rain.
– Sounds wild, said Vince.
– Oh, they weren’t carried away, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a few couples, plodding round and round in the puddles, quick quick slow, pretending it wasn’t raining.
– Ah, that’s what made Britain Great, said Vince.
Kate laughed.
– You’re so right. Dancing in the rain – that’s typical.
– I thought the Festival was pretty good, myself, said Don. Considering the limited budget they had to work with, it’s a very good show.
– Did you go to the Fun Fair at Battersea? Timothy asked him.
Don nodded without enthusiasm.
– That, I’m afraid, is something we definitely do better in the States. Coney Island, for instance . . .
– Coney Island! Gee, that makes me homesick, cried Ruth. You from New York City, Don?
– No, but I went to college there. Columbia.
– Well, that’s a very good school, said Ruth, impressed.
– Vince went to Yale, didn’t you, Vince? Kate said.
– Yeah, but I quit to join the Army. Never went back.
– Too bad, said Don.
The sun flashed on Vince’s sunglasses as he turned to face Don.
– I’ve no regrets.
– That’s fine, then, said Don.
– Where d’you come from originally, Don? Mel asked.
– My folks moved around a lot: Chicago, Columbus, Philadelphia. Now they’ve moved to California.
Ruth threw up her hands.
– California! Everybody I know is moving to California. There’s only negroes and Puerto Ricans left in New York as far as I can make out.
– Your parents will be looking forward to seeing you, Don, said Maria, smiling.
– I’m afraid they’ll have to wait longer. I’m planning to do graduate work in England before I go back home.
– Why doncha do it in the States? Mel asked.
– Oh, it’s a long story. In my field, political science, it’s all computers and consensus politics these days. I’m kind of attracted to the eccentric, amateur approach you get in England.
He talked a little more about his studies, but Timothy had the impression that no one, except perhaps Vince, could follow him. Then he said he had to be going. He folded the towel and returned it to Vince. Then he loped off, shoulders slightly stooped. He waved at them from the far side of the pool.
– Nice boy, said Dot. Where d’you find ’em, Kate?
– He was helping Timothy with his bag at the station when he arrived. I gave him the brush-off – I thought he was just one of those G.I.s on the make.
– You could still be right, honey, said Ruth. He has a lean and hungry look. If he’s too much for you, pass him on.
Kate laughed.
– He’s more Timothy’s friend than mine.
They stayed at the pool until late afternoon that Saturday. In the evening they piled into Mel’s vast glittering car and drove up the Neckar valley to a little inn for dinner. Afterwards, Kate saw him back to his room.
– I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, she said. I hope you don’t mind a late breakfast. I usually lie in on a Sunday.
– What Mass d’you usually go to?
Kate looked a little confused.
– Oh, yes, you’ll want to go to Mass.
– Won’t you, then?
– Oh, yes, I’ll go with you, of course. There’s a church just round the corner from me. There are plenty of masses, non-stop all morning.
So that’s it, he thought, as the door closed behind her and he heard the click-clack of her heels receding down the corridor. She’s lapsed. That’s why she hasn’t come home. She’s lapsed and she doesn’t want Mum and Dad to find out.
Timothy had been told many times at school that the great advantage of the Latin liturgy was that it was always the same, all over the world. Wherever you were, you could always walk into a Catholic church and feel at home with the service – an amenity that was denied to Protestants. The Catholic Church was the universal Church: Catholic meant universal. He walked to Mass with Kate in the agreeable expectation of confirming this theory by experiment. In fact, he found the service disconcertingly strange.
Kate had made a mistake about the times, and they were late. The church was crowded and they had to stand in a press of people at the back. It was an old building, crammed with gilt statues, and huge dark oil paintings that looked more like the kind you saw in art galleries than the simple, crudely coloured devotional objects that decorated the redbrick parish church at home. It wasn’t a High Mass, but there were two singers up in the gallery, a baritone and a soprano, who sang from time to time, solo or in duet. He couldn’t tell whether they were singing in Latin or German, but it certainly wasn’t the Kyrie, Gloria and Agnus Dei he was familiar with. It sounded more like a concert on the Third Programme than a mass, especially when somebody played a long virtuoso piece on a violin, an instrument he had never heard played in church before. Kate left the church at the Communion, and Timothy followed her.
– Whew! she exclaimed as they came out into the street. Wasn’t it stuffy in there? I couldn’t bear it another moment.
He restrained himself from pointing out that technically they hadn’t heard Mass, since they had left before the Ablutions.
– I need some air, said Kate. Let’s go up to the top of the Königstuhl, it’s always cooler up there. We can take the funicular from the Cornmarket.
They sat in the rear compartment of the queer, crooked little train, in which each compartment was higher than the previous one, like steps, and looked down the track at the dizzily receding terminus. The train creaked and groaned. He could feel through his bones the enormous tug of gravity upon it. If the cable should snap. He turned his head and studied the wild flowers on the embankment at the side of the rails, wondering if he was in a state of mortal sin because of having come out of Mass early.
After they had walked a little way along the path at the top of the Königstuhl, he asked Kate straight out.
– I wouldn’t say lapsed, exactly, she said. I mean, I still go to church occasionally, when I feel like it. I don’t see the point of going otherwise. I had enough of that at the convent.
– Do you make your Easter Duties?
– No.
– Then you’re lapsed, he said firmly.
Kate bit her lip, but didn’t look particularly distressed. They were standing on a terrace near the funicular station. The Neckar valley was spread out beneath them like a relief map in the Geography room at school.
– Oh, dear. D’you think I’m a lost soul, Timothy?
– Course not, he said uncomfortably.
– Do you believe in Hell?
– We don’t have to, he said evasively. Not with flames and things.
– I know. It’s really the pain of loss, isn’t it? I used to think at school that I wouldn’t mind if I could be sure that was all – I thought I could put up with that.
Timothy sniggered, having had the same thought himself.
– I s’pose you’d rather Mum and Dad didn’t know? he said.
To his surprise she seemed to be considering the point for the first time.
– I guess you’re right. They wouldn’t understand, and it would only upset them.
Not that, then.
Don proved to be a good guide to Heidelberg, and when Timothy met Kate that evening he was full of the information he had assimilated.
– I’d forgotten that Heidelberg was right in the middle of the Thirty Years’ War, he told her over dinner. We did that for History in the Fourth Form.
They were eating at the Headquarters Club and were going to play Bingo afterwards.
– Which war was that?
– You know, in the seventeenth century, about the succession to the Holy Roman Empire. Catholics against Protestants.
– Who won?
Timothy reflected.
– Nobody, really.
– Like all wars, said Kate.
– We won the last one, didn’t we?
– Sometimes I wonder . . . Only six years later, and we’re on Germany’s side against Russia. What will you have for dessert? Ice cream? Maple Walnut is good,
– You see, Frederick, the Fifth I think he was, of the Heidelberg Palatinate, was a Protestant, and the Protestants of Bohemia tried to make him Emperor. That’s how the war started. Frederick married Elizabeth, the daughter of our James the Sixth – that’s why the English Building in the castle is called that — he built it for her.
– Goodness, what a lot you know, Timothy.
– I got it all from Don.
– It’s very good of him to spare the time.
– You know, Kate, he said hesitantly, I think Don’s a bit keen on you.
– What makes you think that? she said, smiling.
– He said something about taking us out one evening, together. I said I’d mention it.
Kate frowned slightly.
– Hmm, it’s a bit awkward.
– Why?
– Well, you see, I have my own social circle he
re, and Don doesn’t exactly fit in.
– Why not?
– It’s difficult to explain but . . . well, for one thing, he’s still a G.I. in a way. I mean, I know he’s been discharged, but that’s his background as far as Heidelberg is concerned. If I introduce him into our circle, he’s likely to keep meeting people, officers and so on, who used to be his bosses. It could be awkward for everybody. Heidelberg’s a very small place. And I don’t really think he’s got much in common with us, anyway. We’re not intellectual types, except perhaps Vince, and he’s not exactly what you’d call . . . I know I should think twice about going out with Don. I’d be scared to open my mouth in case I put the Thirty Years’ War in the wrong century. Now finish up your ice cream or we’ll be late for the Bingo.
– What is Bingo, anyway?
Bingo turned out to be the game he knew as Housey Housey, but the different name seemed appropriate, more exciting and sophisticated. The players sat at tables, eating and drinking, and the stage was heaped with a glittering mountain of expensive prizes: refrigerators and radios and electric toasters and toys and bottles of liquor. Neither of them won anything, however, and Kate was disappointed.
– Perhaps we’ll have better luck next Saturday, at Baden, she said. What’s your lucky number?
– I don’t have one, he replied.
Going home in the jolting yellow bus, she suddenly remarked:
– It would be easier if he had been an officer – Don, I mean. But they don’t usually commission enlisted men.
– I don’t think he would have wanted it. He was a conscientious objector.
Kate looked startled.
– He was telling me this afternoon.
– What happened to him then?
– Well, he went to prison.
– Prison?
– Only for a few days. They wouldn’t let him be a conscientious objector because he hadn’t got a religion. It seems you have to have a religion, in America, anyway.
– Did he change his mind, then?
– Sort of. They didn’t really want to keep him in prison, so they promised him he could be a whatd’youcallit, non . . .
– Non-combatant?
– Right. So he decided to give in.
– Well, what a story! Why was he a conscientious objector, then?
