Bradbury, Malcolm - The History Man.txt

by The History Man (lit)

  'I have a flat,' says Miss Callendar, 'a very convenient flat. It has a bathroom; that's convenient. And a bedroom with a bed. And a tin-opener with a tin. And a very pleasant living-room.'

  'Do you do a lot of pleasant living?' asks Howard. 'Not a lot,' says Miss Callendar, 'one hardly has the time. Being in the twentieth century, very near the end of it.'

  'Where is this flat?' asks Howard. Miss Callendar turns her head and looks at him. She says, 'It's very hard to find.'

  'Oh, yes,' says Howard, 'why is that?'

  'Mainly because I don't tell anyone where it is,' says Miss Callendar. 'Tell me,' says Howard, 'you must tell me.'

  'Why?' asks Miss Callendar curiously. 'I hope to come there sometime,' says Howard. 'I see,' says Miss Callendar, 'well, it's just that kind of casual, arbitrary visiting I'm trying to stop.'

  'Oh, you shouldn't,' says Howard. 'Oh, yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'otherwise any old structuralist or Leavisite or Christian existentialist who happened to be passing would be there. Knocking at the door, ringing the bell, wanting to fit you up with a contraceptive or get you into history. How is your wife, Dr Kirk?'

  The entrance sign of the university, done in the distinctive modern lettering which is, along with the Jop Kaakinen cutlery (now mostly stolen) and the Mary Quant robes for congregation, part of its contemporary stylistic mannerism, appears on the right side of the road. Howard moves into the outer lane to be ready for the turn; there is a sudden screech of brakes behind him. 'Screw you,' says Howard. 'Why, Dr Kirk,' says Miss Callendar, 'I do believe you want to do that to everybody.'

  'I meant the man behind,' says Howard, pulling into position in the long line of cars waiting to make the turn into the campus. 'Of course, I'd like to.'

  'You'd like to what?' asks Miss Callendar. 'Screw you,' says Howard. 'Would you?' says Miss Callendar, her eyes staring ahead, her hands holding tight to the umbrella. 'Oh, now, why would you want to do a thing like that, Dr Kirk?' The van makes the turn into the carriage drive that leads through the university site, the drive that led once to the Elizabethan splendours of Watermouth Hall. Loud bangs thump on the van roof, a fusillade of raindrops falling from the chestnut trees that line one side; those on the other side have been removed, to widen the road, and have been replaced by a row of saplings that, in the course of time, if there is a course of time, will hopefully acquire the old dignity. 'I think you're attractive,' says Howard, 'I think you need serious attention.'

  'I gathered you'd been researching in the sexual field,' says Miss Callendar, 'you're still working at it, are you?'

  'Oh, that's all finished and published,' says Howard, 'no, this would be purely for pleasure.'

  'Oh, pleasure,' says Miss Callendar, 'but what would be the pleasure? My own lovely self, of course. That goes without saying. But I'm sure you have grander motives.'

  'I like you physically,' says Howard, 'and you're a serious challenge. You haven't been made over.'

  'Oh, I see,' says Miss Callendar. 'You're a provocation,' says Howard. 'I'm sorry,' says Miss Callendar, 'were you being provoked last night?'

  'Last night,' says Howard. 'When I left the party,' says Miss Callendar. 'Oh, that was part of my tutorial duties,' says Howard. 'One has many obligations.'

  'But I'm not an obligation, I'm a pleasure.'

  'That's right,' says Howard, 'come out to dinner with me.'

  'Dinner,' says Miss Callendar. 'We ought to get to know each other,' says Howard. They are passing, one on either side of the drive, two of the Kaakinen residences, Toynbee and Spengler; from them, in the pouring rain, comes a bedraggled procession of students, carrying cases and books, on their way to nine o'clock classes. 'Why, Dr Kirk,' says Miss Callendar, 'I don't think it would do.'

  'Why not?' asks Howard. 'You go out to dinner and eat scampi and seduce nineteenth-century liberals,' says Miss Callendar, 'and meanwhile your wife sits at home and sews. Do you honestly think this is right?'

  'My wife can't sew,' says Howard, 'and she goes her own way. She has wicked weekends in London.'

  'And you sit home and sew?' says Miss Callendar. 'No,' says Howard, 'we get little time for sewing.'

  'I can imagine,' says Miss Callendar, 'well, it's very kind of you to invite me, but I really don't think I can accept.' A sign says P, and points: Howard turns the van towards the car park. Now the main buildings of the university are in sight, up and down, high and low, glass and cement. 'Why not?' asks Howard, 'Am I too old? Too fast? Too married?'

  'I don't think I belong in your company,' says Miss Callendar, sitting beside him, holding her umbrella. 'Mightn't it do you good?' asks Howard. 'It's the good I'm suspicious of,' says Miss Callendar, 'I think I know what your interest is in me. I think you regard me as a small, unmodernized, country property, ripe for development to fit contemporary tastes. You want to claim me for that, splendid historical transcendence in which you feel you stand.'

  'That's right,' says Howard, 'you're repressed, you're uptight, you haven't begun to reveal yourself yet. I want to reveal you.' In the car park, a student in a Rover 2000 backs out of one of the spaces; Howard drives neatly into the vacated space. 'Don't think I don't appreciate it,' says Miss Callendar, 'some people would just want to lay you and forget it. You provide redemption as well, a full course in reality. But I do have an idea of reality already. Only it's not quite the same as yours.'

  Howard stops the engine; he turns to face Miss Callendar. She is sitting, looking forward towards a row of concrete bollards, with a very cool look on her face, her hands still around the handle of the umbrella. He puts his hand on top of her hands. He says, 'Tomorrow night, yes?'

  'Tomorrow night, no,' says Miss Callendar. 'I'm sorry,' says Howard, 'I'm really after you. You know what Blake says.'

  'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I know very well what Blake says.'

  '"Better murder an infant in its cradle than to nurse unacted desires,"' says Howard. 'Of course you would say that,' says Miss Callendar, 'actually what he said was that it was better to nurse unacted desires than murder an infant in its cradle.'

  'I think I have it right,' says Howard. 'It's my field,' says Miss Callendar, opening the car door. 'Many thanks for the lift. It saved me seven new pence.'

  'I'm delighted to have supported your economy,' says Howard, 'what about my invitation?'

  'Maybe one day,' says Miss Callendar, angling herself out of the car and rising up beside it to her full height, 'when I'm hungry.' Standing in the wet lake of the car park, she erects her maroon umbrella. Then, as Howard watches, she pushes it up in the air and walks off across the lake, her briefcase swinging beside her knee, towards the Humanities Building. Howard gets out of the van too, locks it, and, with his briefcase, walks off in the other direction, towards Social Sciences. He walks past posters advertising theatrical productions, the forthcoming visit of many Maharishis, some new anti-Vietnam demonstrations, lectures on picketing, drugs, and the development of Byzantine art; he walks under cranes and welders; he crosses the Piazza. A large figure under a transparent domed umbrella is crossing the Piazza from the other direction; it is Flora Beniform, swinging her briefcase, wearing a big black fur-collared coat. They meet just under the portico of the Social Sciences Building, outside the glass doors; they stop and smile at each other.

  'Hello, Howard,' says Flora, 'how's Barbara?'

  'I can't tell whether she loves me or she hates me,' says Howard. 'Of course you can't,' says Flora, shaking out her umbrella, 'she can't either.' Howard pushes open the glass door to let Flora go through. 'Thank you,' she says, 'you look tired, Howard.' Howard takes off his wet cap and shakes it. 'You missed a good party last night,' he says. 'Oh, no,' says Flora, 'that's where you're wrong. The guests were present. It was the hosts who were absent.'

  'You came?' asks Howard. 'I did,' says Flora, 'and then I went.'

  'I wanted to see you,' says Howard. 'I'm sure you did,' says Flora, 'but in default you saw someone else. It was perfectly sensible of you.'

&n
bsp; 'You must have come late,' says Howard. 'I did,' says Flora, 'I went up to London first to catch a seminar at the Tavistock Clinic.'

  'I hope,' says Howard, as they walk across the foyer, 'it was worth missing me for?'

  'Yes, it was,' says Flora, 'the paper had a very narrow concept of normative behaviour and they all seem very clitorally centred these days. But the question period was very challenging and provocative.'

  'You mean you were,' says Howard. 'I did say some interesting things,' says Flora, 'did anyone say anything very interesting at your party?'

  'Flora,' says Howard, 'you're a scholar and a gentleman. No, they didn't. But interesting things were done, though.' They reach the lift in the centre of the foyer, and stop and wait there, surrounded by a large crowd of waiting students. Flora turns to Howard. 'I know,' she says, 'they were doing them when I got there.'

  'Did I miss the best of it?' asks Howard. 'I think you did, Howard,' says Flora, 'I must say I feel very suspicious about a sociologist who is absent from the tensions of his own party.' The lift doors open in front of them; Howard follows Flora, in her fur-collared coat and her big leather boots, for Flora is always well and strikingly dressed, inside. A faint smell of perfume comes off her; her body is big against Howard's. 'What happened?' asks Howard. 'Don't you know, don't you really?' asks Flora. 'I heard something about a misfortune occurring to Henry Beamish,' says Howard.

  'Yes, indeed,' says Flora. 'What happened?' asks Howard, 'Were you there?'

  'Of course I was,' says Flora, 'I'm always there.'

  'Tell me about it.'

  'I think not here, I'll come to your study, if you've time.'

  'I have,' says Howard. 'By the way, this new man Macintosh was telling me last night there's a rumour that Mangel is coming here to speak.'

  'Now isn't that funny?' says Flora. 'I met Mangel at the Tavvy last night. And he obviously knew nothing about it at all. Macintosh did mention it at your party, actually. He said the rumour came from you.'

  'Word of mouth is a curious system,' says Howard. 'I'm sure you're trying to be interesting,' says Flora, 'is this us?'

  'That's it,' says Howard, and they both get out at the fifth floor; they walk along the corridor, with its artificial lighting, towards the department office. They go inside the office; the secretaries, Miss Pink, Miss Ho, have just arrived, and taken off their boots, and are at their first serious duty of the day, watering the potted plants. Through the breeze-block wall comes the sound of switches switching, buzzers buzzing; Marvin, who always rises at five and drives through the steaming rural mists of early morning into the university, is well into his work, calling foreign countries, advising governments, planning the afternoon meeting, getting his car fixed. 'A student just came in to look for you,' says Minnehaha Ho. 'Well, I'm here now,' says Howard, 'what's all this?' In the pigeon-holes, in the distinctive large grey envelopes, is, for all the faculty, yet another agenda, the supplementary agenda, for the afternoon's meeting; one agenda is never enough. Flora and Howard pick up their mail, sift quickly through it, side by side, and then walk back, side by side, to Howard's rectangular and regulation room. Here Flora, by some automatically assumed right of precedence, seats herself at Howard's red desk chair, leaving him to sit in the grey chair placed there for his students; she puts her umbrella beside the chair; she unbuttons the raincoat with the fur collar, to reveal a black skirt and a white blouse that stretches tightly across her large breasts. Then she turns to Howard, and tells him of Henry and the window, and Myra and her strange behaviour, and then of Henry, at the casualty ward, saying 'Don't tell Howard, will you? We mustn't spoil his party.'

  VII

  'Well,' says Howard, sitting in the wet light of his room, overlooking the boilerhouse chimney, after Flora has stopped speaking, 'it's a very interesting story.'

  'The trouble is,' says Flora, picking up her handbag, and feeling into its interior, 'I'm not sure it is. Isn't a story usually a tale with causes and motives? All I've told you is what happened.'

  'Perhaps it's a very modern story,' says Howard, 'a chapter of accidents.' Flora takes from her handbag her cigarettes and a lighter; she says, 'The trouble with our profession is, we still believe in motives and causes. We tell old-fashioned stories.'

  'But aren't there times when just what happened is just what happened?' asks Howard. 'I mean, didn't Henry just have an accident?'

  'Oh, Howard,' says Flora, lighting her cigarette, 'what is this thing called an accident?'

  'An accident is a happening,' says Howard, 'a chance or a contingent event. Nobody has imposed meaning or purpose on it. It arises out of a set of unpredictable features coming into interaction.'

  'Oh, I see,' says Flora, 'Like your parties. And you think Henry had one of those? 'That's what you said,' says Howard, 'a Henry and a window came into chance collision.'

  'That's not what I said at all,' says Flora. 'You said he went into the guest bedroom, fell, and cut himself.'

  'That's interesting,' says Flora, 'because I didn't say that. I portrayed a consciousness, with an unconscious. He went into the bedroom. His arm went through the window, and he was cut. That's what I said.' Howard gets up; he goes to the window, and looks through it down into the Piazza, where the wind beats, the rain falls. He says: 'Is there some reason for thinking it wasn't an accident?'

  'You worry me, Howard,' says Flora. 'Why do you need to believe it was an accident? Or that accidents are like that?'

  'I thought most events were accidents until proved otherwise,' says Howard. 'You're trying to make something interesting that probably wasn't. Of course you have a great gift for it.'

  'No, I don't,' says Flora, 'I have a gift for not making it sound dull. And for asking the questions you chose, from some need, not to ask. I don't understand it. It's not like you at all.'

  Howard laughs, and touches Flora's hair. He says, 'Well, you see, _I know_ Henry. And for me Henry and accidents naturally go together.'

  'Like love and marriage, horse and carriage,' says Flora. 'But _why_ do they?'

  'Did I ever tell you the story of the first time I saw Henry?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Flora, 'I don't think I ever knew Henry meant anything to you.'

  'Oh, yes,' says Howard, 'I'm quite attached to Henry. I've known him for ages. We were research students at Leeds together.'

  'I've noticed your hostility towards him,' says Flora, 'I ought to have guessed you were friends.'

  'I'd seen his face around the department. He was doing something with termites, because they wouldn't let him use people. But my first real encounter with him was one day when I was walking down a back street, quite near the university. I saw this person in front of me, lying in the middle of the pavement, flat on his face. He'd got a big rucksack, stuffed with notes, on his back. Flat in the street near the Express Dairy. His nose was bleeding, and the rucksack was holding him down. My first real sight of Henry.' Flora laughs and says: 'It's a very interesting story. And how had he got there?'

  'He'd been knocked down by a football. A football had come over the fence from the playing fields, next to the path, and hit him in the middle of the back. The football was next to Henry in the road. A purely contingent football. No one had thrown it purposely at him.'

  'Not even you, Howard?' asks Flora. 'As I say, I hardly knew him then,' says Howard. 'No, a boy had kicked it high in the air, and it had come down, as footballs do, and under the trajectory of its descent there happened to be Henry, who was knocked over by it. So, you see, Henry has accidents.'

  'Well, it's true, of course,' says Flora, 'Henry has accidents. He's a man on whom footballs fall. But why do footballs fall on Henry, and not you, and me? Haven't you ever asked yourself that?'

  'Well, he's careless and clumsy and uncoordinated,' says Howard, 'and he has an instinct for disaster. If Henry came to two paths, one labelled safe and one labelled dangerous, he'd confuse the signs and take the dangerous one.'

  'Exactly,' says Flora, 'he colludes with misfortune.'
r />   'But he can only collude so far,' says Howard. 'If a branch were rotten and going to fall, it would wait to fall until Henry passed under it. How does he get the message to the tree? There has to be a higher plotter, the God of accident.'

  'I never knew you were such a mystic, Howard,' says Flora, knocking out ash into Howard's grey-glass ashtray, 'you're making me very suspicious. Now why do you need a theory like that?'

  'Because it seems to me true to experience,' says Howard. 'It also explains innovation.'

  'But all your theories depend on the great historical purpose working itself out,' says Flora, 'it's hardly consistent. No, you're covering something up. You're denying Henry his psychological rights. In this, I should add, you aren't alone. Myra has a version too.'

  'What's Myra's?' asks Howard. 'Well, she at least granted Henry a motive,' says Flora, 'she looked at him, bleeding away on the floor, and decided it was all an appeal for her sympathy, which she didn't feel like giving.'

  'Myra was very drunk last night,' says Howard, 'and upset herself.'

  'My God,' says Flora, 'you're turning into a great simpleton of life, aren't you, Howard? Myra's behaviour last night was fascinating. I was the one who took Henry to hospital; Myra stayed on at your party. For all she knew, he might have been dying. He had twenty-seven stitches, and they had to give him blood. They should have kept him in hospital, of course, but, no, he had to get back to Myra. So I got my car, and shipped him home. And Myra wasn't even back. She turned up ten minutes later; she'd got your friend Macintosh, the one who told you things he couldn't possibly know, to drive her home. And as soon as she saw us she went and locked herself in the bathroom. I had to roar at her through the door for half an hour before she'd come out. Then she scarcely glanced at the poor man; just shouted at him for spoiling her lovely evening. If that's normal behaviour, then I'm crazy. Of course you'd explain it all as a typical drunken performance.'

  'What's your explanation?' asks Howard. 'Well, obviously,' says Flora, 'she wished to state that she was rejecting all possible appeals he could make. I think she was disappointed he hadn't done the job properly. A fascinating vignette into family life.'