'That was why nothing got done,' says Howard, 'and there is no peace.' They go out, through the glass doors, into the darkening campus. 'Well, that's my point of view,' says Henry, 'though of course I do respect the other one.'
'Yes,' says Howard, as they stop and stand in the rain, 'well, where shall we go for our drink?'
'Ah,' says Henry, brightening, 'that's what I call a really serious issue. Where do you think?'
X
There is a pub on campus, the Town and Gown, a modernistic place done out in oiled pinewood; here students meet students, and faculty faculty, and faculty students, and students faculty, and they sit at very littered tables, in the crush, with the noise of reggae music from the jukebox loud in their ears, and discuss very open and discussable affairs, such as term-papers, union politics, theses, colleagues, abortions, demonstrations, and sexual and matrimonial difficulties. But for matters of a more confidential or a more furtive kind, for caucuses, small liaisons, large conspiracies, or the resolution of serious methodological questions, it is customary to go off campus; and there are, nearby, two familiar and well-known pubs with a straightforward atmosphere and a number of convenient corners. Howard names one of these pubs; but Henry, it seems, has other ideas. 'Look,' he says, 'why don't we go to my local?'
'You have a local?' asks Howard. 'Well, I always pop into the Duke of Wellington for a drink on my way home,' says Henry, 'it's a good place for a serious talk.' The good place for a serious talk is down in the city; it smells of warm scampi and has a natty clientele dressed by Austin Reed and Howard has never entered it. 'Very well, Henry,' says Howard, 'let's go to my car.' The rain blows over them as they enter the exposure of the car park, flapping Henry's bandages. They get in the minivan and drive off, with Henry's arm stiffly out ahead of him. As they go down the long approach road, Howard can look back, in the mirror, and see the campus behind him, a massive urban construct, lit with spots and flashes, throwing out beams and rays in the half-light, the image of an intellectual factory of high production and a twenty-four hour schedule. To each side of them, behind the wet trees, are the round porthole lights of Spengler and Toynbee, each window with its own diaphanous, indeed transparent, blind, each one in a different and pure colour, each presenting to the eye a penetrable circular blob, one found of great fascination by many citizens of Watermouth, who can walk a dog by night and see, focused in these elegant, composed circles, as in the lens of a camera, the shimmering image of a student, undressing. At the end of the drive, Howard turns the van left, on the main road, and drives them towards the town centre.
It was at 17.30 that Benita Pream's alarm clock pinged, to announce the end of the department meeting. It is just striking six, on the brass-faced grandfather clock that stands in the hall, as they enter the Duke of Wellington. 'I think you'll find this a nice ambience, Howard,' says Henry, as they go into the Gaslight Room, brightly lit by electricity and done out in camp Victorian detail. 'Well, well, well,' says the barmaid, who has somehow been persuaded into wearing a long Victorian dress with a lace neck, 'you've been in the wars, haven't you, Mr Beamish?'
'Two pints of bitter,' says Henry, standing at the counter, his raincoat fastened Napoleonically under his chin, his white bandaged arm sticking out stiffly below. 'Have I?U 'Looks as though you've been in a real punch-up,' says the barmaid, 'tankards or glasses?'
'Tankards, I think,' says Henry. 'No, I'm fine. I just had a bit of an accident.' Behind Chlöe is a large mirror; in the mirror are etched, for the solace of contemporary man, the firm, delicate lines of Paxton's building for the Crystal Palace Exhibition of 1851, upon which is imposed the reflection of the plushy room. 'It looks quite a lot of an accident to me,' says Chlöe, pulling the handle, and beaming at Howard; 'lucky you've got a friend here to look after you.'
'Oh, this is Mr Kirk,' says Henry, 'yes, he's looking after me.'
'There we are, then,' says Chlöe, 'two pints, anything else?'
'I think we might have a packet of cheese and onion crisps,' says Henry. 'I wonder, Howard, would you be good enough to reach into my left-hand trouser pocket and get out my money? I've put it on the wrong side of me, for some reason.'
'You be careful,' says Chlöe, 'you'll get your friend arrested.'
'Never mind, I'll get it,' says Howard. 'I protest,' says Henry, 'I invited you here as my guest.'
'You get the next one,' says Howard. 'Shall we sit down?' asks Henry, attempting to lift up the two pint tankards from the bar in his single hand, and spilling a considerable quantity of the beer down his trousers. 'Let me,' says Howard. 'Do you want the evening paper tonight, Mr Beamish?' asks Chlöe, as they move away from the bar. 'I always read the paper here,' says Henry to Howard. 'Not tonight, I think, Chlöe. I've some important business to discuss.'
'I see they went and hijacked another,' says Chlöe, 'I don't know what it's all coming to.'
'Ah, the world, the world,' says Henry vaguely, putting the packet of crisps between his teeth, 'if only people could learn to live together.'
'That's right, Mr Beamish,' says Chlöe, 'not what it was, is it? Except for the sex. That's improved, definitely.'
'And the surgery,' says Henry, through clenched teeth, starting to move unsteadily across the room with his glass, 'there are real advances in surgery.'
'Well,' says Chlöe with a laugh, 'I'm afraid you look as though you need them, Mr Beamish, tonight.'
'Grand girl, Chlöe,' says Henry, as they sit down in a lush plush booth across the room, overhung with an aspidistra, 'they know me here, you see.'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'Nice place,' says Henry, 'the landlord's an old military man. I suppose it's not your sort of thing really.'
'Not exactly,' says Howard, 'what did you want to talk to me about?'
'Oh,' says Henry, 'yes. Well, Howard, I wanted to have a little word with you about last night.'
'The party,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Henry, 'the party. I wonder, Howard, would you mind, I can't open this packet of crisps.'
'There we are,' says Howard. 'Rather a chapter of accidents for me, I'm afraid,' says Henry, 'I got there late, then I got bitten, and then I broke your window. I'm extremely sorry.'
'You needn't worry,' says Howard, 'things break at parties.'
'I'm afraid Myra was rather drunk too,' says Henry, 'not our evening, all round.'
'People drink at parties, too,' says Howard, 'but was there something wrong last night?'
'I wouldn't say wrong,' says Henry, 'but it's not like us, is it?'
'I suppose not, Henry,' says Howard. 'Anyway,' says Henry, 'the main thing I wanted to ask you is this. Would you let me pay for that window to be mended?'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'Good,' says Henry, looking brighter, 'well, that's settled, then. The lavatories are through that door over there, if you want them.'
'Henry,' says Howard, 'what happened to you last night?'
'I had twenty-seven stitches,' says Henry, 'very nice Indian doctor. Quite good English.'
'But how did it happen that you cut yourself like that?'
'Aha,' says Henry, 'now there's a question. I've been thinking about that a lot. I slipped, you see, and put out my arm to save myself, and shoved it through your window. But it can't have been as simple as that.'
'No,' says Howard. 'No,' says Henry, 'I think there was a piece of ice. I think someone must have had ice in his drink, and dropped it on the floor, and I stepped on it. I don't mean dropped it deliberately. I mean, I was to blame, of course. Of course I was a bit unsteady, after the dogbite.'
'You didn't mean to fall through the window?' Henry stares at Howard; he says, 'No, heavens, no. Why should I do that?'
'You do have a lot of accidents,' says Howard, 'doesn't it worry you?'
'I'm a very clumsy person, Howard. I'm big and a bit top-heavy. I blame it on not playing games at school. They wouldn't let me, you know, after the beri-beri.'
'You had beri-beri?'
'Haven't I told you?' asks Henry, 'Oh, yes. A n
asty attack.'
'Where was this?' asks Howard. 'Huddersfield,' says Henry. 'But, look, as a professional social psychologist, haven't you ever wondered how you got into this accident pattern?'
'Well, it's not my line, really, is it?' says Henry, 'I'm more a social control and delinquency man. I admit there's an inexplicable statistical frequency.'
'Two last night,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Henry, 'it makes you think. I suppose you're asking me if I'm drinking too much, or on drugs. The answer's no. I didn't touch drugs last night, I don't get on with them. And I didn't get much to drink, either. If you remember I got to the party very late. When I walked home from the university to drive Myra back to the party, I found she'd already gone in the car. So of course I had to walk back all the way into town again, took me more than an hour. Then the dog bit me as soon as I got there, and I was ages in the bathroom, soaking my leg in antiseptic. And then I can't have had more than two glasses of wine at the most, Howard, before I went into the guest bedroom, to change my socks, and I thought I'd open the window, and I put my arm through it. So it's not that. Have a crisp?'
'No, thank you,' says Howard.
'It doesn't give way to analysis, does it?' asks Henry. 'It was funny. It didn't hurt at first, but then I realized you could die from a cut like that, so I thought I'd better yell for help. And then Flora turned up; wasn't she marvellous? Well, I suppose things like that happen at parties, as you say. We like to read something into it, that's our line, but nothing stands up. It really was just a bit of an accident.'
'Henry, you weren't upset last night?' asks Howard, looking at Henry's bland face. 'I was shaken by the dogbite,' says Henry, 'but not especially.'
'I think I'm more worried about you than you are by yourself,' says Howard. 'Well, that's very nice of you, Howard,' says Henry, 'but I shouldn't bother.'
'Well, that could have been fatal,' says Howard. 'You've got plenty going on yourself to worry about,' says Henry, 'from all I hear.'
'I have known you for a long time,' says Howard, 'I remember when I first met you.'
'My God, yes,' says Henry, 'yes. Some boys had just knocked me down with a football. I'd told them to get off the university playing fields, because they were private property, and they flung a football at me. You picked me up.'
'You had accidents even then,' says Howard. 'Look,' says Henry, 'I don't like you being so worried about me. Do you think I did it on purpose?'
'What's purpose?' asks Howard. 'I think you might have had good reason to be distressed.'
'What reason?' asks Henry. 'Wasn't there a reason, last night?' asks Howard. 'Look,' says Henry, 'I want to know just what you're getting at.'
'You don't know what I'm getting at?'
'No,' says Henry, 'stop being so bloody mysterious.'
'Well,' says Howard, 'when you went home, and Myra wasn't there, did you know where she'd gone?'
'Of course,' says Henry, 'she left me a note, she always leaves me a note. On the mantelpiece. She'd gone to you.'
'Do you know why?'
'Yes,' says Henry, 'it said in the note. To give Barbara a hand. She worries about how much Barbara has on her plate. We both do. Didn't she come?'
'Oh, yes,' says Howard. 'There we are, then,' says Henry, 'what's all that got to do with it?'
'We thought she was upset,' says Howard. 'Grand girl, Myra,' says Henry. 'She's had a bad summer of it, actually. This book of mine has decidedly not gone well. I've had what they call writer's block. The words won't come. Of course, charisma's a difficult concept. And I'm perhaps a bit out of touch with new developments. You get that way, at our age. Lose the spark, go a bit dead. You know what I mean. Did she talk about that at all?' Howard looks at Henry's face, which has acquired a small moustache of froth from the beer, but seems free of all calculation, and says: 'Yes, she did.'
'I'm sure it helps her to chat,' says Henry, 'she needs someone to take an interest. Not that I don't. But she's exhausted me. And to be frank I'm under the weather, rather, Howard. Not at my best. Did she say I was under the weather?'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'I see,' says Henry. 'You had quite a talk then.'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'Oh, well,' says Henry, 'is that why you wondered about me last night?'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'Did she say anything else about me?' asks Henry. 'She said that your marriage wasn't going too well,' says Howard. 'Did she?' says Henry. 'Well, as I say, it's not been a good summer. And the book hasn't helped. Books make you withdrawn. But it's nothing serious.'
'She thought it was,' says Howard. 'Isn't she thinking of leaving you?'
'Is she?' asks Henry. 'Didn't she tell you?' asks Howard. 'Don't you know?'
'No,' says Henry. 'Is that what she told you?'
'Would it be a surprise?' asks Howard. 'Not entirely,' says Henry, 'Myra's unhappy, you have to understand that. I'm not entirely good with her. I don't give her all she needs from life. She gets unhappy, and telephones people. Talks to them about us. Sometimes she goes out and buys a new thing, a new Miele dishwasher or something. Because all the girls, what she calls the girls, in her set round the village are buying Miele dishwashers. Sometimes she talks of separating. Because all the girls at the uni, what she calls the uni, in her set talk about separating. It's a kind of fashionable female preoccupation. The wives all seem to be doing it. They want a lot, and we can't give it them, the kind of sex and attention they're after. I'll have to go soon. Have you got time for a quick one before we take off, Howard?'
'All right,' says Howard. 'Get the money out of my pocket,' says Henry. 'Never mind,' says Howard. 'Have it, Howard,' says Henry, reaching across himself, and pulling the contents of his left-hand pocket out over the bench and the floor. 'There we are.' Howard picks up some coins and goes over to the bar, where Chlöe stands in her Victoriana. 'Another two pints,' he says. 'One of my best, Mr Beamish,' says Chlöe, pulling on the handle, 'in here every night. Fit as a fiddle, yesterday, he was.' Howard lifts the drinks and carries them back across the room; when he gets back to the red plush seat, Henry, picking up his coins, raises his face, and Howard notices that, tucked into the indentation at the corner of his nose, there resides a small tear. 'Thank you,' says Henry. 'All right?' asks Howard. 'You must excuse me for responding to the situation we've described with my usual inadequacy,' says Henry. 'Of course, she is upset. Or she wouldn't have come to you. I mean, you're in it professionally, aren't you, the separation business. Myra always talks about how Barbara left you in Leeds. An act of heroism, she says.'
'She did mention that,' says Howard. 'She discussed it all then, did she?' asks Henry, 'I think that's a very bad sign.'
'She seems very unhappy,' says Howard. 'I know,' says Henry, 'I can see it from her point of view. What's the matter with Myra is me.'
'Not exactly,' says Howard, 'it's both of you. Myra's just beginning to realize what you've both chosen to miss.'
'Oh, yes,' says Henry, 'and what's that?'
'Well, Myra can see it,' says Howard. 'You've withdrawn too far. You've closed in on yourselves, you've lost touch with everything, you've no outside contacts, and so when anything goes wrong you blame it on each other. What you're doing is trapping each other in fixed personality roles. You can't grow, you can't expand, you can't let each other develop. You're stuck out there, in your little nest, out of time, out of history, and you're missing out on possibility.'
'I see,' says Henry. 'Is that what you told Myra?'
'There wasn't much time to tell Myra anything,' says Howard, 'the party started. But it's what Myra sees.'
'Yes, it's what she expects you to tell her,' says Henry. 'Find someone else, try new positions, start swinging.'
'Myra's growing up,' says Howard. 'Is that growing up?' asks Henry. 'Look, Howard, we're in different worlds now, you and I. I don't agree with you. I don't see things like that, I'm at odds with it.'
'I don't think Myra is,' says Howard. Henry looks at Howard. He says: 'No. That's why it's such a betrayal for her to come
and talk to you.'
'But perhaps talking to me is the only way she can talk to you,' says Howard. 'To say what?' asks Henry. 'If Myra wants to talk to me, I'm there. We sit across the dinner table from each other every evening. We lie in bed together every night.'
'Most beds aren't as intimate as people think they are,' says Howard. 'You've always seemed to like them,' says Henry. 'I don't understand it. Is she leaving me, or isn't she?'
'I think she was, last night,' says Howard. 'Isn't it usual, in these things, to indicate one's intentions to the partner one leaves behind? I mean, leave a note on the mantelpiece or something?'
'Perhaps talking to us was the note on the mantelpiece,' says Howard. 'But she's back there at the farmhouse, cooking steak,' says Henry. 'I think she is.'
'Things have happened, since then,' says Howard. 'Ah, I see,' says Henry, 'you think she was leaving me last night, and my accident changed her mind. If it was an accident.'
'That's right,' says Howard. 'So it's a temporary stay of execution.'
'Unless you stop her, talk to her,' says Howard. 'I suppose,' says Henry, 'I could go and have another accident.'
'You know,' says Howard, 'I thought this was what you wanted to talk to me about this evening.'
'Oh, no,' says Henry, 'you don't understand. You're the last person I'd want to talk to about this. It's nothing personal, I grant you your point of view. I just don't believe in your solutions.'
'But you believe in the problems,' says Howard. 'God,' says Henry, 'the Kirk consultancy parlour. I'm out of all that now. I had enough of it in Leeds. I've stopped wanting to stand up and forge history with my penis. And I'm rather sick of the great secular dominion of liberation and equality we were on about then, which reduces, when you think about it, to putting system over people and producing large piles of corpses. I think Ireland's really done the trick for me, turned me sour on all those words like "anti-fascism" and "anti-imperialism" we always used. I don't want to blame anybody now, or take anything off anyone. The only thing that matters for me is attachment to other knowable people, and the gentleness of relationship.'
Bradbury, Malcolm - The History Man.txt Page 21
