Howard looks up at Flora, her elbows on her knees, her face staring ahead at the windows, blowing smoke. 'Well,' he says, 'he did begin to agree with me, with us, later.'
'Oh, did he?' asks Flora, glancing at him. 'Yes,' says Howard, 'after I told him that Myra wanted to leave him.' Flora's big naked body heaves and moves; the bed bounces; her face appears above his, staring down into his eyes. 'After you told him _what?'_ she cries. 'After I told him Myra had come to us last night and talked about a separation,' says Howard. 'Oh, you shit, you shit, you shit,' says Flora, shaking Howard's arms with her hands, _'That's_ the essential item you were suppressing this morning. That's what you wouldn't tell me. Why not, Howard?'
'Flora, Flora,' says Howard, 'I was saving it for you. Something interesting.'
'Something interesting!' says Flora, 'it's the piece I've been looking for. And you knew last night?'
'Myra came to us before the party, and asked our advice,' says Howard. 'My God,' says Flora, 'and you still went off and bedded that spotty student, when all that was going on in your house? I call that a grave dereliction of duty. No wonder you wanted it to be an accident.'
'Don't you think it's interesting?' asks Howard. Flora lets go of him, and drops her hair into his face, and laughs. 'Yes,' she says. 'Of course it's all clear now. Myra leaving, Henry desperate, there's a convenient and tempting window. Smash, you perform the classic appeal. My blood's on your hands, darling.'
'It's not all clear,' says Howard, 'which is why I wasn't alert. Myra didn't tell Henry she was leaving him. He didn't know until I talked to him just now.'
'Oh, there's tell and tell,' says Flora. 'They didn't even see much of each other,' says Howard. 'Henry was late and spent most of the evening attending to his dogbite.' Flora giggles; she says, 'Did he have a dogbite?'
'Yes,' says Howard, 'he got bitten on the threshold by a student's dog. Do you think it was an accident?'
'Oh, Christ,' says Flora, 'shut up. I'm trying to take him seriously. Anyway, you told him, naturally. What did he say then?' He admitted the marriage was collapsing,' says Howard. 'That should cheer you,' says Flora. 'You'll be able to hand out radical deliverance to both of them now. One at the front door, and one at the back.'
'Henry appears not to appreciate my explanation,' says Howard. 'Ahh,' says Flora, 'what a shame. I had no idea he was so sensible.'
'I knew that would please you,' says Howard. 'Of course it leaves him in a situation which is in every sense absurd. He doesn't exist, he can't feel, he can't love Myra, he can't even lay his students.'
'It must have been hard for him to confess all that,' says Flora, 'talking to a man who can do all those things.'
'But he was able to tell me he has a belief that sustains him,' says Howard. 'Does he?' asks Flora. 'What's that?'
'He believes in personal relations,' says Howard, looking at Flora, who begins, her breasts bouncing, to giggle. 'Oh, no, Howard,' she says, 'did he tell you that? Solemnly?'
'He did,' says Howard. 'Poor Henry,' says Flora. 'If anyone in the world should be banned from personal relations, it's Henry. He's lost all self-conviction. And he's not only in a classic auto-destructive cycle himself; he's also sweeping in everything and everyone around him. Of course this is what Myra can see. Hence her frenzies and extraordinary performances. She's afraid of being sucked in. Brought under the football with Henry.'
'Oh, that reminds me,' says Howard, 'the football. It turns out that the football wasn't an accident. A boy Henry had told off threw it at him, and knocked him down with it.' Flora's body, which has been shaking with laughter, becomes weak; it collapses and falls across Howard. 'Oh, God, we shouldn't laugh,' she says. She pushes up her head, so that her mouth meets Howard's; she kisses him. 'My dear man,' she says, 'it's terrible, but for that I forgive you everything. You're a crook and a harm to your friends, but that is just so good.' Howard strokes Flora's back. 'Something interesting?' he asks. 'Something interesting,' says Flora, 'you really earned your place in my bed tonight. Time's up, though, boy, out you get.'
'It's early,' says Howard, putting his hands out to her. Flora kneels up and switches off the bed vibrator; then she pushes at Howard's body. 'Come on, Howard, some of us have got work to do,' she says, rolling him off the bed, 'there's some Kleenex there for you on the bedside table.'
'You think of everything,' says Howard, getting up and wiping himself. 'Throw me my pants, will you?' says Flora, sitting on the other side of the bed. 'So the Beamishes are breaking up.'
'That's right,' says Howard, 'catch.' Flora stands up and, one on each side of the bed, they both begin to dress themselves. 'What did you say to Myra when she came?' asks Flora, pulling her white pants up her legs and drawing them over her dark crotch, 'did you tell her to leave him?'
'Not exactly,' says Howard, stepping into his shorts. 'I'm amazed,' says Flora, 'no doubt you will in time. Chuck my tights across, please.'
'We were too busy trying to find out her reasons,' says Howard, pulling on his sweatshirt. 'Well, those are pretty obvious,' says Flora, fitting her toes into the light, stretchable mesh of the tights, 'she's a classic female type, who clearly had a good relationship with father, and expects male domination, and sought a direct transference to Henry. Who presumably had an overdominant father and a weak mum, so he wanted a mother surrogate. So both are looking for a parent and neither's looking for a spouse.'
'Many marriages work like that,' says Howard, pulling on a sock. 'Fine,' says Flora, 'my bra. So long as nobody starts growing up.'
'Is Myra growing up?' asks Howard, pulling on the other sock. 'No, I doubt it,' says Flora, fastening her bra at the back, 'she still can't remember to put out the milk bottles. And as for Henry, well, you can get Henry by reading his book. A plea for television to take over all parental authority, so that Henry won't have to exercise any. A silly book, even yours is better.'
'Well, thank you,' says Howard, drawing up his jeans and buckling them. 'A pleasure,' says Flora, pushing her arm into a white blouse, 'it's all of a piece. An inert, compromise, undemanding marriage. They have no kids. They're probably sexually almost dormant. Unlike most of their colleagues, they don't have affairs. But they look around and feel uneasy.'
'Henry doesn't have affairs,' says Howard, clothing himself in the splendour of his neat leather jacket. 'Does Myra?' asks Flora, dropping a black skirt over her head, and catching it at the waist. 'She did once,' says Howard, pushing his feet into his shoes, 'on one single occasion.'
'I see,' says Flora, pushing her feet into her shoes. 'I've hung up a towel behind the bathroom door for you, if you want a wash.'
Howard leaves the lighted bedroom, and goes through Flora's long darkened living-room to her bathroom. It is a neat, spare room. On the shelf above the bowl is just one small bottle of perfume, a toothbrush, and a tube of fluoride toothpaste. Howard washes his hands and face, looking into the mirror and seeing his wilted, questioning, pleased expression. He reaches for the towel behind the door, and sees on the adjoining peg an unexpected item, a black silk negligée, a new view of Flora. There is a tap on the door, and Flora comes in. 'Do you mind?' she says, sitting on the side of the bath, fully dressed, her social self restored, her splendid secrets hidden, 'You didn't tell me who Myra had her little affair with.'
'Guess,' says Howard, wiping his face with the towel. 'Of course,' says Flora, 'if Myra in her entire existence managed just one little extramarital venture, one tiny infidelity, it would of course have to be with you. They ought to award medals for that kind of service, Howard.' Howard laughs and pecks Flora on the cheek; he says, 'She hasn't got your touch, Flora.'
'Of course not,' says Flora, 'I've nothing to fear. Myra must have had everything. But you wouldn't notice.'
'It's true she put all her energy not into the event itself but into tidying the place up again afterwards,' says Howard. 'Well, well,' says Flora, 'now we know why she came to talk to you. She'd like to make a better job of it next time.'
'Oh, God,'
says Howard. 'Well, she'll be back,' says Flora, 'once Henry is a little better. And of course you must give her all the help you can, all the help she needs. You see how everyone counts on you.'
'You think she intends to leave Henry for me?' asks Howard. 'Of course she intends to leave him,' says Flora, 'you don't go and see the Kirks if you intend to remain together. That's like going to the Family Planning for advice on maintaining celibacy. And of course it's obvious there'd be advantages to her in a separation, as you're bound to tell her. I've no doubt at all that Henry's acting extremely destructively on her. And you must look a fascinating alternative.' Howard hangs up the towel; he says, 'Flora, you're terrifying me.' Flora, perched on the side of the bath, laughs. 'Oh, Howard,' she says, 'are your chickens coming home to roost?'
'That's hardly a matter for delight,' says Howard. 'Ah,' says Flora, 'never mind. If you want my honest opinion, she'll play with the idea, and chase you and drink your whisky, but in the end she'll find she can't really desert Henry.'
'You think she cares for him?' asks Howard, 'Not much,' says Flora, getting up off the bath, 'but she's got as much invested in that unhappy ménage as he has.'
'That's one thing I hadn't thought of,' says Howard. 'It's obvious,' says Flora, 'you'll have to go in a minute. Come and have a quick drink before I rush you off. You look as if you need it.'
Flora's living-room is long and dark, with a white Indian rug and a few scattered furnishings. In her white blouse and black skirt, she goes around, switching on table lamps and ran spotlights. The lights reveal the straight lines of plain modern furniture, and the texture of unpatterned fabric. Flora's room is a room of shapes and colours, rather than of things, though there are few things that, carefully chosen, do stand out: a blue Aalto chair by the bookcase, a Hockney print on the wall, an Epstein bust on the teak coffee table. The galley kitchen is a construct in oiled wood at the end of the room, and looks straight out into it; Flora can see Howard from here as she goes and begins opening wall cupboards. 'I don't have very much drink in stock,' she says, 'I'm not here enough to build up a collection. What would you like? There's whisky and gin and... whisky.'
'I'll have whisky,' says Howard, standing in the room. 'Teacher's or Teacher's?' asks Flora. 'Yes, please,' says Howard. Flora stands in the galley and pours whisky from the bottle into two squat, thick, Swedish glasses. The spotlight in the ceiling shines on her; she is a splendid, formidable figure. She comes round and hands one of the glasses to Howard. 'It's all right,' she says, 'sit down for a minute.' Howard sits in the bulb shape of the Aalto chair; Flora, in her black and white, seats herself on the plain grey straightback modern sofa. 'Well, here's to you, Howard,' she says, 'and your work in the world.'
'Cheers,' says Howard. 'You know, I often think there's something rather noble about the likes of us,' says Flora, 'meeting together like this, and giving so much of our attention and concern to the fate of others, when we could just have been concentrating on having fun by ourselves.'
'Yes,' says Howard, 'it is a peculiarly selfless activity.'
'Of course there is some pleasure in what we do for them,' says Flora, 'there must be, or we wouldn't want to keep our victims to ourselves.'
'Oh, do we?' asks Howard. 'Well, you didn't really want to tell me about Myra's visit to you last night.'
'The sanctity of the confessional, the privacy of the consulting room,' says Howard. 'But you don't believe in privacy,' says Flora, 'you'd tell anything if it suited you. You wanted them for yourself.'
'No,' says Howard, 'I wanted you, Flora.'
'So you held back so I'd ask you into bed,' says Flora. 'Exactly,' says Howard. 'You didn't need to,' says Flora, 'I would have asked you anyway.'
'You would?' asks Howard. 'Why?'
'A terrible reason,' says Flora, 'a terrible, terrible reason.'
'Tell it to me,' says Howard. 'I hardly can,' says Flora, 'you see, I like it with you.'
'It's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,' says Howard. 'Or to anybody,' says Flora. 'So you'll ask me again,' says Howard.
Flora sits on the sofa and looks at him. 'No, I'm not sure I shall,' says Flora. 'But you must,' says Howard. 'I've admitted I'd like to,' says Flora, 'but duty does call.'
'What duty?' asks Howard. 'Isn't it obvious T asks Flora, 'I really ought to get Henry to come to bed with me.'
'That's absurd,' says Howard. 'Why is it?' asks Flora. 'We both just agreed that Henry's virtually sexless.'
'I'm sure it's true,' says Flora, 'but one doesn't do these things simply for the pleasure.'
'You mean you're now going to prefer Henry to me?'
'Prefer only in a sense,' says Flora, 'I think he has more need.'
'Oh, Christ, Flora,' says Howard, 'it's ridiculous.'
'You're jealous, Howard,' says Flora. 'Well, I'm prepared, unlike you, to admit it,' says Howard, 'I am.'
'I'm not trying to take him from you,' says Flora. 'We can share him.'
'Not jealous like that,' says Howard, 'I want you.'
'We'll see each other around,' says Flora, 'well, it's nine thirty, out you go. I've got some work to do. Can you find your way down?' Howard rises from the Aalto chair; he puts his glass on the teak coffee table; he walks towards the door. 'Well, goodnight, Flora,' he says. 'Goodnight, Howard, my dear,' says Flora, 'here, give me a kiss.' Flora steps towards him; they embrace in the doorway. 'Howard,' she says. 'Yes?' asks Howard. 'Do let me know if you find out anything very interesting,' says Flora. 'Yes, I will,' says Howard, 'will that change your mind?'
'We'll have to see,' says Flora, 'it depends how interesting it is.' Howard goes out onto the landing. 'Goodnight, love,' says Flora, shutting her door.
Flora's flat is on the fourth floor of this five-storey block; Howard walks down, from landing to landing, on the mosaic concrete, past the closed doors of other flats. He goes out through the lobby, past the letterboxes of the residents, and out into the carefully landscaped private gardens. A private drive wends up from the road; on it, among the Rovers and the Datsuns, he has parked his minivan. The estate is charming, with beeches and cedars; under the trees he can see a night walker strolling, looking up at the neat modern building. He looks up too, and identifies the flat he has just left: the lighted living-room and, with its fainter lights, the bedroom. And now Flora's big shadow comes up on the bedroom curtains; he watches as it passes across the room, to the point where the bedhead is, close to the spot where he has lately been lying. One of the lights douses; then Flora switches off the other, and the window disappears into the general darkness. After a moment her figure reappears against the plain curtains of the living-room. Then it passes from view, to reappear once more as the lights go on in a new room, the tiny little room at the end of the flat which is Flora's study. The room is uncurtained; he can see Flora sitting down at a desk by the window, in front of a typewriter, and beginning work, her face bent forward and down, her dark hair visible in the glow of a desk lamp. He gets into the van, starts the engine, and drives down the drive, and out into the leafy suburban road, and turns towards the town. He parks the van in the square where he leaves it overnight, walks down the hill, under the sodium lamps, past the failing shops, to the terrace. He unlocks his front door and lets himself into the hall.
There is a light in the pine kitchen, and a great business. He opens the door and sees at once that all the glasses from the party have been collected, and put in neat rows on the central table; the dirty plates have been stacked in a pile on the kitchen cabinets; the empty wine bottles stand in a neat row against the wall. At the sink, a very active figure, stands Felicity Phee. She has put on, over the vest-top and the long skirt, one of the two butcher's aprons that hang behind the kitchen door; the one, in fact, that is Howard's own, for the stripes on Barbara's run, for easy identification, the other way. Cupboards are open, to put things away; many of the glasses are already washed, and stand against the cardboard boxes from the wine supermarket, waiting to be put back in. The kitchen smells, a
s it has rarely smelled, of the sudsy smell of washing-up liquid. Howard stares at this scene of cleanliness and domestic efficiency; he says, 'Good God, Felicity, what have you been doing?' Felicity has apparently not heard him come in; she looks up, shows surprise, and says, 'Oh, Howard, you're back. How was your meeting?'
'Very good,' says Howard. Felicity takes down a towel from the wall and dries her hands on it; she says, 'Would you like me to fix you a drink?'
'What is all this?' asks Howard. 'I've been using some of those domestic skills you told me this morning I didn't have,' said Felicity, 'Barbara asked if I'd tidy up a bit after the party.! 'I hope she's not exploiting you,' says Howard. 'Of course she's not exploiting me,' says Felicity, 'I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to. I like being in your house. I like being indispensable.! 'Did you get the children to bed?' asks Howard. 'Aren't they lovely children?' cries Felicity, 'I bathed them and read them stories, and we had a long talk. I promised to take them to the fun-fair on Saturday.! 'What's happening on Saturday?' asks Howard. 'Didn't you know?' asks Felicity, 'Barbara's asked me to come and stay here over the weekend, and look after the children while she goes to London.! 'I see,' says Howard. 'Is Barbara in?'
'No,' says Felicity, 'she said that you shouldn't bother to wait up for her. She thought she might be quite late. She says these evening classes often go on a long time.'
'Well,' says Howard, 'you seem to have made a hit. Are you ready now? I'll drive you back to your flat.'
'There's no need,' says Felicity, 'I'm staying. Barbara asked me to. She told me to make a bed up in the guest bedroom.'
'The window's broken in the guest bedroom,' says Howard. 'I know,' says Felicity, 'I've fixed it with cardboard and tacks.'
'Are you staying right through to the weekend?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Felicity, 'I'll have to go back to the flat, and sort out my stuff, and tell Maureen. She'll be raging crazy. But I just feel so happy in this house. You don't mind, do you?'
Bradbury, Malcolm - The History Man.txt Page 23
