by David Lodge
“Professor Masters, I’m glad to say, is back in the care of his doctors.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Remarkably quick thinking on your part, old man, to trap him in the lift. Very neat. Allow me to congratulate you.”
“Thanks.”
“Reverting to our conversation of this morning: I’ve just come from the Promotions and Appointments Committee. Swallow’s Senior Lectureship went through without a hitch, you’ll be glad to know.”
“Uhuh.”
“And you may remember that I was on the point of asking you something else when we were interrupted by Doctor Smithers.”
“Yeah?”
“You haven’t guessed what it is?”
“No.”
“Quite simply, I’ve been wondering whether you’ve given any thought to applying for the Chair of English.”
“You mean the Chair here?”
“Precisely.”
“Well, no. It never crossed my mind. You wouldn’t want an American as Head of the Department. The staff wouldn’t stand for it—”
“On the contrary, my dear fellow, all the members of the English Department who have been sounded out on the subject suggested your name. I don’t say there may not be something of the better-the-devil-you-know attitude behind it, but obviously you’ve impressed them as someone capable of running the Department efficiently. I need hardly say that, after your part in resolving the crisis over the sit-in, you would be highly acceptable to the University community at large, staff and students alike. And personally I should be delighted. Not to put too fine a point on it, old friend, if you want the job, it’s yours.”
“Thank you very much,” said Morris. “I’m very honoured. But I’d never sleep easy. Supposing Masters escaped again? He might well think his suspicions of me had been justified.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry you, old man,” Stroud murmured soothingly. “I think you must have imagined that Masters was shooting at you today. There was no evidence that he’d been armed, or that he was intending any violence to you personally.”
“What was he chasing me all over the Hexagon for, then?” Morris demanded. “To kiss me on both cheeks?”
“He wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk to me?”
“It appears that a long time ago he reviewed one of your books very unfavourably in The Times Literary Supplement, and he thought you might have found out about it and be bearing a grudge. Does that make any kind of sense?”
“I guess it does, yes. Look, Vice-Chancellor, I’ll think about the Chair.”
“Yes, do, my dear fellow. Take your time.”
“What would the salary be?”
“Well, that is open to negotiation. The University has funds at its disposal for discretionary supplementary awards in special cases. I’m sure this would be regarded as a very special case.”
Morris tracked Hilary down in the bathroom. She was lying in the huge, claw-footed Victorian tub and, as he burst in, covered her breasts and pubis with washcloth and loofah.
“Come, come!” he said. “This is no time for prudery. Move up and I’ll get in behind you.”
“Don’t be absurd, Morris. What did the VC want?”
“I’ll scrub your back.” He slipped off his underpants and climbed into the tub. The water rose dangerously high and began to run out of the overflow outlet.
“Morris! You’re mad. I’m getting out.”
But she didn’t get out. She leaned forward and wriggled her shoulders ecstatically as he scrubbed.
“Did Philip ever borrow books from Gordon Masters?” he asked.
“All the time. Why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He pulled her back between his knees and began to soap her big melon-shaped breasts.
“Oh, Lord,” she moaned. “How are we ever going to get out of this before the children come home?”
“Relax. There’s plenty of time.”
“What did the VC want?”
“He offered me the Chair of English.”
Trying to turn round to look at him, Hilary skidded on the bottom of the bath and nearly went under the water. “What—Gordon Masters’ Chair?”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
Hilary rinsed herself and climbed out of the tub. “What an extraordinary thing. Could you face settling in England?”
“Right now, the idea has great attractions,” he said meaningfully.
“Don’t be silly, Morris.” She covered herself modestly with a bath towel. “You know very well this is just an episode.”
“What makes you say that?”
She shot him a shrewd glance. “How many women have there been in your life?”
He stirred uncomfortably in the tepid water, and ran some more into the tub. “That’s an unfair question. At a certain age a man can find satisfaction in one woman alone. He needs stability.”
“Besides, Philip will be coming back soon.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t?”
“Oh, that won’t last. He’ll be back, with his tail between his legs. Now there’s someone who really does need stability.”
“Maybe we could fix him up with Désirée,” Morris joked.
“Poor Désirée. Hasn’t she suffered enough?” The telephone began to ring. “Please hurry up and get dressed, Morris.” She pulled on her dressing-gown and went out.
Morris lay half-floating in the deep tub, fondling his genitals and pondering Hilary’s question. Could he face settling in England? Six months ago, the question would have been absurd, the answer instantaneous. But now he wasn’t so sure… It would be a solution, of sorts, to the problem of what to do with his career. Rummidge wasn’t the greatest university in the world, agreed, but the set-up was wide open to a man with energy and ideas. Few American professors wielded the absolute power of a Head of Department at Rummidge. Once in the driver’s seat, you could do whatever you liked. With his expertise, energy and international contacts, he could really put Rummidge on the map, and that would be kind of fun… Morris began to project a Napoleonic future for himself at Rummidge: sweeping away the English Department’s ramshackle Gothic syllabus and substituting an immaculately logical course system that took some account of developments in the subject since 1900; setting up a postgraduate Centre for Jane Austen Studies; making the use of typewriters by students obligatory; hiring bright American academic refugees from student revolutions at home; staging conferences, starting a new journal…
He heard a tinkle as Hilary replaced the telephone receiver, and pulled the plug out by its chain with his big toe. The waters gradually receded, making islands, archipelagos and then continents of his knees, belly, cock, chest and shoulders. As regards his domestic life, he had nothing to lose by staying in England. If Désirée insisted on leaving him and taking the twins with her, Rummidge, after all, was no further from New York than Euphoria. Possibly she might even be coaxed into giving their marriage another chance in Europe. Not that Rummidge was exactly what Désirée had in mind when she thought of Europe, but still, you could fly to Paris in fifty minutes from Rummidge airport if you wanted to…
The last water gurgled away, tugging at the hairs on his legs and buttocks, and he lay on the bottom of the tub, damp and naked, like a stranded castaway. Gulliver. Crusoe. A new life?
Hilary came in.
“OK, OK,” he said. “I’m getting out.” Then he noticed she was looking at him strangely. “What’s the matter?”
“That phone call…”
“Yeah, who was it? The VC had second thoughts?”
“It was Désirée.”
“Désirée! Why didn’t you fetch me?” He leaped out of the bath and grabbed a towel.
“She didn’t want to speak to you,” said Hilary. “She wanted to speak to me.”
“You? What did she say, then?”
“The woman Phili
p has been having an affair with…”
“Yeah?”
“Is her. Désirée.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? I know Désirée. She hates men. Especially weak-kneed men like your husband.”
“How do you know he’s weak-kneed?” Hilary demanded, with some irritation.
“I just know. Désirée is a ball-breaker. She eats men like your husband for breakfast.”
“Philip can be very gentle, and tender. Perhaps Désirée likes that for a change,” Hilary said stiffly.
“The bitch!” Morris exclaimed, slapping the side of the tub with his towel. “The double-crossing bitch.”
“I thought she was being remarkably straightforward, myself. She said she heard my conversation with Philip this morning—I don’t know quite how, because when I phoned your house she gave me a different number… But anyway, she knew all about it, and she thought it only fair to put me in the picture, since Philip hasn’t had the courage to tell me what’s been going on. Naturally I felt I had to be equally honest.”
“You mean you told her about… this afternoon?”
“Of course. I particularly wanted Philip to know.”
“What did Désirée say?” he asked almost fearfully.
“She said,” Hilary replied, “that perhaps we ought to meet somewhere to talk the situation over.”
“You and Désirée?”
“All of us. Philip too. A sort of summit conference, she said.”
6. Ending
Exterior: BOAC VC 10 flying from left to right across screen—afternoon, clear sky. Sound: jet engines.
Cut to:
Interior: VC 10—afternoon.
Angle on MORRIS and HILARY seated halfway down cabin.
Sound: muted noise of jet engines.
HILARY is turning pages of Harper’s, nervously and inattentively. MORRIS yawns, looks out of window.
Zoom through window. Shot: eastern seaboard of America.
Long Island, Manhattan.
Cut to:
Exterior: TWA Boeing 707 flying from right to left across screen—afternoon, clear sky. Sound: noise of jet engines.
Cut to:
Interior: TWA Boeing 707—afternoon. Sound: cool instrumental version of “These Foolish Things.”
Close-up: PHILIP, asleep, wearing headphones, his mouth slightly open. Draw back to reveal DÉSIRÉE sitting next to him, reading Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. DÉSIRÉE looks out of the window, then at her wristwatch, then at PHILIP. She twists the knob above his head which controls the in-flight entertainment. Sound changes abruptly to narration of “The Three Bears.”
RECORDED VOICE: And the Daddy Bear said, “Who’s been sleeping in MY bed?” and the Mummy Bear said, “Who’s been—” PHILIP wakes with a guilty start, tears off his earphones. Sound: muted noise of jet engines.
DÉSIRÉE: (smiles) Wake up, we’re nearly there.
PHILIP: New York? Already?
DÉSIRÉE: Of course, you never know how long you’re going to be stacked at this time of the year.
Cut to:
Interior: VC 10—afternoon.
MORRIS: (To HILARY) I hope to hell we aren’t stacked for hours over Kennedy.
Cut to:
Exterior: VC 10—afternoon. We see the plane head-on. It begins to lose height. Sound: jet engines changing note.
Cut to:
Exterior: Boeing 707—afternoon. We see the plane head-on. It begins to bank to the right. Sound: jet engines changing note.
Cut to:
Interior: Flight deck, VC 10—afternoon. BRITISH CAPTAIN, scanning the sky, looks to his right. Close-up: BRITISH CAPTAIN registers alarm.
Cut to:
Interior: Flight deck, Boeing 707—afternoon. Close-up: AMERICAN CAPTAIN registers horror.
Cut to:
Interior: Flight deck, VC 10—afternoon. Looking over the BRITISH CAPTAIN’S shoulder we see the Boeing 707, terrifyingly near, cross the path of the VC 10, banking in an effort to avoid collision. The BRITISH CAPTAIN manipulates the controls to bank in the opposite direction.
Cut to:
Interior: Boeing 707, passengers’ cabin—afternoon. Alarm and confusion among passengers as the plane tilts violently. Sound: screams, cries etc.
Cut to:
Interior: VC 10 passengers’ cabin—afternoon. Alarm and confusion among passengers as the plane tilts violently. Sound: screams, cries etc.
Cut to:
Interior: Flight deck, VC 10—afternoon.
BRITISH CAPTAIN: (coolly into microphone) Hello Kennedy Flight Control. This is BOAC Whisky Sugar Eight. I have to report an air miss.
Cut to:
Interior: Flight deck, Boeing 707—afternoon.
AMERICAN CAPTAIN: (enraged, into microphone) What the fuck do you think you guys are doing down there?
Cut to:
Interior: VC 10 passengers’ cabin—afternoon. Sound: babble of conversation—“Did you see that?” “Must have missed us by inches,” “Sure was a near thing” etc.
MORRIS: (mopping his brow) I always said, if God had meant us to fly he’d have given me guts.
HILARY: I feel sick.
Cut to:
Interior: Boeing 707 passengers’ cabin—afternoon. Sound: babble of conversation.
DÉSIRÉE: (shakily, to PHILIP) What was that?
PHILIP: I think we nearly collided with another plane.
DÉSIRÉE: Jesus Christ!
Fade out.
Fade in on interior: hotel room in mid-town Manhattan, blue decor—late afternoon. Sound: TV commentary on baseball game, turned low. There are two suitcases open, but not unpacked. HILARY is lying, fully dressed but without her shoes, on one of the twin beds, her eyes closed. MORRIS, in shirt sleeves, is crouched in front of the TV, watching a ball game, drinking Scotch on the rocks which he has fixed from a tray with bottle, ice, glasses etc. on the dressing table. There is a knock on the door. Shot: HILARY’S eyes flick open.
MORRIS: Yeah? Come in.
DÉSIRÉE: (entering, followed by PHILIP) Morris?
HILARY sits up quickly, swings her feet to the floor.
MORRIS: DÉSIRÉE! (sets down his drink, comes to door with open arms) Honey!
DÉSIRÉE catches MORRIS’S wrists deftly and brings him to a dead stop. She kisses him demurely on the cheek, then releases him.
DÉSIRÉE: Hallo, Morris.
MORRIS: (rubbing his wrists) Hey, you’ve gotten awfully strong.
DÉSIRÉE: I’ve been taking karate lessons.
MORRIS: Very good! You should go into the Park tonight and practise on the rapists. (He extends hand to PHILIP) You must be Philip.
Shot: PHILIP staring, speechless, across the room at HILARY. Zoom in on
HILARY, sitting bolt upright on the bed, staring across at PHILIP.
MORRIS: Well, if you’re not Philip, things are even more complicated than I thought they were. (He takes PHILIP’S hand and shakes it)
PHILIP: Sorry! How do you do. (PHILIP looks back at HILARY)
HILARY: (faintly) Hello, Philip.
PHILIP: Hello, Hilary.
DÉSIRÉE: (walks across to HILARY) Hilary—I’m DÉSIRÉE. (HILARY rises) Don’t get up.
HILARY: (apologetically, putting on her shoes) I was just lying down…
HILARY and DÉSIRÉE shake hands.
DÉSIRÉE: How was your flight?
MORRIS: Great! We nearly collided with another plane.
DÉSIRÉE: (wheels round) So did we!
MORRIS: (gapes) You nearly collided… ?
PHILIP: Yes, just coming into New York. One wonders how often it happens.
MORRIS: (soberly) I think it can only have happened once this afternoon.
PHILIP: You mean… ?
MORRIS: (nods) We were nearly introduced in mid-air.
PHILIP: Phew!
HILARY: (sits down quickly on the
bed) How frightful!
DÉSIRÉE: It would have solved a lot of problems, of course. A spectacular finale to our little drama.
HILARY: Oh don’t!
MORRIS: But we escaped. Perhaps God isn’t angry with us after all.
PHILIP: Who says he is?
MORRIS: Well, Hilary…
PHILIP: (To HILARY) Do you?
HILARY: (defensive) Of course not. It’s Morris who’s afraid of God, only he won’t admit it. I just want to get things sorted out.
DÉSIRÉE: Sure. That’s what we’re here for.
PHILIP: (To HILARY) How are the children?
HILARY: They’re all right. Mary is looking after them. You’ve put on weight, Philip.
PHILIP: Yes, a little.
HILARY: It suits you.
MORRIS: (To DÉSIRÉE) I like the pants suit. How are the twins?
DÉSIRÉE: They’re fine. How about a drink for the rest of us?
MORRIS: Sure. (hastens to pour drinks) Hilary? Philip? Scotch?
HILARY: No thanks, Morris.
MORRIS: About rooms. Shall DÉSIRÉE and I take this one?
DÉSIRÉE: Who says I’m sharing with you?
MORRIS: (shrugs) OK, honey. You and Philip have the other room. We’ll stay here.
HILARY: Either way, isn’t it rather prejudging the issue?
MORRIS: (spreads hands) OK. What do you suggest?
Cut to:
Interior: blue hotel room—night.
PHILIP and MORRIS are in the twin beds. PHILIP, wearing pyjamas, is apparently asleep. MORRIS, bare-chested, is awake, one hand behind his head, the other under his sheet.
MORRIS: We shouldn’t have let them get away with it.
(pause)
It’s ridiculous.
(pause)
I get so goddam horny in hotel rooms.
(pause)
Philip.
PHILIP: Mmm?
MORRIS: How d’ya make out with DÉSIRÉE?
