Dear Illusion

by Kingsley Amis

  ‘I don’t do anything. Not yet. I was a student.’

  ‘Jolly good luck to you. I’m an electrical engineer. So of course they put me on bridges. But it’s all experience. A very good preparation, the Army.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Everything.’

  As they received their drinks, Archer became aware that an altercation was going on just outside the room, with raised voices and what sounded like part of a human frame bouncing off the door. Was Doll fighting Raleigh?

  ‘Just about everything. You’ll have learnt a lot in the last few years which will stand you in good stead when you get into the great world.’

  Archer’s mouth opened. ‘You mean that this is what life is like.’

  ‘Roughly.’

  Doll called from the doorway. ‘Would you come, Mr Archer, quickly?’

  Archer hurried over, followed by Davison, who said: ‘If there’s anything to see I’m going to see it.’

  Four men confronted one another in the confined space at the stairhead: Hargreaves, Sergeant Fleming, Doll and Raleigh. Whatever he might have been doing a moment earlier, Hargreaves was doing nothing now except being held from behind by Fleming and denounced by Raleigh. Doll stood to one side, his file under his arm.

  ‘I didn’t know anything like this was going to happen, sir,’ Fleming shouted to Archer. ‘He just said very quiet he’d like to see the major if he was free, to apologize to him about the parliament, and I said couldn’t it wait till the morning, and he said, still very quiet, his conscience was—’

  ‘You dare come here and say that to me,’ Raleigh shouted through this. His soft face had a glistening flush. ‘You dirty little homo. Can’t leave a decent lad alone. Rotten to the core. I know what goes on in that billet of yours. I’m going to take you off that draft and have you court-martialled for . . . for filth. There are plenty of people who’d be only too glad—’

  Cleaver stepped forward and caught him by the arm. ‘Shut up, major. Pipe down, you bloody fool. Come back in here, for Christ’s sake.’

  The major shook off Cleaver’s hand. The movement brought him face to face with Archer. A theatrical sneer twisted Raleigh’s soft features. ‘And as for you . . . Tarred with the same brush. An officer. Selected for his qualities of leadership. That’s good. I like that.’

  There was a pause. The moment it was over Archer realized that he should have used it either to help Fleming get Hargreaves down the stairs or help Cleaver get Raleigh back into the anteroom. He could even have told the major just a little of what he thought of him. But he spent the time quailing under the major’s stare.

  Panting a little, Raleigh took up a fighting stance in front of Hargreaves. At the same time Colonel Davison spoke from the edge of the group. ‘That’ll do, everybody.’ Fleming’s expression made Archer turn quickly. He saw with incredulity that Davison was leaning against the door-jamb and levelling his drawn revolver in Raleigh’s general direction.

  ‘Often wanted to use this,’ Davison said. He was thin and very tall. ‘Properly,I mean. Not just on pigeons. Well, better late than never.’

  ‘Put that away, Colonel,’ Cleaver said.

  Davison grinned. ‘Sounds as if I’m exposing myself. But I know what you mean. My turn now. Who’s gonna make me?’

  ‘Let’s be sensible.’

  At this, Davison collapsed in laughter. ‘One up to you, by God. Funny, isn’t it? – always turns out like this if you try to do anything. Chaps saying let’s be sensible. Let’s be that whatever we do. Oh, my Christ.’

  Still laughing, he staggered through the group and ended up by the banisters, laboriously trying to fit his revolver back into its holster. The major swung back towards Hargreaves. Afterwards opinion was divided on whether he was really going to hit him, but Doll evidently thought so, for he bounded forward and shouldered the major aside. Raleigh collided hard with Davison, whose attention was distracted by his revolver and holster and who at once, with a single cracking of wood, fell through the banisters and down into the tiled hall. He landed with another cracking sound which made the backs of Archer’s thighs turn cold. Doll ran down the stairs, closely followed by Cleaver. Hargreaves said: ‘I’m sorry, Mr Archer.’

  V

  ‘Cup of tea for you, sir. And the newspapers.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you get on to the hospital?’ Major Raleigh spoke almost without inflection, as he usually did these days.

  ‘Yes, sir. Progress maintained. Too early yet to say when he’ll be up and about again, but the concussion’s definitely not as bad as they thought at first and the arm’s coming along as well as can be expected after a complicated fracture.’

  Outside, heavy transport could be heard toiling in low gear. ‘What’s that row?’

  ‘That’s 424 Wireless forming up to move out, sir. They’re due at the railhead at fifteen-hundred hours.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you going down to see them off, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, Colonel Davison sent you a message, sir.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, he did, sir. Thanks for the party and he hopes he wasn’t a nuisance.’

  The major screwed up his soft face as a motor-bike revved up in the road below. ‘Shut the window, will you, Doll?’

  ‘Right, sir.’ The operation completed, Doll turned round and leant against the sill. ‘Well, we’ve all been very lucky, sir, really, haven’t we? Things might have turned out much more serious. By the way, I thought you were very wise not to go on with that idea of yours of having Hargreaves court-martialled. Very wise indeed, sir.’

  ‘When I want your opinion of my decisions, Doll, I’ll ask for it.’ This tripped less well off the major’s tongue than it might have done at another time. Only Colonel Davison’s accident had prevented that last encounter with Hargreaves from degenerating into a serious breach of order. The persistence of this thought bothered Raleigh. He said wearily: ‘And while you’re here I’d like you to tell me in detail how Hammond got on to that list with Hargreaves.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to add to my previous account, sir, but still. You asked me to complete the list at my discretion, right? So seeing Hargreaves’s name there, and knowing that Hammond was his mate, I put him down too. We’ve always done that sort of thing.’

  ‘Is that all you knew?’

  ‘Why, of course, sir. What else is there to know?’

  ‘How did Archer come to sign that message?’

  ‘Well, again as before, sir, Mr Archer happened to call in at the Orderly Room and I asked him, as I might have asked any officer who was available. There were one or two things piled up and I wanted to get them off.’

  ‘Did Mr Archer read it through before he signed it?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, sir. Quite likely he had enough confidence in me not to bother. You’ve often done the same yourself, sir, and believe me I very much appreciate the implied compliment.’

  ‘Are you telling me the truth, Doll?’

  ‘Mr Archer will confirm every word I’ve said, sir, as far as it concerns him.’

  The major sighed heavily. ‘I suppose that’s that.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir. Actually it’s a pity we’ve lost Hammond, a very pleasant young fellow I agree, but it’s not going to make much difference, sir, is it? There’d have been nothing for him to do here after the Signal Office closes down next week. I don’t suppose any of us will be together much longer. Captain Cleaver and Mr Archer and the others on twenty-four-hour warning. You’ll be all on your own here before very long, sir.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Doll almost smiled. ‘Of course, it’s Mr Archer who’s come best out of this. Dodging the Far East after all. What a bit of luck that was, eh, sir?’

  Something close to attention entered the major’s manner. ‘Dodging the Far East?’

  ‘Oh, no doubt about it, sir. Even if he goes tomorrow it’ll take him ten days to get home, the
way things are. Then he’ll go on twenty-eight days’ leave, which’ll bring him to the first week in September. And with his release due a month at most after that it wouldn’t be worth anybody’s while to put him on a boat. No, he’s—’

  ‘Doll, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Really, sir? I’m awfully sorry, I was sure Mr Archer would have told you long ago. When was he telling me about it, now? Yes, I can remember exactly – it was the earlier part of the evening on which Colonel Davison met with his accident. Mr Archer and I went on to discuss the Election results – that’s right – and then we—’

  ‘All right, I don’t want the story of your life. I asked you to tell me—’

  ‘Do forgive me, sir – I’ve got this bad habit of letting my tongue run away with me, I know. It’s just that the events of that evening are so indelibly impressed on my memory, sir, if you know what I—Yes, sir. Well, Mr Archer showed me a letter from the head of his college in Oxford, the Master I think he called himself. It said they were arranging his release from the Army and reckoned he’d be out in good time to go into the college when the term begins, which I gather is about the 10th of October, though no doubt you could put me right there.’

  ‘But he’s only been in for three or four years. You and I and most of the blokes have been in for six.’

  ‘Seven in my case, sir; you’ll recall that I was one of the 1938 militiamen. Yes, I know it seems strange, Mr Archer getting out so soon, but apparently this is something called the Class “B” Scheme – we had a memo about it a couple of weeks ago which I’ll look out for you if you’re interested.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘How funny Mr Archer hasn’t told you yet. I expect he’s waiting for a suitable opportunity, sir, don’t you?’

  ‘Get out and leave me in peace.’

  ‘Glad to, sir.’

  Left in peace, the major sat on at his almost-empty table. The bulk of 424 Wireless Station was evidently moving out on to the main road along Raleigh’s Alley, making full use of that thoroughfare for the first and last time. The major’s eye missed a letter from the British Drama League saying that Journey’s End was not available. It caught an order informing him that with effect from two days’ time the area of which he had hoped to become chieftain would be known as No. 9 Independent Transit Area and would fall under the command of a full colonel despatched from HQ. He picked up a newspaper headlined IT’S NO JOKE-IO TO LIVE IN TOKYO: 600 Super-Forts Blast Jap Heartland and put it down again. The other paper contained a large Election supplement. He summoned the resolution to study the details of what he had so far been able to take in only as an appalling generality. Turning to an inner page, he read:

  WINKWORTH (WEST)

  R. Jack (Lab) 28,740

  Maj.-Gen. P. O. de C. Biggs-Courtenay, DSO (C) 9,011

  Lab majority 19,729

  LABOUR GAIN FROM CONSERVATIVE

  1935: Maj.-Gen. P. O. de C. Biggs-Courtenay, DSO (C) 19,495; W. Mott (Lab) 9,319: C majority 10,176

  The major dropped his head into his hands. This, he supposed, was the bottom. And yet he felt a stirring of hope. Having sunk to the lowest depths his nature was capable of, he could not help seeing the future as some sort of upward path. Nobody and nothing in his immediate environment gave him the smallest reason for confidence. Doll, Cleaver, Hammond, Davison, Archer (whom he had tried so hard to train up as a conscientious Officer), the Company, the Signal Office, chances of leadership – all in their different ways had turned out to be not worth depending on. But the world was wide. Bad things could happen and it all went on as before. The thought of his friends in Potsdam filled him with encouragement now, not envy. Much of what he believed in must survive.

  And the guarantee of that was England. England had been up against it in 1940, in 1914 and no doubt earlier, with the Napoleon business and so on. She had weathered every storm, she had never gone under. All that was needed was faith. Despite everything that Hargreaves and Archer and the rest of them might do, England would muddle through somehow.

  MORAL FIBRE

  ‘Hallo,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’ I said it to a child of about three who was pottering about on the half landing between the ground floor of the house, where some people called Davies lived, and the first floor, where I and my wife and children lived. The child now before me was not one of mine. He looked old-fashioned in some way, probably because instead of ordinary children’s clothes he wore scaled-down versions of grown-up clothes, including miniature black lace-up boots. His eyes were alarmed or vacant, their roundness repeated in the rim of the amber-coloured dummy he was sucking. As I approached he ran incompetently away up the further flight. I’d tried to speak heartily to him, but most likely had only sounded accusing. Accusing was how I often felt in those days, especially after a morning duty in the Library Reference Room, being talked to most of the way by my colleague, Ieuan Jenkins, and about his wife’s headaches too.

  I mounted in my turn and entered the kitchen, where my own wife, called Jean, was straining some potatoes into the wash-hand basin that did, but only just did, as a sink. ‘Hallo, darling,’ she said. ‘How were the borrowers this morning, then?’

  ‘They were readers this morning, not borrowers,’ I said, kissing her.

  ‘Aw, same thing.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. They were as usual, I’m sorry to say. Who was that extraordinary child I saw on the stairs?’

  ‘Ssshh . . . Must have been one of Betty’s. She had to bring them with her.’ Jean pointed towards the sitting-room, where clicks and thumps suggesting domestic work could be heard.

  ‘Betty’s?’ I whispered. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘She’s just finishing up in there. Betty Arnulfsen. You remember, the girl Mair Webster was going to fix us up with. You know.’

  ‘Oh, the delinquent. I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘She’s coming to lunch.’

  ‘Betty Arnulfsen?’

  ‘No, Mair, dull.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Now, don’t be nasty, John. She’s been very kind to us. Just because she’s a bit boring, that doesn’t mean she . . .’

  ‘Just because. A bit boring. If it were only that. The woman’s a menace, a threat to Western values. Terrifying to think of her being a social worker. All that awful knowing-best stuff, being quite sure what’s good for people and not standing any nonsense and making them knuckle under and going round saying how she fully appreciates the seriousness and importance of her job, as if that made it all right. They bloody well ought to come and ask me before they let anybody be a social worker.’

  ‘Then there wouldn’t be any. You can take these plates in. She’ll be here any minute.’

  It was all most interesting, and in a way that things that happened to me hardly ever were. Mair Webster, who knew us because her husband was a senior colleague of mine on the staff of the Aberdarcy (Central) Public Library, had brought off what must have seemed to her a smart double coup by providing, as the twice-a-week domestic help we craved, one of the fallen women with whom her municipal duties brought her into contact. It had turned out that the woman in question wasn’t really fallen, just rather inadmissibly inclined from the perpendicular. She’d had an illegitimate child or two and had recently or some time ago neglected or abandoned it or them – Mair had a gift of unmemorability normally reserved for far less emphatic characters – but that was all over now and the girl was taking proper care of her young, encouraged by her newly acquired husband, a Norwegian merchant seaman and a ‘pretty good type’ according to Mair, who went on about it as if she’d masterminded the whole thing. Perhaps she had. Anyway, meeting Betty Arnulfsen was bound to be edifying, however imperfectly fallen she might be.

  In the sitting-room, which doubled as dining-room and lunching-room when people like Mair were about, a smallish dark girl of nineteen or twenty was rearranging rugs and pushing chairs back into position. At my entry the child I’d seen earli
er tottered behind the tall boxlike couch, where another of the same size was already lurking. Of this supplementary child I could make out nothing for certain, apart from a frizzy but sparse head of ginger hair. The girl had looked up at me and then quickly and shyly away again.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, in the sort of tone officials visiting things are fond of and good at. I seemed not to have chosen this tone. It wasn’t my day for tones.

  ‘Morning, Mr Lewis,’ she muttered, going on with her work.

  ‘Miserable old weather.’

  This notification, although accurate enough as far as it went, drew no reply. I fussed round the gate-leg table for a bit, fiddling with plates and cutlery and stealthily watching Betty Arnulfsen. Her straight black hair was ribboned in place by what looked like the belt of an old floral-pattern dress. In her plain skirt and jumper and with her meek expression she had the air of an underpaid shopgirl or bullied supply teacher. She wore no makeup. Altogether she wasn’t my idea of a delinquent, but then few people are my idea of anything.

  There was a ring at the front-door bell, a favourite barking-trigger of the dog that lived downstairs. On my wife’s orders I went and let in Mair Webster, whose speed off the verbal mark proved to be at its famed best. By the time we reached the kitchen I already had a sound general grasp of the events of her morning. These included a bawling-out of the Assistant Child Care Officer down at the Town Hall, and a longer, fiercer, more categorical bawling-out of the foster-mother of one of ‘her’ babies. ‘Is Betty here?’ she added without pause. ‘Hallo, Jean dear, sorry I’m late, been dreadfully pushed this morning, everybody screaming for help. How’s Betty getting on? Where is she? I just want to have a word with her a minute.’

  I was close enough behind Mair to see the children returning to defensive positions behind the couch and Betty looking harried. It was my first view of her in full face and I thought her quite pretty, but pale and washed out. I also noticed that the ginger-haired child was sucking a dummy similar to that of its fellow.