‘I thought you might have told Mrs Neddy you’d be back.’
‘As it happens, she’s having a little luncheon-party and asked me to turn up.’
‘Oh well, somebody has asked you to lunch, then.’
She said ‘Yes, that’s right’ in a puzzled, lost way that, by suggesting she’d forgotten what she’d just said or even what they were talking about, succeeded in alarming him more than her recent tears. He said quickly:
‘What sort of a lunch-party is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said with fatigue. ‘Nothing startling, I imagine.’ She looked at him as if her spectacles were becoming opaque. ‘I must go now.’ Slowly and inefficiently, she started looking for her handbag.
‘Margaret, when shall I see you again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m a bit short of cash until . . . Shall I get Neddy to ask me down for tea at the week-end?’
‘If you like. Bertrand’ll be there, though.’ She still spoke in an odd, expressionless voice.
‘Bertrand? Oh well, we’d better leave it, then.’
With an almost imperceptible increase in emphasis, she said: ‘Yes. He’s coming down for the Summer Ball.’
Dixon felt like a man who knows he won’t be able to jump on to the moving train if he stops to think about it. ‘Are we going to that?’ he said.
Ten minutes later, it having been established that they were going to that, Margaret was on her way out, all smiles, to lock up her exam scripts, to powder her nose, and to phone Mrs Welch with the news that she wouldn’t, after all, be attending the luncheon-party, which had turned out to be of much less importance than had at first appeared; Margaret would, instead, be lunching off beer and cheese rolls in a pub with Dixon. He was glad that his trump card had had such a spectacular effect, but, as is the way with trump cards, it had seemed valuable enough to deserve to win ten tricks, not just the one, and had looked better in his hand than it did on the table.
He had in his possession, however, two pieces of information of which Margaret was ignorant. One was the connexion, whatever it was, between Bertrand Welch and Carol Goldsmith, which had suddenly leapt up again in his thoughts at the news, from Margaret, that Bertrand was taking Carol to the Summer Ball, her husband being committed to go to Leeds as Welch’s legate for the week-end. Presumably Bertrand’s blonde and busty Callaghan piece had now, to her credit, been discarded. The interest of this situation compensated, in large part, for the likelihood that Carol, Bertrand, Margaret, and himself would be going to the Ball together; ‘as a little party’, Margaret had put it. The second thing Dixon knew and Margaret didn’t was that Bill Atkinson had previously agreed to meet him in the very pub he and Margaret were now about to go to. Atkinson’s presence would be a valuable stand-by in case of renewed difficulty with Margaret (though God knew there shouldn’t be any of that so soon after the playing of the trump card), and his taciturnity would rule out any risk of their arrangement to meet being suddenly and untowardly revealed. But, more important than any of that, Atkinson and Margaret had not yet met. Trying to imagine what each would say to him about the other afterwards made Dixon grin to himself as he sat down to wait (God only knew how long) for Margaret. To fill in some of the time he found some College stationery and began to write:
‘Dear Dr Caton: I hope you will not mind my troubling you, but I wonder if you could let me know when my article . . .’
9
‘Professor Welch. Professor Welch, please.’
Dixon huddled himself further into the periodical he was reading and unobtrusively made his Martian-invader face. To him, it was a serious offence to pronounce that name in public, even when there was no chance of its bearer being thereby conjured up; Welch was known to be taking the whole day off, as distinct from days like yesterday (the day of their conversation about Dixon’s job) when Welch merely took the early and late morning and the afternoon off. Dixon wished that the porter, a very bad man, would stop bawling that particular name and go away before his eye fell on Dixon and marked him down as a Welch-surrogate. But it was no use; in a moment he felt the approach of the porter down the length of the Common Room towards his chair, and had to look up.
The porter wore an olive-green uniform of military cut, and a peaked cap which didn’t suit him. He was a long-faced, high-shouldered man with hairs growing out of his nose, and his age was hard to estimate. His expression, which rarely altered, couldn’t be expected to at the sight of Dixon. Still approaching, he said huskily: ‘Oh, Mr Jackson.’
Dixon wished he had the courage to twist energetically about in his chair in search of this quite new and unknown character. ‘Yes, Maconochie?’ he said helpfully.
‘Oh, Mr Jackson, there’s someone on the telephone for Professor Welch, but I can’t seem to find him. Would you take the call for him, please? You’re the only person in the History Department I can find,’ he explained.
‘Yes, all right,’ Dixon said. ‘Can I take it in here?’
‘Thank you, Mr Jackson. No, the telephone in here goes on to the public exchange. The lady wanting the Professor’s on the College switchboard. I’ll switch her through to the Registrar’s Clerk’s room. He won’t mind you taking it in there.’
A lady? It must be either Mrs Welch or some poor half-crazed creature connected with the arts. Mrs Welch would be better, in that her message would be comprehensible, but worse in that she might have found out about the sheet, or even the table. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why couldn’t every single one of them without any exception whatsoever just go right away from where he was and leave him alone?
Luckily, the Registrar’s Clerk, another very bad man, wasn’t in his room. Dixon picked up the phone and said: ‘Dixon here.’
‘Intermediate Geology, that’s right, yes,’ a voice said comfortably. ‘Who’s that?’ another said. A buzzing followed, terminated by an eardrum-cracking click. When Dixon had got hold of the receiver again and put it to his other ear, he heard the second voice say: ‘Is that Mr Jackson?’
‘Dixon here.’
‘Who?’ It was a vaguely familiar voice, but not Mrs Welch’s; it sounded like an adolescent girl’s.
‘Dixon. I’m taking the message for Professor Welch.’
‘Oh, Mr Dixon, of course.’ There was a noise which might have been a smothered snort of laughter. ‘I might have guessed it’d be you. This is Christine Callaghan.’
‘Oh, hallo, er, how are you?’ The apparent deliquescence of the bowel that recognition brought on was only momentary; he knew he could deal with her voice creditably enough while the rest of her remained, presumably, in London.
‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you? I hope you’ve had no more trouble with your bedclothes?’
Dixon laughed. ‘No, I’m glad to say that’s all blown over; touch wood.’
‘Oh, good . . . Look, is there any way of getting hold of Professor Welch, do you know? Isn’t he anywhere in the University?’
‘He hasn’t been in all the morning, I’m afraid. He’s almost certain to be at home now. Or have you tried there?’
‘Oh, how annoying. Perhaps you can tell me, though: do you know if he’s expecting Bertrand down?’
‘Well, yes, as it happens I do know that Bertrand’s coming down at the week-end. Margaret Peel told me.’ Dixon’s equanimity had departed; evidently this girl didn’t know she’d been junked by Bertrand, at least as far as the Summer Ball was concerned. Answering her questions about Bertrand was going to be tricky.
‘Who told you?’ Her voice had sharpened a little.
‘You know, Margaret Peel. The girl who was staying with the Welches when you came down that time.’
‘Oh yes, I see . . . Did she happen to mention whether Bertrand will be going to your Summer Ball affair?’
Dixon thought quickly; no questions about Bertrand’s possible partner must be asked. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But everybody else’ll be going, anyway.’ Why didn’t she get hold of Bert
rand and ask him?
‘I see . . . But he is definitely coming down?’
‘Apparently.’
She must have sensed his puzzlement, because she now said: ‘I expect you’re wondering why I don’t ask Bertrand himself. Well, you see, he’s often rather a difficult chap to get hold of. At the moment he’s just sort of gone off, nobody knows where. He likes to come and go when he feels like it, hates being tied down and all that. Do you see?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Dixon bunched his free hand and waggled its first two fingers.
‘So I thought I’d see if his father knew where he was or anything. The whole point is, what I really wanted to know is this. My uncle, Mr Gore-Urquhart, got back from Paris sooner than he expected, and he’s got an invitation from your Principal to the Summer Ball thing. He doesn’t really know whether to come or not. Well, I could persuade him to come if Bertrand and I were going, and then Bertrand and he could get to know each other, and Bertrand wants that. But I must know soon, because it’s the day after tomorrow and Uncle would want to know in good time, where he’s to spend the week-end, I mean. So . . . well, it’s rather a mix-up, I’m
afraid.’
‘Can’t Mrs Welch throw any light on the matter?’
There was a pause. ‘I’ve not actually been on to her.’
‘Well, she’s bound to know more about it than I do, isn’t she? . . . Hallo?’
‘I’m still here . . . Listen, keep this quiet, won’t you? but I’d like not to get on to her if I can find out any other way. I . . . we didn’t hit it off too well when I stayed. I don’t want to have to, well, discuss Bertrand with her over the phone. I think she thinks I’m . . . Never mind; but you see what I mean?’
‘I do indeed. I don’t hit it off too well with the lady either, as a matter of fact. Now I’ve got a suggestion. I’ll ring up the Welches for you now and get the Professor to ring you. If he’s not there I’ll leave a message or something. Anyway I’ll see to it, somehow or other, that Mrs Welch doesn’t get involved. If it’s no good I’ll ring you back myself and tell you. Will that do, now?’
‘Oh, that’d be lovely, thanks so much. What a marvellous idea. Here’s my number; it’s the place I work at, so I shan’t be there after five-thirty. Ready?’
While he took it down, Dixon assured himself several times that Mrs Welch couldn’t have found out about the sheet or the table, or Margaret would surely have warned him. How nice this girl was being to him, he thought. ‘Right, I’ve got that,’ he said finally.
‘It’s damn good of you to do this for me,’ the girl said with animation. ‘But doesn’t it make me out a bit of a fool, you taking all this trouble just to save me . . . ?’
‘Not in the least. I know exactly what these things are like.’ None better, he told himself.
‘Well, I am grateful, really. I just couldn’t face . . .’
A sort of Morse signal fell between these sentences, and then a rushing noise supervened. A woman’s voice said: ‘Your second three minutes are up, caller. Do you require a further three minutes?’
Before Dixon could speak, Christine Callaghan had said: ‘Yes, please, leave me through, will you?’
The rushing noise stopped. ‘Hallo?’ Dixon said.
‘I’m still here.’
‘Look, isn’t this costing you a packet?’
‘Not me; only the shop.’ She gave one of her laughs, the non-silver-bells sort. Over the phone its cacophony was more noticeable.
Dixon laughed too. ‘Well, I hope this business comes off all right; it would be an awful shame if it didn’t, after all these preparations.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t it? Will you be going to the Ball thing?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘Afraid so?’
‘Well, I’m not really much of a dancing man, you know. It’ll be a bit of an ordeal for me, I’m afraid.’
‘Why on earth are you going, then?’
‘It’s too late to get out of it.’
‘What?’
‘I said I may get some fun out of it.’
‘Oh, I expect you will. I’m not much good as a dancer myself, really. I’ve never learnt properly.’
‘You must have had plenty of practice, surely.’
‘Not much, as a matter of fact. I haven’t been to many dances.’
‘We’ll be able to sit out together, then.’ That’s a bit forward, he thought; shouldn’t have said that.
‘If I come.’
‘Yes, if you come.’
The pre-leavetaking pause fell upon them. Dixon felt sad: he realized for the first time that it was really very unlikely that she would come to the Ball, a good deal more unlikely than she had any reason to think, and that it was correspondingly unlikely that he’d ever see her again. It was nasty to think that the deciding factors would be the strength and nature of Bertrand’s ambitions, sexual and financial-social.
‘Well, thank you again for your help.’
‘Not at all. I hope very much you will be coming on Saturday.’
‘I hope so too. Well, good-bye. I may be hearing from you later, then.’
‘That’s right. Good-bye.’
He sat back and puffed out his cheeks, trying to picture her at the other end of the line. She’d be sitting up straight in her office chair, of course, like an airman-clerk told to ‘carry on’ during an inspection by the Air Vice-Marshal. Or would she? She hadn’t sounded like that over the phone; she’d talked in the relaxed style he’d had glimpses of during the sheet and table campaign. But her apparent friendliness over the phone might be an illusion based on her physical absence. On the other hand, how much of her severity at other times was an illusion based on the way she looked? He was feeling for his cigarettes when Johns came in at the door, carrying a sheaf of papers. Had he been listening?
‘Can I help you?’ Dixon said with caricatured graciousness.
Johns saw that he’d have to speak. ‘Where is he?’
Dixon peered searchingly under the desk, into its top drawer, into the wastepaper-basket. ‘Not here.’
The other’s junket-coloured features stayed where they were. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘I won’t.’
Dixon went away with the intention of ringing up the Welches from the Common Room phone. As he was passing the porter’s office he heard Maconochie say: ‘Ah, there he is now, Mr Michie,’ and made his Eskimo face, which entailed, as well as an attempt to shorten and broaden his face by about half, the feat of abolishing his neck by sucking it down between his shoulders. This done, and the final effect held for a few seconds, he turned and saw Michie approaching.
‘Ah, Mr Dixon, I hope you’re not busy.’
Dixon knew exactly how well Michie knew exactly how and why he, Dixon, couldn’t be busy. He said: ‘No, not just at the moment. What can I do for you?’
‘About your special subject for next year, sir.’
‘Yes, what about it?’ Until now, the intrigue had been mostly in Dixon’s favour; the three pretty girls whom he was plotting to secure for his class had all seemed more ‘interested’ at their last discussion, while Michie’s ‘interest’, though it hadn’t declined, had shown no signs of increasing.
‘Shall we go for a stroll on the lawn, sir? It seems a pity to be indoors on such a glorious day, doesn’t it? About the syllabus, sir: Miss O’Shaughnessy, Miss McCorquodale, Miss ap Rhys Williams, and I have all been into it very carefully together, and I think the feeling of the ladies is that the reading is a good deal on the heavy side. I don’t myself think it is: as I said to them, a subject like this requires considerable background knowledge if it isn’t to be quite meaningless. But I’m afraid they weren’t convinced. Being women, they’re of rather more conservative temperament than ourselves. With Mr Goldsmith’s Documents, for instance, they feel on safer ground. They’re sure of what they’re getting there.’
Dixon was fairly sure too, but he allowed Michie’s voice to go on dinning in his ears while they emer
ged into the heavy, dizzying sunlight and crossed the tacky asphalt to the lawn in front of the main building. Was Michie breaking to him the news that the three pretty girls were crying off and he himself was crying on? He would prevent that, if necessary by unlawful wounding. In a moment he said, without quite succeeding in keeping the plangency out of his voice: ‘What am I supposed to do about it, then?’
Michie looked at him. His moustache seemed a size larger than usual; his Windsor-knotted silk tie toned unimprovably with his biscuit-coloured shirt; his lavender barathea trousers swayed gracefully with his walk. ‘That’s up to you, sir, of course,’ he said, with a courtly minimum of surprise.
‘I wonder if the thing could be cut down at all,’ Dixon said, almost at random.
‘I don’t think there’s much that could easily be sacrificed, Mr Dixon. As far as I’m concerned, the broad basis is the chief attraction.’
This, at any rate, was worth knowing. A basis consisting of a single point—the geometrical entity having position, but no magnitude—was clearly the thing to work for. ‘Well, I’ll have another look at it, anyway, and see if anything can be cut out.’
‘Very well, sir,’ Michie said, his demeanour that of a chief of staff about to put into action his general’s unworkable plan. ‘Will you get in touch with me, then, or shall I . . . ?’
‘I’ll look through it tonight and see you about it in the morning, if that’s convenient.’
‘Certainly. Would you care to come to the Second-Year Common Room at about eleven? I’ll ask the ladies to come, and we could all have a cup of coffee.’
‘That’ll be splendid, Mr Michie.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dixon.’
After this Victorian, or variety-team, salutation, Dixon went back to the Common Room, which was now empty, and sat down at the phone. Everything that might conceivably interest Michie must be slashed from the syllabus, even, or rather especially, what was indispensable. What did it matter? He’d probably never have to take the course. In that case why was he worrying about the ‘interest’ shown by Michie and the three pretty girls? He sighed, and picked up the phone.
Lucky Jim Page 12
