Things at once happened very quickly. While, as he had reason to know, outgoing calls from the Welches’ were liable to take some time, incoming-ones were horrifyingly swift. In less than a quarter of a minute Mrs Welch had said to him: ‘Celia Welch speaking.’
He felt as if he’d crunched a cracknel biscuit; in his preoccupation he’d forgotten about Mrs Welch. Still, why worry? In an almost normal tone he said: ‘Can I speak to Professor Welch, please?’
‘That’s Mr Dixon, isn’t it? Before I get my husband, I’d just like you to tell me, if you don’t mind, what you did to the sheet and blankets on your bed when you . . .’
He wanted to scream. His dilated eyes fell on a copy of the local paper that lay nearby. Without stopping to think, he said, distorting his voice by protruding his lips into an O: ‘No, Mrs Welch, there must be some mistake. This is the Evening Post speaking. There’s no Mr Dixon with us, I’m quite sure.’
‘Oh, I’m most awfully sorry; you sounded at first just like . . . How ridiculous of me.’
‘Quite all right, Mrs Welch, quite all right.’
‘I’ll get my husband for you straight away.’
‘Well, actually it was Mr Bertrand Welch I wanted to speak to really,’ Dixon said, smiling at his own cunning as best he could with a distorted mouth; in a few seconds this horror would be over.
‘I’m not sure whether he’s . . . Just a minute.’ She put the phone down.
Better hang on, Dixon thought, and the information, which Mrs Welch had obviously gone to get, about where Bertrand could be reached was just what he wanted for the Callaghan girl. He’d be able to ring her up and tell her, too. Yes, hang on at all costs.
One of the costs was immediately presented in the form of a well-remembered voice baying directly into his ear ‘This is Bertrand Welch’, so directly, indeed, that Dixon could have fancied that Bertrand was actually in the room with him and had by some sorcery substituted for the receiver those rosy, bearded lips.
‘Evening Post here,’ he managed to quaver through his snout.
‘And what can I do for you, sir?’
Dixon recovered slightly. ‘Er . . . we’d like to do a little paragraph about you for our, for our Saturday page,’ he said, beginning to plan. ‘That’s if you’ve no objection.’
‘Objection? Objection? What objection could a humble painter have to a little harmless publicity? At least, I take it it’s harmless?’
Dixon got out a laugh, the Dickensian ‘Ho ho ho’ which was all his mouth could manage. ‘Oh, quite harmless, I assure you, sir. We have a few facts about you already, naturally. But we would just like to know what you’re engaged on at the moment, you see.’
‘Of course, of course, most reasonable. Well, I’ve got two or three things in hand just now. There’s a rather splendid nude, actually, though I don’t know whether your readers would want to know about that, would they?’
‘Oh, very much so, Mr Welch, I assure you, as long as we tell them in the proper way. I take it there’d be no objection to calling it “an undraped female figure”, would there, sir? I imagine it is a female?
Bertrand laughed like a leading hound announcing the end of a check. ‘Oh, she’s female all right, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. And “bottom” is the exact word.’
Dixon joined in this with his own laughter. What a story for Beesley and Atkinson this was going to make. ‘Anything about what I believe’s called the treatment, sir?’ he asked when he might have been supposed to be calm again.
‘Pretty bold, you know. Fairly modern, but not too much so. These modern chaps jigger up the detail so much, and we don’t want that, do wam?’
‘Indeed we don’t, sir, as you say. I suppose this would be an oil painting, sir?’
‘Oh God, yes; no expense spared. She’s about eight feet by six, by the way, or will be when she’s framed. A real smasher.’
‘Any particular title for it, sir?’
‘Well, yes, I thought of calling her Amateur Model. The girl who sat for it’s certainly an amateur of a sort, and she acts as a model, at least while she’s being painted, so there you are. I shouldn’t put in that little explanation of the title if I were you.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Dixon said in something like his ordinary voice; his mouth had tightened involuntarily during the last few seconds and had temporarily abandoned its O. What a lad this Bertrand was, eh? He remembered the insinuations about the week-end with the Callaghan girl that Bertrand had made at their first meeting. God, if it ever came to a fight, he’d . . .
‘What did you say?’ Bertrand asked, a little tinge of suspicion in his tone.
‘I was talking to someone in the office here, Mr Welch,’ Dixon said, through the O this time. ‘I’ve got all that, sir, thank you. Now what about the other things you’re working on?’
‘Well, there’s a self-portrait, an outdoor one against a brick wall.
More wall than Welch, as a matter of fact. The real idea is the pallor and sort of crumpledness of the clothing against the great, red, smooth wall. A painter’s picture, more or less.’
‘Ah, just so, sir; thank you. Anything else?’
‘There’s a little one of three workmen looking at a newspaper in a pub, but that’s hardly started yet.’
‘I see; well, that’ll do us nicely, Mr Welch,’ Dixon said. Now was the moment for a daring switch. ‘The young lady said something about an exhibition, sir; would that be right?’
‘Yes, I am having a little show locally in the autumn; but what young lady is this?’
Dixon laughed silently with relief through his O. ‘A Miss Callaghan, sir,’ he said. ‘I gather you know her.’
‘Yes, I know her,’ Bertrand said in a slightly hardened voice. ‘Why, where does she fit into this?’
‘Why, I thought you must know,’ Dixon said with feigned surprise. ‘This was really her idea. She knows one of our staff here, and I gather she put the notion of this little paragraph, like, to him, you see, sir.’
‘Really? Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of any of it. Are you quite sure?’
Dixon gave a quite professional laugh. ‘Oh, we don’t make mistakes about things like that, sir; more than our position’s worth, if you take my meaning, Mr Welch.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is, but it all sounds most . . .’
‘Well, I should check with her then, sir, if you’re in any doubt. As a matter of fact, when your Miss Callaghan was on the blower to Atkinson . . .’
‘Who’s this Atkinson character? I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Our Mr Atkinson in the London office, sir. She was on to him just now, sir, and asked us to ask you to ring her, if we could get hold of you. Seems she couldn’t get through to your house, or something. Something pretty urgent seems to have come up, and she’d like you to ring her up this afternoon, before five-thirty, if you would.’
‘All right, I’ll do that, then. What’s your name, by the way, in case I . . . ?’
‘Beesley, sir,’ Dixon said without hesitation. ‘Alfred R. Beesley.’
‘Right, thank you, Mr Beesley.’ (That’s the tone, Dixon thought to himself.) ‘Oh, by the way, when will the paragraph be appearing?’
‘Ah, there you have me, sir. One just can’t tell, I’m afraid. But it’ll certainly be within the next four weeks. We like to have the material by us in plenty of time, just on the off-chance, you see, Mr Welch.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Well, have you got everything you want?’
‘Yes, thank you very much indeed, sir.’
‘No no, thanks to you, old boy,’ Bertrand said, with a welcome return to his earlier comradeliness. ‘Very fine body of men, the gentlemen of the Press.’
‘Nice of you to say so, sir,’ Dixon said, making his Edith Sitwell face into the phone. ‘Well, good-bye and thanks, Mr Welch. Much obliged to you.’
‘So long, Beesley, old boy.’
Dixon sat back, mopped his face, though he’d have liked to mop his en
tire frame, and lit a cigarette. Panic had made him fearfully rash, but not, he thought, irretrievably so. The key to the situation lay in dismantling the hoax at once, before Bertrand could get round to blowing it up himself. The Callaghan girl must be carefully coached in the following story: Some unknown calling himself Atkinson had rung her up that morning and, posing as a journalist, discussed Bertrand. He’d talked vaguely about the Evening Post, obtained the Welches’ phone number, and rung off. When Bertrand came through on the phone, she must greet him at once with the Atkinson story, saying it had all sounded very fishy to her and that the voice of ‘Atkinson’ had reminded her strongly of whichever of their London acquaintances was most likely, or least unlikely, to play a meaningless practical joke on the pair of them. Without being suspiciously emphatic, she must make it clear that ‘Atkinson’ had phoned her from a London number, that is, not by a trunk line. Provided she held to her story, both she and Dixon were completely safe, even if Bertrand was already ringing the Post in quest of ‘Beesley’. The danger obviously was that she wouldn’t come in with the conspiracy. There were solid grounds, however, for thinking that she would: her gratitude at his offer of help, his success in his mission against heavy odds, her demeanour over the sheet and table affair, finally, if necessary, his extreme vulnerability if the truth got out. If Bertrand were still suspicious, he might worm the story out of her by emotional pressure, but why should he be suspicious? He could hardly think that she’d go to the lengths of suborning some unknown provincial in order to get hold of some information about the Summer Ball, which in fact was almost exactly what she had done.
The thing now was, obviously, to get hold of her and coach her in her story. He must hurry, because he had to get lunch and be back to invigilate at an examination by two o’clock. Before making any move, however, he threw back his head and gave a long trombone-blast of anarchistic laughter. It was all so wonderful, even if it did go wrong, and it wouldn’t. The campaign against Bertrand he’d fantasied about at the Welches’ had begun, and with a dazzling tactical success. A warning voice told him that this campaign, even so far, was too dangerous for a man in his precarious position, that the joy of battle was submerging his prudence, but he drowned it in more laughter of the same sort.
Yet again he picked up the phone, got Trunks and then Christine Callaghan’s number. Better not tell her anything like the full story of his conversation with Bertrand, he thought. After a moment he leaned forward and said: ‘Miss Callaghan? Good. It’s Dixon here. Now listen carefully.’
10
‘Honestly, James, she couldn’t have been more livid,’ Margaret said. ‘She kept it well under control, of course, but her mouth went tight and her eyes absolutely flashed fire; you know the way they do. I can’t say I blame her, having it thrown at her across the tea-table like that, in front of me and the Neddies.’
‘What was actually said?’ Dixon asked, executing a turn at the corner of the dance-floor and beginning to lead her up towards the band.
‘Well, he just said: “Oh, by the way, Carol, I’ve been meaning to tell you that Christine’s coming to the dance after all, and she’s bringing her uncle with her.” Then he went all facetious on her: “So as not to have uncle partnering niece, which wouldn’t be according to the best usages” or some rubbish like that, “I thought the best thing would be to switch her on to my ticket, if you’ve no objection”—as if she could object, with all the rest of us there listening—“and Gore-Urquhart would be only too pleased to escort you, I’m sure,” and that was that.’
‘Mm,’ Dixon said. The strain of dancing, always considerable, and of keeping his eyes on Margaret’s face as it bobbed and advanced and receded, made elaborate speech difficult for him. In addition, he had to keep straining his ears to catch the beat of the music above the swishing of many pairs of feet and the clamour of many conversations. ‘A bit thick, that.’
‘I’ve never seen anything so abominably rude in my life. The man’s quite impossible, James, socially and, er, in every other way. I say, though—it struck me at the time—do you think there’s anything, well, going on between Bertrand and Carol?’
‘I’ve no idea. What makes you say that?’
‘Haven’t you ever noticed anything?’
‘I don’t think so; why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s really rather odd that he should ever have been taking her to the Ball, and then her looking so furious. . .’
‘Ah, but Bertrand’s always been pretty thick with both of them—I remember you were there when she told us—and it’s only natural she should feel she was being pushed around a bit. Sorry,’ he added to a girl whose bottom had come into collision with his hip. He wished this set of dances would end; he was hot, his socks seemed to have been sprayed with fine adhesive sand, and his arms ached like those of a boxer keeping his guard up after fourteen rounds. He wondered why he didn’t tell Margaret about the embrace he’d seen during the arty week-end; she always kept her mouth shut when told to. Perhaps it was that the news, as well as shocking her, would make her mildly exultant, and he didn’t want that. Why didn’t he want that?
Margaret was talking again, animatedly; her face was a little flushed and her lipstick had been more carefully applied than usual. She looked as if she was enjoying herself; her sort of minimal prettiness was in evidence. ‘Well, anyway, I think she’s done a good deal better for herself with Mr Gore-Urquhart. I must say he seems most charming, something quite exceptional these days. He’s got the most beautiful manners, hasn’t he? Quite the real thing. Bit of a change after the bearded monster.’
Dixon gargled inaudibly in his throat at this mixture of styles, but before he had time to reply the dance wheeled to an end. In a moment an uneasy thundering, followed by a clashing thump, signalled the end of the set. Dixon heaved a sigh and wiped his palms on his handkerchief. ‘What about a drink?’ he said.
Margaret was darting her eyes this way and that. ‘Wait a minute; I just want to see if I can see the others.’
The dancers were trickling away on to the touchlines of the long dance-floor. The walls were decorated with scenes from the remoter past, portrayed in what was no doubt an advanced style, so that in the one nearest Dixon, for example, some lack of perspective or similar commodity made a phalanx of dwarf infantrymen (Spartan? Macedonian? Roman?) seem to be falling from the skies upon their much larger barbarian adversaries (Persian? Iranian? Carthaginian?) who, unaware of this danger overhead, gazed threateningly into the empty middle distance. At intervals stood large pillars of some pallid material. Dixon gave a sad, nostalgic smile; it all reminded him so clearly of those large eating establishments at Marble Arch, Charing Cross, Coventry Street, where he’d enjoyed himself so much. Lowering his eyes from these memorials, he caught sight of Michie in the crowd, talking and laughing vigorously with Miss O’Shaughnessy, the prettiest of the three pretty girls and, in fact, Michie’s girl. She had the kind of water-gipsy face, dusky but rosy, that affected him uncomfortably. The same was true of the low-cut dress she wore. Though he was fifteen yards away from him, Dixon knew all about the perfection of Michie’s evening clothes, the efficiency of his chatter, and the attentiveness of his audience. Michie now caught his eye, at once became grave, and made him a shallow but courteous bow. Miss O’Shaughnessy managed a quick smile before turning away, beyond all question so as to laugh. ‘What about a drink?’ Dixon asked Margaret again.
‘Ah, here they are,’ she said by way of reply.
Bertrand and Christine were approaching. Bertrand, Dixon had to admit, was quite presentable in evening clothes, and to say of him now that he looked like an artist of some sort would have been true without being too offensive. It was on him that Dixon fixed his eye, less from interest than to avoid fixing it on Christine. Her manner to him so far that evening had been not even cold; it had been simply non-existent, had made him feel that, contrary to the evidence of his senses, he wasn’t really there at all. But, worse than this, she was looking her
best this evening. She wore a yellow dress that left her shoulders bare. It was perfectly plain, managing, as if it had been intended just for that, to reveal as decidedly ill-judged Margaret’s royal-blue taffeta, with its bow and what he supposed were gatherings or something, and with the quadruple row of pearls above it. Christine’s aim, he imagined, had been to show off the emphasis of her natural colouring and skin-texture. The result was painfully successful, making everybody else look like an assemblage of granulated half-tones. For a moment, as she and Bertrand came up, Dixon caught her eye, and although it held nothing for him he wanted to cast himself down behind the protective wall of skirts and trousers, or, better, pull the collar of his dinner-jacket over his head and run out into the street. He’d read somewhere, or been told, that somebody like Aristotle or I. A. Richards had said that the sight of beauty makes us want to move towards it. Aristotle or I. A. Richards had been wrong about that, hadn’t he?
‘Well, what goes forward, people?’ Bertrand asked. He was holding Christine’s wrist between finger and thumb, perhaps taking her pulse. He glanced at Dixon, to whom he’d so far been fairly amiable.
‘Well, I thought we might go and have a drink,’ Dixon said.
‘Oh, do be quiet, James; anybody’d think you’d die if you went an hour without one.’
‘He probably would,’ Bertrand said. ‘Anyway, it’s sensible of him not to want to take the risk. What about it, darling? I’m afraid there’s only beer and cider, unless you want to fare forth to an adjacent hostelram.’
‘Yes, all right, but where’s Uncle Julius and Mrs Goldsmith? We can’t go off and leave them.’
While it was being agreed that these two were probably already in the bar, Dixon grinned to himself at ‘Uncle Julius’. How marvellous it was that there should be somebody called that and somebody else to call him that, and that he himself should be present to hear one calling the other that. As he drifted off at Margaret’s side between the talking groups on one side and the mutes lining the walls on the other, he caught sight of Alfred Beesley standing rather miserably among the last-named. Beesley, notorious for his inability to get to know women, always came to functions of this sort, but since every woman here tonight had come with a partner (except for women like the sexagenarian Professor of Philosophy or the fifteen-stone Senior Lecturer in Economics) he must know he was wasting his time. Dixon exchanged greetings with him, and fancied he caught a gleam of envy in Beesley’s eye. Dixon reflected firstly how inefficient a bar to wasting one’s time was the knowledge that one was wasting it (and especially in what Welch called ‘matters of the heart’); secondly how narrow a gap there really was between Beesley’s status and his own in such matters; and thirdly how little there was to envy in what established him as on the far side of the gap from Beesley—the privileges of being able to speak to one woman and of being in the same party as another. But, fourthly, the possession of the signs of sexual privilege is the important thing, not the quality nor the enjoyment of them. Dixon felt he ought to feel calmed and liberated at reaching this conclusion, but he didn’t, any more than unease in the stomach is alleviated by discovery of its technical name.
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