Lucky Jim

by Kingsley Amis

  ‘Ah, to hell, man’—had she picked that up from Uncle Julius? Dixon wondered—‘you’re not being asked to do a thesis on it for your doctorate.’ As Carol might have done, she pinched his arm too hard, making him cry out, saying to him in vocal italics: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, it’s . . . I must say what I think, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, that’s what I asked for, isn’t it? Do get on with it.’

  ‘Well, then, I should say No.’

  ‘I see. Why not?’

  ‘Because I like you and I don’t like him.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s quite enough. It means each of you belongs to the two great classes of mankind, people I like and people I don’t.’

  ‘It sounds a bit thin to me.’

  ‘All right, if you want reasons, remember they’re my reasons, though that doesn’t mean to say they oughtn’t to be yours as well. Bertrand’s a bore, he’s like his dad, the only thing that interests him is him. On any issue you care to mention he can’t do otherwise than ignore your side of things, just can’t do otherwise, see? It’s not just him first and you second, he’s the only bloody runner. My God, what you said about him putting you in the wrong by starting rows shows you’ve got his number. I don’t see why you have to have someone else to say it for you.’

  She said nothing for a moment, then spoke rather in her censorious manner: ‘Even if that were true, it needn’t prevent me from marrying him.’

  ‘Yes, I know women are all dead keen on marrying men they don’t much like. But I’m saying why you oughtn’t to marry him, not whether you want to or are going to or not. I think that once the things that are supposed to wear off wear off, you’ll have a hell of a time. You couldn’t trust the fellow with your best . . . I mean, he’d always be having rows, and you say you don’t like rows. Are you in love with him?’

  ‘I don’t much care for that word,’ she said, as if rebuking a foul-mouthed tradesman.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what it means.’

  He gave a quiet yell. ‘Oh, don’t say that; no, don’t say that. It’s a word you must often have come across in conversation and literature. Are you going to tell me it sends you flying to the dictionary each time? Of course you’re not. I suppose you mean it’s purely personal—sorry, got to get the jargon right—purely subjective.’

  ‘Well, it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You talk as if it’s the only thing that is. If you can tell me whether you like greengages or not, you can tell me whether you’re in love with Bertrand or not, if you want to tell me, that is.’

  ‘You’re still making it much too simple. All I can really say is that I’m pretty sure I was in love with Bertrand a little while ago, and now I’m rather less sure. That up-and-down business doesn’t happen with greengages; that’s the difference.’

  ‘Not with greengages, agreed. But what about rhubarb, eh? What about rhubarb? Ever since my mother stopped forcing me to eat it, rhubarb and I have been conducting a relationship that can swing between love and hatred every time we meet.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Jim. The trouble with love is it gets you in such a state you can’t look at your own feelings dispassionately.’

  ‘That would be a good thing if you could do it, would it?’

  ‘Why, of course.’

  He gave a quiet yell. ‘Oh, don’t say that; no, don’t say that. It’s a word you must often have come across in conversation and literature. Are you going to tell me it sends you flying to the dictionary each time? Of course you’re not. I suppose you mean it’s purely personal—sorry, got to get the jargon right—purely subjective.’

  ‘Why, that’s exactly what I’ve been saying, in different words.’

  ‘Words change the thing, and anyway the whole procedure’s different. People get themselves all steamed up about whether they’re in love or not, and can’t work it out, and their decisions go all to pot. It’s happening every day. They ought to realize that the love part’s perfectly easy; the hard part is the working-out, not about love, but about what they’re going to do. The difference is that they can get their brains going on that, instead of taking the sound of the word “love” as a signal for switching them off. They can get somewhere, instead of indulging in a sort of orgy of emotional self-catechizing about how you know you’re in love, and what love is anyway, and all the rest of it. You don’t ask yourself what greengages are, or how you know whether you like them or not, do you? Right?’

  Outside his lectures, this was the longest speech Dixon had made for what seemed to him years, and, not excluding his lectures, by far the most fluent. How had he managed it? Drink? No: he was dangerously sober. Sexual excitement? No in italic capitals: visitations of that feeling reduced him punctually to silence and, as a rule, petrifaction. Then how? It was a mystery, but one he felt too contented to bother about solving. He looked idly at the ribbon of road ahead of them, unsteadily unreeling itself beneath the wheels. Hedges, bleached to a sandy pallor by the headlights, swung past, dipping and mounting. The isolation of the car’s interior seemed comforting and natural.

  A movement of Christine’s, the first he’d noticed since the jour-ney began, made him glance in her direction. He could see that she was leaning forward and looking out of the window. She said in a muffled voice: ‘And the same applies to not liking greengages, of course.’

  ‘Eh? Yes, I suppose so.’

  He heard her yawn. ‘Where are we now, do you know?’

  ‘Oh, just over half-way, I should think.’

  ‘I feel awfully sleepy. It is wretched; I don’t want to be.’

  ‘Have a cigarette, that’ll do you a power of good.’

  ‘No thanks. Look, would you mind if I had a nap for a few minutes? It’ll make me feel much less tired, I know.’

  ‘Of course, by all means.’

  While she snuggled herself together in her corner, Dixon fought his disappointment at this device of hers for quitting his company.

  He’d thought he was getting on so well; his usual policy of not talking at length was the right one after all. Just then she laid her head on his shoulder and all his senses grew alert. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked. ‘The back of this seat’s like iron.’

  ‘You go ahead.’ Forcing himself to act before he could think, he slid his arm beneath her shoulders. She moved her head experimentally to and fro against him, then settled herself and seemed to go to sleep at once.

  Dixon’s heart began to pound a little. He now had all the evidence he wanted that she was there; he could sense her breathing, her temple against his jaw and her shoulder under his hand were warm, her hair smelt of well-brushed hair, he could feel the presence of her body. It was a pity it wasn’t set off by the presence of her mind. It occurred to him that she’d done this merely as a manoeuvre to arouse his desire, and arouse it for no purpose beyond that of somehow feeding her vanity. Then he rejected so familiar and contemptible a notion: she was too trustworthy for that, she’d just been tired. That was all. The taxi swung round a bend and he braced himself with his foot to maintain his position and hers. He couldn’t go to sleep himself, but he could see to it that she stayed asleep.

  Cautiously and contortedly he got hold of matches and cigarettes and lit one of each in succession. More than ever he felt secure: here he was, quite able to fulfil his role, and, as with other roles, the longer you played it the better chance you had of playing it again. Doing what you wanted to do was the only training, and the only preliminary, needed for doing more of what you wanted to do. Next time he saw Michie he’d be much less respectful to him; next time he saw Atkinson he’d talk to him more; he’d get some sense out of that Caton fellow about his article. Gingerly, he moved a little closer to Christine.

  Presently the driver slid the glass aside and asked in a servile tone for more instructions, which Dixon gave. At last the taxi stopped at the end of the track tha
t led up to the Welch house. Christine woke up and said after a moment: ‘Are you coming up?

  I wish you would, because I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get in. The maid lives out, I think.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come up,’ Dixon said. He settled a brief exchange with the taxi-driver by refusing to discuss the question of payment until the taxi should be standing outside his, Dixon’s, digs, then went off into the darkness with Christine holding on to his arm like a staff.

  15

  ‘I think we’d better look for a window first,’ Dixon said as they stood in front of the darkened house. ‘We don’t want to ring the bell, just in case the Welches have got back before us. I don’t suppose they’d want to be home very late.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have to wait for Bertrand, because of the car?’

  ‘They might have got a taxi; anyway, I’m not ringing that bell.’

  They went off carefully into the yard at the left side of the building. In the darkness Dixon blundered into something which struck him dextrously on the shin and made him swear in a whisper. Christine laughed in a muffled way, as if her hands were over her mouth. By touch, and the sight which the minutes in the dark had given him, Dixon identified the hazard as a water-tap encased in planking which was split and half-shattered by some recent blow, as of an ill-driven car. He hummed a couple of bars of his Welch tune, then said to Christine: ‘That’ll do, that’ll do. This looks like the french window; we’ll just try that in case.’

  He led the way, tiptoeing crunchingly, and found almost with foreboding that the window was not even latched. He hesitated before entering the room; the senior Welches might well be home already, and how was it possible for Welch not to have some imbecile hobby, watching phosphorescent mould, say, or Yogi meditation, which involved the use of a darkened room? He imagined with horror the dimensions and duration of Welch’s wondering frown at the furtive entry of Christine and himself out of the darkness.

  ‘Is it open?’ Christine asked at his elbow. In whisper her voice had the same juvenile quality as he’d noticed over the phone.

  ‘Yes, it seems to be.’

  ‘Well, why not go in, then?’

  ‘All right, here goes.’ He pulled the window slowly open and stepped into the room past the floor-length curtain. All the others were apparently drawn and the room was like a sealed tank. He moved slowly forward, arms outstretched, until some piece of furniture dealt him the twin of the blow he’d just received. There was a weird moment when he and Christine reacted exactly as before. His hands hissed their way round two walls until he found the light-switch. ‘I’m going to put the light on,’ he said. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’ He snapped the switch down and instinctively turned away from it as the room sprang into light about them. His movement brought him very close to Christine. They looked at each other, both blinking and smiling; their faces were about on a level. Then the smile left her face and was replaced by a look as of anxiety. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth moved silently, she seemed to raise her arms. Dixon took the step that separated them, and then, very slowly at first to give her all the time she might need to step back and away, put his arms round her. She was breathing in when he finally secured his grasp and so at this she caught her breath. He kissed her for some seconds, not holding her too close; her lips were dry, and hard rather than soft; she felt very warm. At length she did step back. She looked an unlikely figure under the bright light; she might have been an effect of trick photography. Dixon felt as if he’d been running for a bus and had in addition been nearly knocked down by a car at the moment of boarding. He could only say: ‘Well, that was very nice,’ in a sort of wooden vivacity.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Worth coming back from the dance for.’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned away. ‘Oh look, we’re in luck. I wonder who thought of this.’

  A tray with cups, a flask, and biscuits stood on a small round table. Dixon, who’d been showing a disposition to tremble and stagger, found his spirits abruptly kicking upwards at the sight; it meant he wouldn’t have to leave for at least a quarter of an hour. ‘I take that very kindly,’ he said.

  In a minute they were sitting side by side on the couch. ‘I think you’d better drink out of my cup,’ Christine said. ‘We don’t want anyone to know you’ve been here, do we?’ She poured out some coffee and drank a little, then passed the cup to him.

  Dixon felt that this intimacy somehow symbolized and crowned the whole evening. He remembered some Greek or Latin tag about not even God being able to abolish historical fact, and was glad to think that this must apply equally to the historical fact of his drinking out of Christine’s coffee-cup. She took two biscuits when he offered them, which reminded him of how Margaret would never eat on this sort of occasion, as if making an easy claim to individuality, and in the same way always drank black coffee. Why? She wasn’t trying to keep herself awake all the time, was she? It was nice, though, to be able to think of her without fear; he half-promised himself to send Gore-Urquhart a box of twenty-five Balkan Sobranie (Imperial Russian blend) for involuntarily engaging Margaret’s attention at the dance and so making the taxi-stratagem conceivable. Then he abandoned these fancies, recognizing their origin as a desire to escape from the thought that he’d have to go on with this Christine business, he’d have to press his advantage if he wanted to retain what he already held. His sitting with her like this seemed to distil a domestic calm, but his heart beat uncomfortably. And yet he felt an undefined hope: he had no charts for these waters, but experience proved that it was often those without charts who got the furthest. ‘I’m very fond of you,’ he said.

  He caught a glimpse of the starchier manner as she replied: ‘How can you be? You hardly know me.’

  ‘I know enough to be sure of that, thanks.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to say that, but the trouble is, there isn’t much more to know than you know already. I’m the sort of person you soon get to the end of.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. But even if it were true I shouldn’t care.

  There’s more than enough to keep me going in what I’ve seen up

  to now.’

  ‘I warn you it wouldn’t do you any good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘To start with, I can’t get on with men.’

  ‘What awful rubbish, Christine. Don’t you go trying to spin me a hard-luck story like that. A girl like you could have any man she wanted.’

  ‘The ones that want me don’t stay about very long, as I told you. And it isn’t easy to find one I want.’

  ‘Ah, don’t give me that. There are dozens of sensible men about. I can even think of a few in our Common Room. Well, one or two. Well, anyway . . .’

  ‘There you are, you see.’

  ‘Let’s leave that,’ Dixon said. ‘Tell me: how long are you staying here this time?’

  ‘For a few days. It’s part of my holiday.’

  ‘Grand. When can you come out with me?’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a fool, Jim. How can I possibly come out with you?’

  ‘No trouble at all, Christine. You can make out you’re out with Uncle Julius. From what I’ve seen of him he’d back up your story.’

  ‘Don’t say any more, it’s no good. We’re both tied up.’

  ‘We can start worrying about that, if we’ve got to, when we’ve seen a little more of each other.’

  ‘Do you realize what you’re asking me to do? I’m a guest at this place, Bertrand asked me down here, and I’m his . . . I’m tied up with him. Can’t you see yourself how mean it would be?’

  ‘No, because I don’t like Bertrand.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Yes it does. I don’t say “After you, old boy” to chaps like him.’

  ‘Well, what about Margaret, then?’

  ‘You’ve got a point there, Christine, there’s no question about that. But she’s got no real claim
on me, you know.’

  ‘Hasn’t she? She seems to think she has.’

  When Dixon hesitated, he was aware of the utter silence. He turned in his seat, so that he was directly facing her, and said in a less harsh tone: ‘Look, Christine. Put it like this. Would you like to come out with me? Forgetting about Bertrand and Margaret for the moment.’

  ‘You know I would,’ she said at once. ‘Why do you think I let you take me away from the dance?’

  ‘So you did . . .’ He looked at her, and she looked back with her chin lifted and her mouth not quite closed. He put an arm round her shoulders and bent towards the neat blonde head. They kissed more earnestly than before. Dixon felt as if he were being drawn downwards into some dark, vaporous region where the air was too heavy to breathe with comfort and the blood became thin and slack. Her body, half against his, was tense; one breast lay heavily against his chest; he raised his hand and laid it upon her other breast. Immediately her tenseness disappeared, and though her mouth stayed on his she became passive. He understood and moved his hand to her bare shoulder, then let her go. She smiled at him in a way that made his head swim more than the kiss had done

  When he didn’t speak, she said: ‘Yes, all right, then, but I still think it’s a dirty trick. What do you suggest?’

  Dixon felt like a man interrupted at his investiture with the Order of Merit to be told that a six-figure cheque from a football pool awaits him in the lobby. ‘There’s a very nice hotel in the town where we could have dinner,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t think we’d better arrange anything for an evening, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think we’d better, not just for the moment. We’d be bound to start drinking, and I . . .’

  ‘What’s the matter with drinking?’

  ‘Nothing, but don’t let’s do any drinking together for the time being. Please.’

  ‘All right, then. What about a tea?’

  ‘Yes, a tea’d be fine. When?’

  ‘Would Monday do?’

  ‘No, I can’t on Monday; Bertrand’s having some people over he wants me to meet. What about Tuesday?’