Lucky Jim

by Kingsley Amis

  ‘Fine. Four o’clock be right for time?’ He explained how to get to the hotel where they were to meet, and had hardly finished when the unmistakable and growing sound of a car became audible. ‘My God, here they are,’ he said, instinctively whispering again.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll wait until they’ve started coming in the front door, and then nip out by the window. You close it after me.’

  ‘Right.’

  The car began moving along the front of the house. ‘You’ve got all that about where to meet?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll be there. Four o’clock.’

  They went over to the window and stood there with their arms round each other while the car’s engine, after a terrible rattling roar, died away, and footsteps receded.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Christine.’

  ‘Good-night, Jim.’ She pressed herself to him and they kissed for a moment; then she broke away with ‘Wait a minute’ and rushed over to where her bag lay on a chair.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  She came back and thrust a pound note at him. ‘For the taxi.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I . . .’

  ‘Come on, don’t argue; they’ll be here in a second. It must have cost the earth.’

  ‘But .. .’

  She pushed the money into his outside breast-pocket, frowning, pursing her lips, and waggling her left hand to silence him in a gesture that reminded him of one of his aunts forcing sweets or an apple on him in his childhood. ‘I’ve probably got more than you have,’ she said. She propelled him to the window, which they reached just as Welch’s voice, in its high-pitched, manic phase, became audible not so far away. ‘Quick. See you on Tuesday. Good-night.’

  He scuttled out and saw her blow a kiss into the darkness while she fastened the window; then the curtain fell back. The sky had cleared a little and there was enough light to see his way by. He moved off down towards the road, feeling more tired than he could remember ever feeling in his life before.

  16

  Dear Mr Johns, Dixon wrote, gripping his pencil like a breadknife. This is just to let you no that I no what you are up to with yuong Marleen Richards, yuong Marleen is a desent girl and has got no tim for your sort, I no your sort. She is a desent girl and I wo’nt have you filing her head with a lot of art and music, she is to good for that, and I am going to mary her which is more than your sort ever do. So just you keep of her, Mr Johns this will be your olny warning. This is just a freindly letter and I am not threatenning you, but you just do as I say else me and some of my palls from the Works will be up your way and we sha’nt be coming along just to say How do you can bet. So just you wach out and lay of yuong Marleen if you no whats good for you. yours fathfully, Joe Higgins.

  He read it through, thinking how admirably consistent were the style and orthography. Both derived, in large part, from the essays of some of his less proficient pupils. He could hardly hope, even so, to deceive Johns for long, especially since Johns had almost certainly got no further with Marlene Richards, a typist in his office, than staring palely at her across it. But the letter would at any rate give him a turn and his dig-mates a few moments’ amusement when it was opened, according to his habit, at the breakfast-table and read over cornflakes. Dixon wrote To:—Mr Johns and the address of the digs on a cheap envelope not specially bought for the purpose, sealed the letter up in it, and then, griming his finger on the floor, drew a heavy smudge across the flap. Finally he stuck a stamp on, slobbering on it for further verisimilitude. He’d post the letter on his way down to the pub for a lunch-time drink, but before that he must write up some of his notes for the Merrie England lecture. Before that in turn he must review his financial position, see if he could somehow restore it from complete impossibility to its usual level of merely imminent disaster, and before that again he must meditate, just for a couple of minutes, on the incredible finale to the Summer Ball the previous evening and on Christine.

  He found himself unable to think coherently about, hardly able even to remember, what they’d said to each other at the Welches’, nor could he now evoke what it had been like kissing her more clearly than that he’d enjoyed it. He was already so excited about Tuesday afternoon that he had to get up and walk about his bedroom. The great thing was to convince himself utterly that she wouldn’t turn up, then whatever happened would be something extra. The trouble was that he could imagine exactly how she’d look coming across the hotel lounge towards him. Then he found he could visualize her face quite clearly, and looked inattentively out over the back garden of the lodging-house, which lay in thick, beating sunshine. He realized that when it wasn’t set in that rather chilly life-mask, her face sometimes touched upon other sorts of face by a kind of physiognomical allusion. Some of the other sorts of face were very remote from her own. There was the permanent grin of an acrobat, or partner in an apache-dance routine; the sun-dazzle of some Honourable trollop photographed motor-boating on the Riviera; the sulky mindless glare theoretically detectable on the face of a pin-up; the frown of a plethoric and not very nice little girl. At any rate they were all female faces. He coughed loudly on recalling that Margaret had more than once reminded him facially of a man with an unintelligible accent and Service glasses whom he’d known by sight in the R.A.F. and had never seen doing anything except sweeping out the N.A.A.F.I. and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  To drive this thought away he opened the cupboard that contained his smoking engines and accessories—monuments, some of them costly, to economy. As long as he could remember he’d never been able to smoke as much as he wanted to. This armoury of devices had been assembled as each fresh way of seeming to smoke as much as he wanted to had come to his notice: the desiccated packet of cheap cigarette-tobacco, the cherry-wood pipe, the red packet of cigarette-papers, the packet of pipe-cleaners, the leather cigarette-machine, the quadripartite pipe-tool, the crumbling packet of cheap pipe-tobacco, the packet of cotton-wool filter-tips (new process), the nickel cigarette-machine, the clay pipe, the briar pipe, the blue packet of cigarette-papers, the packet of herbal smoking-mixture (guaranteed free from nicotine or other harmful substances. Why?), the rusting tin of expensive pipe-tobacco, the packet of chalk pipe-filters. Dixon took a cigarette from the packet in his pocket and lit it.

  On the floor of the cupboard were the empty beer-flagons which represented his only sure method of saving money. There were nine of these, but two of them belonged to an impossibly distant pub; he’d bought them to drink in the bus on the way back from the Toynbee Society dinner in February. He’d hoped, by their aid, to efface the memory of a traumatically embarrassing speech Margaret had made at the dinner, but, sitting next to him throughout the journey back, she’d vetoed his project on disciplinary grounds (there’d been a lot of students in the bus, most of them drinking beer from flagons). He shivered at this memory, tried to drive it away by totting up the exchange value of the other seven bottles. Two and eight altogether; much less than he’d counted on. He decided not to review his financial position, and was just getting out his Merrie England notes when there was a knock at his door and Margaret came in. She was wearing the green Paisley frock and the quasi-velvet shoes.

  ‘Hallo, Margaret,’ he said with a heartiness which originated, he realized, in a guilty conscience. But why had he got a guilty conscience? Leaving her with Gore-Urquhart at the Ball had been ‘tactful’, hadn’t it?

  She looked at him with her air of not being quite sure who he was which had more than once entirely, and unaided, discomposed him. ‘Oh, hallo,’ she said.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, keeping up the gimcrack friendliness. ‘Have a seat.’ He pushed forward the immense crippled armchair, of Pall Mall smoking-room size and design, that took up almost half the space left unoccupied by the bed. ‘Cigarette?’ He took out his packet to show that this was a sincere offer.

  Still looking at him, she shook her head slowly, like a doctor indicating that
there is no hope. Her face had a yellowish tinge, and her nostrils seemed pinched. She remained standing and not saying anything.

  ‘Well, how are things?’ Dixon said, tugging a smile on to his mouth.

  She shook her head again, a little more slowly, and sat down on the arm of the chair, which creaked sharply. Dixon threw his pyjamas on to his bed and sat down on a cane-bottomed chair with his back to the window. ‘Do you hate me, James?’ she said.

  Dixon wanted to rush at her and tip her backwards in the chair, to make a deafening rude noise in her face, to push a bead up her nose. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  It took her a quarter of an hour to make clear how she meant. She talked fast and fluently, moving about a lot on the chair-arm, her legs kicking straight as if hammered on the knee, her head jerking to restore invisible strands of hair, her thumbs bending and straightening. Why had he deserted her at the Ball like that? or rather, since she and he and everyone else knew why, what did he think he was up to? or rather, again, how could he do this to her? In exchange for such information on these and allied problems as he could give, she offered the news that all three Welches were ‘out for his blood’ and that Christine had referred slightingly to him at breakfast that morning. No mention of Gore-Urquhart was made, beyond a parenthetical attack on Dixon’s ‘rudeness’ in leaving the dance without saying good-night to him. Dixon knew from experience that to counter-attack Margaret was invariably mistaken, but he was too angry to bother about that. When he was sure that she was going to say no more about Gore-Urquhart, he said, his heart pounding a little: ‘I don’t see why you’re kicking up all this fuss. You looked as if you were doing all right for yourself when I left.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘You were all over that Gore-Itchbag character, hadn’t got time to say a single word to me, had you? If you didn’t do yourself any good it wasn’t for want of trying. I’ve never seen such an exhibition in my life . . .’ His voice tailed off; he couldn’t synthesize enough of the required righteous indignation.

  She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘But you can’t mean . . . ?’

  ‘Oh yes I bloody well can; of course I can mean.’

  ‘James . . . you don’t know . . . what you’re talking about,’ she said, slowly and painfully, like a foreigner reading out of a phrase-book. ‘Really, I’m so surprised; I just . . . don’t know what to say.’ She began to tremble. ‘I talk to a man, just for a few minutes, that’s all it was . . . and now you start accusing me of making up to him. That’s what you mean. Isn’t that what you mean?’ Her voice quavered grotesquely.

  ‘That’s what I mean all right,’ Dixon said, trying to squeeze anger into his tone. ‘It’s no use denying it.’ He could only manage to sound a little nettled and out of sorts.

  ‘Do you really think I was trying to make up to him?’

  ‘Well, it looked very much like it, you must admit.’

  Going so close to Dixon that he flinched, she began looking out of the window. He couldn’t see her face without craning his neck, so he took her seat on the arm of the Pall Mall armchair. She stayed there so long without moving that he began to hope she’d forgotten all about him; in a few moments he might be able to slip silently out to the pub. Then she began to speak, sounding quite calm. ‘I’m afraid there’s an awful lot you don’t understand, James. I used to think you understood me, but now . . . You see, when you say a thing like that, I don’t mind it being, er, offensive and all that, because I know you feel bad about this, at least I hope you do, for my own sake, and so I don’t mind you . . . trying to lash out at me. What makes me feel so, so unhappy, is the awful gulf it shows that there is between us. It makes me say to myself, Oh, it’s no good, he just doesn’t know me at all, never has done, either. You see that, don’t you?’

  Dixon didn’t make a face; he was afraid she might see it reflected in the window-pane. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to go into it all, James, it’s such a small, petty, trivial thing, but I suppose I’d better a little.’ She sighed. ‘Can’t you distinguish between . . . ? No, obviously you can’t. I’ll just tell you this, just this one thing, and see whether that’ll satisfy you.’ She turned and faced him, then said less calmly than before: ‘After you’d gone last night, I didn’t spend a single moment with Gore-Urquhart. He was with Carol Goldsmith. I spent the whole of the rest of the time with Bertrand, thank you very much.’ Her voice went up. ‘And you can guess what sort of a . . .’

  ‘Well, hard luck,’ Dixon broke in before he should have time to relent. A grandiose disgust for the whole proceedings had filled him; not merely for this one hand, but for the whole game of poker, of non-strip poker, that he and Margaret were playing. Biting his lips, he vowed to himself that this time he’d take whatever she might have to deal out. He remembered Carol’s phrase about not throwing Margaret any lifebelts. Well, he’d thrown his last one. He would not waste any more time trying to conciliate her, more because he knew it was a waste of time than because his powers of conciliation were at an end, though they were pretty well at an end as well. ‘Look here, Margaret,’ he said. ‘I’ve no desire to hurt your feelings unnecessarily, as you know perfectly well, whatever you may say. But for your own sake, as well as mine, you must get some things straight. I know you’ve had a very hard time recently, and you know I know that as well. But it won’t do you any good to go on thinking what you evidently do think about me and how we stand. It’ll only make things worse. What I want to say is, you must stop depending on me emotionally like this. I agree I was probably in the wrong over the dance business, but right or wrong won’t make any difference to this. I’ll stick up for you and I’ll chat to you and I’ll sympathize, but I’ve had enough of being forced into a false position. Get it into your head that I’ve quite lost whatever interest I may have had in you as a woman, as someone to make love to, or go to bed with—no, you can have your turn in a minute. This time you’re going to hear me out. As I said, the sex business is all finished, if it ever got started. I’m not blaming anyone; I just want to tell you you must count me out as far as anything like that’s concerned. That’s how things are. And I can’t say I’m sorry because you can’t say you’re sorry for what you can’t do anything about, and I can’t do anything about this and neither can you. That’s all.’

  ‘You don’t think she’d have you, do you? A shabby little provincial bore like you,’ Margaret burst out as soon as he’d stopped speaking. ‘Or has she had you already? Perhaps she just wanted a . . .’

  ‘Don’t be fantastic, Margaret. Come off the stage for a moment, do.’

  There was a pause; then she came waveringly forward, put her hands on his shoulders, and seemed to collapse, or be dragging him, on to the bed. Unregarded, her spectacles fell off. She was making a curious noise, a steady, repeated, low-pitched moan that sounded as if it came from the pit of her stomach, as if she’d been sick over and over again and still wanted to be sick. Dixon half-helped, half-lifted her on to the bed. Now and then she gave a quiet, almost skittish little scream. Her face was pushed hard against his chest. Dixon didn’t know whether she was fainting, or having a fit of hysterics, or simply breaking down and crying. Whatever it was he didn’t know how to deal with it. When she felt that she was sitting on the bed next to him she threw herself forward so that her face was on his thigh. In a moment he felt moisture creeping through to his skin. He tried to lift her, but she was immovably heavy; her shoulders were shaking more rapidly than seemed to him normal even in a condition of this kind. Then she raised herself, tense but still trembling, and began a series of high-pitched, inward screams which alternated with the deep moans. Both were quite loud. Her hair was in her eyes, her lips were drawn back, and her teeth chattered. Her face was wet, with saliva as well as tears. At last, as he began speaking her name, she threw herself violently backwards and sideways on to the bed. While she lay there with her arms spread out, writhing, she screamed half a dozen times, very loudly, then w
ent on more quietly, moaning with every outward breath. Dixon seized her wrists and shouted: ‘Margaret. Margaret.’ She looked at him with dilated eyes and began struggling, trying to free herself from him. Two lots of footsteps were now approaching outside, one ascending the stairs, the other descending. The door opened and Bill Atkinson came in, followed by Miss Cutler. Dixon looked up at them.

  ‘Hysterics, eh?’ Atkinson said, and slapped Margaret several times on the face, very hard, Dixon thought. He pushed Dixon out of the way and sat down on the bed, gripping Margaret by the shoulders and shaking her vigorously. ‘There’s some whisky up in my cupboard. Go and get it.’

  Dixon ran out and up the stairs. The only thought that presented itself to him at all clearly was one of mild surprise that the fictional or cinematic treatment of hysterics should be based so firmly on what was evidently the right treatment. He found the whisky; his hand was shaking so much that he nearly dropped the bottle. He uncorked it and took a quick swig, trying not to cough. Down in his room again, he found everything much quieter. Miss Cutler, who’d been watching Atkinson and Margaret, gave Dixon a glance, not of suspicion or reproach, but of reassurance; she said nothing. As he felt at the moment, this made him want to cry. Atkinson looked up without taking the bottle. ‘Get a glass or a cup.’ He got a cup from the cupboard, poured some of the whisky into it, and gave it to Atkinson. Miss Cutler, as much in awe of him as ever, stood at Dixon’s side and watched Margaret being given some whisky.

  Atkinson heaved her up into a half-sitting position. Her moans had stopped and she was trembling less violently. Her face was red from Atkinson’s blows. When he put the cup to her mouth it rattled once or twice on her teeth and her breathing was audible. With eerie predictability she choked and coughed, swallowed some, coughed again, swallowed some more. Quite soon she stopped trembling altogether and began to look round at them. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said faintly.