Lucky Jim

by Kingsley Amis

  Four seconds later Dixon was on the way out of the hotel into the sunlight, his shilling in his pocket.

  20

  ‘What, finally, is the practical application of all this? Can anything be done to halt, or even to hinder, the process I have described? I say to you that something can be done by each one of us here tonight. Each of us can resolve to do something, every day, to resist the application of manufactured standards, to protest against ugly articles of furniture and table-ware, to speak out against sham architecture, to resist the importation into more and more public places of loudspeakers relaying the Light Programme, to say one word against the Yellow Press, against the best-seller, against the theatre-organ, to say one word for the instinctive culture of the integrated village-type community. In that way we shall be saying a word, however small in its individual effect, for our native tradition, for our common heritage, in short, for what we once had and may, some day, have again—Merrie England.’

  With a long, jabbering belch, Dixon got up from the chair where he’d been writing this and did his ape imitation all round the room. With one arm bent at the elbow so that the fingers brushed the armpit, the other crooked in the air so that the inside of the forearm lay across the top of his head, he wove with bent knees and hunched, rocking shoulders across to the bed, upon which he jumped up and down a few times, gibbering to himself. A knock at his door was followed so quickly by the entry of Bertrand that he only had time to stop gibbering and straighten his body.

  Bertrand, who was wearing his blue beret, looked at him. ‘What are you doing up there?’

  ‘I like it up here, thanks. Any objection?’

  ‘Come down and stop clowning. I’ve got a few things to say to you, and you’d better listen.’ He seemed in a controlled rage, and was breathing heavily, though this might well have been the result of running up two flights of stairs.

  Dixon jumped lightly down to the floor; he, too, was panting a little. ‘What do you want to say?’

  ‘Just this. The last time I saw you, I told you to stay away from Christine. I now discover you haven’t done so. What have you got to say about that, to start with?’

  ‘What do you mean, I haven’t stayed away from her?’

  ‘Don’t try that on with me, Dixon. I know all about your surreptitious little cup of tea with her on the sly yesterday. I’m on to you all right.’

  ‘Oh, she told you about that, did she?’

  Bertrand tightened his lips behind the beard, which looked as if it could do with a comb-out. ‘No no, of course she didn’t,’ he said violently. ‘If you knew her at all, you’d know she didn’t do things like that. She’s not like you. If you really want to know—and I hope it’ll give you a kick—it was one of your so-called pals in this house who told my mother about it. You ought to enjoy thinking about that. Everybody hates you, Dixon, and my God I can see why. Anyway, the point is I want an explanation of your conduct.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Dixon said with a smile, ‘I’m afraid that’s rather a tall order. Explain my conduct; now that is asking something. I can’t think of anybody who’d be quite equal to that task.’ He was watching Bertrand closely, filing away the news of this latest blow from Johns—who else could it be?—for later pondering and appropriate action.

  ‘Cut it out,’ Bertrand said, flushing. ‘I gave you a straight warning to leave Christine alone. When I say that sort of thing I expect people to have the sense to do as I say. Why haven’t you? Eh?’

  Bertrand’s rage, and the mere fact of his visit here, combined nicely with their superfluousness, in view of Dixon’s having already given up his interest in Christine for other reasons and so abandoning the Bertrand campaign. But he’d be a fool not to keep that to himself for a bit and enjoy himself with a spot of sniping. ‘I didn’t want to,’ he said.

  There was a pause, during which Bertrand twice seemed on the point of uttering a long inarticulate bay. His unusual eyes looked like polished glass. Then, in a quieter voice than before, he said: ‘Look here, Dixon, you don’t seem quite to appreciate what you’ve got yourself into. Allow me to explain.’ He sat down on the arm of the Pall Mall chair and removed his beret, which went rather oddly with the dark suit, white collar, and vine-patterned tie he wore. Dixon sat down on the bed, which whimpered softly beneath him.

  ‘This business between Christine and myself,’ Bertrand said, fiddling with his beard, ‘is a serious business, unquestionably. We’ve known each other for some considerable period of time. And we’re not in it just for a spot of the old slap and tickle, do you follow. I don’t want to get married yet awhile, but it’s distinctly on the cards that I might marry Christine in a couple of years or so. What I mean is, it’s a long-term affair, quite definitely. Now, Christine’s very young, younger even than her age. She’s not used to having individuals abducting her from dances and inviting her to off-the-record tea-parties in hotels and all the rest of it. In the circumstances, it’s only natural she should feel flattered by it, enjoy the excitement of it, and so on, for a time. But only for a time, Dixon. Very soon she’s going to start feeling guilty about it and wishing she’d never agreed to meet you at all. And that’s where the trouble’s going to start; being the sort of girl she is, she’s going to feel bad about getting rid of you, and about doing things behind my back—she doesn’t know I know about this yet—and about the whole shooting-match. Well, I want to prevent all that, for the very adequate reason that it’s not going to help me at all. I’ve had quite a time straightening her out already; I don’t want to have to start all over again. So what I want to say to you is, keep off the grass, that’s all. You’re causing nothing but trouble by behaving as you are. You won’t do yourself any good, and you’ll only hurt Christine and inconvenience me. She’s got a few days more down here, and it would be silly to spoil them for all concerned. Does that make sense, now?’

  Dixon had lit a cigarette to hide the effect on him of this account of Christine’s motives; it was more penetrating than he’d have expected from Bertrand. ‘Yes, it makes sense all right, up to a point,’ he said in what he hoped was a casual tone. ‘Except for the part about straightening Christine out, of course, which is mere wishful drooling. Never mind that, though; it all obviously makes very good sense to you. None of it does to me, though. You don’t seem to realize that it’s all only all right if your first assumptions are right.’

  ‘I’m telling you that they’re right, my lad,’ Bertrand said loudly. ‘That’s what I’m telling you.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that. But don’t expect me to make your assumptions. It’s my turn to tell you something now. The serious, long-term part of this business isn’t anything to do with you and Christine. Oh no, it’s to do with me and Christine. What’s happening isn’t me unnecessarily distracting her from you. It’s you unnecessarily distracting her from me—just for the moment. It won’t go on much longer. How’s that for sense, now?’

  Bertrand rose to his feet again and faced Dixon with his legs slightly apart. He spoke in a level tone, but his teeth were clenched. ‘Just get this straight in your so-called mind. When I see something I want, I go for it. I don’t allow people of your sort to stand in my way. That’s what you’re leaving out of account. I’m having Christine because it’s my right. Do you understand that? If I’m after something, I don’t care what I do to make sure that I get it. That’s the only law I abide by; it’s the only way to get things in this world. The trouble with you, Dixon, is that you’re simply not up to my weight. If you want a fight, pick someone your own size, then you might stand a chance. With me you just haven’t a hope in hell.’

  Dixon moved a pace nearer. ‘You’re getting a bit too old for that to work any more, Welch,’ he said quickly. ‘People aren’t going to skip out of your path indefinitely. You think that just because you’re tall and can put paint on canvas you’re a sort of demigod. It wouldn’t be so bad if you really were. But you’re not: you’re a twister and a snob and a bully and a fool. You think you’re s
ensitive, but you’re not: your sensitivity only works for things that people do to you. Touchy and vain, yes, but not sensitive.’ He paused, but Bertrand was only staring at him, making no attempt to interrupt. Dixon went on: ‘You’ve got the idea that you’re a great lover, but that’s wrong too: you’re so afraid of me, who’s nothing more than a louse according to you, that you have to march in here and tell me to keep off the grass like a heavy husband. And you’re so dishonest that you can tell me how important Christine is to you without it entering your head that you’re carrying on with some other chap’s wife all the time. It’s not just that that I object to; it’s the way you never seem to reflect how insincere . . .’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ Bertrand’s breath was whistling through his nose. He clenched his fists.

  ‘Your spot of the old slap and tickle with Carol Goldsmith. That’s what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking . . .’

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow, don’t start denying it. Why bother, anyway? Surely it’s just one of the things you have because it’s your right, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you ever tell this tale to Christine, I’ll break your neck into so many . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not the sort to do that,’ Dixon said with a grin. ‘I’m not like you. I can take Christine away from you without that, you Byronic tail-chaser.’

  ‘All right, you’ve got it coming,’ Bertrand bayed furiously. ‘I warned you.’ He came and stood over Dixon. ‘Come on, stand up, you dirty little bar-fly, you nasty little jumped-up turd.’

  ‘What are we going to do, dance?’

  ‘I’ll give you dance, I’ll make you dance, don’t you worry. Just stand up, if you’re not afraid to. If you think I’m going to sit back and take this from you, you’re mistaken; I don’t happen to be that type, you sam.’

  ‘I’m not Sam, you fool,’ Dixon shrieked; this was the worst taunt of all. He took off his glasses and put them in his top jacket pocket.

  They faced each other on the floral rug, feet apart and elbows crooked in uncertain attitudes, as if about to begin some ritual of which neither had learnt the cues. ‘I’ll show you,’ Bertrand chimed, and jabbed at Dixon’s face. Dixon stepped aside, but his feet slipped and before he could recover Bertrand’s fist had landed with some force high up on his right cheekbone. A little shaken, but undismayed, Dixon stood still and, while Bertrand was still off his balance after delivering his blow, hit him very hard indeed on the larger and more convoluted of his ears. Bertrand fell down, making a lot of noise in doing so and dislodging a china figurine from the mantelpiece. It exploded on the tiles of the hearth, emphasizing the silence which fell. Dixon stepped forward, rubbing his knuckles. The impact had hurt them rather. After some seconds, Bertrand began moving about on the floor, but made no attempt to get up. It was clear that Dixon had won this round, and, it then seemed, the whole Bertrand match. He put his glasses on again, feeling good; Bertrand caught his eye with a look of embarrassed recognition. The bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation, Dixon thought. ‘You bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation,’ he said.

  As if discreetly applauding this terminology, a quiet knocking came at the door. ‘Come in,’ Dixon said with reflex promptness.

  Michie entered. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Dixon,’ he said, then added politely ‘Good afternoon’ to the still-prostrate Bertrand, who at this stimulus struggled to his feet. ‘I seem to have come at an inconvenient time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dixon said smoothly. ‘Mr Welch is just going.’

  Bertrand shook his head, not in contradiction, but apparently to clear it, which interested Dixon. He moved host-like to the door with the departing Bertrand, who went out in silence.

  ‘Good-bye,’ Dixon said, then turned to Michie. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Michie?’

  Michie’s expression, though as usual unreadable, was a new one to Dixon. ‘I’ve come about the special subject,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes. Do sit down.’

  ‘I won’t, thanks; I must be on my way in a moment. I just dropped in to tell you that I’ve been into the matter quite thoroughly with Miss O’Shaughnessy, Miss McCorquodale, and Miss ap Rhys Williams, and we’ve all finally made up our minds.’

  ‘Good. What conclusion did you come to?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to say that all three of the ladies have decided that the thing’s rather too formidable for them. Miss McCorquodale’s decided to do Mr Goldsmith’s Documents, and Miss O’Shaughnessy and Miss ap Rhys Williams are going to do the Professor’s subject.’

  This announcement pained Dixon: he wanted the three pretty girls to have conquered their objections and opted for his subject because he was so nice and so attractive. He said: ‘Oh, well that’s rather a pity. What about you, Mr Michie?’

  ‘I’ve decided that your subject attracts me a good deal, and so I’d like to be put down officially for it, if I may.’

  ‘I see. So I shall just have you.’

  ‘Yes. Just me.’

  There was a silence. Dixon scratched his chin. ‘Well, I’m sure we shall have some fun with it.’

  ‘I’m sure, too. Well, thank you very much; I’m sorry I barged in like that.’

  ‘Not at all; it was a great help. See you next term, then, Mr Michie.’

  ‘I’m coming to your lecture tonight, of course.’

  ‘What on earth are you going to do that for?’

  ‘The subject interests me, naturally. I think it must interest quite a lot of other people, too.’

  ‘Oh? How do you mean?’

  ‘Everybody I’ve mentioned it to says they’re coming. You should have a very good house, I think.’

  ‘That’s a comfort, I must say. Well, I hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I shall. Thanks again. Good luck for tonight.’

  ‘I’ll need it. Cheero.’

  When Michie had gone, Dixon reflected with some complacency that he hadn’t called him ‘sir’ once. But how horrible next term was going to be. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel more and more positively that there wasn’t going to be a next term as far as he was concerned. Not a University term, anyway.

  He fingered his chin again. He’d better shave before he did anything else. After that he’d run up and see if Atkinson was in. His company, and perhaps some of his whisky, were just what Dixon felt he could do with before starting the evening.

  21

  ‘I hope it isn’t too painful, Dixon,’ the Principal said.

  Dixon’s hand went up involuntarily to his black eye. ‘Oh no, sir,’ he replied in a light tone. ‘I’m surprised it’s come up at all, really. It was quite a light knock; didn’t even break the skin.’

  ‘On the corner of the wash-hand basin, you said?’ another voice asked.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Gore-Urquhart. One of these silly things one does occasionally. I dropped my razor, bent down for it, and—bang; there I was reeling about like a heavyweight.’

  Gore-Urquhart nodded slowly. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said. He looked Dixon up and down from under his heavy brow, and his lips twitched into a pout and back again two or three times. ‘If I’d been asked, now,’ he went on, ‘I’d have said he’d got himself into a fight, eh, Principal?’

  The Principal, a small ventricose man with a polished, rosy bald head, gave one of his laughs. These strongly recalled the peals of horrid mirth so often audible in films about murders in castles, and had been known, in the Principal’s first few weeks at the College just after the war, to silence the conversations of an entire Common Room. Now, however, nobody even turned his head, and only Gore-Urquhart looked a little uneasy.

  The fourth member of the quartet spoke up. ‘Well, I hope it won’t interfere with your reading from your . . . from your . . .’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, Professor,’ Dixon said. ‘I guarantee I could read that script blindfold, I’ve been through
it so many times.’

  Welch nodded. ‘It’s a good plan,’ he said. ‘I remember when I first began lecturing, I was silly enough just to write the stuff down and not bother about . . .’

  ‘Have you got anything new to tell us, Dixon?’ the Principal asked.

  ‘New, sir? Well, in this sort of . . .’

  ‘I mean it’s a subject that’s been fairly well worked over, isn’t it? I don’t know whether it’s possible to get a new slant on it these days, but personally I should have thought . . .’

  Welch thrust in with ‘It’s hardly a question, sir, of . . .’

  A remarkable duet ensued, the Principal and Welch both going on talking without pause, the one raising his voice in pitch, the other in volume, giving between them the impression of some ambitious verse-speaking effect. Dixon found that he and Gore-Urquhart were staring at each other, while the room began to grow quiet except for the voices of the two contestants. Finally the Principal broke free, and, like an orchestra that has launched a soloist on his cadenza, Welch abruptly fell silent. ‘Worth restating in every generation or not,’ the Principal concluded.

  There now appeared a diversion in the shape of the porter Maconochie with a tray of glasses of sherry. Dixon willed his hand to stay at his side until his three seniors had helped themselves, then let it bear the fullest remaining glass to his lips. The Registrar, who controlled the liquor supply on such occasions, was notorious for cutting it off altogether after the first couple of rounds, except from the Principal and whoever might be talking to him. Dixon knew he couldn’t hope to stay in this group much longer and was determined to make the most of it. He felt slightly ill in an indefinable way, but swallowed half his new glassful at one go; it slid warmly down to join the previous three sherries and the half-dozen measures of Bill Atkinson’s whisky. In a sense, but only in a sense, he was beginning not to worry about the lecture, which was to start in twenty minutes’ time, at six-thirty.