Lucky Jim

by Kingsley Amis

  On the way out of College, he found himself being approached by a man he didn’t quite recognize, but about whose appearance there was something familiar. This man said: ‘That was a very good lecture you gave us last night.’

  ‘Michie,’ Dixon said. ‘You’ve shaved off your moustache.’

  ‘That’s right. Eileen O’Shaughnessy said she was browned-off with it, so I said farewell to it this morning.’

  ‘Good advice, Michie. A great improvement.’

  ‘Thanks. I hope you’re fully recovered from your fainting fit or whatever it was?’

  ‘Oh yes, thanks. No permanent injuries.’

  ‘Good. We all enjoyed your lecture.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘It went down like a bomb.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t manage to finish it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still, we got the main drift.’ Michie paused while a group of strangers went by, deluded visitors to the College’s Open Week. He went on: ‘I say . . . don’t mind me asking this, do you? but some of us wondered if you weren’t slightly . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Drunk? Yes, I suppose I was, rather.’

  ‘Been a row about it, I suppose? Or haven’t they had time to get round to it yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’ve had time.’

  ‘Bad row, was it?’

  ‘Well, yes, as these things go. I’ve got the push.’

  ‘What?’ Michie looked sympathetic, but neither surprised nor indignant. ‘That’s quick work. Well, I’m really sorry about that. Just over the lecture?’

  ‘No. There’d been one or two other little departmental difficulties before, as you probably know.’

  Michie was silent for a moment, then said: ‘Some of us’ll miss you, you know.’

  ‘That’s nice. I shall miss some of you.’

  ‘I’m going home tomorrow, so I’ll say good-bye now. I passed all right, I suppose? You can tell me now, can’t you? I shan’t hear till next week otherwise.’

  ‘Oh yes, all your crowd are through. Drew failed, though. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘No, thank God. Very satisfactory, that. Well, good-bye. I suppose I shall be doing Neddy’s special subject after all next year.’

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’ Dixon put his effects under his left arm and shook hands. ‘All the best, then.’

  ‘Same to you.’

  Dixon went off down College Road, forgetting to take a last look at the College buildings until too late. He felt almost free of care, which, considering the circumstances, he thought rather impressive of him. He’d go home that afternoon; he’d have gone anyway in a couple of days. He’d come back next week to pick up the last of his stuff, see Margaret, and so on. See Margaret. ‘Ooooeeeeyaaa,’ he called out to himself, thinking of it. ‘Waaaeeeoooghgh.’ With his home so near hers, leaving this place wouldn’t seem like a move on, but a drift to one side. That was really the worst of it.

  He remembered now that this was the day he was to see Catchpole at lunch-time. What could the fellow want? No use wondering about that; the important thing was how to kill time until then. Back at his digs, he bathed his eye, which was beginning to fade a little, though its new colour promised to be just as disfiguring and a good deal less wholesome. A conversation with Miss Cutler about rations and laundry followed; then he had a shave and a bath. While he was in the water, he heard the phone ring, and in a few moments Miss Cutler tapped at the door. ‘Are you there, Mr Dixon?’

  ‘Yes, what is it, Miss Cutler?’

  ‘A gentleman on the telephone for you.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t get the name.’

  ‘Was it Catchpole?’

  ‘Pardon? No, I don’t think so. It was longer, somehow.’

  ‘Oh, all right, Miss Cutler. Would you ask him for his number and say I’ll ring him in about ten minutes?’

  ‘Right you are, Mr Dixon.’

  Dixon dried himself, wondering who this could be. Bertrand with more threats? He hoped so. Johns, having intuited the fate of his insurance policies? Possibly. The Principal, summoning him to an extraordinary meeting of the College Council? No, no, not that.

  While he dressed, he thought how nice it was to have nothing he must do. There were compensations for ceasing to be a lecturer, especially that of ceasing to lecture. He put on an old polo sweater to signify his severance of connexions with the academic world. The trousers he wore were the ones he’d torn on the seat of Welch’s car; they’d been expertly repaired by Miss Cutler. By the phone he found a pencilled slip in her girlish hand. Though she’d again found the name beyond her, she’d got the number, which, he saw with some surprise, referred to a small village some miles away, in the opposite direction to the Welches’. He didn’t know he knew anyone there. A woman’s voice answered his call.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said, thinking he could write a thesis on the use of the phone in non-business life.

  The woman’s voice announced her number.

  ‘Have you got a man there?’ he asked, feeling a little baffled.

  ‘A man? Who’s that speaking?’ The tone was hostile.

  ‘My name’s Dixon.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Dixon, of course. One moment, please.’

  There was a brief pause, then a man’s voice, the mouth too close to the microphone, said: ‘Hallo. That you, Dixon?’

  ‘Yes, speaking. Who’s that?’

  ‘Gore-Urquhart here. Got the sack, have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, got the sack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then I won’t have to break a confidence by telling you so. Well, what are your plans, Dixon?’

  ‘I was thinking of going in for schoolteaching.’

  ‘Are you right set on it?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a job for you. Five hundred a year. You’ll have to start at once, on Monday. It’ll mean living in London. You accept?’

  Dixon found he could not only breathe, but talk. ‘What job is it?’

  ‘Sort of private secretarial work. Not much correspondence, though; a young woman does most of that. It’ll be mainly meeting people or telling people I can’t meet them. We’ll go into the details on Monday morning. Ten o’clock at my house in London. Take down the address.’ He gave it, then asked: ‘Are you all right, now?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. I went to bed as soon as I . . .’

  ‘No, I wasn’t inquiring after your health, man. Have you got all the details? You’ll be there on Monday?’

  ‘Yes, of course, and thank you very much, Mr . . .’

  ‘Right, then, I’ll see you . . .’

  ‘Just a minute, Mr Gore-Urquhart. Shall I be working with Bertrand Welch?’

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Nothing; I just gathered he was after a job with you.’

  ‘That’s the job you’ve got. I knew young Welch was no good as soon as I set eyes on him. Like his pictures. It’s a great pity he’s managed to get my niece tied up with him, a great pity. No use saying anything to her, though. Obstinate as a mule. Worse than her mother. However. I think you’ll do the job all right, Dixon. It’s not that you’ve got the qualifications, for this or any other work, but there are plenty who have. You haven’t got the disqualifications, though, and that’s much rarer. Any more questions?’

  ‘No, that’s all, thank you, I . . .’

  ‘Ten o’clock Monday.’ He rang off.

  Dixon rose slowly from the bamboo table. What noise could he make to express his frenzy of hilarious awe? He drew in his breath for a growl of happiness, but was recalled to everyday affairs by a single hasty chime from the legged clock on the mantelpiece. It was twelve-thirty, the time he was supposed to be meeting Catchpole to discuss Margaret. Should he go? Living in London would make the Margaret problem less important—or rather less immediate. His curiosity trium
phed.

  Leaving the house, he dwelt with exaltation on Gore-Urquhart’s summary of the merit of Bertrand’s pictures. He knew he couldn’t have been wrong about that. Then his walk lost its spring as he realized that Bertrand, jobless and talentless as he was, still had Christine.

  24

  Catchpole, already there when Dixon arrived, turned out to be a tall, thin young man in his early twenties who looked like an intellectual trying to pass himself off as a bank-clerk. He got Dixon a drink, apologized to him for taking up his time, and, after a few more preliminaries, said: ‘I think the best thing I can do is give you the true facts of this business. Do you agree with that?’

  ‘Yes, all right, but what guarantee have I got that they are the true facts?’

  ‘None, of course. Except that if you know Margaret you can’t fail to recognize their plausibility. And before I start, by the way, would you mind enlarging a little on what you said over the phone about her present state of health?’

  Dixon did this, managing to hint as he talked at how matters stood between himself and Margaret. Catchpole listened in silence with his eyes on the table, frowning slightly and playing with a couple of dead matches. His hair was long and untidy. At the end he said: ‘Thanks very much. That clears things up quite a bit. I’ll give you my side of the story now. Firstly, contrary to what Margaret seems to have told you, she and I were never lovers in either the emotional or what I might call the technical sense. That’s news to you, I take it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dixon said. He felt curiously frightened, as if Catchpole were trying to pick a quarrel with him.

  ‘I thought it might be. Well, having met her at a political function, I found myself, without quite knowing how, going about with her, taking her to the theatre and to concerts, and all that kind of thing. Quite soon I realized that she was one of these people—they’re usually women—who feed on emotional tension. We began to have rows about nothing, and I mean that quite literally.

  I was much too wary, of course, to start any kind of sexual relationship with her, but she soon started behaving as if I had. I was perpetually being accused of hurting her, ignoring her, trying to humiliate her in front of other women, and all that kind of thing. Have you had any experiences of that sort with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dixon said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can see that you and I have more in common than we thought at first. However; after a particularly senseless row about some remark I’d made when introducing her to my sister, I decided I didn’t want any more of that kind of thing. I told her so. There was the most shattering scene.’ Catchpole combed his hair back with his fingers and shifted in his seat. ‘I’d got the afternoon off and we were out shopping, I remember, and she started shouting at me in the street. It was really dreadful. I felt I couldn’t stand another minute of it, so finally, to keep her quiet, I agreed to go round and see her that evening about ten o’clock. When the time came, I couldn’t face going. A couple of days later, when I found out about her . . . attempted suicide, I realized that that was the very evening I’d been supposed to go and see her. It gave me a bit of a shock when I realized I could have prevented the whole thing if I’d taken the trouble to put in an appearance.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Dixon said with a dry mouth. ‘She asked me to go round that evening as well. She told me afterwards that you’d come and told her . . .’

  Catchpole brushed this aside. ‘Are you quite sure? Are you sure it was that evening?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can remember the whole thing quite clearly. As a matter of fact, we’d just been buying the sleeping pills when she asked me to come round, the ones she must have used in the evening. That’s how I remember. Why, what’s up?’

  ‘She bought some sleeping pills while she was with you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘That she bought them? Oh, about midday I suppose. Why?’

  Catchpole said slowly: ‘But she bought a bottle of pills while she was with me in the afternoon.’

  They looked at each other in silence. ‘I imagine she forged a prescription,’ Dixon said finally.

  ‘We were both supposed to be there, then, and see what we’d driven her to,’ Catchpole said bitterly. ‘I knew she was neurotic, but not as neurotic as that.’

  ‘It was lucky for her the chap in the room underneath came up to complain about her wireless.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have taken a risk like that. No, this pretty well confirms what I’ve always thought. Margaret had no intention of committing suicide, then or at any other time. She must have taken some of the pills before we were due to arrive—not enough to kill her of course—and waited for us to rush in and wring our hands and see to her and reproach ourselves. I don’t think there can be any doubt of that. She was never in any danger of dying at all.’

  ‘But there’s no proof of that,’ Dixon said. ‘You’re just assuming that.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’m right? Knowing what you must know about her?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, honestly.’

  ‘But can’t you see . . . ? Isn’t it logical enough for you? It’s the only explanation that fits. Look, try to remember; did she say anything about how many pills she took, what the fatal dose was, anything like that?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I just remember her saying she was holding on to the empty bottle all the time she . . .’

  ‘The empty bottle. There were two bottles. That’s it. I’m satisfied now. I was right.’

  ‘Have another drink,’ Dixon said. He felt he must get away from Catchpole for a moment, but while he was standing at the bar he found he couldn’t think, all he could do was to try vainly to get his thoughts into order. He hadn’t yet recovered from the ordinary basic surprise at finding that a stranger knew very well someone he knew very well; one intimacy, he felt, ought to rule out any others. And as for Catchpole’s theory . . . he couldn’t believe it. Could he believe it? It didn’t seem the kind of theory to which belief or disbelief could be attached.

  As soon as he’d rejoined him with the drinks, Catchpole said: ‘You’re not still unconvinced, I hope?’ He swayed about in his chair with a kind of unstable exultation. ‘The empty bottle. But there were two bottles, and she only used one. How do I know? Do you imagine she’d have failed to tell you she’d used two if she had used two? No, she forgot to tell a lie there. She thought it wouldn’t matter. She couldn’t predict my getting hold of you in this fashion. I can’t blame her for that: even the best planner can’t think of everything. She’d have checked up, of course, that she’d be in no danger with one bottle. Perhaps two bottles wouldn’t have killed her, either, but she wasn’t taking any risks.’ He picked up his drink and put half of it down. ‘Well, I’m extremely grateful to you for doing this for me. I’m completely free of her now. No more worrying about how she is, thank God. That’s worth a great deal.’ He gazed at Dixon with his hair falling over his brow. ‘And you’re free of her too, I hope.’

  ‘You didn’t ever mention the question of marriage to her, did you?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t fool enough for that. She told you I did, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. And you didn’t go off to Wales with a girl around that time either?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I went to Wales, yes, but that was for my firm. They don’t provide their representatives with girls to go away with, more’s the pity.’ He finished his drink and stood up, his manner quietening. ‘I hope I’ve removed your suspicions of me. I’ve been very glad to meet you, and I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done.’ He leaned forward over Dixon and lowered his voice further. ‘Don’t try to help her any more; it’s too dangerous for you. I know what I’m talking about. She doesn’t need any help either, you know, really. The best of luck to you. Good-bye.’

  They shook hands and Catchpole strode out, his tie flapping. Dixon finished his drink and left a couple of minutes later. He strolled back to the digs through the lunch-time cr
owds. All the facts seemed to fit, but Margaret had fixed herself too firmly in his life and his emotions to be pushed out of them by a mere recital of facts. Failing some other purgative agent than facts, he could foresee himself coming to disbelieve this lot altogether.

  Miss Cutler provided lunch, for those who asked for it, at one o’clock. He’d planned to take advantage of this and catch a train home just after two. Entering the dining-room, he encountered Bill Atkinson sitting at the table reading a new number of the wrestling periodical to which he subscribed. He looked up at Dixon and, as sometimes happened, addressed a remark to him. ‘Just had your popsy through on the blower,’ he said.

  ‘Oh God. What did she want?’

  ‘Don’t say “Oh God”.’ He frowned threateningly. ‘I don’t mean the one that gets me down, the one that’s always chucking dummies, I mean the other one, the one you say belongs to the bearded sportsman.’

  ‘Christine?’

  ‘Yes. Christine,’ Atkinson said, contriving to make the name sound like a term of abuse.

  ‘What did she want, Bill? This might be important.’

  Atkinson turned to the front page of his journal, where two Laocoöns were interlocked. He indicated that the conversation was still in existence by saying: ‘Wait a minute.’ After reading attentively something he’d written in the margin, he added in a wounding tone: ‘I didn’t get all of it, but the main thing is her train goes at one-fifty.’

  ‘What, today? I heard she wasn’t going for a few days yet.’

  ‘I can’t help what you heard. I’m telling you what I heard. She said she had some news for you that she couldn’t tell me over the old phone, and that if you wanted to see her again you could see her off on this one-fifty caper. It was up to you, she said. She seemed a bit set on the idea that it was up to you, but don’t ask me what she meant by it, because she didn’t let on. She did say she’d “understand” if you didn’t come. Don’t ask me to translate that, either.’ He added that the train referred to was leaving, not from the main city station, but from the smaller one near Welch’s house. Some trains not originating from the city stopped at this station on their way towards London.