VII

‘Well,’ says Howard, sitting in the wet light of his room, overlooking the boilerhouse chimney, after Flora has stopped speaking, ‘it’s a very interesting story.’ ‘The trouble is,’ says Flora, picking up her handbag, and feeling into its interior, ‘I’m not sure it is. Isn’t a story usually a tale with causes and motives? All I’ve told you is what happened.’ ‘Perhaps it’s a very modern story,’ says Howard, ‘a chapter of accidents.’ Flora takes from her handbag her cigarettes and a lighter; she says, ‘The trouble with our profession is, we still believe in motives and causes. We tell old-fashioned stories.’ ‘But aren’t there times when just what happened is just what happened?’ asks Howard. ‘I mean, didn’t Henry just have an accident?’ ‘Oh, Howard,’ says Flora, lighting her cigarette, ‘what is this thing called an accident?’ ‘An accident is a happening,’ says Howard, ‘a chance or a contingent event. Nobody has imposed meaning or purpose on it. It arises out of a set of unpredictable features coming into interaction.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ says Flora, ‘Like your parties. And you think Henry had one of those?’ ‘That’s what you said,’ says Howard, ‘a Henry and a window came into chance collision.’ ‘That’s not what I said at all,’ says Flora. ‘You said he went into the guest bedroom, fell, and cut himself.’ ‘That’s interesting,’ says Flora, ‘because I didn’t say that. I portrayed a consciousness, with an unconscious. He went into the bedroom. His arm went through the window, and he was cut. That’s what I said.’ Howard gets up; he goes to the window, and looks through it down into the Piazza, where the wind beats, the rain falls. He says: ‘Is there some reason for thinking it wasn’t an accident?’ ‘You worry me, Howard,’ says Flora. ‘Why do you need to believe it was an accident? Or that accidents are like that?’ ‘I thought most events were accidents until proved otherwise,’ says Floward. ‘You’re trying to make something interesting that probably wasn’t. Of course you have a great gift for it.’ ‘No, I don’t,’ says Flora, ‘I have a gift for not making it sound dull. And for asking the questions you chose, from some need, not to ask. I don’t understand it. It’s not like you at all.’

Howard laughs, and touches Flora’s hair. He says, ‘Well, you see, I know Henry. And for me Henry and accidents naturally go together.’ ‘Like love and marriage, horse and carriage,’ says Flora. ‘But why do they?’ ‘Did I ever tell you the story of the first time I saw Henry?’ asks Howard. ‘No,’ says Flora, ‘I don’t think I ever knew Henry meant anything to you.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ says Howard, ‘I’m quite attached to Henry. I’ve known him for ages. We were research students at Leeds together.’ ‘I’ve noticed your hostility towards him,’ says Flora, ‘I ought to have guessed you were friends.’ ‘I’d seen his face around the department. He was doing something with termites, because they wouldn’t let him use people. But my first real encounter with him was one day when I was walking down a back street, quite near the university. I saw this person in front of me, lying in the middle of the pavement, flat on his face. He’d got a big rucksack, stuffed with notes, on his back. Flat in the street near the Express Dairy. His nose was bleeding, and the rucksack was holding him down. My first real sight of Henry.’ Flora laughs and says: ‘It’s a very interesting story. And how had he got there?’ ‘He’d been knocked down by a football. A football had come over the fence from the playing fields, next to the path, and hit him in the middle of the back. The football was next to Henry in the road. A purely contingent football. No one had thrown it purposely at him.’ ‘Not even you, Howard?’ asks Flora. ‘As I say, I hardly knew him then,’ says Howard. ‘No, a boy had kicked it high in the air, and it had come down, as footballs do, and under the trajectory of its descent there happened to be Henry, who was knocked over by it. So, you see, Henry has accidents.’

‘Well, it’s true, of course,’ says Flora, ‘Henry has accidents. He’s a man on whom footballs fall. But why do footballs fall on Henry, and not you, and me? Haven’t you ever asked yourself that?’ ‘Well, he’s careless and clumsy and uncoordinated,’ says Howard, ‘and he has an instinct for disaster. If Henry came to two paths, one labelled safe and one labelled dangerous, he’d confuse the signs and take the dangerous one.’ ‘Exactly,’ says Flora, ‘he colludes with misfortune.’ ‘But he can only collude so far,’ says Howard. ‘If a branch were rotten and going to fall, it would wait to fall until Henry passed under it. How does he get the message to the tree? There has to be a higher plotter, the God of accident.’ ‘I never knew you were such a mystic, Howard,’ says Flora, knocking out ash into Howard’s grey-glass ashtray, ‘you’re making me very suspicious. Now why do you need a theory like that?’ ‘Because it seems to me true to experience,’ says Howard. ‘It also explains innovation.’ ‘But all your theories depend on the great historical purpose working itself out,’ says Flora, ‘it’s hardly consistent. No, you’re covering something up. You’re denying Henry his psychological rights. In this, I should add, you aren’t alone. Myra has a version too.’ ‘What’s Myra’s?’ asks Howard. ‘Well, she at least granted Henry a motive,’ says Flora, ‘she looked at him, bleeding away on the floor, and decided it was all an appeal for her sympathy, which she didn’t feel like giving.’ ‘Myra was very drunk last night,’ says Howard, ‘and upset herself.’ ‘My God,’ says Flora, ‘you’re turning into a great simpleton of life, aren’t you, Howard? Myra’s behaviour last night was fascinating. I was the one who took Henry to hospital; Myra stayed on at your party. For all she knew, he might have been dying. He had twenty-seven stitches, and they had to give him blood. They should have kept him in hospital, of course, but, no, he had to get back to Myra. So I got my car, and shipped him home. And Myra wasn’t even back. She turned up ten minutes later; she’d got your friend Macintosh, the one who told you things he couldn’t possibly know, to drive her home. And as soon as she saw us she went and locked herself in the bathroom. I had to roar at her through the door for half an hour before she’d come out. Then she scarcely glanced at the poor man; just shouted at him for spoiling her lovely evening. If that’s normal behaviour, then I’m crazy. Of course you’d explain it all as a typical drunken performance.’

‘What’s your explanation?’ asks Howard. ‘Well, obviously,’ says Flora, ‘she wished to state that she was rejecting all possible appeals he could make. I think she was disappointed he hadn’t done the job properly. A fascinating vignette into family life.’ ‘It’s true,’ says Howard, ‘there’s stress there, in that marriage. But that’s not to say it wasn’t an accident.’ ‘My God, Howard,’ says Flora, ‘what are you hiding?’ ‘Nothing,’ says Howard, ‘I suppose you think with Barbara that I pushed him through the window. I didn’t.’ ‘The thought never crossed my mind,’ says Flora. ‘Is that what Barbara thinks? I thought she knew you better.’ ‘Ah, Flora,’ says Howard, ‘what a vote of confidence in me.’ ‘Well, I have been to bed with you, Howard,’ says Flora, ‘and so I know how your aggression operates. If you wanted someone through a window, you wouldn’t push him yourself. You’d get someone else to do it. Or persuade the man he should do it himself, in his own best interests.’ ‘You don’t think he was pushed, then,’ says Howard. ‘God, no,’ says Flora, ‘it’s not that kind of story. But he could be pushed emotionally. You’d grant that was possible.’ ‘I might,’ says Howard. ‘But you’d rather it was all a little act of chance, a happening,’ says Flora. ‘Part of the fun of your party.’ ‘It’s not what I want it to be,’ says Howard, ‘it’s what I think it is.’ ‘I wonder why you’re evading this,’ says Flora, ‘I really wonder why.’ ‘Perhaps I’m worried about my insurance responsibility,’ says Howard. ‘That would be a good bourgeois reaction.’ ‘You have more of those than you think,’ says Flora. ‘No, I think there’s a better reason. You weren’t there, you see. You were busy. So you’d like as ordinary an explanation as possible.’ ‘Whereas you were there,’ says Howard, ‘and so you’d like an extraordinary one.’ ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’ asks Flora. ‘You’d hate to admit that something really interesting happened at your party, when you were absent. As with Myra. The only significant occurrences are the ones that happened to you. What did happen to you, Howard?’ ‘Ah,’ says Howard, ‘so that’s what you’re after. You’ve been trying to find out who I was with.’ ‘Now you’re getting uneasy,’ says Flora. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ ‘You sound jealous,’ says Howard. ‘I don’t suffer from female complaints,’ says Flora, pulling her coat up over her shoulders, and stubbing out her cigarette in the regulation ashtray, ‘Well, you tuck the whole thing away, Howard. Let’s say that nothing at all happened.’ And Flora gets to her feet, and picks up her umbrella from beside the chair.

‘Oh, don’t go, Flora,’ says Howard, ‘you haven’t told me anything yet.’ ‘You’ve not told me anything,’ says Flora. ‘You know more than you say. You’re not sharing. I think you want to keep Henry for yourself. You want to fathom him in your own way. Redeem him with your own instruments.’ ‘No, sit down, Flora,’ says Howard, ‘I really do admit it. The more one thinks, the more it seems not like one of Henry’s usual accidents.’ Flora smiles, and sits down in the chair again; she flicks her lighter, and lights another cigarette. ‘Not at all like,’ says Flora. ‘You know, I’m sure Henry acted.’ Howard looks out of the window; he can see the shuttered concrete of Kaakinen’s inspiration, which in its pure whiteness is intended to induce the sense of unadulterated form, and hence belongs really in some distant, Utopian landscape of sun and shadow, in New Mexico, perhaps, or on the Cap d’Agde; here the teeming rain stains it all a dark and dirty grey. ‘Acted?’ says Howard. ‘One doesn’t just slip and procure that kind of wound,’ says Flora. ‘He pressed down into that glass. I think it was a minimal suicide attempt. An act of anger and despair. An appeal.’ ‘Did Henry tell you that it was?’ asks Howard, turning. Flora laughs, and says, ‘If only he had. Then we could have brought our superior wisdom to bear, and proved him wrong. No, Henry said nothing at all about it. All he could say was “Don’t tell Howard”. Which shows a real sweetness of nature.’ ‘Oh, come, Flora,’ says Howard, ‘there must be a deeper meaning than that.’ Flora laughs; she says, ‘I’m sure I’m right.’ ‘The trouble is I can’t see it,’ says Howard. ‘You could convince me about almost anyone except Henry. You say he acted. But Henry doesn’t act. All action leads to suffering, someone else’s, or one’s own. That’s why Henry disapproves of it.’ ‘And that, of course, is why you do approve of it,’ says Flora, ‘I think you favour the suffering more than the action. But anyway, suicide is the traditional way of nullifying oneself as an actor. You know Hamlet.’

‘Honestly, Flora,’ says Howard, ‘this is getting all too grand for Henry. Henry’s not capable of that kind of bargain with the universe. He’s not capable of that kind and degree of misery.’ ‘No, not like you,’ says Flora. ‘The trouble is, you can’t take him seriously. He’s on the fringes of your life, so you see him as a buffoon, an accident machine. I don’t think you’ve ever really seen Henry.’ ‘I’ve known him a very long time,’ says Howard. ‘Yes,’ says Flora, ‘he’s become part of your life’s furniture. So you can use him and dismiss him. Hence your football story. A story about the fact that one doesn’t need to take Henry seriously.’ ‘You take him too seriously,’ says Howard. ‘No,’ says Flora, ‘I just give him his due. You see, to see Henry plain, you have to feel love. And you’ve never felt love.’ ‘You’re wrong,’ says Howard, ‘but in any case, when people attempt suicide, they make an accusation. And the accusation is perfectly clear. But there’s no sign that Henry’s accusing anyone.’ ‘Well, I’m sure Henry would try to manage even suicide without causing anyone fuss or trouble,’ says Flora, ‘but I did say a minimal suicide attempt. A gesture to say, look at me, think of me. The trouble is, we’re busy people, none of us have the time.’ ‘Oh, what are we doing now?’ asks Howard. ‘But, anyway, a radical gesture against the self, but not an absolute one. When a man who publishes, like Henry, chooses his left arm, you can be sure he has hopes of going on writing with his right.’ Howard laughs, and says: ‘Flora, you’re marvellous.’ ‘So Henry stays alive,’ says Flora, ‘and we’re left free, without guilt, to pursue the gesture and its meaning. And interfere in his life in a well-intentioned way. As I’m sure we shall.’ ‘You’re sure Henry is right-handed?’ asks Howard. ‘Well, you’re his friend; is he?’ asks Flora. ‘I don’t know,’ says Howard. ‘Well, he is, actually,’ says Flora, ‘I checked. A kind of love.’ Howard says, ‘All right, we must look at Henry. But what would you say the meaning was?’ ‘Well, some of it we’ve said,’ says Flora, ‘Henry is caught in an auto-destructive cycle. He doesn’t believe in his own being. His aggression is inward, turned against himself. He despises himself, and feels himself despised. He can’t make living values or living feelings, and he reaches sudden despair. Last night, in your guest room. Aren’t I right? Isn’t that a portrait of Henry?’

Howard sits down in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘right as far as it goes. But I think we can go further.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ says Flora, smiling. ‘You’re seeing simply a purely psychological problem,’ says Howard. ‘Inevitably, that’s your training. Of course I see something else.’ ‘I’ve always said the most interesting thing about anyone’s misfortune is the way it’s adopted by the surrounding parties,’ says Flora, ‘I suppose, you’ve got a political version.’ ‘Well,’ says Howard, ‘a socio-cultural one.’ ‘So that really to understand Henry,’ says Flora, ‘we’ll need, naturally, a little Marx, a little Freud, and a little social history.’ ‘How right you are,’ says Howard. ‘Poor Henry,’ says Flora, ‘caught in the web of so much concern. I knew, when we got into it, you’d really want him for yourself.’ ‘It’s not a question of that,’ says Howard, ‘what Henry needs is understanding. And I think I can claim to have some understanding of Henry. After all, we grew up in the same class, same background, same part of the country. His father was a railway clerk, mine worked in a bakery, but the differences of milieu were minimal. And then we went to university at just about the same time, got our first jobs together, and married within a year of each other. So I saw all the choices he made, the paths he took.’ ‘You observed,’ says Flora, ‘his failure to be as intelligent as you.’ ‘I saw him falsify himself,’ says Howard. ‘It wasn’t a wise marriage. Myra was his social superior, she had all the bourgeois ambitions; and this was in the fifties, when everyone wanted to have it so good. Before he knew where he was he was into goods and chattels. He stopped thinking, he got caught up in this fancy, pseudo-bourgeois rural lifestyle, he lost his social conscience. He became repressed and a repressor. As Marx says, the more you have, the less you are. Henry’s got, and he isn’t. And since he’s a serious person, he feels guilt. He knows he’s in a context of no value, but he just can’t break out. Isn’t that the statement he was making?’ ‘Ah,’ says Flora, ‘so it wasn’t just an accident?’ ‘No,’ says Howard, ‘it wasn’t an accident at all. It’s been coming for years.’

Flora laughs. ‘You’re easily convinced,’ she says. ‘Ah,’ says Howard, ‘but not in your way. The awful thing is, though, I ought to have known, last night. I ought to have been there. It was so predictable.’ ‘We managed perfectly well without you,’ says Flora. ‘No,’ says Howard, ‘I have a conscience about Henry.’ ‘It’s hardly necessary,’ says Flora, ‘Henry was attended to in a competent manner. And you did have your own affairs to occupy you.’ ‘They weren’t important,’ says Howard. ‘They would have done some other time.’ Flora puts her head back, and laughs again. She says, ‘My dear Howard, you really are an awful rogue. A moment ago it was all an accident, poor Henry, and no one could think any different. Now you have a theory. And of course what you’ve spotted is that Henry must have been in that happily unhappy condition where you might have influenced him. Never mind, he’s not dead. You still can. I’m sure you’ll do lots for Henry. Put him on a course of redemptive, contemporary sex. Get Myra hanging on pulleys from the bedroom ceiling.’ ‘Well,’ says Howard, ‘I do have some reason for thinking my interpretation significant.’ ‘Oh, yes?’ asks Flora, ‘what’s that?’ ‘He did choose my window,’ says Howard, ‘not your window.’ ‘I see,’ says Flora, ‘a clearcut preference for Marx and Reich over Freud.’ ‘It could hardly have been accidental,’ says Howard. ‘You really do want him,’ says Flora. ‘I have a curious regard for Henry, believe it or not,’ says Howard. ‘Oh, I know,’ says Flora, ‘it’s called friendship, and it means you can despise him.’ ‘No,’ says Howard, ‘I ought to have sensed something would go wrong last night. I have a sense of having betrayed him.’ ‘You have an elegant conscience, when it suits you,’ says Flora. ‘Actually, of course, when people so strongly deplore what they didn’t do, they’re usually expressing dissatisfaction with what they did do. You’re just having regrets at the way you spent your evening. I’m sorry she disappointed you. Whoever she was. Who was she?’

Just then there is a knock at Howard’s door. ‘Come in,’ he shouts. The door opens and a figure hovers uncertainly in the frame, doubtful whether to enter or to go away. It is Felicity Phee, looking very dark-eyed and untidy. ‘Can I talk to you, Howard?’ she says, ‘I’ve been trying to catch you for ages.’ ‘Look, I’ll go,’ says Flora, picking up her umbrella and her handbag from the desk, and pulling her coat round her shoulders, ‘We’d finished talking anyway.’ ‘No, there is something else,’ says Howard, ‘Would you mind waiting outside there a minute or two, Felicity? I shan’t be long.’ ‘Well,’ says Felicity, ‘it’s an important thing, and I’ve got a class at ten.’ ‘I know,’ says Howard, ‘I’m teaching it.’ ‘All right, Howard,’ says Felicity, and goes out again. Flora looks at the closing door. She sits back in her chair. She says: ‘Who’s she?’ ‘She’s just one of my students,’ says Howard, ‘I expect she’s got an essay to give me.’ ‘Do all your students call you by your Christian name?’ asks Flora. ‘A lot of them,’ says Howard. ‘The ones I’ve been teaching for some time. Don’t yours?’ ‘No,’ says Flora, ‘I don’t think any of them ever have.’ ‘Ah, well, you’re more frightening than I am,’ says Howard. ‘Felicity who?’ asks Flora. ‘Felicity Phee,’ says Howard. ‘Uummm,’ says Flora, getting up, ‘well, there’s nothing I like better than talking to my colleagues about my other colleagues, but I’d better go and see some students too.’

Howard says: ‘Flora, can I come and see you sometime?’ ‘I’m not sure,’ says Flora, ‘I really only want someone who tells me the truth. You still haven’t told me anything.’ ‘I will,’ says Howard. Flora stands by the door, not quite touching the handle; she pauses; she reaches in her bag, and takes out her diary. ‘I’m awfully busy,’ says Flora. Howard reaches in his pocket and pulls out his; they stand there, two busy professional people, and flip the pages. ‘Next Monday?’ asks Howard. ‘No good,’ says Flora, ‘that’s my period. Friday evening, I’ve a free space then.’ ‘Barbara’s away and we’ve not fixed the child arrangements,’ says Howard. ‘Any chance of Thursday?’ ‘I have a review to get into the post on Thursday,’ says Flora. ‘That’s right out, I’m afraid.’ ‘Can I come tonight?’ asks Howard. ‘Oh, tonight,’ says Flora. ‘I’ll tell you a thing about Myra,’ says Howard. ‘Well,’ says Flora, ‘I could manage from about half-past seven till nine.’ I’ll have to get a sitter,’ says Howard, ‘Barbara’s starting an evening class.’ ‘Oh, is she?’ asks Flora. ‘What’s she doing?’ ‘A course in commercial French,’ says Howard. It sounds like an age-old statement of boredom,’ says Flora, ‘you ought to watch Barbara.’ ‘She wants to read Simone de Beauvoir in the original,’ says Howard. ‘So does that,’ says Flora, and lifts up her diary, and says, ‘Well, provisionally, Howard.’ She writes these words in the diary; Howard makes a note in his. They stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Howard says: ‘I shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone to sit. One of the students.’ ‘Ask that one,’ says Flora, pointing her pencil at the door. ‘I might,’ says Howard. Flora puts her diary away in her bag. Howard says: ‘I’ll confirm at the departmental meeting this afternoon. Goodbye, Flora.’

Flora puts her hand on the doorknob; then she stops. She says: Isn’t that strange? You never asked me what Barbara was doing last night.’ ‘No, I didn’t,’ says Howard, ‘so perhaps I know.’ ‘Alternatively, perhaps you don’t care,’ says Flora, ‘in any case, if you knew, and I didn’t, would you tell me?’ asks Howard. ‘I probably wouldn’t,’ says Flora, ‘but you might have asked.’ ‘I doubt if you know,’ says Howard, ‘I think you’re just trying to find out.’ Flora laughs; she says, ‘Oh, Howard, interpersonal relations, why do we bother? There’s never any rest, any end to it. Except what Henry tried.’ ‘That’s a bleak view,’ says Howard, in any case, what else is there?’ ‘That’s right,’ says Flora, ‘God, there’s paradise awaiting the Beamishes, if they listen to you, and follow your path.’ ‘it could help,’ says Howard. ‘Well,’ says Flora, ‘I may see you tonight. Byebye now.’ She opens the door. The figure of Felicity Phee comes into view, standing just beyond the doorframe. ‘I’m going now,’ says Flora. ‘Have a nice time at the party?’ ‘Yes,’ says Felicity, ‘very nice.’ ‘Good,’ says Flora. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ ‘And who’s she?’ asks Felicity, when Flora’s big bulk has gone away down the corridor, and the door is shut, ‘I never saw her at your party.’ ‘She was there,’ says Howard. ‘She came late. What’s it about, Felicity?’ Felicity steps forward, deeper into the room. ‘Can I sit down?’ she asks. ‘Of course,’ says Howard. Felicity lowers herself into his grey chair. She is wearing a light tie-dyed shirt, with a scooped-out neckline, threaded through with a draw-string, and a long blue skirt reaching down to the ground. She has rings under her eyes, and nothing on her feet, which are dirty, and she has a drained and saddened look. ‘I’ve got to find out how we stand,’ she says. ‘How do we stand, Howard?’ ‘Is something wrong?’ asks Howard. ‘I went home last night and told Maureen,’ says Felicity, ‘about what we did. She hit me with a shoe. She’s turning me out. I came to see if you’re going to do anything for me.’ ‘What should I do for you?’ asks Howard, ‘You can always get a room in the residences.’ ‘Maureen says I’m a dirty fink,’ says Felicity. ‘I told you to forget what Maureen says,’ says Howard. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Felicity, ‘but you told me an awful lot last night that seems to get forgotten pretty fast in the morning.’ ‘What did I tell you?’ asks Howard. ‘There’s telling and telling,’ says Felicity, ‘I thought you told me, in a sense, you wanted me.’ ‘I made love to you, largely because you wanted me to, and in a mood we both understand. I think you’re now trying to convert it into something else.’

‘Oh, great, I see,’ says Felicity, ‘it was a purely neutral event. No further significance. Like having a tooth out on the National Health, right. Lie still, I’m just going to do this to you. Then off you go, make another appointment with the receptionist if you want one. Impersonal social welfare, good hygienic conditions, one quick visit, next patient please. Is that it?’ Felicity stretches out her body in the chair; she looks woefully sad. She says: ‘Christ, Howard, how do I get through to you? Hasn’t anything happened, hasn’t our relationship changed?’ ‘You’ve always been through to me,’ says Howard, ‘I have a concern for you. It’s my job.’ Felicity stares; she says, ‘Your job? Laying me’s part of your terms of service?’ Howard asks: ‘What are you playing at, Felicity?’ Felicity looks down; she draws her bare toes across Howard’s floor, and watches them. She says, ‘I told you, I want to make me matter to you.’ Howard looks at his watch. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘we can’t talk about this now. The class is in five minutes, and I’ve a job to do in the department office. We’ll have to meet another time.’ Howard gets out his diary. ‘Oh, yes?’ says Felicity, ‘when’s another time?’ ‘I’ve a meeting all afternoon,’ says Howard. ‘Tomorrow morning.’ ‘No,’ says Felicity, ‘see me tonight.’ ‘I’m going out tonight,’ says Howard. ‘Well,’ says Felicity, ‘I’m not getting out of this chair. You can go to your class and leave me here if you want. The humanity here just refuses to budge.’ ‘That’s ridiculous,’ says Howard. ‘It’s a standpoint you ought to recognize,’ says Felicity, ‘it’s a traditional radical gesture.’ ‘All right,’ says Howard, ‘just wait here for a moment. I’ll do my job and come back.’ Howard goes along the corridor, and into the department office; it is the secretaries’ coffee-time, when they go over to the Union, so he dictates a message onto the dictaphone. He returns along the corridor to the oblong room; Felicity Phee still sits in the grey chair, but there is disorder among the papers on his desk, and the filing-cabinet drawer is open; Felicity has a file from the drawer out on her knee and is reading its contents. ‘This is interesting,’ says Felicity. ‘Of course,’ says Howard, ‘as soon as I got along the corridor, I realized you’d do that. Give it back.’ Felicity hands over the file, a very dull file about admissions statistics, from one of Howard’s committees; he slips it back into the cabinet and shuts it. ‘What are you up to, Felicity?’ he asks. ‘I told you, Howard,’ says Felicity, ‘I take an interest in you. I think about you all the time. Look at me. I can help you.’

Howard sits down in his desk chair. ‘You can help me, Felicity?’ he asks, ‘How can you do that?’ ‘I didn’t sleep at all last night,’ says Felicity, ‘I just thought about you. Do you know what I thought? I thought, if that man only really knew himself. He thinks he’s free. He talks about liberation, openness, all the time. And what is he? An institutional man. That stuffy job he does. That stuffy desk he sits at. That stuffy academic manner he has, that he thinks is so equal, so matey. He hasn’t started on himself yet. He’s in a mess of inconsistencies. I know it’s hard for you to admit it. But isn’t it just true?’ ‘And you have a means for freeing me from this disaster?’ asks Howard. Felicity leans forward. ‘Oh, Howard,’ she says, ‘why don’t we just go?’ ‘Go where?’ asks Howard. ‘Just walk out of here with me,’ says Felicity. ‘Let’s take off. Let’s stop being teacher and student, let’s go somewhere and be us.’ ‘Did you have somewhere in mind?’ asks Howard. ‘Somewhere cheap,’ says Felicity, ‘The South of France.’ ‘To do what?’ asks Howard. ‘You can write books, get mixed up with the French radicals,’ says Felicity. ‘I’ll cook French food, I’m a good cook. And we’ll swing.’ Howard looks at her. He says: ‘Felicity, are you really a good cook?’ ‘Not very,’ says Felicity. ‘And the South of France isn’t cheap.’ ‘It doesn’t have to be the South of France,’ says Felicity. ‘And I’m not trapped that way,’ says Howard, ‘I’m very free.’ ‘You’re not,’ says Felicity, ‘you just think you are.’ ‘Felicity,’ says Howard, ‘this is one of your fantasies. You’re a fantasy-maker.’ ‘You don’t see, do you?’ asks Felicity. ‘You don’t see what you could be. I think I’ve thought about you more than you ever have yourself.’ ‘Nobody has ever thought about anybody more than they have themselves,’ says Howard. ‘So nobody can teach anybody anything?’ asks Felicity. ‘You don’t believe that.’ ‘Of course people teach other people things,’ says Howard, ‘it’s the critical education.’ ‘But you’re so smart you only do it to others,’ says Felicity. ‘No one can teach you a thing about you. Aren’t you lucky? But you want to see yourself from outside. It looks different then.’

Howard looks at Felicity. He says, ‘You’re determined to wriggle into my life. You track me, you spy on me. Then you start accusing me of flaws that only you can solve. It’s a game to hook me with. But what for, Felicity?’ ‘You ought to know,’ says Felicity, a tear in her eye, ‘it’s what some people call love.’ ‘Love’s a strange business,’ says Howard, ‘an activity that needs very close examination.’ ‘Oh, God,’ says Felicity, ‘aren’t you stuffy? Aren’t you what I said?’ ‘You say you want to free me,’ says Howard, ‘but what you mean is you want to own me. And you’ll never develop a relationship like that. With me, or anyone else.’ The old stable clock at Watermouth Hall rings out its ten o’clock, in high, absurd notes, over the campus. Felicity’s tear runs down her nose. ‘You’re cheating me,’ says Felicity. ‘Come on, Felicity,’ says Howard, ‘come on to class.’ ‘Have you got some tissue?’ says Felicity. Howard reaches in his desk drawer and hands Felicity a white Kleenex. ‘I expect you need that all the time,’ says Felicity, ‘for the rows and rows of us.’ ‘No,’ says Howard, ‘get up.’ ‘You win by being older,’ says Felicity, ‘but that’s how you lose, too.’ ‘All right?’ asks Howard, and opens the door. Felicity throws the Kleenex into the wastepaper basket; she crosses the room and goes out into the corridor; she stands slackly, waiting while Howard picks up books and notes, and then steps out of his room and locks the door. They begin walking down the corridor, under the sodium lights. Felicity says, sniffing, ‘When will you see me again?’ ‘We can talk again tomorrow,’ says Howard. ‘Are you really going out tonight?’ asks Felicity. ‘Yes,’ says Howard, ‘I am.’ ‘Who are you seeing?’ ‘I have a professional meeting,’ says Howard. ‘Do you have a sitter?’ asks Felicity, ‘can I come?’ Howard stops and looks at Felicity; her face is innocence.

A pair of buttocks suddenly emerge from a door to the right of the corridor, and collide with Howard; they belong to a colleague of his, a young man of radical persuasion called Roger Fundy, who is dragging a slide-projector forth from a classroom. He stands upright; he stares briefly at Felicity’s wet face, but students at Watermouth, with its rigorous teaching, cry so often that his attention is not detained. ‘Howard,’ he says, ‘have you heard all this talk about Mangel?’ ‘What’s that?’ asks Howard. ‘He’s supposed to be coming to speak,’ says Fundy. ‘You ought to stop it,’ says Howard. ‘I’m a good babysitter,’ says Felicity, as they walk on, ‘I like kids.’ ‘But if you came, you’d pry,’ says Howard, ‘it wouldn’t work, would it?’ They come towards the end of the corridor; in front of them, around the lift shaft, a crowd of students mills, leaving classes that have just ended, going to classes that are about to begin. ‘If I didn’t?’ says Felicity. ‘If I reformed?’ ‘But can you?’ asks Howard. They stop on the fringe of the crowd, waiting for the lift to come. ‘I cheated,’ says Felicity, ‘I know you didn’t take me seriously last night. I know you were just being kind.’ The bell pings; the lift doors open; they move in with the crowd. ‘The trouble is it’s hard to know you’re little,’ says Felicity, ‘people like to make themselves matter.’ The lift descends one floor, and then they get out again. They are standing in another service area identical to the one they have just left; a similar pattern of corridors leads off it. ‘I can face reality,’ says Felicity, ‘it’s just that I remember how you told us reality doesn’t exist yet, it’s up to us to make it.’ They move into the corridor to the right; Felicity pads at Howard’s side down the long bright passage. ‘I’m afraid what happened in my study was just a fragment of what was happening in my house last night,’ says Howard, ‘you weren’t the only one to get hurt.’ ‘Someone got hurt?’ asked Felicity. ‘Only really hurt,’ says Howard. The vacant doors line the corridor walls; they move towards their classroom at the end. ‘Wow,’ says Felicity, ‘what happened?’ ‘I wasn’t there,’ says Howard, ‘it was while we were downstairs. You remember the blue light? That was the ambulance.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ says Felicity, ‘you mean it was a real accident?’