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 crowds. 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.
‘I’d better get moving, then,’ Dixon said, making calculations.
‘You had. I’ll tell the bag you won’t be wanting your lunch. Go and get on that bus.’ Atkinson lowered his face towards his paper.
Dixon ran out into the street. He felt as if he’d been hurrying all his life. Why wasn’t she getting a train from the city station? There was an excellent one to London at three-twenty, he knew. What was her news? At any rate, he had some for her; two lots, in fact. Did her unexpected departure mean that she and Bertrand had had another row? A bus was due to turn up College Road between one-ten and one-fifteen. It was that now. The next was at one thirty-five or so. Hopeless. He ran faster. No, she wouldn’t have left just because of a row. He’d stake anything on her not being the type to take a revenge of that sort for a thing of that sort. Oh, hell, her news was probably just that ‘Uncle Julius’ was going to offer him a job. She wouldn’t have counted on his having heard so quickly. Would she have asked him to come all this way just to tell him that? Or was it all just an excuse for seeing him again? But why should she want to do that?
He suddenly bounded aside into the road, where, some yards away, a large taxi-like car was waiting in a side-street to insert itself in the further stream of traffic. Dixon cut through the nearer stream, bawling ‘Taxi. Taxi.’ Just what he wanted. In a moment he was able to make for the far pavement, but the taxi simultaneously drove out into the main road and began to gather speed away from him. ‘Taxi. Taxi.’ He was nearly there when the face of the Principal’s wife, wearing a hat like a biretta, appeared at the back window, frowning at him from what had looked like an empty rear compartment. The taxi was clearly not a taxi, but the Principal’s car. Was the Principal in it too? Dixon veered away through an open gate into someone’s front garden, where he knelt for a minute behind the hedge. Was it really so important for him to meet Christine at the station? Wouldn’t he be able to get in touch with her afterwards through ‘Uncle Julius’? Had he still got the piece of paper with her phone number on it?
A rapping on glass made him turn round. An old lady and a big parrot were glaring at him from a ground-floor window. He bowed deeply, then remembered his bus and ran out on to the pavement. A couple of hundred yards away a bus was coming slowly up the hill from the city. It was too far off for him to be able to read its destination screen, and in any case his exertions had misted his glasses over. But it must be the one and he must get it. He sensed, as far as he could sense anything at the moment, that something would go badly wrong if he failed to turn up at the station, that something he wanted would be withdrawn. He began running even faster, so that people began to skip out of his way and look at him with wondering resentment. The bus, unable for the moment to begin its turn into College Road, was halted in mid-traffic and was, he could now see, his bus. He ran steadily towards the corner of College Road, but the bus began moving again and reached it before him. When he next saw the bus, it was halted about fifty yards away up College Road, and someone had just got on.
Dixon broke into a frenzied, lung-igniting sprint, while the conductor watched him immobile from the platform. When he was half-way to the bus, this official rang the bell, the driver let in the clutch, and the wheels began to turn. Dixon found he was even better at running than he’d thought, but when the gap between man and bus had narrowed to perhaps five yards, it began to widen rapidly. Dixon stopped running and favoured the conductor, who was still watching unemotionally, with the best-known obscene gesture. At once the conductor rang the bell again and the bus stopped abruptly. Dixon hesitated for a moment, then trotted lightly up to the bus and boarded it with some diffidence. He found himself unwilling to meet the eye of the conductor, who now said admiringly ‘Well run, wacker’ and rang the bell for the third time.
Dixon gasped out a question about the bus’s time of arrival at the station, which was where it terminated its run, got a civil but evasive answer, spent a few moments beating down the stares of the nearby passengers, and climbed effortfully to the top deck. There he made his rebounding way to the front seat and collapsed into it without being able to afford the breath to groan. He began swallowing the thick burning substance that filled his mouth and throat, panted energetically for a time, and tremulously took out his packet of small cigarettes and his matches. After reading the joke on the back of the matchbox a few times and laughing at it, he lit a cigarette; this was the only action he could take for the moment. He looked out of the window; the road unfolded itself in front of him, and he couldn’t help feeling some sort of exhilaration, especially at the brightness of the landscape under the sun. Beyond the lines of green-tiled semi-detached villas open fields were already appearing, and through some trees he could see a gleam of water.
Christine had said that she’d ‘understand’ if he failed to turn up to see her off. What did that mean? Did it mean that she ‘understood’ that his commitments with Margaret would have decided him not to come? Or had it some vaguely unwelcome overtone, implying that she’d ‘understand’ that the whole thing between them now appeared to him as a romantic mistake, Margaret or no Margaret? He couldn’t allow Christine to escape him today; if she did he might not see her again at all. Not at all; that was a disagree-able phrase. Suddenly his face altered, seeming to become all nose and glasses; the bus had moved up behind a lorry slowly drawing along an elaborate trailer, which had a notice on it recommending caution and saying how many feet long it was. A smaller notice adduced further grounds for caution in the elliptic form: Air brakes. Lorry, trailer, and bus began moving, at a steady twelve miles an hour, round what gave firm promise of being a long series of bends. With difficulty Dixon snatched his gaze from the back of the trailer and, to fortify himself, began thinking about what Catchpole had said to him about Margaret.
He realized at once that his mind had been made up as soon as he decided to make this journey. For the first time he really felt that it was no use trying to save those who fundamentally would rather not be saved. To go on trying would not merely be to yield to pity and sentimentality, but wrong and, to pursue it to its conclusion, inhumane. It was all very bad luck on Margaret, and probably derived, as he’d thought before, from the anterior bad luck of being sexually unattractive. Christine’s more normal, i.e. less unworkable, character no doubt resulted, in part at any rate, from having been lucky with her face and figure. But that was simply that. To write things down as luck wasn’t the same as writing them off as nonexistent or in some way beneath consideration. Christine was still nicer and prettier than Margaret, and all the deductions that could be drawn from that fact should be drawn: there was no end to the ways in which nice things are nicer than nasty ones. It had been luck, too, that had freed him from pity’s adhesive plaster; if Catchpole had been a different sort of man, he, Dixon, would still be wrapped up as firmly as ever. And now he badly needed another dose of luck. If it came, he might yet prove to be of use to somebody.
The conductor now appeared and negotiated with Dixon about his ticket. When this was over, he said: ‘One forty-three we’re due at the station. I looked it up.’
‘Oh. Shall we be on time, do you think?’
‘Couldn’t say, I’m sorry. Not if we keep crawling behind this Raf contraption we shan’t, I shouldn’t think. Train to catch?’
‘Well, I want to see someone who’s getting the one-fifty.’
‘Shouldn’t build on it if I were you.’ He lingered, no doubt to examine Dixon’s black eye.
‘Thanks,’ Dixon said dismissively.
They entered a long stretch of straight road, with a slight dip in the middle so that every yard of its empty surface was visible. Far ahead an emaciated brown hand appeared from the lorry’s cab and made a writhing, beckoning movement. The driver of the bus ignored this invitation in favour of drawing to a gradual halt by a bus-stop outside a row of thatched cottages. The foreshortened bulks of two old women dressed in black waited until the bus was quenched of all motion before clutching each other and edging with sidelong caution out of Dixon’s view towards the platform. In a moment he heard their voices crying unintelligibly to the conductor, then activity seemed to cease. At least five seconds passed; Dixon stirred elaborately at his post, then twisted himself about looking for anything that might have had a share in causing this caesura in his journey. He could detect nothing of this kind. Was the driver slumped in his seat, the victim of syncope, or had he suddenly got an idea for a poem? For a moment longer the pose prolonged itself; then the picture of sleepy rustic calm was modified by the fairly sudden emergence from a cottage some yards beyond of a third woman in a lilac costume. She looked keenly towards the bus and identified it without any obvious difficulty, then approached with a kind of bowed shuffle that suggested the movements of a serviceman towards the pay-table. This image was considerably reinforced by her hat, which resembled a Guards-man’s peaked cap that had been strenuously run over and then dyed cerise. Indeed, it was possible that the old bitch—a metallic noise came from the back of Dixon’s throat when he saw her smile of self-admiration at having caught her bus—had actually found what was to become her hat lying in the road outside her nasty little cottage after a military exercise, the legacy of some skylarking lout in the carrier platoon, from whose head it had fallen under the tracks and wheels of an entire battalion.
The bus nosed its prudential way on to the crown of the road, and the gap between it and the lorry began to diminish. Dixon found that his whole being had become centred in the matter of the bus’s progress; he couldn’t be bothered any longer to wonder what Christine would say to him if he got there in time, nor what he’d do if he didn’t. He just sat there on the dusty cushions, galvanized by the pitchings of the bus into the appearance of seismic laughter, sweating stealthily in the heat and the apprehension—thank God he hadn’t been drinking—stretching his face in a fresh direction at each overtaking car, each bend, each motiveless circumspection of the driver.
The bus was now resolutely secured again behind the trailer, which soon began to reduce speed even further. Before Dixon could cry out, before he’d time to guess what was to happen, the lorry and trailer had moved off to the side into a lay-by and the bus was travelling on alone. Now was the time, he thought with reviving hope, for the driver to start making up some of the time he must have lost. The driver, however, was clearly unable to assent to this diagnosis. Dixon lit another small cigarette, jabbing with the match at the sandpaper as if it were the driver’s eye. He had, of course, no idea of the time, but estimated that they must, by now, have covered five of the eight or so miles to their destination. Just then the bus rounded a corner and slowed abruptly, then stopped. Making a lot of noise, a farm tractor was laboriously pulling, at right angles across the road, something that looked like the springs of a giant’s bed, caked in places with earth and decked with ribbon-like grasses. Dixon thought he really would have to run downstairs and knife the drivers of both vehicles; what next? what next? What actually would be next: a masked hold-up, a smash, floods, a burst tyre, an electric storm with falling trees and me-teorites, a diversion, a low-level attack by Communist aircraft, sheep, the driver stung by a hornet? He’d choose the last of these, if consulted. Hawking its gears, the bus crept on, while every few yards troupes of old men waited to make their quivering way aboard.
As the traffic thickened slightly towards the town, the driver added to his hypertrophied caution a psychopathic devotion to the interests of other road-users; the sight of anything between a removal-van and a junior bicycle halved his speed to four miles an hour and sent his hand, Dixon guessed, flapping in a slow-motion St Vitus’ dance of beckonings and wavings-on. Learners practised reversing across his path; gossiping knots of loungers parted lei-suredly at the touch of his reluctant bonnet; toddlers reeled to retrieve toys from under his just-revolving wheels. Dixon’s head switched angrily to and fro in vain search for a clock; the inhabit-ants of this mental, moral, and physical backwater, devoting as they had done for years their few waking moments to the pursuit of offences against chastity, were too poor, and were also too mean . . . Dixon, seeing the hulk of the railway station thirty yards off, returned painfully to reality and rattled along the aisle to the stairs. Before the bus had reached the station stop he plunged down, out, across the road, and into the booking-hall. The clock over the ticket-office pointed to one forty-seven. At once the minute hand stepped one pace onward. Dixon flung himself at the barrier. A hard-faced man confronted him.
‘Which platform for London, please?’
The man looked at him appraisingly, as if trying to gauge in advance his fitness to hear a more than usually improper joke. ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’
‘Eh?’
‘Next to London’s eight-seventeen.’
‘Eight-seventeen?’
‘No restaurant car.’
‘What about the one-fifty?’
‘No one-fifty. Haven’t got it mixed up with the one-forty, by any chance?’
Dixon swallowed. ‘I think I must have done,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry, George.’
Nodding mechanically, Dixon turned away. Bill Atkinson must have made a mistake in taking down Christine’s message. But it wasn’t like Atkinson to make mistakes of that sort. Perhaps it had been Christine who’d made the mistake. It didn’t really matter. He walked slowly to the entrance and stood looking out from the shadows at the little sunlit square. He still had his job. And it wouldn’t be very difficult to get in touch with Christine. It was only that he felt it would be too late when he did. But, anyway, he’d met her and talked to her a few times. Thank God for that.
As he watched, wondering what to do next, he caught sight of a car with a damaged wing moving uncertainly round a Post Office van. Something about this car held Dixon’s attention. It began to crawl towards him, roaring like a bulldozer. The roar was cut off by a spine-tingling snort of cogs and the car froze in its tracks. A tallish blonde girl wearing a wine-coloured costume and carrying a mackintosh and a large suitcase got out and began hurrying towards the spot where Dixon stood.
Dixon skipped out of sight behind a pillar, as best he could under the impact of what must surely be a lesion of the diaphragm. How could he, of all people, have ignored the importance of Welch’s car-driving habits?
25
Another frenzy of mechanical rage outside told him that Welch was still at the wheel. Good; perhaps he was under orders to return without delay. Dixon had no feelings or thoughts beyond the immediate situation. He heard Christine’s steps approaching and tried to press himself back into the pillar. Her feet took a few paces on the boards of the entrance-hall; she came into view four or five feet away, turned her head, and saw him at once. Her face broke into a smile of what seemed to him pure affection. ‘You got my message, then,’ she said. She looked ridiculously pretty.
‘Come here, Christine, quickly.’ He drew her into the shelter of his pillar. ‘Just a minute.’
She stared about her and then at him. ‘But we ought to be running up on to the platform. My train’s nearly due.’
‘Your train’s gone. You’ll have to wait for the next. At least the next.’
‘That clock says I’ve got one more minute. I can just . . .’
‘No, it’s gone, I tell you. It went at one-forty.’
‘It couldn’t have done.’
‘It could and did. I asked the man.’
‘But Mr Welch said it went at one-fifty.’
‘Oh, he did, did he? That explains everything. He was wrong about that, you see.’
‘Are you sure? Why are we hiding? Are we hiding?’
Ignoring her, his hand unnoticed on her arm, Dixon leant care-fully past her. Welch was now broadside-on across the main exit from the square. ‘Right, well we’ll just give the bloody old fool time to get clear, and then we’ll go and have a drink.’ He would begin with an octuple whisky. ‘You’ve had lunch, I suppose?’
‘Yes, but I could hardly eat a thing.’
‘Not like you, that. Well, I haven’t had any, so we’ll have some together. I know a hotel not far from here. I used to go there with Margaret in the old days.’
They left Christine’s case in the luggage-office and walked out into the square. ‘A good thing old Welch didn’t insist on putting you on the train,’ Dixon said.
‘Yes . . . Actually I was the one who insisted.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ Dixon’s physical discomfort grew steadily at the thought of Christine’s ‘news’, now nearing revelation. He wanted to bet himself it would be bad so that he might stand a chance of its being good. His head, and an inaccessible part of his back, itched.
‘I wanted to get away as quickly as I could from the whole bunch of them. I couldn’t bear any of them for another moment. A fresh one arrived last night.’
‘A fresh one?’
‘Yes. Mitchell or some such name.’
‘Oh, I know. You mean Michel.’
‘Do I? I picked the first train I could get.’
‘What’s happened? That you wanted to tell me.’ He tried to force his spirits down, to expect nothing but unexpected and very nasty nastiness.
She looked at him, and he again noticed that the whites of her eyes were a very light blue. ‘I’ve finished with Bertrand.’ She spoke as if of a household detergent that had proved unsatisfactory.
‘Why? For good?’
‘Yes. Do you want to hear about it?’
‘Come on.’
‘You remember me and Carol Goldsmith leaving your lecture in the middle yesterday?’
Dixon understood, and felt breathless. ‘I know. She told you something, didn’t she? I know what she told you.’
They stopped walking involuntarily. Dixon put out his tongue at an old woman who was staring at them. Christine said: ‘You knew about Bertrand and her all the time, didn’t you? I knew you did.’ She looked as if she were going to laugh.
‘Yes. What made her tell you?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have done me any good. What made Carol tell you?’
‘She hated him for taking her for granted. I didn’t mind what he’d done before he started going about with me, but it was wrong of him to try to keep us both on a string, Carol and me. She said he asked her to come away with him the night we all went to the theatre. He was quite sure she would. She said she began by hating me and then she saw the way he was treating me, things like the way he behaved at the sherry thing. Then she saw he was the one to blame, not me.’
She stood with her shoulders a little hunched, saying all this quickly and with embarrassment, her back to a shop-window full of brassières, corsets, and suspender-belts. The lowered blind shadowed her face as she looked almost slyly at him, possibly to see whether she’d said enough to satisfy his curiosity.
‘A bit noble of her, wasn’t it? Bertrand won’t look at her after this.’
‘Oh, she doesn’t want him to. I gather . . .’
‘Well?’
‘I sort of gathered from what she said that there’s someone else in the background now. I don’t know who.’
Dixon was pretty sure he did; the last thread was untangled. He took Christine’s arm and walked off with her. ‘That’s enough,’ he said.
‘There’s a lot more about what he told her about . . .’
‘Later.’ A leer of happiness suffused Dixon’s face. He said: ‘I think you might like to hear this. I am going to have nothing more to do with Margaret. Something’s come up—never mind what for now—which means I needn’t bother with her any more.’
‘What, you mean you’re absolutely . . . ?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it later, I promise. Don’t let’s think about it now.’
‘All right. But it is genuine, isn’t it?’
‘Of course, perfectly genuine.’
‘Well then, in that case . . .’
‘That’s right. Tell me: what are you going to do this afternoon?’
‘I suppose I shall have to go back to London, shan’t I?’
‘Do you mind if I come with you?’
‘What’s all this?’ She pulled at his arm until he looked at her. ‘What’s going on? There’s something else, isn’t there? What is it?’
‘I’ve got to find somewhere to live.’
‘Why? I thought you lived somewhere in this part of the world.’
‘Didn’t Uncle Julius tell you about my new job?’
‘For goodness’ sake tell me about this properly, Jim. Don’t tease me.’
While he explained, he pronounced the names to himself: Bayswater, Knightsbridge, Notting Hill Gate, Pimlico, Belgrave Square, Wapping, Chelsea. No, not Chelsea.
‘I knew he had something up that sleeve of his,’ Christine was saying. ‘I didn’t know that’d be it, though. I hope you’ll be able to put up with him. Couldn’t be better, could it? I say, there won’t be any difficulty about you leaving your job with the University here, will there?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What job is it, by the way? The one he’s given you?’
‘The one Bertrand thought he was going to get.’
Christine began laughing noisily and blushing at the same time. Dixon laughed too. He thought what a pity it was that all his faces were designed to express rage or loathing. Now that something had happened which really deserved a face, he’d none to celebrate it with. As a kind of token, he made his Sex Life in Ancient Roman face. Then he noticed something ahead of them and slowed in his walk. He nudged Christine. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘See that car?’ It was Welch’s, parked slightly nearer one kerb than the other, outside a teashop with green linen curtains and copper pots on the window-sills. ‘What’s it doing there?’
‘He’s picking up Bertrand and the others, I suppose. Bertrand said he wasn’t going to have lunch in the same house with me after what I said to him. Hurry up, Jim, before they come out.’
Just as they drew level with the shop-window, the door opened and a crowd of Welches came out and blocked the pavement. One of them was clearly the effeminate writing Michel, on stage at last just as the curtain was about to ring down. He was a tall pale young man with long pale hair protruding from under a pale corduroy cap. Sensing the approach of passers-by, the whole group, with the natural exception of Welch himself, began automatically shifting about out of the way. Dixon squeezed Christine’s arm encouragingly and walked up to them. ‘Excuse me,’ he said in a fruity comic-butler voice.
On Mrs Welch’s face appeared an expression of imminent vomiting; Dixon inclined his head indulgently to her. (He remembered something in a book about success making people humble, tolerant, and kind.) The incident was almost closed when he saw that not only were Welch and Bertrand both present, but Welch’s fishing-hat and Bertrand’s beret were there too. The beret, however, was on Welch’s head, the fishing-hat on Bertrand’s. In these guises, and standing rigid with popping eyes, as both were, they had a look of being Gide and Lytton Strachey, represented in waxwork form by a ’prentice hand. Dixon drew in breath to denounce them both, then blew it all out again in a howl of laughter. His steps faltered; his body sagged as if he’d been knifed. With Christine tugging at his arm he halted in the middle of the group, slowly doubling up like a man with the stitch, his spectacles misting over with the exertion of it, his mouth stuck ajar in a rictus of agony. ‘You’re . . .’ he said. ‘He’s . . .’
The Welches withdrew and began getting into their car. Moaning, Dixon allowed Christine to lead him away up the street. The whinnying and clanging of Welch’s self-starter began behind them, growing fainter and fainter as they walked on until it was altogether overlaid by the other noises of the town and by their own voices.