The History Man (16 page)

‘My God, just look at it,' says Barabara, putting eggs into a pan. ‘Go on, just look at it.' Howard puts bread into the toaster; obliging, he looks around. ‘It's a mess,' he says. ‘Which you undertook to help me clear up,' says Barbara. ‘That's right,' says Howard, ‘I will.' ‘Can you advise me when?' ‘Well, I'm teaching this morning,' says Howard. ‘And there's a departmental meeting this afternoon, which will go on very late.' ‘It wouldn't,' says Barbara, ‘if you didn't argue so much.' ‘I exist to argue,' says Howard. ‘I just want to be clear,' says Barbara. ‘I am not doing this by myself.' ‘Of course not,' says Howard, picking up the
Guardian
from the kitchen table. The headlines advise him of many indignities and wrongs. There is a new anti-pornography drive, a trial of a group of anarchist bombers, an equivocal constitutional meeting in Ulster, a fudging Labour Party Conference in Blackpool. Liberties are sliding; his radical ire thickens, and he begins to feel some of the bitterness that is part of the sensation of living self. ‘I am not going to be that person,' says Barbara. ‘Did you find me somebody?' ‘Not yet,' says Howard, ‘I'll find someone though.' ‘I could fix it with Rosemary,' says Barbara. ‘She was in good shape last night. She went home with your friend from the sex shop.' ‘You see how quickly these agonies pass?' says Howard. ‘No, Barbara; please not Rosemary.' ‘In the meantime, the mess,' says Barbara. ‘We'll do it tonight,' says Howard. ‘I'm going out tonight.' The toaster pops; Howard takes out the warmed bread. ‘Where?' he asks. ‘I've signed up for an evening class at the library,' says Barbara. ‘It starts today, and I mean to be there. Okay?' ‘Of course okay,' says Howard. ‘What's it on?' ‘Commercial French,' says Barbara. ‘
Acceptez, cher monsieur, I'assurance de mes solicitations les plus distinguées
,' says Howard. ‘What do you need it for?' ‘It's something new,' says Barbara. ‘Don't they have car mechanics?' asks Howard. ‘I want to read Simone de Beauvoir in the original.' ‘In commercial French?' ‘Yes,' says Barbara, ‘that was all the French they had.' ‘Well, it should bend your mind,' says Howard. ‘Don't patronize me,' says Barbara, ‘I'm not Myra Beamish.' ‘Did she leave him?' asks Howard. ‘I don't know,' says Barbara, ‘I lost sight of that particular little drama, Myra making it into the now scene. There were so many.' ‘A good party,' says Howard. ‘A mess,' says Barbara, switching on the radio.

The radio trills, and there is a newsbreak. The noise of the radio draws the children, Martin and Celia, fresh, separate, critical beings, in their clothes from the manikin boutiques, into the kitchen; they sit down at the table, in front of coloured enamel bowls from Yugoslavia. ‘
Bonjour, mes amis
,' says Howard. ‘Did the party make you drunk, Howard?' asks Martin. ‘Who left her bra in the plantpot of the living-room geranium?' asks Celia. ‘Not me,' says Howard. ‘You have the messiest friends in the whole world,' says Celia. ‘One of them broke a window,' says Martin, ‘in the guest bedroom.' ‘You've checked around, have you?' asks Howard. ‘Anything else I should advise the insurance company about?' ‘I think someone jumped out,' says Martin, ‘there's all blood in there. Shall I go and look outside?' ‘Nobody jumped out,' says Barbara. ‘You sit there and eat your cornflakes.' ‘Cornflakes, yuk,' says Martin. ‘My compliments to the cook, and tell her “yuk”,' says Howard. ‘I expect this person jumped out because he couldn't stand the noise,' says Celia. ‘You say
we're
noisy, but that was terrible.' ‘Is there really some blood, Celia?' asks Barbara. ‘Yes,' says Celia. ‘Why does it always have to be cornflakes?' asks Martin. ‘You can't say all that much for the human lot, as we bumble around in the Platonic cave,' says Howard, ‘but sometimes there are glimpses of the eternals beyond. Like cornflakes.' ‘No metaphysics, Howard,' says Barbara. ‘Let's all just eat our cornflakes.' ‘Are you opposed to metaphysics?' asks Celia, not eating her cornflakes. ‘She's a British empiricist,' says Howard. ‘Look,' says Barbara, ‘these kids leave for school in fifteen minutes, right? I know it's against your principles, which are dedicated to driving me insane. But could you exercise a bit of parental authority here, and get them to eat their sodding cornflakes?' ‘Are you going to eat your sodding cornflakes?' asks Howard of the children. ‘Or do you want me to throw them out of the window?' ‘I want you to throw them out of the window,' says Martin. ‘Christ,' says Barbara, ‘here's a man with professional training in social psychology. And he can't get a child to eat a cornflake.' ‘The human will has a natural resistance to coercion,' says Howard. ‘It will not be repressed.' ‘By cornflake fascism,' says Celia.

Barbara stares at Howard. ‘Oh, you're a great operator,' she says. ‘Why don't you give them wider options? Set them free?' asks Howard, ‘Weetabix? Rice Krispies?' ‘Why don't you keep out of it?' asks Barbara, ‘I feed this lot. They're not asking for different food. They're asking for my endless sodding attention.' ‘We are asking for different food,' says Martin. ‘We'd like the endless sodding attention too,' says Celia. ‘Eat,' says Barbara. ‘If you don't you'll die.' ‘Oh, marvellous,' says Howard. ‘And if you don't eat fast, you'll be late for school as well,' says Barbara. ‘Okay?' ‘They don't want you at school if you're dead,' says Martin. ‘They give your crayons to another person.' ‘Shut up, Martin,' says Barbara. ‘If you speak again, I'll drop this egg on your head.' ‘Speak,' says Celia. ‘Resist tyranny.' ‘You've built this one up,' says Barbara to Howard. Howard inspects the
Guardian
; the radio trills; the rain drips. After a minute, Celia says: ‘I hope Miss Birdsall doesn't make me stand outside the classroom again today.' Howard recognizes a situation designed for his attention; he looks up from the
Guardian;
he says, ‘Why did she do that?' ‘Because I said “penis”,' says Celia. ‘Honestly,' says Barbara, ‘that woman.' ‘It's a proper word, isn't it?' asks Celia, pleased with the development of the situation. ‘I told her you said I could use it.' ‘Of course it's a proper word,' says Howard, ‘I'm going to call the Education Committee. I want an enquiry into that sick, nasty woman.' ‘Is she sick and nasty?' asks Barbara. ‘Maybe she's just overstrained.' ‘You're identifying,' says Howard, ‘Miss Birdbrain needs a good kick up her protestant ethic.' This creates delight in the constituency; the children shout, ‘Miss Birdbrain, Miss Birdbrain,' and Martin knocks over his egg. It performs an elegant arc, and smashes on the rush matting. Howard watches as the yellow yolk oozes out and forms a coagulating pool. He says: ‘Take care, Martin.' Barbara tears paper off the kitchen roll; she bends over, in her housecoat, her face red, and begins to wipe up the mess. When she has finished, she looks at Howard. ‘You wanted that to happen,' she says.

‘No,' says Howard. ‘You built it up,' says Barbara. ‘I was just radicalizing the children a little,' says Howard. ‘To fix me,' says Barbara. ‘You see plots everywhere,' says Howard. ‘As you often say,' says Barbara, ‘the reason people have conspiracy theories is that people conspire.' ‘I think Miss Birdbrain's a marvellous name for her,' says Celia. ‘She's just a nasty old penis.' ‘And you told her that?' says Barbara. ‘Yes,' says Celia. ‘So she sent you out of the room,' says Barbara. ‘Yes,' says Celia. ‘You'd better explain that when you call the Education Committee,' says Barbara. ‘Maybe I won't call the Education Committee,' says Howard. ‘No,' says Barbara, ‘save your radical indignation for higher things.' ‘How come the male organ is now a term of abuse?' asks Howard. ‘It's just us second-class citizens getting our own back,' says Barbara, ‘thanks to reading Simone de Beauvoir in the original.' Out in the hall the telephone rings; Barbara goes out to answer it. Celia says, ‘Who's Simone de Beauvoir?' ‘Who's Hegel?' asks Howard. ‘You should answer a question directly when I ask one,' says Celia. ‘She's a woman women read,' says Howard, ‘she's on the right side.' ‘Why do women read her?' asks Celia. ‘They're angry at men,' says Howard. ‘At you?' asks Celia. ‘Oh, not me,' says Howard, ‘I'm with them in their fight.' ‘Is Barbara glad?' asks Celia. ‘I'll never eat another cornflake in the whole of my life,' says Martin. The phone goes down in the hall; Barbara walks back into the kitchen, and Howard sees that her face is strange. ‘What in hell happened at our party?' she asks. ‘A good time all round,' says Howard. ‘Who was it?' ‘Myra,' says Barbara. ‘Aha,' says Howard, ‘where is she?' ‘Home,' says Barbara. ‘I knew she'd stay,' says Howard, smiling, ‘she was playing.' ‘There was an accident at our party,' says Barbara. ‘I told you that,' says Celia. ‘An accident?' asks Howard. ‘Is the guest-room window really broken, Martin?' asks Barbara. ‘I'll show you, come on,' says Martin. ‘It was Henry,' says Barbara, ‘he cut himself on it. He had to go to hospital and have twenty-seven stitches.' ‘Henry?' asks Howard, ‘When was this?' ‘Didn't you know?' asks Barbara. ‘Weren't you there? Wasn't there a host at this party?' ‘Where were you, baby?' asks Howard. Barbara says, ‘Get your coats on, you kids. Nearly time for school.'

When the children have run out into the hall, the Kirks sit and look at each other. ‘Another one,' says Barbara, ‘Rosemary's boy, and Henry.' ‘You said an accident,' says Howard, ‘Well, was it?' asks Barbara. ‘You think Myra told him she was leaving?' asks Howard. ‘Isn't that one explanation?' asks Barbara. ‘People cry out like that.' ‘Some people might,' says Howard, ‘Henry wouldn't.' ‘It makes me feel sick,' says Barbara. ‘Henry already had one accident last night,' says Howard, ‘A dog bit him. Anyway, Myra didn't leave him. She's at home.' ‘Yes,' says Barbara. ‘Did
she
tell you what happened?' asks Howard. ‘She didn't really explain anything,' says Barbara. ‘She didn't want to talk. Just to apologize for ruining our party. I told her it didn't.' ‘Was she disappointed?' asks Howard. ‘Is it funny?' asks Barbara. ‘It's just Henry,' says Howard, ‘even in his big drama he makes a mess of things.' ‘Shouldn't you go and see him?' asks Barbara. ‘My bet is he'll bounce right back. Turn up at the departmental meeting this afternoon. Voting with the reactionaries.' ‘You wouldn't have pushed him, would you? Just to fix the vote?' ‘I'm more subtle,' says Howard. ‘Besides, I
want
Henry's reactionary vote.' ‘I had a sick feeling about that party,' says Barbara. Howard eases the last curve of egg out of the shell; he puts down the spoon. ‘Everyone else enjoyed it,' he says, and goes out of the kitchen to get ready for departure. The children are waiting in the hall; he goes towards his study. A chair still stands in place at the top of the stairs; he moves it, and goes down the steps. In the study, the curtains are still drawn in place; he opens them, and lets daylight in. Two cushions lie on the floor, between the desk and the wall; he picks them up, fluffs them, replaces them in the canvas chairs. The creased pages of the typescript of his book lie scattered everywhere. Carefully he picks them up, flattens them, sorts them, remakes the neat stack, and puts it by the typewriter on his desk. Doing this, he sees again the blue light that had flashed over the room, over the two bodies on the floor; he hears the footsteps on the stairs and in the hall. He moves around, pulling books off shelves, picking up marked essays, lecture notes, committee papers, thinking of Henry and Felicity. He puts all these things in his leather briefcase, and hurries upstairs.

Barbara comes out into the hall as he puts on his coat; she says, ‘I'm really going to London. You'll get me someone.' ‘Yes,' says Howard, ‘I'll do it'; and he bends down and picks up two wet letters that lie deposited under the letterbox. He tears them open, glances through them: one is a circular from a radical publisher, announcing new books on Marxism; the other is a letter from a group of modern churchmen in London, inviting him to speak to them on the topic of the changing fabric of morality, a topic on which, says the letter, ‘you are a recognized authority'. A recognized authority, he goes back into the kitchen to find the children. Barbara has a cup of coffee in her hand; she says, ‘How late are you going to be tonight?' ‘Who knows?' says Howard, ‘a departmental meeting.' ‘I'm leaving at seven fifteen for my class. I'm going whether you're here or not. If you're not, there's no Anne Petty, so we don't have a babysitter. I leave you to sort that out in your own way.' ‘Okay,' says Howard, ‘are you out late? Supposing I have to find a babysitter?' ‘Pretty late,' says Barbara, ‘people usually go to a pub and have a drink after an evening class.' ‘I suppose so,' says Howard. ‘So I'll see you when I see you,' says Barbara. ‘Right,' says Howard, ‘come on, kids, be ready and waiting. I'm going to fetch the van.' He picks up his briefcase, and goes along the hall to the front door. He steps out of his domestic interior into the day and the pouring rain. The city world takes him in again; the puddles shimmer on the terrace. The morning begins; the edge of nameless melancholy with which he started the day begins faintly to lift. He walks round the corner, adapts to the anonymous world, watches the traffic lights glint, the umbrellas move in the street, the yellow bulldozers churning the mud of demolition. Up the hill he goes, to the square; he finds the van, and starts it. He drives back down to the terrace, and the front door opens to his hoot. Barbara stands on the steps; she ushers out two huddled, miniature figures in red wet-look raincoats. They run through the rain, and pull open the passenger door, arguing about who will sit in front, who in the back. On the step, Barbara waves; the children climb in; Howard starts the van, and turns it in the terrace, and drives, past his long, thin house to the business of the main road up the hill.