The History Man (19 page)

‘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.'