Kingsley Amis - Lucky Jim
Presently the driver slid the glass aside and asked in a servile tone for more instructions, which Dixon gave. At last the taxi stopped at the end of the track that led up to the Welch house. Christine woke up and said after a moment: 'Are you coming up? I wish you would, because I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get in. The maid lives out, I think.'
'Of course I'll come up,' Dixon said. He settled a brief exchange with the taxi-driver by refusing to discuss the question of payment until the taxi should be standing outside his, Dixon's, digs, then went off into the darkness with Christine holding on to his arm like a staff.
XV
'I THINK we'd better look for a window first,' Dixon said as they stood in front of the darkened house. 'We don't want to ring the bell, just in case the Welches have got back before us. I don't suppose they'd want to be home very late.'
'Wouldn't they have to wait for Bertrand, because of the car?'
'They might have got a taxi; anyway, I'm not ringing that bell.'
They went off carefully into the yard at the left side of the building. In the darkness Dixon blundered into something which struck him dextrously on the shin and made him swear in a whisper. Christine laughed in a muffled way, as if her hands were over her mouth. By touch, and the sight which the minutes in the dark had given him, Dixon identified the hazard as a water-tap encased in planking which was split and half-shattered by some recent blow, as of an ill-driven car. He hummed a couple of bars of his Welch tune, then said to Christine: 'That'll do, that'll do. This looks like the french window; we'll just try that in case.'
He led the way, tip-toeing crunchingly, and found almost with foreboding that the window was not even latched. He hesitated before entering the room; the senior Welches might well be home already, and how was it possible for Welch not to have some imbecile hobby, watching phosphorescent mould, say, or Yogi meditation, which involved the use of a darkened room? He imagined with horror the dimensions and duration of Welch's wondering frown at the furtive entry of Christine and himself out of the darkness.
'Is it open?' Christine asked at his elbow. In whisper her voice had the same juvenile quality as he'd noticed over the phone.
'Yes, it seems to be.'
'Well, why not go in, then?'
'All right, here goes.' He pulled the window slowly open and stepped into the room past the floor-length curtain. All the others were apparently drawn and the room was like a sealed tank. He moved slowly forward, arms outstretched, until some piece of furniture dealt him the twin of the blow he'd just received. There was a weird moment when he and Christine reacted exactly as before. His hands hissed their way round two walls until he found the light-switch. 'I'm going to put the light on,' he said. 'All right?'
'Yes.'
'Right.' He snapped the switch down and instinctively turned away from it as the room sprang into light about them. His movement brought him very close to Christine. They looked at each other, both blinking and smiling; their faces were about on a level. Then the smile left her face and was replaced by a look as of anxiety. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth moved silently, she seemed to raise her arms. Dixon took the step that separated them, and then, very slowly at first to give her all the time she might need to step back and away, put his arms round her. She was breathing in when he finally secured his grasp and so at this she caught her breath. He kissed her for some seconds, not holding her too close; her lips were dry, and hard rather than soft; she felt very warm. At length she did step back. She looked an unlikely figure under the bright light; she might have been an effect of trick photography. Dixon felt as if he'd been running for a bus and had in addition been nearly knocked down by a car at the moment of boarding. He could only say: 'Well, that was very nice,' in a sort of wooden vivacity.
'Yes, wasn't it?'
'Worth coming back from the dance for.'
'Yes.' She turned away. 'Oh look, we're in luck. I wonder who thought of this.'
A tray with cups, a flask, and biscuits stood on a small round table. Dixon, who'd been showing a disposition to tremble and stagger, found his spirits abruptly kicking upwards at the sight; it meant he wouldn't have to leave for at least a quarter of an hour. 'I take that very kindly,' he said.
In a minute they were sitting side by side on the couch. 'I think you'd better drink out of my cup,' Christine said. 'We don't want anyone to know you've been here, do we?' She poured out some coffee and drank a little, then passed the cup to him.
Dixon felt that this intimacy somehow symbolized and crowned the whole evening. He remembered some Greek or Latin tag about not even God being able to abolish historical fact, and was glad to think that this must apply equally to the historical fact of his drinking out of Christine's coffee-cup. She took two biscuits when he offered them, which reminded him of how Margaret would never eat on this sort of occasion, as if making an easy claim to individuality, and in the same way always drank black coffee. Why? She wasn't trying to keep herself awake all the time, was she? It was nice, though, to be able to think of her without fear; he half-promised himself to send Gore-Urquhart a box of twenty-five Balkan Sobranie (Imperial Russian blend) for involuntarily engaging Margaret's attention at the dance and so making the taxi-stratagem conceivable. Then he abandoned these fancies, recognizing their origin as a desire to escape from the thought that he'd have to go on with this Christine business, he'd have to press his advantage if he wanted to retain what he already held. His sitting with her like this seemed to distil a domestic calm, but his heart beat uncomfortably. And yet he felt an undefined hope: he had no charts for these waters, but experience proved that it was often those without charts who got the furthest. 'I'm very fond of you,' he said.
He caught a glimpse of the starchier manner as she replied: 'How can you be? You hardly know me.'
'I know enough to be sure of that, thanks.'
'It's nice of you to say that, but the trouble is, there isn't much more to know than you know already. I'm the sort of person you soon get to the end of.'
'I don't believe you. But even if it were true I shouldn't care. There's more than enough to keep me going in what I've seen up to now.'
'I warn you it wouldn't do you any good.'
'Why not?'
'To start with, I can't get on with men.'
'What awful rubbish, Christine. Don't you go trying to spin me a hard-luck story like that. A girl like you could have any man she wanted.'
'The ones that want me don't stay about very long, as I told you. And it isn't easy to find one I want.'
'Ah, don't give me that. There are dozens of sensible men about. I can even think of a few in our Common Room. Well, one or two. Well, anyway…'
'There you are, you see.'
'Let's leave that,' Dixon said. 'Tell me: how long are you staying here this time?'
'For a few days. It's part of my holiday.'
'Grand. When can you come out with me?'
'Oh don't be such a fool, Jim. How can I possibly come out with you?'
'No trouble at all, Christine. You can make out you're out with Uncle Julius. From what I've seen of him he'd back up your story.'
'Don't say any more, it's no good. We're both tied up.'
'We can start worrying about that, if we've got to, when we've seen a little more of each other.'
'Do you realize what you're asking me to do? I'm a guest at this place, Bertrand asked me down here, and I'm his… I'm tied up with him. Can't you see yourself how mean it would be?'
'No, because I don't like Bertrand.'
'That doesn't make any difference.'
'Yes it does. I don't say "After you, old boy" to chaps like him.'
'Well, what about Margaret, then?'
'You've got a point there, Christine, there's no question about that. But she's got no real claim on me, you know.'
'Hasn't she? She seems to think she has.'
When Dixon hesitated, he was aware of the utter silence. He turned in his seat, so that he was directly facing her, and said in a less harsh tone: 'Look, Christine. Put it like this. Would you like to come out with me? Forgetting about Bertrand and Margaret for the moment.'
'You know I would,' she said at once. 'Why do you think I let you take me away from the dance?'
'So you did…' He looked at her, and she looked back with her chin lifted and her mouth not quite closed. He put an arm round her shoulders and bent towards the neat blonde head. They kissed more earnestly than before. Dixon felt as if he were being drawn downwards into some dark, vaporous region where the air was too heavy to breathe with comfort and the blood became thin and slack. Her body, half against his, was tense; one breast lay heavily against his chest; he raised his hand and laid it upon her other breast. Immediately her tenseness disappeared, and though her mouth stayed on his she became passive. He understood and moved his hand to her bare shoulder, then let her go. She smiled at him in a way that made his head swim more than the kiss had done.
When he didn't speak, she said: 'Yes, all right, then, but I still think it's a dirty trick. What do you suggest?'
Dixon felt like a man interrupted at his investiture with the Order of Merit to be told that a six-figure cheque from a football pool awaits him in the lobby. 'There's a very nice hotel in the town where we could have dinner,' he said.
'No, I don't think we'd better arrange anything for an evening, if you don't mind.'
'Why not?'
'I don't think we'd better, not just for the moment we'd be bound to start drinking, and I…'
'What's the matter with drinking?'
'Nothing, but don't let's do any drinking together for the time being. Please.'
'All right, then. What about a tea?'
'Yes, a tea'd be fine. When?'
'Would Monday do?'
'No, I can't on Monday; Bertrand's having some people over he wants me to meet. What about Tuesday?'
'Fine. Four o'clock be right for time?' He explained how to get to the hotel where they were to meet, and had hardly finished when the unmistakable and growing sound of a car became audible. 'My God, here they are,' he said, instinctively whispering again.
'What are you going to do?'
'I'll wait until they've started coming in the front door, and then nip out by the window. You close it after me.'
'Right.'
The car began moving along the front of the house. 'You've got all that about where to meet?' he asked.
'Don't you worry, I'll be there. Four o'clock.'
They went over to the window and stood there with their arms round each other while the car's engine, after a terrible rattling roar, died away, and footsteps receded.
'Thanks for a lovely evening, Christine.'
'Good-night, Jim.' She pressed herself to him and they kissed for a moment; then she broke away with 'Wait a minute' and rushed over to where her bag lay on a chair.
'What's all this?'
She came back and thrust a pound note at him. 'For the taxi.'
'Don't be ridiculous, I…'
'Come on, don't argue; they'll be here in a second. It must have cost the earth.'
'But…'
She pushed the money into his outside breast-pocket, frowning, pursing her lips, and waggling her left hand to silence him in a gesture that reminded him of one of his aunts forcing sweets or an apple on him in his childhood. 'I've probably got more than you have,' she said. She propelled him to the window, which they reached just as Welch's voice, in its high-pitched, manic phase, became audible not so far away.' Quick. See you on Tuesday. Good-night.'
He scuttled out and saw her blow a kiss into the darkness while she fastened the window; then the curtain fell back. The sky had cleared a little and there was enough light to see his way by. He moved off down towards the road, feeling more tired than he could remember ever feeling in his life before.
XVI
DEAR Mr Johns, Dixon wrote, gripping his pencil like a breadknife. This is just to let you no that I no what you are up to with yuong Marleen Richards, yuong Marleen is a desent girl and has got no tim for your sort, I no your sort. She is a desent girl and I wo'nt have you filing her head with a lot of art and music, she is to good for that, and I am going to mary her which is more than your sort ever do. So just you keep of her, Mr Johns this will be your olny warning. This is just a freindly letter and I am not threatenning you, but you just do as I say else me and some of my palls from the Works will be up your way and we sha'nt be coming along just to say How do you can bet. So just you wach out and lay of yuong Marleen if you no whats good for you. yours fathfully, Joe Higgins.
He read it through, thinking how admirably consistent were the style and orthography. Both derived, in large part, from the essays of some of his less proficient pupils. He could hardly hope, even so, to deceive Johns for long, especially since Johns had almost certainly got no further with Marlene Richards, a typist in his office, than staring palely at her across it. But the letter would at any rate give him a turn and his dig-mates a few moments' amusement when it was opened, according to his habit, at the breakfast-table and read over cornflakes. Dixon wrote To: - Mr Johns and the address of the digs on a cheap envelope not specially bought for the purpose, sealed the letter up in it, and then, griming his finger on the floor, drew a heavy smudge across the flap. Finally he stuck a stamp on, slobbering on it for further verisimilitude. He'd post the letter on his way down to the pub for a lunch-time drink, but before that he must write up some of his notes for the Merrie England lecture. Before that in turn he must review his financial position, see if he could somehow restore it from complete impossibility to its usual level of merely imminent disaster, and before that again he must meditate, just for a couple of minutes, on the incredible finale to the Summer Ball the previous evening and on Christine.
He found himself unable to think coherently about, hardly able even to remember, what they'd said to each other at the Welches', nor could he now evoke what it had been like kissing her more clearly than that he'd enjoyed it. He was already so excited about Tuesday afternoon that he had to get up and walk about his bedroom. The great thing was to convince himself utterly that she wouldn't turn up, then whatever happened would be something extra. The trouble was that he could imagine exactly how she'd look coming across the hotel lounge towards him. Then he found he could visualize her face quite clearly, and looked inattentively out over the back garden of the lodging-house, which lay in thick, beating sunshine. He realized that when it wasn't set in that rather chilly life-mask, her face sometimes touched upon other sorts of face by a kind of physiognomical allusion. Some of the other sorts of face were very remote from her own. There was the permanent grin of an acrobat, or partner in an apache-dance routine; the sun-dazzle of some Honourable trollop photographed motor-boating on the Riviera; the sulky mindless glare theoretically detectable on the face of a pin-up; the frown of a plethoric and not very nice little girl. At any rate they were all female faces. He coughed loudly on recalling that Margaret had more than once reminded him facially of a man with an unintelligible accent and Service glasses whom he'd known by sight in the R.A.F. and had never seen doing anything except sweeping out the N.A.A.F.I. and wiping his nose on his sleeve.
