There had been post waiting for her, neatly stacked on the hall table. Bills, a reminder from the dentist, junk mail. Nothing.
Shall she resume her non-existence? Is that what you seriously expect?
But then of course, Robert Holland, like the Gerald Scales of Bennett’s novel, like the Ciccio of D. H. Lawrence’s, is not a very likely prospect either. What possible future could there be for him and Shirley? I have made him as plausible as I can, I have offered him motivation, but I have to admit that it doesn’t seem probable that he and Shirley can continue to go on seeing one another. But then, extraordinary things do happen in life, and one cannot rule out Robert Holland.
I wonder if those of you who object to the turn that Shirley’s life has taken are the same as those who objected to its monotony in the first place. If you are, you might reflect that it might be your task, not mine or hers, to offer her a satisfactory resolution.
Meanwhile Shirley, waiting for this resolution, turns on the hot tap once more, and lies back, and lets her hair float free, and her ears fill, as her lips taste the sweetly acrid oil.
Celia Harper has heard that her mother is back in England. She is appalled. Appalled by her own unwillingness ever to hear anything about it. ‘Quite safe and sound,’ the College Warden had said, offering Celia a sherry. Celia glowered at him as though the sherry were poisoned. She is angry with Liz, though she could not have said why. She sipped her poisoned sherry, balefully.
Janice and Edward Enderby are quarrelling on their way to Fanny Kettle’s party. They are quarrelling about which of them forgot to set the video for the Channel 4
Titus Andronicus
. Alice Enderby sits in the back of the car, listening to the old routine. If she were to video them, and play them back to themselves, would they be shocked, would they recognize themselves, would they try to stop this terrible bloody Jacobean marital farce? Alice Enderby abstracts herself from their circular nagging, and admires an enamel ring which adorns her middle finger, and surreptitiously strokes the hem of her new black lace slip. She has hopes of this party. She has hopes of Tony Kettle.
Fanny Kettle’s witch’s brew shimmered in a large crystal bowl, its mauve ice-cold spirit breath flickering in the high warm room. Its title,
PHARSALIAN PINK
, was propped up against it, inscribed in silver ink on a purple card designed by Tony. Ranged around the bowl were little shining glasses: reposing in it was a replica fourth-century Roman silver ladle adorned with a ram’s head. Ian Kettle, who had mildly entered into the mood of the evening, had told Fanny that she ought to serve her drink from a Celtic wine bucket, but Fanny had stuck out for the crystal. Anachronistic it might be, but it was too pretty not to use, and whenever else did one have an opportunity? Ian Kettle was willing to humour his odd and faithless wife Fanny. He had long since given up all hope of trying to control her, had lost interest in her infidelities, and indeed had lost interest in sexual activity altogether. His emotional needs were adequately satisfied by the fan letters he received from admiring television viewers, and by the elevated devotion of a schoolmistress in Ilkley. Let Fanny play, while Ian worked. She didn’t seem to be doing much harm. She was a nymphomaniac, a good old-fashioned nymphomaniac, but so what? That was Ian Kettle’s view of his wife Fanny, at whom he now smiled quite proudly as she sipped and offered round her dangerous concoction.
Guests were already gathering, the room was filling, the conversational buzz was rising from subdued murmur to chatter and laughter and the odd excited recognizant shriek. Solid Northam academics (who thoroughly disapproved, in principle, of pretty Fanny’s little ways) were all too ready to gather together and drink under her roof. They devoured small pastry parcels of chicken liver and tiny salmon and asparagus brown bread twirls, as they gazed around for more exciting faces than their own—was that big bearded chap over there Sigurd Sturllasson from Iceland and Yorkshire TV?—and told themselves that everything was perfectly OK because the Vice-Chancellor had turned up and moreover had gone quite pink in the face already. The Vice-Chancellor told himself that everything was perfectly OK because that old stick Martin Daintry was there eating a crab claw, and Sir Martin Daintry observed out of a corner of his dry eye that Joanna Hestercombe had condescended to a nibble of raw carrot and a tête-à-tête with, of all people, Perry Blinkhorn. Nobody was in a position to disapprove of anybody, so why not enjoy the party, and have another of those curious pink drinks?
Tony Kettle had deserted his position by the brew and had gone into a corner in the so-called library with Alice Enderby. Alice, wisely sipping orange juice, listened intently as he told her about his proposed refusal to embark, after his A-Levels, on any form of higher education. Alice Enderby had large staring brown eyes, a thyroid neck, irrepressibly curly hair (which she tried, unsuccessfully, to flatten with water and lacquer and gel), and a manic manner which she was saving for later in the evening. Alice Enderby had been through hell, this was her line, her parents were both as neurotic as hell, what could she do but laugh at them, and she rather admired Tony for being on such good terms with his obviously impossible mother. Alice could hardly speak to Janice and Edward Enderby. Home life was hell. Domesticity was hell, said Alice. Alice had vowed to commit suicide by the age of thirty, if she found herself in any way resembling her mother. But who would
tell
her when she was turning into her mother? Could she make Tony Kettle or some future Tony Kettle take a vow to alert her to growing signs of Janice-like behaviour? And if she
did
turn into Janice, would she still have the Alice-formed conviction that she ought to commit suicide, or would she be another person altogether? A Janice-person, a sadistic person? ‘Yes,’ said Tony, ‘I’ll stick it out till July, and then I’m off.’ Alice nodded, and her eyes popped and her brown curls bounced as she twisted and twisted her enamel ring.
Alice’s aunt Susie Enderby had not yet spoken to Blake Leith, but they had exchanged glances, a small recognition had passed between them. She had of course noticed the pale pink of the liquor and had wondered what kind of omen this might be. She was also discovering that her new pink and grey and white suede shoes were too tight: was she going to have to stand all evening, would the pain subside, would numbness succeed, should she have another drink to aid the anaesthesia? She had found herself talking to a chap called Len Wincobank, who said he was something to do with real estate: she dimly recognized his name, and seemed to recall that it had murky connotations, though of what nature she could not remember. Wincobank was making small talk about the beauties of the Peak District. Susie’s eyes wandered, and met the wandering gaze of Blake Leith, stationed strategically on a diagonal at the other end of the room, by the French windows leading into the conservatory. She looked away quickly, and tried to concentrate on what Wincobank was saying. He had moved on from Chatsworth to the possibilities of developing the Hansborough Valley Road into an audio-visual tourist attraction. Her eyes wandered again, and this time lighted upon her husband Clive, who was talking intently to a large woman in a purple dress, a woman whom she had never seen before.
Clive Enderby was listening to Liz’s account of Shirley’s return with the mysterious stranger. The subject matter itself established intimacy, for they spoke to one another as fellow-citizens of the world, as unshocked adults. They discussed Shirley’s plans for the future, the date of the inquest, the unpredictability of human behaviour. An undercurrent of sympathy, of mutual curiosity, flowed through their discussion of the affairs of others. They feel they are allies, although they do not know the cause.
The Bowen party had been here for some time, but Alix and Beaver were still bemused by the shock of finding themselves offered a drink called Pharsalian Pink. Does this mean that the third reader of Lucan’s
Pharsalia
is here with them, in this very room, they ask one another? The Third Reader. The Third Man. Beaver, who does not care for vodka and has failed to find beer, has moved on to the wine, and is discussing spies and Cambridge of the 1930s with Alix. Beaver’s old friend the classical scholar and translator, Philip Hoxton, had once been proposed in the pages of
The Times
as the Fourth Man of the Burgess—Maclean scandal: now
he
, says Beaver, would have appreciated Pharsalian Pink, but I can hardly think our hostess reads Latin, can you?
‘Her husband’s an archaeologist, I told you,’ said Alix, reprovingly, wondering if she is going to have to spend the whole evening looking after Beaver, or whether she can foist him off on some young admirer. She looks around for young admirers, but the student age group (well, by now the post-grad age group), the age group that has rediscovered Beaver, seems to be missing. There are various teenagers, like Sam and Tony and Alice Enderby, but they are
too
young. She spots the Vice-Chancellor. He would surely be willing to pay his respects to a great man? After all, he’d given Beaver an honorary degree, rather belatedly, a couple of years ago. He could spare him five minutes. Not that he’d have heard of Lucan or the
Pharsalia
, for he was a scientist, as most vice-chancellors seemed to be these days, but he might be able to chat along about university politics, or the old days, or the sensational rise in bus fares . . . Or then again, perhaps not. The gap widens, even here, in the Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire, between those who take buses and those who do not. And vice-chancellors do not. Beaver is so rude, now he is old. Alix doesn’t mind it, but many do. Beaver tells her another wartime partisan anecdote about old Hoxton in the Balkans. ‘Maybe he was a spy, after all,’ muses Beaver. ‘I don’t suppose it matters, one way or the other, do you? Get me another drink, Bowen, will you?’
‘Are you sure you should?’ asks Alix. He has already had two glasses of wine, as well as a preliminary snifter of the pink.
‘Yes, I am,’ says Beaver. ‘Quite sure. I’ll just wait here. Off you go-’
On her way to the drinks table, Alix passes Perry Blinkhorn, who interrupts his conversation with a tall, bony, middle-aged, horse-faced woman to salute her. Alix sees Brian, bending low over a very slightly lopsided dowager-humped old lady. Alix sees Liz, talking to Clive Enderby, and she sees her new friends the Bells, talking to another couple whom she uncertainly identifies as Janice and Edward Enderby. The Bells put out distress signals to her, they transmit hope of relief.
The evening wears on, the noise level mounts, and some of the elderly leave, but not Howard Beaver. He is sitting in a corner, and has found acolytes, in the form of a television researcher, her boyfriend, a journalist from the
Northam Star
, and radio reporter Tony Troughton. They are talking about making a programme about Beaver. This conversation suits Beaver very well. Elsewhere, other deals are being suggested or struck: property deals, political deals. Sexual transactions are also taking place, for the crystal bowl is empty, and the potion is at work. Tony Kettle has led Alice Enderby upstairs to bed, and they are already stripping off their clothes in reckless bravado, in wild abandon. His, friend Sam has not been so lucky: Sam has been cornered by a young philosophy lecturer who wants to describe to Sam various versions of the Prisoner’s Dilemma. Sam, who cannot follow this kind of thing even when he is sober, thinks he is going mad. ‘
Blake Leith has wheedled Susie Enderby into the dank unlit unrestored conservatory, and they stand together by a row of withered geraniums, staring at the starlit April sky. He is talking in a low voice, urgently, as though time and life were running out, now, here, irrecoverably. He has one hand on her shoulder, and
her dress has slipped slightly: his hot hand rests on her bare skin, lightly burning. He is talking of his own affairs, of his only son killed in a motorbike accident, of the emptiness of life, of his ruined hopes, of his envy of happy married couples, of his feeling that he is for ever excluded from peace and warmth and happiness, of his knowledge that he is outside, looking in, a ghost man, a shadow man, a straw man. He is very drunk, and so is Susie. He kneads her shoulder, her collarbone, his fingers sink towards her breast. Look, he says, look backwards, look at all those real people; and from the dark chill of the unused glasshouse Susie looks back at the lighted party, where animated brightly coloured figures talk and laugh and gesture and eat and drink behind a solid pane. Look at them, he says, look. And she looks, then turns back to him, and he bends over her and kisses her and takes her in his arms. They stand there, locked in a Mills and Boon embrace. Susie, Susie, he whispers, and kisses her again, more deeply. There is nothing she can do about it, she is utterly convinced, her whole body trembles and blazes, and as he presses against her she is near orgasm inside her new thin silk dress. She has fallen helplessly, hopelessly in love with this smooth-talking, desperate second-rate small-town seducer, this self-condemned cad, this self-dramatizing worthless bastard. She has given herself up, and in a few days, in a few hours, in a few minutes, she will no longer be able to remember that she once knew him for what he was, that she once thought of him in these terms, for this knowledge of him is slipping from her and is being replaced, transfused, irradiated by a new knowledge, a new longing, a new and overwhelming desire. She hears herself groan in surrender as he searches for her under her clothes, as she presses her body towards him and offers its secrets, as she shakes and trembles to his fingers. This can never be undone, it is too late, she has left the real world of real people, and entered the dark world of passion, she has already forgotten where it was that she stood an hour ago, her old dry self, for now she is another person, she is this person, his person; and he, she can tell, is hers.
Where will this end? Neither of them knows. They have willed disaster, and they set out on its dark salted flood, burning, glorious, redeemed, transformed. Susie’s feet bleed, one of her shoes is a white kid well of red blood, but she does not care, she is beyond care, in another kingdom.