The History Man (33 page)

‘But he saw nothing,' says Howard, ‘he just looked in on me from outside and made corrupt deductions. Miss Phee's one of my advisees. She's a very sad creature. She's been through everything. Boy trouble, girl trouble, an abortion, the identity crisis, a breakdown …' ‘The menopause,' says Miss Callendar. ‘Not yet,' says Howard. ‘Well, you've something to come,' says Miss Callendar. ‘A scone? I made them myself.' ‘Thanks,' says Howard. ‘She had a crisis that night. A lesbian affair she was having was breaking up.' ‘Isn't she rather hogging the problems?' asks Miss Callendar. ‘She was in trouble,' says Howard, ‘she went down there into my study, and started raking through my papers. She wanted to be caught, I think; anyway, I caught her.' ‘The instinct of curiosity,' says Miss Callendar, ‘Mr Carmody has that too.' ‘Of course I was angry. But the meaning of the situation was obvious. She was crying out for attention.' ‘So you laid her down and gave her some,' says Miss Callendar. ‘No,' says Howard, ‘it was very much the other way around.' ‘Oh God, how awful,' says Miss Callendar, ‘did she attack you? Were you hurt?' ‘I'm explaining to you that she has no attraction for me,' says Howard, ‘I didn't want her at all. I wanted someone else. In fact, you. Out there beyond the window.' ‘But in my absence you settled for her instead,' says Miss Callendar, picking up, from a table at the side of her chair, a mysterious ravel of knitting, with needles sticking through it, and beginning to work on it, ‘I see.' ‘I want you to see that this situation isn't as Carmody described it,' says Howard, ‘I want you to see it humanly.' ‘Mr Carmody wanted you to see him humanly,' says Miss Callander. ‘Miss Phee needed help,' says Howard, ‘that's why I took her into my house. That's why she was there over the weekend while my wife was away.' ‘Did your wife go far?' asks Miss Callendar. ‘London,' says Howard. ‘You did tell me about her trips to London,' says Miss Callander, ‘she goes her way, you go yours. No doubt you were able to give her much more attention and help while she was away.' ‘She was there,' says Howard, ‘to look after the children. We looked after them together. We took them to the fun-fair, walked in the country with them.' ‘But you did give her some help,' says Miss Callendar, ‘there were photographs of the help.' ‘Exactly,' says Howard. ‘This was the situation that Carmody spied on and photographed and distorted into a blackmailing accusation, without knowing anything at all about it.'

Miss Callendar, sitting in her armchair, turns a row of her knitting. ‘I see,' she says, ‘and that's the story.' ‘That's the essence of it,' says Howard. ‘Do you mind if I criticize,' asks Miss Callendar, ‘with my imperfect expertise?' ‘Do,' says Howard. ‘Well, it's a tale of fine feeling,' says Miss Callendar, ‘it's certainly got more psychology than Mr Carmody's. It's less ironic and detached, more a piece of late nineteenth-century realism. But his has more plot and event. I mean, in his, Miss Phee needs help quite frequently. And then you have to nip off one evening and help Dr Beniform, and then there's the little episode with me, not treated in your version at all, though I found it quite significant.' ‘It's hardly relevant,' says Howard. ‘That's not very kind,' says Miss Callendar, ‘one hates not to be of the essence. Relegated to a minor subplot. In his version I'm quite a rounded character.' ‘I'm not sure where you fit,' says Howard, ‘since I thought the point of his story was that I'm giving good marks to Miss Phee for corrupt reasons.' ‘That's right,' says Miss Callendar, ‘his story does have an ending. Where you hand out the As and Bs. For her overall performance, as they say.' ‘Whereas the point of my story is that if I did grade Miss Phee for her performance it wouldn't be As and Bs.' ‘Yes,' says Miss Callendar, ‘I see that. Well, there we are. It shows how different a story can be if you change the
point d'appui
, the angle of vision.' ‘Angle of vision!' says Howard, ‘That man's followed me everywhere, tracked my movements, photographed me through curtains, and then built a lie out of it. He's a fine angle of vision.' ‘An outside eye's sometimes illuminating,' says Miss Callendar, ‘and of course, as Henry James says, the house of fiction has many windows. Your trouble is you seem to have stood in front of most of them.'

‘Look, Miss Callendar,' says Howard, ‘these aren't just two little stories, for your bright critical intelligence to play with.' ‘No,' says Miss Callendar, ‘there's more at stake. But the trouble is I don't find your story's complete. I don't think you're telling me everything. I don't know what you want of Carmody, I don't know what you want of me. There's a plot you haven't given.' ‘I don't know whether you know how much is at stake,' says Howard. ‘You realize that Carmody's spied on me every day, and made up a story out of what he's seen that could cost me my job?' ‘You could say he was trying to make sense of you,' says Miss Callendar. ‘For God's sake,' says Howard, ‘he's probably outside there right now, on a ladder, making up a story about me taking your clothes off.' ‘Does he lie?' asks Miss Callendar, ‘Isn't there some truth?' ‘I'm not taking your clothes off,' says Howard. ‘He's not out there,' says Miss Callendar, putting down her knitting on the table, and staring at him with wet eyes. ‘He's got an appointment now. He's seeing the Vice-Chancellor.' ‘Giving him his angle of vision,' says Howard. ‘Yes,' says Miss Callendar, ‘I'm sorry, I really am. Is it true that you could lose your job? All he wants is a chance.' ‘There's a thing called gross moral turpitude,' says Howard, ‘it's a very vague concept, especially these days. But I have political enemies who'd pin anything onto me they could.' ‘Oh, God,' says Miss Callendar, ‘this is why I came home. I just couldn't stand it. That awful, prying meeting this morning. I've been so worried about both of you.' ‘About him?' asks Howard. ‘He's a blackmailer and a fascist. You worried about him?' ‘He's not a fascist, he's a person,' says Miss Callendar, ‘he's a boy, and he's silly and frightened, because you frightened him. He's behaved wickedly and ridiculously. I've told him, I've attacked him. But he thinks you're out to destroy him, just because he is what he is, and he's struggling for his survival.' ‘That's right,' says Howard. ‘In other words, the classic fascist psychology. When everthing's going in your favour, you claim belief in the values of decency and convention. But when your position's challenged, to hell with all that. Fight for self-interest with everything you can lay your hands on.' ‘But what have you been doing with him?' asks Miss Callendar. ‘You boxed him in a corner, and wouldn't let him out. You said on Thursday you might teach him again. Why did you say that?' ‘You know why,' says Howard. ‘You were playing with him to reach me,' says Miss Callendar. ‘Look,' says Howard, ‘while we were talking, he was spying. He's not worth your compassion.' ‘He's a sad case,' says Miss Callendar, ‘appealing for assistance. Like your Miss Phee. But one you bed and one you punish.' ‘One's a person, and one's not,' says Howard. ‘You're dangerously misdirecting your compassion. Look at him. Inspect his cropped little haircut, his polished shoes. Think about that arrogant, imperial manner. He expects the world to dance to his tune. If it doesn't, he smashes out. He can't face life or reality. He feels nothing except terror at being threatened by those who are actually doing some living. That's the meaning of his story. That's the person you're supporting.' ‘I've done no more than I should, as his adviser,' says Miss Callendar, ‘and rather less than you've done for Miss Phee.' ‘No,' says Howard, ‘you've believed him. You told me that. He offered an explanation of what you couldn't understand.' ‘I haven't accepted his charge,' says Miss Callendar, ‘I have believed what he saw to be true.' ‘You haven't also helped him see it?' asks Howard. Miss Callendar looks at Howard; she says, ‘What do you mean?' Howard says, ‘It was on Tuesday Carmody and I had our fight. But he knows all about Monday night. About Felicity Phee and me in the basement. He must have been standing just about where you were standing, at exactly the same time, to know that.' ‘You think I told him?' asks Miss Callendar, ‘I didn't.' ‘Did you see him that night, when you left?' asks Howard. ‘Where was he?' ‘I don't know,' says Miss Callendar, ‘but I didn't tell him.' ‘How do I know?' asks Howard. ‘You don't,' says Miss Callendar. ‘No,' says Howard.

Miss Callendar gets up out of her chair. She stands in front of the fire; she picks up a glass globe from the mantelpiece. There is a tiny village scene inside the globe; when she picks it up, snowflakes start to foam within the glass. Howard gets up too; he says, ‘Do you understand what I'm saying to you?' Miss Callendar looks up; she says, ‘Why do you blame me?' ‘You've got to make your choice,' says Howard. ‘Where you are. Who you're with. Whose story you accept.' ‘I like to be fair,' says Miss Callendar. ‘You can't be,' says Howard. ‘Do you know where you're going? You're going his way. You'll end up just like him.' ‘What do you mean?' says Miss Callendar. ‘Look at this room you've shut yourself up in,' says Howard. ‘It speaks what you are.' Miss Callendar looks round her room, at the chintz armchairs, the standard lamp, the prints on the walls. ‘It's a very convenient room,' she says. ‘It's a faded place,' says Howard, ‘somewhere where you can hide, and protect yourself against anything that's growing now. Life and sexuality and love. Don't you hide?' ‘I like to be a little elusive,' says Miss Callendar. ‘He's destroyed himself, and you will too,' says Howard. ‘You'll dry up, you'll wither, you'll hate and grudge, in ten years you'll be nothing, a neurotic little old lady.' ‘It's a very nice room,' says Miss Callendar. Howard says: ‘Freud once gave a very economical definition of neurosis. He said it was an abnormal attachment to the past.' Miss Callendar's face is very white; her dark eyes stare out of it. ‘I don't want this,' she says, ‘I can't bear this.' ‘You've got to forget him,' says Howard, putting his hand over the hand that holds the little glass snowstorm, ‘You've got to be with me.' ‘I shouldn't have let you in,' says Miss Callendar. ‘What did you do to him?' ‘I'm not interested in him,' says Howard, ‘I'm interested in you. I have been all along.' ‘I don't want you to be,' says Miss Callendar. ‘Is that your bedroom in there?' asks Howard. ‘Why?' asks Miss Callendar, lifting a sad, crying face. ‘Come in there with me,' says Howard. ‘I don't want to,' says Miss Callendar. ‘It's all right,' says Howard. ‘He's not there. He's gone to see the Vice-Chancellor.' ‘I don't want it,' says Miss Callendar. ‘Another Miss Phee, getting the help.' ‘Oh, you're more than that,' says Howard. ‘Not a subplot,' says Miss Callendar. ‘The thing it's all been about,' says Howard. ‘Come on.'

He puts his hand on her arm. Miss Callendar turns, her dark head down. ‘Yes,' says Howard. Miss Callendar moves towards the brown-stained bedroom door; she pushes it open and walks into the room. It is a small room, with, against one wall, a very large wardrobe; the bed is bulky and high, and has a wooden head and foot. On it is a patchwork quilt; Miss Callendar straightens it. Outside the window is a little garden, on the slope; Miss Callendar goes to this window, and pulls across the heavy plush curtains. The room now is nearly dark. Still standing by the curtains, away from him on the other side of the bed, she begins, clumsily, to remove the trouser suit; he hears the whisper of cloth as she takes things off. ‘Can I put the light on?' asks Howard. ‘No, don't, you mustn't,' says Miss Callendar. The clothes fall off onto the floor; her body is white in the faint light. She moves from her place; the bed creaks; she is lying on top of the quilt. His own clothes are around his feet. He climbs onto the bed, and touches with his hand the very faintly roughened softness of her skin. He feels the coldness of his hand on her, and a little pulling shudder, a revulsion, in the flesh. His hand has found the centre of her body, the navel; he slides it upward, to her small round breast, and then down, to her thighs. He feels the springs of response, tiny springs; the stir of the nipple, the warmth of the mucus. But she scarcely moves; she neglects to feel what she feels. ‘Have you done this before?' he whispers. ‘Hardly ever,' she whispers. ‘You don't like it,' he says. ‘Aren't you here to make me?' she asks. He kneads and presses her body. He lies over her, against her breast, and can feel the rapid knocking of her heart. In the dark he moves and feels the busy, energetic flesh of himself wriggling into her, like a formless proliferating thing, hot and growing and spreading. Unmitigated, inhuman, it explodes; the sweat of flesh, of two fleshes, is in the air of the dark room; their bodies break away from each other.

Miss Callendar lies with her face away from him; he can smell the scent of her healthy shampoo close to his face. ‘I shouldn't have let you, it's wrong,' she whispers. ‘It's not wrong,' he says. How can he have thought her quite old, when he met her first? Her body against him feels very, very young. He whispers, as to a child, ‘Promise me you'll not think about him again, act for him again.' Miss Callendar keeps her head turned away; she says, ‘That's what it was for.' ‘It's for your good,' says Howard. ‘Those things you said,' says Miss Callendar. ‘What about them?' asks Howard. ‘You said them just to get inside me.' ‘I think you'd have let me, in any case,' says Howard. ‘It was bound to happen.' ‘Historical inevitability,' says Miss Callendar. ‘There was an ending. I was it.' ‘That's right,' says Howard. ‘Marx arranged it.' After a moment, Miss Callendar turns her head; she says, ‘Marx said history is bunk.' ‘That was Henry Ford,' says Howard. ‘No, Marx,' says Miss Callendar. ‘Oh, yes?' asks Howard, ‘where?' ‘A late insight,' says Miss Callendar, turning her body over to face him. ‘It's my field,' says Howard. ‘Blake for you, and Marx for me.' ‘I'm right,' says Miss Callendar, ‘it's a critical ambiguity.' ‘If you want,' says Howard. ‘Was I awful at it?' asks Miss Callendar. ‘It's like golf, you need plenty of practice,' says Howard. ‘We can arrange it.' ‘You're so busy,' says Miss Callendar, ‘and George will be on duty again.' ‘Oh, I don't think so,' says Howard, ‘I think we can deal with him.'