by David Lodge
‘The first guest,’ says Helen, superfluously.
‘I guarantee it’s Duggers,’ says Carrie, glancing at the kitchen clock. ‘Nobody ever explained to him that a party invitation is not a test of punctuality. Be a sweetheart and talk to him, would you Helen?’
‘Now you can explain quantum mechanics to me, Professor Douglass,’ says Helen.
‘This hardly seems an appropriate moment,’ he says, smiling primly.
‘But it’s lovely and quiet,’ she says. ‘Soon this room will be full of people and noise and it won’t be possible to have a serious conversation.’ They are alone in the drawing room, standing in front of the simulated coal fire. Helen holds a glass of Californian Sauvignon Blanc, Douglass a glass of orange juice. Helen proffers a bowl of macadamia nuts. Douglass takes one and nibbles it with a rapid movement of his front teeth, like a squirrel.
‘Why are you interested?’ he says.
‘Ralph said it had something to do with the theory of consciousness,’ she says. ‘I’m interested in that.’
‘Very small particles behave like waves, in random and unpredictable ways,’ says Douglas. ‘When we make a measurement, we cause the wave to collapse. It’s been suggested that the phenomenon of consciousness is a series of continuous collapses of the wave function.’
‘Is that the same as chaos theory?’ says Helen.
‘No.’
‘I just thought . . . “collapse” and “chaos” . . .’
‘They are quite different concepts.’
‘But they make science sound terribly exciting, don’t they?’
Professor Douglass evidently finds this remark too girlishly trivial to be worthy of a response. ‘Some quantum physicists argue that we create the universe we inhabit by the act of observing it. That it is only one of many possible universes that might have existed, or, in an extreme formulation, actually do exist parallel to the one we inhabit.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Helen asks.
‘No,’ says Professor Douglass. ‘The universe is certainly there, independently of ourselves, and was there before we existed. But it is possible that we can never know it as it really is, because of the uncertainty principle.’
‘The uncertainty principle, yes . . .’ says Helen. ‘I’ve heard of it of course, but . . .’
‘Heisenberg demonstrated that you cannot accurately specify both the position and the speed of a particle. If you get one right, you get the other wrong.’ He looks round at the empty room and then at his watch. ‘Did I make a mistake about the time of this party?’ he says.
‘No. Somebody has to be the first to arrive,’ says Helen. ‘You created the party, you see. Out of all the many possible parties there might have been! If somebody else had arrived first, it would have taken a completely different course, because I would have spoken to them instead, and perhaps never spoken to you at all, or not about the same thing, and every conversation that will now take place would have been different if you hadn’t come first. How’s that for a quantum theory of parties?’ She laughs, pleased with her conceit.
‘It’s more like chaos theory, actually,’ says Douglass pedantically.
‘Oh, why?’ says Helen.
‘Chaos theory deals with systems that are unusually sensitive to variations in their initial conditions or affected by a large number of independent variables. Like the weather, for instance.’
‘Oh, I know, you mean when a butterfly flutters its wings on one side of the world and sets off a tornado on the other.’
‘That is an oversimplification, but basically, yes.’
‘Oh good,’ says Helen. ‘At last I got something right.’
The front doorbell rings, and there is a sudden hubbub in the hall.
‘There, some more independent variables have arrived,’ says Helen.
The house begins to fill up. The curtains on the long Georgian windows have not been drawn, and light streams out on to the drive and footpath. Approaching guests can see the throng inside, chatting and laughing and drinking and chewing animatedly but silently, like actors on television when the sound is turned down. The door has been left on the latch, so there is no longer any need to ring the bell, but Ralph hovers just inside the door to welcome his guests, and receive their congratulations, birthday cards and gifts. Men are directed to hang their coats in the downstairs cloakroom, where some linger to examine the wall-paper with its pattern of illustrations reproduced from La Vie Parisienne; women are invited to spread their coats on the twin beds of the guest bedroom, which has an en-suite bathroom convenient for last-minute adjustments to hair and makeup. Divested of their outdoor attire, the guests provide themselves with red or white wine, beer or soft drinks from the bar-table in the hall, tended by Mark Messenger in an electric blue shirt and black Dockers, then pass into the large drawing room, where Simon and Hope wriggle through the crush bearing plates of canapés, darting back occasionally for replenishments to the kitchen, where Carrie is warming up the ciabatta and focaccia and organic wholemeal rolls in the electric oven for supper, while chatting to some women friends who are enviously inspecting the new modular kitchen units and work surfaces imported from Germany and fitted just a few months ago.
In the drawing room knots of guests form, loosen and reform. Conversational topics are carried from one group to another like viruses: the sad case of Jean-Dominique Bauby; Dolly the cloned sheep; crashes on the motorway in fog earlier in the week; the defeat of England by Italy in a World Cup qualifier at Wembley; the schoolteacher in nearby Cheddar shown by a DNA test to be the direct descendant of a prehistoric hunter whose skeleton was found in one of the caves; the impending General Election.
‘May Day, a good omen for Labour,’ somebody says.
‘We don’t need omens,’ says another. ‘We’ve got polls. We’ve got by-election results. If the Wirral result is replicated in May, Labour will have a majority of over two hundred and fifty.’
‘That’s pure fantasy, of course.’
‘Maybe . . . but even if it’s only half true . . .’
Laetitia Glover is in a state of exasperated indecision over the election, which she explains to Helen. ‘Of course I want the Tories out, that’s a priority,’ she says. ‘And the best way to achieve that in Cheltenham is a tactical vote for the Lib Dems – they took the seat off the Tories at the last election. But it goes against the grain to actually work for the Lib Dems. I’m condemned to watch from the sidelines.’
‘Couldn’t you work for Labour in another constituency?’ says Helen.
‘Well, I could . . .’ Laetitia says, drawling the last word, and not looking particularly grateful for the suggestion.
‘But one hardly feels like working for the party under Blair and Brown,’ says Reginald Glover.
‘Exactly!’ says Laetitia. ‘They’ve hamstrung any future Labour government by promising not to increase income tax.’
‘Do you want to pay more income tax, Laetitia?’ Ralph asks her, as he comes up with a bottle of wine in each hand, red and white.
‘If it’s necessary to save the Health Service,’ she says stiffly. ‘But it’s the fat cats in the privatized industries who should be squeezed.’
‘I see Bill Gates is now the richest man in the world,’ says Ralph, topping up her glass. ‘He’s worth twenty-nine billion dollars and every day he makes another forty-two million.’
‘It’s simply obscene that one man should have such wealth,’ says Laetitia.
‘Just think,’ says Ralph. ‘If we could persuade him to move to Britain, and reintroduced supertax, he could probably fund the National Health Service all on his own.’ He winks at Helen and moves away.
‘What was that supposed to mean?’ Laetitia demands.
‘I think it’s about high taxation being a disincentive to enterprise,’ says Reginald Glover, with a slight curl of his hairy lip. ‘I’m afraid Ralph always had a soft spot for Mrs Thatcher. Not surprising really. What was Thatcherism but Darwinian economics? Surviv
al of the fittest.’
Helen detaches herself from the Glovers and joins a little huddle of Ralph’s graduate students who seem, surprisingly, to be discussing Zola. ‘Which of his novels do you like best?’ she asks Jim. But it transpires that they are discussing a footballer who scored a decisive goal against England on Wednesday. Not having much to contribute on this subject, she turns aside to greet Jasper Richmond, who is working his way back to the bar.
‘Hallo,’ he says. ‘Come and get another drink.’ He leads her out into the hall, and recharges his glass and hers. ‘I’m glad you were invited. The Messengers give the best parties around here.’
‘They certainly seem to know how to do it,’ says Helen.
‘They have the money, and the space. And you get a mixture of arts and sciences you don’t get anywhere else. That’s mainly Carrie’s doing. Nice house isn’t it?’ He gestures largely with his free hand.
‘Lovely.’
‘They’ve got another one, you know, in the country near Stow.’
‘I know, I’ve been there.’
‘Have you?’ He looks surprised, and impressed. ‘That’s quick. Congratulations.’
‘What for?’ Helen asks.
‘You’ve obviously been adopted . . . Only very special friends are invited to the cottage. They do that every now and then, or rather Carrie does. She takes a fancy to someone, a woman, usually a newcomer . . .’ He sniggers. ‘I don’t mean to suggest that she’s a lesbian.’
‘Oh good,’ says Helen lightly.
‘It happened to Marianne when we got married. It happened to young Annabelle Riverdale, when Colin was appointed. It happened to a lot of the women here tonight. For a while you’re the favourite, until another candidate comes along. Did you go in the hot tub?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a kind of baptism,’ he says, nodding. ‘But I’m delighted – it’s just what you need while you’re at GU. Wealthy hospitable friends.’
‘Yes, they’ve been very kind,’ says Helen.
‘Marianne thinks Carrie does it to pre-empt any extramural interest on Ralph’s part. Consciously or unconsciously.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, when an attractive new woman arrives on campus, Carrie makes her a friend of the family. It makes it difficult for her to become a special friend of Ralph’s.’
‘I see,’ says Helen.
‘There’s the VC,’ says Jasper, looking over her shoulder. ‘Come and meet him.’
Jasper Richmond introduces Helen to the Vice Chancellor and his wife, Sir Stanley and Lady Hibberd. ‘Stan and Viv, that’s what our friends call us,’ the VC says cheerfully, in a Lancashire accent. ‘We’re not lah-dee-dah, are we, Viv? Very glad to have you on board, Helen. You don’t mind if I call you Helen?’
‘Not at all,’ she says.
Colin Riverdale comes up and hovers, smiling, with Annabelle at his side holding a large goblet of white wine in her two hands like a communion cup. Sir Stan nods a greeting to them but carries on speaking to Helen.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ says Sir Stan, ‘I didn’t rate creative writing as an academic subject when I came here. But when I looked at the books, I was converted.’
‘You mean, books by former students?’ says Helen.
‘No, no! I mean the accounts,’ says Sir Stan, laughing heartily. ‘I don’t have much time for reading, I’m afraid. Viv’s the reader in our house, aren’t you ducks?’
‘I did so enjoy your book, The Eye of a Needle,’ says Lady Hibberd to Helen.
Helen smiles, murmurs something indistinguishable.
‘That’s by Margaret Drabble,’ says Annabelle Riverdale, ‘and it’s called The Needle’s Eye.’
‘Oh,’ says Lady Hibberd.
Colin looks daggers at his wife. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It comes of being a librarian.’ She bows her head contritely and drinks from her goblet of wine.
‘Well, it was the Eye of something,’ says Lady Hibberd.
‘I wrote a book called The Eye of the Storm,’ says Helen.
‘That’s it,’ says Lady Hibberd. ‘It begins with a man in an off-licence.’
‘Well, no, actually that’s The Needle’s Eye, I’m afraid,’ says Helen apologetically.
Annabelle Riverdale chokes on her wine. Colin leads her away like a naughty child.
‘You know Patrick White wrote a novel called The Eye of the Storm?’ Jasper says to Helen, to distract the company from this incident.
‘Yes. I found out too late to change the title of mine,’ says Helen. ‘Anyway, I’d become attached to it.’
‘Ah well, no wonder you got confused, Viv,’ says Sir Stan to his wife. ‘Is that allowed?’ he demands of Helen.
‘Yes, there’s no copyright in titles,’ she says.
The decibel level of the conversational roar in the drawing room is rising. Most of the guests have had two or three glasses of wine by now. Ralph and Carrie exchange a glance. Ralph raises an interrogative eyebrow; Carrie nods. She begins to direct guests towards the dining room, where a line soon forms around the long mahogany table, cooing and exclaiming over the appetizing dishes. The guests take their laden plates back into the drawing room or scatter to other rooms on the ground floor – the breakfast room, the television room, the family room – which have been opened up and tidied for the occasion, with chairs and cushions and stools arranged invitingly in small arcs.
Ralph sees Marianne Richmond slipping out into the back garden for a smoke. After a minute or two, he picks up a carton of empty wine bottles from the hall and follows her. He sees the red tip of her cigarette glowing in the shadow of the patio wall and goes over.
‘Did anyone see you come out?’ she says.
Ralph stands still, but does not speak.
‘Did anyone see you?’ she repeats.
‘I brought some empty bottles with me as an alibi,’ he says, putting his clinking burden on the ground. After a short pause, he adds, ‘I thought we weren’t to speak. I thought that was the first rule of this game.’
‘The game’s up,’ Marianne says. ‘Well, over, anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oliver saw us in Sainsbury’s car-park on Tuesday.’
‘I didn’t know Oliver was with you!’
‘He wasn’t,’ says Marianne. ‘It was an unlucky coincidence. He was on independence training. He does it every Tuesday afternoon at the F.E. College. Special Needs. They take them out, teach them to use public transport, take them shopping. They went to Sainsbury’s on Tuesday, Oliver got separated from the group somehow, got lost, was wandering about the car-park looking for the minibus, when he saw us, in my car.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He said to me yesterday, “I saw you kissing Ralph Messenger in your car.”’
‘Christ!’ says Ralph. ‘He knows me by name, does he?’
‘He never forgets a name. Especially anyone who’s been on television.’
‘Christ,’ Ralph says again.
‘I’m terrified he’ll mention it to Jasper.’
‘Can’t you tell him not to?’
‘He wouldn’t understand.’
‘Well, if he does, you’ll just have to deny it,’ says Ralph. ‘After all, it sounds a pretty tall story doesn’t it? Nobody would believe it if it was your word against his.’
‘Oliver doesn’t tell lies,’ says Marianne. ‘He doesn’t understand the concept.’
‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ says Ralph thoughtfully. ‘No T.O.M.’
‘What?’
‘Theory of mind. Knowing that other people may interpret the world differently from yourself. The ability to lie depends on it. Most children acquire it at the age of three to four. Autistics never do.’
‘Well, that’s very interesting, but not much help,’ says Marianne. ‘Jasper knows that Oliver doesn’t tell lies.’
‘You’ll just have to say he must have been mistaken,’ says Ralph. ‘After all, it was dark,
raining.’
‘But we were there, the three of us, at the same time,’ says Marianne. ‘Jasper could establish that if he wants to be forensic about it. Suspicious circumstances, wouldn’t you say?’
Ralph thinks for a moment. ‘OK. Suppose Oliver saw us, separately, in the store, then he gets separated from his group, he’s wandering round the car-park in a state of some distress, looking for his mates, and he sees a couple who look like us, wearing the same sort of clothes perhaps, snogging in a car, the windows are all misted up, and he thinks it’s us. But of course the idea is preposterous. Ralph Messenger and Marianne Richmond snogging in Sainsbury’s car-park? You just laugh it off. No problem.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ says Marianne, taking a last drag on her cigarette and stamping it out on the flagstones. ‘We’d better go back indoors,’ she says. ‘But not together.’
‘What about a kiss, first?’ he says, reaching out for her.
‘No Ralph.’ She pushes him away firmly. ‘It was a stupid game, and now it’s over.’
Marianne turns on her heel and walks back to the house, clutching herself and shivering a little from the cold.