Thinks...

by David Lodge

  ‘Mine-laying? Pity about that, Ralph. Mine-clearing is all right.’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Politically correct. This peace group is threatening to demonstrate. Picket next week’s meeting of Council.’

  ‘What? I thought that sort of thing went out of fashion with flared jeans and Jesus beards.’

  ‘Apparently not. It’s only a small minority, but they could cause us some embarrassment. If Donaldson gets wind of it, he could pull out. That might jeopardize your future funding.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the editor of the rag,’ says Ralph.

  ‘Well, tread carefully. If you could write something for them that gives a more favourable spin to the facts . . .’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Ralph says.

  ‘Good man,’ says Sir Stan. ‘By the way, Viv and I were sorry to miss you the other day at your rural retreat.’

  ‘Yes, pity about that, I’d just gone for a walk. Found your note when I got back.’

  ‘Taking the afternoon off from work, eh? We should all do it more often.’

  ‘I find I can think more clearly in the country.’

  ‘I’m sure. How’s Carrie?’

  ‘Fine. She’s just come back from the States. Her father’s been ill.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that . . . You were on your own, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the cottage.’

  ‘Oh yes. On my own.’

  ‘I’ve got to go, Ralph. Inaugural lecture by the new chair of Metallurgy.’

  Ralph puts down the phone and says, ‘Fuck!’ aloud. He goes downstairs to tell Carrie the gist of the VC’s call.

  ‘Troubles never come singly,’ she says.

  ‘I wonder who leaked the story to the student rag,’ Ralph says.

  On Thursday morning Helen phones Ralph at his office.

  ‘Helen! I was going to call you –’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘It’s just that things have been getting a little fraught around here.’

  ‘How did the tests go?’

  ‘Inconclusive. I’ve got to have more tests on Monday.’

  ‘That’s a bind.’

  ‘It really is. What with the conference, and now this stupid storm in a teacup about Donaldson’s honorary degree. Did you see On Campus this week? The student rag?’

  ‘No. What’s in it?’

  ‘Too complicated to explain now. I’ve got a meeting with the editor in a few minutes.’

  ‘When will I see you?’

  ‘Come to Horseshoes on Sunday. No, shit, I’m going into hospital on Saturday –’

  ‘I mean when can I see you alone, Messenger.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ralph pauses for a moment. ‘Ah . . . I don’t think I’m in the mood right now, Helen.’

  ‘I don’t mean for sex, Messenger,’ Helen says. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  ‘Sorry . . . Well, let’s see, I told Carrie I’d be working late this evening. I’ll look in on the way home. About seven. OK?’

  Helen’s next-door neighbours are just leaving their house, dressed for tennis and swinging their racquets, as Ralph draws up in the service road alongside the terrace. He stays in the car, pretending to be studying a document, until they are out of sight. Then he rings her bell. She admits him instantly and shuts the door quickly. They embrace, leaning up against the door.

  ‘Oh Messenger,’ she says. ‘I’ve had such a miserable week.’

  ‘It hasn’t been too wonderful for me either,’ he says.

  ‘No, poor you. Tell me about the tests.’ She leads him into the living-room. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Some juice if you’ve got it. Henderson said no alcohol.’

  ‘Henderson?’

  ‘My consultant.’

  ‘Oh, I was mixing him up with the other man, the one in the newspaper. I picked up a copy this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s Donaldson,’ Ralph says, following Helen into the little living-room. He sprawls in an armchair as she fetches a carton of orange juice from the fridge, opens it, and pours two glasses. ‘I saw the editor this morning,’ Ralph says. ‘Little smartarse from Cultural Studies, with his sights set on a career in the tabloids. I asked him where he got the story from. He had the cheek to say it was public knowledge.’

  ‘Isn’t it, then?’

  ‘Well it’s public knowledge that Donaldson is a big wheel in the MoD of course. And there are references to their funding some of our research in Senate papers if you know where to look – though they’re supposed to have limited circulation . . . But who drew the connections? Who pointed the rag in the right direction? Smartarse wouldn’t say. Perhaps he doesn’t know – it could have been an anonymous tipoff from somebody who doesn’t like the Centre. Or doesn’t like me. Thanks.’ Ralph takes a glass of juice from Helen. She sits down on the couch.

  ‘Tell me more about what happened at the hospital,’ she says.

  Ralph describes the tests he had the day before, and the consultation afterwards with Henderson.

  ‘What’s a colonoscopy?’ she asks.

  ‘They stick a little TV camera up your rectum and look at the inside of your intestine,’ he says. ‘It’s the medical equivalent of Channel Five.’

  Helen grimaces. ‘Poor you.’

  ‘Yes, I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’ He looks at his watch and puts down his glass. ‘I’d better be going.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Afraid so. Carrie may’ve phoned the office and be wondering where I am.’

  ‘Messenger . . .’

  ‘What?’ Helen does not answer, but goes red and looks as if she might be going to cry. ‘What’s the matter?’ he says, more tenderly, getting up and going over to the couch. He puts an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘I’m confused,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what you want of me.’

  ‘Want of you?’ he repeats, frowning.

  ‘For three weeks we have a mad passionate affair. We meet nearly every day. We make love practically every day. Then suddenly, bang, the shutters come down. I don’t see you for days on end. I sit around waiting for telephone calls that never come, I –’

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I’ve had this damn thing on my mind –’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘I love you, Helen, and those three weeks were wonderful, truly, but . . . I just don’t feel like sex at the moment.’

  ‘Neither do I, Messenger, neither do I.’ He looks at her blankly. ‘Is that all you wanted me for, then?’ she says. ‘Would you prefer if I just dropped out of your life now that you’re ill? Got out of the way?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then don’t freeze me out. Let me into your thoughts. Tell me what you’re feeling. Let me help.’

  Ralph looks at her in silence for a few moments. ‘You really want to help me?’

  ‘Of course. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘Anything? You really mean that?’ He looks at her intently.

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’ Helen says, a little fearfully.

  ‘I’ll tell you something I wouldn’t tell anyone else,’ he says. ‘You must promise to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘All right,’ she says.

  ‘If this lump turns out to be malignant, I’m not going to hang around while it does its thing. I know what you’re going to say. I know what the medics will say. There are all kinds of treatments available nowadays, improving all the time, blah blah blah. But cancer of the liver is bad news. I looked it up on the Internet. You might get some remission with chemotherapy, but there’s no cure. Transplants are dicey, and likely to be attacked by the same cancer. I don’t want to put up a brave fight. I don’t want to be ill for a year or two and then die, helpless, wasted, incontinent, bald. No thanks. I saw my father die of cancer, and I don’t want to go through that. As soon as I’m quite sure I have an irreversible terminal condition I shall make for the Exit while I’m still able to walk out unassisted. Wel
l, perhaps not entirely unassisted.’ He pauses and glances meaningfully at Helen.

  ‘You want me to . . . ?’ Helen looks shocked. She shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Carrie won’t help me, I know that,’ Ralph says. ‘When misfortune strikes, her response is to throw money at it. I can already see the plans forming behind her eyes. To call in the whole of Harley Street. Fly me to the Mayo Clinic. Buy me a liver transplant on the black market . . . Anything to keep me alive, in a wheelchair if necessary.’

  ‘Messenger, this is horrible. I don’t want to listen any more.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to help me.’

  ‘What do you want me to do then?’ she says, her voice rising. ‘Hold a plastic bag over your head? Kick the stool away from under your feet?’

  ‘Calm down, Helen. I haven’t thought about ways and means yet. It may never come to that. I desperately hope it doesn’t. I’ve had a good life. I should be sorry to finish it, very sorry. But I will if I have to. And obviously I’d want to manage things so that it caused the least possible distress to the family. That’s where it might be useful to have someone else’s help.’

  ‘I know,’ says Helen brightly. ‘I could arrange to run you over in University Avenue. Make it look like an accident. You could step out from behind a tree at an agreed moment. We would have to synchronize our watches.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Helen,’ Ralph says.

  ‘No, I wish you were,’ she says. ‘What about the distress to me?’

  ‘I know I’m asking a lot. But it would be an act of . . . of love.’

  ‘Love?’ Helen laughs, a little hysterically.

  ‘Suppose someone you love – your mother or your father, even one of your children, was dying in unendurable pain. Wouldn’t you help them to die if you had the means?’

  ‘Possibly. But that’s different.’

  ‘I don’t see the logic. Why make people go through hell before you help them out of it? Why not help them to simply avoid it, if that’s what they want?’

  ‘I feel sick,’ Helen says. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  ‘You won’t help me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you won’t hinder? You won’t say anything to anyone about this?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good.’ He looks at his watch again. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Messenger,’ Helen says. ‘It’s because I love you.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, and kisses her lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  ‘You’re late,’ Carrie says when Messenger comes into the kitchen. ‘You said seven-thirty. The dinner’s overcooked.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ralph says. He kisses her on the cheek. ‘I called on Helen Reed on the way home.’

  ‘Oh?’ Carrie looks mildly surprised.

  ‘I had to give her some stuff about the conference. You know she’s agreed to do the Last Word?’

  ‘That’s nice of her.’

  ‘I took the opportunity to explain why we hadn’t been in touch this past week.’

  ‘Good,’ Carrie says. ‘Maybe I’ll call her, invite her over to Horseshoes on Sunday. Or do you want me to visit you in hospital?’

  ‘No please don’t. Visit me, I mean. Did you do anything interesting today?’

  ‘I did a little shopping. I ran into Nicholas in Montpellier Street, so we had lunch together at Petit Blanc.’

  ‘Lucky man to have so much leisure,’ Ralph says. ‘I hope you didn’t discuss my medical condition.’

  ‘I mentioned you were having some tests. You can’t keep it a secret, Messenger.’

  ‘I know. I just hate being the object of people’s sympathy and morbid curiosity. The less our friends know about this, the better.’

  ‘How much did you tell Helen Reed?’

  ‘Not much. And it was in confidence, anyway.’

  From: ludmila.lisk@carolinum.psy.cz

  To: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  Subject: Conference

  Date: Thursday 22 May 1997 20:35:28

  * * *

  Hi Professor Messenger,

  This is your Czech friend Ludmila. Do you remember me? I hope so. I was sending you a letter three weeks before but I think you do not recive it because I get no reply. So I looked up Gloucester University on the Internet and find your Email address. I am wishing I thought of that before.

  My letter was aksing you for confirmation that I am invited to present a poster at your conference this end of May. The British Council will give me travel scholarship but they need your confirmation. As time is short I would like it if you are quick. Please excuse my bad English.

  Yours sincerely,

  Ludmila Lisk.

  PS: My poster is called ‘Modelling Learning Behaviours in Autonomous Agents’ You remember I tell you all about it that nice evening in Prague.

  From: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  To: ludmila.lisk@carolinum.psy.cz

  Subject: Consciousness Conference VI

  Date: Friday 23 May 1997 9:25:15

  * * *

  dear ludmila,

  thanks for your email. Of course I rmemeber you, how could I not? I’m terribly sorry but the conference is absolutely full. There’s a strict limit on the number of people we can accommodate. Perhaps you could attend next year’s conference. I believe it’s going to be held in Florida – might be fun. I’ll email you information when I get it so you can apply in good time.

  best wishes,

  Ralph Messenger

  From: ludmila.lisk@carolinum.psy.cz

  To: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  Subject: Conference

  Date: Friday 23 May 1997 11:14:02

  * * *

  Dear Ralph,

  I hope you are not thinking I am rude to begin this way but you telled me to call you Ralph that nice time in Prague. I am very sad that the conference is full. In fact I weep when I am reading your email. It is not easy to get travel grants in Czech Republic. I do not think the Britsih Council will pay for me to go to Floirida. Please let me come to your conference at Gloucester. I do not mind to sleep on the floor. I bring sleeping bag. I do not expect such a nice comfortable bed that we had in Prague.

  Your friend, Ludmila

  From: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  To: ludmila.lisk@carolinum.psy.cz

  Subject: Consciousness Conference VI

  Date: Friday 23 May 1997 12:15:10

  * * *

  dear ludmila,

  alas, its not the sleeping accommodation that’s the problem. our biggest lecture room only takes 200 people and there are all kinds of rules and regulations that forbid us to enrol more people on the conference than that. Im so sorry to disappoint you but theres nothing I can do about it this time unfortunately.

  Best wishes, Ralph Messenger

  PS: I’m on the advisory board of AI Newsletter, published at Winnipeg. If you’d like to write a paragraph about your research project, I’ll see if they will include it in their Noticeboard column.

  From: ludmila.lisk@carolinum.psy.cz

  To: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  Subject: Conference

  Date: Friday 23 May 1997 13:14:02

  * * *

  Dear Ralph,

  thankyou for your email. It is kind of you to suggest the paragraph in AI Newsletter but it is more important to me to attend your conference and explain my research to all the top people in the field. I think you can find me place in your conference if you really wish it. I think perhaps you do not wish me coming to Gloucester. Are you afraid that I will tell your colleagues and maybe your wife what a nice time we had together in Prague? I promise you I will not say nothing. But if I cannot come to the conference and I lose my travel scholarship I will be very sad and angry. Perhaps I will write all about what we did in Prague together and post it on the Internet.

  Your fiend,

  Ludmila

  From: R.H.Messenger@glosu.ac.uk

  To: ludmila.li
sk@carolinum.psy.cz

  Subject: Consciousness Conference VI

  Date: Friday 23 May 1997 15:35:18

  cc: scirep@britcoun.cz

  * * *

  Dear Miss Lisk,

  Thank you for your Email. I’m sorry your original letter went astray.

  Happily I can confirm that we are able to accept you as a delegate at the conference, to present a poster on ‘Modelling Learning Behaviours in Autonomous Agents’. A conference information pack will be airmailed to you as soon as possible. I am copying this letter to the British Council in Prague.

  I look forward to seeing you here at the end of the month.

  Yours sincerely,

  R.H.Messenger

  Conference Convenor

  ‘Bitch,’ Ralph murmurs under his breath, as he clicks on the ‘Send’ key to dispatch this message. The telephone on his desk rings. It is the VC.

  ‘Oh, hallo Stan,’ Ralph says. ‘I saw the editor of On Campus yesterday. He’s promised to print a letter from me in next week’s issue. That should settle the dust.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Ralph,’ Sir Stan says, ‘but that’s not what I’m calling you about.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve got Detective Sergeant Brian Agnew with me, from the Gloucestershire Police. The what unit?’ This last question is not addressed to Ralph, who hears a muffled exchange between Sir Stan and his visitor before the former comes back on the phone. ‘From the Paedophile and Pornography unit. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I think he’d better explain that himself,’ says Sir Stan. ‘Can you see him this afternoon? Now, for instance?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so, if it’s urgent.’

  ‘Good man. I’ll send him over. Hang on.’ There is another muffled exchange between the VC and Detective Sergeant Agnew. ‘Yes – are you still there, Ralph? The point is, for security reasons he won’t identify himself as a policeman when he arrives. He’ll just say he’s Brian Agnew and you’re expecting him. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ says Ralph. He puts down the phone. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says under his breath. ‘What now?’

  ‘We have reason to think,’ Detective Sergeant Agnew says, ‘that someone in your Department is downloading child pornography from the Internet, via the University computer network.’