The Man Who Wouldn't Get Up and Other Stories

by David Lodge

  Emma in fact had another motive for requesting his silence. As she lay awake in the early morning after the effect of the temazepam had worn off, brooding on the imminent implosion of her perfect wedding, a wild and outrageous idea had occurred to her. So she wasn’t going to marry Neville in June – good riddance to him, now she had seen how little he valued her qualities – but suppose she married someone else? Suppose she married Tom?

  She hadn’t been entirely candid in relating the story of her reunion with Tom. As they shared a bottle of wine in a corner of the bar after dinner, he had told her how wonderful she looked, how often he thought of her and the great times they’d had together as students, what a pity it was that her year abroad had separated them when he was too young and immature to realise that she was exceptional, a girl worth waiting for and keeping faith with. ‘There’ve been other women in my life since then, Emma, but no one like you,’ he said. When she told him she was engaged to be married he looked genuinely disconsolate. ‘Well, he’s a lucky man,’ he said with a sigh. As for herself, the meeting revived all the personal charm and intense physical attraction Tom had possessed for her in youth, and the evening ended not with a single kiss and a hug, but a prolonged snog on the bed in his room, to which he invited her for a nightcap from a flask of whisky he had there. She managed to part from him with honour technically intact, but with disordered clothing and emotions, and woke next morning somewhat shocked in retrospect by her own behaviour but relieved that nothing more serious had happened. When they said a restrained public goodbye after breakfast in the refectory he slipped a business card into her hand. ‘Thomas Radcliffe, B.Sc., M.Sc., Systems Consultant,’ it stated, with a London address and other contact details, and on the reverse side there was a handwritten message: ‘Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you. Tom.’ Well, now there was something he could do for her.

  Emma found Tom’s card in the wallet where she kept business cards and emailed him to say that her engagement had been broken off, that she was feeling lonely, and would be glad to see him again. He responded immediately: ‘When? Where?’ In a rapid exchange of emails it was agreed that he would come to Birmingham the next day and take her to dinner in one of the city’s Michelin-starred restaurants. He told her he had booked a room for the night at the Hyatt hotel, but she changed the linen on her bed that morning in case an alternative scenario developed.

  They met at the restaurant, and it was soon clear to her that the same thought was in his mind. When he asked her where she lived, and she explained that it was very near and that she could show him the flat after dinner, he wore the expression of someone for whom Christmas had come very early, and scarcely attended to the waiter’s conscientious recitation of the ingredients in the exiguous starters he set before them. While they were waiting for the main course to be served, Tom commiserated with Emma on the break-up of her engagement. ‘It was a lucky escape,’ she said dismissively. ‘He wasn’t worthy of me. Did you ever think of getting married?’ Tom wrinkled his brow. ‘Not really. I never met someone I felt I could live with for a lifetime.’ ‘What about me?’ Emma asked boldly. Tom looked startled, laughed, then, seeing that the question was not intended as a joke, adjusted his countenance accordingly. ‘That was first love, Emma, for both of us,’ he said solemnly. ‘We were very young – marriage was out of the question.’ ‘But it isn’t now,’ Emma pointed out. ‘Er . . . no,’ he said. Two waiters appeared at that moment with a pair of plates covered by chromium-plated domes, which were lifted off with synchronised precision under their noses. ‘But we’re two different people, Emma,’ he said, when they had gone. ‘We haven’t met for years, apart from that reunion last summer. Perhaps we could start seeing each other again, occasionally . . . Who knows what might develop? This concoction looks interesting – how’s your fish?’ ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘there really isn’t a lot of time, if we’re to take advantage of the arrangements that have already been made.’ She told him about them in some detail.

  Emma had to go to the Ladies between the pre-dessert and the dessert, and when she returned to their table found Tom frowning at his iPhone. He pocketed it as she sat down. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Emma,’ he said. ‘But there’s a bit of an emergency in London I’ve got to attend to.’ After he had gobbled his dessert (Emma left hers untouched) he escorted her to the lobby of her apartment building and kissed her chastely on the cheek before hastening off to catch a late train to London. ‘Let’s keep in touch,’ he said. Alone in the lift Emma screamed loudly all the way up to the seventh floor, and pounded the padded walls with her fists. There was a message on her landline from her mother to say that the wedding invitations had been printed and delivered, and would she like to come over some time and help to address the envelopes. And there was an email from Neville saying that he would have to stay on in Dubai for another week, and he thought they should not wait any longer to announce that the wedding was off. Emma took two temazepam and went to bed.

  The next day her mother phoned her at work about the invitations. ‘If you’re too busy to come over, darling, I’ll send them out myself.’ ‘No, don’t do that,’ Emma said. ‘They might have to be changed.’ ‘Changed?’ Mrs Dobson repeated, wonderingly. ‘Why?’ ‘There might be a mistake in the wording,’ Emma said. ‘I must check them myself.’ ‘Well, don’t leave it any longer, darling,’ Mrs Dobson said. ‘Time is running out.’ ‘I know it is,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll come over as soon as I can.’ In the background she could hear her father say crossly, ‘Tell her it can’t wait any longer.’

  Her last resort was the internet. She found a website called The Hitching Post where singles could make contact with potential marriage partners without revealing their own identities, and posted an enticing description of herself and a list of the attributes she desired in a husband which concluded, ‘Must be available for wedding on the last Saturday in June.’ She got a number of replies with surprising speed, some apparently serious, some amused, some obscene. One sent her a photo of his erect penis. A man who described himself as a college lecturer aged thirty-five sounded possible, and as he lived near Birmingham she arranged to meet him in the tea shop of the Museum & Art Gallery. He said he would be wearing a red scarf for identification. She said she would be wearing a silver quilted ski-jacket. In fact she wore a beige raincoat, so that she could observe him covertly before introducing herself. She arrived early for the appointment, but he was already there, with a cup of tea before him, and a soiled red scarf round his neck, reading a newspaper. He was grey-haired, with a straggly beard, and looked as old as her father. As she watched, he picked his nose vigorously, examined the excavated mucus on his fingernail, and put it in his mouth. Emma went hurriedly to the Ladies and was sick.

  It was raining when Emma left the Art Gallery. She pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head, thrust her hands into its pockets, and wandered aimlessly along the canal towpaths. Finally, she accepted defeat. She could not persist any longer in denial that the wedding was a lost cause. She began to admit to herself that her recent behaviour had been irrational – irrational and dangerous – driven by a desire not to be married, but to impose her will on a stubbornly resistant reality. What a fool she had been to imagine, when Neville let her down, that she could find another man to replace him in a matter of weeks. She came to a halt, and stared down at the black waters of the canal.

  ‘Excuse me, but are you all right?’

  She turned to find a young man in anorak and jeans standing a few yards away. He had his hood up too, but as if conscious that this might seem threatening he pulled it back, revealing a round freckled face and a mop of fair curly hair which had quite the opposite effect.

  ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ he said. ‘But . . .’

  ‘You were afraid I was going to throw myself in?’

  ‘It crossed my mind,’ he said. ‘You had that look about you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be any use,’ she said. ‘I can swim. Rather well, ac
tually.’

  ‘Yes, I can believe that,’ he said. ‘So you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘OK.’ He walked on a few paces, and then turned back. ‘D’you feel like a drink, by any chance? There’s a nice little pub along here.’

  ‘All right,’ Emma said.

  ‘Excellent.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Oscar.’

  She shook his hand. ‘Emma.’

  ‘So what do you do, Emma?’ he asked her, when he brought their drinks from the bar – a vodka and tonic for her and a beer for himself – and sat down opposite her at a small table.

  ‘I work in a bank,’ she said. Usually she answered this question by saying ‘I’m a banker’, because it sounded more important, but she guessed that for Oscar the word would have ugly associations with unscrupulous men earning huge bonuses for gambling recklessly with other people’s money and causing the credit crisis. ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a conceptual poet,’ he said.

  ‘What’s conceptual poetry?’ she asked.

  ‘It can be anything in words that you present as poetry. You don’t have to make it up. You just find it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Weather forecasts, small ads, football results . . . The more ordinary it is, the better. I’m working on a long narrative poem at the moment which is a transcription of the satnav instructions for a journey from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. It’s called Turn Around When Possible.’

  Emma laughed. The sound surprised her and she realised that she hadn’t laughed for a long time. ‘You mean you just copy out the directions? That doesn’t seem very original.’

  ‘Originality is an ego-trip. Conceptual poetry humbles itself before the miracle of language itself. You don’t impose your will on it.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Emma said.

  ‘Of course, with Turn Around When Possible I had to choose the journey, and drive the route, so the poem is original in that sense.’

  ‘Can you recite some of it?’

  ‘Sure.’ He fixed her gaze with his bright blue eyes, which seemed to her like the eyes of an angel, and intoned in a lilting, melodious voice: ‘Cross the roundabout, second exit, then cross the roundabout, third exit . . . bear right, then keep to the left . . . keep to the left . . . in two hundred yards, take the exit and join the motorway . . . exit ahead! . . . in eight hundred yards take the exit . . . take the exit, then turn right . . . turn right . . . . . . turn around when possible.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Emma said, entranced by the sublime purposelessness of the exercise.

  * * *

  Several days later Emma arrived at her parents’ house, summoned by an angry message from her father, left on her voicemail. ‘What’s going on, Emma?’ he demanded, as soon as he had closed the front door behind her. ‘Neville’s parents phoned us this morning. He’s sent them an email from Dubai, saying you’d broken off the engagement and the wedding is cancelled. They seemed to think we knew. I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Emma said. Her mother, who came into the front hall in time to hear this, burst into tears. ‘Oh Emma!’ she wailed. ‘The invitations have all gone out! Why?’

  ‘He cheated on me,’ Emma said. ‘I was prepared to forgive him but he’d changed his mind about getting married.’ She gave them a brief account of the episode.

  ‘What a bastard,’ Mr Dobson said, softening his tone, and putting a comforting hand on Emma’s shoulder. ‘I’ve a good mind to sue him for the cost of cancelling the wedding.’

  ‘There’s no need to cancel it,’ Emma said. ‘All we need to do is have new invitations printed.’

  Mr Dobson removed his hand and Mrs Dobson gaped at her. ‘What?’ they said simultaneously.

  ‘There’s no need to cancel the wedding, because I’m in love with another man who wants to marry me, and he’s available on the last Saturday in June,’ Emma said.

  Her parents exchanged alarmed glances. ‘Who is he? What does he do? How long have you known him?’ Mr Dobson demanded.

  ‘He’s called Oscar and he’s a poet and I met him four days ago. On a canal towpath.’

  ‘I told you, Mabel,’ Mr Dobson said. ‘She’s having a nervous breakdown. It’s this wedding. It’s all been too much for her. She needs help.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for thinking that,’ Emma said. ‘I admit I have been a bit mad lately. But I’ve never felt saner in my life than I do now.’

  ‘Sane? You call it sane to marry a man you met four days ago? And a poet? There’s no money in poetry.’

  ‘Oscar has a private income, which I shall manage for him more sensibly than he does now.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. The man’s a confidence trickster, obviously. I know what it is – you’ve become obsessed with this wedding, and you’d marry anyone, I believe you’d marry the dustman, rather than cancel it. You’ll make a laughing stock of us. Well, I’m not going to let you. I’m going to cancel the whole thing. And don’t ask me to pay for another wedding one day.’

  ‘All right,’ Emma said equably. ‘We’ll get married quietly in a registry office, without a reception.’

  This made Mr Dobson pause for thought, since it suggested that Emma really did love this poet for his own sake. He became even better disposed when he discovered that she had met Oscar’s parents, that his father was a High Court judge and his mother a well-known newspaper columnist, and that his private income was an annuity left him by his godmother, a Lady Somebody. By the end of the day Mr Dobson had come round to the idea of having Oscar fill the place of the despicable Neville. Mrs Dobson was pleased for Emma but still apprehensive about the likely reaction of their relatives and friends to the last-minute change of groom. ‘Let ’em laugh up their sleeves, if they want to,’ said her husband. ‘The main thing is that Emma will be happy.’

  And she was. The last Saturday in June was breezy and cloudy, but the sun came out and shone on the bridal couple as they emerged from the Longstaffe parish church. Emma looked radiant. Oscar looked angelic. The reception at Longstaffe Hall went off perfectly. The best man, a friend of Oscar’s at university, made a speech alluding wittily to the revision of a minor detail in the original invitations, which provoked much laughter. Emma squeezed her husband’s hand under the table and smiled serenely. For this reason, if no other, everyone present would always remember her wedding.

  My Last Missis

  Near Chelmsford

  That’s my last missis, hanging on the wall over there, looking as if she was alive. Yeah, she was beautiful, no question. Larry Lockwood took the picture. Cost me an arm and a leg. He was very trendy at the time – his stuff was in Vogue, Harper’s, all the posh magazines. He had an exhibition in the West End, Viv persuaded me to go and see it, said she fancied having her portrait taken by him. When I saw the prices, I said, how about we start with a passport photo? I was only joking, of course. I indulged her. We hadn’t been married all that long. Lockwood came down here in his Land Rover with two assistants and a whole pile of equipment – lights, screens and those umbrella things, and set ’em up in the library. Well, I don’t do much reading, to tell you the truth – just as well because he stayed a whole week. We have a guest apartment in the annexe next to the pool, so I couldn’t very well say no. A week, just to take one fucking photo! Well, of course there was more than one, he took fucking hundreds of them, but he wasn’t satisfied, said he was searching for the perfect shot. Yeah, I think he got it in the end – to his own satisfaction, anyway. And Viv’s. Go on, have a good look at it. Yeah, an interesting expression. You’re not the first one to say that. Or to wonder what it expressed. It wasn’t anything to do with me, I can tell you. I wasn’t there. I watched Lockwood at work at first, but I got bored fairly soon, and left them to it. She told me it was taken at their last session. Perhaps Lockwood said something specially complimentary to
her – that was his style. ‘Lovely, darling,’ he would say. ‘Wonderful, wonderful. Just give me a little more with the eyes.’ He called everybody darling, I couldn’t object, though I didn’t like it. ‘Just hold it there for a second, darling, while I change the lens. You have amazing cheekbones, did you know that?’ Viv lapped it up. She was always very susceptible to flattery. Didn’t matter who it was, a photographer, or her hairdresser, or the guy who checks the chemistry of the pool in the summer. She liked people and they liked her – a bit too obviously for my liking. She encouraged them. She had no taste in people, that’s what it came down to. I mean, I’m not a snob. I’m a self-made man. Brought up in a council flat, left school at sixteen with a few GCSEs, and made my money in waste disposal. Started small with a second-hand lorry. Now I’ve got a fleet of barges going up and down the Thames. When a man’s had that sort of success I reckon he’s entitled to a bit of respect in his home. When Viv paid her hairdresser – he used to come to the house till I put a stop to it – she would give him a handsome tip and thank him with a smile just the same as when I gave her a diamond necklace for her birthday. If the gardener cut a rose for her when she went round the flower beds she would bring it back indoors with a silly grin on her face, sniffing at it as if it was a line of coke. This began to get on my wick. We had words about it. Mostly her words. I hadn’t reckoned on that when I married her. She was little Miss Mouse then, pretty but docile. Couldn’t believe her luck: big house, her own car, servants . . . But it went to her head, she started answering me back, cheeking me, till one day I smacked her. That stopped her smiles, I can tell you. It wasn’t a hard one, just a slap, but the way she carried on you’d think I’d broken one of her precious cheekbones. Next thing I know she scarpers when I’m away on business, moves in with her parents and sues me for divorce, using all the jewellery I’d given her to pay for a lawyer. Yeah, I was very disappointed in Viv. I’m an old-fashioned guy, I believe the wife should treat her husband as someone special. That’s why I contacted your agency. I’ve heard Oriental wives are very good that way, do what they’re told, don’t argue, study the husband’s needs, you know what I mean? And the photo you sent me of . . . whatser name . . . that’s it, Kulap, she looks very nice. I wanted to check out the deal with you in person, and I’m satisfied it’s legit, so thanks for coming. When we’ve agreed a date I’ll fly out to Bangkok to meet her, and if it goes well, tie the knot. Oh yeah, Viv got her divorce – and a ridiculous payoff. The divorce law in this country is a joke, except for the poor bugger who has to cough up half his hard-earned money. That’s what the judge awarded Viv, half my assets. Would you believe it? Fortunately she died before my appeal came to court, so all it cost me was the lawyers’ fees. Car crash. She was on her own, no witnesses, so nobody knows why her Mini went off the road into a ravine. It’s a mystery. I felt sorry for her when I heard, in spite of everything. So I keep her picture in here, to remember her by. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I bore her a grudge. Shall we go down to the poolside bar and have a drink? You look as if you need one. I’ve got a nice selection of single malts, if that’s your tipple. This way. That’s me outside Buckingham Palace when I got my MBE. Now that did cost me. The gong, I mean, not the photo.