'Nobody jumped out,' says Barbara. 'You sit there and eat your cornflakes.'
'Cornflakes, yuk,' says Martin. 'My compliments to the cook, and tell her "yuk",' says Howard. 'I expect this person jumped out because he couldn't stand the noise,' says Celia. 'You say _we're_ noisy, but that was terrible.'
'Is there really some blood, Celia?' asks Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'Why does it always have to be cornflakes?' asks Martin. 'You can't say all that much for the human lot, as we bumble around in the Platonic cave,' says Howard, 'but sometimes there are glimpses of the eternals beyond. Like cornflakes.'
'No metaphysics, Howard,' says Barbara. 'Let's all just eat our cornflakes.'
'Are you opposed to metaphysics?' asks Celia, not eating her cornflakes. 'She's a British empiricist,' says Howard. 'Look,' says Barbara, 'these kids leave for school in fifteen minutes, right? I know it's against your principles, which are dedicated to driving me insane. But could you exercise a bit of parental authority here, and get them to eat their sodding cornflakes?'
'Are you going to eat your sodding cornflakes?' asks Howard of the children. 'Or do you want me to throw them out of the window?'
'I want you to throw them out of the window,' says Martin. 'Christ,' says Barbara, 'here's a man with professional training in social psychology. And he can't get a child to eat a cornflake.'
'The human will has a natural resistance to coercion,' says Howard. 'It will not be repressed.'
'By cornflake fascism,' says Celia.
Barbara stares at Howard. 'Oh, you're a great operator,' she says. 'Why don't you give them wider options? Set them free?' asks Howard, 'Weetabix? Rice Krispies?'
'Why don't you keep out of it?' asks Barbara, 'I feed this lot. They're not asking for different food. They're asking for my endless sodding attention.'
'We are asking for different food,' says Martin. 'We'd like the endless sodding attention too,' says Celia. 'Eat,' says Barbara. 'If you don't you'll die.'
'Oh, marvellous,' says Howard. 'And if you don't eat fast, you'll be late for school as well,' says Barbara. 'Okay?'
'They don't want you at school if you're dead,' says Martin. 'They give your crayons to another person.'
'Shut up, Martin,' says Barbara. 'If you speak again, I'll drop this egg on your head.'
'Speak,' says Celia. 'Resist tyranny:'
'You've built this one up,' says Barbara to Howard. Howard inspects the _Guardian;_ the radio trills; the rain drips. After a minute, Celia says: 'I hope Miss Birdsall doesn't make me stand outside the classroom again today.' Howard recognizes a situation designed for his attention; he looks up from the _Guardian;_ he says, 'Why did she do that?'
'Because I said "penis",' says Celia. 'Honestly,' says Barbara, 'that woman.'
'It's a proper word, isn't it?' asks Celia, pleased with the development of the situation. 'I told her you said I could use it.'
'Of course it's a proper word,' says Howard, 'I'm going to call the Education Committee. I want an enquiry into that sick, nasty woman.'
'Is she sick and nasty?' asks Barbara. 'Maybe she's just overstrained.'
'You're identifying,' says Howard, 'Miss Birdbrain needs a good kick up her protestant ethic.' This creates delight in the constituency; the children shout, 'Miss Birdbrain, Miss Birdbrain,' and Martin knocks over his egg. It performs an elegant arc, and smashes on the rush matting. Howard watches as the yellow yolk oozes out and forms a coagulating pool. He Says: 'Take care, Martin.' Barbara tears paper off the kitchen roll; she bends over, in her housecoat, her face red, and begins to wipe up the mess. When she has finished, she looks at Howard. 'You wanted that to happen,' she says.
'No,' says Howard. 'You built it up,' says Barbara. 'I was just radicalizing the children a little,' says Howard. 'To fix me,' says Barbara. 'You see plots everywhere,' says Howard. 'As you often say,' says Barbara, 'the reason people have conspiracy theories is that people conspire.'
'I think Miss Birdbrain's a marvellous name for her,' says Celia. 'She's just a nasty old penis.'
'And you told her that?' says Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'So she sent you out of the room,' says Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'You'd better explain that when you call the Education Committee,' says Barbara. 'Maybe I won't call the Education Committee,' says Howard. 'No,' says Barbara, 'save your radical indignation for higher things.'
'How come the male organ is now a term of abuse?' asks Howard. 'It's just us second-class citizens getting our own back,' says Barbara, 'thanks to reading Simone de Beauvoir in the original.' Out in the hall the telephone rings; Barbara goes out to answer it. Celia says, 'Who's Simone de Beauvoir?'
'Who's Hegel?' asks Howard. 'You should answer a question directly when I ask one,' says Celia. 'She's a woman women read,' says Howard, 'she's on the right side.'
'Why do women read her?' asks Celia. 'They're angry at men,' says Howard. 'At you?' asks Celia. 'Oh, not me,' says Howard, 'I'm with them in their fight.'
'Is Barbara glad?' asks Celia. 'I'll never eat another cornflake in the whole of my life,' says Martin. The phone goes down in the hall; Barbara walks back into the kitchen, and Howard sees that her face is strange. 'What in hell happened at our party?' she asks. 'A good time all round,' says Howard. 'Who was it?'
'Myra,' says Barbara. 'Aha,' says Howard, 'where is she?'
'Home,' says Barbara. 'I knew she'd stay,' says Howard, smiling, 'she was playing.'
'There was an accident at our party,' says Barbara. 'I told you that,' says Celia. 'An accident?' asks Howard. 'Is the guest-room window really broken, Martin?' asks Barbara. 'I'll show you, come on,' says Martin. 'It was Henry,' says Barbara, 'he cut himself on it. He had to go to hospital and have twenty-seven stitches.'
'Henry?' asks Howard, 'When was this?'
'Didn't you know?' asks Barbara. 'Weren't you there? Wasn't there a host at this party?'
'Where were you, baby?' asks Howard. Barbara says, 'Get your coats on, you kids. Nearly time for school.'
When the children have run out into the hall, the Kirks sit and look at each other. 'Another one,' says Barbara, 'Rosemary's boy, and Henry.'
'You said an accident,' says Howard. 'Well, was it?' asks Barbara. 'You think Myra told him she was leaving?' asks Howard. 'Isn't that one explanation?' asks Barbara. 'People cry out like that.'
'Some people might,' says Howard, 'Henry wouldn't.'
'It makes me feel sick,' says Barbara. 'Henry already had one accident last night,' says Howard, 'A dog bit him. Anyway, Myra didn't leave him. She's at home.'
'Yes,' says Barbara. 'Did _she_ tell you what happened?' asks Howard. 'She didn't really explain anything,' says Barbara. 'She didn't want to talk. Just to apologize for ruining our party. I told her it didn't.'
'Was she disappointed?' asks Howard. 'Is it funny?' asks Barbara. 'It's just Henry,' says Howard, 'even in his big drama he makes a mess of things.'
'Shouldn't you go and see him?' asks Barbara. 'My bet is he'll bounce right back. Turn up at the departmental meeting this afternoon. Voting with the reactionaries.'
'You wouldn't have pushed him, would you? Just to fix the vote?'
'I'm more subtle,' says Howard. 'Besides, _I want_ Henry's reactionary vote.'
'I had a sick feeling about that party,' says Barbara. Howard eases the last curve of egg out of the shell; he puts down the spoon. 'Everyone else enjoyed it,' he says, and goes out of the kitchen to get ready for departure. The children are waiting in the hall; he goes toward his study. A chair still stands in place at the top of the stairs; he moves it, and goes down the steps. In the study, the curtains are still drawn in place; he opens them, and lets daylight in. Two cushions lie on the floor, between the desk and the wall; he picks them up, fluffs them, replaces them in the canvas chairs. The creased pages of the typescript of his book lie scattered everywhere. Carefully he picks them up, flattens them, sorts them, remakes the neat stack, and puts it by the typewriter on his desk. Doing this, he sees again the blue light that had flashed over the room, o
ver the two bodies on the floor; he hears the footsteps on the stairs and in the hall. He moves around, pulling books off shelves, picking up marked essays, lecture notes, committee papers, thinking of Henry and Felicity. He puts all these things in his leather briefcase, and hurries upstairs.
Barbara comes out into the hall as he puts on his coat; she says, 'I'm really going to London. You'll get me someone.'
'Yes,' says Howard, 'I'll do it'; and he bends down and picks up two wet letters that lie deposited under the letterbox. He tears them open, glances through them: one is a circular from a radical publisher, announcing new books on Marxism; the other is a letter from a group of modern churchmen in London, inviting him to speak to them on the topic of the changing fabric of morality, a topic on which, says the letter, 'you are a recognized authority'. A recognized authority, he goes back into the kitchen to find the children. Barbara has a cup of coffee in her hand; she says, 'How late are you going to be tonight?'
'Who knows?' says Howard, 'a departmental meeting.'
'I'm leaving at seven fifteen for my class. I'm going whether you're here or not. If you're not, there's no Anne Petty, so we don't have a baby-sitter. I leave you to sort that out in your own way.'
'Okay,' says Howard, 'are you out late? Supposing I have to find a baby-sitter?'
'Pretty late,' says Barbara, 'people usually go to a pub and have a drink after an evening class.'
'I suppose so,' says Howard. 'So I'll see you when I see you,' says Barbara. 'Right,' says Howard, 'come on, kids, be ready and waiting. I'm going to fetch the van.' He picks up his briefcase, and goes along the hall to the front door. He steps out of his domestic interior into the day and the pouring rain. The city world takes him in again; the puddles shimmer on the terrace. The morning begins; the edge of nameless melancholy with which he started the day begins faintly to lift. He walks round the corner, adapts to the anonymous world, watches the traffic lights glint, the umbrellas move in the street, the yellow bulldozers churning the mud of demolition. Up the hill he goes, to the square; he finds the van, and starts it. He drives back down to the terrace, and the front door opens to his hoot. Barbara stands on the steps; she ushers out two huddled, miniature figures in red wet-look raincoats. They run through the rain, and pull open the passenger door, arguing about who will sit in front, who in the back. On the step, Barbara waves; the children climb in; Howard starts the van, and turns it in the terrace, and drives, past his long, thin house to the business of the main road up the hill.
The route to the children's school is a track of familiar lanes, arrows and pointers, lines and halts, a routed semiology. Tail lights give out red reflections onto the wet road; the rain-stipple accumulates on the windows, and the wiper-arms swing in a steady beat back and forth in front of his eyes. An expert performer, he plays the gears, releasing and checking energy with his feet, swinging from this lane to that, gaining, steadily, maximum advantage in the traffic. The sealed metal and glass box round him is an object he uses well; the surrounding city is a structure he can master, by special routes and short cuts. But now the traffic jams; they come to rest in the line. Rearlights shine back at them. Music wells out of a boutique; there is a chiming of the townhall clock. Shoppers and pedestrians press along the pavements; the buses disgorge crowds. In front of the van, a man crosses. He has long yellow hair, pulled together at the back with a band, a tie-dyed shirt split down to the navel, leather suede-fringed trousers, a bedroll on his back. He stops in the space between the van and the car in front; he puts one hand on the front of the van, the other on the boot of the other car, and swings between them for a moment. Then he goes on, through the traffic, to the other side of the street. 'Hey, why did he do that?' asks Martin. 'He feels free,' says Howard. The traffic moves again. Howard pushes the gear lever in; he turns down sidestreets and back ways until he reaches the redbrick enormity that is the children's school. Many middle-class mothers are parked in a row down the narrow street, releasing themselves from their children for the day. Howard uneasily joins the line, pulling up near the school entrance, and pulling open the van door to let Martin and Celia out. They run to join the woman who guards them across the road. He watches their wet figures across the street. Then he starts the van again, and drives back into the central traffic jam. The town is busy; there are crowds moving to work around the park and the cathedral, the Town Hall and Woolworth's. He is heading towards the university, which lies beyond the western side of the city, reached through a rundown residential area of Victorian terraces, dirty, carelessly maintained, marked with all the signs of transience. Down these streets the students who do not live in Spengler and Hegel, Marx and Toynbee, Kant and Hobbes, have flats and lodgings; it this time in the morning they flood, from the flats and bedsitters, onto the main road, lined with builders' yards, garages for used cars, stonemasons' premises with sample gravestones. Here they stand, waiting for buses and thumbing lifts.
Howard sits behind the wheel, inspecting faces, looking for one he knows. Shortly he sees one: standing at a bus-stop, overarched by a large maroon umbrella, is a girl in a dark grey dress. He waves on the following traffic; he stops, a little way beyond the stop; he hoots the horn. But the girl clearly knows a pickup when she sees one; she glances at the minivan with a very cool curiosity, and then stares back down the main road, investigating the traffic for a sight of the bus she is dedicated to catching. Howard hoots again; finally he opens the door of the van and gets out, pressing against the door to avoid the rushing traffic. He shouts: 'Miss Callendar, Miss Callendar.' In the queue, Miss Callendar turns again and stares; then there is a shock of recognition. 'Och,' she says, 'it's Dr Kirk beckoning me.'
'Come on,' says Howard, 'I'll give you a lift to the university.' Miss Callendar stands for a moment, giving this due consideration; then she detaches herself from the line of waiting students, and walks toward the van. 'Well, it's extremely kind of you,' she says, stopping on the passenger side, 'on such a poor day.'
'A pleasure,' says Howard, 'get in.' Miss Callendar reefs in her umbrella, securing its maroon folds to its silver stalk; then she opens the van door and begins to climb inside. 'I thought you marched in every day under a banner,' she says as she twists her long legs to fit them into place, putting her briefcase on the floor, her umbrella upright between her knees, 'I'd no idea you drove about in motorized luxury.' Howard lets out the clutch; he says, 'It will save you your busfare.'
'That's right,' says Miss Callendar, 'a real consideration, these days.' The van pulls out into the traffic lane, and it joins the row of cars that every weekday morning, just before nine, makes its way out from Watermouth toward the university.
From Miss Callendar comes the scent of a healthy shampoo. Her umbrella is elegantly capped with a glass knob, into which a flower is set, like some Victorian antique; her white hands curl around it. She turns toward Howard and says, as if confessing a guilty secret, 'Actually, I'm almost late for a class. I just couldn't stir myself out of bed.'
'You know why?' says Howard, 'too much partying.'
'It doesn't do, does it?' asks Miss Callendar. 'What time did you finish?'
'Oh, late,' says Howard, 'long after you left. About four.'
'I don't know how you do it,' says Miss Callendar, 'it was an awfully demanding party.'
'All parties are demanding,' says Howard, 'if you take a real interest.'
'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'I do agree. The last thing they should be is fun. That demeans them into something trivial.' Howard laughs, and says: 'But did you take an interest?'
'Oh, I did,' says Miss Callendar, 'in my own way. You see, I'm a stranger, and I have to find out what you're all up to.'
'Did you?' asks Howard. 'I'm not sure,' says Miss Callendar, 'I think you're very interesting characters, but I haven't discovered the plot.'
'Oh, that's simple,' says Howard, 'it's the plot of history.'
'Oh, of course,' says Miss Callendar, 'you're a history man.'
'That's right,' says
Howard, 'and that's why you have to trust us all. Like those kids last night. They're on the side of history.'
'Well, I trust everyone,' says Miss Callendar, 'but no one especially over everyone else. I suppose I don't believe in group virtue. It seems to me such an individual achievement. Which, I imagine, is why you teach sociology and I teach literature.'
'Ah, yes,' says Howard, 'but how do you teach it?'
'Do you mean am I a structuralism or a Leavisite or a psycho-linguistician or a formalist or a Christian existentialist or a phenomenologist?'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'well, I'm none of them.'
'What do you do, then?' asks Howard. 'I read books and talk to people about them.'
'Without a method?' asks Howard. 'That's right,' says Miss Callendar. 'It doesn't sound very convincing,' says Howard. 'No,' says Miss Callendar, 'I have a taste for remaining a little elusive.'
'You can't,' says Howard. 'With every word you utter, you state your world view.'
'I know,' says Miss Callendar, 'I'm trying to find a way round that.'
'There isn't one,' says Howard, 'you have to know what you are.'
'I'm a nineteenth-century liberal,' says Miss Callendar. 'You can't be,' says Howard, 'this is the twentieth century, near the end of it. There are no resources. I know,' says Miss Callendar, 'that's why I am one.'
Howard looks across at Miss Callendar. She is looking back at him, with cool eyes, her mouth a little open, her manner serene. Her white face and dark hair and grey-dressed body fill the little van. He remembers her leaving his house last night, standing above the study, looking in; 'You showed much more curiosity about that girl there than you do about me,' Felicity Phee had said. The road now leaves the suburban belt and is running into the scrap of countryside that lies between town and university. The thirty mile limit finishes now; on the dual carriageway Howard picks up speed. There are a few high elms, a few chopped-down hedges, a converted cottage or two by the roadside. He looks again at Miss Callendar, who provokes him. He says, 'Where do you live?'
Bradbury, Malcolm - The History Man.txt Page 13