by Lodge, David
“Brian Everthorpe?”
“Right. It has his fingerprints all over it.”
Vic did not take Robyn to the Man in the Moon or the King’s Head, where they would be likely to meet his colleagues. Instead he drove a little further, to the Bag o’ Nails, a quaint old pub built on ground riddled with disused mineshafts and subject to chronic subsidence which had twisted every line of the building out of true. Doors and windows had been re-made in the shape of rhomboids to fit the distorted frames, and the floor sloped so steeply you had to hang on to your glass to prevent it from sliding off the table.
“This is fun,” said Robyn, looking about her as they sat down near the open fire. “I feel drunk already.”
“What will you have?” he asked.
“Beer, I think, in a place like this. Half a pint of best bitter.”
“And to eat?”
She glanced at the bar menu. “Ploughman’s Lunch with Stilton.”
He nodded approval. “They do a nice ploughman’s here.”
When he came back from the bar with their drinks, he said, “I’ve never bought draught bitter for a woman before.”
“Then you must have had a very limited experience of life,” she said, smiling.
“You’re dead right,” he replied, without returning the smile. “Cheers.” He took a long swallow of his pint. “Sometimes when I’m lying awake in the small hours, instead of counting sheep, I count the things I’ve never done.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve never skied, I’ve never surfed, I’ve never learned to play a musical instrument, or speak a foreign language, or sail a boat, or ride a horse. I’ve never climbed a mountain or pitched a tent or caught a fish. I’ve never seen Niagara Falls or been up the Eiffel Tower or visited the Pyramids. I’ve never… I could go on and on.” He had been about to say, I’ve never slept with a woman other than my wife, but thought better of it.
“There’s still time.”
“No, it’s too late. All I’m fit for is work. It’s the only thing I’m any good at.”
“Well, that’s something. To have a job you like and be good at it.”
“Yes, it’s something,” he agreed, thinking that in the small hours it didn’t seem enough; but he didn’t say that aloud either.
A silence fell. Robyn seemed to feel the need to break it. “Well,” she said, looking round the pub, “Wednesdays won’t be the same when term ends.”
Alarm bells rang in Vic’s head. “When’s that then?”
“Next week.”
“What? But Easter’s weeks off!”
“It’s a ten-week term,” said Robyn. “This is week nine. I must say it’s flown by.”
“I don’t know how you people justify your long holidays,” he grumbled, to cover his dismay. Although he had always known the Shadow Scheme had a limited time-span, he had avoided calculating exactly when it would end.
“The vacations are not holidays,” she said hotly. “You ought to know that. We do research, and supervise it, as well as teach undergraduates.”
The arrival of their food excused him from answering. Robyn tucked into her ploughman’s with relish. Vic took out his diary. “You’ve only got one more week, then?” he said. “It says here that I’m going to Frankfurt next Wednesday. I’d forgotten that.”
“Oh well,” she said. “In that case this is my last week. So let me buy you another drink.”
“No it isn’t,” he said. “You have to come with me to Frankfurt.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“It’s only two days. One night.”
“No, it’s impossible. I have a lot of classes on a Thursday.”
“Cancel them. Get somebody else to do them for you.”
“That’s easier said than done,” she said. “I’m not a professor, you know. I’m the most junior member of staff.”
“It’s the terms of the Shadow Scheme,” he said. “You have to follow me around all the time, for one day a week. If I happen to be in Frankfurt that day, then so must you.”
“What are you going for?”
“There’s a big machine-tool exhibition. I’m seeing some people who make automatic core blowers—I’m going to buy a new one instead of messing about with second-hand. It would be interesting for you. No dirty factories. We’d stay in a posh hotel. Get taken out for meals.” It had suddenly become a matter of the greatest urgency and importance that Robyn Penrose should accompany him to Frankfurt. “They have restaurants on river boats,” he said enticingly. “On the Rhine.”
“The Main, isn’t it?”
“The Main, then. I never was much good at geography.”
“Who would pay my fare?”
“Don’t worry about the fare. If your University won’t pay, we will.”
“Well, I’ll see,” said Robyn. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll get Shirley to make reservations for you this afternoon.”
“No, don’t do that. Wait.”
“They can always be cancelled,” he said.
“I really don’t think I can come,” said Robyn.
…
Driving home later that afternoon, Robyn noticed that there was still some light left in the sky. In fact the streetlamps were only just coming on, each slender metal stalk tipped with a rosy blush that briefly preceded the yellow sodium glare. For a few moments these fairy lights bestowed a fragile beauty on the soiled tarmac, concrete and brick of West Wallsbury. Usually it was quite dark when she drove home from Pringle’s. But it was the middle of March now. Spring was approaching, even if you couldn’t feel it in the air. So, thank God, was the Easter vacation. Only one more week of nonstop preparation, lecturing, tutoring, marking. Interesting as it was, you could only keep up the pace for so long—rushing breathlessly from one literary masterpiece to another, from one group of anxious, eager, needy students to another. Besides, she was itching to get back to Domestic Angels and Unfortunate Females, which she’d hardly looked at this term, partly because of the Shadow Scheme. Not that she regretted her involvement in that, especially now that it was drawing to a close. It had been an interesting experience, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that she’d done a good PR job. From being hostile and bullying at the outset, Vic Wilcox had become, in the space of a couple of months, friendly and confiding, positively glad to see her at the factory on Wednesday mornings, and patently dismayed at the imminent termination of the Shadow Scheme. Once again she had proved herself invaluable. If Vic Wilcox was going to write a report too, she ought to come out of it well.
Robyn permitted herself a complacent smile, recalling the way she had despatched Marion Russell earlier that day, Vic’s gratitude, and his eager insistence that she should accompany him to Frankfurt. That might be fun, actually, she reflected. Frankfurt was not a name that set the pulses racing, but she had never been there—in fact she hadn’t been anywhere outside England for the past two years, so preoccupied had she been first with getting a job, then with trying to hang on to it. She felt a sudden pang of appetite for travel, the bustle of airports, the novelty of foreign tongues and foreign manners, clanging tramcars and pavement cafés. Spring might have already arrived in Frankfurt. But no, it wasn’t possible. Thursday was a heavy teaching day for her, including two groups of the Women’s Writing seminar, the most important classes of the week as far as she was concerned. She knew from experience that it would be impossible to find alternative hours at which all the students concerned could attend, such were the labyrinthine complexities and infinite permutations of their personal timetables. And no one else in the Department was qualified to take these classes, even if they were willing to do so, which was unlikely. A pity. It would have been a nice break.
Robyn had made up her mind. Mentally she registered her regret, sealed her decision, and filed it away, with a memo to phone Vic Wilcox the next day.
…
Later that evening she received a surprising phone call from Basil. He said he was phoning from his office
after everyone else had gone home. He sounded a little, but only a little, drunk.
“Have you seen Charles recently?” he asked.
“No, not very recently,” she said. “Why?”
“Have you two split up, then?”
“No, of course not. He just hasn’t been over lately. First he had a cold or thought he did, and then I had flu… what are you on about, Basil?”
“Did you know he’s been seeing Debbie?”
“Seeing her?”
“Yes, seeing her. You know what I mean.”
“I knew he was going to watch her at work.”
“He’s done more than that. He spent the night with her.”
“You mean, he stayed in her house?”
“Yes.”
“So what? He probably took her out to dinner and missed his last train and she put him up.”
“That’s what Debbie says.”
“Well, then.”
“You don’t find it suspicious?”
“Of course not.” The only thing she found slightly disturbing about the story was that Charles had said nothing about it to her on the telephone, but she did not admit this to Basil.
“Suppose I told you it happened twice.”
“Twice?”
“Yes, once last week, and again last night. Missing one train is unfortunate, missing two looks suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
“How do you know all this, Basil? I thought you and Debbie never saw each other in midweek.”
“Last Tuesday I phoned her at ten o’clock in the evening and Charles answered the phone. And last night I followed them.”
“You what?”
“I knew he was up in town again, researching his stupid article or whatever it is. After work I followed them. First they went to a wine bar and then I saw them go into Debbie’s house. I waited until the lights went out. The last light to go out was Debbie’s bedroom.”
“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. Not if he was sleeping in the guest room.”
“Basil, you’re being paranoid.”
“Even paranoids have unfaithful girlfriends.”
“I’m sure there’s some perfectly simple explanation. I’ll ask Charles—I’m seeing him this weekend.”
“Well, that’s a relief, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Debbie claims she’s going to stay with her parents this weekend. I was beginning to wonder. What do you women see in Charles anyway? He seems a cold fish to me.”
“I don’t want to discuss Charles’ attractions with you, Basil,” said Robyn, and rang off.
A little later, Charles rang. “Darling,” he said, “do you mind terribly if I don’t come this weekend after all?”
“Why?” Robyn said. To her surprise and annoyance she found she was trembling slightly.
“I want to write up my article on the City. There’s a chap I knew at Cambridge who works for Marxism Today and he’s really interested.”
“You’re not going to visit Debbie’s mother, then?”
There was a brief, surprised silence. “Why should I want to do that?” Charles said.
“Basil just phoned me,” said Robyn. “He says you stayed overnight with Debbie. Twice.”
“Three times, actually,” said Charles coolly. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“No, of course not. I just wondered why you hadn’t mentioned it.”
“It didn’t seem important.”
“I see.”
“To tell you the truth, Robyn, I thought you were a teeny-weeny bit jealous of Debbie, and I didn’t see the point of aggravating your hostility.”
“Why should I be jealous of her?”
“Because of all the money she makes.”
“I don’t give a monkey’s fuck how much money she makes,” said Robyn evenly.
“She’s been extraordinarily helpful to me over this article. That’s why I’ve been staying with her—to talk at leisure. It’s impossible while she’s working—it’s pandemonium in the dealing room. Unbelievable.”
“You didn’t sleep with her, then?”
Another pregnant pause. “Not in the technical sense, no.”
“What do you mean, in the technical sense?”
“Well, I gave her a massage.”
“You gave her a massage?” A vivid and unwelcome image presented itself to Robyn’s consciousness, of Debbie’s skinny, naked body squirming with pleasure under Charles’ oily fingers.
“Yes. She was very tense. It’s the nature of her work, of course, continuous stress… She suffers from migraines…”
While Charles was describing Debbie’s symptoms, Robyn rapidly reviewed various questions of a casuistical nature. Did a masssage, their kind of massage, constitute infidelity, if administered to a third party? Could there, in fact, be infidelity between herself and Charles?
“I don’t really want to know all these details,” she said, interrupting him in mid-sentence. “I just wanted to get the basic facts straight. You and I have had an open relationship, with no strings, since I moved to Rummidge.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Charles. “I’m glad to hear you confirm it.”
“But Basil doesn’t see things the same way.”
“Don’t worry about Basil. Debbie can handle Basil. I think she was a bit pissed off with him, actually. He tends to be over-possessive. I expect she was using me to make a point.”
“You don’t mind being used?”
“Well, I’m using her, in a way. For researching my article. And how are things with you?” he said, trying rather obviously to change the subject.
“Fine. I’m going to Frankfurt next week.” She uttered this thought without premeditation, as it blossomed irresistibly in her head.
“Really! How’s that?”
“The Shadow Scheme. Vic Wilcox is going to a trade fair on Wednesday, so I have to go with him.”
“Well, that should be quite fun.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Just one night. In a posh hotel, Vic says.”
“Shall I come over the weekend after that?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All right. You’re not angry or anything, are you?”
“Of course not.” She laughed rather shrilly. “I’ll phone you.”
“Oh, right.” He sounded relieved. “Well, enjoy yourself in Frankfurt.”
“Thanks.”
“What will you do about your teaching, while you’re away?”
“I’ll ask Swallow’s advice,” she said. “After all, this shadow business was his idea.”
…
The next morning, after her ten o’clock lecture, Robyn knocked on Philip Swallow’s door and asked if he could spare a few minutes.
“Yes, yes, come in,” he said. He held a thick stencilled document in his hand and wore a haggard look. “You don’t know what ‘virement’ means, I suppose?”
“Sorry, no. What’s the context?”
“Well, this is a paper on resources for the next meeting of Principals and Deans. ‘At present, resources are allocated to each Department for separate heads of expenditure without the possibility of virement.’”
Robyn shook her head. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never come across the word before.”
“Neither had I before the cuts. Then it suddenly started appearing on all kinds of documents—committee papers, working party reports, UGC circulars. The VC is particularly fond of it. But I still don’t know what it means. It’s not in the Shorter Oxford Dictionary. It’s not in any of my dictionaries.”
“How very peculiar,” said Robyn. “Why don’t you ask somebody who would know? The writer of that paper, for instance.”
“The Bursar? I can’t ask him. I’ve been sitting on committees with the Bursar for months solemnly discussing virement. I can’t admit now that I have no idea what it means.”
“Perhaps no one knows what it means, but they’re afraid to admit it,” Robyn suggested. “Perhaps it’s a word invented by the Government to terrorise the universities.”
“It certainly sounds nasty enough,” said Philip Swallow. “Virement…” He stared unhappily at the stencilled document.
“The reason I wanted to see you…” Robyn prompted.
“Oh, yes, sorry,” said Philip Swallow, wrenching his attention away from the mystery word.
“It’s about the Shadow Scheme,” she said. “Mr. Wilcox, the man I’m shadowing, is going to Frankfurt on business next Wednesday and he thinks I ought to go with him.”
“Yes, I know,” said Swallow. “He’s been on the phone to me this morning.”
“Has he?” Robyn tried to conceal her surprise.
“Yes. We’ve agreed that the University will pay half your expenses and his firm the other half.”
“You mean, I can go?”
“He was very insistent that you should. He seems to take the terms of the Shadow Scheme very literally.”
“What shall I do about my teaching on Thursday?” Robyn said.
“Oh, it’s the usual rather heavy German cuisine,” said Philip Swallow. “Pork and dumplings and sauerkraut, you know.”
“No, my teaching on Thursday,” Robyn said more loudly. “What shall I do about it? I’d rather not cancel classes in the last week of term.”
“Quite,” said Swallow, rather sharply, as if she had been responsible for the misunderstanding. “I’ve been looking at your timetable. You have quite a lot of teaching, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Robyn, pleased that he had noticed this.
“The ten o’clock lecture you can swap with one Bob Busby was going to give next term in the same course. And I’m going to ask Rupert Sutcliffe to take the third-year tutorial at three…” Robyn nodded, wondering who would be most dismayed by this news, Sutcliffe or the students. “The difficult ones are the two Women’s Writing seminars at twelve and two,” Swallow said. “There seems to be only one member of staff free at those hours. Me.”
“Oh,” said Robyn.
“What is the topic, actually?”
“The female body in contemporary women’s poetry.”
“Ah. I don’t know a lot about that, I’m afraid.”