by David Lodge
“This afternoon, when you was out. What d’you want to go off on your own like that for?”
“You were asleep, Dad,” he said. “And Marjorie doesn’t like walking.”
“You could’ve asked her.”
Vic drove in silence.
“It isn’t a wench, is it?” said his father.
“What?” Vic forced an incredulous laugh.
“You’re not carryin’ on with some young wench, are you? I seen it happen enough times,” he went on rapidly, as if he feared having his question answered. “Bosses and their secretaries. It always gets round at work.”
“My secretary is a pain in the arse,” said Vic. “Anyway, she’s made other arrangements.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The game’s not worth the candle, son, take my word for it. I seen it happen many a time, blokes that left their wives for a young wench. They ended up penniless, paying for two families out of one pay packet. Lost their homes, lost their furniture. Wives took it all. Think of that, Vic, next time some flighty piece makes eyes at you.”
This time Vic did not have to force his guffaw.
“You can laugh,” said Mr. Wilcox huffily, “but you wouldn’t be the first one what’s made a fool of himself for a pretty face or a trim figure. It don’t last though. It don’t last.”
“Not like furniture?”
“Definitely.”
This conversation, absurd as it was, had the effect of putting Vic on his guard. He wrote his letters to Robyn at work, in the lunch break when Shirley was out of the office, and posted them himself. He telephoned her from call-boxes on the way to and from work. Not that these efforts to communicate succeeded, but they relieved his pent-up feelings somewhat, and his secret remained safe.
Marjorie, though, was plainly disturbed. Her shopping developed a manic intensity. She brought home a new dress or pair of shoes every day, and as often as not exchanged them the next. She had her hair done in a new style and wept for hours at the result. She started a diet that consisted entirely of grapefruit and abandoned it after three days. She bought an exercise bicycle and could be heard puffing and wheezing behind the door of the guest bedroom where it had been erected. She rented a sunbed from the Riviera Sunbed company, who delivered and collected at home, and lay under it in a two-piece swimsuit and dark glasses, anxiously gripping a kitchen timer in case the built-in time switch failed, in mortal terror of overcooking herself. Vic realized that she was doing all this to make herself attractive to him, probably following the advice of some trashy woman’s magazine. He was touched, but in a distant, detached way. Marjorie looked at him from the far side of his obsession, with dumb affection and concern, like a dog on the hearth. He felt as if he had only to stretch out his hand and she would jump all over him, licking his face. But he could not do it. Awake in the early hours of the morning, he no longer sought the animal comfort of her body’s warmth. He lay on the edge of the mattress, as far as possible from the humped, Valium-drugged shape that groaned and whimpered in its sleep, wondering how to get back in touch with Robyn Penrose.
PART VI
The story is told. I think I now see the judicious reader putting on his spectacles to look for the moral. It would be an insult to his sagacity to offer directions. I only say, God speed him in the quest!
CHARLOTTE BRONTË: Shirley
1
The new term began with a spell of fine weather. Students disported themselves on the lawns of the campus, the young girls in their bright summer dresses sprouting like crocuses in the warm sunshine. There were laughter and music in the air, and dalliance under the trees. Some tutors elected to hold their classes outdoors, and sat cross-legged on the grass, discoursing on philosophy or physics to little groups of reclining ephebes, as they did in the Golden Age. But this idyllic appearance was deceptive. The students were apprehensive about their forthcoming examinations, and the world of uncertain employment that lay beyond that threshold. The staff were apprehensive about the forthcoming UGC letter, and its implications for their future. For Robyn, though, the letter was her last hope of a reprieve. If Rummidge, and more particularly its English Department, received strong support from the University Grants Committee, there was just a chance, Philip Swallow told her, a sliver of a chance, that when Rupert Sutcliffe retired the following year (not an early retirement—on the contrary, Swallow tartly observed, it was if anything overdue), they would be allowed to fill the vacancy.
Because she had worked on her book up till the last moment of the vacation, Robyn was less well prepared than usual for her teaching, and the first week was hectic. She was obliged to sit up late each night, urgently refreshing her memory of Vanity Fair and The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Rainbow and “The Waste Land” and 1984, texts on which she had rashly committed herself to giving tutorials all in the same week, not to mention revising a lecture on Virginia Woolf and reading Dorothy Richardson’s Pointed Roofs for the first time in her life for her Women’s Writing seminars. This gruelling work-load made it easier, however, to forget Charles and his apostasy. As to Vic Wilcox, her abrupt flight from Rummidge a month before seemed to have had the desired effect, for he no longer pestered her by letter or telephone. Robyn suddenly found herself liberated from the attentions of the two men who had laid claim to her affective life in the recent and long-term past. She was her own woman once more. If this consciousness did not kindle the glow of satisfaction that might have been expected—if, perversely, she felt a little lonely and neglected by the end of the week—this was no doubt because she had been overworking.
Saturday offered a welcome social diversion. A friend of Philip Swallow’s, Professor Morris Zapp, had touched down briefly in Rummidge on his way from the West Coast of the United States to somewhere else, and the Swallows were giving a party for him to which Robyn was invited. She was familiar with his publications: originally a Jane Austen specialist in the Neo-Critical close-reading tradition, he had converted himself (rather opportunistically, Robyn thought) into a kind of deconstructionist in the nineteen-seventies, and enjoyed an international reputation in both guises. He was also something of a local legend at Rummidge, having steered the Department safely through the student revolution of ’69, when he had exchanged posts with Philip Swallow. The two men had swapped more than their jobs, according to Rupert Sutcliffe, who whispered to Robyn that there had been an affair between Zapp and Hilary Swallow at the same time that Swallow was carrying on with Zapp’s then wife DÉSIRÉE, subsequently famous as the author of Difficult Days and Men, big best-selling books written in a mode Robyn sometimes called “vulgar feminism.” She was curious to meet Professor Zapp.
Robyn arrived a little late at the Swallows’ modernised Victorian villa, and their living-room was already crowded, but she had no difficulty in identifying the guest of honour as she glanced through the window on her way up the garden path to the front porch. He was wearing a seersucker jacket in canary yellow with a bold blue check, and was smoking a cigar the size of a small zeppelin. He was bulky rather than big, with grizzled, receding hair, a wrinkled, sun-tanned face, and a grey moustache that drooped downwards at each end rather lugubriously, perhaps because at that moment he was having his ear bent by Bob Busby.
Philip Swallow opened the door to Robyn and ushered her into the living-room. “Let me introduce you to Morris,” he said. “He needs rescuing.”
Robyn obediently followed Swallow as he pushed his way through the throng and nudged Bob Busby away from Morris Zapp with a light shoulder-charge. “Morris,” he said, “this is Robyn Penrose, the girl I was telling you about.”
“Girl, Philip? Girl? Men have been castrated for less at Euphoric State. You mean woman. Or lady. Which do you prefer?” he said to Robyn, as he shook her hand.
“Person would be fine,” said Robyn.
“Person, right. Are you going to get this person a drink, Philip?”
“Yes, of course,” said Swallow, looking flustered. “Red or white?”
“Why
don’t you get her a proper drink?” said Zapp, who appeared to have a tumbler of neat scotch in his fist.
“Well, er, of course, if…” Swallow looked even more flustered.
“White will be fine,” said Robyn.
“I always know when I’m in England,” said Morris Zapp, as Philip Swallow went off, “because when you go to a party, the first thing anyone says to you is, ‘Red or white?’ I used to think it was some kind of password, like the Wars of the Roses were still going on or something.”
“Are you here for long?” Robyn asked.
“I’m going to Dubrovnik tomorrow. Ever been there?”
“No,” said Robyn.
“Neither have I. I’m breaking a rule: never attend a conference in a Communist country.”
“Isn’t that a rather bigoted rule?” Robyn said.
“There’s nothing political about it, it’s just that I’ve heard such terrible things about East European hotels. But they tell me Yugoslavia is half-Westernised, so I thought, what the hell, I’ll risk it.”
“It seems a long way to travel for a conference.”
“There’s more than one. After Dubrovnik I go to Vienna, Geneva, Nice and Milan. Milan is a private visit,” he said, brushing the ends of his moustache upwards with the back of his hand. “Looking up an old friend. But the rest are conferences. You been to any good ones lately?”
“No, I’m afraid I missed the UTE conference this year.”
“If that’s the one I attended here in ’79, then you did well to avoid it,” said Morris Zapp. “I mean real conferences, international conferences.”
“I couldn’t afford to go to one of those,” said Robyn. “Our overseas conference fund has been cut to the bone.”
“Cuts, cuts, cuts,” said Morris Zapp, “that’s all anyone will talk about here. First Philip, then Busby, now you.”
“That’s what life is like in British universities these days, Morris,” said Philip Swallow, presenting Robyn with a glass of rather warm Soave. “I spend all my time on committees arguing about how to respond to the cuts. I haven’t read a book in months, let alone tried to write one.”
“Well, I have,” said Robyn.
“Read one or written one?” said Morris Zapp.
“Written one,” said Robyn. “Well, three-quarters of it, anyway.”
“Ah, Robyn,” said Philip Swallow, “you put us all to shame. What shall we do without you?” He shuffled off, shaking his head.
“You leaving Rummidge, Robyn?” said Morris Zapp.
She explained her position. “So you see,” she concluded, “this book is very important to me. If by any chance there should be a job advertised in the next twelve months, I ought to stand a fair chance of getting it, with two books to my credit.”
“You’re right,” said Morris Zapp. “There are full professors at large in this country who have published less.” His eye strayed in the direction of Philip Swallow. “What’s your book about?”
Robyn told him. Morris Zapp vivaed her briskly about its contents and methodology. The names of prominent feminist critics and theorists crackled between them like machinegun fire: Elaine Showalter, Sandra Gilbert, Susan Gubar, Shoshana Felman, Luce Irigaray, Catherine Clement, Susan Suleiman, Mieke Bal—Morris Zapp had read them all. He recommended an article in the latest issue of Poetics Today which she hadn’t seen. Finally he asked her if she had made arrangements to publish her book in America.
“No, my British publishers distributed my first book in the States themselves—the one on the industrial novel. I suppose the same will happen with this one.”
“Who are they?”
“Lecky, Windrush and Bernstein.”
Morris Zapp pulled a face. “They’re terrible. Didn’t Philip tell you what they did to him? Lost all his review copies. Sent them out a year late.”
“Oh, dear,” said Robyn.
“How many did you sell in America?”
“I don’t know. Not many.”
“I’m a reader for Euphoric State University Press,” said Morris Zapp. “Send me your manuscript and I’ll have a look at it.”
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Robyn, “but I already have a contract with Lecky, Windrush and Bernstein.”
“If Euphoric State make an offer for the American rights, it would be in their interest to go along with it,” said Morris Zapp. “They could sell them the camera-ready copy. Of course, I may not like it. But you look like a smart girl to me.”
“Person.”
“Person, sorry.”
“How shall I get the manuscript to you?”
“Could you drop it here tomorrow morning before eight-thirty?” said Morris Zapp. “I’m catching the 9:45 shuttle to Heathrow.”
Robyn left the party early. Philip Swallow intercepted her as she wormed her way through the crowded hall on her way to the front door. “Oh, leaving so soon?” he said.
“Professor Zapp has kindly offered to look at my work-in-progress. It’s still on floppy discs, so I’m going home to print it out.”
“What a pity, you should have brought him,” said Philip Swallow.
“Who?”
“That young man of yours from Suffolk.”
“Oh, Charles! I’m not seeing Charles any more. He’s become a merchant banker.”
“Has he? How very interesting.” Philip Swallow swayed slightly on his feet, whether from inebriation or fatigue she couldn’t tell, and supported himself against the wall with a locked arm, which had the effect of barring her progress. Over his shoulder Robyn saw Mrs. Swallow regarding them suspiciously. “Isn’t it extraordinary how interesting money has become lately? Do you know, I’ve suddenly started reading the business pages in the Guardian after thirty years of skipping straight from the arts pages to the sports reports.”
“I can’t say it interests me much,” said Robyn, ducking under Swallow’s arm. “I must go, I’m afraid.”
“I suppose it started when I bought some British Telecom shares,” said Swallow, swivelling on his heel and following her to the front door. “Do you know, they’re worth twice what I paid for them now?”
“Congratulations,” said Robyn. “How much profit have you made?”
“Two hundred pounds,” said Swallow. “I wish I’d bought more, now. I’m wondering whether to apply for British Gas. D’you think your young man would advise me?”
“He’s not my young man,” said Robyn. “Why don’t you write and ask him?”
…
Robyn sat up all night printing out her book. She considered the effort would be worthwhile if she could secure the endorsement of a prestigious imprint like Euphoric State University Press. Besides, there was something about Morris Zapp that inspired hope. He had blown into the jaded, demoralised atmosphere of Rummidge University like an invigorating breeze, intimating that there were still places in the world where scholars and critics pursued their professional goals with zestful confidence, where conferences multiplied and grants were to be had to attend them, where conversation at academic parties was more likely to be about the latest controversial book or article than about the latest scaling-down of departmental maintenance grants. She felt renewed faith in her book, and her vocation, as she crouched, yawning and red-eyed, over her computer.
Even at draft speed, it took a long time to spew out her sixty thousand words, and it was nearly eight-fifteen in the morning when she finished the task. She drove quickly through the deserted Sunday streets to deliver her manuscript. It was a bright sunny morning, with a strong wind that was stripping the cherry-blossom from the trees. A taxi trembled at the kerb outside the Swallows’ house. In the front porch Hilary Swallow, in a dressing-gown, was saying goodbye to Morris Zapp, while Philip, carrying Morris Zapp’s suitcase, hovered anxiously halfway down the garden path, like a complaisant cuckold seeing off the lover of the night before. But whatever passion there might have been between Zapp and Mrs. Swallow had cooled long ago, Robyn inferred, from the merely amicable w
ay they brushed each other’s cheeks. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine these three almost elderly figures being involved in a sexual intrigue at all.
“Come on, Morris!” Swallow called out. “Your taxi’s waiting.” Then he swung round and caught sight of Robyn. “Good Lord—Robyn! What are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”
As she was explaining all over again, Morris Zapp came waddling down the garden path, an open Burberry flapping round his knees. “Hiya Robyn, howya doin’?” He drew a cigar like a long-barrelled weapon from an inside pocket and clamped it between his teeth.
“Here’s the manuscript.”
“Great, I’ll read it as soon as I can.” He lit his cigar, shielding the flame against the wind.
“It’s unfinished, as I told you. And unrevised.”
“Sure, sure,” said Morris Zapp. “I’ll let you know what I think. If I like it, I’ll call you, if I don’t I’ll mail it back. Is your phone number on the manuscript?”
“No,” said Robyn, “I’ll give it to you.”
“Do that. Haven’t you noticed that in the modern world good news comes by telephone and bad news by mail?”
“Now that you mention it,” said Robyn, scribbling her phone number on the outside of the package.
“Morris, the taxi,” said Philip Swallow.
“Relax, Philip, he’s not going to run away—are you, driver?”
“No sir,” said the taxi-driver, from behind his wheel, “it’s all the same to me.”
“There you are,” said Morris Zapp, stuffing Robyn’s manuscript into a briefcase bulging with books and periodicals.
“I mean, the meter is ticking over.”
“So what?”
“I’m afraid I’ve become a bit obsessive about waste since becoming Dean,” Philip Swallow sighed. “I can’t help it.”
“Well, hang in there, Philip,” said Morris Zapp. “Or as you Brits say, keep your pecker up.” He wheezed with laughter and coughed cigar smoke. “You should come back to Euphoric State for a visit some time. It would do you good to watch us spending money.”