by David Lodge
He shrugs. “Win some, lose some. In a funny sort of way it’s had a good side. Misfortune draws a family together.”
“Marjorie’s not too upset?”
“Marjorie’s been terrific,” says Vic. “As a matter of fact”—he rakes back his forelock and looks nervously away from her—“we’ve had a sort of reconciliation. I thought I ought to tell you.”
“I’m glad,” says Robyn gently. “I’m really glad to hear that.”
“I just wanted to get things straight,” he says, glancing at her apprehensively. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit foolish.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ve been living in a dream. This business has woken me up. I must have been out of my mind, imagining you would see anything in a middle-aged dwarf engineer.”
Robyn laughs.
“You’re a very special person, Robyn,” he says solemnly. “One day you’ll meet a man who deserves to marry you.”
“I don’t need a man to complete me,” she says, smiling.
“That’s because you haven’t met him yet.”
“As a matter of fact, I had an offer this very morning,” she says lightly.
His eyes widen. “Who from?”
“Charles.”
“Are you going to accept?”
“No,” she says. “And what are you going to do now? Look for another job, I suppose.”
“No, I’ve had enough of the rat-race.”
“You mean you’re going to retire?”
“I can’t afford to retire. Anyway, I’d be lost without work.”
“You could do an English degree as a mature student.” She smiles, not entirely serious, not entirely joking.
“I’m thinking of setting up on my own. You remember that idea I mentioned to you for a spectrometer? I talked to Tom Rigby last night, and he’s game.”
“That’s a marvellous idea! It’s just the right opportunity.”
“It’s a question of raising the necessary capital.”
“I’ve got a lot of capital,” says Robyn. “I’ll invest it in your spectrometer. I’ll be a—what do they call it? A sleeping partner.”
He laughs. “I’m talking six figures here.”
“So am I,” says Robyn, and tells him about her legacy. “Take it,” she says. “Use it. I don’t want it. I don’t want to retire, either. I’d rather go and work in America.”
“I can’t take all of it,” he says. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“Take a hundred thousand,” she says. “Is that enough?”
“It’s more than enough.”
“That’s settled, then.”
“You might lose it all, you know.”
“I trust you, Vic. I’ve seen you in action. I’ve shadowed you.” She smiles.
“On the other hand, you might end up a millionaire. How will you feel about that?”
“I’ll risk it,” she says.
He looks at her, holding his breath, then exhales. “What can I say?”
“‘Thank you’ will be fine.”
“Thank you, then. I’ll talk to Tom Rigby, and have my lawyer draw up a document.”
“Right,” says Robyn. “Aren’t we supposed to shake hands at this point?”
“You should sleep on it,” he says.
“I don’t want to sleep on it,” she says, seizing his hand and shaking it. There is a knock on the door and Marion Russell appears at the threshold, wearing an oversized tee-shirt with ONLY CONNECT printed on it in big letters. “Oh, sorry,” she says, “I’ll come back later.”
“It’s all right, I’m going,” says Vic. He thrusts the books abruptly at Robyn. “I brought these back. Thanks for the loan.”
“Oh, right, are you sure you’ve finished with them?”
“I haven’t finished Daniel Deronda, but I don’t think I ever will,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind keeping the Tennyson, if it’s a spare copy. As a souvenir.”
“Of course,” says Robyn. She sits at her desk, writes in the flyleaf in her bold, flowing hand, “To Vic, with love, from your shadow,” and gives it back to him.
He glances at the inscription. “‘With love,’” he says. “Now you tell me.” He smiles wryly, shuts the book, nods goodbye, and goes out of the room, past the hovering Marion.
Marion pulls a chair up close to Robyn’s desk, and sits on the edge of it, leaning forwards and peering anxiously at her. “It’s not true, is it, that you’re going to America?” she says.
Robyn throws down her pen. “Good God! Is there no privacy in this place? Where did you hear that?”
Marion is apologetic, but determined. “In the corridor. Some students were coming out of a tutorial with Mr. Sutcliffe… I heard them talking. Only I wanted to do your Women’s Writing course next year.”
“I can’t discuss my plans with you, Marion. It’s a private matter. I don’t know myself what I’ll be doing next year. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Sorry, it was a bit rude, I suppose, only… I hope you don’t go, Robyn. You’re the best teacher in the Department, everybody says so. And there’ll be nobody left to teach Women’s Studies.”
“Is there anything else, Marion?”
The girl sighs and shakes her head. She prepares to leave.
“By the way,” says Robyn. “Does your Kissogram firm deliver to London.”
“No, not usually. But they have the same sort of thing there.”
“I want to send a Gorillagram to somebody in London,” says Robyn.
“I could get you the name of an agency,” says Marion.
“Could you? Thanks very much. I want the message delivered to a bank in the City, in the middle of the morning. How would a man in a gorilla suit get past the reception desk?”
“Oh, we always change in the loos,” says Marion.
“Good,” says Robyn. “As soon as you can, then, Marion.”
When Marion has gone, Robyn gets out a pad of A4 and begins composing a little poem, smiling to herself as she does so. Soon there is another knock on her door, and Philip Swallow sidles into the room.
“Ah, good morning, Robyn. Can you spare a moment?” He sits down on the chair vacated by Marion Russell. “I’ve sent off that reference to America.”
“That was quick! Thank you very much.”
“It implies no eagerness to get rid of you, I assure you, Robyn. In fact, I don’t know how we shall manage without you next year. A lot of students have signed up for your courses.”
“You did say, back in January,” says Robyn, “that if a job came up, I should apply for it.”
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right.”
“I don’t particularly want to emigrate. But I do want a job.”
“Ah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see, I’ve found out what ‘virement’ means.”
“Virement?”
“Yes, you remember… I found it in the revised Collins. Apparently it means the freedom to use funds that have been designated for a particular purpose, in a budget, for something else. We haven’t had virement in the Faculty before, but we’re going to get it next year.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it means that if we decide to curtail certain operations in the Faculty, we could redirect the resources. Since the English Department is bulging with students, and some of the smaller Departments in the Faculty are on the brink of disappearing altogether, there’s a chance that we may be able to replace Rupert after all, in spite of the new round of cuts.”
“I see,” says Robyn.
“It’s only a chance, mind you,” says Philip Swallow. “I can’t guarantee anything. But I was wondering whether, in the circumstances, you would consider staying on next year, and see what happens.”
Robyn thinks. Philip Swallow watches her thinking. To avoid his anxious scrutiny, Robyn turns in her chair and looks out of the window, at the green quadrangle in the middle of the campus. Students, drawn out of doors by the sunshine, are already beginnin
g to congregate in pairs and small groups, spreading their coats and plastic bags so that they can sit or lie on the damp grass. On one of the lawns a gardener, a young black in olive dungarees, is pushing a motor mower up and down, steering carefully around the margins of the flower beds, and between the reclining students. When they see that they will be in his way, the students get up and move themselves and their belongings, settling like a flock of birds on another patch of grass. The gardener is of about the same age as the students, but no communication takes place between them—no nods, or smiles, or spoken words, not even a glance. There is no overt arrogance on the students’ part, or evident resentment on the young gardener’s, just a kind of mutual, instinctive avoidance of contact. Physically contiguous, they inhabit separate worlds. It seems a very British way of handling differences of class and race. Remembering her Utopian vision of the campus invaded by the Pringle’s workforce, Robyn smiles ruefully to herself. There is a long way to go.
“All right,” she says, turning back to Philip Swallow. “I’ll stay on.”