John Braine - Room at the Top

The Library shared the same building as the Town Hall, I called there at ten the following morning and found out that Jack would be returning to the University in a couple of days.

I stood in the little alcove they called the Reference Department, feeling absurdly exultant and at the same time envious. Cambridge: I had a mental picture of port wine, boating, leisurely discussions over long tables gleaming with silver and cut glass. And over it all the atmosphere of power, power speaking impeccable Standard English, power which was power because it was born of the right family, always knew the right people: if you were going to run the country you couldn't do without a University education.

Jack's father, among other things, manufactured cars. Business was booming; though even if it hadn't been, it wouldn't greatly have mattered, since he'd built up a cosy little vertical trust. Whenever he spent more than a certain amount on any component, he bought the firm which made it; he owned a plastics factory, a tannery, a body-work builders and even a laundry and a printing firm. Beside Ford or Lyons or Unilever it was a small combine; but I'll be very surprised if the old man cuts up for less than a million.

Cedric had explained to me the reason for Jack's taking a science degree. "Whoever runs the combine can't specialise," he said. "He must be able to think generally. If he knows too much detail he won't be able to grasp the whole. So Jack's going to Cambridge to learn how to think." Cedric had given me a conspiratorial smile. "Not that it makes much difference. The accountants and the engineers run the show no matter who's in charge. All that's necessary is that Jack meets the right people and learns how to get on with them. Blinding with science - isn't that the phrase?"

All right, I muttered to myself childishly, I'll pinch your woman, Wales, and all your money won't stop me ...

I went out to the phone kiosk opposite the Town Hall and called Susan. Waiting for the operator to put me through I was half inclined to abandon the whole attempt. If she hadn't answered the phone it's doubtful whether I would have tried again.

"Susan Brown speaking," she said.

"Joe Lampton speaking. How official we sound." There was a pane missing in the kiosk and a cold wind blew in. My hands were shaking with excitement. "I've got two tickets for the ballet on Saturday night, I wondered if you'd care to see it."

"Saturday night?"

"I mean evening," I said, cursing myself.

"I'd love to see it. Just a minute, Joe, I'm all tangled up, I've just had a bath."

I imagined her nakedness, young and firm and fragrant. Then I put the idea out of my head. It was something I didn't want to think about. It wasn't that I didn't desire her physically; but to strip her mentally was adolescent and pimply, it didn't express my true feelings. This I can honestly say: my intentions towards Susan were always those described as honourable. Any other response to her beauty would have seemed shabby. Even apart from her money, she was worth marrying. She was the princess in the fairy stories, the girl in old songs, the heroine of musical comedies. She naturally belonged to it because she possessed the necessary face and figure and the right income group. And that's how it is in all the fairy stories: the princess is always beautiful, and lives in a golden palace, and wears fine clothes and rich jewels and eats chicken and strawberries and cakes made from honey and even if she has bad luck and has to go to work in the kitchen the prince always spots her because she's left an expensive ring in the cake she's baked for him; and the shock almost kills him when she's brought to him in her donkey skin with her face and hands dirty from menial labours because he thinks he's fallen in love with a common working girl, Grade Ten in fact. But she takes off the donkey skin and he sees her fine clothes and she washes her face and hands and he sees her white delicate skin. So it's all right: she's Grade One and they can marry and live happily ever after. The qualifications for a princess are made brutally clear.

Susan was a princess and I was the equivalent of a swineherd. I was, you might say, acting out a fairy story. The trouble was that there were more difficult obstacles than dragons and enchanters to overcome, and I could see no sign of a fairy godmother. And that morning I couldn't tell how the story would end. When she left the phone she seemed to be away for a long time; I thought for a moment that she'd hung up on me but somewhere in the background I could hear a vacuum cleaner and women's voices.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," she said, "I couldn't find my engagement book. Saturday evening will be all right, Joe."

The first dragon was killed, even if it was only a small one. I tried not to sound too exultant. "Grand. I'll call for you at a quarter past six, shall I?"

"No, no," she said quickly, "I'll meet you at the theatre."

"A quarter to seven then."

"Golly, here's Mummy. I must rush. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," I said, feeling a little puzzled. Some of the gilt had already been taken off the gingerbread. Why should she panic when her mother came into the room? It was as if she hadn't wanted it to be known that she was going out with me. Wasn't she supposed to go out with anyone except Jack? And was I, unlike him, not good enough to call at her house?

When I returned to the Treasurer's, Teddy Soames was drinking tea and flirting with June Oakes, the Health Department typist. June was just twenty with red hair and clear skin and, I was fairly sure, a silly but loving disposition; but I knew better than to become mixed up with her. Office affairs are easy to begin and difficult to finish, particularly in a small town.

However, I joined in the flirtation. It was reassuring to my ego to be with a woman who was within my reach, who wouldn't, I thought, looking at her full moist lips, egg me on unless she meant business, and who would be absolutely delighted to have me call at her home.

"Hello, queen of my heart," I said, taking a cup of tea. "It's always nice to see you. Every day you look more beautiful. I'm glad you don't work at the Treasurer's though."

"Wouldn't you like me to?"

"I'd be too busy looking at you," I said. "I'd never get any work done."

She giggled. "I hear that you're looking at someone else."

"Only because you won't marry me."

"You haven't asked me."

I went down on one knee and put my hand on my heart. "Dear - or may I say dearest? - Miss Oakes, I offer you my hand and my heart - "

"Don't listen, June," Teddy said. "He goes boozing with married women."

I straightened myself up. "I don't know what you mean."

June giggled again. "Her name might begin with A. She's much too old for you." She had a voice which was very light in timbre, almost a squeak; it combined oddly with her magnificent bust.

"Oh that ," I said lightly. "She was giving me a lift home. We were discussing the play. Teddy wouldn't understand. Our relationship is strictly platonic."

"Yes, I understand," Teddy said, putting his arm round June's waist. "I'm trying to take June on a platonic weekend. Of course, it'll be too bad if she has a platonic baby." He gave one of his loud artificial laughs and nuzzled June's cheek.

"Oh, you are awful," she said. "No, Teddy. No, you mustn't. What if Mr. Hoylake comes in?"

"He'll order me to leave you alone and let him have a cuddle," Teddy said.

"I won't speak to you again ever," she said. "You've got an awful mind." She smiled at me. "But Joe's a gentleman."

"Don't depend on it," I said.

She came closer to me; she had a strange smell, not perfume, not soap, not sweat, almost rank, but clean. I was strongly tempted to caress her, or at least make a date with her; but the one would have been unsatisfying and the other dangerous. So I smiled back at her. "You're lovely," I said.