Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

In the days when the Kirks had remodelled their house, they had worked with particular dedication at the kitchen, since they both had to spend so much time there. They did it out in pine and rush; the long table is scrubbed pine, the shelves on the walls are pine, there are pine cabinets, and pine and rush chairs, and rush matting on the floors. Barbara stands amid this, in front of a vinyl wallpaper celebrating the bulbous lines of onions and garlics; she is wearing a striped butcher's apron, and making paté. The children are here too, filling bowls with nuts and pretzels. 'I said come back about four,' says Barbara, as Howard kisses her lightly on the cheek. She wipes the cheek with the back of her hand; she looks at him. 'I've had a busy day,' says Howard. 'I'm sure,' says Barbara. 'Don't tell me about it. It's clearly set you up in a big way, and I'm not interested in other people's happy times right now.'

'You're late, Howard,' says Celia, 'that was naughty.'

'Well,' says Barbara, 'there are the following things to do. Wipe the glasses. Open all the bottles of wine; there'll not be time for doing that later. I should pour out a few dozen glasses full. Put out ashtrays; I'm not having dirty rugs, and for some reason students have started throwing cigarette-ends on the floor.'

'They always did,' says Howard, 'we didn't care, once.'

'Well, we do now,' says Barbara. 'And then arrange the house the way you want it, sociologically speaking, for all that there interaction you're always talking about. You also need a bath and a change. Especially if you propose to be intimate with anyone other than myself. I've had a wearying, infuriating day, Howard, I think you should know. I've had Rosemary on the telephone twice; I'm sure she's going crazy. I think my period's starting, too, isn't that great? And Anne has left.'

'She has?' asks Howard, wiping glasses with a cloth. 'Before she washed the dishes from last night, not after,' says Barbara. 'She's gone back to her flat.'

'I thought she'd help out today,' says Howard. 'Oh, you pushed her on her way this morning, didn't you?' asks Barbara. 'Everyone exploits somebody.' Howard begins to take out a row of bottles from one of the cardboard cases, and put them on the long table. 'No, not there, somewhere else,' says Barbara, 'I'm occupying that space.' She puts some long French loaves on the table, and begins slicing them neatly, putting the cut pieces into a rush basket. Howard stands by the kitchen cabinets; he takes the corkscrew from the pine drawer, and begins expertly opening bottles, one after another. The children run over, and begin to lick the pulled corks; the Kirks' party begins to take its shape.

After a while, Howard leaves the kitchen and begins to go around the house. He is a solemn. party-giver, the creator of a serious social theatre. Now he goes about, putting out ashtrays and dishes, cushions and chairs. He moves furniture, to produce good conversation areas, open significant action spaces, create corners of privacy. The children run around with him. 'Who's coming, Howard?' asks Martin. 'A whole crowd of people,' says Howard. 'Who?' asks Martin. 'He doesn't know,' says Celia. Now he goes upstairs, to pull beds against the walls, adjust lights, shade shades, pull blinds, open doors. It is an important rule to have as little forbidden ground as possible, to make the house itself the total stage. And so he designs it, retaining only a few tiny areas of sanctity; he blocks, with chairs, the short corridor that leads to the children's rooms, and the steps that lead down to his basement study. Everywhere else the code is one of possibility, not denial. Chairs and cushions and beds suggest multiple forms of companionship. Thresholds are abolished; room leads into room. There are speakers for music, special angles for lighting, rooms for dancing and talking and smoking and sexualizing. The aim is to let the party happen rather than to make it happen, so that what takes place occurs apparently without hostly intervention, or rather with the intervention of that higher sociological host who governs the transactions of human encounter. He goes into the bathroom, to check there; Barbara lies, big and naked, in the bath, in a plastic showercap, reading Cohn's The Pursuit of the Millennium. She says: 'Howard, I want you to know this. I'm having my Biba weekend in London, Anne or no Anne. I know you'd like to fix that, but you won't.'

'Fix it?' says Howard in innocence. 'Of course you should go.'

'Then find me someone to replace Anne,' says Barbara, 'so I don't worry about the kids all the time.'

'No, you mustn't do that,' says Howard. 'But can I count on you? Will you really do it?' asks Barbara. 'Yes,' says Howard. 'I'm a fool,' says Barbara, 'I should find someone myself. Rosemary would come.'

'Magical Rosemary,' says Howard, 'fresh from the shed down the garden.'

'That's not funny,' says Barbara, heaving in the bath. 'I just meant there are better choices,' says Howard. 'I'll find someone.'

'Not too pretty,' says Barbara. 'Oh, no,' says Howard. 'I want to enjoy myself,' says Barbara, 'my God, after four weeks close to you, I need it. Mind, I want to come out now.'

'Oh, you look good,' says Howard, as Barbara steps from the bath. 'Don't touch,' says Barbara, 'get on getting ready.'

Howard goes on getting ready; later, he takes a bath himself. Afterwards, he walks back to the bedroom, a room that he has rearranged for the evening, and changes, putting on clean jeans, a purple vest shirt. Then he goes downstairs, and there is someone with Barbara in the kitchen. It is Myra Beamish, sitting at the pine table, slicing and breaking the long loaves of French bread. She looks up at him in the doorway; she is wearing a fluffy pink chiffon party dress, and her hair is neater and fresher and darker than usual; Howard realizes she is wearing a wig. 'Oh, Myra,' he says. 'Hello, Howard,' says Myra, 'I hope you don't mind, I came early. I knew Barbara would be glad of some advance help. She has so much to do.'

'That's good,' says Howard, 'how would you like a drink.'

'Oh, Howard,' says Myra, 'I would most certainly love a drink.' A row of glasses stands ready poured and waiting for the evening; Howard picks one up, and carries it over to Myra, who smiles at him, and says 'Ta.'

'Where's Henry?' asks Howard. 'Who knows?' says Myra. 'Who knows about Henry?'

'I thought you might,' says Howard, sitting down. 'Does Barbara know all and everything about you?' asks Myra. 'I don't,' says Barbara. 'Nothing.'

'Then why should I be expected to know about Henry?'

'Oh, you're not,' says Barbara. 'I haven't seen you since before the summer,' says Myra. 'What did you do over the summer? Did you go away?'

'No, we didn't,' says Barbara, 'we stayed right here, and Howard finished a book.'

'A book,' says Myra, 'Henry tried to write a book. A very profoundly solemn book. On charisma.'

'Fine,' says Howard, 'Henry needs another book.'

'Howard, Henry needs more than a book,' says Myra, cutting bread. 'I must say I like your books better.'

'You do?' asks Barbara. 'Especially the sex one,' says Myra. 'The only thing I never understand about that book is whether we could do all those perverse sex things now, or whether we had to wait until after the revolution.'

'Christ, Myra,' says Barbara, 'nothing in consenting sex is perverse.'

'What's more,' says Howard, 'they are the revolution.'

'Oh boy,' says Myra, 'you have such terrific revolutions. You've really improved revolution's image.'

'I try,' says Howard.

Barbara gets up from the table. She says: 'Howard's books are very empty but they're always on the right side.'

'They're nice books,' says Myra, 'I can almost understand them. More than I can say of Henry's.'

'Perhaps that's what's wrong with them,' says Barbara. 'Of course, they sell very well.'