Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'Of course,' says Howard. 'Where is it, then?' asks Myra. Barbara says: ' Myra, has Henry done something to you?'

'No,' says Myra, picking up the knife, and starting slicing at the bread again, 'he never does anything to me. That's why he's so boring. If I were asked to define my condition, I'd say boredom. I'm bored because he never does anything to me, and nor does anyone or anything else. Am I making sense?'

'I think so, Myra,' says Barbara. 'Doesn't he sleep with you?'

'Oh, it's not that,' says Myra. 'He does, in his own trite way. But, contrary to prevailing opinion, that's no revelation. Someone should write a book on the boredom of orgasm. Why don't you, Howard?'

'Howard's not bored,' says Barbara. 'Look, have you tried anyone else?' Myra, her face a little red, looks down at the table. 'That's just not the issue,' says Myra. 'There's no one else.'

'You're not leaving him for anyone?'

'No,' says Myra, 'I'm leaving him for me.'

'What will you do?' asks Barbara. 'I don't know,' says Myra. 'It's push, not pull, that's driving me.'

'But what is the issue?' asks Howard. 'What is it you want that you don't have?'

'Well, obviously,' says Myra, with a little impatience, 'absence from Henry.'

The Kirks, compassionate instructors in the arts of separation, look at each other. 'I don't think you've told us much yet,' says Howard. 'You must have been thinking about this for a long time. You must know what it is your marriage isn't expressing.'

'It isn't expressing anything at all,' says Myra. 'You might say it was silent.'

'But you're not silent,' says Howard, 'you've something in yourself to be said.'

'Yes,' says Myra. 'Ouch.'

'And Henry?' asks Howard. 'Does he feel the same?'

'Howard,' says Myra, 'have you inspected Henry lately? Don't you find him banal? Don't you think really he's become ridiculous?'

'I've worried about Henry,' says Howard. 'I'm concerned for him.'

'Well, can't you imagine me wanting to be free of him?'

'But haven't you talked about it? A marriage is a thing in common; you have something to do with his nature,' says Barbara. 'I think that sounds a nasty question,' says Myra, 'as if I'm to blame. But he shapes me much more than I do him. The man shapes the woman. He has the advantages. He sets the pace.'

'But you've not talked,' says Howard. 'No,' says Myra, 'there's nothing to talk about. You always said marriage was an archaic institution. Now you seem to want me to stay with him.'

'Oh, no,' says Howard. 'Howard doesn't mean that,' says Barbara, 'he just wants to get into the question of where things went wrong.' Myra begins to cry again. She says: 'I thought you'd agree with me.'

'We're not trying to stop you leaving him,' says Barbara, 'we want you to understand what you're doing.'

'I think I do understand that,' says Myra, 'I'm quitting while the going's good.'

'Have you thought of asking what's wrong with Henry?' asks Barbara. 'Trying to help him?'

'I've been trying to help him ever since we married,' says Myra. 'You've been married as long as we have. It was the year after, wasn't it? You know what things are like.' Howard looks at Barbara; he says, 'Ah, but ours hasn't been one marriage. It's been several.'

Myra sits at the table, and contemplates this undoubted truth for a moment. She looks up at the Kirks, standing, one on each side of her, custodians of the coupled relationship, concerned, a striking pair. She says, 'Oh, you two. I don't know how you do it.'

'How we do what?' asks Barbara. 'Have such a good relationship,' Myra says warmly. 'I wouldn't exactly boast,' says Barbara. 'Do you remember when Howard and I split up in Leeds?'

'Of course,' says Myra, 'but you talked to each other and got back together again. You learned to deal with each other. We never will.' Howard says, ' Myra, everyone's life looks more successful from the outside. Ours has been a fight. We've had our disasters.' He takes Myra 's glass, and pours some more wine into it. 'But you bounce back,' says Myra. 'Thanks a lot, love.'

'I suppose it's a question of being determined to keep up with every stage of life,' says Barbara, 'of never relaxing.'

'You've just been more mature about it than the rest of us,' says Myra. The word 'mature' rings pleasantly with the Kirks; they look at each other with some pleasure. 'I think yours is the only successful academic marriage I know,' says Myra. 'What's wrong with the others?' asks Howard. 'You know what's wrong,' says Myra. 'Look around you at all these sad pairs. How can they work? The man goes out to the university, his mind's alive, he's fresh with new ideas.'

'Sometimes it's the woman,' says Barbara. 'Even the women are men,' says Myra. 'He talks all day to pretty students who know all about structuralism, and have read Parsons and Dahrendorf, and can say "charisma" properly, and understand the work he's doing. Then he comes home to a wife who's been dusting and cleaning. He says "Parsons" and "Dahrendorf", and she says "Huh?" What can he do? He either gives her a tutorial, and thinks she's pretty B minus, or he shuts up and eats the ratatouille.'

'She should work,' says Barbara. 'Oh, fine,' says Myra, 'except she keeps getting older, and the students manage to stay eighteen. And then comes the bit where all your friends start separating and divorcing, because the husbands run off with the alpha students who can say "charisma".'

'Do you think Henry wants to run off with an alpha student?' asks Barbara. Myra looks at her. 'No,' she says, 'not Henry, he hasn't that much ambition. He might sort of stumble into walking off slowly with a beta student. Maybe I'd like him better if he did.'

Barbara says, 'You mean you blame him because he does stay at home.'

'That's right,' says Myra. 'Much more of this bloody connubial bliss, and I swear we'll kill each other, Henry and me.' Howard laughs; he says, ' Myra, you really don't make sense.'

'I'm not as clever as you,' says Myra, 'but I want to leave him. And I came to you so that you could tell me why and how. You're experts, aren't you?' There is carbonise outside in the terrace. 'Oh, Christ,' says Barbara, 'I must go and put on my dress.' Myra says suddenly, 'Look, you mustn't tell Henry I'm leaving him. I haven't told him myself yet.'

'We'll have to have a longer talk,' says Barbara. 'Tomorrow, call me.'

'I'll probably be gone by then,' says Myra. 'You won't,' says Howard. 'I mean it,' says Myra. 'Yes,' says Barbara. 'Go and let them in, Howard.'

'Is my face a mess?' asks Myra, as they hear Barbara's feet rushing up the stairs. 'You're fine,' says Howard. 'Do you remember when we slept together?' says Myra. 'Yes, we did once, didn't we?' says Howard. 'The only time,' says Myra, looking at him. 'The only bloody time I ever did it. I bet you find that extremely ridiculous.'

'No, I don't,' says Howard. 'I want to fix my face a bit,' says Myra, 'you go and welcome your guests. I hope I've not spoiled things.'

'Of course not, Myra,' says Howard, and he goes out of the kitchen and along the cool long hall to the front of the house, to open the door to arrivals.

He opens the door. Out over the town the sodium lights are lit, and they cast an artificial red tint into the air, illustrating the jagged shapes of the decrepit houses opposite, where no one lives. The bright lights from the windows of the Kirks' house fall out over the old, broken pavement stones of the terrace, which are drying now, for the rain has stopped. In the terrace a big black Daimler hearse, of rather old vintage, has come to a stop. There are artificial flowers stuck in its elegant silver flower-holders; on the etched glass of the long side window is a sticker, saying, 'Make Africa Black'. The rear window rises; out slide three young men, all in jeans; two more descend from the front, one wearing a floppy leather hat, the other carrying a guitar. They begin to walk towards Howard's front door. Now a reconstituted pre-war Standard Eight, in good condition, halts across the street. A thin young man in a black leather jacket gets out of the driving seat, and goes round to the passenger door to draw forth a very pregnant woman, in loose top and trousers. They too cross the street toward the Kirks' bright house. Behind Howard there is a bustle; Barbara comes hurrying down the stairs, her hair up in a social bun, her healthy peasant bosom thrusting through the lines of a pink velvet Biba dress she has brought back from her most recent trip to London, her face bright. She comes and stands beside Howard in the hall, her hand on his shoulder. 'First arrivals,' says Barbara. 'Come on in,' says Howard. They stand together, Barbara big and blonde, Howard neat in his turned down moustache. The students come in freely, saying 'Hi,' their unfitting shoes flapping on the sealed wood floor. The other couple, a sociologist from Howard's department, a new appointment, and his very round wife, are more nervous; they stand in hesitation on the threshold, each looking equally weighted by the heavy pregnancy. 'You must be the Kirks,' says the sociologist. 'My name's Macintosh.'