Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'Well, I'm teaching this morning,' says Howard. 'And there's a departmental meeting this afternoon, which will go on very late.'

'It wouldn't,' says Barbara, 'if you didn't argue so much.'

'I exist to argue,' says Howard. 'I just want to be clear,' says Barbara. 'I am not doing this by myself.'

'Of course not,' says Howard, picking up the Guardian from the kitchen table. The headlines advise him of many indignities and wrongs. There is a new anti-pornography drive, a trial of a group of anarchist bombers, an equivocal constitutional meeting in Ulster, a fudging Labour Party Conference in Blackpool. Liberties are sliding; his radical ire thickens, and he begins to feel some of the bitterness that is part of the sensation of living self. 'I am not going to be that person,' says Barbara. 'Did you find me somebody?'

'Not yet,' says Howard, 'I'll find someone though.'

'I could fix it with Rosemary,' says Barbara. 'She was in good shape last night. She went home with your friend from the sex shop.'

'You see how quickly these agonies pass?' says Howard. 'No, Barbara; please not Rosemary.'

'In the meantime, the mess,' says Barbara. 'We'll do it tonight,' says Howard. 'I'm going out tonight.' The toaster pops; Howard takes out the warmed bread. 'Where?' he asks. 'I've signed up for an evening class at the library,' says Barbara. 'It starts today, and I mean to be there. Okay?'

'Of course okay,' says Howard. 'What's it on?'

'Commercial French,' says Barbara. 'Acceptez, cher monsieur, l'assurance de mes solicitations les plus distinguees,' says Howard. 'What do you need it for?'

'It's something new,' says Barbara. 'Don't they have car mechanics?' asks Howard. 'I want to read Simone de Beauvoir in the original.'

'In commercial French?'

'Yes,' says Barbara, 'that was all the French they had.'

'Well, it should bend your mind,' says Howard. 'Don't patronize me,' says Barbara, 'I'm not Myra Beamish.'

'Did she leave him?' asks Howard. 'I don't know,' says Barbara, 'I lost sight of that particular little drama, Myra making it into the now scene. There were so many.'

'A good party,' says Howard. 'A mess,' says Barbara, switching on the radio.

The radio trills, and there is a newsbreak. The noise of the radio draws the children, Martin and Celia, fresh, separate, critical beings, in their clothes from the manikin boutiques, into the kitchen; they sit down at the table, in front of coloured enamel bowls from Yugoslavia. 'Bonjour, mes amis,' says Howard. 'Did the party make you drunk, Howard?' asks Martin. 'Who left her bra in the plantpot of the living-room geranium?' asks Celia. 'Not me,' says Howard. 'You have the messiest friends in the whole world,' says Celia. 'One of them broke a window,' says Martin, 'in the guest bedroom.'

'You've checked around, have you?' asks Howard. 'Anything else I should advise the insurance company about?'

'I think someone jumped out,' says Martin, 'there's all blood in there. Shall I go and look outside?'

'Nobody jumped out,' says Barbara. 'You sit there and eat your cornflakes.'

'Cornflakes, yuk,' says Martin. 'My compliments to the cook, and tell her "yuk",' says Howard. 'I expect this person jumped out because he couldn't stand the noise,' says Celia. 'You say we're noisy, but that was terrible.'

'Is there really some blood, Celia?' asks Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'Why does it always have to be cornflakes?' asks Martin. 'You can't say all that much for the human lot, as we bumble around in the Platonic cave,' says Howard, 'but sometimes there are glimpses of the eternals beyond. Like cornflakes.'

'No metaphysics, Howard,' says Barbara. 'Let's all just eat our cornflakes.'

'Are you opposed to metaphysics?' asks Celia, not eating her cornflakes. 'She's a British empiricist,' says Howard. 'Look,' says Barbara, 'these kids leave for school in fifteen minutes, right? I know it's against your principles, which are dedicated to driving me insane. But could you exercise a bit of parental authority here, and get them to eat their sodding cornflakes?'

'Are you going to eat your sodding cornflakes?' asks Howard of the children. 'Or do you want me to throw them out of the window?'

'I want you to throw them out of the window,' says Martin. 'Christ,' says Barbara, 'here's a man with professional training in social psychology. And he can't get a child to eat a cornflake.'

'The human will has a natural resistance to coercion,' says Howard. 'It will not be repressed.'

'By cornflake fascism,' says Celia.

Barbara stares at Howard. 'Oh, you're a great operator,' she says. 'Why don't you give them wider options? Set them free?' asks Howard, 'Weetabix? Rice Krispies?'

'Why don't you keep out of it?' asks Barbara, 'I feed this lot. They're not asking for different food. They're asking for my endless sodding attention.'

'We are asking for different food,' says Martin. 'We'd like the endless sodding attention too,' says Celia. 'Eat,' says Barbara. 'If you don't you'll die.'

'Oh, marvellous,' says Howard. 'And if you don't eat fast, you'll be late for school as well,' says Barbara. 'Okay?'

'They don't want you at school if you're dead,' says Martin. 'They give your crayons to another person.'

'Shut up, Martin,' says Barbara. 'If you speak again, I'll drop this egg on your head.'

'Speak,' says Celia. 'Resist tyranny:'

'You've built this one up,' says Barbara to Howard. Howard inspects the Guardian; the radio trills; the rain drips. After a minute, Celia says: 'I hope Miss Birdsall doesn't make me stand outside the classroom again today.' Howard recognizes a situation designed for his attention; he looks up from the Guardian; he says, 'Why did she do that?'

'Because I said "penis",' says Celia. 'Honestly,' says Barbara, 'that woman.'

'It's a proper word, isn't it?' asks Celia, pleased with the development of the situation. 'I told her you said I could use it.'

'Of course it's a proper word,' says Howard, 'I'm going to call the Education Committee. I want an enquiry into that sick, nasty woman.'

'Is she sick and nasty?' asks Barbara. 'Maybe she's just overstrained.'

'You're identifying,' says Howard, 'Miss Birdbrain needs a good kick up her protestant ethic.' This creates delight in the constituency; the children shout, 'Miss Birdbrain, Miss Birdbrain,' and Martin knocks over his egg. It performs an elegant arc, and smashes on the rush matting. Howard watches as the yellow yolk oozes out and forms a coagulating pool. He Says: 'Take care, Martin.' Barbara tears paper off the kitchen roll; she bends over, in her housecoat, her face red, and begins to wipe up the mess. When she has finished, she looks at Howard. 'You wanted that to happen,' she says.

'No,' says Howard. 'You built it up,' says Barbara. 'I was just radicalizing the children a little,' says Howard. 'To fix me,' says Barbara. 'You see plots everywhere,' says Howard. 'As you often say,' says Barbara, 'the reason people have conspiracy theories is that people conspire.'

'I think Miss Birdbrain's a marvellous name for her,' says Celia. 'She's just a nasty old penis.'

'And you told her that?' says Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'So she sent you out of the room,' says Barbara. 'Yes,' says Celia. 'You'd better explain that when you call the Education Committee,' says Barbara. 'Maybe I won't call the Education Committee,' says Howard. 'No,' says Barbara, 'save your radical indignation for higher things.'

'How come the male organ is now a term of abuse?' asks Howard. 'It's just us second-class citizens getting our own back,' says Barbara, 'thanks to reading Simone de Beauvoir in the original.' Out in the hall the telephone rings; Barbara goes out to answer it. Celia says, 'Who's Simone de Beauvoir?'