Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

Howard sits behind the wheel, inspecting faces, looking for one he knows. Shortly he sees one: standing at a bus-stop, overarched by a large maroon umbrella, is a girl in a dark grey dress. He waves on the following traffic; he stops, a little way beyond the stop; he hoots the horn. But the girl clearly knows a pickup when she sees one; she glances at the minivan with a very cool curiosity, and then stares back down the main road, investigating the traffic for a sight of the bus she is dedicated to catching. Howard hoots again; finally he opens the door of the van and gets out, pressing against the door to avoid the rushing traffic. He shouts: 'Miss Callendar, Miss Callendar.' In the queue, Miss Callendar turns again and stares; then there is a shock of recognition. 'Och,' she says, 'it's Dr Kirk beckoning me.'

'Come on,' says Howard, 'I'll give you a lift to the university.' Miss Callendar stands for a moment, giving this due consideration; then she detaches herself from the line of waiting students, and walks toward the van. 'Well, it's extremely kind of you,' she says, stopping on the passenger side, 'on such a poor day.'

'A pleasure,' says Howard, 'get in.' Miss Callendar reefs in her umbrella, securing its maroon folds to its silver stalk; then she opens the van door and begins to climb inside. 'I thought you marched in every day under a banner,' she says as she twists her long legs to fit them into place, putting her briefcase on the floor, her umbrella upright between her knees, 'I'd no idea you drove about in motorized luxury.' Howard lets out the clutch; he says, 'It will save you your busfare.'

'That's right,' says Miss Callendar, 'a real consideration, these days.' The van pulls out into the traffic lane, and it joins the row of cars that every weekday morning, just before nine, makes its way out from Watermouth toward the university.

From Miss Callendar comes the scent of a healthy shampoo. Her umbrella is elegantly capped with a glass knob, into which a flower is set, like some Victorian antique; her white hands curl around it. She turns toward Howard and says, as if confessing a guilty secret, 'Actually, I'm almost late for a class. I just couldn't stir myself out of bed.'

'You know why?' says Howard, 'too much partying.'

'It doesn't do, does it?' asks Miss Callendar. 'What time did you finish?'

'Oh, late,' says Howard, 'long after you left. About four.'

'I don't know how you do it,' says Miss Callendar, 'it was an awfully demanding party.'

'All parties are demanding,' says Howard, 'if you take a real interest.'

'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'I do agree. The last thing they should be is fun. That demeans them into something trivial.' Howard laughs, and says: 'But did you take an interest?'

'Oh, I did,' says Miss Callendar, 'in my own way. You see, I'm a stranger, and I have to find out what you're all up to.'

'Did you?' asks Howard. 'I'm not sure,' says Miss Callendar, 'I think you're very interesting characters, but I haven't discovered the plot.'

'Oh, that's simple,' says Howard, 'it's the plot of history.'

'Oh, of course,' says Miss Callendar, 'you're a history man.'

'That's right,' says Howard, 'and that's why you have to trust us all. Like those kids last night. They're on the side of history.'

'Well, I trust everyone,' says Miss Callendar, 'but no one especially over everyone else. I suppose I don't believe in group virtue. It seems to me such an individual achievement. Which, I imagine, is why you teach sociology and I teach literature.'

'Ah, yes,' says Howard, 'but how do you teach it?'

'Do you mean am I a structuralism or a Leavisite or a psycho-linguistician or a formalist or a Christian existentialist or a phenomenologist?'

'Yes,' says Howard. 'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, 'well, I'm none of them.'

'What do you do, then?' asks Howard. 'I read books and talk to people about them.'

'Without a method?' asks Howard. 'That's right,' says Miss Callendar. 'It doesn't sound very convincing,' says Howard. 'No,' says Miss Callendar, 'I have a taste for remaining a little elusive.'

'You can't,' says Howard. 'With every word you utter, you state your world view.'

'I know,' says Miss Callendar, 'I'm trying to find a way round that.'

'There isn't one,' says Howard, 'you have to know what you are.'

'I'm a nineteenth-century liberal,' says Miss Callendar. 'You can't be,' says Howard, 'this is the twentieth century, near the end of it. There are no resources. I know,' says Miss Callendar, 'that's why I am one.'

Howard looks across at Miss Callendar. She is looking back at him, with cool eyes, her mouth a little open, her manner serene. Her white face and dark hair and grey-dressed body fill the little van. He remembers her leaving his house last night, standing above the study, looking in; 'You showed much more curiosity about that girl there than you do about me,' Felicity Phee had said. The road now leaves the suburban belt and is running into the scrap of countryside that lies between town and university. The thirty mile limit finishes now; on the dual carriageway Howard picks up speed. There are a few high elms, a few chopped-down hedges, a converted cottage or two by the roadside. He looks again at Miss Callendar, who provokes him. He says, 'Where do you live?'

'I have a flat,' says Miss Callendar, 'a very convenient flat. It has a bathroom; that's convenient. And a bedroom with a bed. And a tin-opener with a tin. And a very pleasant living-room.'

'Do you do a lot of pleasant living?' asks Howard. 'Not a lot,' says Miss Callendar, 'one hardly has the time. Being in the twentieth century, very near the end of it.'

'Where is this flat?' asks Howard. Miss Callendar turns her head and looks at him. She says, 'It's very hard to find.'

'Oh, yes,' says Howard, 'why is that?'

'Mainly because I don't tell anyone where it is,' says Miss Callendar. 'Tell me,' says Howard, 'you must tell me.'

'Why?' asks Miss Callendar curiously. 'I hope to come there sometime,' says Howard. 'I see,' says Miss Callendar, 'well, it's just that kind of casual, arbitrary visiting I'm trying to stop.'

'Oh, you shouldn't,' says Howard. 'Oh, yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'otherwise any old structuralist or Leavisite or Christian existentialist who happened to be passing would be there. Knocking at the door, ringing the bell, wanting to fit you up with a contraceptive or get you into history. How is your wife, Dr Kirk?'

The entrance sign of the university, done in the distinctive modern lettering which is, along with the Jop Kaakinen cutlery (now mostly stolen) and the Mary Quant robes for congregation, part of its contemporary stylistic mannerism, appears on the right side of the road. Howard moves into the outer lane to be ready for the turn; there is a sudden screech of brakes behind him. 'Screw you,' says Howard. 'Why, Dr Kirk,' says Miss Callendar, 'I do believe you want to do that to everybody.'

'I meant the man behind,' says Howard, pulling into position in the long line of cars waiting to make the turn into the campus. 'Of course, I'd like to.'

'You'd like to what?' asks Miss Callendar. 'Screw you,' says Howard. 'Would you?' says Miss Callendar, her eyes staring ahead, her hands holding tight to the umbrella. 'Oh, now, why would you want to do a thing like that, Dr Kirk?' The van makes the turn into the carriage drive that leads through the university site, the drive that led once to the Elizabethan splendours of Watermouth Hall. Loud bangs thump on the van roof, a fusillade of raindrops falling from the chestnut trees that line one side; those on the other side have been removed, to widen the road, and have been replaced by a row of saplings that, in the course of time, if there is a course of time, will hopefully acquire the old dignity. 'I think you're attractive,' says Howard, 'I think you need serious attention.'