Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'And who's she?' asks Felicity, when Flora's big bulk has gone away down the corridor, and the door is shut, 'I never saw her at your party.'

'She was there,' says Howard. 'She came late. What's it about, Felicity?' Felicity steps forward, deeper into the room. 'Can I sit down?' she asks. 'Of course,' says Howard. Felicity lowers herself into his grey chair. She is wearing a light tie-dyed shirt, with a scooped-out neckline, threaded through with a draw-string, and a long blue skirt reaching down to the ground. She has rings under her eyes, and nothing on her feet, which are dirty, and she has a drained and saddened look. 'I've got to find out how we stand,' she says. 'How do we stand, Howard?'

'Is something wrong?' asks Howard. 'I went home last night and told Maureen,' says Felicity, 'about what we did. She hit me with a shoe. She's turning me out. I came to see if you're going to do anything for me.'

'What should I do for you?' asks Howard, 'You can always get a room in the residences.'

'Maureen says I'm a dirty fink,' says Felicity. 'I told you to forget what Maureen says,' says Howard. 'Oh, yes,' says Felicity, 'but you told me an awful lot last night that seems to get forgotten pretty fast in the morning.'

'What did I tell you?' asks Howard. 'There's telling and telling,' says Felicity, 'I thought you told me, in a sense, you wanted me.'

'I made love to you, largely because you wanted me to, and in a mood we both understand. I think you're now trying to convert it into something else.'

'Oh, great, I see,' says Felicity, 'it was a purely neutral event. No further significance. Like having a tooth out on the National Health, right. Lie still, I'm just going to do this to you. Then off you go, make another appointment with the receptionist if you want one. Impersonal social welfare, good hygienic conditions, one quick visit, next patient please. Is that it?' Felicity stretches out her body in the chair; she looks woefully sad. She says: 'Christ, Howard, how do, I get through to you? Hasn't anything happened, hasn't our relationship changed?'

'You've always been through to me,' says Howard, 'I have a concern for you. It's my job.' Felicity stares; she says, 'Your job? Laying me's part of your terms of service?' Howard asks 'What are you playing at, Felicity?' Felicity looks down; she draws her bare toes across Howard's floor, and watches them. She says, 'I told you, I want to make me matter to you.' Howard looks at his watch. 'Look,' he says, 'we can't talk about this now. The class is in five minutes, and I've a job to do in the, department office. We'll have to meet another time.' Howard gets out his diary. 'Oh, yes?' says Felicity, 'when's another time?'

'I've a meeting all afternoon,' says Howard. 'Tomorrow morning.'

'No,' says Felicity, 'see me tonight.'

'I'm going out tonight,' says Howard. 'Well,' says Felicity, 'I'm not getting out of this chair. You can go to your class and leave me here if you want. The humanity here just refuses to budge.'

'That's ridiculous,' says Howard. 'It's a standpoint you ought to recognize,' says Felicity, 'it's a traditional radical gesture.'

'All right,' says Howard, 'just wait here for a moment. I'll do my job and come back.' Howard goes along the corridor, and into the department office; it is the secretaries' coffee-time, when they go over to the Union, so he dictates a message onto the dictaphone. He returns along the corridor to the oblong room; Felicity Phee still sits in the grey chair, but there is disorder among the papers on his desk, and the filing-cabinet drawer is open; Felicity has a file from the drawer out on her knee and is reading its contents. 'This is interesting,' says Felicity. 'Of course,' says Howard, 'as soon as I got along the corridor, I realized you'd do that. Give it back.' Felicity hands over the file, a very dull file about admissions statistics, from one of Howard's committees; he slips it back into the cabinet and shuts it. 'What are you up to, Felicity?' he asks. 'I told you, Howard,' says Felicity, 'I take an interest in you. I think about you all the time. Look at me. I can help you.'

Howard sits down in his desk chair. 'You can help me, Felicity?' he asks, 'How can you do that?'

'I didn't sleep at all last night,' says Felicity, 'I just thought about you. Do you know what I thought? I thought, if that man only really knew himself. He thinks he's free. He talks about liberation, openness, all the time. And what is he? An institutional man. That stuffy job he does. That stuffy desk he sits at. That stuffy academic manner he has, that he thinks is so equal, so matey. He hasn't started on himself yet. He's in a mess of inconsistencies. I know it's hard for you to admit it. But isn't it just true?'

'And you have a means for freeing me from this disaster?' asks Howard. Felicity leans forward. 'Oh, Howard,' she says, 'why don't we just go?'

'Go where?' asks Howard. 'Just walk out of here with me,' says Felicity. 'Let's take off. Let's stop being teacher and student, let's go somewhere and be us.'

'Did you have somewhere in mind?' asks Howard. 'Somewhere cheap,' says Felicity, 'The South of France.'

'To do what?' asks Howard. 'You can write books, get mixed up with the French radicals,' says Felicity. 'I'll cook French food, I'm a good cook. And we'll swing.' Howard looks at her. He says: 'Felicity, are you really a good cook?'

'Not very,' says Felicity. 'And the South of France isn't cheap.'

'It doesn't have to be the South of France,' says Felicity. 'And I'm not trapped that way,' says Howard, 'I'm very free.'

'You're not,' says Felicity, 'you just think you are.'

'Felicity,' says Howard, 'this is one of your fantasies. You're a fantasy-maker.'

'You don't see, do you?' asks Felicity. 'You don't see what you could be. I think I've thought about you more than you ever have yourself.'

'Nobody has ever thought about anybody more than they have themselves,' says Howard. 'So nobody can teach anybody anything?' asks Felicity. 'You don't believe that.'

'Of course people teach other people things,' says Howard, 'it's the critical education.'

'But you're so smart you only do it to others,' says Felicity. 'No one can teach you a thing about you. Aren't you lucky? But you want to see yourself from outside. It looks different then.'

Howard looks at Felicity. He says, 'You're determined to wriggle into my life. You track me, you spy on me. Then you start accusing me of flaws that only you can solve. It's a game to hook me with. But what for, Felicity?'

'You ought to know,' says Felicity, a tear in her eye, 'it's what some people call love.'

'Love's a strange business,' says Howard, 'an activity that needs very close examination.'

'Oh, God,' says Felicity, 'aren't you stuffy? Aren't you what I said?'

'You say you want to free me,' says Howard, 'but what you mean is you want to own me. And you'll never develop a relationship like that. With me, or anyone else.' The old stable clock at Watermouth Hall rings out its ten o'clock, in high, absurd notes, over the campus. Felicity's tear runs down her nose. 'You're cheating me,' says Felicity. 'Come on, Felicity,' says Howard, 'come on to class.'

'Have you got some tissue?' says Felicity. Howard reaches in his desk drawer and hands Felicity a white Kleenex. 'I expect you need that all the time,' says Felicity, 'for the rows and rows of us.'

'No,' says Howard, 'get up.'

'You win by being older,' says Felicity, 'but that's how you lose, too.'

'All right?' asks Howard, and opens the door. Felicity throws the Kleenex into the wastepaper basket; she crosses the room and goes out into the corridor; she stands slackly, waiting while Howard picks up books and notes, and then steps out of his room and locks the door. They begin walking down the corridor, under the sodium lights. Felicity says, sniffing, 'When will you see me again?'