Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'I wouldn't say wrong,' says Henry, 'but it's not like us, is it?'

'I suppose not, Henry,' says Howard. 'Anyway,' says Henry, 'the main thing I wanted to ask you is this. Would you let me pay for that window to be mended?'

'Yes,' says Howard. 'Good,' says Henry, looking brighter, 'well, that's settled, then. The lavatories are through that door over there, if you want them.'

'Henry,' says Howard, 'what happened to you last night?'

'I had twenty-seven stitches,' says Henry, 'very nice Indian doctor. Quite good English.'

'But how did it happen that you cut yourself like that?'

'Aha,' says Henry, 'now there's a question. I've been thinking about that a lot. I slipped, you see, and put out my arm to save myself, and shoved it through your window. But it can't have been as simple as that.'

'No,' says Howard. 'No,' says Henry, 'I think there was a piece of ice. I think someone must have had ice in his drink, and dropped it on the floor, and I stepped on it. I don't mean dropped it deliberately. I mean, I was to blame, of course. Of course I was a bit unsteady, after the dogbite.'

'You didn't mean to fall through the window?' Henry stares at Howard; he says, 'No, heavens, no. Why should I do that?'

'You do have a lot of accidents,' says Howard, 'doesn't it worry you?'

'I'm a very clumsy person, Howard. I'm big and a bit top-heavy. I blame it on not playing games at school. They wouldn't let me, you know, after the beri-beri.'

'You had beri-beri?'

'Haven't I told you?' asks Henry, 'Oh, yes. A nasty attack.'

'Where was this?' asks Howard. ' Huddersfield,' says Henry. 'But, look, as a professional social psychologist, haven't you ever wondered how you got into this accident pattern?'

'Well, it's not my line, really, is it?' says Henry, 'I'm more a social control and delinquency man. I admit there's an inexplicable statistical frequency.'

'Two last night,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Henry, 'it makes you think. I suppose you're asking me if I'm drinking too much, or on drugs. The answer's no. I didn't touch drugs last night, I don't get on with them. And I didn't get much to drink, either. If you remember I got to the party very late. When I walked home from the university to drive Myra back to the party, I found she'd already gone in the car. So of course I had to walk back all the way into town again, took me more than an hour. Then the dog bit me as soon as I got there, and I was ages in the bathroom, soaking my leg in antiseptic. And then I can't have had more than two glasses of wine at the most, Howard, before I went into the guest bedroom, to change my socks, and I thought I'd open the window, and I put my arm through it. So it's not that. Have a crisp?'

'No, thank you,' says Howard.

'It doesn't give way to analysis, does it?' asks Henry. 'It was funny. It didn't hurt at first, but then I realized you could die from a cut like that, so I thought I'd better yell for help. And then Flora turned up; wasn't she marvellous? Well, I suppose things like that happen at parties, as you say. We like to read something into it, that's our line, but nothing stands up. It really was just a bit of an accident.'

'Henry, you weren't upset last night?' asks Howard, looking at Henry's bland face. 'I was shaken by the dogbite,' says Henry, 'but not especially.'

'I think I'm more worried about you than you are by yourself,' says Howard. 'Well, that's very nice of you, Howard,' says Henry, 'but I shouldn't bother.'

'Well, that could have been fatal,' says Howard. 'You've got plenty going on yourself to worry about,' says Henry, 'from all I hear.'

'I have known you for a long time,' says Howard, 'I remember when I first met you.'

'My God, yes,' says Henry, 'yes. Some boys had just knocked me down with a football. I'd told them to get off the university playing fields, because they were private property, and they flung a football at me. You picked me up.'

'You had accidents even then,' says Howard. 'Look,' says Henry, 'I don't like you being so worried about me. Do you think I did it on purpose?'

'What's purpose?' asks Howard. 'I think you might have had good reason to be distressed.'

'What reason?' asks Henry. 'Wasn't there a reason, last night?' asks Howard. 'Look,' says Henry, 'I want to know just what you're getting at.'

'You don't know what I'm getting at?'

'No,' says Henry, 'stop being so bloody mysterious.'

'Well,' says Howard, 'when you went home, and Myra wasn't there, did you know where she'd gone?'

'Of course,' says Henry, 'she left me a note, she always leaves me a note. On the mantelpiece. She'd gone to you.'

'Do you know why?'

'Yes,' says Henry, 'it said in the note. To give Barbara a hand. She worries about how much Barbara has on her plate. We both do. Didn't she come?'

'Oh, yes,' says Howard. 'There we are, then,' says Henry, 'what's all that got to do with it?'

'We thought she was upset,' says Howard. 'Grand girl, Myra,' says Henry. 'She's had a bad summer of it, actually. This book of mine has decidedly not gone well. I've had what they call writer's block. The words won't come. Of course, charisma's a difficult concept. And I'm perhaps a bit out of touch with new developments. You get that way, at our age. Lose the spark, go a bit dead. You know what I mean. Did she talk about that at all?' Howard looks at Henry's face, which has acquired a small moustache of froth from the beer, but seems free of all calculation, and says: 'Yes, she did.'

'I'm sure it helps her to chat,' says Henry, 'she needs someone to take an interest. Not that I don't. But she's exhausted me. And to be frank I'm under the weather, rather, Howard. Not at my best. Did she say I was under the weather?'

'Yes,' says Howard. 'I see,' says Henry. 'You had quite a talk then.'

'Yes,' says Howard. 'Oh, well,' says Henry, 'is that why you wondered about me last night?'

'Yes,' says Howard. 'Did she say anything else about me?' asks Henry. 'She said that your marriage wasn't going too well,' says Howard. 'Did she?' says Henry. 'Well, as I say, it's not been a good summer. And the book hasn't helped. Books make you withdrawn. But it's nothing serious.'

'She thought it was,' says Howard. 'Isn't she thinking of leaving you?'

'Is she?' asks Henry. 'Didn't she tell you?' asks Howard. 'Don't you know?'

'No,' says Henry. 'Is that what she told you?'

'Would it be a surprise?' asks Howard. 'Not entirely,' says Henry, ' Myra 's unhappy, you have to understand that. I'm not entirely good with her. I don't give her all she needs from life. She gets unhappy, and telephones people. Talks to them about us. Sometimes she goes out and buys a new thing, a new Miele dishwasher or something. Because all the girls, what she calls the girls, in her set round the village are buying Miele dishwashers. Sometimes she talks of separating. Because all the girls at the uni, what she calls the uni, in her set talk about separating. It's a kind of fashionable female preoccupation. The wives all seem to be doing it. They want a lot, and we can't give it them, the kind of sex and attention they're after. I'll have to go soon. Have you got time for a quick one before we take off, Howard?'

'All right,' says Howard. 'Get the money out of my pocket,' says Henry. 'Never mind,' says Howard. 'Have it, Howard,' says Henry, reaching across himself, and pulling the contents of his left-hand pocket out over the bench and the floor. 'There we are.' Howard picks up some coins and goes over to the bar, where Chlöe stands in her Victoriana. 'Another two pints,' he says. 'One of my best, Mr Beamish,' says Chlöe, pulling on the handle, 'in here every night. Fit as a fiddle, yesterday, he was.' Howard lifts the drinks and carries them back across the room; when he gets back to the red plush seat, Henry, picking up his coins, raises his face, and Howard notices that, tucked into the indentation at the corner of his nose, there resides a small tear. 'Thank you,' says Henry. 'All right?' asks Howard. 'You must excuse me for responding to the situation we've described with my usual inadequacy,' says Henry. 'Of course, she is upset. Or she wouldn't have come to you. I mean, you're in it professionally, aren't you, the separation business. Myra always talks about how Barbara left you in Leeds. An act of heroism, she says.'