Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'She did mention that,' says Howard. 'She discussed it all then, did she?' asks Henry, 'I think that's a very bad sign.'

'She seems very unhappy,' says Howard. 'I know,' says Henry, 'I can see it from her point of view. What's the matter with Myra is me.'

'Not exactly,' says Howard, 'it's both of you. Myra 's just beginning to realize what you've both chosen to miss.'

'Oh, yes,' says Henry, 'and what's that?'

'Well, Myra can see it,' says Howard. 'You've withdrawn too far. You've closed in on yourselves, you've lost touch with everything, you've no outside contacts, and so when anything goes wrong you blame it on each other. What you're doing is trapping each other in fixed personality roles. You can't grow, you can't expand, you can't let each other develop. You're stuck out there, in your little nest, out of time, out of history, and you're missing out on possibility.'

'I see,' says Henry. 'Is that what you told Myra?'

'There wasn't much time to tell Myra anything,' says Howard, 'the party started. But it's what Myra sees.'

'Yes, it's what she expects you to tell her,' says Henry. 'Find someone else, try new positions, start swinging.'

' Myra 's growing up,' says Howard. 'Is that growing up?' asks Henry. 'Look, Howard, we're in different worlds now, you and I. I don't agree with you. I don't see things like that, I'm at odds with it.'

'I don't think Myra is,' says Howard. Henry looks at Howard. He says: 'No. That's why it's such a betrayal for her to come and talk to you.'

'But perhaps talking to me is the only way she can talk to you,' says Howard. 'To say what?' asks Henry. 'If Myra wants to talk to me, I'm there. We sit across the dinner table from each other every evening. We lie in bed together every night.'

'Most beds aren't as intimate as people think they are,' says Howard. 'You've always seemed to like them,' says Henry. 'I don't understand it. Is she leaving me, or isn't she?'

'I think she was, last night,' says Howard. 'Isn't it usual, in these things, to indicate one's intentions to the partner one leaves behind? I mean, leave a note on the mantelpiece or something?'

'Perhaps talking to us was the note on the mantelpiece,' says Howard. 'But she's back there at the farmhouse, cooking steak,' says Henry. 'I think she is.'

'Things have happened, since then,' says Howard. 'Ah, I see,' says Henry, 'you think she was leaving me last night, and my accident changed her mind. If it was an accident.'

'That's right,' says Howard. 'So it's a temporary stay of execution.'

'Unless you stop her, talk to her,' says Howard. 'I suppose,' says Henry, 'I could go and have another accident.'

'You know,' says Howard, 'I thought this was what you wanted to talk to me about this evening.'

'Oh, no,' says Henry, 'you don't understand. You're the last person I'd want to talk to about this. It's nothing personal, I grant you your point of view. I just don't believe in your solutions.'

'But you believe in the problems,' says Howard. 'God,' says Henry, 'the Kirk consultancy parlour. I'm out of all that now. I had enough of it in Leeds. I've stopped wanting to stand up and forge history with my penis. And I'm rather sick of the great secular dominion of liberation and equality we were on about then, which reduces, when you think about it, to putting system over people and producing large piles of corpses. I think Ireland's really done the trick for me, turned me sour on all those words like "anti-fascism" and "anti-imperialism" we always used. I don't want to blame anybody now, or take anything off anyone. The only thing that matters for me is attachment to other knowable people, and the gentleness of relationship.'

'Well, that's what we all want, isn't it?' asks Howard, 'sweetness and light and plenty of Mozart. But we can't have it, and you can hardly sit back and rest on your own record. If that's life, Henry, you're not very good at it, are you?'

'No,' says Henry, 'that's the whole sad little comedy. The personal, which is what I believe in, I can't bloody well manage. I'm stuck. And that's why it's no use your worrying about me. I don't want my soul saved. I don't want to be grist to the historical mill.'

'But what about Myra?' asks Howard. 'Right,' says Henry. ' Myra is the optimum point of suffering that arises. I'm a disaster for her. I know it. I look at her, and the feeling I count on doesn't come: the love, the enormity of otherness, I'm after and can't get. There are occasional cheap sparks: some student with nice legs comes alive in the chair in front of me, or the nagging caring about Myra, which is a sort of love. I wish the funds were there, I'd like to spend them on her, but they're not. Well, it's not hard to provide a psychological profile or a political explanation for all this. Actually I can probably do it nearly as well as you can, Howard. Or could, if we were talking about someone else. But in this case it's me. And there's not much help for being that, thanks, Howard. I do appreciate your thinking about me.'

'You mean you'll let Myra go,' says Howard. 'Isn't that what you'd advise her to do, anyway?' asks Henry. 'And me to find someone else?'

'I suppose so,' says Howard.

Just then Henry looks up, and stares, and says: 'My God, look at the time. I promised Myra I'd be home at seven to eat her steak. I can't tell you the row there'll be if I'm late.' There is an old railway station clock over the bar, which says that the time is six forty-five. 'I've got a busy evening too,' says Howard, 'we'd better rush.'

'Howard, would you mind doing up my top button again?' says Henry, and Howard fastens the button, and helps Henry up from the bench. 'Goodnight, Chlöe,' calls Henry, as they hurry out of the Gaslight Room. 'Night night, Mr Beamish,' calls Chlöe. 'Take care, don't have another accident.' They go through the cold car park to the van, and get in, and Howard drives them out onto the main road and out toward the countryside. They go at speed through the rurality of Henry's kingdom, down narrow lanes, covered in big wet leaves, through fords, over small bridges, down rutted tracks. Dark creaking branches lean over the van; the wheels slip and skid; small animals appear under the wheels and force them to swerve. The cart-track to the farmhouse is on a high bank, but they reach it safely. Stopping the van, Howard can see that, in the kitchen, where he had eaten cheese and biscuits with Myra on the evening when Henry was out, there is a light. 'Come inside a minute and have a word with Myra,' says Henry, getting out of the van, his briefcase clutched in his good hand. 'She seems to be in.' And surely enough the back door opens, and there is Myra, in an apron, standing on the steps; she waves to Howard. 'Tell her I'd have liked to,' says Howard, 'but I'm late myself, I have to rush.'

'Well, look, Howard,' says Henry, leaning his head in through the van window, 'I just want to say that I really do appreciate it. Our talk, and the lift. And don't forget to send me the bill for the window.'

'I won't,' says Howard, 'Can you just see me back to turn?'

'You've got two feet,' says Henry, going behind the van. 'Come on, come on.' It is fortunately not a bad bump, and Henry is only slightly grazed, on his good hand, the hand that he has put out to save himself as he falls forward onto the gravel as the van topples him. Happily there is Myra to pick him tap, and dust him down. 'He's all right,' she says in through the van window, 'Christ, would you believe it.' Turning the van, Howard sees them, momentarily, inside the kitchen, apparently in a quarrel, as he sets his wheels on the high bank.

The busy evening lies ahead; he drives down the rutted tracks, over the small bridges, through fords, down narrow lanes, covered in big wet leaves. It was just on seven when he reached the farmhouse; it is just on seven fifteen as, following the street markings, responding to the red and green lights, he pulls the van into the decrepit terrace. He parks, and hurries indoors. In the kitchen is a domestic scene. Felicity Phee has come, and 'I don't know how all those dirty glasses got there in the sink,' is what Barbara is saying to her. 'You want me to wash them, Mrs Kirk,' says Felicity. 'Well, it would be marvellous if you could, after you've got the kids in bed. It's usually a bath night for them,' says Barbara. 'You want me to bath them, Mrs Kirk,' says Felicity. 'Would you like to?' asks Barbara. 'You're all set up, I see,' says Howard. 'I'm sorry I'm late. I had to take Henry home. He came without a car.'