Malcolm Bradbury - The History Man

'I do,' says Dr Macintosh sagely, 'that's it, isn't it? Existence never stops. The self keeps going on, endlessly.'

'Oh, I know, Dr Macintosh,' says Felicity, 'you're so right.' In one of the rooms off the upstairs landing, a mattress that Howard has thoughtfully laid out beforehand is squeaking in one of the familiar rhythms of the universe.

There is turmoil in the hall; Anita Dollfuss's dog has bitten the radical vicar, and compassionate persons take him away upstairs for treatment. 'I'm sorry, Howard,' says Anita, 'you'll stop inviting me. He tried to pat him. He should have patted me.' The dog pants happily at Howard, who says: 'That reminds me, you've not seen Dr Beamish, have you?'

'No, I haven't,' says Anita Dollfuss, in her long long dress, her hair in its Alice headband, 'I don't think he's here.' He walks about with his bottle, upstairs, downstairs; Henry has clearly neglected to come. An uneasy instinct takes him to the closed door of the guest bedroom. He taps; there is no answer. He opens the door; the room is dark. The window is in place. 'Do you mind, please?' says the voice of Dr Macintosh, 'I'm afraid this is occupied.'

'I'm sorry,' says Howard. 'It's Howard,' says Felicity. 'We don't want you, Howard. Why don't you find your Miss Callendar?' He goes downstairs again into the party. There is no Henry, there is no Flora, and now, it seems, there is no Barbara; the spread of food is devastated, and the hands that tend it seem to have found other, better pastures. With hostly compunction, Howard goes into the kitchen. He stands in front of the wallpaper celebrating the lines of onions and garlics; he stands in front of the pine shelves, with their scatter of selected objects: the French casseroles, the row of hand-thrown pottery mugs in light brown, the two pepper-mills, the line of deep blue Spanish glasses from Casa Pupo, the dark brown pot saying Sel. In front of him, in a rush basket, lie ten long French loaves; Howard stands at the pine table, and neatly, crisply he slices the crusty bread. The room is his, but then the door opens. Myra Beamish stands there, wearing a dress that looks as if it has been made from sacking. 'There you are,' she says, coming in, 'you look like an extremely trendy peasant. Where's Barbara?'

'I don't know,' says Howard, 'she seems to have disappeared, so I'm doing this.'

'Oh, ho,' says Myra, sitting down on the edge of the table in her sacking dress. 'Well, never mind, you seem to be doing a great job. Do you cook too?'

'I have a few specialities,' says Howard. 'Well, Howard, I must try them sometime,' says Myra.

'Has Henry come?' asks Howard. 'No, Henry's not coming,' says Myra, 'he's sitting at home very depressed because he can't get on with his book.'

'I thought he saved most of his notes,' says Howard. 'He may have saved them,' says Myra, 'but with one arm in a sling and the other broken and in plaster he can't really write very well.'

'I suppose not,' says Howard, 'but he could come to a party.'

'Well, Howard,' says Myra, 'he doesn't want to see you. He does blame you, you know. You did encourage them.'

'But he's usually so good at seeing the other point of view,' says Howard, 'and politics isn't a bloodless business.'

'I thought it was horrible,' says Myra, 'all those screaming people. I panicked, I ran out.'

'Any sensible person would have panicked,' says Howard. 'You're teasing,' says Myra, 'you know I'm very bad about these things. I know I'm very square.'

'But anyway you came, Myra,' says Howard. 'Well, I don't do all that Henry wants me to do,' says Myra, 'in fact, I rather do what he doesn't want me to do. I felt like seeing you, you lovely man.' There is a stir on the table; Myra suddenly leans forward and kisses Howard, catching him obliquely on the nose. 'That's to say Merry Christmas,' she says. 'Ah,' says Howard, 'Merry Christmas to you.' Myra bends seriously over her black handbag, and dips down into it. 'I don't suppose,' she says, taking something from the bag, 'I don't suppose you still remember that time in my bedroom.' Howard looks at her; she has taken out a mirror, and, her head down, her nose shining under the overhead light, she is inspecting her lipstick, her mouth open in an O. 'A very long time ago, Myra,' says Howard. 'I know you've been everywhere since then,' says Myra, 'toured the parish. But come again sometime, won't you? It would be different. I was silly then. I'm not so bloody bourgeois now. I know what I missed.'

'But what about you and Henry?' asks Howard, 'I thought you were back together again.'

'You and Barbara are back together again,' says Myra, 'but you have an advanced marriage. It doesn't keep you on a very tight rein, does it? We did hear all the rumours about what Mr Carmody found out.'

'Don't believe all that,' says Howard. 'No, Barbara and I have learned to accept each other's lifestyles.'

'You mean Barbara's learned to accept yours,' says Myra, 'or has to, for want of a better.'

'It works both ways,' says Howard. 'Anyway,' says Myra, 'Henry's got to accept mine. We're back together, Howard. But on my terms, Howard boy, on my terms. It's one of those intelligent marriages, now.'

'But what does Henry get from it?' asks Howard. 'Is it fair to Henry?'

'I don't understand you, Howard,' says Myra, 'this unwonted concern. Henry had Flora Beniform. So I can do what I like. Isn't that right?'

'Oh, Flora is primarily therapy,' says Howard. 'Oh, I know you've been round there, too,' says Myra, 'Flora is primarily the classic bitch done up in modern dress. But I'm sure you are too, Howard.'

'A bitch?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Myra, 'therapy. And we all need treatment. It's the age of treatment. I'm asking for some.'

'But I can't help thinking about Henry,' says Howard, 'how is he? He's depressed, he's helpless, doesn't he need you?'

'This isn't like you, Howard,' says Myra. 'I'm concerned for Henry,' says Howard. 'You hold him in contempt,' says Myra, 'you and your cohorts break his arm and smash his nose, when he's trying to do something moderately decent. You despise his mores. And then, when nobody needs it, you express concern for him. He'd rather be without it, Howard. Devote it to me.'

'Yoo-hoo, baby,' says Melissa Todoroff, standing a little unsteadily in the doorway in her tartan dress, 'how about splashing some of that wine you're hiding into my glass?'

'I'm sorry, Melissa,' says Howard, picking up a bottle. 'Or maybe you should just pour it, right, down, my, little throat,' says Melissa Todoroff, coming into the room. 'Am I neglecting you?' asks Howard, pouring wine. 'You sure are,' says Melissa, putting an arm through his, 'you haven't come near me for ages.'

'How's the party?' asks Howard. 'There are things going on out there,' says Melissa, 'that would make your nipples pucker. Well, hi there, Myra. How's it going?'

'I'm just going,' says Myra, picking up her bag, 'I'd better go back to Henry, hadn't I?'

'Uh-huh, uh-huh,' says Melissa, watching as Myra walks out of the door, in her sack-like dress, 'did I do something?'

'I don't know,' says Howard, detaching his arm, and beginning to slice bread again, 'of course you did once throw a bread bun at Henry.'

'Oh, God, I did, that's right,' says Melissa Todoroff, with a gay, hacking chuckle, 'and then we trampled him underfoot. Is she sore?'

'I don't know whether Myra 's sore,' says Howard, 'but…'

'But Henry sure is sore,' says Melissa, 'he has a sore face and a sore arm and a sore ass and he's sore.'

'That's right,' says Howard. 'Well, he got in the way of justice,' says Melissa, 'you know what they say, if you don't like the heat, get out of the kitchen. Maybe that's why she got out of the kitchen.'

'Maybe,' says Howard. 'Oh, boy, wasn't that a day?' says Melissa Todoroff, reminiscent, 'I really blew my mind. What a trip. Freedom and liberation seemed really real. The people chanting, the crowds roaring, all crying for goodness. It was Berkeley, Columbia, Vincennes. We were all so beautiful. Then, zap, with the bread bun. Things were so wide open and easy. Will we ever be like that again?'