Alison Lurie - Foreign Affairs

“I see what you mean,” Vinnie says, unconvinced, but reluctant to damage Chuch’s reconstruction.

“And then this Oxford University professor I told you about, this guy that’s in charge of the dig-Mike Gilson his name is. Mike said to me, ‘Y’know, you don’t have to conclude that Old Mumpson was stupid just because he couldn’t read and write. It could be that he never had any education; a lot of country folk were illiterate back then.’ It could be he really was a kind of local wise man, Mike said, and that’s why they hired him. Maybe people did come from everywhere round to ask his advice.”

“Yes, of course that’s possible,” Vinnie says, wishing she had thought of this comforting argument herself weeks ago.

“There’s a hell of a lot of learning that isn’t in books.”

“You may be right.” In Vinnie’s opinion, the extent of this unpublished learning is less than is generally claimed.

“Anyways, what I wanted to tell you, it’s about Mike partly. I’ve been spending a lot of time out on the dig, like I told you, taking pictures for him. Then Mike has these aerial photos of the area, from the government. You can find out a lot from those things if you know what to look for: ground water and drainage channels, and old foundations and boundary lines and roads-stuff he hadn’t noticed, some of it. It helps if you know some geology. Wal, a couple of days ago Mike said, why didn’t I stay on for the summer, join his crew. He can’t pay me anything, account of I’m not a British citizen, but he’s got this big house not too far from the dig rented for the summer, and there’s a real nice furnished apartment empty in what used to be one of the tenant cottages. Mike said I could have that for free, and I could eat with them in the main house whenever I wanted.”

“Really?” Vinnie sits forward. “And are you going to accept?”

“Yeh; I think so.” Chuck grins. “Hell, I got nothing better to do. And it’s nice down there in the country now. Wildflowers everywhere, and so green. Besides, I kinda dig the dig.” He laughs at his own pun. “And Mike and his crew, I like their attitude. They work damn hard, but they aren’t frantic about it. Mike, sometimes he’ll just take the afternoon off to think, go for a long walk. And the students too. Course they don’t have to worry about production quotas, or showing a profit. In business you can’t ever stand still that way. If you’re not getting ahead every goddamn minute you feel as if you’re sliding back.”

“Like the Red Queen.”

“Yeh?” Chuck blinks at her. “What queen was that?”

“In Through the Looking-Class .”

“Oh, yeh? I never read that. You think I should?”

“Well.” Vinnie has omitted Alice in Wonderland and its sequel from Chuck’s reading list, thinking that they would annoy and baffle him as they do many of her students. But if he is to spend the summer with an Oxford don, perhaps he should prepare himself. “Yes, probably you should.” She sighs, anticipating the explications that will be necessary if Chuck Mumpson is to read Alice properly: Victorian education, Victorian social history, Victorian poetry and parody, chess, developmental psychology, Darwinism-

“Okay, if you think so. Hey, Vinnie. How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks.”

“That’s great. Y’know, I could go for a cup of coffee, if you have one around.”

“No, but I could make some,” Vinnie says, thinking that it is typical of men to believe that all women have a cup of coffee concealed about them somewhere.

“Great.” Chuck follows her into the narrow kitchen, getting in her way while she fills the electric kettle and makes coffee for him and rose-hip tea (high in Vitamin C) for herself.

“Thanks, that’s swell. You got any milk?”

“I’m not sure-I might.” Vinnie opens her miniature fridge, which rests on the counter and is of a size that in America would be thought fit only for a student dormitory room. At the moment it is almost totally filled by three quarts of avocado-and-watercress soup made by her from Posy Billings’ recipe in Harper’s/Queen and intended for a luncheon party tomorrow that she will have to cancel if she doesn’t feel any better.

In order to look for the milk, Vinnie lifts out the bowl of soup and turns to set it on the counter. At the same moment Chuck turns toward Vinnie. There is a collision: the stainless-steel bowl is knocked out of her hands and slides to the floor; she and Chuck are drenched with cold green soup and hot black coffee.

“Aw, fuck! Excuse me.”

“Oh, damn it!”

“I didn’t see-Jesus. Sorry. Here, lemme-” Chuck grabs a dishtowel and begins wiping coffee and soup off the front of Vinnie.

“That’s all right,” she says, swallowing with difficulty her irritation and the phrase You oaf. “My fault too.” Seizing a damp sponge, she starts to mop up Chuck. Luckily she is wearing a relatively soup-proof dress: an olive-green, densely flowered Laura Ashley cotton; Chuck’s synthetic yellow cowboy shirt and tan Western-cut slacks are much more vulnerable. Because he is so tall, most of the spill is on his pants. As Vinnie moves the sponge over them she suddenly becomes aware that they contain an unmistakable and even impressive bulge-and, simultaneously, that Chuck is to all intents and purposes stroking her breasts with a red checked linen dishtowel.

“Thanks, that’s enough,” she says, backing away from him as far as possible in the tiny kitchen.

“Vinnie-”

“Really, I think we’d better just try to soak the stains out, and the sooner the better. Why don’t you just go into the bathroom and take your things off. Put them in the tub, and turn on some lukewarm water, not hot.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

Vinnie picks up the broken shards of coffee cup and begins to mop the kitchen floor, then stops, retreats to the bedroom, pulls off her sticky wet dress, and changes into a skirt and shirt. Her mind is full of nervous confusion. Three quarts of soup gone, what can she serve at lunch tomorrow instead? There’s no doubt what was going on in Chuck’s mind and body-is there? Or was she mistaken? Should she go out tomorrow morning and buy some pâté? Anyhow, she reacted quite fast-fast enough? At least she got him out of the way- Or a pound of shrimps perhaps, from Camden Lock market- Yes, but not very far out of the way. He is in her bathroom now, with almost nothing on and his clothes floating in her tub (she can hear the water running). Maybe the soup stains will come out, if not the coffee, but what the hell is Chuck going to wear instead? She should have sent him back to his hotel, but now it’s too late, he can’t go anywhere in sopping wet clothes. Her head is muddled by too many aspirin, and she didn’t think ahead. If he only had a decent raincoat instead of that awful transparent plastic thing-she gives it a nasty look as it hangs in the hall-then he could wear that while his clothes dried, or even go home in it.

“Hey, Vinnie! Have you got a bathrobe or something?”

Well, now Chuck has thought of this problem too. She’ll have to find him something to put on, he can’t stay in her bathroom all night; and as soon as he comes out he’s going to make a pass at her. Or maybe not. Maybe the whole thing was just a nervous reaction. Maybe she imagined it. Vinnie begins opening cupboards and drawers, all of which contain only female garments in sizes six and eight.

“Vinnie?”

“Coming.” In desperation she goes into her study and drags the spread off the daybed. “Here You can put this round you for now, it’s all I’ve got.” She shoves through the bathroom door a rough bundle of brown homespun with a geometrical border pattern and fringe. Not waiting for any possible objection, she returns to the kitchen floor, which is still splashed and smeared with green soup.