Cupid's Dart (8 page)

'Sorry?'

'I read books with red covers. Well, the way I look at it, I don't know much about books, right? I wouldn't know if I was going to like a book or not till I'd read it, and then it's too late not to read it cos you've already read it. So I read books with red covers cos they look bright, right? It usually turns out OK. I reckon it's as good as any other way.'

'So you take the dust jackets off to see what colour they are, do you?'

'No, cos I don't buy books. Can't afford to, can I? I borrow them from the library.'

'Go on. Don't stop. I like listening to you.'

'What is all this listening lark? Are you taking the mickey?'

'No. Honestly.'

'Nobody ever wanted me for my mind before.'

'You see, Ange, I am becoming increasingly aware of the limits of my awareness. I am wearying of the burden of my increasing knowledge of my ignorance. The more I think, the more aware I become of the validity of more and more arguments against what I think.'

As I stood by the window of my rooms, nutty dry sherry in hand, I was all too aware that I was pontificating again, even if I was pontificating about the difficulty I had in pontificating. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. It was the only kind of conversation I knew.

'More and more qualifications occur to me. Sometimes so many aspects of a subject occur to me, and those aspects have so many interdependencies, and all these aspects and interdependencies are subject to so many qualifications of increasing complexity which in turn are subject to further qualifications of even greater complexity – and I am trying to simplify this – that in the end it becomes very hard for me to finish a sentence. This is happening to my Ferdinand Brinsley Memorial Lecture. Is it not therefore becoming inordinately long, you may well ask.'

I have to say that it didn't look as if she would ask me that. She was looking at me but I had no idea whether she was concentrating. I was unstoppable now. I was in full lecturer mode. Oh dear.

'No, because the more qualifications that I make, the more impossible it becomes to say anything at all. I've already crossed out whole sections. The longer I work at it, the shorter it becomes. The culmination of my career, my very final lecture perhaps, will consist of an hour's total silence, warmly applauded by any students bright enough to appreciate the hard road that led to that silence.'

I turned to look her in the eye and began to speak about her, and, as I did so, I could sense a warmth coming into my voice, a warmth to which I was quite unaccustomed and which seemed to me to take the curse off my donnish tones.

'But you're not like that, Ange, you're not limited or conditioned by what has gone before or what'll come after, by what other people have thought or will think. You're fresh, original, unselfconscious. You live and think for the day. That is pure. That is beautiful. That is what I want. Talk some more.'

There was a moment's silence, quite a long moment.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'I couldn't half knock a hole in
a curry.'

She didn't half knock a hole in a curry. Her appetite was prodigious. We strolled back arm-in-arm. I tried to look small and unobtrusive as we slipped past the Porters' Lodge. A crescent moon rose over the gabled roofs of Paternoster Quad. Ange drew in her breath and said, 'Fuck me, Alan. Fancy living here.' I made a mental note to stop taking it for granted.

When Ange said 'Fuck me' she was expressing surprise, not issuing an instruction. It is just as well that she wasn't issuing an instruction. You are entitled to wonder why I knew that I couldn't take advantage of this amazing opportunity to lose the secret shame of my virginity. I don't know that I can fully explain it. There was fear, yes, that was natural, given my inexperience, but I don't think it was a crippling fear. I don't think that I expected to be unable to perform, although I had no way of telling whether I would be any good at it. I had in fact felt a pretty fair erection in the middle of my lamb biryani. There was embarrassment at the thought of my middle-aged body against her young one, but not so much, because after all I did eventually . . . but I anticipate. The whole question of the difference in our ages was an obstacle, but not one that couldn't be scaled, or we would never . . . but again I anticipate . . . I mustn't rush this. And that was an element too. I didn't want to rush things. To wait fifty-five years and then be in a hurry, it wouldn't be seemly. Also, I didn't think my cramped bed in my college rooms was the right place for something so momentous – and, yes, intercourse would have been momentous for me, if not for her! No, I was a respected and respectable figure here, an upholder of values. Yet, on its own, in the twenty-first century, that also was hardly a sufficient reason.

The truth, I think, is that each of these considerations contributed in part for what may seem to you to be my extraordinary behaviour, but if there was any one real reason, it was this. My life was concerned with meaning, with defining meanings and finding meanings. My relationship with Ange had not yet become sufficiently meaningful, and for me, a committed philosopher, there could be nothing without meaning, and, above all, nothing as important as a sexual relationship without meaning. And that, I hope you will agree, is a reason more flattering to my dignity than the others.

So it was that we lay, for a second night, fully clothed beside each other upon a bed, and talked. We talked quietly. I didn't want the people in the rooms above and below to hear us, although nocturnal talk was the very stuff of Oxford life and we would not have been likely to attract much attention. We talked and snoozed and talked and slept and talked.

'Ange?' I whispered as our high pitched college clock, known the world over as Little Nelly, chimed four o'clock.

'What?'

'Are you asleep?'

'I was.'

'Talk to me.'

'Oh, Gawd, not again. We've talked three times already.'

'Talk to me again.'

'I can't. I feel like a performing seal. I'm self-conscious.'

'Nonsense. You're never self-conscious. It's one of the things I like about you.'

'No, but you make me feel self-conscious, keeping on telling me I'm not self-conscious.'

'It's only two thousand six hundred years since logic was invented. Not much more than a hundred since evolution was discovered. Even less than that since the internal combustion engine. Since then the aeroplane, nuclear energy, space travel, silicon chips, the internet. The process is getting faster and faster and we can't control it. Soon people will be capable of living to be three hundred. Some doctors say that the first person to live to be a thousand has already been born. The ultimate irony of our catastrophic species is that we have the capacity to solve all our problems and the very fact that we can solve them will destroy us. Philosophers, mathematicians and scientists have combined to ensure that the most advanced species ever known on this planet will have a very brief spell of life indeed. But if everyone was like you, Ange, going around playing darts, living for the day, idly wondering if birds are frightened of heights, mankind could go on for ever.'

But Ange was asleep again, and this time I didn't wake her.

In the morning I felt like a gay old stick, in the old, deeply lamented meaning of the word 'gay'. (I don't mean that I am anti-gay. I am anti calling gay gay, that's all.) I even felt a touch of pride, mixed with the usual inevitable embarrassment, when my scout, as we call the people who look after us and our rooms, arrived.

As luck would have it, our paths on the way out again crossed that of Damien Finch.

Damien knows that I am jealous of his success on the television screen. Nobody has ever asked me on to it, but his voice is his fortune.

Damien's wonderfully expressive televisual eyebrows rose just the tiniest bit as he saw us emerging from my rooms.

'Good morrow, Alan. Good morrow, Miss Bedwell,' he said.

Ange smiled cheerfully and said 'Hiya.' Did she know that she would be the talk of the college, I wondered.

I showed her round the fine old heart of the city. We strolled along Broad Street and down Catte Street, where the city really does attain true greatness. I showed her the Sheldonian Theatre, the grandeur of the Bodleian Library, the Radcliffe Camera, the University Church and Hawksmoor's masterly eighteenth-century Great Quadrangle at All Souls College. I had decided that it no longer mattered who saw us. She couldn't judge the age of the buildings – when I told her she said, 'Jesus! So old, and they haven't none of them fallen down!' – but I was delighted to discover that she appreciated just how beautiful they were, gawping and gasping with unselfconscious delight, even though her way of expressing her admiration was unusual to my ears. 'Bleedin' 'ell,' she said. 'Look at all them pineapples and pinnacles and stuff. Look at all them domes and towers and spires. They put something on top of everything in the olden days, didn't they?' – and I have to admit that I hadn't quite thought of it like that, but it was true. Everything was topped by something, and sometimes by many things. I explained that this would have looked vulgar if it hadn't been accompanied by strict respect for classical forms and proportions, and she looked and then nodded and said, 'Yeah.'

I was amused by her attitude to members of the public. If she saw anybody remotely unusual or unkempt she would say, 'Is he a great intellectual?' or even 'Is he a genius? He looks like it.' I had to tell her that one of her supposed genii was the manager of Boots, but I loved her enthusiasm for all things Oxfordian. Oh, how I revelled in it.

We strolled along the great sweep of the High, with its uplifting mixture of good university and domestic buildings. She laughed at a notice that said 'Thank you for smoking' in the window of a tobacconist's. I turned us round just before we got to Magdalen. I didn't want to take her on to Magdalen Bridge. The sight of the punts would have given her an idea, and I have never punted. I was put off the whole idea when a friend invited a keen bird-watcher or 'twitcher' to Oxford. The twitcher stood up to look at a dabchick through his binoculars. They were approaching a low bridge. My friend screamed 'Duck.' 'Where? Where?' cried the excited twitcher, just before he was knocked into the water. He was in hospital for five months. No, I didn't punt.

We had a pub lunch, and I confess that I chose a hostelry not frequented by the university. She had three pints of lager and lasagne and chips. I had a glass of dry white wine and a starter portion of home-made salmon fishcake. I don't know which home it was made in, but from the taste, or rather the lack of it, I suspect it might have been an old people's. Then I took her to the station. I was heavy of heart. I knew that things couldn't go on as they were. This relationship had to develop or die. I didn't know if I was capable of developing it, but I knew that I didn't want it to die. Anxious days lay ahead.

'When will I see you again?' I asked nervously, on the crowded platform.

'You've got my number.'

'Do you want to see me again?'

'You've got my number,' she repeated.

That was all she was prepared to say, and she didn't want me to wait for the train.

'I hate goodbyes, Alan. They do my head in.'

'I don't like them either.'

I walked away, then turned. She was looking at me. She gave me a tiny smile, full of warmth and affection, but brief and a bit forlorn. Then she turned away.

When I got back to my rooms they seemed dreadfully empty. I had three students' essays to read before Friday's supervisions. I began to read one of them, but it made no sense at all. I wondered whether this was the student's fault or mine. Then the phone rang.

'Alan, could you just pop over and bring me up to speed about the Ferdinand Brinsley?'

It was Lawrence, my Head of Department, second-rate brain, good administrator, gourmet, sex-maniac, author of some of the world's worst detective stories, and creep. I didn't like his tone.

'Come and have a spot of supper.'

It was always 'a spot of supper' with Lawrence, even if it was a four-course meal. I think he had read somewhere that informal was the new sexy.

'Come at seven and we'll have a noggin.'

It was always 'a noggin' with Lawrence, whether it was a glass of cider or a bottle of champagne. He imagined that he had the popular touch.

'Jane says we haven't seen you for far too long.'

I maintained a diplomatic silence on that one.

'Besides, we have something to ask you.'

They had been told about Ange. Bloody Damien Finch.

I decided to go by car, so that I couldn't get drunk. I was worried that if I was cross-examined about Ange in drink, I might say something I'd regret. It was almost a ten minute walk to my garage – a minor inconvenience of Oxford life. As I drove my old Saab to their pleasant detached house in the leafy suburbs of North Oxford I felt a certain trepidation. I wasn't ready for Ange's existence to invade my whole life.

'Kierkegaard' is a very pleasant house with a labour-saving front garden of gravel and pseudo-Grecian urns. Lawrence led me in, indicated to me to sit down, and flung himself on to the settee. Then he said, 'Forgot the noggin', and leapt up athletically. He does this sort of thing to remind me that he's twelve years younger than me.

He broached a bottle of Pinot Grigio. There is an element of drama in everything he does. He doesn't just open bottles. He broaches them.

I realise that I ought to give you some kind of picture of Lawrence and Jane's sitting room. It isn't easy for me. You may have already suspected that I am not a very observant person, but I will have to try because we will be visiting it several times, unfortunately.

The first thing to say about it is that it
was
a sitting room. Jane thought the term 'drawing room' old-fashioned, and people who called it a 'lounge' were struck off the Christmas card list. It was furnished with an eclectic mix of old and new. I suppose I would place it at the elegant end of twee. Jane is precious. Some of her many ornaments are also precious, others merely look as if they are. The paintings were carefully experimental, at the safe end of abstract.

'How's the lecture coming along?' asked Lawrence. The question seemed casual, but he is actually as casual as a wolf.

'I don't know,' I said. 'I was discussing it the other day, with a friend, and it suddenly seemed terribly feeble.'

This remark was a bad error of judgment on my part. It gave me a moment of satisfaction – it's always a joy to see Lawrence worried – but the cost was too great. The last thing I ought to have done was to sow doubts in Lawrence's mind. Things that are sown in Lawrence's mind grow slowly but remorselessly, and are harvested in due course. Soon it would be the combine harvester for my career, if I wasn't careful – and as for sorting out the wheat from the chaff, we won't even go down that road.

'Oh dear,' he said. 'Oh, Alan. There was a lot of pressure on me to give it to young Mallard. If it's good, we can clip young Mallard's wings, but, if it's bad, feather in young Mallard's cap. In our department, Alan, there are Calcutt men, but there are also Mallard men. I shouldn't say this. I should be neutral. Young Mallard has ability, but he isn't ready. I am a Calcutt man through and through, but young Mallard will not fly away. I don't want you giving any fuel to the Mallard men. Make it good, Alan.'

I have to say that I wasn't utterly convinced by Lawrence's championing of me.

I didn't like the way he never mentioned Mallard without giving him his adjective – 'young'.

I realised, of course that 'How's the lecture coming on?' was not the question that Lawrence had mentioned on the phone. He had said, 'We have something to ask you.' It would await the arrival of Jane, and it would be about Ange.

Jane entered now, and I have to admit that she looked wonderful. She was wearing a stunning Max Mara outfit. How did I of all people know that it was a Max Mara outfit? Surely I didn't know anything about ladies' clothes and designer labels? I knew because in the course of the evening she told me twice. She was wearing outlandishly trendy scarlet high-heeled shoes, which were probably not as expensive as they looked since she didn't tell me what make they were. They showed off her slender legs to perfection. Her worst enemy – and it would be hard to decide who that was, there were so many candidates – couldn't deny that she was a very attractive woman. She would be truly beautiful if she had warmth.

'Alan dear.'

She offered both cheeks. I kissed them demurely.

'Everything hunky-dory in the cassoulet department?' asked Lawrence.

'It's in the oven.'

'Excellent.'

'Have you asked him?'

'Mmm?'

'You know.'

'Oh. Yes. No. I was waiting for you.'

'Ah.'

I waited patiently during this minimalist exchange.

'No, Alan,' said Lawrence. 'Jane was most intrigued.' As if he wasn't. 'Arthur Holdall said he saw you leaving the New Star of Bengal Indian restaurant with a young lady.'

So I had been wrong to blame Damien. Funnily enough, I was glad of that. I like the man, despite my jealousy.

I had no idea what to say. My reply, when it came, was as unexpected to me as it was to Lawrence and Jane.

'Oh, Arthur Holdall,' I said. 'He's a case.'

'A case?'

'It's a joke.'

'Don't change the subject,' said Jane coolly.

'Yes, please, Alan, answer the question,' said Lawrence.

'I haven't been asked a question yet,' I said.

I sat down in one of their enormous chairs, stretched my legs out, tried to look comfortable, and sipped my Pinot Grigio as elegantly as I could manage.

'Well I said that Arthur Holdall said that he saw you coming out of the New Star of Bengal Indian restaurant with a young lady.'

'I would have expected the Head of a Department of Philosophy at Oxford University to know that that is a statement, not a question.'

I smiled, desperately hoping that I looked relaxed about this. In truth I hated it. I didn't want anything about Ange to be mixed up with the lives of these two people.

'Oh for goodness sake.' Lawrence had quite a short fuse. 'Did Arthur Holdall see you coming out of the New Star of Bengal Indian restaurant with a young lady?'

'How can I know what Arthur Holdall saw or did not see? You would have to ask him.'

'Oh, for goodness sake. Did you visit the New Star of Bengal Indian Restaurant with a young lady?'

I smiled. I hoped my smile was both calm and infuriating.

'Yes, I did,' I admitted, 'and I did leave it, otherwise I'd still be there, which I demonstrably am not.'

'Oh, for goodness sake, Alan,' said Jane, echoing her husband. 'Stop evading the issue. Who was she?'

'She was a friend. Do I need to tell you more than that? You can probably find it out on the internet, anyway. Put in New Star of Bengal, you'll probably find a list of all the people who ate there last night, and what we all had. There are no secrets any more. There's no such thing as a private life any more.'

'Of course you don't need to tell us any more,' said Lawrence, 'but we're your friends. We're your supporters. We're Calcutt men . . . and women. We know you. I've known you for . . . it must be . . . oh . . . eighteen years. In all that time you have never once been seen alone with a woman. Now we hear this. Naturally, as people interested in our fellow human beings, we are intrigued. Can you blame us?'

'No, I can't blame you, I suppose. What do you want to know?'

Lawrence came over and filled my glass.

'Well, where did you meet?'

'I picked her up on a train.'

It was amusing to watch their reactions. A trifle irritating too. They both looked incredulous. Jane also looked disapproving. Lawrence, I felt, had a touch of envy.

'Alan! Congratulations!' he said.

Jane raised her eyebrows in disapproval of Lawrence's enthusiasm. I wondered if he had once picked someone up on a train, and Jane knew about it. I knew he wasn't faithful. I didn't know if Jane knew.

'Is she a philosopher?' she asked.

'Not professionally.'

'Good,' she said. 'That's good, Alan. I approve of that.'

I don't think I could ever hit a woman, but, if I did, it would be Jane. What business was it of hers to approve or disapprove?

'What's her name?' asked Lawrence.

I had dreaded this moment. Now that it had arrived I decided that my best tactic was to revel in it, deliver the ghastly information in two parts, enjoy their horror.

'Bedwell,' I said.

Lawrence looked amused, but Jane merely looked thoughtful.

'Bedwell,' she repeated. 'Does she have people in Harforshire?'

'No,' I said. 'She doesn't have people in "Harforshire".' I mocked Jane's pronunciation of what I call Hertfordshire, but the mockery went over her head. 'She has people in Gallows Corner.'

'Gallows Corner?' said Lawrence incredulously. 'Where's that?'

'Romford.'

'Good God. Jane, I do believe Alan has picked up an Essex girl. You dark horse, you.'

I'd had enough of this. I really do think that if I hadn't known how good Jane's cassoulets were, I would have walked out. But maybe I wouldn't. I couldn't afford to offend Lawrence. Oh God, to be rich and not beholden to people. Nobody was free unless they were rich, and people who became rich rarely cared about freedom. And, to be honest, I was in no position to be upset with Lawrence for his crack about Essex girls. I had done it myself, in fact I was finding it very difficult not to think of Ange as an Essex girl, and of course it was the realisation, when he did it, of how offensive I had been that really angered me. We are rarely as angry with other people as we are with ourselves.

'So does she have a Christian name?' he asked.

'Yes, she does. It's Ange.'

There was a moment of silence.

'Ange?' said Jane incredulously. Few people can be as incredulous as Jane. 'Ange?'

'Ange.'

'Oh.'

'Bring this "Ange" for a spot of supper tomorrow night,' said Lawrence.

Jane flashed him a filthy look.

'I have Daphne's coffee morning, and my bridge group in the afternoon,' she said. 'I won't have time to make supper.'

'We can have the cassoulet again. You'll have made mountains. You always do.'

Jane glared again.

'Cassoulet two days running will give me . . .' She coloured, and stopped.

Lawrence was not so delicate – deliberately, I'm sure.

'A touch of wind, however unfeminine and regrettable it may be in one so perfect, is hardly a serious reason for not meeting my friend and colleague's girlfriend,' he said.

It was time to stop this nonsense.

'No. Really,' I said. 'She . . . she doesn't like cassoulet.'

'How many times have you been out with her?' asked Jane icily.

'Twice.'

'And you've already discussed the matter? How very strange. Cassoulet crops up so seldom in casual conversation.'

'We haven't discussed it specifically,' I said, 'not in so many words, but we've talked about food, and our likes and dislikes and so on, and I've formed the impression, the very strong impression, that she's not the cassoulet type.'

'Well bring her for a noggin.'

'No.'

'Alan,' said Jane. 'I believe you're ashamed of her.'

'By God, I will bring her,' I said.

Why do I always seem to be outmanoeuvred?