There are people who ask the question 'How's the family?' and, receiving the answer 'Fine' are perfectly satisfied; there are other people, the real professionals, who expect the answer in a very different realm. Families are Flora's business; all over the world there are families, nuclear and extended, patriarchal and matriarchal, families cooked and families raw, which pause, rigid, in their work of raising children, bartering daughters, tabooing incest, practising wife-exchange, performing rites of circumcision, potlatching, as Flora enters their clearing or their longhouse or their living-room and asks, notebook in hand, 'How's the family?' It is a serious and searching question about the universe; and, Flora is seeking a universal answer. For Flora is famous for questions. When she is not in her service flat in the leafy suburb, or out in the world on fieldwork, she is to be found at meetings and congresses, in small halls in London or Zurich; here she habitually sits in a left-hand aisle seat near the front and, the paper over, rises first, a pencil held high for attention, to ask the initial and most devastating question ('I'd hoped to bring evidence to show the entire inadequacy of this approach. Happily the speaker has, presumably unconsciously, performed the task for me in the paper itself. As for my question…) Flora, it is widely known, wherever she goes, is formidable, with her dark serious eyes, her firm manner, her big, intimidating body. And as for her more intimate relationships, well, it sometimes seems to Howard, when he lies, on the happy occasions when the privilege has been granted to him, on her moving bed in her large white bedroom, that Flora has reinvested fornication, an occupation at which she is in fact extremely skilled and able, with new purpose and significance. She has conceived of it as a tactical-advance on the traditional psychiatrist's couch; permitting more revelation, more intimacies, it therefore leads, inevitably, to better questions. So he looks up at her serious face, peering at him over his bent arm; he considers; he says, 'Well, of course, it's the old story.'
'Oh, Howard,' says Flora, 'I want a new story. Which old story?'
'Well, when I'm up, Barbara's down,' says Howard, 'and vice versa.'
'When you're up who, Barbara's down on whom?' asks Flora. 'Flora, you're coarse,' says Howard. 'No, not really,' says Flora. 'And Barbara's down now?'
'Well, I'm up,' says Howard. 'Things are happening to me.'
'You ought to watch Barbara,' says Flora. 'Oh, it's the usual things,' says Howard. 'We battle on, emissaries of the male and female cause. Barbara says: "Pass the salt." And then, if I pass it, she smirks. Another win for the sisters over the brothers.'
'Marriage,' says Flora, 'the most advanced form of warfare in the modern world. But of course you usually pass the pepper.' Howard laughs and says: 'I do.'
'By accident,' says Flora. 'Oh, Flora,' says Howard, 'you should have married. You'd be so good at it.' The bed heaves; Flora pushes herself up from her place against Howard, and sits in the bed with her knees up, her hair loose, the bedside lights glowing on her flesh and casting sharp shadow. 'Isn't it amazing?' she says, reaching across to the table at her side, and picking up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, 'Why is it that married people always say "Come in" when everything they do says "Get out"? They talk about their miseries and then ask you why you're unmarried. No, Howard, I prefer to stand on the sidelines and watch. I really find it much safer.' Howard laughs; he reaches out, and runs his hand round the curve of Flora's breast. 'It has its compensations,' says Howard. 'You're never lonely.'
'I know you aren't, Howard,' says Flora, 'but it seems to me that you've demonstrated that the main compensation of marriage is that you can commit adultery. A somewhat perverse argument.'
Flora bends her head, and lights her cigarette; she looks down slyly at Howard. 'Well, have you found out?' she asks. 'Found out what?' asks Howard. 'Who Barbara was with last night?'
'I don't know that she was with anybody,' says Howard. 'I've told you,' says Flora, 'you ought to take an interest in Barbara.'
'Have you found out?' asks Howard. 'No, I've not had time,' says Flora, 'but I think I can make an inspired guess.'
'Your guesses are always inspired,' says Howard. 'It's not serious,' says Flora, 'just something interesting. You mustn't try her with it.'
'I won't,' says Howard. 'You know, I sometimes wonder whether you have anything else to think about besides the fornication's of your friends.'
'I pay attention,' says Flora, 'but, after all, it's my research. Sex and families.'
'An interesting field,' says Howard, 'rather better than Christadelphianism in Wakefield.'
'Look,' says Flora, 'do you want to know my guess?'
'Yes, please,' says Howard, flat on his back. 'Dr Macintosh,' says Flora. 'A man gets very competitive when his wife's having a baby.' Howard stares at her face, lit with amusement; he says, 'That's marvellous, Flora. Though actually his wife seems not to be having a baby.'
'Oh, she's tantalizing him with it, she'll have one in the end,' says Flora. 'But I mean, what else can a man do at a time like that, except go to bed with the hostess of the party she's so wilfully chosen to leave?'
'Of course, nothing,' says Howard. 'It's a very interesting speculation.'
'Not to be used or quoted, of course,' says Flora. 'I didn't say it was true. Barbara was probably out of sight having a bath or something.'
'I must say,' says Howard, 'you're very good at making life sound interesting.'
'Well, we both are, aren't we?' asks Flora. 'Presumably for fear it may not be.'
'Oh, it is,' says Howard. 'There's always something or someone to do.'
'But don't you ever find it too much work, Howard?' asks Flora, 'All this dressing and undressing, all these undistinguished climaxes, all this chasing for more of the same, is it really, really, worth the effort?'
'Of course,' says Howard. 'Well, you, Howard,' says Flora, 'who did you screw last night?'
Howard laughs and says, 'Well, Flora, it's awfully personal.' Flora turns her face toward him: she says, 'My God, what kind of an answer is that? Where would the state of modern psychological knowledge be if Dora had said to Freud: "I'm sorry, Sigmund, it's awfully personal."'
'Oh, Freud deduced,' says Howard. 'Ah, well, so did I, of course,' says Flora. 'It was that student, wasn't it?'
'Which student?' asks Howard. 'Oh, Howard, come on,' says Flora, puffing at the cigarette, 'Felicity someone, the one with spots. The one who came into your room this morning for morning-after recompense.'
'Another inspired guess,' says Howard. 'No,' says Flora, 'this one was absolutely bloody obvious. I never saw two people who looked more as if they'd just jumped off each other. She felt entitled to a new role, you felt compelled to resist it.'
'Flora,' says Howard, 'you're jealous.'
'My God,' says Flora, flicking ash into an ashtray, 'I don't suffer from these female diseases. Why do you need me to be jealous? So that you can believe I care for you much more than I do?' Howard laughs and says, 'You do care for me, Flora. And you sounded jealous.'
'Oh, no,' says Flora, 'I sounded disgusted. You drift off and screw that scrawny, undistinguished girl, whom you could have had at any time, day or night, just when all those interesting things were going on. It shows a shameful lack of concern in the human lot.'
'She had her problems, too,' says Howard. 'Well, of course, she'd have to have,' says Flora, 'but what were her problems, compared to the kind of problems you'd got at your party last night? How did you get on with Henry?'
'Get on with Henry when?' asks Howard. 'You know,' says Flora, 'when you grabbed him and took him off, after the meeting, so you could get to him before I did. Just now.'
'So-so,' says Howard. 'He took me to his local. It's got a barmaid in a bustle. Henry goes there every night to gird his loins before going home to the marital fray.'
'That's sensible enough,' says Flora, 'but did he tell you what happened last night?'
'He said it was an accident,' says Howard. 'He said he'd slipped on a piece of ice someone dropped from a drink.'
'I didn't see any ice at your party.'
'No,' says Howard, 'there wasn't any.' Flora laughs, and looks satisfied. She says, 'Oh, Howard, how sad. It's the typical story of those who show a true concern for others. You try to convince them that there are serious psychological factors at work in their situation, and all they can do is talk about chances and accidents.'
Howard looks up at Flora, her elbows on her knees, her face staring ahead at the windows, blowing smoke. 'Well,' he says, 'he did begin to agree with me, with us, later.'
'Oh, did he?' asks Flora, glancing at him. 'Yes,' says Howard, 'after I told him that Myra wanted to leave him.' Flora's big naked body heaves and moves; the bed bounces; her face appears above his, staring down into his eyes. 'After you told him what?' she cries. 'After I told him Myra had come to us last night and talked about a separation,' says Howard. 'Oh, you shit, you shit, you shit,' says Flora, shaking Howard's arms with her hands, 'That's the essential item you were suppressing this morning. That's what you wouldn't tell me. Why not, Howard?'
'Flora, Flora,' says Howard, 'I was saving it for you. Something interesting.'
'Something interesting!' says Flora, 'it's the piece I've been looking for. And you knew last night?'
' Myra came to us before the party, and asked our advice,' says Howard. 'My God,' says Flora, 'and you still went off and bedded that spotty student, when all that was going on in your house? I call that a grave dereliction of duty. No wonder you wanted it to be an accident.'
'Don't you think it's interesting?' asks Howard. Flora lets go of him, and drops her hair into his face, and laughs. 'Yes,' she says. 'Of course it's all clear now. Myra leaving, Henry desperate, there's a convenient and tempting window. Smash, you perform the classic appeal. My blood's on your hands, darling.'
'It's not all clear,' says Howard, 'which is why I wasn't alert. Myra didn't tell Henry she was leaving him. He didn't know until I talked to him just now.'
'Oh, there's tell and tell,' says Flora. 'They didn't even see much of each other,' says Howard. 'Henry was late and spent most of the evening attending to his dogbite.' Flora giggles; she says, 'Did he have a dogbite?'
'Yes,' says Howard, 'he got bitten on the threshold by a student's dog. Do you think it was an accident?'
'Oh, Christ,' says Flora, 'shut up. I'm trying to take him seriously. Anyway, you told him, naturally. What did he say then?' He admitted the marriage was collapsing,' says Howard. 'That should cheer you,' says Flora. 'You'll be able to hand out radical deliverance to both of them now. One at the front door, and one at the back.'
'Henry appears not to appreciate my explanation,' says Howard. 'Ahh,' says Flora, 'what a shame. I had no idea he was so sensible.'
'I knew that would please you,' says Howard. 'Of course it leaves him in a situation which is in every sense absurd. He doesn't exist, he can't feel, he can't love Myra, he can't even lay his students.'
'It must have been hard for him to confess all that,' says Flora, 'talking to a man who can do all those things.'
'But he was able to tell me he has a belief that sustains him,' says Howard. 'Does he?' asks Flora. 'What's that?'
'He believes in personal relations,' says Howard, looking at Flora, who begins, her breasts bouncing, to giggle. 'Oh, no, Howard,' she says, 'did he tell you that? Solemnly?'
'He did,' says Howard. 'Poor Henry,' says Flora. 'If anyone in the world should be banned from personal relations, it's Henry. He's lost all self-conviction. And he's not only in a classic auto-destructive cycle himself; he's also sweeping in everything and everyone around him. Of course this is what Myra can see. Hence her frenzies and extraordinary performances. She's afraid of being sucked in. Brought under the football with Henry.'
'Oh, that reminds me,' says Howard, 'the football. It turns out that the football wasn't an accident. A boy Henry had told off threw it at him, and knocked him down with it.' Flora's body, which has been shaking with laughter, becomes weak; it collapses and falls across Howard. 'Oh, God, we shouldn't laugh,' she says. She pushes up her head, so that her mouth meets Howard's; she kisses him. 'My dear man,' she says, 'it's terrible, but for that I forgive you everything. You're a crook and a harm to your friends, but that is just so good.' Howard strokes Flora's back. 'Something interesting?' he asks. 'Something interesting,' says Flora, 'you really earned your place in my bed tonight. Time's up, though, boy, out you get.'
'It's early,' says Howard, putting his hands out to her. Flora kneels up and switches off the bed vibrator; then she pushes at Howard's body. 'Come on, Howard, some of us have got work to do,' she says, rolling him off the bed, 'there's some Kleenex there for you on the bedside table.'
'You think of everything,' says Howard, getting up and wiping himself. 'Throw me my pants, will you?' says Flora, sitting on the other side of the bed. 'So the Beamishes are breaking up.'
'That's right,' says Howard, 'catch.' Flora stands up and, one on each side of the bed, they both begin to dress themselves. 'What did you say to Myra when she came?' asks Flora, pulling her white pants up her legs and drawing them over her dark crotch, 'did you tell her to leave him?'
'Not exactly,' says Howard, stepping into his shorts. 'I'm amazed,' says Flora, 'no doubt you will in time. Chuck my tights across, please.'
'We were too busy trying to find out her reasons,' says Howard, pulling on his sweatshirt. 'Well, those are pretty obvious,' says Flora, fitting her toes into the light, stretchable mesh of the tights, 'she's a classic female type, who clearly had a good relationship with father, and expects male domination, and sought a direct transference to Henry. Who presumably had an overdominant father and a weak mum, so he wanted a mother surrogate. So both are looking for a parent and neither's looking for a spouse.'
'Many marriages work like that,' says Howard, pulling on a sock. 'Fine,' says Flora, 'my bra. So long as nobody starts growing up.'
'Is Myra growing up?' asks Howard, pulling on the other sock. 'No, I doubt it,' says Flora, fastening her bra at the back, 'she still can't remember to put out the milk bottles. And as for Henry, well, you can get Henry by reading his book. A plea for television to take over all parental authority, so that Henry won't have to exercise any. A silly book, even yours is better.'
'Well, thank you,' says Howard, drawing up his jeans and buckling them. 'A pleasure,' says Flora, pushing her arm into a white blouse, 'it's all of a piece. An inert, compromise, undemanding marriage. They have no kids. They're probably sexually almost dormant. Unlike most of their colleagues, they don't have affairs. But they look around and feel uneasy.'
'Henry doesn't have affairs,' says Howard, clothing himself in the splendour of his neat leather jacket. 'Does Myra?' asks Flora, dropping a black skirt over her head, and catching it at the waist. 'She did once,' says Howard, pushing his feet into his shoes, 'on one single occasion.'
'I see,' says Flora, pushing her feet into her shoes. 'I've hung up a towel behind the bathroom door for you, if you want a wash.'
Howard leaves the lighted bedroom, and goes through Flora's long darkened living-room to her bathroom. It is a neat, spare room. On the shelf above the bowl is just one small bottle of perfume, a toothbrush, and a tube of fluoride toothpaste. Howard washes his hands and face, looking into the mirror and seeing his wilted, questioning, pleased expression. He reaches for the towel behind the door, and sees on the adjoining peg an unexpected item, a black silk negligée, a new view of Flora. There is a tap on the door, and Flora comes in. 'Do you mind?' she says, sitting on the side of the bath, fully dressed, her social self restored, her splendid secrets hidden, 'You didn't tell me who Myra had her little affair with.'
'Guess,' says Howard, wiping his face with the towel. 'Of course,' says Flora, 'if Myra in her entire existence managed just one little extramarital venture, one tiny infidelity, it would of course have to be with you. They ought to award medals for that kind of service, Howard.' Howard laughs and pecks Flora on the cheek; he says, 'She hasn't got your touch, Flora.'
'Of course not,' says Flora, 'I've nothing to fear. Myra must have had everything. But you wouldn't notice.'
'It's true she put all her energy not into the event itself but into tidying the place up again afterwards,' says Howard. 'Well, well,' says Flora, 'now we know why she came to talk to you. She'd like to make a better job of it next time.'
'Oh, God,' says Howard. 'Well, she'll be back,' says Flora, 'once Henry is a little better. And of course you must give her all the help you can, all the help she needs. You see how everyone counts on you.'
'You think she intends to leave Henry for me?' asks Howard. 'Of course she intends to leave him,' says Flora, 'you don't go and see the Kirks if you intend to remain together. That's like going to the Family Planning for advice on maintaining celibacy. And of course it's obvious there'd be advantages to her in a separation, as you're bound to tell her. I've no doubt at all that Henry's acting extremely destructively on her. And you must look a fascinating alternative.' Howard hangs up the towel; he says, 'Flora, you're terrifying me.' Flora, perched on the side of the bath, laughs. 'Oh, Howard,' she says, 'are your chickens coming home to roost?'
'That's hardly a matter for delight,' says Howard. 'Ah,' says Flora, 'never mind. If you want my honest opinion, she'll play with the idea, and chase you and drink your whisky, but in the end she'll find she can't really desert Henry.'
'You think she cares for him?' asks Howard, 'Not much,' says Flora, getting up off the bath, 'but she's got as much invested in that unhappy ménage as he has.'
'That's one thing I hadn't thought of,' says Howard. 'It's obvious,' says Flora, 'you'll have to go in a minute. Come and have a quick drink before I rush you off. You look as if you need it.'
Flora's living-room is long and dark, with a white Indian rug and a few scattered furnishings. In her white blouse and black skirt, she goes around, switching on table lamps and ran spotlights. The lights reveal the straight lines of plain modern furniture, and the texture of unpatterned fabric. Flora's room is a room of shapes and colours, rather than of things, though there are few things that, carefully chosen, do stand out: a blue Aalto chair by the bookcase, a Hockney print on the wall, an Epstein bust on the teak coffee table. The galley kitchen is a construct in oiled wood at the end of the room, and looks straight out into it; Flora can see Howard from here as she goes and begins opening wall cupboards. 'I don't have very much drink in stock,' she says, 'I'm not here enough to build up a collection. What would you like? There's whisky and gin and… whisky.'
'I'll have whisky,' says Howard, standing in the room. 'Teacher's or Teacher's?' asks Flora. 'Yes, please,' says Howard. Flora stands in the galley and pours whisky from the bottle into two squat, thick, Swedish glasses. The spotlight in the ceiling shines on her; she is a splendid, formidable figure. She comes round and hands one of the glasses to Howard. 'It's all right,' she says, 'sit down for a minute.' Howard sits in the bulb shape of the Aalto chair; Flora, in her black and white, seats herself on the plain grey straightback modern sofa. 'Well, here's to you, Howard,' she says, 'and your work in the world.'
'Cheers,' says Howard. 'You know, I often think there's something rather noble about the likes of us,' says Flora, 'meeting together like this, and giving so much of our attention and concern to the fate of others, when we could just have been concentrating on having fun by ourselves.'
'Yes,' says Howard, 'it is a peculiarly selfless activity.'
'Of course there is some pleasure in what we do for them,' says Flora, 'there must be, or we wouldn't want to keep our victims to ourselves.'
'Oh, do we?' asks Howard. 'Well, you didn't really want to tell me about Myra 's visit to you last night.'
'The sanctity of the confessional, the privacy of the consulting room,' says Howard. 'But you don't believe in privacy,' says Flora, 'you'd tell anything if it suited you. You wanted them for yourself.'
'No,' says Howard, 'I wanted you, Flora.'
'So you held back so I'd ask you into bed,' says Flora. 'Exactly,' says Howard. 'You didn't need to,' says Flora, 'I would have asked you anyway.'
'You would?' asks Howard. 'Why?'
'A terrible reason,' says Flora, 'a terrible, terrible reason.'
'Tell it to me,' says Howard. 'I hardly can,' says Flora, 'you see, I like it with you.'
'It's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,' says Howard. 'Or to anybody,' says Flora. 'So you'll ask me again,' says Howard.
Flora sits on the sofa and looks at him. 'No, I'm not sure I shall,' says Flora. 'But you must,' says Howard. 'I've admitted I'd like to,' says Flora, 'but duty does call.'
'What duty?' asks Howard. 'Isn't it obvious T asks Flora, 'I really ought to get Henry to come to bed with me.'
'That's absurd,' says Howard. 'Why is it?' asks Flora. 'We both just agreed that Henry's virtually sexless.'
'I'm sure it's true,' says Flora, 'but one doesn't do these things simply for the pleasure.'
'You mean you're now going to prefer Henry to me?'
'Prefer only in a sense,' says Flora, 'I think he has more need.'
'Oh, Christ, Flora,' says Howard, 'it's ridiculous.'
'You're jealous, Howard,' says Flora. 'Well, I'm prepared, unlike you, to admit it,' says Howard, 'I am.'
'I'm not trying to take him from you,' says Flora. 'We can share him.'
'Not jealous like that,' says Howard, 'I want you.'
'We'll see each other around,' says Flora, 'well, it's nine thirty, out you go. I've got some work to do. Can you find your way down?' Howard rises from the Aalto chair; he puts his glass on the teak coffee table; he walks towards the door. 'Well, goodnight, Flora,' he says. 'Goodnight, Howard, my dear,' says Flora, 'here, give me a kiss.' Flora steps towards him; they embrace in the doorway. 'Howard,' she says. 'Yes?' asks Howard. 'Do let me know if you find out anything very interesting,' says Flora. 'Yes, I will,' says Howard, 'will that change your mind?'
'We'll have to see,' says Flora, 'it depends how interesting it is.' Howard goes out onto the landing. 'Goodnight, love,' says Flora, shutting her door.
Flora's flat is on the fourth floor of this five-storey block; Howard walks down, from landing to landing, on the mosaic concrete, past the closed doors of other flats. He goes out through the lobby, past the letterboxes of the residents, and out into the carefully landscaped private gardens. A private drive wends up from the road; on it, among the Rovers and the Datsuns, he has parked his minivan. The estate is charming, with beeches and cedars; under the trees he can see a night walker strolling, looking up at the neat modern building. He looks up too, and identifies the flat he has just left: the lighted living-room and, with its fainter lights, the bedroom. And now Flora's big shadow comes up on the bedroom curtains; he watches as it passes across the room, to the point where the bedhead is, close to the spot where he has lately been lying. One of the lights douses; then Flora switches off the other, and the window disappears into the general darkness. After a moment her figure reappears against the plain curtains of the living-room. Then it passes from view, to reappear once more as the lights go on in a new room, the tiny little room at the end of the flat which is Flora's study. The room is uncurtained; he can see Flora sitting down at a desk by the window, in front of a typewriter, and beginning work, her face bent forward and down, her dark hair visible in the glow of a desk lamp. He gets into the van, starts the engine, and drives down the drive, and out into the leafy suburban road, and turns towards the town. He parks the van in the square where he leaves it overnight, walks down the hill, under the sodium lamps, past the failing shops, to the terrace. He unlocks his front door and lets himself into the hall.
There is a light in the pine kitchen, and a great business. He opens the door and sees at once that all the glasses from the party have been collected, and put in neat rows on the central table; the dirty plates have been stacked in a pile on the kitchen cabinets; the empty wine bottles stand in a neat row against the wall. At the sink, a very active figure, stands Felicity Phee. She has put on, over the vest-top and the long skirt, one of the two butcher's aprons that hang behind the kitchen door; the one, in fact, that is Howard's own, for the stripes on Barbara's run, for easy identification, the other way. Cupboards are open, to put things away; many of the glasses are already washed, and stand against the cardboard boxes from the wine supermarket, waiting to be put back in. The kitchen smells, as it has rarely smelled, of the sudsy smell of washing-up liquid. Howard stares at this scene of cleanliness and domestic efficiency; he says, 'Good God, Felicity, what have you been doing?' Felicity has apparently not heard him come in; she looks up, shows surprise, and says, 'Oh, Howard, you're back. How was your meeting?'
'Very good,' says Howard. Felicity takes down a towel from the wall and dries her hands on it; she says, 'Would you like me to fix you a drink?'
'What is all this?' asks Howard. 'I've been using some of those domestic skills you told me this morning I didn't have,' said Felicity, 'Barbara asked if I'd tidy up a bit after the party.! 'I hope she's not exploiting you,' says Howard. 'Of course she's not exploiting me,' says Felicity, 'I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to. I like being in your house. I like being indispensable.! 'Did you get the children to bed?' asks Howard. 'Aren't they lovely children?' cries Felicity, 'I bathed them and read them stories, and we had a long talk. I promised to take them to the fun-fair on Saturday.! 'What's happening on Saturday?' asks Howard. 'Didn't you know?' asks Felicity, 'Barbara's asked me to come and stay here over the weekend, and look after the children while she goes to London.! 'I see,' says Howard. 'Is Barbara in?'
'No,' says Felicity, 'she said that you shouldn't bother to wait up for her. She thought she might be quite late. She says these evening classes often go on a long time.'
'Well,' says Howard, 'you seem to have made a hit. Are you ready now? I'll drive you back to your flat.'
'There's no need,' says Felicity, 'I'm staying. Barbara asked me to. She told me to make a bed up in the guest bedroom.'
'The window's broken in the guest bedroom,' says Howard. 'I know,' says Felicity, 'I've fixed it with cardboard and tacks.'
'Are you staying right through to the weekend?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Felicity, 'I'll have to go back to the flat, and sort out my stuff, and tell Maureen. She'll be raging crazy. But I just feel so happy in this house. You don't mind, do you?'
'I'm not sure it's a wildly good idea,' says Howard. 'Don't worry,' says Felicity, 'I shan't expect anything of you. I'll just be about, if you ever want anything of me. I'm feeling very sensible at the moment.! 'I see,' says Howard, 'are there any more surprises you ought to tell me about?'
'I don't think so,' says Felicity. 'Oh, there was a message. Professor Marvin rang. I told him you were at a psychological meeting, and he asked if you'd ring him back when you got in.'
'I'll do it now,' says Howard. 'Let me get you a drink first,' says Felicity. 'No,' says Howard. He goes out of the kitchen, into the darkened hall; then he goes down the stairs into the basement study. The curtains are undrawn; the town light shines in. He switches on the overhead light and sees that Felicity, despite her enormous domestic activity upstairs, has found time to come down here and visit, for the typescript of his book, which he had tidied up and put in a neat pile on his desk before he left the house this morning, now lies scattered once again in a disorderly mess around the canvas chair. He can hear Felicity moving about upstairs, and the pots clashing in the sink, as he sits down at his desk chair, reaches for the telephone, and dials a number. Outside, through the grilled window, he can see the familiar shapes opposite, the stark railings, the jagged houselines, lit in sodium glare. The telephone trills; the receiver is lifted at the other end. 'Kirk,' says Howard, 'I've been asked to ring you.'
'Your babysitter's very efficient,' says Marvin's voice at the other end, 'I gather she's one of our students.'
'Yes,' says Howard. 'I'm sorry to drag you to the telephone after you've been out at a wearisome meeting,' says Marvin. 'How dedicated my colleagues are. While I, I'm ashamed to say, have been sitting at home in domestic tranquillity. I'm afraid the meeting this afternoon tired me badly. And worried me.'
'I can imagine,' says Howard. 'But I'm not ringing about that,' says Marvin, 'I must bear my woes. No, guess what I did to pass my time this evening.'
'I can't imagine,' says Howard. 'picked up Carmody's essays,' says Marvin. 'Hardly the most exciting way of passing the time,' says Howard. 'No,' says Marvin, 'a dull and tedious experience. The trouble is, and this is why I rang you, it's also a worrying one.'
'Why did it worry you?' asks Howard.
'Well,' says Marvin, 'have you ever thought what a difficult and strange business our practice of assessing students is?'
'I've often condemned it as completely artificial,' says Howard, 'but it happens to be our practice.'
'Trying to place a man on a scale of virtue, saying whether we deem him to pass or fail, trying to reach an objective standard.'
'Though all judgments are in fact ideologically subjective,' says Howard. 'Yet we agree to try,' says Marvin, 'we agree we can reach a consensus of judgment.'
'Not all of us,' says Howard. 'Do I take it that you're questioning the marks I've given Carmody?'
'Let me put it like this,' says Marvin, 'I wonder if, quite informally and out of hours, we might discuss them.'
'You mean you think Carmody's essays are good?' asks Howard. 'No,' says Marvin, 'they're bad and problematic. The trouble is they're evasive, they don't meet the tests you've set the man. But they also have intelligence, shrewdness, and cultural insight. The problem is to assess the level of the badness and the failure.'
'I see no problem,' says Howard, 'they're outright, failing bad.'
'I've read each one three times, Howard,' says Marvin. 'Now markers frequently disagree, and have learned ways of resolving their disagreements. My impression its simply that you're not using our elegant marking scale, with its plusses and minusses and query plus minusses, with quite the delicacy you might. So I found, reading them, that I often had here the sense of a C, there an intimation even of lower B, where you go for the full punitive weight of the outright and explicit F.'
'I see,' says Howard, 'and how did you come to be a marker of Carmody's essays?'
'Oh, by right, Howard,' says Marvin, 'you see, as I'm sure you know, marks here aren't finally awarded by individuals, but by the university. In practice the university is a board of appointed examiners. We're both examiners.'
'I don't agree,' says Howard, 'so I won't discuss Carmody's marks with you. Those marks can only be judged against his entire performance in my classes, which no one else can see and estimate. I've judged him, as his teacher, and you have to trust me, right or wrong.'
There is a pause at the other end, and then Marvin says, 'So my informal solution doesn't appeal to you.'
'Not a bit,' says Howard, 'I don't propose to look at Carmody's essays again. I don't propose to look at Carmody again, or have him in my classes.'
'Oh, dear,' says Marvin. 'Oh, dear, dear. A failing person? Is he really a failing person? We require a very high standard of nothingness for that.'
'I think Carmody meets all he criteria of nothingness you can devise,' says Howard. 'Then I'm afraid I shall have to register my formal dissent from you, Howard,' says Marvin. 'Now, naturally, I've done a bit of homework on this, and there is a university procedure when examiners disagree. We refer the matter to other examiners, and that I propose to do. I shall have Carmody's essays photocopied, and get all your marks and comments deleted, a not inconsiderable secretarial task, but one necessary to ensure justice. I hope that seems fair to you.'
'No,' says Howard, 'not at all. You're not marking Carmody, you're marking me. You're challenging my competence as a teacher, and I question your right to do it.'
'You, er, feel still that we can't settle this informally,' asks Marvin. 'No,' says Howard, 'I think you've got yourself a real bone of contention.'
'Well, excuse me for disturbing you at home,' says Marvin, 'I strongly disapprove of disturbing my colleagues in their leisure hours, but it seemed worth the try. How's Barbara?'
'Well,' says Howard. 'Good,' says Marvin. 'Goodbye, Howard.'
'Goodnight,' says Howard, and puts down the red telephone.
For a moment he sits at the desk; then he hears, and identifies, a small noise from upstairs. He gets to his feet, and goes up into the hall. The hall is darkened; but there, in bare feet, in the butcher's apron, is Felicity, a few feet from the telephone, looking at him. 'You were listening,' he says. 'That was private, Felicity.' Felicity smiles at him, appearing not to grasp the point. 'Oh, Howard, darling, what's private?' she asks. 'Private is doing business in my own house without it being interfered with,' says Howard. 'Isn't that rather a bourgeois attitude?' asks Felicity. 'Get ready,' says Howard, 'I'm taking you back to your flat.' Felicity puts her back against the wall; she says, 'I'm not going.'
'Oh, you are,' says Howard. Felicity's eyes brim with tears. 'Look at all the work I did for you,' she says, 'wasn't that good? Let me stay here.'
'It's an impossible situation, Felicity,' says Howard. 'Now come on to the car.' He takes her arm; they move down the hall. 'No,' says Felicity, pulling her arm free, 'you're being very silly.'
'Why am I being silly?' asks Howard. 'You need me so much now,' says Felicity, 'Suppose they ask your class about George Carmody?'
'I don't think anyone is going to bother asking my class about George,' says Howard. 'I think George has reached the end of the line.'
'But don't you see what that phone call means?' asks Felicity. 'The liberal reactionaries are ganging up against you. They'll support him. But if we supported you, the students in that class, if we said how terrible he'd been, they'd not be able to touch you. I think you'd be very silly to turn me out now.'
'Would I?' asks Howard. 'I'm not out to harm you, Howard,' says Felicity, 'I only want to have a useful part in your life.' In the dark hall they stand and look at each other; as they stand, the doorbell rings loudly over them. 'I'll be ever so good if you keep me,' says Felicity. Howard moves past her, down the hall to the front door. He opens it; on the steps stands someone in a cossack coat and high boots, holding a suitcase and a birdcage. ' Myra,' says Howard. Myra steps into the open door. She sees Felicity down the hall; she looks at Howard. 'Oh,. Howard,' she says, 'I've left Henry. I've got nowhere to go.'
'You've walked out on him?' asks Howard. 'Yes,' says Myra, putting down the birdcage, 'I've done it now. You will let me stay here, won't you?'