The only person in the room was the Callaghan girl, sitting behind a well-filled plate. Dixon said good morning to her.
'Oh, good morning.' Her tone was neutral, not hostile.
He quickly decided on a bluff, speak-my-mind approach as the best cloak for rudeness, past or to come. One of his father's friends, a jeweller, had got away with conversing almost entirely in insults for the fifteen years Dixon had known him, merely by using this simple device. Deliberately intensifying his northern accent, Dixon said: 'Afraid I got off on the wrong foot with you last night.'
She looked up quickly, and he saw with bitterness how pretty her neck was. 'Oh… that. I shouldn't worry too much about it if I were you. I didn't show up too well myself.'
'Nice of you to take it like that,' he said, remembering that he'd already had one occasion to use this phrase to her. 'Very bad manners it was on my part, anyway.'
'Well, let's forget it, shall we?'
'Glad to; thanks very much.'
There was a pause, while he noted with mild surprise how much and how quickly she was eating. The remains of a large pool of sauce were to be seen on her plate beside a diminishing mound of fried egg, bacon, and tomatoes. Even as he watched she replenished her stock of sauce with a fat scarlet gout from the bottle. She glanced up and caught his look of interest, raised her eyebrows, and said, 'I'm sorry, I like sauce; I hope you don't mind,' but not convincingly, and he fancied she blushed.
'That's all right,' he said heartily; 'I'm fond of the stuff myself.' He pushed aside his bowl of cornflakes. They were of a kind he didn't like: malt had been used in their preparation. A study of the egg and bacon and tomatoes opposite him made him decide to postpone eating any himself. His gullet and stomach felt as if they were being deftly sewn up as he sat. He poured and drank a cup of black coffee, then refilled his cup.
'Aren't you going to have any of this stuff?' the girl asked.
'Well, not yet, I don't think.'
'What's the matter? Aren't you feeling so good?'
'No, not really, I must admit. Bit of a headache, you know.'
'Oh, then you did go to the pub, like that little man said - what was his name?'
'Johns,' Dixon said, trying to suggest by his articulation of the name the correct opinion of its bearer. 'Yes, I did go to the pub.'
'You had a lot, did you?' In her interest she stopped eating, but still gripped her knife and fork, her fists resting on the cloth. He noticed that her fingers were square-tipped, with the nails cut quite close.
'I suppose I must have done, yes,' he replied.
'How much did you have?'
'Oh, I never count them. It's a bad habit, is counting them.'
'Yes, I dare say, but how many do you think it was? Roughly.'
'Ooh… seven or eight, possibly.'
'Beers, that is, is it?'
'Good Lord, yes. Do I look as if I can afford spirits?'
'Pints of beer?'
'Yes.' He smiled slightly, thinking she didn't seem such a bad sort after all, and that the slight blueness of the whites of her eyes helped to give her her look of health. He changed his mind abruptly about the first of these observations, and lost interest in the second, when she replied:
'Well, if you drink as much as that you must expect to feel a bit off colour the next day, mustn't you?' She drew herself upright in her seat in a schoolmarmy attitude.
He remembered his father, who until the war had always worn stiff white collars, being reproved by the objurgatory jeweller as excessively 'dignant' in demeanour. This etymological sport expressed for Dixon exactly what he objected to in Christine. He said rather coldly: 'Yes, I must, mustn't I?' It was an idiom he'd caught from Carol Goldsmith. Thinking of her made him think, for the first time that morning, of the embrace he'd witnessed the night before, and he realized that it had its bearing on this girl as well as on Goldsmith. Well, she could obviously take care of herself.
'Everybody was wondering where you'd got to,' she said.
'I've no doubt they were. Tell me: how did Mr Welch react?'
'What, to finding out you'd probably gone to the pub?'
'Yes. Did he seem irritated at all?'
'I really have no idea.' Conscious, possibly, that this must sound rather bald, she added: 'I don't know him at all, you see, and so I couldn't really tell. He didn't seem to notice much, if you see what I mean.'
Dixon saw. He felt too that he could tackle the eggs and bacon and tomatoes now, so went to get some and said: 'Well, that's a relief, I must say. I shall have to apologize to him, I suppose.'
'It might be a good idea.'
She said this in a tone that made him turn his back for a moment at the sideboard and make his Chinese mandarin's face, hunching his shoulders a little. He disliked this girl and her boy-friend so much that he couldn't understand why they didn't dislike each other. Suddenly he remembered the bedclothes; how could he have been such a fool? He couldn't possibly leave them like that. He must do something else to them. He must get up to his room quickly and look at them and see what ideas their physical presence suggested. 'God,' he said absently; 'oh my God,' then, pulling himself together: 'I'm afraid I shall have to dash off now.'
'Have you got to get back?'
'No, I'm not actually going until… No, I mean there's… I've got to go upstairs.' Realizing that this was a poor exit-line, he said wildly, still holding a dish-cover: 'There's something wrong with my room, something I must alter.' He looked at her and saw her eyes were dilated. 'I had a fire last night.'
'You lit a fire in your bedroom?'
'No, I didn't light it purposely, I lit it with a cigarette. It caught fire on its own.'
Her expression changed again. 'Your bedroom caught fire?'
'No, only the bed. I lit it with a cigarette.'
'You mean you set fire to your bed?'
'That's right.'
'With a cigarette? Not meaning to? Why didn't you put it out?'
'I was asleep. I didn't know about it till I woke up.'
'But you must have… Didn't it burn you?'
He put the dish-cover down. 'It doesn't seem to have done.'
'Oh, that's something, anyway.' She looked at him with her lips pressed firmly together, then laughed in a way quite different from the way she'd laughed the previous evening; in fact, Dixon thought, rather unmusically. A blonde lock came away from the devotedly-brushed hair and she smoothed it back. 'Well, what are you going to do about it?'
'I don't know yet. I must do something, though.'
'Yes, I quite agree. You'd better start on it quickly, hadn't you, before the maid goes round?'
'I know. But what can I do?'
'How bad is it?'
'Bad enough. There are great pieces gone altogether, you see.'
'Oh. Well, I don't really know what to suggest without seeing it. Unless you… no; that wouldn't help.'
'Look, I suppose you wouldn't come up and…?'
'Have a look at it?'
'Yes. Do you think you could?'
She sat up again and thought 'Yes, all right. I don't guarantee anything, of course.'
'No, of course not.' He remembered with joy that he still had some cigarettes left after last night's holocaust. 'Thanks very much.'
They were moving to the door when she said: 'What about your breakfast?'
'Oh, I shall have to miss that. There's not time.'
'I shouldn't if I were you. They don't give you much for lunch here, you know.'
'But I'm not going to wait till… I mean there isn't much time to… Wait a minute.' He darted back to the
