After the Dance

advert to the gravestone of your countenance, to your strangled “Imphm”, and to your waistcoat. Was this, I ask myself, what you always wanted to be, when you were playing as a young child at sand castles? Is this the denouement of your open, childish, innocent face? Why is there no tragedy in your life, no comedy, no, even melodrama? You have hidden behind a mound of silver, behind a black dog and a Nissan Micra. Regard yourself, are you the result of your own dreams? What would Dostoevsky think of you, or Nietzsche? Are the stars meaningless to you, the common joys and sorrows? You may pretend otherwise, Mr Maxwell, but you have lost the simple clownish heart of the child. Nor indeed does Mrs Maxwell have it as far as my observations go. I leave you with this prophecy. There will come a day when the vault will fail and the banknote subside. The horses of hilarity will leap over the counter and the leopards of dishevelment will change their spots. The waves will pour over the cravat and the bank that I have labelled ‘Perhaps’ will be swallowed by the indubitable sands of fatuity. What price your dog then, your debits, and your accounts? What price your percentages in the new avalanche of persiflage? In the day when the giant will overturn the House of the Seven Birches what will you do except crumble to the dust? Nor shall there be special offers in those days, and the brochures will be silent. Additions and subtraction will fail, and divisions will not be feeling so good. Computers will collapse, and customers will cast off their chains. Cravats will cease and crevasses will no longer be concealed.’

In a stunned silence, he rose and said, ‘That is my last word to you, Mr Maxwell, and may God protect you in his infinite mercy.’

He pulled the door behind him and walked in a dignified manner to the street, in his impeccable red kilt and hat with the red feather in it.

Mr Heine

It was ten o’clock at night and Mr Bingham was talking to the mirror. He said ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ and then stopped, clearing his throat, before beginning again, ‘Headmaster and colleagues, it is now forty years since I first entered the teaching profession. – Will that do as a start, dear?’

‘It will do well as a start, dear,’ said his wife Lorna.

‘Do you think I should perhaps put in a few jokes,’ said her husband anxiously. ‘When Mr Currie retired, his speech was well received because he had a number of jokes in it. My speech will be delivered in one of the rooms of the Domestic Science Department where they will have tea and scones prepared. It will be after class hours.’

‘A few jokes would be acceptable,’ said his wife, ‘but I think that the general tone should be serious.’

Mr Bingham squared his shoulders, preparing to address the mirror again, but at that moment the doorbell rang.

‘Who can that be at this time of night?’ he said irritably.

‘I don’t know, dear. Shall I answer it?’

‘If you would, dear.’

His wife carefully laid down her knitting and went to the door. Mr Bingham heard a murmur of voices and after a while his wife came back into the living-room with a man of perhaps forty-five or so who had a pale rather haunted face, but who seemed eager and enthusiastic and slightly jaunty.

‘You won’t know me,’ he said to Mr Bingham. ‘My name is Heine. I am in advertising. I compose little jingles such as the following:

When your dog is feeling depressed

Give him Dalton’s. It’s the best.

I used to be in your class in 1944–5. I heard you were retiring so I came along to offer you my felicitations.’

‘Oh?’ said Mr Bingham turning away from the mirror regretfully.

‘Isn’t that nice of Mr Heine?’ said his wife.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said and Mr Heine sat down, carefully pulling up his trouser legs so that he wouldn’t crease them.

‘My landlady of course has seen you about the town,’ he said to Mr Bingham. ‘For a long time she thought you were a farmer. It shows one how frail fame is. I think it is because of your red healthy face. I told her you had been my English teacher for a year. Now I am in advertising. One of my best rhymes is:

Dalton’s Dogfood makes your collie

Obedient and rather jolly.

You taught me Tennyson and Pope. I remember both rather well.’

‘The fact,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘that I don’t remember you says nothing against you personally. Thousands of pupils have passed through my hands. Some of them come to speak to me now and again. Isn’t that right, dear?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bingham, ‘that happens quite regularly.’

‘Perhaps you could make a cup of coffee, dear,’ said Mr Bingham and when his wife rose and went into the kitchen, Mr Heine leaned forward eagerly.

‘I remember that you had a son,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He is in educational administration,’ said Mr Bingham proudly. ‘He has done well.’

‘When I was in your class,’ said Mr Heine, ‘I was eleven or twelve years old. There was a group of boys who used to make fun of me. I don’t know whether I have told you but I am a Jew. One of the boys was called Colin. He was taller than me, and fair-haired.’

‘You are not trying to insinuate that it was my son,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘His name was Colin but he would never do such a thing. He would never use physical violence against anyone.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Heine affably. ‘It was a long time ago, and in any case

The past is past and for the present

It may be equally unpleasant.

Colin was the ringleader, and he had blue eyes. In those days I had a lisp which sometimes returns in moments of nervousness. Ah, there is Mrs Bingham with the coffee. Thank you, madam.’

‘Mr Heine says that when he was in