spider episode. I will say only that any exchanges of an erotic nature between Julia and Cantrip which may hereafter be referred to may be conclusively presumed to antedate the incident. Though, in all fairness, it does seem to me that a woman who retires for the night with Cantrip on the 31st of March in any year, forgetting that the following day — still, as I have said, I propose to draw a veil over the whole matter.
Mind you, Selena, when it comes to looking round for potential hijackers, I am by no means happy about the armour-plated matron on the other side of the gangway. I am suspicious of her coiffure — can any hair grown in nature be moulded to such iron symmetry? And can any lady so closely resembling the late Queen Boadicea be without military aspirations?
I notice with apprehension that she too is labelled as an Art Lover. Perhaps there is a conspiracy. In furtherance of some desperate enterprise, a band of ruthless extremists have disguised themselves as amateurs of the artistic and historical. I shall look round carefully and see if there are any more of them.
There is another Art Lover’s label a few rows back, on the other side of the gangway, attached to the shoulderbag of a rather pretty girl. Her hair is of the shade which you yourself favoured in the spring—“Harvest Moonlight,” I think, was what the manufacturers called it. She has that ethereal pallor which one associates with idealism: a large proportion of hijackings are committed by idealists.
There is a young man sitting next to her. They seem, though they do not converse much, to be travelling together. If so, then presumably he too is an Art Lover. His face is of the shape known in geometry as trapezoid: rectilinear but not rectangular, being wider at the jaw than across the forehead. His figure is of the same geometric form, but the other way up, being broader at the shoulders than the hips. Still, he is of clean and wholesome appearance and could be quite pleasing to look at; but he has a distrustful, peevish expression, as if on constant guard against someone pulling a fast one.
He is asking the stewardess just how much longer we’re going to have to wait here: his manner indicates that he expects an untruthful answer, his accent that he is an American. The proportion of hijackings committed by Americans is also very large.
The only other Art Lovers I can identify are two young men sitting some rows ahead of me. I would not have noticed them; but one has just stepped out into the gangway to allow the other to lift their hand luggage on to the luggage rack. (One is not supposed to put luggage in the luggage rack. They have been reproved by the stewardess.)
The one who did the lifting (up, and, following reproof, down again) is well suited to the task, having the physique of a more than usually muscular ox — rather like that Rugby full-back who was in love with you at Oxford, the reliable-looking one who was always threatening to commit suicide. His face, which was briefly turned in my direction, has a heavy, overcast sort of look, and eyebrows that almost meet. Not my sort of thing at all.
But the other — the one who stood aside to let the lifting be done — he looks like a more attractive proposition. His hair is an even paler shade than the blonde girl’s. And he is thin, very thin. He is wearing a rather beautiful wide-sleeved shirt of that coarse muslin material that Ragwort sometimes likes — I think it is called cheesecloth. He has adopted a most graceful and decorative attitude, leaning back against the top of the seat with just sufficient pressure to emphasize the charming hollow of the left hip. But I haven’t been able to see his face.
“Quite disgraceful,” said Ragwort.
“Taken her mind off getting hijacked, anyway,” said Cantrip.
“Aesthetic considerations,” said Selena, “have prevailed over concern for her personal safety. It reflects very well on her.”
“Aesthetic, forsooth,” said Ragwort.
The captain has announced that we are about to take off. He has recommended us to read the safety booklet. I have done my best; but it is all in pictures, with nothing to explain them. There is a picture of a female passenger sitting upright, then an arrow, then a picture of her leaning forward with her head in her hands. Is the only thing required of me in an emergency to lean forward and put my head in my hands? If so, I shall be equal to it. I may, however, be missing some deeper significance. The artist intends, perhaps, to depict an act of contrition — the lady is preparing to meet her Maker. That is a less agreeable idea.
Some miles above Paris.
Later.
Things are much improved. My lungs have been filled with health-giving nicotine. The due proportion of gin has been introduced into my bloodstream. I have been given food in little plastic trays. I have decided that the Art Lovers are not going to hijack the aeroplane.
The blonde girl, it is true, has still that translucent pallor which I associate with idealism. It now occurs to me, however, that it is more probably due to travel sickness.
The man sitting next to her may indeed be an American; but, though many hijackings are committed by Americans, it by no means follows that many Americans commit hijackings. One must avoid the fallacy of undistributed middle.
The armour-plated matron has vented her martial spirit in complaining to the stewardess about the food. She is displeased with both the quality and the quantity. Her views on the former would make her, one might think, indifferent as to the latter — but not so: she declares it uneatable and demands a second helping.
My spider-legged neighbour, on the other hand, is pleased with everything. This, he says, is the life. “Got to hand it to the travel agent johnnies,” he says. “Do a chap proud on a package like this. Good plane, good food, decent-sized noggin to drink, bang-up dish to sit next to. That’s the life for Bob Linnaker, all right.”
He seemed to intend a compliment.
“The travel agents,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a Ragwort-like expression, “had no tide to include me in the package. If they claimed to do so, your remedy is under the Trade Descriptions Act.”
At this he laughed immoderately and said that I was a sharp one. I fear I am not perfect in my imitation of Ragwort. I must study carefully, when I return to London, how he achieves that austere narrowing of the eyelids and daunting compression of the lips.
“I am afraid,” said Ragwort, “that Julia, however much she may practise, will never achieve the appearance of truly formidable propriety. Her shape is against it.”
“I think that Julia has rather a nice shape,” said Cantrip. A certain tenderness softened his witch-black eyes: he was no doubt thinking of times before the spider episode.
“Precisely,” said Ragwort, his features composing themselves in that expression of cold decorum which would have been so useful to Julia. “It is the sort of shape, to put the matter with all delicacy, which gives rise to a misleading inference of sensuality.”
“Not all that misleading,” said Cantrip, continuing nostalgic.
“Most misleading,” said Selena, “to those most apt to draw it.”
As for the two young men, I can tell you nothing more — our relative positions prevent me from observing them. I wish I could see the face of the thin one. The face is for me of the essence of attraction. No matter how graceful the figure, if the face lacks aesthetic charm, I can feel no spark of passion. It is, I know, absurd — you will make fun of me for being a sentimental woman: well, that is how I am, Selena, there is no help for it.
“Would one say,” said Ragwort, “that Julia was sentimental, exactly?”
“Incurably,” said Selena.
My neighbour still seems to believe that proximity is the sole condition of friendship. He addresses me as his dear. In reply, I have addressed him coldly as Mr. Linnaker; but he is undiscouraged. Actually, he says, it’s not Mr., but Major, though he doesn’t bother with it now he’s in Civvy Street. Anyway, to his friends he’s just Bob. This puts me in a dilemma: to call him Bob will seem an admission of friendship, to call him anything else will seem uncivil.
He has also taken to patting my knee. This is making me rather peevish. I try to be tolerant of other people’s innocent pleasures; but it is, after all, my knee. Still, it is hardly feasible, when sitting next to somebody on an aeroplane, to move unobtrusively away.
I could try reading the Finance Act. That would surely give an impression of quite implacable respectability. I must, at some stage, give some attention to the Finance Act: I promised William, if he would allow me to go to Venice, that my Opinion on Schedule 7 would be ready within forty-eight hours of returning. Yet somehow, despite the interest of its subject-matter and the elegance of its style, the Finance Act does not at the moment appeal to
