all, hurries off to his taxi, which will take him straight to Heathrow; in the corridor outside the Durkheim Room, caucuses huddle and discuss coming upheaval. 'You were very quiet,' says Flora Beniform to Howard, as they leave the room. 'Well,' says Howard, 'some of these bones of contention are very hard to resolve.'
'You've never had that trouble before,' says Flora. 'You want Mangel. You want a fight.'
'Who, me?' asks Howard, innocently, as they get into the lift. They stand there, waiting for the doors to close. 'I've got a babysitter,' says Howard. 'I see,' says Flora, and reaches in her bag, and gets out her diary, and deletes from the page marked with a thread a word that says: 'Provisionally'. 'Secret assignation?' asks Henry Beamish, getting into the lift, his arm sticking out stiffly before him, 'Well, Howard, that was very enjoyable. I'm glad I took the trouble to come. There were some issues there that greatly concerned me.'
'Were there, Henry?' asks Flora. 'What were those?'
'The question of the grant for research into senile delinquency,' says Henry. 'We can really move forward on that one now.'
'Did we discuss that?' asks Flora. 'Flora, you weren't attending,' says Henry, 'it was one of the most important items. I thought we'd have a battle over it, but it went straight through without discussion. I suppose people see its importance. A very uncontentious meeting, I thought.'
'Were you attending?' asks Flora, 'I noticed a certain flurry round the matter of Mangel.'
'I found that terribly predictable,' says Henry. 'The trouble with sociologists is that they usually fail to take genetics seriously. They talk about the balance of nature and nurture, but when it comes down to it they're all on the side of nurture, because they can interfere with that. They can't realize how much we're genetically predetermined.'
'But it is, as the chair says, a bone of contention,' says Flora. 'It'll blow over,' says Henry. 'Will it, Howard?' asks Flora. 'I doubt it,' says Howard. 'There's a lot of passion on this.'
'Oh, God,' says Flora, 'I must admit I was really hoping for just one quiet term. Without an issue, without a sit-in. I know it sounds terribly reactionary. But even though permanent revolution may have its claims, I really think before I die I'd like the peace to write one decent book.'
'But we won't let you,' says Howard. 'No,' says Flora, 'so I see.'
The lift stops at the fifth floor, and they get out, back into Sociology. 'Funny how it came up,' says Henry, 'it was all a bit of an accident.'
'Henry,' says Flora, wearily, 'there are no accidents.' Henry turns and looks at her, puzzled. 'Of course there are,' he says. 'I don't think Howard agrees with you,' says Flora. 'I must go home and work. Take care of yourself, Henry.'
'Of course,' says Henry. The three of them separate, going along three of the four corridors that lead away from the lift, to collect up the briefcases and the books and the new essays and the new department memos, the accumulated intellectual deposit of the day, which will now need fresh attention. 'Grand girl, Flora,' says Henry, a few minutes later, when Howard comes to the door of his room, to remind him of their appointment. Henry's room, like all the rooms, is a matching version of Howard's own, with the Conran desk, the Roneo-Vickers filing cabinet, the gunmetal wastepaper basket, the red desk chair, all in approximately similar places in the rectangle. The difference is that Henry has domesticated the space, and filled it with potted plants, and a bust of Gladstone, and a modernistic silver-frame mirror, and a loose-weave Norwegian rug for the floor, and a machine called a Teasmaid, which links a teapot to a clock, and throws out an intense smell of tea-leaves. 'Are you ready, Henry?' asks Howard. 'I've got a somewhat busy evening. And I've got to take you home for your steak.'
'I think that's about it,' says Henry, 'I shan't get much work done tonight like this. I wonder, Howard, if you could give me a hand to get my raincoat on? The problem is to fit this arm of mine in somewhere.'
'Let's put it over your shoulders,' says Howard, 'and I'll button it up for you at the neck.' They stand in Henry's domestic room, Henry with his chin up, as Howard attends to his coat. Then they pick up their briefcases and walk down the empty corridor towards the lift.
The lift comes quickly, and they get inside. 'I do hope you're not angry with me,' says Henry, as they descend. 'Why should I be?' asks Howard. 'I mean, over the Mangel question,' says Henry, 'I had to vote for him, of course, on principle. It was quite clear to me, though I respect the other point of view. I suppose you voted against.'
'I abstained, actually,' says Howard. 'But I know what you must have thought,' said Henry. 'If only Henry had done the sensible thing, and stayed at home, and then the vote would have gone the other way.'
'Nonsense,' says Howard, 'if you'd stayed at home, we wouldn't have had an issue. Now there'll be trouble, and it will radicalize everyone, and we shall have a good term.'
'Well, I don't think we agree on that,' says Henry. The lift doors open, and they step out into the empty foyer. The Kaakinen waterfall has been turned off for the night; many of the lights are out; the floors are being cleaned by a cleaner with a cleaner. 'No,' says Henry, 'I'm like Flora. I cry for peace. My political days are good and over. I'm not sure I was ever really very far in. In any case, politics were fair, in the fifties.'
'That was why nothing got done,' says Howard, 'and there is no peace.' They go out, through the glass doors, into the darkening campus. 'Well, that's my point of view,' says Henry, 'though of course I do respect the other one.'
'Yes,' says Howard, as they stop and stand in the rain, 'well, where shall we go for our drink?'
'Ah,' says Henry, brightening, 'that's what I call a really serious issue. Where do you think?'
X
There is a pub on campus, the Town and Gown, a modernistic place done out in oiled pinewood; here students meet students, and faculty faculty, and faculty students, and students faculty, and they sit at very littered tables, in the crush, with the noise of reggae music from the jukebox loud in their ears, and discuss very open and discussable affairs, such as term-papers, union politics, theses, colleagues, abortions, demonstrations, and sexual and matrimonial difficulties. But for matters of a more confidential or a more furtive kind, for caucuses, small liaisons, large conspiracies, or the resolution of serious methodological questions, it is customary to go off campus; and there are, nearby, two familiar and well-known pubs with a straightforward atmosphere and a number of convenient corners. Howard names one of these pubs; but Henry, it seems, has other ideas. 'Look,' he says, 'why don't we go to my local?'
'You have a local?' asks Howard. 'Well, I always pop into the Duke of Wellington for a drink on my way home,' says Henry, 'it's a good place for a serious talk.' The good place for a serious talk is down in the city; it smells of warm scampi and has a natty clientele dressed by Austin Reed and Howard has never entered it. 'Very well, Henry,' says Howard, 'let's go to my car.' The rain blows over them as they enter the exposure of the car park, flapping Henry's bandages. They get in the minivan and drive off, with Henry's arm stiffly out ahead of him. As they go down the long approach road, Howard can look back, in the mirror, and see the campus behind him, a massive urban construct, lit with spots and flashes, throwing out beams and rays in the half-light, the image of an intellectual factory of high production and a twenty-four hour schedule. To each side of them, behind the wet trees, are the round porthole lights of Spengler and Toynbee, each window with its own diaphanous, indeed transparent, blind, each one in a different and pure colour, each presenting to the eye a penetrable circular blob, one found of great fascination by many citizens of Watermouth, who can walk a dog by night and see, focused in these elegant, composed circles, as in the lens of a camera, the shimmering image of a student, undressing. At the end of the drive, Howard turns the van left, on the main road, and drives them towards the town centre.
It was at 17.30 that Benita Pream's alarm clock pinged, to announce the end of the department meeting. It is just striking six, on the brass-faced grandfather clock that stands in the hall, as they enter the Duke of Wellington. 'I think you'll find this a nice ambience, Howard,' says Henry, as they go into the Gaslight Room, brightly lit by electricity and done out in camp Victorian detail. 'Well, well, well,' says the barmaid, who has somehow been persuaded into wearing a long Victorian dress with a lace neck, 'you've been in the wars, haven't you, Mr Beamish?'
'Two pints of bitter,' says Henry, standing at the counter, his raincoat fastened Napoleonically under his chin, his white bandaged arm sticking out stiffly below. 'Have I?U 'Looks as though you've been in a real punch-up,' says the barmaid, 'tankards or glasses?'
