Just then Henry looks up, and stares, and says: 'My God, look at the time. I promised Myra I'd be home at seven to eat her steak. I can't tell you the row there'll be if I'm late.' There is an old railway station clock over the bar, which says that the time is six forty-five. 'I've got a busy evening too,' says Howard, 'we'd better rush.'
'Howard, would you mind doing up my top button again?' says Henry, and Howard fastens the button, and helps Henry up from the bench. 'Goodnight, Chlöe,' calls Henry, as they hurry out of the Gaslight Room. 'Night night, Mr Beamish,' calls Chlöe. 'Take care, don't have another accident.' They go through the cold car park to the van, and get in, and Howard drives them out onto the main road and out toward the countryside. They go at speed through the rurality of Henry's kingdom, down narrow lanes, covered in big wet leaves, through fords, over small bridges, down rutted tracks. Dark creaking branches lean over the van; the wheels slip and skid; small animals appear under the wheels and force them to swerve. The cart-track to the farmhouse is on a high bank, but they reach it safely. Stopping the van, Howard can see that, in the kitchen, where he had eaten cheese and biscuits with Myra on the evening when Henry was out, there is a light. 'Come inside a minute and have a word with Myra,' says Henry, getting out of the van, his briefcase clutched in his good hand. 'She seems to be in.' And surely enough the back door opens, and there is Myra, in an apron, standing on the steps; she waves to Howard. 'Tell her I'd have liked to,' says Howard, 'but I'm late myself, I have to rush.'
'Well, look, Howard,' says Henry, leaning his head in through the van window, 'I just want to say that I really do appreciate it. Our talk, and the lift. And don't forget to send me the bill for the window.'
'I won't,' says Howard, 'Can you just see me back to turn?'
'You've got two feet,' says Henry, going behind the van. 'Come on, come on.' It is fortunately not a bad bump, and Henry is only slightly grazed, on his good hand, the hand that he has put out to save himself as he falls forward onto the gravel as the van topples him. Happily there is Myra to pick him tap, and dust him down. 'He's all right,' she says in through the van window, 'Christ, would you believe it.' Turning the van, Howard sees them, momentarily, inside the kitchen, apparently in a quarrel, as he sets his wheels on the high bank.
The busy evening lies ahead; he drives down the rutted tracks, over the small bridges, through fords, down narrow lanes, covered in big wet leaves. It was just on seven when he reached the farmhouse; it is just on seven fifteen as, following the street markings, responding to the red and green lights, he pulls the van into the decrepit terrace. He parks, and hurries indoors. In the kitchen is a domestic scene. Felicity Phee has come, and 'I don't know how all those dirty glasses got there in the sink,' is what Barbara is saying to her. 'You want me to wash them, Mrs Kirk,' says Felicity. 'Well, it would be marvellous if you could, after you've got the kids in bed. It's usually a bath night for them,' says Barbara. 'You want me to bath them, Mrs Kirk,' says Felicity. 'Would you like to?' asks Barbara. 'You're all set up, I see,' says Howard. 'I'm sorry I'm late. I had to take Henry home. He came without a car.'
'The selfless service you perform,' says Barbara, 'it never ceases to astound. I gather you're right off out again.'
'I have to go to a meeting,' says Howard, 'a psychological meeting. Everything all right, Felicity?'
'Yes,' says Felicity, 'I got here early, and Mrs Kirk and I got everything sorted out. It's really great to be in a real house. I just love it.'
'Fine,' says Howard, 'can I give you a lift to your class, Barbara?'
'No,' says Barbara, pulling on her coat, 'I'll find my own way. Well, well, a psychological meeting.'
'A physiological meeting might have been a truer description,' says Flora Beniform, her naked body raised above him, her dark brown hair down over her face, her strong features staring down at his face on the pillow, while the clock in her white bedroom records the time as seven forty-five, 'but it's a familiar type of displacement syndrome.'
'I like to think it's a psychological meeting as well,' says Howard, looking up at her. 'So do I, Howard, so do I,' says Flora, 'but I begin to wonder about you. I think you enjoy deceptions, and I don't.'
'I just try to make things interesting,' says Howard. 'Oh, you're heavy.'
'Too fat?' asks Flora. 'No,' says Howard, 'I like it.'
Around them is Flora's white bedroom, which has long, deep windows and fitted wardrobes, and one picture, a large, steel-framed print of a Modigliani nude, and two small chairs, on which their two piles of clothes have been neatly stacked; they have hastened into the bed, but Flora maintains in all these things a certain orderliness. And now on the bed they lie, dipping and jogging in a steady rhythm; Flora's big bed is fitted with a motorized health vibrator, her one great opulence. 'Mangel,' says Flora, moving about him, above him, 'I'm disgusted about Mangel.'
'Don't talk, Flora,' says Howard. 'There's no hurry,' says Flora, 'you've got until nine o'clock. Besides, you don't come to my bed just for the fun of it. You have to give a reckoning.'
'No, Flora,' says Howard, 'do that more. It's marvellous. You're marvellous, Flora.'
'You lied to me,' says Flora, looking down at him fiercely from her eminence, 'didn't you?'
'When?'
'This morning in your room,' says Flora. 'How?' asks Howard. 'By not telling me what you knew. By not giving me all the truth.'
'There's so much truth to tell,' says Howard brightly. 'I don't know why I let you come this evening,' says Flora. 'You
'You did it because you wanted to find out the rest,' says Howard. 'Which is, of course, why I didn't
'Oh, yes?' says Flora, 'well tell me one thing.'
'Sssshhhhh,' says Howard. 'At a really good psychological meeting, the main business comes first, and then the question period afterward.'
'All right, Howard,' says Flora. 'All right, Howard.' And she weaves above him, her breasts dipping, her ribcage tight. Her body is there once and then twice, three times, because shadowed high on the wall and the curtains and the ceiling, in shapes thrown by the two small lights on the tables at either side of the bed. The shapes, the formidable body and its shadows, move rhythmically, as the bed does; the pulses of self in Howard's body beat hard; and time, at seven fifty-two, on Tuesday 3 October, pings like Benita Pream's alarm clock, comes to a point, distils, explodes; and then spreads and diffuses, becomes flaccid and ordinary and contingent time again, as Flora's head drops forward onto Howard's chest, and her body collapses over him, and the clock ticks emptily away on the table next to his sweating head.
The bed moves slowly, lazily under them. After a while, Flora's body slides off his, and comes to rest at his side, tucked in, delicately connected. Their sweat is ceasing, their pulses are slowing, the shadows are still. They lie there together. There is Flora, with Howard's left hand on her large right breast, her body long and solid, with dark hair, Flora with her doctorate from Heidelberg, and her famous little book on the growth of affection in the young child. And there is Howard, with Flora's right hand on his left inner thigh, his body neat and wiry, his Zapata moustache black on his skin; Howard with his radical reputation, and his two well-known books on modern mores, and his many television appearances. They lie there in the master bedroom of Flora's compact, modern service flat, with its good-sized living-room, well-fitted galley kitchen, its second bedroom that doubles as study, its bathroom with bath and fitted shower, in the elegant block in the landscaped grounds in the leafy suburb, all described by the letting agents as perfect for modern living, and ideal for the professional single person. They lie, and then Flora moves, turning slightly, lifting her head. She has a deep, serious, thoughtful face; it comes up and looks into his. He opens his eyes, he closes them, he opens them again. 'Good,' he says lazily. 'Very good. A perfect psychological meeting.' Flora runs a fingernail down the centre of his chest; his hand comes out, and strokes her hair. Her thoughtful face still looks at him. 'Yes, it was,' she says, and adds, 'Howard?'
'Yes?' says Howard. 'Howard,' she says, 'how's the family?'
XI
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
