'Change?'
'Yes, change. Can I have it, please?'
'Five shillings you give me.'
'Yes. The bill was four shillings. I want a shilling back.'
'Wasn't that for my tip?'
'It might have been, but it isn't now. Give it to me.'
'The whole shilling?'
'Yes. All of it. Now. Give it to me.'
The waiter made no attempt to produce any money. In his half-choked voice he said: 'Most people give me a tip.'
'Most people would have kicked your arse for you by now. If you don't give me my change in the next five seconds I shall call the Manager.'
Four seconds later Dixon was on the way out of the hotel into the sunlight, his shilling in his pocket.
XX
'WHAT, finally, is the practical application of all this? Can anything be done to halt, or even to hinder, the process I have described? I say to you that something can be done by each one of us here tonight. Each of us can resolve to do something, every day, to resist the application of manufactured standards, to protest against ugly articles of furniture and table-ware, to speak out against sham architecture, to resist the importation into more and more public places of loudspeakers relaying the Light Programme, to say one word against the Yellow Press, against the best-seller, against the theatre-organ, to say one word for the instinctive culture of the integrated village-type community. In that way we shall be saying a word, however small in its individual effect, for our native tradition, for our common heritage, in short, for what we once had and may, some day, have again - Merrie England.'
With a long, jabbering belch, Dixon got up from the chair where he'd been writing this and did his ape imitation all round the room. With one arm bent at the elbow so that the fingers brushed the armpit, the other crooked in the air so that the inside of the forearm lay across the top of his head, he wove with bent knees and hunched, rocking shoulders across to the bed, upon which he jumped up and down a few times, gibbering to himself. A knock at his door was followed so quickly by the entry of Bertrand that he only had time to stop gibbering and straighten his body.
Bertrand, who was wearing his blue beret, looked at him. 'What are you doing up there?'
'I like it up here, thanks. Any objection?'
'Come down and stop clowning. I've got a few things to say to you, and you'd better listen.' He seemed in a controlled rage, and was breathing heavily, though this might well have been the result of running up two flights of stairs.
Dixon jumped lightly down to the floor; he, too, was panting a little. 'What do you want to say?'
'Just this. The last time I saw you, I told you to stay away from Christine. I now discover you haven't done so. What have you got to say about that, to start with?'
'What do you mean, I haven't stayed away from her?'
'Don't try that on with me, Dixon. I know all about your surreptitious little cup of tea with her on the sly yesterday. I'm on to you all right.'
'Oh, she told you about that, did she?'
Bertrand tightened his lips behind the beard, which looked as if it could do with a comb-out. 'No no, of course she didn't,' he said violently. 'If you knew her at all, you'd know she didn't do things like that. She's not like you. If you really want to know - and I hope it'll give you a kick - it was one of your so-called pals in this house who told my mother about it. You ought to enjoy thinking about that. Everybody hates you, Dixon, and my God I can see why. Anyway, the point is I want an explanation of your conduct.'
'Oh dear,' Dixon said with a smile, 'I'm afraid that's rather a tall order. Explain my conduct; now that is asking something. I can't think of anybody who'd be quite equal to that task.' He was watching Bertrand closely, filing away the news of this latest blow from Johns - who else could it be? - for later pondering and appropriate action.
'Cut it out,' Bertrand said, flushing. 'I gave you a straight warning to leave Christine alone. When I say that sort of thing I expect people to have the sense to do as I say. Why haven't you? Eh?'
Bertrand's rage, and the mere fact of his visit here, combined nicely with their superfluousness, in view of Dixon's having already given up his interest in Christine for other reasons and so abandoning the Bertrand campaign. But he'd be a fool not to keep that to himself for a bit and enjoy himself with a spot of sniping. 'I didn't want to,' he said.
There was a pause, during which Bertrand twice seemed on the point of uttering a long inarticulate bay. His unusual eyes looked like polished glass. Then, in a quieter voice than before, he said: 'Look here, Dixon, you don't seem quite to appreciate what you've got yourself into. Allow me to explain.' He sat down on the arm of the Pall Mall chair and removed his beret, which went rather oddly with the dark suit, white collar, and vine-patterned tie he wore. Dixon sat down on the bed, which whimpered softly beneath him.
'This business between Christine and myself', Bertrand said, fiddling with his beard, 'is a serious business, unquestionably. We've known each other for some considerable period of time. And we're not in it just for a spot of the old slap and tickle, do you follow. I don't want to get married yet awhile, but it's distinctly on the cards that I might marry Christine in a couple of years or so. What I mean is, it's a long-term affair, quite definitely. Now, Christine's very young, younger even than her age. She's not used to having individuals abducting her from dances and inviting her to off-the-record tea-parties in hotels and all the rest of it. In the circumstances, it's only natural she should feel flattered by it, enjoy the excitement of it, and so on, for a time. But only for a time, Dixon. Very soon she's going to start feeling guilty about it and wishing she'd never agreed to meet you at all. And that's where the trouble's going to start; being the sort of girl she is, she's going to feel bad about getting rid of you, and about doing things behind my back - she doesn't know I know about this yet - and about the whole shooting-match. Well, I want to prevent all that, for the very adequate reason that it's not going to help me at all. I've had quite a time straightening her out already; I don't want to have to start all over again. So what I want to say to you is, keep off the grass, that's all. You're causing nothing but trouble by behaving as you are. You won't do yourself any good, and you'll only hurt Christine and inconvenience me. She's got a few days more down here, and it would be silly to spoil them for all concerned. Does that make sense, now?'
Dixon had lit a cigarette to hide the effect on him of this account of Christine's motives; it was more penetrating than he'd have expected from Bertrand. 'Yes, it makes sense all right, up to a point,' he said in what he hoped was a casual tone. 'Except for the part about straightening Christine out, of course, which is mere wishful drooling. Never mind that, though; it all obviously makes very good sense to you. None of it does to me, though. You don't seem to realize that it's all only all right if your first assumptions are right.'
'I'm telling you that they're right, my lad,' Bertrand said loudly. 'That's what I'm telling you.'
'Yes, I noticed that. But don't expect me to make your assumptions. It's my turn to tell you something now. The serious, long-term part of this business isn't anything to do with you and Christine. Oh no, it's to do with me and Christine. What's happening isn't me unnecessarily distracting her from you. It's you unnecessarily distracting her from me - just for the moment. It won't go on much longer. How's that for sense, now?'