Lucky Jim

'What the bloody hell are you talking about?' Bertrand's breath was whistling through his nose. He clenched his fists.

'Your spot of the old slap and tickle with Carol Goldsmith. That's what I'm talking about.'

'I don't know what you're talking…'

'Oh, my dear fellow, don't start denying it. Why bother, anyway? Surely it's just one of the things you have because it's your right, isn't it?'

'If you ever tell this tale to Christine, I'll break your neck into so many…'

'It's all right, I'm not the sort to do that,' Dixon said with a grin. 'I'm not like you, I can take Christine away from you without that, you Byronic tail-chaser.'

'All right, you've got it coming,' Bertrand bayed furiously. 'I warned you.' He came and stood over Dixon. 'Come on, stand up, you dirty little bar-fly, you nasty little jumped-up turd.'

'What are we going to do, dance?'

'I'll give you dance, I'll make you dance, don't you worry. Just stand up, if you're not afraid to. If you think I'm going to sit back and take this from you, you're mistaken; I don't happen to be that type, you sam.'

'I'm not Sam, you fool,' Dixon shrieked; this was the worst taunt of all. He took off his glasses and put them in his top jacket pocket.

They faced each other on the floral rug, feet apart and elbows crooked in uncertain attitudes, as if about to begin some ritual of which neither had learnt the cues. 'I'll show you,' Bertrand chimed, and jabbed at Dixon's face. Dixon stepped aside, but his feet slipped and before he could recover Bertrand's fist had landed with some force high up on his right cheekbone. A little shaken, but undismayed, Dixon stood still and, while Bertrand was still off his balance after delivering his blow, hit him very hard indeed on the larger and more convoluted of his ears. Bertrand fell down, making a lot of noise in doing so and dislodging a china figurine from the mantelpiece. It exploded on the tiles of the hearth, emphasizing the silence which fell. Dixon stepped forward, rubbing his knuckles. The impact had hurt them rather. After some seconds, Bertrand began moving about on the floor, but made no attempt to get up. It was clear that Dixon had won this round, and, it then seemed, the whole Bertrand match. He put his glasses on again, feeling good; Bertrand caught his eye with a look of embarrassed recognition. The bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation, Dixon thought. 'You bloody old towser-faced boot-faced totem-pole on a crap reservation,' he said.

As if discreetly applauding this terminology, a quiet knocking came at the door. 'Come in,' Dixon said with reflex promptness.

Michie entered. 'Good afternoon, Mr Dixon,' he said, then added politely 'Good afternoon' to the still-prostrate Bertrand, who at this stimulus struggled to his feet. 'I seem to have come at an inconvenient time.'

'Not at all,' Dixon said smoothly. 'Mr Welch is just going.'

Bertrand shook his head, not in contradiction, but apparently to clear it, which interested Dixon. He moved host-like to the door with the departing Bertrand, who went out in silence.

'Good-bye,' Dixon said, then turned to Michie. 'And what can I do for you, Mr Michie?'

Michie's expression, though as usual unreadable, was a new one to Dixon. 'I've come about the special subject,' he said.

'Oh yes. Do sit down.'

'I won't, thanks; I must be on my way in a moment. I just dropped in to tell you that I've been into the matter quite thoroughly with Miss O'Shaughnessy, Miss McCorquodale, and Miss ap Rhys Williams, and we've all finally made up our minds.'

'Good. What conclusion did you come to?'

'Well, I'm sorry to say that all three of the ladies have decided that the thing's rather too formidable for them. Miss McCorquodale's decided to do Mr Goldsmith's Documents, and Miss O'Shaughnessy and Miss ap Rhys Williams are going to do the Professor's subject.'

This announcement pained Dixon: he wanted the three pretty girls to have conquered their objections and opted for his subject because he was so nice and so attractive. He said: 'Oh, well that's rather a pity. What about you, Mr Michie?'

'I've decided that your subject attracts me a good deal, and so I'd like to be put down officially for it, if I may.'

'I see. So I shall just have you.'

'Yes. Just me.'

There was a silence. Dixon scratched his chin. 'Well, I'm sure we shall have some fun with it.'

'I'm sure, too. Well, thank you very much; I'm sorry I barged in like that.'

'Not at all; it was a great help. See you next term, then, Mr Michie.'

'I'm coming to your lecture tonight, of course.'

'What on earth are you going to do that for?'

'The subject interests me, naturally. I think it must interest quite a lot of other people, too.'

'Oh? How do you mean?'

'Everybody I've mentioned it to says they're coming. You should have a very good house, I think.'

'That's a comfort, I must say. Well, I hope you enjoy it.'

'I'm pretty sure I shall. Thanks again. Good luck for tonight.'

I'll need it. Cheero.'

When Michie had gone, Dixon reflected with some complacency that he hadn't called him' sir' once. But how horrible next term was going to be. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel more and more positively that there wasn't going to be a next term as far as he was concerned. Not a University term, anyway.

He fingered his chin again. He'd better shave before he did anything else. After that he'd run up and see if Atkinson was in. His company, and perhaps some of his whisky, were just what Dixon felt he could do with before starting the evening.

XXI

'I HOPE it isn't too painful, Dixon,' the Principal said.

Dixon's hand went up involuntarily to his black eye. 'Oh no, sir,' he replied in a light tone.' I'm surprised it's come up at all, really. It was quite a light knock; didn't even break the skin.'

'On the corner of the wash-hand basin, you said?' another voice asked.

'That's right, Mr Gore-Urquhart. One of these silly things one does occasionally. I dropped my razor, bent down for it, and - bang; there I was reeling about like a heavyweight.'

Gore-Urquhart nodded slowly. 'Most unfortunate,' he said. He looked Dixon up and down from under his heavy brow, and his lips twitched into a pout and back again two or three times. 'If I'd been asked, now,' he went on, 'I'd have said he'd got himself into a fight, eh, Principal?'

The Principal, a small ventricose man with a polished, rosy bald head, gave one of his laughs. These strongly recalled the peals of horrid mirth so often audible in films about murders in castles, and had been known, in the Principal's first few weeks at the College just after the war, to silence the conversations of an entire Common Room. Now, however, nobody even turned his head, and only Gore-Urquhart looked a little uneasy.

The fourth member of the quartet spoke up. 'Well, I hope it won't interfere with your reading from your… from your…' he said.

'Oh no, Professor,' Dixon said. 'I guarantee I could read that script blindfold, I've been through it so many times.'

Welch nodded. 'It's a good plan,' he said. 'I remember when I first began lecturing, I was silly enough just to write the stuff down and not bother about…'

'Have you got anything new to tell us, Dixon?' the Principal asked.

'New, sir? Well, in this sort of…'

'I mean it's a subject that's been fairly well worked over, isn't it? I don't know whether it's possible to get a new slant on it these days, but personally I should have thought…'