"Yes, please. They've Smith's on Mondays. Ask him for some salt, will you? I can never find those beastly little blue packets."
"I like salty things with beer," I said. "Pickled onions and fat pork are best, though."
She grinned at me. It was a companionable grin with no sex behind it. "Me too. I've low tastes. What's more, I can drink as much beer as you."
"I'll take you up on that."
"I'll hold you to it. I was brought up on beer but all the men I seem to meet drink whisky and gin. They think I'm joking when I say I like beer and I get gassy bottled stuff and lager."
The Old was stronger than I'd thought; halfway through my third pint a warm rush of affection came over me.
"I'll tell you something, Alice. I like you. I don't mean sex, I mean I like you . I can talk with you like a man. I can tell you things - Oh Lord, what a lot of I's ..." I took another swig of beer and then crunched a mouthful of the crisps.
"I like you too," she said. "You look about eighteen at times, do you know that?"
We stayed till closing time and then she drove me home. It wasn't until I was in bed that I realised that I'd never told any woman as much about myself - not only that, but I hadn't any fears of having said too much, of having made a fool of myself. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender; it reminded me of something. It was her scent, cool as clean linen, friendly as beer; I went off to sleep without knowing it, into a dream in which I was riding in the Fiat with her, the car skidding wildly round fantastic bends in a country a mixture of Lincolnshire and Prussia; then she was Susan, her eyes shining, her face distorted with pleasure, and suddenly I was lost in the wild open country, sand and pines and heather, calling out not Susan's name but Alice's, and then I was awake in my room at Oak Crescent looking at the Medici reproduction of Olympe, smooth and white and lovely, and well aware of it: the picture grew in size until it covered the whole wall and I put my hands over my eyes and tried to scream and found myself awake in Warley to the alarm clock ringing and the sound of bacon frying in the kitchen.
7
The Library shared the same building as the Town Hall, I called there at ten the following morning and found out that Jack would be returning to the University in a couple of days.
I stood in the little alcove they called the Reference Department, feeling absurdly exultant and at the same time envious. Cambridge: I had a mental picture of port wine, boating, leisurely discussions over long tables gleaming with silver and cut glass. And over it all the atmosphere of power, power speaking impeccable Standard English, power which was power because it was born of the right family, always knew the right people: if you were going to run the country you couldn't do without a University education.
Jack's father, among other things, manufactured cars. Business was booming; though even if it hadn't been, it wouldn't greatly have mattered, since he'd built up a cosy little vertical trust. Whenever he spent more than a certain amount on any component, he bought the firm which made it; he owned a plastics factory, a tannery, a body-work builders and even a laundry and a printing firm. Beside Ford or Lyons or Unilever it was a small combine; but I'll be very surprised if the old man cuts up for less than a million.
Cedric had explained to me the reason for Jack's taking a science degree. "Whoever runs the combine can't specialise," he said. "He must be able to think generally. If he knows too much detail he won't be able to grasp the whole. So Jack's going to Cambridge to learn how to think." Cedric had given me a conspiratorial smile. "Not that it makes much difference. The accountants and the engineers run the show no matter who's in charge. All that's necessary is that Jack meets the right people and learns how to get on with them. Blinding with science - isn't that the phrase?"
All right, I muttered to myself childishly, I'll pinch your woman, Wales, and all your money won't stop me ...
I went out to the phone kiosk opposite the Town Hall and called Susan. Waiting for the operator to put me through I was half inclined to abandon the whole attempt. If she hadn't answered the phone it's doubtful whether I would have tried again.
"Susan Brown speaking," she said.
"Joe Lampton speaking. How official we sound." There was a pane missing in the kiosk and a cold wind blew in. My hands were shaking with excitement. "I've got two tickets for the ballet on Saturday night, I wondered if you'd care to see it."
"Saturday night?"
"I mean evening," I said, cursing myself.
"I'd love to see it. Just a minute, Joe, I'm all tangled up, I've just had a bath."
I imagined her nakedness, young and firm and fragrant. Then I put the idea out of my head. It was something I didn't want to think about. It wasn't that I didn't desire her physically; but to strip her mentally was adolescent and pimply, it didn't express my true feelings. This I can honestly say: my intentions towards Susan were always those described as honourable. Any other response to her beauty would have seemed shabby. Even apart from her money, she was worth marrying. She was the princess in the fairy stories, the girl in old songs, the heroine of musical comedies. She naturally belonged to it because she possessed the necessary face and figure and the right income group. And that's how it is in all the fairy stories: the princess is always beautiful, and lives in a golden palace, and wears fine clothes and rich jewels and eats chicken and strawberries and cakes made from honey and even if she has bad luck and has to go to work in the kitchen the prince always spots her because she's left an expensive ring in the cake she's baked for him; and the shock almost kills him when she's brought to him in her donkey skin with her face and hands dirty from menial labours because he thinks he's fallen in love with a common working girl, Grade Ten in fact. But she takes off the donkey skin and he sees her fine clothes and she washes her face and hands and he sees her white delicate skin. So it's all right: she's Grade One and they can marry and live happily ever after. The qualifications for a princess are made brutally clear.
Susan was a princess and I was the equivalent of a swineherd. I was, you might say, acting out a fairy story. The trouble was that there were more difficult obstacles than dragons and enchanters to overcome, and I could see no sign of a fairy godmother. And that morning I couldn't tell how the story would end. When she left the phone she seemed to be away for a long time; I thought for a moment that she'd hung up on me but somewhere in the background I could hear a vacuum cleaner and women's voices.
"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting," she said, "I couldn't find my engagement book. Saturday evening will be all right, Joe."
The first dragon was killed, even if it was only a small one. I tried not to sound too exultant. "Grand. I'll call for you at a quarter past six, shall I?"
"No, no," she said quickly, "I'll meet you at the theatre."
"A quarter to seven then."
"Golly, here's Mummy. I must rush. Goodbye."
"Goodbye," I said, feeling a little puzzled. Some of the gilt had already been taken off the gingerbread. Why should she panic when her mother came into the room? It was as if she hadn't wanted it to be known that she was going out with me. Wasn't she supposed to go out with anyone except Jack? And was I, unlike him, not good enough to call at her house?
When I returned to the Treasurer's, Teddy Soames was drinking tea and flirting with June Oakes, the Health Department typist. June was just twenty with red hair and clear skin and, I was fairly sure, a silly but loving disposition; but I knew better than to become mixed up with her. Office affairs are easy to begin and difficult to finish, particularly in a small town.