Lucky Jim

XIX

DIXON looked at the telephone where it stood on a black plush cloth in the middle of a bamboo table situated in Miss Cutler's drawing-room. He felt like an alcoholic surveying a bottle of gin; only by using it could he obtain the relief he wanted, but its side-effects, as recent experience had proved, were likely to be deleterious. He must cancel the tea-date with Christine, now only six hours ahead. To do that he must take the chance of Mrs Welch answering the phone. This, in other circumstances a certain deterrent, he'd decided to risk in preference to keeping the date and telling Christine to her face that their little adventure was at an end. The thought of such a meeting being their last was not to be endured. He sat down by the phone, gave the number, and in a few seconds heard Mrs Welch's voice. It didn't discompose him, but before saying anything he made his lascar's face in order to draw off his anger. Did Mrs Welch spend all her time sitting, had she perhaps had a bed made up, within arm's length of the phone in case he might ring up?

'Trying to connect you,' he fluted as he'd planned. 'Hallo, who is that?'

Mrs Welch mentioned her number.

'Speak up, London,' he went on; 'you're through.' Then he jammed his teeth together, opened his mouth laterally as far as he could, and said in a growling over-cultured bass: 'Hallaher, hallaher,' following this with a whinnying 'You're through, London' and, in the bass voice 'Hallaher, have yaw a Miss Kellerhen steng with yaw, plizz?' He made a rushing noise with his mouth which he thought imitated line disturbances.

'Who's that speaking, please?'

Dixon rocked to and fro as if in grief, bringing his mouth up to the phone and back again as he spoke: 'Hallaher, hallaher. Forteskyah hyah.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch…'

'Forteskyaw… Farteskyaw…'

'Who is that speaking? It sounds like…'

'Hallaher… Is thet yaw, Miss Kellerhen?'

'Is that you, Mr…?'

'Farteskyah,' Dixon bawled desperately, muffling his mouth with his hand and trying not to cough.

'That's Mr Dixon, isn't it? What are you trying to…?'

'Hallaher…'

'Kindly stop this… ridiculous, this…'

'Three minutes up,' he neighed, slobbering. 'Finish off, please, time's up.' He added a last throat-peeling 'Hallaher', the phone at the full length of his arm, and fell silent. This was a rout.

'If you're still there, Mr Dixon,' Mrs Welch said after a moment, in a voice sharpened to excoriation by the intervening few miles of line, 'I'd like to tell you that if you make one more attempt to interfere in my son's or my affairs, then I shall have to ask my husband to take the matter up with you from a disciplinary point of view, and also that other matter of the…'

Dixon rang off. 'Sheet,' he said. Trembling, he reached for his cigarettes; in the last few days he'd given up all attempt to ration himself. He'd have to keep his date now; a telegram would be too curt. And Mrs Welch would probably station herself so as to intercept it anyway. As he was lighting his cigarette, the bell of the phone went off within two feet of his head; he started violently and began coughing, then took up the phone. Who could this be? An oboist for Johns, most likely, or perhaps a clarinettist. He said 'Hallo.'

A voice he realized with relief was quite strange to him said: 'Oh, have you a Mr Dixon living there, please?'

'Speaking.'

'Oh, Mr Dixon, I'm so glad I've got to you. Your University gave me the number. My name's Catchpole; I expect you've heard of me from Margaret Peel.'

Dixon grew tense. 'Yes, I have,' he said noncommittally. It wasn't the sort of voice he'd have expected Catchpole to have; it was quiet, polite, and apparently diffident.

'I rang up because I thought you might be able to give some news of Margaret. I've been away recently, and I haven't managed to get to hear anything of her since I got back. How is she these days, do you know?'

'Why don't you get hold of her and ask her yourself? Or perhaps you've tried that and she won't speak to you. Well, I can understand that.' Dixon began to tremble again.

'I think there must be some mistake about…'

'I've got her address, but I don't see why I should give it to you, of all people.'

'Mr Dixon, I can't understand why you're taking that tone. All I want to know is how Margaret is. There can't be anything objectionable about that, can there?'

'I warn you that if you're thinking of making a come-back with her, you're wasting your time, see?'

'I don't know what you mean by that. Are you sure you haven't got me confused with someone else?'

'Your name's Catchpole, isn't it?'

'Yes. Please…'

'Well, I know who you are all right, then. And all about you.'

'Please give me a hearing, Mr Dixon.' The voice at the other end shook slightly. 'I just wanted to know whether Margaret is all right or not. Won't you even tell me that?'

Dixon calmed down at this appeal. 'All right, I will. She's in quite good health physically. Mentally, she's about as well as can be expected.'

'Thanks very much. I'm glad to hear that. Do you mind if I ask you one more question?'

'What is it?'

'Why were you so angry with me a moment ago when I asked you about her?'

'That's pretty obvious, isn't it?'

'Not to me, I'm afraid. I think we're talking rather at cross-purposes, aren't we? I can't think of any reason why you should have a grudge against me. No real reason, that is.'

It sounded remarkably sincere. 'Well, I can,' Dixon said, unable to keep the puzzlement out of his voice.

'There's some kind of mix-up here, I can see that. I'd like to meet you some time, if I may, and try to straighten things out. We can't do it over the phone. What about it?'

Dixon hesitated. 'All right. What do you suggest?'

They arranged to meet for a pre-lunch drink in a pub at the foot of College Road the next day but one, Thursday. When Catchpole had rung off, Dixon sat for some minutes smoking. It was worrying, but then most of the things that had happened to him recently were that, and a good deal more besides. Anyway, he'd turn up and see what was what. Keep quiet about it to Margaret, of course. With a sigh he referred to the pocket diary for 1943 in which he wrote down telephone numbers, pulled the phone towards him again, and gave a London number. In a little while he said: 'Is Dr Caton there, please?'

There was another brief delay, then a rich confident voice came clearly over the line: 'This is Caton.'

Dixon gave his name and that of his College.

For some reason, the richness and confidence of the other voice waned sharply. 'What do you want?' it asked snappishly.

'I read about your appointment, Dr Caton - incidentally may I offer my congratulations? - and I was wondering what was going to happen to that article of mine you were good enough to accept for your journal. Can you tell me when it'll come out?'

'Ah, now, Mr Dickerson, things are very difficult these days, you know.' The voice was confident again, as if reciting a saying-lesson it knew it knew. 'There's quite a lot of stuff waiting to go in, as you can imagine. You really mustn't expect your article - which I liked very much, I may say - to go in in five minutes, you know.'

'I appreciate that, Dr Caton; I can quite understand there must be a long queue. I was just wondering if you could give me some sort of tentative date, that's all.'

'I wish you knew how difficult things are here, Mr Dickerson. Setting up our kind of stuff in type is a job which only an exceptionally highly-skilled compositor can tackle. Have you ever thought what slow work it must be getting even half a page of footnotes set up?'