Death of an Old Goat (3 page)

‘I want the menu,' he said, raising his quavering voice in a discontented plainsong.

‘Oh well, no peace for the wicked,' said the waitress, and ambled off to the distant table whence she had come, and returned with a fly-blown, gravy-stained, red-wine-glass-ringed menu of greater antiquity than most things Professor Belville-Smith had seen in this plastic-coated country. It was a mis-typed list of five or six dishes of predictable awfulness. Clipped to the side was a slip which read: ‘Chef's special for today: mince curry.' Belville-Smith gazed at it, sunk in dreadful gloom, while the waitress perched her broad bottom on the edge of his table.

He was startled out of his depression by a voice from the next table — an English voice:

‘Can we help you?'

It was a rather spotty and extremely ill-dressed young man, who was sitting with his back to him, but had now swivelled round to address him. His companion was a woman — sharp-eyed behind her thick glasses, with a long string of coloured beads round her neck and her make-up
badly applied to her sunburnt skin.

‘We thought you mightn't be used to the hotels in Australia,' said the young man. Professor Belville-Smith even realized that his accent was educated English. How did educated Englishmen land up in a place like this? ‘In fact,' the voice went on, ‘we wondered whether you mightn't be our visiting Professor.'

Professor Belville-Smith, who had not mixed with the general public for many years, was not used to the striking-up of instant acquaintanceships. At any other time he would have administered a peppery snub. However, he felt himself to be decidedly in a storm, and he thought that the rather unprepossessing young man might represent any port. He therefore decided to advance half-way to meet him.

‘Well, I don't know, just possibly . . . I
am
visiting here, but . . . what college . . . er, what
department
?'

‘English.'

‘Ah yes, well that is my . . . er . . . my
subject
.'

‘So we were right, then. You must be Professor Belville-Smith.'

‘Er, yes. We haven't been introduced, but . . .'

‘No. I suppose Professor Wickham is neglecting you as usual, is he?'

The words struck a very real responsive chord.

‘Yes.
Yes, he
is
.'

‘Thought so. You're not the first, you know. Look, would you care to join us?'

‘Yes, I will.' And he gathered up his ill-co-ordinated body, and moved it to the next table. If his stomach was not to be well fed, he could at least give some vent to his grievance. ‘Yes, he
is.
I've never been so neglected in my life.'

‘Professor Belville-Smith will have T-bone steak,' said the spotty youth to the waitress. ‘And bring another bottle of Diwarra claret.'

‘Right-ee-ho,' said the waitress, apparently glad to see
her little flock happy.

‘Diwarra claret,' said Professor Belville-Smith faintly.

‘It'll go down,' said the woman sitting opposite him.

‘The T-bone is the only thing worth eating,' said the boy. ‘You really shouldn't have come here.'

‘Except there's nowhere else,' said the girl, whose voice was rich in strangulated Australian diphthongs.

Professor Belville-Smith was finding their conversation a source of bewilderment to him.

‘Er . . . you are — ' he paused, as a thought struck him — ‘not
students.
' He looked at them out of his watery eyes. ‘I hope I have not been at all indiscreet.'

‘Relax,' said the woman.

‘We're lecturers in Wickham's department,' said the boy. ‘I'm Bill Bascomb and this is Alice O'Brien.'

Professor Belville-Smith sank back in relief. Of course the woman was a lecturer. He should have seen that. He'd come to know this type from Perth to Sydney. Whereas the women academics at Oxford had usually resigned themselves long ago to their lack of femininity, here they made efforts to be both academic and normal, an impossible combination. But the boy . . . he couldn't quite place the boy.

‘I'm just out from England,' Bill Bascomb explained. ‘Only got here a couple of months ago.'

‘Oxford perhaps?' murmured Professor Belville-Smith.

‘Balliol,' said the boy.

‘Ah yes,' said the distinguished guest. ‘I don't very often run across the young men from Balliol.'

‘Do we have to hush our voices every time we mention the old college?' said Alice O'Brien, in an irritated voice.

‘Get lost,' said Bill Bascomb.

‘We thought Bobby would get rid of you as soon as decent tonight,' said Alice O'Brien, turning to Professor Belville-Smith.

‘Or even earlier,' said Bill Bascomb.

‘Party at the Turbervilles' tonight,' said Alice. ‘Son's got a coming-of-age. Officially, that is. Mental age of ten, but nobody seems to notice.'

‘Marvellous what money will do,' said Bill.

‘Five cars,' said Alice. ‘And they use the Volksie as a hen-run.'

Professor Belville-Smith felt that his bewilderment was not being lessened. He almost welcomed the return of the waitress, still intolerably cheery. She placed a dark bottle between her sturdy knees, and extracted the cork. She wiped around the rim with a greasy cloth, and slopped out a glassful. Then she looked into the particled depths of the glass.

‘Cork,' she said, grinning cheekily at Professor Belville-Smith. ‘How's that affect yer?'

‘Badly,' said Alice. ‘Get another glass.'

Professor Belville-Smith looked uncertain whether to burst into smoke or tears.

‘I really don't understand,' he said loudly, as a new glass of quite drinkable red wine was put in front of him. He sipped it fretfully. ‘I really don't. Everywhere else . . .
everywhere
 . . . people take care of me. I'm honoured. The honoured guest. And then I come here, to this dreadful place, and . . . and . . .'

He was conscious of two pairs of eyes looking at him. Was it sympathy or amusement in their eyes?

‘We
are
sorry,' said Bill.

‘But what can you expect from Bobby?' asked Alice.

‘It's not so much him as his wife. It's Lucy that puts him up to most of these things he does.'

‘You'll meet her,' said Alice. ‘She'll be all over you tomorrow. But today was the Turberville party. And she's been working for an invitation for weeks.'

‘I shall protest tomorrow,' said Professor Belville-Smith, grabbing his napkin eagerly as a plate was put in front of him.

‘You do that small thing,' said Alice, obviously pleased. She and Bill Bascomb, their own plates empty, sat and watched with fatherly interest as the visiting Professor tucked into the steak with something between a hearty appetite and naked greed. The steak was tender but overcooked, though Belville-Smith was much too hungry to complain. In any case he had got used to the Australian habit of being proud of half-way perfection. The steak went down not unpleasantly, and the wine sent little fingers of warmth exploring through his body; his stomach regained its natural equilibrium, and he mellowed towards the two young people who had taken him under their wing; they were raw of course, but then he found that all young people were raw these days. And, as junior followers of his own calling, he felt they were entitled to any scraps of graciousness he could find the strength to throw their way.

‘I shall look forward greatly to meeting you again tomorrow,' he said expansively. He picked up the glass of brandy, which they had suggested he should take without coffee. (‘even more disgusting than English coffee' Bascomb had said). He toyed with it a little apprehensively; his drinking experiences had been so variable in this country.

‘We're looking forward to your lectures,' said Alice, lying.

‘I enjoyed your Victorian series so much at Oxford,' said Bill Bascomb, lying.

Professor Belville-Smith positively bloomed. It did not occur to him that if Bascomb had been to his lectures he ought to have identified him more confidently. He was past the stage where he investigated compliments to ascertain how sincere they were. The mere fact of receiving them was enough, and was becoming rarer. He smiled with gratified vanity.

‘Ah, did you? Good . . . good. One should not say so, of course, but there are one or two touches in those lectures which I must admit I myself do not . . . er . . . despise.'

‘The one on Mrs Gaskell I remember particularly,' said Bill (who had in fact once read an article by Belville-Smith entitled ‘Thackeray, ambivalent jester', and had avoided his lectures entirely, deciding that he could not bear to hear all the great Victorians being reduced to the level of a Fanny Burney).

‘Ah yes. Such a difficult subject for . . . er . . . modern youth. So dependent, you see, on an
atmosphere
, on nuances. Yes, I'm glad you liked that one. I have been interested to see how that goes down with . . . er . . . Australians.'

‘Talking of Cranford,' said Alice, ‘we meet for tea and buns at the Wickhams' tomorrow.'

‘Oh dear, tea and buns . . .'

‘Tea and buns at four for the Department, then a party later for the gentry,' said Bill Bascomb. ‘Would you believe it? That's typical of the Wickhams.'

‘You mean they will be expecting me to go to both?' said Professor Belville-Smith.

‘Oh yes,' they said in chorus.

‘I will not. It's quite preposterous to arrange such a programme without consulting me.'

‘It is,' said the chorus.

‘An unheard-of liberty. I shall refuse.'

‘You tell him tomorrow,' said Alice, with barely concealed glee.

‘I shall. One party at most. And I shall expect to meet the Department there. It is the least he can do.'

‘You've no idea how least Bobby can do if he tries,' said Alice. The two young lecturers were enjoying themselves, and scenting free alcohol from their Professor, a rare experience.

‘I shall insist,' said Belville-Smith, struggling to his feet, ‘and I shall look forward to seeing you again.'

‘Do you know your way back?' asked Bill.

‘Well . . . I'm . . . not sure . . . If you could
direct
me . . .' It was a blatant appeal for help.

‘Let's settle up,' said Bill, ‘and we'll see you home.'

So when the waitress had reluctantly counted out their change from a dirty purse apparently secreted among her underclothes, they took him back to his motel, past the spewing drunks at the entrance to Beecher's, and along the dark, inhospitable side-streets, walking at a suitably gentle pace. They left him in his room, and drove back to their respective colleges, eminently pleased with their night's work.

‘Don't get in early tomorrow,' said Alice to Bill as they parted by their cars. ‘Bobby will be needing cigarettes the whole morning.'

Professor Belville-Smith lay on his bed, trying to solace his still rumbling discontent with a few pages of
Cousin Phyllis.
Never had he felt so strongly the need of a little old-world charm.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
proved a trying one for Professor Wickham, as Alice O'Brien had foreseen. Though he did not, strictly speaking, have a hangover, he did have that heavy, dehydrated feeling which comes from rather too much alcohol and decidedly too little sleep. He was certainly in no mood to cope with querulous visiting Professors, whose grievances had grown with being slept on. Professor Belville-Smith was not accustomed to hiding his discontents — his own Senior Common-Room feared them greatly — and his grievances had been augmented by the experience of breakfast, which had become, indeed, an almost daily grievance during his stay in Australia.

‘I was offered steak and eggs, steak, bacon and eggs,
steak, bacon and kidney, mutton chop, kidney and eggs and I don't know what,' he said. ‘And though I ordered bacon and eggs, it came with a mutton chop. Never have I seen anything so greasy and disgusting in my life. Is all the cooking out here done by
blacks
?'

‘Well, that could be, yes,' said Professor Wickham, bustling him out to the car.

‘I begin to wonder whether I should have come here at all,' said the guest, as they started up in the familiar kangaroo fashion.

Here Professor Wickham made the tactical error of trying to make his guest feel more wanted. He mentioned the projected tea-party, and the more select gathering arranged for later. He did it in the manner of a foolish mother promising a child two birthday parties.

‘I'm afraid I must decline,' said Professor Belville-Smith, tetchily. ‘Two such occasions on one day are more than I can take. You must remember that I am an old man. I have had to face a most extraordinary schedule in this . . . country. An evening party perhaps, which I can leave early if I feel tired, but both, no.'

Professor Wickham oozed geniality. This suited him fine, and Lucy would be pleased. It would cost him no embarrassment to cancel the tea-party for his members of staff. He was so used to slighting them and offending their feelings that he was hardened by usage as strongly as the Act V Macbeth. Whatever point was there in being Professor if one had to kow-tow to one's staff all the time?

‘That's quite all right,' he said. ‘We'll just have the evening party. No trouble at all to call off the other.'

‘I shall look forward to meeting the members of your staff in the evening then,' said Belville-Smith, partly out of senile malice, partly out of a genuine sense of his obligations to the two young people of the night before.

Professor Wickham's heart sank. Whatever was Lucy going to say? If there was anything she hated it was wasting
good alcohol on University people below the rank of Professor. As he drove through the depressing flat landscape towards the University he got a distinct impression that the old man by his side was hugging himself with pleasure — as if he felt he had got his revenge. He rather fancied that if arrangements for today went off no better than those for yesterday, the distinguished guest would be telling a long story about his defective hospitality to his opposite number in Brisbane before very long. Not that the opposite number would be surprised.