Kingsley Amis - Stanley and the Women

STANLEY AND

THE WOMEN

KINGSLEYAMIS

1 Onset

It had been one of Susansmost successful evenings. After weeks of hot sun in late June and July, theweather had turned cool and some of the people, especially the women, must havebeen quite glad of the candles round the dinner table. The room, which she hadrecently had redecorated, looked bright and cheerful. There was a comfortable,friendly atmosphere with everybody contributing something to the conversation.The first course, cold avocado soup with a sprinkling of red pepper on top, hadbeen made by Mrs Shillibeer, the daily woman, under Susans supervision, and itwent down extremely well. So did the cold cooked salmon with cucumber, freshmayonnaise and a sauce made out of chopped olives also by Mrs Shillibeer. Theydrank a rather good white Burgundy with that, four bottles between the eightpersons there, and a small glass each of a sweet Rhne wine with theraspberries and cream. By the time Susan took them upstairs for coffee theywere in excellent form.

Thesitting room on the first floor had a low ceiling and a rather awkward shape,but she had done her best to turn it into an attractive place with carefullychosen lamps and bright rugs and cushions. The pictures were all personal in someway too, done by artists known to her or the gifts of friends. A long row ofgramophone records, mostly orchestral, instrumental and chamber works, stood ina specially built wooden case, part of which housed the rather old-fashionedhi-fl. But naturally it was books that predominated no science, no history, abit of biography and some essays alongside a lot of plays, poetry, novels andshort stories. Her own two books of collected pieces were among the essayssomewhere, not in any particular place.

Quite afew of the books had come her way as review copies in the literary departmentof the Sunday Chronicle. Others she sold off in regular batches, anestablished perk that went some way towards making up her salary as assistantliterary editor of the paper. Not far, though, especially considering how muchof the literary editors work she had to do besides her own. He was there thatevening, old Robbie Leishman Jamieson, in fact she had very much set it up ashis evening, with an American novelist also present and a new writer of sciencefiction or something of the kind, and their wives. Old Robbie was the centre ofattraction on the pale-grey velvet settee with a shot of his favourite maltwhisky in a cut-glass tumbler and Susan encouraging him to tell all his bestEvelyn Waugh stories, especially the one about Noel Coward and the PapalNuncio, which had to be explained to the American novelists wife.

Peopleused to say about Susan at this stage of her life that things were going nottoo badly for her after some rather rough times earlier on. Back at thebeginning there had been a husband nobody seemed to know a great deal about, anunsuccessful painter or book-illustrator she married to spite her family,according to her, and started divorcing as soon as she found the family hadbeen right about him all the time. Her main attachment after that had been to aconsiderably more successful left-wing playwright she lived with for six yearsbut could not marry because he already had a wife, and as well as beingleft-wing was a Roman Catholic, not one of the sort that went in for divorce.That part lasted till the end of 78, when the fellows wife developed aserious illness and he went back to her. On 12 February 1980 Susan began hersecond and present marriage and later that year moved into the substantialVictorian red-brick house up near the pond in Hampstead, once the property of aminor poet and antiquarian of those days.

She hadpassed her thirty-eighth birthday a fortnight before the party for Robbie Jamieson.At first glance she could have been quite that, a rather tall woman who walkedand stood a bit off centre with her hands on her elbows very often, frowning,blinking rather above the normal rate and always pushing her upper lip downover her teeth and pressing the lower lip against it in a doubtful kind of way.In one of her grey cardigans or unsensational dark summer dresses she couldhave been mistaken for a librarian or even a secretary in a local-authorityoffice, but only for a second and before she realized someone else was there.Close to and in conversation she showed up as younger, better shaped for astart and also much more definite in her appearance, with large clear browneyes and a very distinctly outlined mouth, and glossy black hair that had alittle grey in it but no more than was enough to show how black and howgenuinely black the rest was. She looked clever, nervous, humorous, somethinglike devoted or loyal when she gave a person her full attention, and gullible,and beautiful. It was true she lacked the withdrawn expression to be seen inmost women considered beautiful, but there ought to have been a word for hercombination of features, which was among other things completely distinctive,meaning less good versions of it somehow never seemed to show up, and theobvious word always had a lot to be said for it, quite enough in this case.Anyway, that was the conclusion I came to every time I thought about thematter. In fact I told her she had been looking beautiful that evening, whenthe guests had gone and I was helping her take the coffee things and theglasses out to the kitchen.

Thatsgood, she said, kissing me. Even in my present state, you mean.

I dontknow what youre talking about, I said.

What? Evenattired in one of my old school nighties and without so much as having passed acomb through my hair.

I didntsay a word. Did I say anything at all?

Youdidnt have to, old boy. When I appeared as hostess you radiated courteousdisapproval. Fairly courteous disapproval. For three seconds or so.

I verymuch doubt whether I radiated anything. You guessed Id be feeling it, whichisnt the same at all.

Well,you were, werent you, so its not so different. Not that Im complaining, Ipromise you.

I said,I dont think its egotistical or funny or like a Jew or like a gangster of meto fancy the idea of my wife getting herself up in a bit of style. Which wouldindeed include a much more expensive dress than the one youre wearing. Nicer,too. Also something in the way of earrings or

Ofcourse it isnt funny, darling, its sweet of you, but you know how hopeless Iam, Id still only pour soup over it. Here. She pulled part of her skirt intothe light. Actually this is probably mayonnaise. Bugger.

Imanaged not to press the point. In spite of what she had said just now Susanalways kept her hair neatly trimmed and shaped, but with everything else Icould think of her careless attitude to her appearance did seem pretty firm. Itconnected up somehow with her ideas about art and her position as a writer, anobviously important part of her life she had never wanted me to inquire into. Ithought in one way it was rather a shame, not getting the most out of acomplexion and colouring as good as hers, but I have always been a greatbeliever in letting people decide things like that for themselves, and therewas not much I could have done about this one in any case. So when she asked mein various ways if I thought the evening had been a success I not only said theright things but said them enthusiastically. I went on record as being quitesure the meal had been remarkably popular, old Robbie had had the time of hislife, the Americans had gone down well enough with the others and had also beensuitably entertained, and more in the same strain, not that she was in muchreal doubt in her own mind, of course. By this time we had finished in thekitchen and were back in the sitting room.

Shallwe have just one more last quick drink? I said.

Whynot? said Susan, screwing up her face.

Ipoured her a small brandy and myself a smallish Scotch and water. As I did so Irealized I had put down a couple already that night.