I Like It Here

the shooting starts.”
“Now you’re being fantastic. That’s not the way they settle things in England.”
“This isn’t England. The Welsh are Celts—like the Irish. They started shooting all right when the time came, remember?”
“What do they want, what are they after, these … Welsh Nationalists?”
“An independent Welsh state. And they mean to get it. Of course, I’ve been exaggerating, really. No doubt you’d be perfectly safe in Lydney. I should say it’s most unlikely there’d be any border raids or anything of that kind. Most unlikely.”
“These Nationalists. They Reds?”
“Some of them, probably. A bit of Communist backing, you know.”
The American drew in his breath sharply and sat for a few moments staring at the tips of his little pointed shoes. Bowen repented: he didn’t want to spoil Lydney for him, nor in particular for his wife. He was on the point of urging the other to check up on the Welsh Nationalist story before taking any kind of decision, when he squared his shoulders and faced Bowen.
“See here, young fellow. I don’t know whether you’ve been trying to scare me, but if so you’ve been wasting your time. From now on I’m taking this Lydney idea a sight more seriously. And I’d like to say this. If any god dam Reds come snooping around my place, there’s nothing I’d like better. No sir, there’s … nothing … I’d … like … better. If there’s any shooting, it’ll be both ways. You can bet on that. I’ve always wanted a chance to get at those Commie bastards and this looks like it. Mm-hm. Well, thanks for the talk. It’s been most interesting.” He banged his glass down, nodded once, and marched out.
Bowen felt less elated than he had a few minutes earlier, but he also felt a good deal tireder and drunker than when the American first appeared. Beddie-byes, then. The floor throbbed unpleasantly when he got to his feet, but he soon recollected he was on a boat, where engines were to be expected. With This Rough Magic under his arm he made his way downstairs.
Half-smothered in comics (a whole fresh supply had been bought in Southampton), his sons lay asleep in their bunks. His daughter lay asleep in her cot, holding a plastic bottle of purplish fluid at her side in the shoulder-arms position. His wife stirred as he went in. The movement put tension on some strands of hair and made her scowl fiercely without opening her eyes. Soon Bowen was aloft and lowering to the floor a series of objects that ended with all the life-jackets, stowed on his bunk for convenience.
Immediately he had put the light out Barbara said in her clear treble: “What exactly was Bennie Hyman being so mysterious about this morning?”
In Bowen’s mind alarm-bells began clanging, whistles blew, gun muzzles swung skywards, fighter pilots sprinted across the tarmac. “Oh, it’s just that they’re keeping quiet about Strether’s new book for the time being.”
“Ssshh, talk quietly … Why?”
“Oh, they’re not satisfied with it or something.”
“You didn’t say anything to me about that.”
“Well,-no, but I wasn’t too sure of the position myself, dear.”
“Talk about it tomorrow. Thought you always told me everything.”
“But I do, I do. Honestly, dear. You know I do. Don’t you?”
“You say you do, but how do I know whether you really do?”
“You must be able to tell I do, surely.”
“But how can I tell? What way have I got of telling?”
“Well, by knowing me. You know that’s the sort of chap I am.”
“But I only know as much of you as you choose to let me know.”
“Now, fair play, dear, you know that isn’t true.”
“How can I know?”
Bowen felt baffled. The next move in this ritual had long been laid down as the offering by him of caresses, at first repelled, then accepted, then returned; the move after that followed easily and naturally enough; and the move after that was for him to go and make a cup of tea for them both, which they would drink to the accompaniment of mutual rallying, speculations about the landlord’s amorous habits, and the like. None of this was possible tonight. He wondered whether this point had just occurred to Barbara. He said emphatically:
“Well, we can’t really talk about it now.”
“All right. Goodnight.”
He heard her thrashing about with pillow and bedclothes, plunging over from one side to the other, settling down with a groan. Fix up about the coal bum, he thought to himself, call in and tick the plumber off bum, see about a new flat bum, ring up and put them all off bum, stop your friends yelling and swearing when you let them out late at night bum, really darling I think it’s time we had a serious talk backside. He wished he could meet himself, like Maupassant or whoever it was, but on a permanent basis. Then he and the other chap could live happily ever after. Well, in a way.

5
“WHY ISN’T HE HERE? Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he here ?” Bowen asked hysterically some sixty hours later. He referred to C. J. C. Oates, the man who was going to put them all up during their stay in Portugal and who was also, according to his own account, going to have met them off the ship. He had not done that. Bowen knew now that he had known this all along, just as he had known that the foreign A.A. chap——more precisely, the representative of the Automóvel Club de Portugal—would not be present either. Well, it saved having to talk to him. On the other hand it meant having to talk to others. Although Bowen enjoyed chatting to his friends all right, and would even address strangers in shops, public transport and so on, he had never been keen on such involuntary chats as were involved in finding out official procedures, inquiring about the proper time and place for inquiring about things, and so on. He had no idea why this was, but thought it neurotic rather