Death of an Old Goat Read Online Free Page A

grinning cheekily at Professor Belville-Smith. ‘How’s that affect yer?’
    â€˜Badly,’ said Alice. ‘Get another glass.’
    Professor Belville-Smith looked uncertain whether to burst into smoke or tears.
    â€˜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?
    â€˜We are sorry,’ said Bill.
    â€˜But what can you expect from Bobby?’ asked Alice.
    â€˜It’s not so much him as his wife. It’s Lucy that puts him up to most of these things he does.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I shall protest tomorrow,’ said Professor Belville-Smith, grabbing his napkin eagerly as a plate was put in front of him.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜We’re looking forward to your lectures,’ said Alice, lying.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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).
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Talking of Cranford,’ said Alice, ‘we meet for tea and buns at the Wickhams’