Eating People is Wrong by Malcolm Bradbury Page A

and he also knew some of her work, which was poetry of a sound and intense kind. There
exists a vast subculture of literature in England, of writers working on a part-time basis and circulating their work in closed circles, such as this very literary society; their work is good, but
little known, and is lacking simply in the intensity and originality of that of the committed artist. ‘Here’s the tweeny,’ said the lady in the flowerpot hat; and tea was
brought.
    ‘Where’s Mrs Rogers?’ said Treece as he spied around the circle present and noticed the sad omission.
    ‘She has to go home and get tea ready for her boys,’ said the man in the bow tie. ‘She’s a dear woman. Have you seen any of her stuff?’
    ‘She writes as though she’s just come in out of the dew,’ said the lady in the flowerpot hat. ‘I once went to her house and she said, “Have you seen our
goblin?” and, do you know, I wasn’t in the least surprised. It’s the one place where you wouldn’t be. The goblin turned out to be a make of vacuum cleaner, but, you know, if
it had been a real one I should have accepted it just as simply.’
    There were times when Treece felt more at home in the pellucid air of the provinces than anywhere he had been in his life before; the conversation lapped on in little wavelets and the stout
businessmen passed and repassed outside the door and the buses screeched outside the windows. One felt cosy. England expanded and became a continent, and all that lay outside was infinitely remote;
England contracted and became an islet, and all that lay inside was sound and secure. ‘Sugar?’ said the lady in the flowerpot hat. ‘Yes?’ asked Treece; he thought she was
being fond, but she was simply pouring out his tea. He didn’t take sugar, but the mistake was too complicated to explain. ‘How many lumps?’ ‘One, please,’ said Treece
lazily; he had stretched out his legs and was now practically lying down. ‘Nonsense, you can’t taste one; I’ve given you three,’ said the lady in the flowerpot hat. She
handed him the cup. ‘You know, you’re as
lean
as a rake,’ she said. ‘You need fattening up. Doesn’t your wife feed you?’ ‘I’m not
married,’ said Treece. ‘I think that’s disgusting,’ said the lady in the flowerpot brightly. ‘Don’t you?’ She turned to everyone else: ‘He says
he’s not married.’ ‘Well, it’s not a matter of principle,’ said Treece. ‘I’ve wanted to marry, a great many times; I always seem to be asking women to
marry me. After all, there are things a wife can do that not even the best of housekeepers can manage. But they won’t marry me.’
    ‘What nonsense,’ said the lady in the flowerpot. ‘Let’s see, who do we
know
?’ ‘
Why
won’t they marry you?’ asked someone else.
‘Well, I can see their point,’ said Treece. ‘I must be about the least desirable bachelor I’ve ever come across. I just don’t seem to have the attributes women like in
a man – a car, a television set, you know.’ ‘We’ll find somebody,’ said the lady in the flowerpot hat.
    The Secretary of the Society was a stout little man named Schenk, who sold carpets. ‘It’s six o’clock,’ he now said. ‘They’re open.’ ‘Who
are?’ asked the lady in the flowerpot. ‘The bar is,’ said Mr Schenk, who was an organizing genius; for instance, the Society always had a poetry weekend, at some country house
devoted to conferences, and Schenk not only managed to get hold of the most distinguished speakers, but, simply in order to give the thing more tone, he used also to persuade the AA to cover three
or four counties with large yellow marker signs saying poetry conference. The group rose and made their way into the bar, which was quaint and old-fashioned; there were post-horns on the wall, and
yards of ale. Businessmen chatted about wool and cotton, and county young men, in blazers and cavalry twill trousers, teased sweet girls with plummy