Iris Read Online Free PDF Page A

about
the few other sepulchral-looking diners. At the end of it Iris excused herself and went out to the Ladies, leaving me to pay the bill. I did this and added an enormous tip, which the waiter paid no
attention to when he came to collect the money. I felt discouraged by this, because I was hoping in some way for a friendly word, and perhaps a benevolent query about where we were going. The
saturnine waiter simply took up the money and departed, as absent and intent on other matters as ever. Perhaps his wife had just left him. If the Regency Restaurant had ‘probably’ the
best food in Oxfordshire it had certainly the worst service.
    I was left to contemplate the green and white stripes of the wallpaper, a kind of wallpaper then very much in the fashion which I have hated ever since. Iris was away for an age. When she
finally came out of the Ladies she was transformed again. Now she looked like a doll, a Watteau china doll with incongruously schoolgirl hair. She had lathered her mouth with lipstick, which she
now proceeded in an amateurish way to kiss at with a scrap of paper taken from her bag. I noticed handwriting on this paper, and wondered if it could be a love letter, an urgent note from some
admirer. But at least she did not put it back in her bag but crumpled it up and left it on the table.
    It was drizzling outside. By the time I had managed to find a taxi it was well after half-past nine. The dance was in full swing when we got to St Antony’s.
    I felt in a resigned way now that I was taking some quite different girl to the dance: one with bright red lips, covered inexpertly with a substance which made them look thick and unattractive:
not that I had ever noticed them particularly in the first place. This strange girl would no doubt appeal to my St Antony colleagues and their friends. That would be something anyway, I thought,
because I had no wish myself to spend the evening dancing with her. My one wish now was that the whole thing should be over as soon as possible, and I was extremely glad that the dance did not
propose to prolong itself past midnight. Most sincerely I hoped it would not.
    St Antony’s was a former Anglican convent, built around 1870. A steep flight of stone steps led down to the crypt below the nuns’ chapel, now the library, in which the dance was to
be held. As we went down Iris trod on her long dress, slipped, and slid inelegantly down a few steps on her behind. People descending before and after us rushed to help me help her get up. I found
myself entertaining the unworthy thought that she might have sprained her ankle; not badly, but enough to incapacitate her for the evening. She would not wish to stay on the sidelines, and I could
take her home. Perhaps we could go on talking in her room.
    But Iris was not hurt at all. She got up and smiled while the others brushed her down, amid laughter and joking. The ice was already broken as far as fellow-dancers were concerned. We moved on
to the floor among a crowd, who all seemed to be chatting to us and to each other. I made a few introductions. She seemed already to have made new friends. Her manner was no longer quiet and
withdrawn. I made unconfident gestures indicative of asking her to dance, and we assumed the appropriate semi-embrace.
    My dancing was indeed unconfident. I had sometimes enjoyed it at hops in the nightclubs or weekends in the army, when already more than a little drunk. Now, when we moved, there seemed no
correlation between the different parts of us. Iris smiled at me encouragingly, but soon relinquished me and began to execute arm-twirlings and arabesques on her own. She looked ungainly and rather
affected, but touchingly naive at the same time. It seemed clear that she knew no more about dancing
à
deux than I did; but when we brushed accidentally against a dancing couple a few
seconds later, and the man turned with a smile and seized hold of her, she melted into him at once, and the pair swung off