The Fly in the Ointment by VS Pritchett. Part 3.
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“Your hair’s going thin,” he said. “You oughtn’t to be losing your hair at your age. I don’t want you to think I’m criticizing you, you’re old enough to live your own life, but your hair you know – you ought to do something about it. If you used oil every day and rubbed it in with both hands, the thumbs and forefingers is what you want to use, it would be better. I’m often thinking about you and I don’t want you to think I’m lecturing you because I’m not, so don’t get the idea this is a lecture, but I was thinking, what you want, what we all want, I say this for myself as well as you, what we all want is ideas – big ideas. We go worrying along but you just want bigger and better ideas. You ought to think big. Take your case.
You’re a lecturer. I wouldn’t be satisfied with lecturing to a small batch of people in a university town. I’d lecture the world. You know, you’re always doing yourself injustice. We all do. Think big.”
“Well,” said his son, still smiling, but sharply. He was very angry. “One’s enough in the family. You’ve thought big till you bust.”
He didn’t mean to say this because he hadn’t really the courage, but his pride was touched.
“I mean,” said the son, hurriedly covering it up in a panic, “I’m not like you… I…”
“What did you say?” said the old man. “Don’t say that.” It was the smaller of the two faces speaking in a panic. “Don’t say that. Don’t use that expression.
That’s not a right idea. Don’t you get a wrong idea about me. We paid sixpence in the pound,” said the old man proudly.
The son began again, but his father stopped him.
“Do you know,” said the bigger of his two faces, getting bigger as it spoke, “some of the oldest houses in the city are in Queer Street, some of the biggest firms in the country? I came up this morning with Mr. Higgins, you remember Higgins? They’re in liquidation. They are. Oh yes. And Moore, he’s lost everything. He’s got his chauffeur but it’s his wife’s money. Did you see Beltman in the trade papers?
Quarter of a million deficit. And how long are Prestons going to last?”
The big face smiled and overflowed on the smaller one. The whole train, the old man said, was practically packed with bankrupts every morning. Thousands had gone. Thousands? Tens of thousands. Some of the biggest men in the City were broke.
A small man himself, he was proud to be bankrupt with the big ones; it made him feel rich.
“You’ve got to realize, old boy,” he said gravely, “the world’s changing. You’ve got to move with the times.”
The son was silent. The November sun put a few strains of light through the frosted window and the shadow of its bars and panes was weakly placed on the wall behind his father’s head. Some of the light caught the tanned scalp that showed between the white hair. So short the hair was that his father’s ears protruded and, framed against that reflection of the window bars, the father suddenly took (to his son’s fancy) the likeness of a convict in his cell and the son, startled, found himself asking: Were they telling the truth when they said the old man was a crook and that his balance sheets were cooked? What about that man they had to shut up at the meeting, the little man from Birmingham, in a mackintosh…?
“There’s a fly in this room,” said the old man suddenly, looking up in the air and getting to his feet. “I’m sorry to interrupt what you were saying, but I can hear a fly. I must get it out.”
“A fly?” said his son listening.
“Yes, can’t you hear it? It’s peculiar how you can hear everything now the machines have stopped. It took me quite a time to get used to the silence. Can you see it, old chap? I can’t stand flies, you never know where they’ve been. Excuse me one moment.”
The old man pulled a duster out of a drawer.
“Forgive this interruption. I can’t sit in a room with a fly in it,” he said apologetically. They both stood up and listened. Certainly in the office was the small dying fizz of a fly, deceived beyond its strength by the autumn sun.
“Open the door, will you, old boy,” said the old man with embarrassment. “I hate them.”
The son opened the door and the fly flew into the light. The old man struck at it but it sailed away higher.
“There it is,” he said, getting up on the chair. He struck again and the son struck too as the fly came down. The old man got on top of his table. An expression of disgust and fear was curled on his smaller face; and an expression of apology and weakness.
“Excuse me,” he said again, looking up at the ceiling.
“If we leave the door open or open the window it will go,” said the son.
“It may seem a fad to you,” said the old man shyly. “I don’t like flies. Ah, here it comes.”
They missed it. They stood helplessly gaping up at the ceiling where the fly was buzzing in small circles round the cord of the electric light.
“I don’t like them,” the old man said.
The table creaked under his weight. The fly went on to the ceiling and stayed there. Unavailingly the old man snapped the duster at it.
“Be careful,” said the son. “Don’t lose your balance.”
The old man looked down. Suddenly he looked tired and old, his body began to sag and a look of weakness came on to his face.
“Give me a hand, old boy,” the old man said in a shaky voice. He put a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder and the son felt the great helpless weight of his father’s body.
“Lean on me.”
Very heavily and slowly the old man got cautiously down from the table to the chair. “Just a moment, old boy,” said the old man. Then, after getting his breath, he got down from the chair to the floor.