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'You look bad, said the Irishman. He was a small, round, alcoholically cheerful man who, like Charlie, had two voices. For the enemy — that is, all the English whom he did not regard as a friend, which meant people who were not regulars — he put on an exaggerated brogue which was bound, if he persisted, to lead to the political arguments he delighted in. For friends like Charlie he didn't trouble himself. He now said: All work and no play.

'That's right, said Charlie. 'I went to the doctor. He gave me a tonic and said I am fundamentally sound in wind and limb. "You are sound in wind and limb," he said, said Charlie, parodying an upper-class English voice for the Irishman's pleasure.

Mike winked, acknowledging the jest, while his professionally humorous face remained serious. 'You can't burn the candle at both ends, he said in earnest warning.

Charlie laughed out. 'That's what the doctor said. You can't burn the candle at both ends, he said.

This time, when the stool he sat on, and the floor beneath the stool, moved away from him, and the glittering ceiling dipped and swung, his eyes went dark and stayed dark. He shut them and gripped the counter tight. With his eyes still shut he said facetiously: 'It's the clash of cultures, that's what it is. It makes me light-headed. He opened his eyes and saw from the Irishman's face that he had not said these words aloud.

He said aloud: Actually the doctor was right, he meant well. But Mike, I'm not going to make it, I'm going to fail.

'Well, it won't be the end of the world.

'Jesus. That's what I like about you, Mike, you take a broad view of

life.

"I'll be back, said Mike, going to serve a customer.

A week ago Charlie had gone to the doctor with a cyclostyled leaflet in his hand. It was called A Report Into the Increased Incidence of Breakdown Among Undergraduates'. He had underlined the words:

Young men from working-class and lower-middle-class families on scholarships are particularly vulnerable. For them, the gaining of a degree is obviously crucial. In addition they are under the continuous strain of adapting themselves to middle-class mores that are foreign to them. They are victims of a clash of standards, a clash of cultures, divided loyalties.

The doctor, a young man of about thirty, provided by the college authorities as a sort of father figure to advise on work problems, per sonal problems and (as the satirical alter ego took pleasure in pointing out) on clash-of-cukure problems, glanced once at the pamphlet and handed it back. He had written it. As, of course, Charlie had known. 'When are your examinations? he asked. Getting to the root of the matter, just like Mum, remarked the malevolent voice from behind Charlie's shoulder.

'I've got five months, doctor, and I can't work and I can't sleep. 'For how long?

'It's been coming on gradually. Ever since i was born, said the enemy.

'I can give you sedatives and sleeping pills, of course, but that's not going to touch what's really wrong.