The L-Shaped Room

by Lynne Reid Banks

  ‘I thought that late frost would be the finish of the bulbs,’ he said, ‘but it just kept them back a bit. Look at those tulips. Not a curled leaf among the lot. Same with the hyacinths.’

  ‘They’re lovely.’ I bent again to smell the bushy spikes, but Father stopped me by stooping quickly and snapping one off to give me.

  ‘Oh, don’t pick it! It seems so sad –’

  ‘We’ll put it in a glass of water. House needs some flowers.’

  We wandered round and he told me what he’d been planting and transplanting. Before long he said, ‘Let’s sit down, you look tired.’ There were two canvas chairs arranged under the trees. ‘It’s not too cold for you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  We sat down. I couldn’t get over him not being at the office. It seemed unnatural, somehow.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said.

  ‘You, too.’ We smiled at each other. ‘Why did you come yesterday?’

  ‘Never mind that just for the present. Are you well? You look very well, I must say. Nice little frocks they make now.’ He reached out to touch the material of my smock and I noticed his hand shook. He saw me looking at it and met my eyes with a wry smile.

  ‘Getting to be an old man.’

  I watched him covertly while we made fumbling conversation. The drinking had left its mark on him. Not just the shaking hands but in his eyes and under them and in the colour of his skin. I wondered whether to broach the subject but it seemed an impertinence. Evidently he felt the same about the change in my appearance, and the cause of it. The baby was not mentioned.

  ‘Would you like some lunch?’ he asked at last. ‘It’s well after two. You must be hungry.’

  ‘No, not terribly. What about you?’

  ‘I could do with a bite of something. You stay out here in the fresh air and I’ll bring you a snack.’

  ‘No, let me come and help.’

  We went back into the house. Our mutual courtesy and restraint seemed quite natural inasmuch that we were strangers to each other. But there were so many important things to be talked about that I felt we couldn’t go on like this. Only I didn’t know how to begin.

  ‘Funny sort of house you’re living in,’ he said suddenly while I was laying a tray.

  ‘But you didn’t see my room. That’s quite different from the rest.’

  ‘Don’t like to think of you being in a house like that. That coloured fellow –’

  ‘He’s been very kind to me.’

  ‘Say coloureds don’t smell different from us. That one did. Smelt like a polecat.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Father,’ I said, not able to help laughing. ‘Polecats smell vile. John doesn’t smell at all like one.’

  ‘Awful old witch of a landlady, too. Surprised you haven’t had trouble with her.’

  ‘I have, now and then.’

  ‘Thought as much.’ He was bent over the stove, painstakingly stirring bits of parsley into a warming saucepan of tinned soup. ‘You say your room’s all right – can’t be very big, though. Not big enough for more than one person.’ It was his first even indirect reference to the baby.

  ‘No.’

  He straightened up and looked at me with his tired eyes, yellow like the curtains in the front windows, the soup-spoon still in his hand. ‘Better come home, hadn’t you?’ he asked. The words hung sparkling in the air.

  ‘You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘I want you to.’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything, Father. On the contrary –’

  ‘Who said anything about owing?’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘The question is, why I ever wanted you to leave. It’s a question I find it more and more difficult to answer.’ I watched the stooping figure bend over the stove again. He was, I noticed now, thinner than before.

  ‘Have you been eating properly?’ I asked, sharply, as if he were my child instead of the other way round.

  ‘Oh yes …’ he said in the vague way that was quite new with him. I felt that if I asked him when his last meal had been, he wouldn’t be able to remember.

  ‘You don’t look awfully well,’ I ventured.

  ‘I’ve been drinking too much,’ he said with an indifference that shocked me more than the words. ‘It doesn’t do one any good.’

  ‘Then why do it?’

  ‘Because one keeps hoping it will do one good, I suppose,’ he said with a shrug. ‘This is ready now.’ He poured the soup carefully into a tureen.

  ‘It smells good,’ I said automatically.

  We carried the food out into the garden. Outdoors my father straightened his body and his manner and speech became more positive and vigorous.

  ‘The house gets you down a bit, doesn’t it?’ I suggested, shooting in the dark.

  ‘I can’t seem to get around to cleaning it,’ he said apologetically. ‘It does depress me. Specially at night.’

  ‘I’ll serve,’ I said, reaching for the soup ladle.

  ‘No, please. Let me. You sit still and rest.’

  I watched him ladling out the soup into the first soup plate without noticing that it was dusty from months of sitting unused on a shelf, and it came to me very clearly that there was nothing wrong with my father except being alone. He had been alone, I realized, not just since I left, but for as long as I’d known him, as I would be, even after my baby was born. Everyone who is without a mate is basically alone. It’s a special and very destructive form of loneliness.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t want to come back,’ he suggested calmly as he passed me my soup. ‘If so, I shall quite understand. Independence is a very important thing.’

  We drank our soup. Father held his plate high so that the shaky journey of the spoon between it and his lips would be as short as possible. His eyes travelled round the garden as someone might cling to a good-luck charm during a moment of crisis.

  ‘I had thought of moving into a larger room,’ I said, keeping my voice steady and matter-of-fact. ‘Of course, there are difficulties.’

  Father rested his plate on his knee and stared at the tulips. ‘Financial?’

  ‘Not at the moment, though I suppose before long –’

  ‘No need for those.’

  ‘I couldn’t, Father.’

  ‘Couldn’t what?’

  ‘Take money from –’

  ‘Me? No. I see that. I’ve been a little grudging in the past, I know. Spoiled my chances of helping that way for the moment. No, it would be from – another source.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  My father put his soup plate back on the tray slowly.

  ‘You haven’t finished your soup,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You ought to eat it, you’re looking thin.’

  He suddenly turned and looked at me. His hand came and covered mine, pressing hard so that I shouldn’t feel the trembling, but I could feel it. He smiled at me, but his eyes were full of tears.

  ‘I’ve got something bad to tell you.’

  My mind jerked back and I heard myself saying, ‘No.’ Father kept his hand on mine and kept looking steadily at me, and after a moment I said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Your Aunt Addy’s dead.’

  There was only a short moment of sparkling numbness inside my head before a wave of grief engulfed me. There was no intervening stretch of shock before I could feel anything; in some part of myself I must have been expecting it. I felt as though sorrow had fists and used them to beat my heart. I sobbed with pain at the pictures that came – Addy in her funny circus hat, Addy pouring petrol on to the soggy bonfire, Addy holding her manuscript as tenderly as a child. I remembered the last phone call, how she had refused to let me come …

  Father was standing beside my chair, holding me tightly. I pulled back from him and said, ‘Was she all alone?’

  ‘No, she was in the local hospital.’

  ‘But no – friends, none of us?’

  ‘Nobody knew. She didn’t let anyone kno
w.’

  ‘The hospital – they should have told us!’

  ‘She wouldn’t give them any names. She must have wanted to be alone, Janie.’

  I didn’t say what we both knew. Nobody wants to be alone when they’re dying, or when anything important is happening to them.

  ‘She’s left you everything – the cottage and all her books, and the rights to some manuscript or other.’

  I sat dumbly. I had no more tears for the moment. Father sat down again, drawing his chair closer to mine, still holding my hand.

  ‘So you’re a bit more independent now. You could sell the cottage, or if you’d rather, you could keep it and live there, after the baby’s born.’ He said this without effort. It was easy and natural to talk about the baby now. ‘Only I don’t like to think of you being so far away – it’s a desolate spot. I’d rather you were near me at first. If you could stand it.’ He took back the handkerchief he had lent me and wiped his own eyes. ‘I’m being entirely selfish about this.’

  ‘If I come home, it’ll be purely selfish on my side, too.’

  Our hands tightened. The two lies cancelled each other out.

  Chapter 23

  I TOOK a taxi back to the house in Fulham. Father had insisted I should take taxis from now on.

  He had wanted to come back with me immediately and help me move, but I told him I wanted to do it myself, in my own time. It would be difficult for any man, and more especially a man like Father, to understand my irrational feeling for places. It wouldn’t be possible to say good-bye properly to the L-shaped room if he were there.

  I let the taxi go, and stood looking up at the house in the twilight. The heatwave had passed; the sky was cloudy and the air was heavy with coming rain. The house looked just as I had first seen it, that wet afternoon in October, except that now it didn’t seem ugly.

  I saw a curtain stir on the ground floor, and Doris beckoned. I went up the shabby steps past the overflowing dustbins. Charlie had been doing something to the hedge; it was not exactly trimmed, but its disorder was now angular instead of bunchy. Looking down into the area as I felt for my keys, I noticed that he’d been putting a touch of paint on the basement window-frames, too. I smiled as I remembered the late Fred’s happy relations with the other Jane, and wondered if history would repeat itself.

  Doris met me in the hall. ‘How are you, dear? Have you made your mind up yet?’ I hadn’t had the heart to tell Doris before that I was leaving.

  ‘I’m going home, Doris,’ I said. ‘My father’s asked me.’ They were wonderful words. I listened to their echoes with warm pleasure.

  But they gave no pleasure to Doris.

  She drew her mouth in at the corners and folded her arms. ‘Oh. Well, that’s nice, I’m sure,’ she said sourly. ‘When are you going, then?’

  ‘Right away.’ Then, as she opened her mouth to protest, ‘Of course I’ll give you a fortnight’s rent in lieu of notice.’

  Her mouth softened a little. ‘I suppose it’s quite right, your father takin’ you in,’ she said, her hand twitching as I opened my wallet. ‘Often wondered whether you had no people or what. Just as well in a way, what with the noise and nappies and everything,’ she added in one of her classic non sequiturs. ‘Funny, someone come after a room today – couldn’t afford the first-floor. Young lad he was, bit of a Ted, Charlie thought, but I don’t know … Ta, dear.’ With the money in her hand she became all affability once more. ‘Anything we can do to help? Bags down the stairs or that? Charlie’ll come up in a few minutes and see how you’re gettin’ on. Tata for now, dear.’

  Just as I was starting slowly up the long flights, she called after me, ‘Oh, there – I almost forgot! There’s someone waiting for you up there. Told him I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he would wait – I let him have my key, dear, I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  It was Terry. He rose from the arm-chair as I came in, panting from the climb which seemed suddenly to have doubled in height.

  ‘Hullo, Jane,’ he said, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on my face in a way which would have made me laugh if I’d had the breath to spare. He took a step forward awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands. Odd how Englishmen always want to shake hands. To me it would have seemed more natural to kiss him. I sat down on the bed, trying not to puff too obviously.

  ‘Waiting long?’ I asked.

  ‘About an hour.’ He stood in the middle of the room, his lean height looking stooped and crane-like under the sloping ceiling. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t kept you posted on the search for your friend. I wanted to wait until I had something definite.’

  My breathing stopped for a moment and then went on raggedly. ‘Have you something definite now?’

  ‘Well, yes. I put everyone I knew on to it at once; there were a couple of publishing houses where I didn’t know anybody, but I passed the word round through friends. Surprising what a little world within a world publishing is – its own grapevine and everything. Cigarette? Oh no, you don’t, of course.’ He lit his own. ‘Well, I phoned most of them every day, but nothing happened for a month. Then a chum of mine in Hutchinson’s got on to me – day before yesterday, this was. Said a script had come in of a first novel by someone called Cohen. First name Tobias. Sounded right. I had a bit of trouble getting his address out of my friend – ethics or something – anyhow, I persuaded him I wasn’t going to steal a potential source of revenue. Which it seems your young author may be, by the way – the first novel appears to have something, even if it is mostly in longhand.’

  My backache was nagging. My hand moved of its own accord to rub and ease.

  Terry was pacing. Now he stopped and looked at me. ‘Listen, Jane, before I go any further, just how important is this chap to you? I know I’ve no business to ask, but apart from the tentative promise of the manuscript, he didn’t strike me as a particularly – well, what I mean is, there’s not much security for you there. Sorry if I’m talking out of turn.’

  ‘Go on with the story.’

  ‘He’s living in Holland Park – a little cellar, you couldn’t call it a flat. First sight of him gave me a jolt – looked like a scarecrow, hair wild, unshaven. Room’s like a monk’s cell. Bed, chair, table, suitcase. Stacks of paper. Nothing else … I shouldn’t think he’s been out of it for weeks from the look of him.’ He stopped.

  ‘Did you tell him you’d come from me?’

  ‘I asked him if he knew you – to make sure it was the right person. He said yes. Pretty guarded about you; I couldn’t get him to say much. Asked how you were. When I said you were back here again he seemed very surprised – well, upset, almost. He said he thought you were with an aunt in the country.’

  For a second the mention of the aunt brought Addy into the room; sitting beside me, saying, ‘Would you like to come and stay with me for a while?’ … My glance went automatically to the place she had sat as she said that. My eyes were stopped by the hunched bulk of Toby’s typewriter, covered by its black hood.

  Terry went on: ‘I said you were looking for him – wanted to see him. He didn’t say much – just stood still and stared at me through all that hair like something peering out of a jungle. By God,’ he said, unable, I saw, to help himself, ‘he is a Jew, and no mistake – that beak! Wonder why he changed his name – and then changed it back again?’

  I thought, He changed it because of people who feel like you, and he changed it back because – but there was no sure answer to that yet. Until I saw him, it was nothing but a hopeful symptom.

  ‘So – is he coming?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you. It’s up to him, isn’t it? He knows where you are – he knows you want to see him …’ He spoke almost sulkily.

  We sat in silence for a while. My backache was worse. I kept curving and straightening my spine to ease it.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ I said at last, lamely.

  Terry took this as a dismissal. He got to his feet with an air of relief and yet reluctance, as if he hadn’t co
mpleted his business and didn’t look forward to doing so. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘No, bless you, I’m very grateful to you.’ I realized this was a little ironic, and glanced at him to see if he’d noticed. He was looking at me oddly, a frown between his eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘I was wondering what that Cohen bloke would have done if I’d suddenly said, “I’m the father of Jane’s baby.” ’

  I said nothing. It was an intriguing thought.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you, and everything,’ he went on, stumblingly, as if driving himself. ‘God knows I haven’t enjoyed thinking about it, but I felt I had to. Even though it couldn’t do any good. Perhaps because it was unnecessary – I felt I ought to share a bit of what you’ve been through.’

  He had such an unconscious air of self-conscious virtue that I almost laughed, but one couldn’t very well laugh in the face of such solemn earnestness.

  ‘I’ve always thought it pretty lousy, the way a lot of men divide women into two groups – you know, the good and the bad, the wills and the won’ts, marriage or the mantelpiece. I’ve argued against it a hundred times with chaps I know who despise the girls they’ve been to bed with. But you can’t imagine how frightful it is to come up against the unexpected realization that underneath, one’s exactly the bloody same oneself.’ He glanced at me from under his eyebrows and looked quickly back at his hands. ‘After that night in Collioure I despised you. There was no earthly reason for it – I mean if one looked at the thing rationally – except that I knew I hadn’t been any good for you and I felt rotten so I told myself that it was you who hadn’t been any good. And during the week after you left, that idea somehow got changed a bit until you were just no good, full stop. You were that sort of girl. I kind of dismissed you in my mind because I didn’t want you any more. I simply never thought about the possibility of this happening. Funny how one thinks of sex as if it were just a thing by itself, without any build-up or results …

  There was a long embarrassed silence. I took up in my thoughts from where he left off. You don’t think, at least not when you’re pursuing love greedily and selfishly, that your goal may be the start of something. The night which started this was suddenly vivid in my mind again as the beginning of what would be a man or a woman, who would some day beget more children, who would never have existed except for one moment when Terry decided that he couldn’t hold on for another second and that it would be safe enough – not really either knowing or caring. I wondered, and I think he did too, now, whether either of us had descended from some moment like that – self-indulgent, shallow and meaningless …