A Sense of Guilt

by Andrea Newman

  ‘I suppose it’s easier than Jamal.’

  ‘What’s difficult about Jamal?’

  They smiled at each other, a smile of complicity.

  ‘Well, I suppose they like to make me sound more English.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s it. You certainly don’t sound very Indian.’

  ‘Wait till you hear my impression of Peter Sellers.’

  She laughed. He often made her laugh.

  ‘Why don’t you come out with me, Sally?’ he asked, as if that had been what they were talking about.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jamal, but I don’t want to go out with anyone just now.’

  ‘Usually girls like me. I’m not bad-looking and I’m very polite. Also I make wonderful curry.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that. But I don’t want a boyfriend at the moment.’

  ‘We could just be friends. Celibacy is very fashionable. And I haven’t even read the Kama Sutra. Come out with me, Sally. I really like you.’

  An idea was creeping into her head. A lifeline. Salvation. ‘D’you mean that?’

  ‘Did something bad happen to you? You haven’t been out with anyone since you got here. And last term when we had a discussion you didn’t join in.’

  ‘What d’you mean? We’ve had lots of discussions.’

  ‘I mean the one about abortion.’

  She wasn’t sure what she felt most, scared or relieved. ‘Jamal, if you really like me, there is something you could do for me.’

  * * *

  Helen loathed private views. She felt as if she had taken her clothes off in public in a small room full of greedy sweaty people who were now busy drinking and chatting to each other with their backs to her except when they turned to laugh or stare. It was a crucifixion. Only they didn’t know that, so they couldn’t even pay her the courtesy of acknowledging her suffering. When they chose to approach her, she had to respond as if she were merely present and important, simply the creator, not the person pinned to the wall. Some of them wanted to touch her, shake her by the hand, and talk to her. Others simply stared.

  Occasionally, they looked at the paintings.

  ‘It reads as landscape.’

  ‘Yes, it’s full of landscape reference.’

  ‘Frightfully derivative, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, frightfully.’

  ‘D’you think so? I think she’s quite original.’

  ‘I’d call her the foremost urban painter of her generation.’ Richard hovered, trying to give her moral support without intruding, moving out to talk to people and moving back to check she was all right, rather like an anxious dog or a true friend. She appreciated his concern deeply and at the same time felt threatened by it, as if by his behaviour he were telling her she could not manage on her own. It was not his fault: nobody could have got it right. She wanted him to be there and he wanted to be there, and at the same time she wanted to be alone and she wanted to be at home, and the paintings looked different and too naked and the hanging was not the same as the one she had agreed upon, although it was identical, and she was simultaneously proud of herself and afraid.

  She saw Felix and Elizabeth arrive and Richard go across to greet them. She was furious that Felix could simply have books published and lunch with the chosen few and go home to wallow in Elizabeth’s adoration. He did not have to watch people in the act of reading his books or criticising them or ignoring them. And composers could go to a first performance if they chose and sit there unknown and merely bow to the audience when it was all over.

  Suddenly to her horror she saw Jerome Ellis standing in front of a tiny painting she was very proud of and had nearly not put in the show. It was called Self and she had thought to keep it. Vanity had made her expose it to public gaze, vanity and Magdalen’s admiration. She had meant to make it clear that it was the property of the artist, but she had somehow let herself forget to say this, perhaps because she was afraid to draw attention to it, or perhaps because she was so arrogant and truthful that she believed no one else would recognise its true worth, and so she could have praise without fear of loss. Or perhaps she had simply wanted to take a risk.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Jerome Ellis said. He was wearing a checked tweed suit that made her feel she was going mad. His greyish-red beard seemed to glow and bristle. It was an insult to Van Gogh, on whom he had no doubt modelled it, with astonishing affrontery. She felt such rage that she wanted to kill him.

  ‘It’s too small,’ said his companion, who was short and dark, thin and good-looking, and dressed in expensive clothes in extremely good taste.

  ‘No, it’s perfect for the john.’

  She was in agony. She realised she had positioned herself near the painting to protect it but it was already too late: if she leapt to its defence she would be admitting its value. She could not say it was not for sale. If she did he would know he had reached her, whether he could buy the painting or not. At the same time she was surprised and impressed that he had such good taste; she realised that she had underestimated him.

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ Elizabeth said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Parking’s a nightmare round here.’

  She always drove to these events, of course, so Felix could get as drunk as he wished. Helen wanted Elizabeth to be there because she truly loved paintings, Helen’s in particular, and she very much wanted Felix not to be there. She had always felt this and never more than now, but had not yet worked out a way of communicating it both clearly and tactfully to Elizabeth, perhaps because it wasn’t possible.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Elizabeth asked Richard.

  ‘OK, I think. The usual prats talking rubbish and getting quietly pissed. Most of the big guns came to the press show.’

  ‘I’ll see about some drinks.’ Felix moved away.

  ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’ Elizabeth said to Richard, looking at Helen fondly.

  ‘I think so.’

  Helen was wearing a beige dress that nearly blended in with some of the paintings. If she couldn’t be absent, then she could be almost invisible. She needed protective colouring. And that frightened her even more, the knowledge that she was actually in danger.

  I ought to be used to it by now, she thought. There was no one else she would rather be. She tried not to focus on Self, thinking of Brer Rabbit and the Briar Patch. It was not enough to look elsewhere, she must think of something else too, empty her mind, meditate. But it was difficult. She was tired and scared and on trial. The room was hot and noisy and the only person she really wanted to see was not in it.

  ‘Hey, aren’t you Richard Morgan?’ Jerome Ellis said, moving across as if he had a right to join them.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jerome Ellis.’ He held out his hand for Richard to shake, smiling with genuine warmth. ‘We met once around the time I commissioned your lovely wife to paint the Seven Deadly Sins for me.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember.’

  ‘Great stuff. Great. I think she really enjoyed having a break from her usual line of work.’ His companion stood quietly beside him. ‘Have you met Mario Caselli?’

  ‘No. Hullo. This is Elizabeth Cramer.’

  Mario kissed her hand. ‘We have the Seven Deadly Sins all round the room. In an oast house it looks very good with the circular wall.’

  ‘It’s kind of inspirational at dinner parties. Like there’s never a dull moment.’

  Felix returned with two glasses of wine and Richard made more introductions. Helen saw Jerome’s beard twitch with interest at Felix’s name.

  ‘Say, aren’t you the guy who writes those thrillers about that detective – what’s his name? You know, I’m your biggest fan. I’ve always got a book of yours on the go. I keep it right by the bed, don’t I, Mario? And when I can’t sleep, out it comes.’

  ‘Sometimes I am quite jealous,’ Mario said.

  Helen had not thought to be grateful to Jerome ever in her life, except financially, but now, at the sight of Felix’s discomfiture, she suddenly was. And the knowledge that
Jerome was causing discomfort by accident not design, that he could offend Felix while actually trying to compliment him, made her pleasure particularly pure. She could see the totally open look of honesty and admiration on Jerome’s large clumsy stupid face alongside the impotent rage behind Felix’s set polite smile. Jerome liked both Felix Cramer and Tony Blythe and could not remember either of their names.

  More? There was more. Jerome turned to Mario, rather as if he were a secretary with access to the files. ‘What’s the one I’m on right now? It’s got a green jacket.’

  Mario shrugged like a secretary who was off duty, out at a party with the boss perhaps, but definitely not available for work after hours. Helen realised she almost loved Jerome. He had not only offended Felix for her by mistake, he had also demonstrated that he cared more about colour, size and shape than words. Then she saw Sally arriving. The words ‘My cup runneth over’ flooded into her mind and made sense for the first time. If Jerome bought the painting, she would not mind. He deserved it. And after all, she had only called it Self, not Real Self. That, she now realised, changed all the time and so could not be captured in paint or in life, nor in a book, come to that, and so would always belong to her, its true owner and only begetter, or to no one at all.

  She excused herself as Jerome was appealing to Felix to remind him of the title of the green book, and went across to welcome Sally. It was such a big brave thing for Sally to have done, to come to the show where she knew she was bound to see Felix, having gone to such extreme painful punishing lengths to avoid him at Christmas. Helen realised then that Sally must love her very much, though not, she hoped, as much as she loved Sally. After all, it was supposed to be about bringing them up and letting them go. It was both her privilege and her misfortune to love Sally too much and be willing to let her go. That was real love. Unfortunately it did not leave quite enough room for other things, such as sex, work, marriage or friends or making money, although she had tried to fit in as much as she could. Never mind, she thought wearily through the mist of joy, that’s the best I can do this time around. It’s a tall order. A lot to fit into one lifetime. She remembered the teachers at school telling her she was trying to take too many O-levels but she couldn’t bear to give up anything. Her favourite teacher had urged her on, but the headmistress had said she ran the risk of not doing anything properly. At the time she had been angry and scared, not knowing whom to trust, secretly believing both were right because they spoke for opposite sides of herself. Maybe I’ll do better next time, she thought now, being older and wiser and more at peace with herself.

  Sally was with an Indian boy who had his arm round her. Helen could see how supportive he was as clearly as if Sally had hoisted a flag. She hugged Sally and shook hands with the boy.

  ‘Mum, this is Jamal Mitra,’ Sally said. ‘He’s in one of my seminar groups.’

  The boy had an honest, intelligent face that also managed to be quite private. Helen could see him casting about for something to say that was polite, truthful, appropriate and unpretentious, without revealing too much of himself or demanding too much of her. He was obviously a person of integrity.

  ‘I like your work,’ he said. ‘It’s so cool.’

  She smiled and said to Sally, ‘I’m so happy you came. You’ve made my day.’

  Sally said, ‘How could I miss your big night?’

  * * *

  Inge stood outside the gallery gazing in. The posters announcing ‘HELEN IRVING RECENT PAINTINGS’ seemed like a deliberate insult, although at least she had not dared to change her name to Morgan. Inge felt wounded by Helen’s success: everywhere she looked she saw only happy couples. God, was it not enough that the cow had stolen her husband, that she already had the daughter Inge had always wanted? Did she have to be a successful painter as well? Did Felix and Elizabeth have to be on her side too? They were laughing and talking with a red-bearded man and a dark beautiful boy, for all the world as if they were a happy couple. The whole gallery seemed full of pairs and she was excluded; she was almost pressing her nose to the glass, like that wretched child she remembered from her youth when she curled up all alone and read fairy tales to herself, knowing her father was dead, killed on the Russian front, and her mother had to be nice to people so that the two of them could stay together and be safe, because there was no one else to take care of them both.

  It was cold here too and she was playing with the idea of going in to get warm and give everyone a nasty surprise, like the wicked fairy at the christening. She knew no one ever checked if you had your invitation to a private view and she couldn’t think of anything more fun than making the cow fall asleep for a hundred years, preferably longer, but she was afraid she herself would just end up looking silly and feeling small and Richard would be very angry with her, or, worst of all, he might not even notice. God, it would be humiliating to walk in and not be seen, although why should she mind so much, when he had scarcely seen her for years even when he was looking at her? Still, it would be oceans worse if it happened publicly in front of the cow. That was obvious.

  All the same, she felt wretched, shivering with cold and the knowledge that shortly she would either have to go in or go home. She even imagined she could hear someone telling her to move along because she was obstructing the highway, or loitering with intent. Inside the gallery, behind the glass, they were all having fun, talking and laughing and drinking, while she was freezing and dying for a glass of wine. Then she saw Richard moving across the room and going to join the cow, who was making a big fuss of her daughter. This was too painful to watch and so she turned away before anyone could notice her.

  * * *

  ‘Say, who’s the little match girl?’ Jerome asked Magdalen.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe she’s a bag lady.’

  ‘She looks kinda interesting. Does Helen do portraits?’

  * * *

  Felix had seen Inge. For several very long minutes he had been frozen with horror, but more than that, baffled that she should persecute him like this. What had he ever done but give her harmless pleasure? It was hardly his fault she was obsessed with Richard. It would be quite obscene if she barged her way in and embarrassed them all. Helen would think he had done it on purpose to get his revenge over Sally, and Elizabeth might even suspect there was something going on, while Richard… well, that didn’t bear thinking about. The whole thing was too ridiculous: Inge had never behaved so stupidly before, or at least he had never noticed her hanging around any of Helen’s previous God-awful exhibitions that Elizabeth had always forced him to attend. Elizabeth, with her back to the window, was still being charming to the Italian, and Felix’s face muscles ached from smiling at the bloody stupid American who couldn’t even remember the name of one of his best detective stories, and Felix was damned if he was going to remind him. It was really too much to see Inge of all people suddenly breathing on the glass in such a menacing way. He was too old for shocks like that. It was unfair. More to the point, it was absurd.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Elizabeth, ‘let’s have a look at the paintings.’

  ‘You amaze me.’ She turned to the Italian, smiling graciously like a society hostess. ‘I’m afraid my husband’s a bit of a philistine about modern art.’

  He was incensed by the injustice of it. He liked plenty of decent painters. He liked Francis Bacon and Lucien Freud and David Hockney. He even liked John Hoyland and John Piper. He was liberated: he had tried his best. He had been dragged round art exhibitions for years. It wasn’t his fault that he was better at words and music, and it was bloody ridiculous to be attacked like this in public by his own wife just when he most needed support. He felt betrayed. He had seen the malicious glee on Helen’s straight face.

  ‘That’s what we came for, isn’t it?’ he said, aware of sounding like a sulky child and hating it.

  Elizabeth excused herself and they moved away, threading their way between the people, who were mostly standing with their backs to the paintings. Felix’s main co
ncern was to get Elizabeth away from the window as fast as possible. ‘Well, I think they’re lovely,’ she said predictably.

  ‘You could have stayed at home and thought that.’

  ‘They’re full of light and space and they’re all about living in the city but still keeping a quiet place in your head where you can examine your emotions at your leisure.’

  ‘God, you’re a cross between Pseuds’ Corner and the critics.’

  She waved her catalogue at him as if she had discovered a great secret. ‘No, that’s what it says here, but I think it’s true anyway.’

  They went on walking and looking, Felix still trying to draw her attention away from Inge and Sally.

  Elizabeth suddenly announced, ‘I think we should buy one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m serious. I really like them and you know how hard up she is. How about that one?’ She peered at the title, Breathing Space. ‘Yes, I like it, and we should support our friends.’

  Felix was shocked beyond measure. All the paintings looked alike to him. It seemed a very easy way of making money, painting overlapping beige rectangles for ever and ever and somehow getting people to take you seriously. It didn’t compare with the slog of inventing characters and plot and making it all come alive on the page. Now that really was a conjuring trick and God help him if he forgot how to do it. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever known.

  ‘Have you looked at the prices?’ he said. ‘Maybe you could just buy the title.’

  Elizabeth pointed to a red dot on the next painting. ‘Look, that one’s sold already.’

  ‘That’s only that idiot Yank trying to fill up his bathroom. No wonder Yank rhymes with wank.’

  ‘Maybe he’s not such an idiot, maybe he’s a shrewd investor. You don’t get rich by being an idiot and rich people like to hang on to their money. You’ll look jolly silly if you stop me buying now and Helen gets to be world famous.’