Edith felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to crepitate. She had told herself as much, many times, but had been able to dismiss her own verdict. Now she recognized the voice of authority, as if she had heard an illness confirmed, although she had almost succeeded in persuading herself that she was only imagining the symptoms.
‘Do you really want to spend the rest of your life talking to aggrieved women about your womb?’ he went on, inexorably.
‘I really don’t think I have much of a womb to talk about,’ she said, with an unhappy laugh.
‘Oh, you would become gloomy about it in due course. In any event, I doubt if anyone’s bears close inspection.’
‘Tell me,’ said Edith, after a pause, ‘you don’t by any chance do psychiatry as a sideline, do you? Since the electronics industry leaves you so much spare time?’
‘What you need, Edith, is not love. What you need is a social position. What you need is marriage.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘And once you are married, you can behave as badly as everybody else. Worse, given your unused capacity.’
‘The relief,’ she agreed.
‘And you will be popular with one and all, and have so much more to talk about. And never have to wait by the telephone again.’
Edith stood up. ‘It’s getting cold,’ she said. ‘Shall we go?’
She strode on ahead of him. That last remark was regrettable, she thought. Vulgar. And he knows where to plant the knife. Yes, writing in my room leaves me free to be telephoned; who knows what might happen if I went out? And suddenly she longed for such solitude, like a child who has become overexcited at a party, and who should have been taken home, by a prudent nurse, some time ago.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, catching her up. ‘Please. I don’t want to pry. I know nothing about you. You are an excellent woman, and I have offended you. Please forgive me.’
‘You are sadistic,’ she said, pleasantly.
He inclined his head. ‘So my wife used to tell me.’
‘And how do you know that my capacity for bad behaviour is unused? That is a mild but definite form of sexual insult, you know. Less well publicized than bottom-pinching or harassment at work, but one with which quite a lot of women are familiar.’
‘If your capacity for bad behaviour were being properly used, you would not be moping around in that cardigan.’
Edith shot ahead, furious. To contain her anger – for she could not find her way down to the lake unaided – she tried various distancing procedures, familiar to her from long use. The most productive was to convert the incident into a scene in one of her novels. ‘The evening came on stealthily,’ she muttered to herself. ‘The sun, a glowing ball …’. It was no good. She turned round, searching for him, listening for the steps which should be following her and were not, and feeling suddenly alone on this hillside, in the cold. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
‘I hate you,’ she shouted, hopefully.
A steady crunch of gravel announced the reappearance of Mr Neville. When his face came into focus, Edith saw that it was wearing its usual smile, intensified.
‘You are coming along very well,’ he said, taking her arm.
‘You know,’ she said, after ten minutes of silent descent. ‘I find that smile of yours just the faintest bit unamiable.’
His smile broadened. ‘When you get to know me better,’ he remarked, ‘you will realize just how unamiable it really is.’
8
‘Dearest David,
‘Astounding news! Mrs Pusey, that pinnacle of feminine chic, that arbiter of taste, that relentless seeker after luxury goods, that charmer of multitudes, is seventy-nine! I know this because she had a birthday two days ago and we were all invited to celebrate it. Premonitory rumours that something was afoot had reached me earlier in the day; as I was going out along the corridor I heard cries of delight and surprise emanating from the Puseys’ suite, while a veritable miasma of scent (a different sort) seemed to billow out almost to the head of the stairs. While I stood on the steps outside the hotel, I could see a boy emerging from a van with an arrangement of flowers which looked positively bridal; I thought no more about it, although had I worked it out I would have realized that nobody would have sent flowers to Monica or Mme de Bon-neuil or myself, and that only left the Puseys. Of course, Jennifer might have a boyfriend somewhere, and the higher reason suggests that she must have, but somehow it seems unlikely. I think she is the sort of girl who will never leave her mother. I have met many such daughters. Penelope, you might be surprised to know, has refused offers of marriage because in her opinion few of the men she meets come up to Mother’s exacting standards, of which I have heard so much. Penelope quotes Mother as the final authority on every subject, and sometimes I envy her this certainty, this piety. I wish that I had had a mother who handed down maxims on tablets of stone, and who was never without a wise saw or a modern instance. I never knew my poor mother to do much more than bark with derision. And yet I think of her as my poor mother. As I grow older myself I perceive her sadness, her bewilderment that life had taken such a turn, her loneliness. She bequeathed to me her own cloud of unknowing. She comforted herself, that harsh disappointed woman, by reading love stories, simple romances with happy endings. Perhaps that is why I write them. In her last months, she lay in bed, wearing the silk peignoir that my father bought her on their honeymoon in Venice, not caring, perhaps not noticing, that the lace was torn, the pale blue faded to grey, and when she raised her eyes from her book, her eyes too were faded from blue to grey, and full of dreams, longings, disenchantment. My mother’s fantasies, which remained unchanged all her life, taught me about reality. And although I keep reality in the forefront of my mind, and refer to it with grim constancy, I sometimes wonder if it serves me any better than it served my mother.
‘But all this is by the way. I went out for the day and when I turned up for dinner that evening all was revealed. The dining room had emptied after the bustle of the weekend and was reduced to a paucity of numbers which spelled out “end of season” for anyone who had an instinct for such things. Even the waiters seemed to have given up and could be seen talking among themselves. Monica fed her first course to Kiki quite openly and nobody seemed to care. Mme de Bonneuil, who eats very quickly, sits silently between courses, smoothing the tablecloth with her hands. I was three quarters of the way through my sweetbreads when I was aware of a slight commotion in the doorway, and there I beheld Mrs Pusey being led in, laughing and protesting, by M. Huber. It was clear that this was no ordinary occasion. Not only was her table decked with flowers (the ones I had seen delivered that morning) but Mrs Pusey had scaled heights of dressing up that put the rest of us to shame. To be quite truthful, I did not think that she had quite brought it off. Her midnight blue lace was surmounted by a sort of spangled jacket, obviously extremely expensive; this in its turn was enlivened by several strings of beads, pearls, gold chains, and even a rather beautiful lapis lazuli pendant. Her hair had been re-gilded, and her nails were flawlessly pink. I have to say that she looked quite splendid, in a baroque sort of fashion. By that I mean that either she appeared out of context or the rest of us did. It seemed to me that the verdict was in the balance only for a brief moment. After that, it began, imperceptibly, to go in Mrs Pusey’s direction. Of course she willed it so, but there is always some sort of consensus in these matters. And in that crucial moment the consensus was somehow secured. Waiters darted to pull out her chair; menus were flourished in front of her; champagne produced for her inspection. Mme de Bonneuil watched all this quite impassively. Monica rolled her eyes heavenwards.
‘You must understand that we were not prepared for any of this. We were all in our mid-week, fairly subdued, evening wear, saving the one “best” dress for Friday, and the second “best” dress for Saturday, and something agreeable but appropriately understated for Sunday. Inmates of institutions quickly learn the rules. I was wearing that green dress which
you have always disliked, safe in the knowledge that you would not be here to dislike it. Within minutes of Mrs Pusey’s arrival, I could see why you disliked it, and resolved never to wear it again. Monica was particularly put out because although she always looks very beautiful, on this particular evening she had managed not to: perhaps her black dress made her look too thin and also too pale. The shadows cast by the ivory knobs of her cheekbones made her seem ill, doomed. Mme de Bonneuil was also in black, but then she always is; I think she has two or at the most three black dresses of an ageless, shapeless, timeless, and indeed fashionless type into which she changes every evening. I would be quite unable to describe these garments to you in detail, largely because they contain no detail. But I have to say that she always looks entirely correct. She looks as a woman of her age should look, and I dare say the same could be said of Monica and myself.
‘Once these reflections had died down I realized that Jennifer too had made an effort. Indeed it was Monica’s rather too eloquent grimaces that stimulated me into casting a glance in Jennifer’s direction. What I saw was somewhat of an eye-opener, if you will permit the vulgarity. To celebrate her mother’s birthday, Jennifer had attired herself in pink harem pants, teamed, as they say in the fashion mags, with an off the shoulder blouse. She too had been to the hairdresser, who had done her proud; shining blonde waves, redeemed from their earlier artlessness, had been drawn back into a kind of top-knot, leaving two short ringlets bobbing in front of her ears. I had not noticed how plump she was. They both are, really. But they carry it so well that one hardly notices. Anyway, they made a brave sight. Slightly bizarre, perhaps, but that may have been because the rest of us were so subdued. The thought of all the effort they had put into their preparations made me feel quite faint with exhaustion. And they are on holiday! And there was practically nobody there to take any notice of them! Except for us, of course, but we could hardly be thought adequate to the occasion, having no visible passports to this garden of earthly delights. I think there was a moment in which we felt this, and it cast a shadow over the proceedings.
‘But Mrs Pusey, for whom I was beginning to feel something like pity, horror, compassion, is an old hand at this game. Glasses of champagne were delivered to Monica and Mme de Bonneuil and myself, and then we all had to drink her health, and there was a certain amount of bobbing up and down and nods and becks and wreathèd smiles, most of which were cast about by Mrs Pusey herself. Monica and Mme de Bonneuil, more stoical about this sort of celebration than I am, drank stolidly, although Mme de Bonneuil raised her glass in a rather charming slow gesture before draining it. And then, when it seemed as if the entertainment were over, and the event duly noted, Alain and another boy in a white coat wheeled in a trolley on which there reposed a cake of such splendour that even Mme de Bonneuil looked impressed. M. Huber was quite beside himself with pride. Mrs Pusey laughed, and hid her face in her hands, and even applied one of her elaborate lace handkerchiefs to the corner of one eye, as more champagne was poured into her glass. Jennifer expertly supervised the cutting and distribution of the cake, despatching waiters to all our tables with chocolate-laden plates. This time we had to raise forks in acknowledgement. It was absolutely delicious.
‘And of course we could hardly leave Mrs Pusey on her own after dinner. For the first time in living memory, all the guests took their coffee together in the salon. It was not an altogether homogeneous assembly, but Mrs Pusey, her lipstick slightly smudged in the general effervescence, appeared not to mind. Mme de Bonneuil, who could hear nothing, and who was used to doing her duty, or perhaps simply to doing what was expected of her, sat it out gamely, smiling from time to time in the direction of Mrs Pusey or nodding kindly at Jennifer. She struck me, on this occasion, as a creature of some nobility, for she was far from home, far from genuine reasons for celebration and, I should judge, a stranger to such elaborate games of make-believe. Monica, though occasionally winking at me when she thought no one was looking, joined in with rather more enthusiasm than I would previously have given her credit for; indeed, she showed how well she could play the social game when she tried, although there was a satirical intention hovering over her every remark. When she went a little too far in her general teasing, I noticed that she became the object of Jennifer’s level scrutiny. But Monica’s genuine interest was aroused, as I knew it would be, must be, by Mrs Pusey’s clothes, and soon they were on almost equal terms as they exchanged the names and addresses of dressmakers: both hit on the same one, although this was not immediately evident, since Mrs Pusey described her as “my little woman”, while to Monica she was “a chum of mine”. For a harmonious moment peace was restored, as they engaged in a cross-fire of brand-names that spanned the entire continent. Gucci and Hermès, Chanel and Jean Muir, The White House and Old England, were just a few that I recognized. At this point Mme de Bonneuil, who had perhaps endured as much as she thought was expected of her, heaved herself out of her chair, raised her stick in farewell to Mrs Pusey, and rocked her way out of the salon. “Poor old soul,” said Mrs Pusey, in what seemed to me to be a loud voice, although of course Mme de Bonneuil could not hear.
‘We kept it going, though realistically the party should have broken up at this stage. You know how difficult it is to sustain an occasion when all the attention is being sucked one way; again I noticed the Puseys’ curious refusal of mutuality. Behind their extreme pleasantness there lies something entrenched, non-negotiable, as if they can really take no one seriously but themselves. As if they feel sorry for anyone who is denied the possibility of being a Pusey. And this, of course, is, by definition, everyone. I wonder if Jennifer is ever to marry. On which outsider will descend the supreme accolade of becoming an insider? How will he be recognized? He will have to present impeccable credentials: wealth equal to theirs, or, if possible, superior, a suitably elevated style of living, an ideally situated residence, and what Mrs Pusey refers to as “position”. All these attributes will come before his physical appearance, for Jennifer might be led astray by that into making a hasty judgment. My feeling is that the chosen one will be agreeably but perhaps not emphatically masculine; he will be courtly and not too young and very patient and totally indulgent. He will have to be all of these things because if he is to be a match for Mrs Pusey’s vigilance he will have to spend a great deal of time with her. With them both. In fact I see Jennifer’s married life as being an extension of her present one; simply, there will be three of them instead of two. The only rite of passage will be the wedding, and as this will be seen primarily as the pretext for buying more clothes its ultimate significance will be occluded. This man, Jennifer’s husband, will occupy a position equidistant between the two of them, on call in both directions. He will perforce be the man of the family, but he will not be a Pusey. And in any event, were they not perfectly happy before he came along? Were not their standards of excellence confined to themselves? How could he possibly justify any suggestion of change?
‘I have no feeling that Mrs Pusey is ever going to die. With some people (I know them well), the shadow of their death precedes them; they lose hope, appetite, viability. They feel the meaning of their lives draining away, and they recognize that they have lost, or never attained, their heart’s desire, and they give up. In the eyes of such people one reads dreadful recognition, the ultimate self-knowledge: I have not lived enough and it is too late to redeem myself. But Mrs Pusey’s beautiful materiality would seem to preclude such ideas, thoughts, premonitions, whatever one cares to call them. Mrs Pusey, having secured for herself the good things in life, has no intention of letting them go, and why should she? She knew from the outset what some unfortunates never learn; she knew that the best is there to be taken, although there may not be enough to go round. One should congratulate her on her perspicacity. Anything else one feels is probably no more or no less than sour grapes.
‘ “But it’s your birthday,” cried Monica, who was evidently following the same train of thought as I was. “Now which one, I
wonder?” This Mrs Pusey tried not to hear. (In fact, at this point it occurred to me that she might be a bit deaf. Almost certainly, now I come to think of it. Those monologues, which take no account of anyone else, which are impermeable to anyone else’s opinion – perhaps these are the characteristic of someone who cannot, for reasons of vanity, admit to deafness.) “Darling,” she said to Jennifer. “Do go and ask Philip to join us. He knows we don’t stand on ceremony.” At which Jennifer, her face once more rosy and blank, trotted over to Mr Neville, who had somehow concealed himself while these celebrations were taking place but who was now obliged to surrender his plans for the evening and join us.
‘Monica, however, was not to be deflected. “Come along, now,” she insisted, in a playful tone which nevertheless brooked no argument. “I’ll bet you just can’t face the fact of being sixty. Is that it? Well, you don’t look it.” Mrs Pusey laughed. “Age is relative,” she parried. “You’re as old as you feel. And sometimes I feel as if I’m still a girl.” Her voice shaded off into artless wonder as she pronounced these words: to us, her audience, she seemed to be hesitating on the brink of womanhood, amazed at the cornucopia of riches which the world had to offer her.
‘ “But you’ve got Jennifer,” said Monica, rather unkindly, I thought, and so, evidently, did Jennifer, who scrutinized her with that same level look, a look which made her seem much older than … Than what? Perhaps the champagne was making me feel tired, perhaps I was tired already, but suddenly I had the uncanny feeling that this was all for show, that everything was a pretence, that this had been a dinner of masks, that no one was ever, ever going to tell the truth again. I wanted you then, David, very much. But you were not there. Only Mr Neville was there, enjoying himself hugely. Mr Neville, I should explain, is a connoisseur of the fantastic, an intellectual voluptuary of the highest order.
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