After half an hour he pulled over at the top of a hill and switched the engine off. ‘This do for a minute?’ he asked. ‘Only I have to be chary of the petrol, the patients depend on it.’
There was something intimate about sitting side by side in the car with its associations of lovers’ lane, or perhaps the back seat of the cinema. The window was already open, but out of shyness I wound it down to its fullest extent. On either side of us lay the open spaces of a sports field, and at the foot of the hill the rooftops of south London stretched away towards Kent and the coast. I had a sudden flash of sensory memory, of Pevensey – the clear coastal light, the salty tang of the air, the sound of the sea on the shingle, the texture of the sheets and of Matthew’s skin on mine—
‘What a wonderful view,’ I said.
‘I think so.’
I could tell from his voice that he was not looking at the view at all, but at me.
‘Pamela—’
‘Yes?’
‘I just want to say how much it means to me to be with you. I hope we can go on doing this – seeing each other.’
‘Of course,’ I said. I looked at him now. ‘As often as you like.’
‘And you?’ He took my hand. For a shy young man, his own hand felt warm and firm, not in the least tentative. ‘Do you like?’
I nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Because I realise,’ he said, keeping hold of my hand, ‘that you have been through some of the most difficult times a woman can go through, and I don’t just mean in the past couple of weeks. I’d understand if you told me to go away, I really would. But if you don’t, I’d like to – well – keep you company . . .’
Suddenly, he seemed a little flustered, as if he might have said too much, and released my hand. Even after such a short while, I missed its warmth.
‘I can’t think of anyone whose company I’d rather keep,’ I said. As we drove back to my mother’s house we were quiet, but the air sang with our unspoken feelings.
He stayed for tea, and endeared himself further to my mother by carrying the tray and eating two slices of her cake with evident appreciation. When he rose to leave it was a testament to her approval that she allowed me to show him out.
On the doorstep, he said: ‘I forgot to ask – did you decide whether to let your name go forward for that other job?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did. And I am.’
‘Well done!’ He beamed, and leaning forward kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’m sure you won’t regret it. Next Wednesday?’
‘Next Wednesday it is.’
As I rejoined my mother I felt sure she must be able to see, like a postal stamp, the place where he’d kissed me. But all she said was: ‘If this keeps up I can see I shall have to get back to baking once a week.’
That night in bed I was overwhelmed by such a mixture of emotions – sadness, elation, longing, remorse, hope – that I wept. I wept long, but not inconsolably. My sleep, when it came, was deep and peaceful and I woke feeling shiny and fresh as a rain-washed morning in the sunshine.
‘Mr Ashe will be coming to the party,’ said Christopher Jarvis. ‘I know that you’re not able to join us, but he suggests that if he were to arrive early, you and he might be able to have a talk before you leave.’
I agreed to this arrangement, although I was secretly disappointed not to be meeting Ashe sooner. I was worried in case my resolve, given too much time, would waver; and I would have liked to be able to tell Alan about it when I saw him on Thursday. But there it was; I would have to possess my soul in patience.
As for Dorothy, she seemed to have abandoned, or forgotten, any interest she might have shown in my social life. Of course she had only been teasing; she had no way of knowing that she was right, or that a little persistence now might have yielded results. Still, it was frustrating to have to keep silent on the matter just when I was in the mood to talk about it – she would have made such a wonderful audience.
Then I remembered that I did not have to endure the frustration. I had available an equally good listener, who had the added advantage of being an old friend. On Monday night I telephoned Barbara, and arranged to meet her the following evening for high tea at our usual Corner House; or at least what had been ‘usual’ during my time at Osborne’s. It was a little odd to be going back there now, and I was jumpy, half expecting to bump into the dreadful Max, who would doubtless bear a grudge against me to his grave.
I arrived first, and so had the doubtful advantage of being able to see Barbara as she arrived, before she saw me. She was drably neat as ever, and terribly thin. The collar of her jacket stood away from her neck, and the jacket itself hung on her like a sack. I entertained the brief, unworthy thought that the tailors wouldn’t continue to want an employee who looked so poorly tailored herself.
But she was plainly pleased to see me. ‘Pamela – I don’t need to ask how you are.’
We touched cheeks; hers was very cold. ‘And you?’
‘Not bad. Shall we order? Then we can talk?’
We both chose an omelette, with tea for her and coffee for me. As soon as the waitress had gone she lit a cigarette.
‘So what are they feeding you on up there in Highgate? Caviar and strawberries?’
I laughed. ‘Not exactly.’
‘The last time we spoke,’ she said, with a hint of reproof, ‘your poor father had just died.’
‘I know. I shouldn’t be so happy.’
‘I don’t see why. I’m sure he’d be delighted.’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘Come on then, out with it.’
I told her about Alan – the sort of person he was, my feelings about him, and what he had said to me. By the time I’d finished we’d seen off the omelettes and were on a second round of tea and coffee. Barbara listened, as always, intently and impassively.
‘I can tell you don’t need my opinion,’ she said, ‘but for what it’s worth he sounds like an all-round Good Thing.’
‘He is.’
‘And I’m so glad.’ She put out a hand and squeezed my forearm. ‘I really am.’
I knew her too well not to detect the small shadow in her face and manner, but I couldn’t so much as guess at its cause. I had never known how she spent her time outside those rare occasions when we were in each other’s company. She was not so much secretive as uncommunicative. As time went by it had dawned on me how privileged I was to have been her confidante all those years ago. I was a poor sort of friend to her but then, I asked myself, did she have any others?
Perhaps not, because suddenly, and with typical abruptness, she said: ‘I said I wasn’t bad. That’s not true. I’m in a rotten state.’
‘Oh, Barbara . . . Why? What is it? Can you tell me?’
‘I can, but we shan’t be much further forward. I’m just not happy. Unhappy, and lonely, and –’ she frowned – ‘paralysed.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t seem able to change anything. I don’t know how. I’ve lost the use of my will the way some people lose the use of their legs and arms.’
I was dismayed by her hopelessness; not just for her but for myself, as though the condition were contagious and might infect me.
‘Of course you haven’t,’ I said. ‘You may feel that way, because you’re down, but you only need to change one thing – one small thing – and you’ll begin to feel better. You’ll realise you can change other things too.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re talking as if I’m like you, and I’m not.’
‘We wouldn’t be friends if you were. I rely on you, Barbara! You’re my touchstone.’ I hadn’t known this till I said it, but it was true.
‘You don’t say?’ She managed her dour, sceptical smile. ‘You do pretty well, considering.’
I ignored this. ‘How are things at work?’
‘The same as ever. I’m invisible. I’m that funny old thing—’
‘Barbara, you are not old!’
‘That funny old thi
ng who comes in every day rain, shine or head cold, who never takes holidays, and who gets the job done.’
‘I bet you’re more precious than rubies.’
‘Precious?’ She turned away to consider this, the hand holding her cigarette masking her face. ‘It would be comforting to think so, but no. It would be very nice to be precious . . .’
‘Everyone is to somebody,’ I said, and immediately regretted my fatuous complacency.
‘I’m certainly not, to anyone. I’m not complaining, it may well be my fault, but it’s a fact. And to be fair I’ve been perfectly content with the situation till—’ She bit off the end of the sentence and I heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘Actually, Pamela, I do know why.’ She turned her face towards me and for a second or less I glimpsed the bottomless, black depths of her misery. My hands flew to my own face to cover my dismay.
‘I do know why,’ she said again. ‘I want my baby. My baby was precious, and I would have been precious to him. I want him and I miss him.’
‘Oh, Barbara,’ I whispered, ‘my dear, dear Barbara!’ But I was at a loss, and she was drifting down, and away from me.
‘I did a terrible thing . . . terrible.’
‘You did what you thought was best,’ I said.
She swung her head back and forth, not in denial but like an animal trying to rid itself of pain. ‘I gave away my life.’
The waitress came over and asked if we’d finished. I told her we had, but as she stacked our things on a tray she gave Barbara a funny look. It wasn’t her fault, she was only a young girl, she couldn’t know that right here, among the teacups and toast crumbs and warm, inconsequential chatter, a person’s world was unravelling.
I felt fiercely protective of Barbara. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I’ll take you home.’
I expected at least a token refusal, some semblance of unwillingness, but when I took her arm she rose and followed, and stood next to me like a child as I paid at the till. Out in the road I hailed a taxi, banking on there being enough money between us to pay for the fare.
When the driver asked, ‘Where to?’ I realised I had no idea.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Barbara – where do you live?’
She gave an address in Waterloo – not too far away, thank God – and I relayed it to him. In the back of the taxi I held her hand, sandwiched between both of mine as though we were about to play a child’s game, except that hers felt heavy and lifeless.
‘You mustn’t think of going to work tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Do you promise me you won’t?’
‘What else would I do?’ she asked.
‘Rest. Go to the doctor.’ I realised neither of these alternatives sounded especially tempting, but they were all I could think of. I simply didn’t know what she would normally do for pleasure or what her life consisted of. ‘Now I know where you live I’ll come down and see you tomorrow evening,’ I added, though my heart sank. It seemed every time my life took off, something leapt, caught my tail feathers, and dragged me back down. But that, I reprimanded myself, was no way to look at the plight of a friend.
As we went up the Strand and round the Aldwych she seemed to rally a little and even displayed something of her old sardonic humour.
‘I feel like a drunk being taken back after a hard night. You don’t need to do this.’
‘I want to.’
‘I’m sorry, Pamela.’
‘Don’t be. I’m so glad you confided in me. I want to do anything – anything – I can to help.’
‘You’re a brick, but I’m a lost cause.’
‘I am not a brick,’ I said, a touch impatiently, ‘I’m your friend. And it’s not like you to be defeatist.’
She looked out of the window, saying so quietly that I only just heard: ‘You don’t know what I’m like.’
When the taxi pulled up, Barbara was sufficiently recovered to offer to pay half, and I didn’t demur. The house was a YWCA hostel, about as homely and welcoming as a commercial hotel. When we’d settled up, she said: ‘I’m sorry, Pamela, but I’m not inviting you in.’
‘It can’t be that bad,’ I said. ‘If it is, you shouldn’t be here.’
‘It’s perfectly adequate. And as the oldest inhabitant I get preferential treatment – no curfew and extra marmalade.’
I couldn’t tell if she was joking. ‘I’d like to see where you live.’
‘This is it. Honestly, thanks for coming down here, but I’d rather keep things separate.’
It felt as though, having been vouchsafed a glimpse of her desolation, a heavy door was being slowly but firmly pushed shut in my face.
‘What can I do?’ I asked. ‘There must be something, surely.’
‘No. Really I have these bad moments and I’m just sorry that this one happened when it did.’
‘I’m not. We’ve known each other for so long, you don’t need to protect me from these things.’ This sounded pretty hollow, even to me. Over the years, in spite of what I knew, I had hardly been the model of the concerned friend. I tried desperately to think of something that would, however belatedly, lodge in her mind and convince her of my seriousness.
‘Barbara!’ I grabbed her hand, which was unresponsive as before. ‘Barbara. You’re precious to me.’
She left her hand in mine for a second as she looked at me, trying to gauge the weight of this declaration.
‘If you say so.’
‘You are. You are.’
‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t tell whether the thanks were genuine or mocking. With her hand on the door, she said: ‘Don’t come down here again, will you? I shall be fine now. Let’s meet up again in a while and you can tell me all about everything.’
‘All right . . . Barbara—’
‘Promise?’
There was a fierce panic in her voice which subdued my better judgement. ‘Promise.’
‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodnight.’
I was the only person at the bus stop. As I waited I couldn’t help thinking of Barbara, also alone, in her room in that bleak hostel. Some friendship! I very nearly turned back, to knock on her door and demand entry. But we had entered into a pact, and I was bound by it.
The next day was fine and I was due to see Alan in the evening. The shadow cast by my meeting with Barbara, like any shadow, grew shorter as the morning went on. Stoic though she was, she was only human. Over the years she had reached an accommodation with her past, but it was only to be expected that from time to time that accommodation would break down. What she had said to me was clearly true – she was used to these lapses, and could recover from them quickly. Why, by the time she said goodnight she had regained her composure and was once more, typically, keeping me at arm’s length. She knew where I was. What more could I do?
It was appalling how easily I soothed my conscience and set Barbara and her troubles aside. There were plenty of other things to think about. Edward Rintoul, never one to pass up hospitality, had returned to attend the party. The small fourth bedroom on the first floor which, Dorothy informed me, had been used as a boxroom since Christmas, was being brought back into commission for his benefit.
Dorothy had spent most of the previous day clearing it, under the supervision of Amanda and with her not very effective assistance. She complained to me about this when I went to the kitchen to make coffee for the Jarvises and myself.
‘They never say no, that’s their trouble. They say yes, and then wonder how they’re going to manage it. All very well and fine, but it’s muggins here who has to do the work.’
‘They’re very hospitable,’ I pointed out. ‘They don’t like to turn people away.’
Chef, who was setting out cold meat and cheese on platters for lunch, had obviously had enough of Dorothy’s grumbling for one morning and took the unprecedented step of agreeing with me.
‘And a good thing too, or we might be out of a job.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ snapped Dorothy. ‘You think those two want to do a hand’s turn for themse
lves, visitors or no visitors?’
‘Stop bellyaching, girl.’
‘That’s rich, coming from you – trailing in here with a face like a slapped arse day in day out!’
‘You watch your tongue, young lady, I don’t have to put up with that kind of talk!’
I was witnessing a boiling-over of feeling that threatened to be extremely messy, and stepped in to avert it.
‘I’m sure they appreciate what you – all of us,’ I added tactfully, ‘do for them.’
Dorothy’s answer was to heave a seismic, put-upon sigh. She and Chef exchanged a look in which venom and mutual understanding were equally mixed. But in spite of her moaning I knew she liked being here, and would have found most other households not nearly exciting enough for her lively curiosity, quick intuition and gossipy tongue.
‘Anyway,’ I went on. ‘Suzannah won’t be here much longer.’
‘Don’t I know it. And it’ll be no picnic clearing up that attic.’
‘Let’s hope the Jarvises like the mural.’
‘They’re in it, aren’t they?’ she said, as if that was enough. ‘They won’t care. People’d rather be in any picture than none at all, it’s like the papers.’
I thought it prudent to move the subject away from our employers. ‘Do you know where she’s going?’
She shrugged. ‘Search me. Mr Ashe has been calling, sniffing around, perhaps he’s dragging her off to his lair.’
‘She is going to paint his portrait. She told me.’
‘There you are then. Good luck to her. You wouldn’t catch me cooped up alone with old monster-chops, I can tell you.’ She shuddered theatrically. ‘He gives me the creeps.’
That evening, Alan and I went to the cinema. Halfway through the film he put his arm round my shoulders, and when we walked down the street afterwards we held hands. At the end of the evening we kissed, and I wanted it never to end.
I didn’t think of Matthew until I was in bed, and then only briefly. My thoughts were no longer tinged with remorse, but wholly peaceful. He had been a blessing then, and he still was. As I fell asleep I framed the words to him in my head, like a sort of prayer: ‘Thank you.’ The next morning I woke feeling buoyant, carried on a wave of happiness from the evening before, and excited anticipation over my meeting with John Ashe. I fretted a little over what to wear – not that there was a great deal of choice – but put a stop to that by telling myself that this was nothing more than a job interview, and I should look neat and businesslike. Besides, something told me that John Ashe would see right through any affectation. Whatever he had approved of in me, it was unlikely to have been my fashion sense.
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