As the damp air crept into the room and stirred the stagnant warmth Bland reminded himself to make plans for this coming winter. He had left a factitious prolongation of the summer behind in Nice; here it was November, and London was at its most characteristic, its citizens already obedient to the folly of Christmas, longing to be diverted in a year which had been disastrous for all, not only for himself. With this thought came a feeling compounded of despair and reassurance: if he was out of the race, at least he had fought the good fight. Blessings, it seemed, had once again to be counted, although the exercise brought him no joy. Dutifully he reminded himself that he was more than adequately housed; he was clothed and fed; he was fit, and healthy, and relatively wealthy; and although he might not positively appreciate any one of these attributes, tied as they were to the indisputable fact of his age, he was well aware how desperate his life would be if he had had to rely on a pension and lived in some distant undistinguished street in a remote part of town, far from the comforting amenities to which he was now accustomed.
He had seen such streets in the course of his long Sunday excursions into the suburbs, excursions on which he could not persuade Putnam to join him, for after their lunch together Putnam would settle down happily at home to watch an ancient film, while he, Bland, would take a bus to Hammersmith or Camberwell, eager, anxious even, to see how ordinary people, the people with whom he was most in sympathy, were getting on. In reality there was no sign, either of such people’s happiness or unhappiness, for the streets were deserted, and it was only on his way home, walking through the park, that he found a little animation, the Asian families out in groups, the tiny tired children, the self-conscious runners, sweat darkening the backs and fronts of their T-shirts, the imperious women throwing sticks for overexcited dogs. Was this where they all were, the undistinguished suburbanites with whose like he had grown up? He had retained a fondness for small communities, or rather for some enhanced idea, some fantasy, of such communities; he cautiously watched soap operas on television, but the characters were all too glossy, too healthy, too young, to satisfy this odd almost painful atavism, this reluctant love for people whom he had almost certainly loathed as a boy, when forced to eat their meals and listen to their conversations and submit to their manners, customs, and habits.
Putnam understood this, of course, although Putnam was free of this melancholy, which in truth was not really melancholy but rather a longing to be comforted, to be at home, in a home quite different from the home he had fashioned for himself, to be gathered in. Putnam understood this curious state but was not in sympathy with it. Putnam had lived quite contentedly in the present and had urged Bland to do the same, but it was precisely the present that now gave him cause for concern. On this dark quiet day he had a moment of panic, wondering what on earth he was to do with himself. He even thought of telephoning Louise, whose unvarying quietude he had always connected with a certain undefined feeling of homecoming, but it was Saturday, not Sunday, and he was unwilling to depart from established tradition. She would be there on the following evening, as she had never failed to be in all the years. For this reason alone he could almost persuade himself that he still loved her. The fact that he always trembled on the verge of such a conviction and never quite succumbed to it had something to do with Louise’s own lack of imagination, but more perhaps with his own feeling that he did not want his life to end in this way, quietly and modestly and uncomplainingly, that if he did so he would be an old man within a year, whereas some part of him, an undeveloped part no doubt, was still waiting to be ignited, consumed.
If he were honest—and he was always honest—he feared old age, not merely for itself but for its humiliations. For how much longer could he contemplate the possibility of making love to a woman, without immediately wondering whether he could face the embarrassment of undressing in front of her? These things could be managed, he knew, but at the same time he knew that it would not be given to him gracefully to manage them. All in all there was nothing further to be said on this matter; he was elderly, if not yet old; he was as dignified as he knew how to be, and he must manage the rest of his life as best he could. And if he could not face the prospect of the end when it came he had the sleeping pills which his complaisant doctor had prescribed. They were good for two years, he had managed to ascertain, and in his mind he gave himself two years in which either to flourish or to be overcome by habit or by disappointment. The saving grace was his lucidity: he would know whichever of the two conditions presented itself, and what he would do to confront either one.
He had to come to terms with the fact that there was no consolation. He was an unbeliever: the comforts of religion had been reported to him, but they had sounded more like torments. The idea of being overtaken by unearthly bliss, by secret communion, was profoundly disturbing, like an intimation of madness. The example of the religiously minded, like the repellent Rogersons, had distanced him for ever. Nor did he feel moved to seek succour on his own account; he preferred a modest stoicism, which he saw as essentially secular. This meant a scrupulous attention to the tasks of every undistinguished day, and the good conscience that he occasionally felt at the end of such a day. Art was different, particular, separate; there was no possibility of tying it in to some vague impulse towards love. Art, and by this he meant painting and literature, music rather less, perhaps, stirred him with intimations of a world beyond his own small world. Great ideas, noble themes, opened up his mind and his heart. He went to libraries and museums as others might go to church. And he came away bemused, impressed by otherness, and grateful for the tremendous and no doubt painful energies that went into the fabrication of such artefacts, grateful too for his own tender responses. He could not share, but he could apprehend: that was enough for him. Some days he could only observe, but even these observations, such as a careful student might manage, caused him to experience respect, a respect mysteriously unavailable in other circumstances. He regarded himself as an unregenerate twentieth-century man, unlikely to be redeemed by last-minute revelations, or indeed by any revelations at all.
He took his unopened bag into the bedroom, checked that Mrs Cardozo had put fresh sheets on the bed, and went over to open another window. Already he was conscious of the lack of air, both in his inner and his outer worlds. He told himself that his brief excursion had done him no good at all, had merely unsettled him, whereas the task in front of him was to make the best of already easy circumstances, and be thankful that when he declined, as he undoubtedly would, there would be no witnesses to what would be his physical disgrace, that he could mop and mow without shaming any close relatives, for he had no relatives, having been the only son of a couple so feckless that he often wondered at his own mild equanimity. His long training in contained patience had been learned at his mother’s knee, and at his father’s too. For this he could not blame them, for the faculty had served him well, until now, that was. Again he felt tremors of some distant restlessness, which, as he knew so well how to do, he now disarmed by some sort of action, trivial though it might appear. To him it was a strategy which had long proved useful in moments of frustration; he would have recommended it to any young person, a son or a nephew, had such existed. As none did he was forced to benefit from his own advice. He would run a bath, he decided, make coffee, have a quiet half-hour with The Times, then stroll to Selfridges Food Hall to buy something interesting for lunch. He had taken off his watch and was loosening his tie when to his astonishment the telephone rang.
His first reaction was one of alarm; it must be Louise, and she must be unwell, or in trouble of some sort. When he heard the delicate but decided voice he was unable to identify it; simultaneously he was aware of relief that it was not Louise and uneasiness that his bath was filling.
‘Mr Bland?’
‘Bland speaking.’
‘Do forgive me for troubling you, Mr Bland. It’s Mrs Lydiard. From upstairs, you know, the fourth floor.’
‘Of course, Mrs Lydiard. May I ju
st ask you to excuse me while I turn off my bath? I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Mrs Lydiard, he reflected, laying down the receiver. Was she that rather handsome woman with the silver curls and the tall narrow body, always so well dressed, whom he sometimes crossed in the lobby or met at the lift? If so, then he approved of her, as he approved of all women who continued to fly the flag, decking themselves out bravely for a visit to the shops, never to be encountered in less than perfect order. He approved all the more of Mrs Lydiard inasmuch as she appeared to live alone, like himself, and did not seem to have been driven mad by it. He had never seen her in the company of a man, although there might of course be a bedridden husband upstairs. Somehow he doubted it. Mrs Lydiard, for all her careful glamour, had something resolute about her, as if there were no one to share in the mighty task she faced in keeping herself afloat. She was brave, of that there was no doubt. He had no idea of her age, having never given much thought to the matter. He supposed she might be the same age as himself, or a few years older. With women it was difficult to tell. These flats served as an unofficial retirement home for the elderly. She appeared embattled, largely because she gave an impression of having taken the matter of her own survival in hand. Lonely, he supposed, but dismissed the thought: the matter did not concern him, and in any event he was not disposed to lament the loneliness of others, having enough to cope with in the matter of his own.
‘Mrs Lydiard?’ he said once again into the mouthpiece. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I am most dreadfully sorry to bother you, but I don’t quite know what to do. There’s a young person sitting on the stairs outside my flat. A young woman.’
‘Have you asked her what she’s doing there?’
‘Of course I have. She says she’s come to stay with the Dunlops. But the Dunlops don’t live on this floor. They live on your floor, don’t they? I thought it rather odd that she didn’t know where their flat was.’
‘Has one seen her before?’
‘Well, I never have. But there’s no reason why I should have if she’s a friend of the Dunlops.’
He was as vaguely aware of the Dunlops as he was of Mrs Lydiard, easy to greet, just as easy to dismiss from the mind a few seconds later. She was called Sharon and he was called Tim: this much information had been imparted when they had asked him to keep their spare keys. ‘We’re both so mad we’re liable to lock ourselves out for the night,’ the girl had explained. She in fact had allocated to herself the privilege of being mad; the husband seemed by contrast rather orderly. He was aware of Sharon Dunlop only as a pair of feet thundering down the stairs every morning. She was a fairly successful free-lance journalist. Her husband followed her more sedately, but still rather noisily, a little later. He was a director of a small company somewhere south of the river. As neighbours they were acceptable. They sometimes asked him to water their plants when they were away and were duly appreciative when he did. He had been touched to receive a Christmas card from them the previous year, wishing him the compliments of the season in a large and looping hand. Minutes later they had thundered down the stairs, on their way out to a party, or to parties, for he had been aware of a very late return, somewhere around four in the morning, just about the time when he woke briefly before succumbing to that irresistible warm sleep that presages the dawn.
‘She said she was suffering from jet lag,’ Mrs Lydiard’s voice went on. ‘Apparently she came here straight off the plane. America, she said. The West Coast. Quite a nice sort of girl. Nicely spoken. But I don’t like to ask her in. Silly of me, I know.’
‘If she says she’s staying in the Dunlops’ flat she must know them better than we do. What worries me is that the Dunlops might be away. I saw them just before I left, and they didn’t mention that anyone was coming to stay.’
‘I think it’s all right. She seems quite above board. It’s just that … Oh, I know you’ll think me silly, but she is rather carelessly dressed, like they all dress these days, with those jogging shoes, you know …’
‘Trainers.’
‘That’s right. And she seems to have no luggage. Just a nylon holdall.’
‘I’ve just come back from France myself,’ he said, as mildly as possible. Already he regretted leaving Nice so precipitately. These petty matters hardly concerned him. At the same time he saw his quiet day slipping away from him. And his bath was getting cold.
‘I mean, and I hope I’m not being too silly, but don’t you think it sounds a little unusual?’
‘That would depend on how well she knows the Dunlops.’
‘She says they’re old friends. She says they said she could stay in the flat whenever she’s in London.’
‘Whether they’re there or not?’
‘So she says.’
‘Well, I don’t think we can interfere with their arrangements.’
‘But if she’s sitting on the stairs that must mean that the Dunlops are away, Mr Bland.’
‘Yes. They do tend to go to America at about this time of year. She probably saw them while they were all there. The fact that we weren’t told about any arrangement they might have come to is neither here nor there. I wonder they didn’t give her a key, though.’
‘Yes, I thought that odd.’
‘Of course they may not have another key to give her. I have their spare keys. They sometimes ask me to post on their mail when they’re away, although they didn’t this time. But of course I’ve been away myself.’
‘Oh, I see.’ In Mrs Lydiard’s dwindling tones he could sense a growing lack of conviction. There was a brief silence.
‘Where is she now?’ he asked finally.
‘Still sitting on the stairs. I don’t quite like to ask her in, you see. I dare say I’m being silly, but living alone …’
‘Why don’t you bring her down here? If she says the Dunlops invited her I can give her the keys, and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘No, I don’t. But we can’t have her camping out on the stairs. And strictly speaking she’s the Dunlops’ problem, not ours.’
‘Oh dear, I don’t like it. And Hipwood won’t like it, you know.’
Bland was well aware of this. If anything it made him more determined to take matters in hand.
‘Why don’t you both come down and have some coffee with me? We can introduce ourselves, find out a little more about her, and if possible persuade her to go somewhere else.’
‘What a good idea! So very kind! Shall we say five minutes?’
‘Five minutes will be fine.’
When the telephone was at last silent, he went into the bathroom, drained the bath, then, with no time even to change his shirt, he retied his tie, and slipped his watch back onto his left wrist. In the kitchen he filled the kettle, measured out the coffee, and put three cups and saucers onto a pretty japanned tray. He wished he had some biscuits: he was suddenly powerfully hungry. Almost immediately the doorbell rang.
Mrs Lydiard had arrayed herself for this informal visit in her usual finery. As was proper she had dressed as if for the street, in a navy skirt, a navy and white jacket, and a red wool shawl, the fringed end of which was flung bravely over her left shoulder. By contrast his other visitor was disarmingly pale, untidy even, but perhaps only by comparison with Mrs Lydiard’s vividly made-up face and pearl ear studs. He had an impression of heaviness, of dullness, although her appearance was nondescript. She wore the usual uniform of jeans and a denim jacket, her feet encased in the grotesquely large shoes. He thought that divested of all this she might be more appealing, but it was impossible to say. Beneath her clumsy clothes she might be any shape at all. The face did not detain him; he was aware of a closed down-turned mouth, undistinguished rather straggling brown hair. The skin, which was very white, was flawless: that much he noticed. The general impression, however, was indecisive; she might be any young person of her kind, without distinguishing characteristics. Her presence was tiresome. Something mus
t be done about her, evidently, but he had already decided to do the minimum that was permissible in the circumstances.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, a shade too heartily. ‘I can offer you a cup of coffee, and then we’ll decide what … what to do. George Bland,’ he added. ‘And you’ve already met Mrs Lydiard.’
‘Katy Gibb,’ she stated, offering him a remarkably small white hand. ‘What a charming flat.’
It seemed an odd thing to say on such short acquaintance, but then the whole situation was unusual. When they were seated with their coffee, he used the authority conferred on him by years as Head of Personnel to find out more about her. Yet for some reason he felt inhibited from asking his usual questions (Age? Income? Last address? Names of two referees?); she was not, after all, and perhaps regrettably, an employee.
‘I’m surprised Sharon didn’t telephone you,’ said Miss Gibb. ‘This was all fixed up when we met in New York.’
‘You flew in from the West Coast, I think Mrs Lydiard said.’
‘That’s right. But we met in New York. I went there to see her before she flew on to wherever her sister lives.’
‘Florida.’
‘That’s right.’ She made a face. ‘Ghastly plastic place. I was on a quick trip to New York, and we met up there. Wasn’t it lucky? That’s when we fixed up about my staying. She said she’d ring you, but you know Sharon.’
He was aware of an inconsistency in what she was saying, and also in her manner of saying it. The girl’s voice contained a drawl that was almost patrician. This, however, was not constant; he had the impression that it could be mustered on certain occasions, when she was angry, for example, as she clearly was now. He registered this, but decided that her feelings were nothing to do with him. From time to time there was a certain American overlay to her pronunciation. He wondered what Professor Higgins would have made of her.
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