She seemed to have decided—but to have decided a long time ago, in one shrewd final assessment—that Harriet had exhausted her potential, having done well for herself. She had measured her friend’s rise to comparative affluence and had remained unimpressed, remembering too well their childhood status, assuming that Harriet’s relative security was as much as she could expect, or indeed deserve. To exploit this condition seemed to Tessa entirely natural, much as she would demand a discount if she had a friend who worked in a shop. She could be amiable enough with her child in this way: any other dispensation would have had her raging with frustration. Therefore it was in everyone’s best interests that Harriet should bear the brunt: in Tessa’s opinion it made sense all around. Freddie she did not concern herself with. Freddie was Harriet’s business. Good luck to her. She probably needed it.
Jack, in all this, remained elusive, but not entirely unaccountable. Occasionally, and always unexpectedly, he came home—home being England in general rather than Beaufort Street in particular. He preferred, in fact, his own flat, where, he said, he could sleep undisturbed. As he seemed always to arrive in the middle of the night there could be no logical objection to this. In any event he tended to regard Tessa as someone whom he had known in the past, and with whom he had no real connection in the present, apart from the little girl, of whom he appeared to be rather fond. All this Harriet learned from Tessa on mornings following the rare nights when Jack could be persuaded to stay for any length of time in Beaufort Street; on such mornings Tessa would arrive late with Lizzie, too late for the child to be taken to school, Dawn having been sent ahead with Imogen. For this reason further malfeasances would be added to Jack’s list of misdemeanours, the gravest of which was that he seemed to prefer the company of his daughter to that of his wife. On such occasions Tessa had an awful allure, the mystique of the excitingly mistreated woman, frustrated, no doubt, but undeniably, enviably, aroused. Contact had been made with a man who was in some ways a complete fantasy: his very disdain for the ties of home and family made him seem legendary, not quite human, someone read about, something read about, as in a saga, or a poem, his brilliant looks—the tall thin body, the wary face, the penetrating gaze—conferring on him the status of a hero, haunting battle-fields, perpetually bringing the good news from Ghent to Aix … Once, to Harriet’s astonishment, he called for Lizzie. The little girl rose slowly, as if from a sleep, at his appearance, moved towards him uncertainly, as if such a glorious destiny could not be vouchsafed to one as humble as herself.
‘Say goodbye and thank you to Mrs Lytton,’ he said, hoisting Lizzie on to his shoulders.
‘Oh, she calls me Harriet, she knows me so well … Won’t you stay for a drink? I’m sure my husband won’t be long …’ For it seemed vital to prolong the contact, to engage him, to divert him, he who must be diverted, yet what could she offer in the way of diversion apart from the sort of polite conversation that respectable matrons acquired in the course of their uninteresting days, anecdotes about the children, enquiries after Tessa, as if she had not seen her that morning … No, it was not to be thought of, the embarrassment was not to be borne. She was a dull woman, she knew, but now she wished to hide the fact, and hide it from this particular man. Suddenly the long journey she had accomplished from her own childhood to this position of safety, this comfortable place, seemed nugatory, worthless. Given a choice (but had there ever been a choice?) she would have chosen someone like Jack rather than someone like Freddie, one crowded hour of glorious life rather than the age without a name which her present life resembled. She was relieved when he turned to go, Lizzie on his shoulders; she could not have stood the strain of not pleasing him for much longer. She was interested to see that Freddie, encountered at the front door, seemed gratified by Jack’s presence, although normally he lost no opportunity to condemn him. They had fallen into the dull habit of condemning exciting or scandalous people. And Immy, arrested by the sight of Lizzie on the glamorous stranger’s shoulders, proved unexpectedly fractious when it was time for her to go to bed, and for the first time in her life refused to embrace her father, having discovered, in fact, that men can differ enormously, and that some are more attractive, more desirable, than others.
HARRIET DREAMED that she had returned from the bookshop in Cork Street, where she had worked before her marriage, to an empty house, which seemed to be large and spacious, and which she vaguely recognized as a slightly distorted version of the house in Wellington Square. As she was in a state of some anticipation she assumed that she was about to be married, though not to anyone she knew. The anticipation was mixed with a certain flippancy, which was not in her nature: she merely knew that she had finished working for her living and was about to be taken care of again, as she had not been since she was a small child. Wandering round the dim and slightly neglected rooms of the house she wondered where her parents were, and at that moment they appeared humbly from what must have been the basement. She scarcely recognized them, so old had they become. And so menial! Her mother wore an apron, her father was in shirtsleeves, like a butler and housekeeper, off duty. It occurred to her that they must be employed as servants here, and she felt uneasy, and decided to go out. But her mother called her sharply to order: stay here! The implication was that her outings were frivolous compared with the labour undertaken by her parents. One thing worried her excessively. Where was Freddie, now that the time had come for him to protect her, to defend her? Where was her absent bridegroom? She somehow knew that Freddie had foreseen all her flippant and disloyal thoughts—for they were there somewhere, although they had not inspired her to any infidelity—and, stricken, had simply turned away, leaving her alone in a house which was empty except for parents who were now gaolers, and who could not be left because they had grown monstrously old.
When she awoke she wondered what on earth this could mean, since as far as she knew her parents were in good health, and an undoubted Freddie was lying in bed beside her. She felt uneasy, as if others might be able to understand the dream, which was obscure to her, or as if it might indicate trouble to come. But dreams, she knew, concerned themselves with the past and the present, with the unfinished business that prolonged itself from day to day. What concerned her was not her own adulterous frame of mind (which was so faint and so unfocused as to be almost innocent, a function of girlhood, even of virginity, although it required responsible adulthood to bring it into being), as Freddie’s absence. This absence she effectively construed as deliberate disappearance, as if his heart were so broken that he had simply walked away. But why should Freddie’s heart be broken? He was here, well enough, if a little tired, with his wife beside him, in his own house, which was as well run as she could manage with a small child—two small children—to look after. And the children too were doing well; Immy was never less than well, and Lizzie too was doing better now that her eyes were straightening out and her hair beginning to grow.
Of course she wished that they could get on better, for she always felt a slight anxiety when they were together, after school, an interval which seemed to bring out Lizzie’s obstinacy and Immy’s petulance. She could understand Immy’s impatience with Lizzie: the child was cold, slow, prudent, resistant to the claims of others. Lizzie consented to be in this house only until she was old enough to do otherwise, ate her bread and butter simply in order to gain the strength she knew she would need, waited with grim patience for her mother to come and collect her, waited with tremulous but concealed hope for her father to reappear and bear her away in triumph, thus vindicating her entire existence. And her disappointment was so stoically controlled that it gave her the air of someone much older, and already a slightly difficult character. One could understand Immy’s desire to challenge, tease, or even punish this child, who became maddeningly slow as Immy became excited; she even became slightly shrill, with frustration, when Lizzie sat down obstinately to read, her fingers in her ears, refusing to play with Immy, who would inevitably accuse her, cry, become over-excite
d, slap and even punch the smaller child until gathered into Harriet’s arms and comforted. One could understand Immy very well, of course one could. What was more difficult to understand was Lizzie’s dislike of Immy, which resembled the cold dislike of one woman for another. Lizzie, had she not had to struggle with the formless feelings of childhood and her ignorance of her own entitlements, would have felt contempt for the exquisite Immy, her tears and smiles, her scenes, her caprices. Already Immy was adept at imposing her whims, might or might not respond to her mother’s blandishments, or her father’s greeting. Sometimes, when Freddie came home in the evenings, she would pointedly ignore him, elaborately expressing lack of interest, be intent on dressing a doll, whom she would address in sharp and knowing terms, while Freddie slowly put down his briefcase, kissed Harriet, and with an air of fatigue sank down into his chair in the drawing-room. No amount of cajoling, then, would bring Immy out of her mood.
They were reluctant to chastise her, feeling that something as rigorous as natural selection was at work: if Immy despised her father it was because he was old, plain, tired, because there was a heaviness and a staleness about him which the child found unappealing, even horrifying. There was justice in all this. Yet the hurt she inflicted was disproportionate, and sometimes Freddie became morose. Sometimes he left the drawing-room and went upstairs to his study, preferring not to remain in his daughter’s presence and bear the burden of her dislike. Of course, thought Harriet suddenly, in the middle of the day, when the dream came back to her, she has broken Freddie’s heart. That was why he would not stay with me, even in the dream. The thought was so terrible to her that she immediately suppressed it, but at the same time wondered what she could do in order to beguile her daughter into a better mood.
For Freddie was too old, she could see that, and too graceless to be accepted by the child as a worthy progenitor. And Immy was too conscious of her status as a beauty and a prize to allow herself to waste her attentions on so faded a figure. Her mother she tolerated, retaining there a certain babyishness: she would run to Harriet, nestle on her lap, lay her head on Harriet’s shoulder, and disappear into a dream of her own. Immy, my Immy, Harriet would think, with a thrill of total and exclusive ownership. She even felt pride when the child did not reject her, felt at last worthy and valued, after the well-behaved and disappointing years. She suffered for Freddie, but was gratified at being favoured, so gratified that she made light to herself of her child’s caprices, thinking with pride that Immy would be prestigious as she grew older, and would never have to acquiesce in the choices made by others on her behalf. She was already exquisite, with a beauty of bone and colouring which would not disappear with childhood or adolescence. Her small face was white, with only a very faint flush of pink when she was excited or annoyed; her eyes were dark, her hair—her most beautiful feature—dark and silky, like her mother’s. The very small mouth could compress itself into a passion of refusal. ‘You know who she looks like?’ said her grandmother. ‘Why, me, of course.’ Merle and Hughie were ‘up for the day’, as they put it, ‘to take in a matinée’, when what they really wanted to see was Immy. The child accepted her grandparents, as if she were in some way aware of their earlier liveliness and approved of it, whereas what repelled her in her father was a certain resignation, a lack of virility. This, it seemed, she could not but despise.
For Freddie disappointment struck early, as if the reactions of a six-year-old, a seven-year-old, were the summation of a lifetime’s suspicions, as if the child had brought him to a self-knowledge which he would rather have forgone. He even begrudged his wife the caresses that came to her so carelessly, while Hughie Blakemore, who always seemed so like a child himself, appeared to have found a note of flirtatiousness which was a great success with Immy. I could never flirt, thought Freddie, even with Harriet, even with Helen, when I was so much younger. He was quite aware that he must appear unattractive to the child. He was wise enough not to reproach her: her mother, he thought, must do that, although Harriet, he could see, was almost abject … And the reaction was purely physical, which somehow made the whole business more painful. He had his dignity, of course, knew when to make himself scarce, knew too that he could provide the child with certain resources which, when she had grown older, would count for more than his appearance. I am too old, he thought. And her mother is too indulgent; strange how she does not see … The other child, Lizzie, kept away from him too, but then Lizzie kept away from everyone.
When Dawn announced her departure there were tears on both sides. ‘Must you go?’ begged Harriet.
‘I’ve been here longer than I meant to,’ said Dawn. ‘I’ll never get home at this rate. And I want to spend more time in Europe.’
‘There will always be a home for you here,’ said Harriet, kissing the girl. ‘You’re like a daughter to me,’ she heard herself saying, a remark on which she reflected with some surprise. Yes, she could be my daughter, and has always felt as if she might be. I am almost too old to be the mother of a little girl. ‘But how shall I manage without Dawn?’ she said to Freddie. ‘Taking the children to school and collecting them every day—I don’t know how I’m going to do it.’
She despised herself even as the words were out of her mouth, but Freddie took her seriously.
‘She must go away to school,’ he said. ‘As soon as she is old enough. Lizzie’s going, isn’t she? They can go together. Immy needs to be disciplined; you spoil her too much. And she’s getting boisterous—I don’t like it.’
She thought there was some rancour in him which dictated this course of action, but was forced to see the wisdom of it. She sometimes got headaches these days, when the children were at loggerheads, sometimes longed to take an untroubled walk in the park, where a precocious spring had brought on the daffodils with the crocuses, and put thick green buds on the magnolias. She knew her indulgence was too extreme but could not forgo it: it was her secret passion, the only one she had ever indulged. She also knew that if Immy went away she would come to treasure that indulgence, and the idea did not displease her. On another level she knew that Immy’s absence would allow Freddie’s self-esteem to repair itself. This too might be necessary. Therefore the idea did not seem too extravagant to her. ‘And we can take a decent holiday for once,’ said Freddie. Immy’s departure was fixed for a couple of years ahead, when she was ten: she longed for it. Lizzie, inscrutable, nodded when asked if she were looking forward to going away to school. There was no knowing what was in her mind.
‘Am I a bad mother?’ she asked Dawn, watching the girl pack. ‘Am I bad for Immy? She seems to me so delightful, yet her teacher says she is disruptive. I can see that she’s high-spirited, yet that’s what I admire in her—her energy. I don’t know where she gets it from. Freddie and I are, well, terribly ordinary.’ She chose the word with care, loyally aligning herself with Freddie in this ordinariness of which she so carefully spoke. On reflection she believed it to be the case, although knowing that sometimes she harboured extravagant feelings, wistful imaginings, longings for experiences not in her peaceable domain. ‘I have tried hard,’ she said regretfully, as if taking the measure of what she had not achieved.
Obliquely, Dawn said, ‘You should get out more. You’re too tied to the house. Immy’s okay. She needs a bit of discipline, that’s all. Did you see the way she bossed that boy about, the one she brought home the other day?’
But Harriet had secretly admired Immy’s imperiousness, a quality she herself had never possessed. It seemed as though Immy were developing the very gifts in which she herself was deficient, and, although she could see that this might cause a certain amount of disaffection, she thought that that very imperiousness might serve her daughter well in later life.
‘I shall miss her awfully,’ she went on, forcing herself to see a life, a house, without her daughter’s presence to enliven them.
‘You’ll see enough of her in the holidays,’ Dawn said. ‘She needs more distractions. So do you, as a matter of fact. The
re’s no need for you to stick around all day. Anyway, I’m off. Freddie’s been awfully good—did he tell you?’
For an envelope had been passed over, with a substantial cheque inside it. Harriet had not witnessed this, leaving it to Freddie, whose suggestion it had been. The occasional generosity of her husband still impressed her.
A diversion was now decreed for her, however. More of an obligation than a diversion, she was beginning to think, so rooted had she become in general domesticity, in contemplation of her daughter’s now foreshortened sojourn under her roof. The entity she now thought of as Mary-Pamela was to be in town—Mary and her husband home on extended leave, Pamela down on one of her visits to Harrods—and they were all to meet for one of those lunches which she thought of as a tradition, although they had necessarily been in abeyance while the children were small. ‘My treat,’ Mary had said, which made it more of an obligation. ‘Why are you sighing?’ asked Freddie. ‘You used to enjoy being with them. As long as you don’t bring them back here,’ he added hastily. He had always distrusted her female friends, assuming, not incorrectly, that they indulged in scandalous confidences. His mistrust was automatic: he thought he knew more about women than his wife did.
For this occasion, half dreaded now that it had come about, Harriet dressed carefully, thinking she looked older than she should, and said as much to Dawn.
A Closed Eye Page 9
