At work, severe, with her briefcase, she learned quickly. Removing her earring she made several telephone calls, including one to Lizzie. ‘If anyone asks I’m with you this weekend.’
‘Are you?’ asked Lizzie, startled.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then I don’t want anything to do with it.’
Immy replaced the telephone without comment. Such a prig, she thought. Do her good to tell a lie now and again. Just like everyone else.
‘So nice that you’re seeing something of Lizzie,’ said Harriet. ‘I always hoped that the two of you would become close friends. Not that we want to interfere in any way, darling, you know that.’
Her own state of mind was not always clear to her these days. She mourned the absence of her daughter from the house yet rejoiced to see her a citizen of the world, as she proudly thought of it, and waved to her each morning as she went off to work, although Immy rarely turned and waved back. She was aware of having too little to do, and at the same time felt increasingly tired. She saw few people, her life too occupied with thoughts of her daughter to afford much room for anyone else. She was vaguely aware of Miss Wetherby, lonely in her basement since Immy no longer needed her or sought her undemanding company; at least Miss Wetherby had the dog, she comforted herself. Freddie, she thought, seemed better, although she had never taken his indisposition seriously. She felt, above all, middle-aged, and was surprised that middle age was so problematic. She had thought of it as a time when the discomforts of youth resolved themselves, a blessed interval before the more acute discomforts of old age declared themselves. Wandering about the house in the empty afternoons, she was surprised by an amorphous longing, and a desire which she quickly banished from her mind, thinking it indecent that she should be subject to such feelings when she had a young daughter in the house. Desire, she was aware, was appropriate only to girls of Immy’s age, although, through weakness or selfishness, she was aware of a hope that Immy would remain untroubled until the ideal marriage partner came along. And even then … She did not care to contemplate the matter of her daughter’s sexuality, aware that the whole subject was taboo, as it had always been in her own case. And yet I suffered, she thought, as she must not. At least Immy seemed happy with Julian, although she changed the subject whenever Harriet tried to elicit what she felt for him. ‘I thought you might want to talk about him,’ she had once ventured, only to be told, ‘There’s nothing to talk about. We’re friends, that’s all. Don’t fuss, Mother.’ For she was Mother now, demoted, and, she felt, warned to keep her distance.
Lizzie, at her bookshop, inserting paperbacks into bags and handling change, determined to keep out of the way of all the Lyttons. She liked Harriet, a misguided woman, as she saw it, although kindly disposed, hardly noticed Freddie, to whom, however, she remained indebted for the afternoon at Covent Garden, high spot in a dreary childhood, and regarded Immy as dangerous. The danger stemmed from Immy’s lawlessness, which posed a general threat to her view of the world which she strove to make benign. She was not aware of loneliness so much as of endeavour: her future career as a writer, of which there was as yet no sign, would, she thought, in time validate her entire existence. Until then she would adopt—had already adopted—a regime which would steel her against rejection and disappointment. She ate a sandwich at lunchtime with her friend Cameron, an out-of-work actor also putting in time in the bookshop. Cameron was small, neat, and dynamic, and had a burning faith in Art, which embarrassed her. Apart from that he was self-centred, companionable, and appeared to find her unexceptional. She was grateful for this, listened to him gravely, nodded from time to time, and reckoned that once she went up to Oxford she need never see him again. This seemed to her the best way, the safest way; friends were a burden for which she had neither the time nor the inclination. Her own silence, her own solitude seemed to her entirely preferable. It was with relief that she entered the empty flat in the evenings; after eating her yoghourt and her apple she was free to read or to write in her diary. She had very little to confide to it, since her nature was neither expansive nor introspective. This posed a problem for some time, for without self-consciousness she was aware that her material was bound to be thin. Neither religion nor art kept her company; she read with horror that Flaubert, in the throes of Mme Bovary’s death scene, vomited twice. She vowed to herself never to allow such encroachment. She had a vision of a writer’s life as clean, economical, controlled. The lack of a subject bothered her until she remembered that she did not need to think about this matter until she was forty. In the meantime she composed a list of aphorisms and quotations, inscribing them in her diary in her beautiful italic hand. These, she felt, would guide her on her way. Aphorisms were hard, concise, unemotional. She liked their tonic effect, since they had to do with a stoical view of the world. She trained herself to be cynical although she still missed her mother, of whom she thought with pain and terror.
Her life was frequently a burden to her, and only a residual curiosity kept anguish at bay. By concentrating on the mechanics of the day, plotting her way from one hour to the next, eating, in so far as was possible, the same food at the same time, she managed to outwit an anxiety which had been in place for as long as she could remember. She supposed that this was due to her rootlessness; she had no conviction that a place was reserved for her in this world, lacked benevolent elders from whom she might have inherited some kind of grace or endowment, some indulgence, some love. She had been wary since earliest childhood, eternally on the lookout for danger, or for threats to an existence which she strove to make as circumscribed as possible, as if only by being inconspicuous would she be allowed to continue. Her one hope was to make her father proud of her, yet she knew that this was a romantic notion to which she must never confess. Her father, quite simply, was absent, eternally abroad; if he thought of her at all, as she supposed that he must do from time to time, it would be with a passing fond amusement. From him she had learned to keep her own counsel, for to embarrass him, or to be faulty in his eyes, would be unthinkable. She feared his disfavour, feared even to risk his disfavour, since she had seen the expression of distaste setting like a mask on his face when Elspeth abandoned her hard-won equanimity and began to plead with him, to accuse, to become tearful, to let her voice wander and become plangent … The horrors of those scenes had been a warning, as had Elspeth’s fugues. Waiting too long for Jack to fly in, sitting up too late, and then almost deliberately drinking too much whisky … And when he did finally arrive, tired, it was to be met with a list of grievances: he was selfish, thoughtless, an opportunist; he made use of her; she had given up so much for him; and of course he should marry her, should have married her long ago. Lizzie, sitting up in bed, put her hands over her ears at this point. In her horror of scenes and demands she resembled her father.
His approval was measured, not lavish. ‘Lizzie has strength of purpose,’ he had once said, and this remark had been an encouragement to her on many a lightless day. With her strength of purpose—acknowledged, and therefore an undoubted attribute—she might eventually find a place of her own, which she envisaged in a far distant country, where she might go about her business in peace, with no ugly eager voices to disturb her.
As a child she had been cautiously grateful to Elspeth for providing meals—which she remembered from her other life as being unreliable, irregular—and clothes, although these were haphazardly chosen. Money did not appear to be in short supply: there was a kind of housekeeper, a Miss Friel, who cooked lunch and prepared dinner, but who did not appear to like children. Any question Lizzie had asked her, while Elspeth was locked away in her study, typing, was met with the words, ‘Haven’t you got any homework?’ The house was largely silent in the daytime, apart from the noise of the typewriter, and there were strict orders that Elspeth was not to be disturbed. It was out of the question to bring home a friend, and anyway there were no friends, no one to whom Lizzie could entrust her life. In the evenings they watched television
, and then there was bed, which she learned to enjoy. In bed she could be herself, without the need to court anyone’s favour. With Elspeth she was on neutral, fairly silent terms, aware that although she was cared for, in a distant fashion, she was only of value as a hostage to whom her father was bound to return. The holidays were an ordeal. The house in Scotland was full of relations, with whom she never got on on any terms at all; guests came and went and she was supposed to look after herself, which she quickly learned to do. She did the same at Ramatuelle, where she spent the long summer break, and this was better, although there was no one for her to talk to except Donatien, the gardener, and his wife, Marie. In this way she improved her French, which was good. Her grandparents remained strangers, uneasy with her; she was aware of being an unwelcome reminder of something they would rather not think about. There was relief all round when they took her to the airport, and for half an hour she felt some kind of family solidarity. But really the only one she acknowledged as any sort of intimate was her father, and he was never there.
On the rare occasions when he was at home between assignments there was a sense of anticipatory excitement. When the car drew up outside the house she would be shut firmly in the drawing-room while Elspeth, her neat blonde face flushed, would greet him in the hall. Voices would reach her, but these too were unreliable, since her father seemed humorous or impatient and Elspeth too questing, too yearning. Dinner that evening would be briefly jovial, and then the two of them would disappear. She was aware that her father did not love Elspeth, and vowed at this time never to feel for a man what he was reluctant to feel for her, aware too that Elspeth counted on an eventual marriage, although this now seemed out of the question. Then he would inexplicably go out again, or perhaps simply go to the television studio, and Elspeth, giving way to the frustration which plagued her, would start drinking. She deliberately drank more than was good for her, which gave rise to a ragged uneven voice; Lizzie escaped to bed. Later, when her father returned, there was a scene of sorts, which she was careful never to witness. The next day she would leave the house early: there were never enquiries as to where she was going. She was aware that she was sensible, and that both Jack and Elspeth knew this. They had no fear for her, and so she had little for herself. Her loneliness she put down to boredom and idleness. Only her books gave her comfort.
She would catch the train to London, and had done so from an early age. Windsor had no charms for her; London was her real home. She would spend the day walking, and thus got to know the city well. When she was tired she would go to the National Gallery, and sit on one of the benches. She found a coffee bar in St Martin’s Lane where she could have a sandwich. Nobody asked her her business; London was beautifully anonymous. Occasionally there would be a visit to Judd Street, which she marked out as her future home. When she was old enough she would live there. In the meantime there was school and the proximity of Imogen Lytton, whom she took pains to avoid. This was not difficult; Imogen had a horde of scornful friends, and Lizzie, in her turn, was avoided. She avoided, too, the kindly overtures of Imogen’s mother, whom she perceived as well-meaning. She had early got into the habit of relying on no one; adults were broken reeds, too conscious of their own concerns to assist her in the immense unburdening which she felt, sometimes, as necessary. Somehow this would have to take place. Yet since no one was apparently interested she hit on the idea of becoming a writer, of finally having a voice which no one could ignore. Unfortunately she did not quite see how this was to come about, since concealment was bred into her. She looked forward to the day when she would be able to tell the truth at all times, for truthfulness was her uncomfortable companion. Her solitary days in London were her stratagem for not having to reassure her father that everything was all right, when she was aware of so many anomalies: the drinking, the raised wandering voice, her father’s answering burst of impatience, her own loneliness. She knew that he knew all this, but shrank from the task of burdening him further. Therefore she fell into the habit of taciturnity, which she instinctively knew he would appreciate.
At last her long apprenticeship was coming to an end. When she left school she announced that she was going to live at Judd Street. This brought few objections: she would be leaving home in any case to go to Oxford. The job in the bookshop brought her a little money, which she spent on two new pairs of jeans, a transistor radio, and food, which was meagre because it did not sufficiently interest her. Sometimes in the evening Cameron would call and take her out for a long walk, occasions on which he would talk and she would remain largely silent. He was kind, in an abstracted way, about invitations to the theatre, but she preferred not to accept, since Art, which threatened and appalled, might disturb her careful solitude. The telephone call from Imogen had upset her, since it adumbrated treachery, a fabrication not of her own making. She felt free, as she supposed her father must feel. She preferred to sleep on the couch in his study, with his car rug as a cover. Sometimes, on the couch, with friendly sleep on the horizon, and the radio for company, she was cautiously happy. Her happiness came from her conviction that she would now survive. The past, which she preferred to leave unexamined, receded. At times like these she thought that with the aid of her own specially fashioned resources she might make something of her life. Its beginnings had been problematic, disappointing. But now that she had got rid of everyone she might go on to better things.
A LIFETIME of inactivity had kept Hughie Blakemore in perfect physical condition. Slim, straight, if a little dry and jerky in his movements, he sat on the edge of a hard chair, his eyes, empty of guile, shining with the pleasure of providing tea for his daughter and her husband, and, perhaps, with the greater pleasure of registering the fact that his contemporary and one-time companion, Freddie Lytton, was an old man, heavy, inert, and possibly a bad colour. Harriet, glancing from her husband to her father, understood very well what the latter was thinking, and did not begrudge him his moment of pride. It was a feeling shared by Merle, proud, certainly, but also exhausted by this acme of healthy manhood, with his eternal unnatural youth, whom she had saved from possible dereliction and who had confined her life within crushing limits for as long as she could remember. The need to look after this fossilized boy, so agreeably good-natured, so loving, so submissive, had deprived her of the life she might have had as a mother, a grandmother. In both of these roles she had been largely absent, wishing for her daughter only viability, durability, financial security, and seeing in her granddaughter the fulfilment of these wishes, and the great changes they wrought on the human personality.
Harriet, she saw, had only reached the halfway mark of such a development; she was unfledged, expensive to look at, confident in matters of manners and appearance, but still timid, and, her mother saw, physically unawakened. For this fact Merle blamed herself; her husband, poor darling, was not worth blaming. His curious innocence exonerated him from all adult feelings. They had been ardent lovers once; in their little flat in Soho they had sometimes stayed in bed all day. The image of their rumpled bed, and the curtainless window, and the smell of coffee from the café downstairs came back to her sometimes, but not in the way of real memory, rather as something she might have seen in a film, long ago. More vivid were the images of Hughie, back from the war, his eyes empty, or restored to contentment, at home in the small back room of the shop, supervising the making of the tea. Memory, real memory, that brought a grimace to the lips, was Mr Latif, and his urgent and expert hands. She did not blame herself for the decision to escape at all costs, which somehow also involved the decision to sacrifice Harriet, although this last was a painful matter. She had found that her grief for her daughter, who had somehow been denied her real life, could be mitigated by anger, so that now she managed to feel genuine indignation when she saw in Harriet’s eyes something of the same benevolence that emanated, like continuous good weather in a boring climate, from her husband.
A woman had no business to look so empty of calculation, when she should be busy thinki
ng, planning ahead. A woman of Harriet’s age should not be spending time with her husband and her elderly parents when she could be in bed with a lover. A woman, if she had any pride, should have preserved that husband in better condition, or discarded him altogether. Merle had never much liked Freddie Lytton, although she had always seen him for what he was: a solid prospect, a sad man humiliated by his first wife, and in many ways an ideal husband for her docile daughter. The docility of that daughter, persisting, amazed her. Could she not see that she was bored? Or had she a secret? Merle, an adept at keeping secrets, thought not. Whatever had once, momentarily, brought a look of beauty to her daughter’s face had vanished, to be replaced by this premature calm. It was as if she had sacrificed whatever it was that had brought her to life. She is a fool, poor girl, thought her mother. I did the same, but I loved my husband, whereas Harriet never loved Freddie. At least Hughie repaid my efforts. We have not done too badly. He is a dear old boy now, whereas once he was a dear young one. Simply, he missed out on maturity, so that I never had the satisfaction of relying on a man’s strength, a man’s judgement. But he has done me proud, or I have done him proud: it no longer matters. He is more than presentable, so much so that women of my age envy me. And he sleeps like a child in our grand bed, and will never again be wakened by me. I could have done better, she thought, lighting a fresh cigarette, but I loved him. Still do, for that matter.
But Freddie! Who could be proud of Freddie, once so impressive in his incarnation as a captain of industry, but now so defeated, retired and unsought-after? There was no need, surely, to slump so in the wide armchair, head forward, legs apart. Did he not know how unwieldy he looked? Did Harriet not see this? And if she saw it why did she permit it? A man needed to be knocked into shape: almost any woman could manage this. But not Harriet, apparently; all Harriet cared about now was her daughter. Yet Merle, who had so little maternal feeling, could see that Imogen had already outgrown her mother, that she possessed all the calculation that her mother so signally lacked, as if the evolutionary process, so slow in Harriet, had suddenly speeded up, providing Imogen with a full quota of adult thoughts and feelings, had turned her into a keeper of secrets. Merle felt a different sadness when she contemplated Imogen, whom in fact they rarely saw. The girl was not interested in them, could not, moreover, be trusted to safeguard Hughie’s feelings when he laid before her the offering of his simple treats. At least Harriet had kept her sweet nature. Merle was not sure that Imogen had ever had a particularly good character. When she was a child her naughtiness had promised a kind of worldly success, allied as it was then to prettiness of a grand order. When that prettiness became beauty, and the girl had returned home from that school of hers, with different friends and ambitions, Merle could see what her character now contained was courage, boldness, ardour, and also something inordinate, to which she had no access, all disguised by a perfect mask, so pure that it was almost without expression.
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