Part of her sympathy with Mario was for his sorrowful anticipation of his empty afternoon. She knew how hard this must be for a man in retirement. In some ways it was fortunate that Henry had not had to endure this, had been in touch with his fellow directors even when confined to his room. Of those last weeks she preferred not to think. Sitting dry-eyed by his bed, she was at least grateful that she was up to the task. She had kept him company throughout the afternoons as he dozed; her wordless presence comforted him as no words could have done. In the course of those afternoons, the summer then as hot as this one was proving to be, her mind would wander, almost free of associations, as if with Henry she was embarking on the same uncharted territory. Even after his death this habit had proved impossible to lose. So that when she thought of Mario in his silent house in Parsons Green she would also be preparing to spend an afternoon not dissimilar to his. Not for Mario, as she imagined him, the torpor of an afternoon nap; not for her either. She would sit in her drawing room, the doors open onto the terrace, the sun flooding in, and reflect that she was in many ways a fortunate woman. This, however, was somehow only possible in the summer. In the winter, darkness seemed to gather almost as soon as she was home after lunch, and then indeed she did have to summon her strengths, exert her will to endure the dead time ahead of her. It puzzled her that she had so few duties, that all duties seemed to have come to an end with Henry’s death, leaving her idle, unoccupied, so unoccupied that others had no inkling of how she spent her days, imagining that she shopped and cooked as enthusiastically as they themselves did, or met friends in town, or went to galleries and concerts, spent evenings at dinner or cocktail parties where such matters were discussed. She no longer did these things, although with Henry she had travelled, had visited the museums of which he was so fond. It was in Munich, in the Haus der Kunst, that he had received the first warning of his malady. Prescient, although he had made light of it, she had got them back to London, and there, only six months later, he died. Goldmark had attended then, treating the matter as gracefully as Henry had; somehow they had carried it off. But she had been left unoccupied, with this habit of sitting idle in the afternoons, for all the world as if it were disloyal to spend the afternoons in any other way.
At first people had made an effort with her. They had telephoned assiduously, inviting her to their entertainments, but eventually her polite refusals had antagonised them. ‘She’s aged dreadfully,’ they assured each other, as if they themselves were eternally young. Maybe they thought they were; activity is beneficial in this respect. The cousins were the most insistent, and the most disapproving, and though it cost her something to disappoint them, it did so only for a little while. By this time she was immured in her own silence, as old Mario was in his. He was the same age as herself, exhibiting the same symptoms, outrunners of a possible greater age, yet they never overstepped the mark of their acquaintanceship, their brief daily contact. To do so would have offended them both. It was ordained that she would greet him as she entered, would eat her solitary meal, and would offer a few formal words before she left. Each knew that the other would go home to an empty house. Each knew that dignity was the best, indeed the only defence, not only against the weariness and disappointment of age, but against pity, which strangers—and almost everyone was a stranger now—of their munificence offered so unstinting a portion.
It pleased Mrs May to think of the dignified old man as she removed her jacket, smoothed her hair, and took up her position in her armchair, facing the open French windows, for her afternoon reverie. On this Monday the weather was still breathtakingly hot. She pitied those at work in the city, although at other times she almost envied them, remembering her own days as a highly efficient secretary, so anxious to be a model employee that she was unaware of how out of date she must appear. Susie Fuller’s insouciance was simply not within her competence. It never had been, she reflected, letting her head rest on the back of her chair, either in or out of work, either as a secretary or as a wife. It was only as a widow that she had managed to relax a little, yet even now she felt herself to be bound by certain rules, of observance, of behaviour, of formality. That was no doubt why she welcomed her quiet afternoons, as intervals in the great continuing task of keeping up appearances. She hoped that she never gave any sign that the task was wearisome. People of her age complained freely; their children sighed, not suspecting that they would do the same. The old man in the restaurant knew this, as she did, childless as she was. One should spare young people the spectacle of old age. But she had discovered that the middle-aged dreaded it even more, rejecting the comparison.
When the telephone rang she felt a brief spurt of alarm, as though she were only safe if she remained undiscovered. When she heard Kitty Levinson’s voice she immediately concluded that something dreadful had happened. For Kitty to break with tradition to the extent of telephoning on two successive days was without precedent. Her own heart trembled in anticipation of bad news. That was another thing she had discovered about old age: anyone’s bad news, anyone’s illness, had the same effect as one’s own.
‘Kitty? Is anything wrong?’
‘No, Thea, nothing at all.’
But there was an alteration in her normal tones that alerted Mrs May that Kitty had something difficult to say.
‘Is Austin well?’
‘Perfectly well. In fact we’re about to have visitors.’ She paused. ‘So we shall both have to be well, shan’t we?’
‘Visitors?’
‘Ann is coming over from America. You remember Ann, my granddaughter, don’t you?’
‘I remember her as a little girl, certainly.’
‘Well, she’s a big girl now, twenty-four. And she’s getting married! And she wants to get married here, in London, with us. Between ourselves, Thea, her mother isn’t up to it, and I understand that they don’t get on too well. There are younger children, apparently, not that she’s ever bothered to marry the man she’s living with. Partners, they call them nowadays, don’t they?’ She gave a little laugh, revealing tension. ‘As you know, we have no contact with Clare, nor do we want to see her again. After the way she treated Gerald …’
Here a great sigh threatened to disrupt the conversation, as it always did when Gerald, the absent son, was mentioned. Mrs May knew that, in this most delicate of matters, she was hardly to be reckoned part of the family circle, must never introduce Gerald’s name into the conversation, but only accede sympathetically to Kitty’s references. For Gerald was mysteriously taboo. All she knew, and this merely from Henry, was that Gerald had failed his parents, had most noticeably failed his mother; that after a perfectly satisfactory childhood, and a reasonable university career, Gerald had lost his head, married Clare, fathered a child, and to all intents and purposes disappeared.
‘He can’t have disappeared,’ she had reasoned with Henry.
‘He had a few medical problems’ was the vague reply. ‘He’s living quietly in the country somewhere.’
For the offence to Kitty was so grave as to preclude further enquiries. Clare had divorced Gerald and had left the child with Kitty and Austin, before taking both the child and herself off to live in America. This offence was added to the offence of Gerald’s virtual disappearance, for Mrs May had never encountered him, though Henry had.
‘He’s different from us,’ he had explained, again vaguely. ‘Likes the simple life. Living on a farm somewhere.’
‘Doesn’t he want to see his daughter?’ she had asked.
‘Not at the moment’ was the cautious reply. ‘Anyway, she’s in America.’ The whole subject was under a cloud.
If she thought of Gerald at all—and there was no reason for her to do so—it was as some sort of country gentleman, living in exile from all that Hampstead and his mother had to offer. She saw nothing blameworthy in this, although Molly had assured her that Gerald had broken Kitty’s heart. It was even more grave than this: Gerald was responsible not only for Kitty’s heart but for her nerves, which w
ere famous. Austin’s task in life, somehow handed on to Mrs May, was to prevent anything from upsetting Kitty. It was possible that she did not wish to see this granddaughter, certainly did not wish to reestablish contact with her erstwhile daughter-in-law. At the same time, Mrs May knew, Kitty liked to keep lines of communication open, always in the hope that a message from Gerald might miraculously come through.
‘So she’s getting married from here,’ Kitty’s voice went on, now and then broken by the deprecating little laugh, indicative of keen annoyance. ‘Grandma’s faced with the task of arranging the wedding. The silly girl doesn’t realise how long it takes to plan these things. They’re arriving at the weekend, Ann and David—that’s her young man. It’s not what I’m used to, Thea. Not the way we do things in this family.’
‘I can see that. It must all be quite a strain on you.’ For tribute must be paid to Kitty’s nerves whenever an occasion presented itself.
‘This is where you come in, Thea. I have a favour to ask.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Ann and David will stay here, unless I can persuade Molly to put David up. I don’t think he’ll be any trouble.’ David was dismissed, a mere accessory ‘The thing is that David’s bringing his best man with him. At least I assume it’s his best man. Ann merely said, “David’s friend.” I’ll be frank with you, Thea; we know nothing about him. We were wondering if you’d help out.’
‘I? How?’
‘Well, we’ve no room for him here, and I can’t ask Molly to take both of them, and you’ve got all that space …’
‘Wait a minute, Kitty. Are you asking me to give house room to a complete stranger?’
‘Best, his name is. Steve Best.’
‘His name is neither here nor there. I simply don’t want anyone in my flat, let alone an unknown young man.’
‘It would only be for a day or two. Until the wedding.’
‘And when is that?’
‘Next week, some time.’
‘That is more than a day or two, Kitty. And anyway it’s out of the question.’
‘I thought you’d be glad to help us out,’ said Kitty, her voice stiff. ‘After all, what are families for?’
‘What indeed?’
The question hung in the air between them. Mrs May knew what families were for: they were for offering endless possibilities for coercion. She had become aware of this as soon as she had entered Kitty’s drawing room for the first time, a nervous bride on Henry’s arm. At that time she had not understood why Kitty was so aggrieved, why Henry had to cajole and placate. It had all settled down, of course, but Kitty had never been averse to letting her hurt feelings show. They had won her many a concession, but from men. Mrs May was not of that number.
‘I thought you might be glad of the company,’ Kitty’s voice went on, now as mild as milk. ‘All alone in that big flat. Molly and I often wonder why you haven’t thought of taking a lodger.’ This was the insult direct, and was noted as such on both sides.
‘I have all the company I want,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything for your friend. I don’t want a stranger in my flat.’
‘Oh. Austin will be very disappointed. “Thea will help us out,” he said. I really didn’t want to ask you; it was Austin who insisted. “It’s too much for you,” he said. “You’ve got the wedding to cope with. I don’t want you overdoing it. If it’s only a question of a few days Thea won’t mind. After all, she’s part of the family …” ’
‘When exactly do they arrive?’ she interrupted tiredly. ‘And how long is a few days?’
‘Sunday or Monday, Ann said. Of course I’ll have to have everything planned by then. The caterers …’
‘No more than a week, Kitty.’
‘Of course not, dear. I knew you’d help out. He just wants a room to sleep in. I expect he’ll be with David most of the time.’
‘Steve Best.’
‘Yes. I know no more than you do. Of course it’s all massively inconvenient, I’d be the first to admit. But she is my granddaughter, and she wants to get married in London …’
‘That’s the bit I don’t understand.’
‘The poor girl wants a proper wedding, I suppose. Her mother takes no interest, probably can’t afford to. I know what this is about, Thea. I’m not stupid. Austin and I can provide for her in a way that her mother can’t. That’s why we’re being honoured with her presence.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Still, I couldn’t refuse. How could I? And of course she’ll need something to wear …’
‘I hope Steve won’t need something to wear.’
‘What?’ Tinkling laugh, flirtatious now. ‘Oh, I see. Your little joke. We’ve always appreciated that dry sense of humour of yours.’
‘No more than a week, Kitty.’
‘No, of course not, dear. And thank you so much; we appreciate it. We’ll see you at the wedding, of course. Austin was saying it’s been too long since we got together. Must go now. So much to do.’ Again the little laugh, the different timbre signalling that she had got her own way. ‘Goodbye, Thea. And thank you again.’
Mrs May replaced the receiver slowly, as soon as it was clear that Kitty had no more to ask of her. She was aghast at herself for the abrupt tone she had heard in her own voice, aghast at Kitty for manipulating her so shamelessly, aghast at herself for allowing herself to be so manipulated. Kitty was a monster, of course; this opinion was strictly private, not revealed even to Henry, but for once Kitty’s monstrousness was not the point, or not the whole point. Mrs May did not like what she had heard of herself, either when voicing her objections or when waiving them. She had heard a whole lifetime of polite refusals in that voice that strove to be so calm, so reasonable. A real woman would have laughed and said, ‘Really, Kitty, it’s out of the question. Why can’t he go to a hotel?’ Or produced a full agenda of visitors to prove that her spare room was occupied. But since Henry’s death, fifteen years ago, she had had no visitors, was known as a solitary, made no bones about the fact. Yet for all her solitariness, or her self-sufficiency, she lacked an overriding philosophy to help her deal with encroachments, incursions, and thus fell at the first fence. And it was not as if she even knew this person, knew anything about him. Her life did not bring her into contact with young people, and it was so long since she had been young herself. And were young people nowadays anything like the young person she had been, young only in age, hardly in requirements? One heard about drugs, raves. Even if he were as innocent as she had been, and that was unlikely, he would be an unwelcome presence. She would have to make rules, see that he obeyed them. And supposing he took no notice, saw her for the harmless old girl that she was, and took advantage? At the back of her mind was an archaic fear, a fear that went so deep that it suddenly seemed to her that her whole life had been designed to outwit it. Until now she had been successful. It took only one telephone call to bring her defences down.
Her values, she would be the first to admit, were entirely suburban. One ate plain food, was careful not to give offence, and stayed at home until one married. But these were the suburban values of her youth, when suburbs still knew their place. One did not accommodate random strangers without at least an introduction, or some sort of previous acquaintance. One rarely encountered wealthy matriarchs like Kitty; matriarchs belonged to a higher order of things, or were read about enjoyably in books. Mrs May knew that even now Kitty had forgotten her all too timid protests; they would have been brushed aside by the far more agreeable prospect of planning a lavish wedding. For it would be lavish, as all her entertainments were lavish, and she would have the wholehearted encouragement of Molly, who also knew a matriarch when she saw one, and behaved accordingly. The young people, Ann and David—but did Molly know what had been decided for her? And if she did would she object?—would be dealt with superbly, as if they had nothing to say for themselves. Gratitude would be expected of them at all times. The expenditure of the wedding would ensure this. The prepa
rations would be so dazzling that the merest hint of an objection would be silenced. Mrs May felt almost sorry for the girl, getting married in such circumstances. But having no resources of her own, or being presumed to have no resources, she would think the price worth paying. For what other reason would she decide to marry so far from home?
Everything these days seemed to be a matter of resources. Perhaps Ann was cunning, seeing her grandmother simply as one more-than-adequately resourced. In that case she would have to play her part. And whom was she marrying? Did this David have anything to say in the matter? Mrs May remembered Ann only as a recalcitrant child, with a will that might yet be adequate to Kitty’s. They were, after all, of the same stock. And Austin! Brought in to clinch the argument, as if no-one could oppose a man! Mrs May doubted that Austin had anything to do with it, although she could not be sure. Austin was entirely amiable; she had always liked him best of all the family. But Austin had for so long been subjected to Kitty’s will that he underwrote everything she said and did. For Austin loved Kitty, as Kitty no doubt loved Austin, but in a different manner. Austin loved Kitty for her faults, as well as for her undoubted virtues. That was the strength of their union, which had withstood even the defective son, who had, she seemed to remember, joined a commune at some point in his rake’s progress. This, in itself harmless, was a defiant gesture. And he never came home. This was the reason for Kitty’s broken heart, to which mysterious allusions were made. ‘Of course Gerald was a disappointment,’ her friends wisely opined, without knowing exactly the nature of that disappointment. Kitty was expert at deflecting questions which were too probing and might not be entirely well-meaning. Mrs May could see her, head lowered, fingers joined at the bridge of her nose. Nobody would be bold enough to demand a further explanation. Nobody was.
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