She felt an overwhelming pity for these people who, in the light of their own essential needs, had almost inevitably shut her out. It was not that she was inimical to them: it was simply that they were preternaturally alert to the threat of otherness. And with her thin frame and her meek but decided presence she had represented a majority to which they could never belong. She saw suddenly that she had made them feel uncomfortable, that Henry had in a sense betrayed them by marrying her, that the first wife, however hysterical and difficult, had been more easily understood, and that she herself had always paid the penalty for being so contained and unemotional. They had sensed a criticism, where no criticism was intended: reticence was not a faculty they possessed, yet they possessed many others. They were passionate people, but at the same time they were inept. The children of such people were bound to suffer, as indeed they had done. Yet even Gerald, even Ann, would carry within themselves some atavistic memory of raw emotion, and although they would do their best to ignore it, would, she knew, fly to Kitty’s deathbed when the time came, and in one long heartfelt outburst confess their love.
It would be too late, for them, not for Kitty, who had always solicited such an outpouring. And no doubt she herself would be there, assisting, and aware as never before of the differences they had managed to contain throughout their long association. For now she saw that they were menaced, and that she was still intact, that it was up to her to make provision for the future, that they knew this and regretted it. Her task was not an easy one. She must be present and absent at the same time, available, but not for that reason cherished. She would not be able to allay their fears, but perhaps those fears were irreducible, and the task of allaying them not in anyone’s gift. Not in this world, certainly, and as Austin had comfortably announced, they were in no need of the next. This was true: they wanted their needs met in this world, not quite understanding that the world was indifferent.
‘Are you there, Kitty?’
There were a few final sniffs. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘I thought I’d better tell you: I’m going away.’
‘Oh, yes? Where are you going? Portugal?’
Portugal was another of the Levinsons’ fiefdoms, together with the house in Freshwater and the Royal Monceau Hotel.
‘No, not Portugal. I haven’t quite decided.’
‘But Thea, that’s not like you.’
‘I feel like a change,’ she said weakly.
‘But supposing we wanted to get in touch with you? We shouldn’t know where you were. After all, we’re not young any more. It’s important that we stick together.’ Here the voice was lowered. ‘To tell the truth, I’m concerned about Austin.’
‘Has he seen a doctor?’
‘Monty was here last night. Monty said he’s been doing too much, that we all had, Molly too. It’s just that they’ve left such a gap, the children, I mean. If I feel better tomorrow I’ll go out and buy Ann a few things. A couple of blouses, perhaps a skirt or two …’
‘They wear jeans, Kitty.’
Again the heartfelt sigh. ‘You think I’m silly, no doubt.’
‘No, no, I don’t. I think I know how you feel. Young people are precious, even if they’re not quite as one would want them to be.’
‘Exactly. How did you think Gerald looked?’
‘He looked fine to me.’
‘He looked like my father did at his age. You’ve seen the photographs.’
‘He did rather. Don’t fret, Kitty. They will all come home in the end.’
The starkness of what she was saying appalled her, yet false comfort was not within her gift, and maybe never had been. That was another factor that marked her out as alien. But in fact she was anxious to move forward from this position into that mythical future in the sun. For a moment she saw herself quite clearly, transformed. She was wearing an old black dress, unbelted, and she was hurling the contents of a bucket of dirty water onto the cobblestones in front of her house. Dogs barked at her; children made fun of her. She saw the mocking faces of the children, and all at once the fantasy evaporated. There would be no transformation, no apotheosis. At her age, with her constitution and temperament, she was unlikely to become a wizened hag, however wistfully she desired such a protective carapace. She was too polite, too accommodating to disenfranchise herself; she was too dependent on home comforts, though at present she found more desolation than comfort at home.
‘Just a few days,’ she told Kitty. ‘Perhaps a week.’
‘You’ll let us know?’
‘Yes, of course. Don’t worry. I shan’t be far away.’
She could sense a certain relief at the other end of the line. To her surprise she felt a measure of relief herself, together with a sharp sense of anticlimax. It was like waking after a particularly enthralling dream, to find that her course of action was not to be dictated by magical thinking but was circumscribed by mundane reality, and that instead of encountering and overcoming mythical obstacles she had merely to take her shopping basket and mingle with the other suburban ladies at the supermarket. And that instead of that doorway in the sun there would be the spectacle of old Mario, with his carafe of wine and his mimed greeting, at the Italian café, where once again she would resume her custom. And all would go on as before, or almost. Perhaps the fantasy had wrought some infinitesimal change, revealing the nature of her ordinary life to her. But she looked down at her neat figure, at her narrow feet in their sensible shoes, and knew that reality was not easily traduced, that, like fate or heredity, it would impose itself even on the most cherished imaginings. Indeed it was the peculiar gift of imagination to provide a respite from reality, the reality that even now was breathing audibly down her ear. Surely Kitty was not her usual self, had, however briefly, lost her power to dominate?
‘We’ll talk on Sunday, as usual,’ she said.
‘Very well, dear. And maybe we’ll see something of you.’
After replacing the receiver she was thoughtful. Kitty’s remark had signified a return to normality, or rather to the status quo ante. She was to be an adjunct, but not necessarily an intimate, admitted to certain colloquies but not to others, her status as family member once more to be negotiated. She felt a certain sadness on understanding this, even a certain loneliness. Then she braced herself to meet the day, took her shopping basket, and went out, greeting one or two neighbours as she walked carefully down her familiar street. Now that the world had shrunk again she forced herself to appreciate the modest nature of her surroundings, all pleasant, all subdued, all seasonal: the honeysuckle at the corner, now drooping, a few early yellow leaves on the pavement, the first of the season’s apples on display at the greengrocer’s. The Indian newsagent raised a dignified hand in greeting as she passed. Yes, it was all quite bearable.
Some days later—but where had the time gone?—a letter and a postcard arrived. The letter was from Austin. ‘Dear Thea,’ it read. ‘Quite in order to take a holiday, but don’t abandon us! We are rather sad at the moment, as you can imagine. The sight of Gerald quite upset me, although I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Between ourselves I have not been feeling too good; of course I haven’t said a word to Kitty. She has had enough to put up with, one way and another, and you know how careful one has to be with high blood pressure. I am very anxious that she take it easy, so I doubt if we shall go away this year. I just wanted to say how much I had enjoyed talking to you, and how much I look forward to turning things over with you again. I know that Kitty feels the same. They say the Alfonso XIII at Seville is a good hotel, but of course you won’t want to go that far. You know that the house at Freshwater is always at your disposal, even when we’re not there. Forgive this long letter. Kitty says I think too much. Perhaps she’s right. Yours, as ever, Austin.’
The letter was typed on an ancient machine whose irregular ‘e’s and ‘t’s seemed to give an all too graphic impression of Austin’s erratic heartbeat. Or maybe it was his nervous system that was affected. The thought of the
two of them, hiding the extent of their ailments from each other, was a sad reminder of their collective age, a fact that could not be dismissed. Imagination was of no help in this particular circumstance.
The postcard, which was of the Eiffel Tower, read ‘Having a great time. Going south tomorrow’ and was signed ‘Ann, David, Steve’. So they do not miss us, she thought. Yet they had each signed their name. This fact cheered her immeasurably.
She searched through her address book for the number of Henry’s solicitor, Zerber, now, she supposed, her solicitor as well. She had had no contact with him since Henry’s death, when he had sorted out Henry’s affairs and told her that ample provision had been made for her. He had urged her at the time to make a will and had shown her a disheartening list of various charities—for the blind, the disabled, the mentally handicapped—that would in due course benefit from the quite substantial monies she left behind. A female voice informed her that Mr Zerber had passed away five years previously, and that he had been succeeded by his nephew, young Mr Zerber. She made an appointment to see him, for she supposed it hardly mattered that they were strangers to each other, and found herself regretting the original Zerber, tiny, shrewd, even then shrunken, his head barely rising from his shoulders. He too was one of what Henry designated as ‘the old crowd’, which meant that Zerber’s father, or possibly his grandfather, had been known to some ancestor of the May family, and thus indirectly to Kitty and Molly, their mother having been born a May, or rather a Meyer. This gave Zerber the stamp of authenticity, something akin to a royal appointment, and she could imagine the dismay his death would have occasioned. It would have been one more intimation of the indifferent world beyond their deliberate confines: having to deal with strangers was avoided as much as possible. Yet for what she had to do a stranger was entirely appropriate. She was given an appointment for that afternoon, for which she was grateful; she was anxious not to give herself time to change her mind.
She would have liked to take a bus to Southampton Street, to immerse herself in a crowd. But any putative crowd was also illusory, and she merely picked up a taxi in the main road. Everything was proving both easier and more difficult than she had imagined from the silence of her flat, nor was she cheered by familiar landmarks. What she had to do was simply a formality, and yet it took precedence over all her other activities. Those activities were so habitual that they were automatic and gave her no trouble; by the same token those streets could now be taken for granted. She thought briefly of that other landscape, the one she had so recently conjured up, and was surprised that the details had slipped from her mind. She remembered a shapeless black dress, but could not now have said why this should ever have been attractive. She was, however, keenly aware of the ridicule she might have caused, in this or any other garb, and resolved to be more circumspect and to submit her imaginings to ordinary daylight whenever she was threatened by what was after all a very normal ennui. She could begin with the task in hand.
‘I want to make a new will,’ she said to the young Mr Zerber, who was about fifty, but who had none of his uncle’s gravitas. The old man had worn striped trousers and a black jacket, admittedly sprinkled with dandruff. Young Mr Zerber was in a canary yellow waistcoat and blue shirt sleeves, at which she found herself staring rather fixedly.
‘It’s the new informality,’ he explained, smiling. ‘For the weekend, you know. It is Friday,’ he reminded her.
‘Is it really? Yes, I suppose it is. Then I won’t delay you. I’m sure you’re anxious to get away.’
‘Your will is what? Fifteen years old?’
‘Yes, and there have been some changes. Family changes, you know. I want to leave my flat to my … To my niece,’ she said firmly. ‘Ann Newhouse. Ann Levinson Newhouse.’
This was her great decision, and it had been easily made. Ann could have the flat, and David could have it too, if he were still around. There was no need to make provision for Steve. Steve would come along as the lodger. Eventually, no doubt, if Ann and David decided to move on, Steve would become the sitting tenant. But that would no longer be her problem.
Out in the street the sun hectically shone, as if congratulating her on her modest resolve. She walked towards Gower Street and the bus stop, reluctant to reach home too early. She now regretted her letter to Susie Fuller: it would be necessary to follow it up in some way. She looked back in amazement at the image of herself that had taken shape, only to disappear as fitfully as it had arrived. Yet it had been strong, and as such welcome, although it was of course a fiction. That woman in the shapeless black dress was not herself but someone else, someone she might have encountered in a book. But books, she had found, were too powerful, and invariably misleading. The novels she had read in her studious girlhood all ended with a marriage, for that was how the reader wanted them to end, believing that marriage was the conclusion of the story. They gave no instructions on how to spend the time once the marriage was a thing of the past. And yet she would not have it otherwise. Those who survived and grew old were in a country without maps: she knew that. All that was left to them was to find some middle way, between acceptance and defeat. When grace was gone only usefulness remained. How could she have envisaged that curious adventure and become the woman in the black dress? Yet some details of that woman’s appearance were still vivid in her mind, her bare feet, the arc of water thrown from the bucket. A plate-glass window showed her a neat, careful, and unmistakably elderly woman: herself. Perhaps she would write again to Susie suggesting a package tour at some unspecified date in the future. This might even come about, though she had no enthusiasm for the idea. ‘Kept at home unexpectedly by family matters,’ she would explain, wondering why this did not feel like a lie.
As she got off the bus she remembered: Austin and Kitty’s fiftieth wedding anniversary fell at the end of the month. And she had thought to be away! They had not mentioned it, and had no doubt been hurt that she had forgotten. Once again she had been saved from folly. And although her absence might have been insignificant (as no doubt her presence would be), it was essential that she should join in the celebrations. For this was the measure of her usefulness. She would be present for Kitty, but rather more for Austin, whom she imagined to be low in spirits, undermined as if by some Jamesian vastation. There would be tears, of course, though she would shed none. She would smile her admiration, and at some point that admiration would become entirely genuine. Then she would retire gracefully, not forgetting to telephone the following day with further appreciation. By that time the smile would be fixed, but they would not know that. It was like a novel, one of the novels that ended with a wedding. And in Kitty’s case—though Kitty never read novels—fiction would have delivered its promise. So that in a sense, and for some if not for others, the stories were true.
She thought of the children, as they had become, on their way to the south. But the immediacy of their recent visit was lost. She knew, or thought she knew, that she would never see them again. This she did not regret. They had been so ungainly, so rebarbative! And yet she followed them in her thoughts, as they grew ever smaller in the mind’s eye. Theirs was the sun, the heat. What they would make of their experience she could not imagine. Their remaining virtue was the memory they left behind. ‘It was when the children were here,’ those who had never moved would say. And Kitty would invariably remark, ‘Didn’t she look lovely? And didn’t Gerald look well? Not that I ever thought he wouldn’t come.’ And the photographs would come out again, and be passed from hand to hand. And the truth would once more be put in its place, somewhere between desire and regret. She did not see how this could be avoided.
Between acceptance and defeat lay the middle way, which must be negotiated. But it must be negotiated without assistance: that was the rule. Her street, when she reached it, was empty, devoid of answers. She would have wished some sort of presence, even the sight of a woman like herself (and all her neighbours, she supposed, were like herself) on her way to the shops for some forgotten p
urchase. She knew, or thought she knew, those stratagems for filling the day, although so far she had not made use of them. She knew, quite calmly, that her days were empty, as the flat, which she now entered, was empty, with an emptiness she had not quite anticipated. She had thought to enjoy her solitude, but in fact she found herself listening for another’s presence, however fleeting, however indifferent. She would have welcomed a stranger, for now she knew that this was possible.
She had not felt this when she was first widowed. Then the relief of clearing away the reminders of sickness had been too great. She had sat for hours, dazed, not quite believing that there would be no more calls from Henry’s room, or the nervous cough, almost constant, that had afflicted him at the end. The sight of his own sorrow had put paid to any self-pity she might have felt. In his eyes, grown huge, sat incomprehension; he was absorbed in the drama of his own passing. She had sat with him and held his hand, but he had seemed not to notice, as if she herself were a shade. When the others visited, fearfully, with defensive badinage, he had responded with a careful smile very remote from his usual caressing manner. They had left, duty done, and the silence once more descended. She had refused Monty’s offer of a nurse, knowing that if she assumed this task her conscience would be clear. Somewhere in her mind she knew that she would have earned her freedom. And in a sense she had appreciated that freedom. But now, with no-one to mourn, she felt no such release and could not rid herself of an alertness which, though irksome, served in some capacity to remind her of her obligations.
‘Dear Susie,’ she wrote. ‘Ignore my previous letter, which I sent you without first consulting my diary. Plans are, for the moment, in abeyance. I have a family function at the end of the month, which means that I must be here. Perhaps I wrote too hastily: I had nowhere specific in mind, simply some place in the sun which I should have recognised if I had ever found it. No doubt you have plans of your own, and may in fact be away already. But perhaps we could undertake some sort of holiday in the future? I say “undertake” because that is the reality at our age. And remember if you ever want to spend some time in London I have a spare room’—these last words were uncomfortable to write—‘which is not being used at the moment. So let us look forward to seeing each other in the not too distant future. With love, as always, Dorothea.’
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