She said she thought so, but not to count on it. That evening found me once again peering through her letter-box. Then I went home and dialled her number. There was no response. For the first time in our history the sound awakened in me not merely frustration but bafflement, estrangement, distress. It was as if I were in a permanently empty room, and as if a ringing telephone, by some unknown decree, were doomed to ring unanswered throughout eternity.
7
Shortly after that evening I had a remote perception of Sarah’s absence. It affected me like a sudden fall in body temperature, or a diminution of oxygen in the atmosphere. My feelings were a mystery to me. To fall in love with someone who refuses all communication was contrary to my nature, which is nothing if not practical. I had always thought that my life would follow a pleasant if undistinguished pattern: success in the profession, harmonious family relationships, and eventually marriage and children. I was modestly successful, certainly, and I was devoted to my mother, but I did not see myself married, since Sarah was the only woman I desired, and Sarah promised only the most fugitive of contacts, no sooner offered than taken away, leaving no trace, and with every absence growing more elusive.
If I felt any satisfaction with my part in this liaison it was largely for having taken up a challenge, and for having flown in the face of all my precepts, professional and otherwise. I had the distinct impression that my modest store of principles was diminishing: I was ready to behave uncharacteristically in pursuit of this empty centre of my life, a pursuit which I rather thought might last for ever. I was ready, in short, to devote myself to her, although I knew that such devotion would not influence her in any way. There was always present the sheer difficulty of impinging on her consciousness, of that attention always withheld, and it was precisely against this sense of occlusion that her physical response seemed so miraculous. Yet in my more collected moments I was aware that I knew very little about her, as indeed did her mother. Another letter from Sybil had arrived that morning; the scope of her grievances seemed to have widened. Now she complained about her daughter, and behind the complaints I sensed a genuine impotence. Would I see to it that Sarah kept in touch? ‘From a professional point of view, Alan, your words are bound to have an influence.’ I had apparently been promoted to magistrate, or perhaps rural dean, with cure of souls. I wrote back, on a purposely vague but I hope affectionate note, saying that I had seen Sarah, that she was well and happy, and that I was sure that she would be in touch. If I did this it was because Sybil now derived additional importance from the fact that she was Sarah’s mother.
It must have been a few weeks later that on entering the coffee bar for breakfast I saw Angela, seated expectantly at a table, an empty cup in front of her. My astonishment was hardly feigned; on the other hand it was not her fault that she wore that look of bright expectancy. Not her fault, perhaps, but just possibly an error, as was the fact that she made no apology for invading my privacy in this manner. For I regarded this half-hour as unconditionally mine. Even the proprietress, Mrs Daley, knew not to engage me in conversation. My coffee appeared without commentary, followed by my toast. I was only just aware of the hand placing the cup and plate on the table, leaving me to uninterrupted perusal of The Times. Bachelors enjoy these small privileges, even when they are distracted, as I had to admit I was, although I viewed my condition as morbid. For that very reason I made an effort to behave normally, or as normally as was possible in these abnormal circumstances.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘I just thought it would be nice to see you again.’ She reddened then, with one of her frequent blushes. My only thought was how transparent she was. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she had to all intents and purposes followed me. Such directness was a novelty after the feints of Sarah’s behaviour, and I suppose I felt relief that cards were for once on the table. In the harsh light of the café she was pleasant to look at; her colouring was fresh and her eyes bright. When she felt me looking at her she undid her head-scarf and shook back her hair. She regarded this manoeuvre as defiantly seductive and blushed again, furiously, when she saw my face relax into a smile.
‘So, what are you up to these days?’ I asked her. It seemed only polite to take an interest in her life, although she seemed already to have produced it for my inspection. I thought I could guess the rest: that she had until recently lived at home with her parents (I was wrong here: her mother was a widow, like mine), that she was not altogether happy living in a flat with two other girls, that she was the one who stayed home and washed her hair while the other two went out, that she was frightened by her companions’ promiscuity, or what she thought of as promiscuity, that she had lost her virginity late and reluctantly, and that she needed stronger personalities to protect her from the shocks of this rough world. Her attendance on Sarah was entirely characteristic, although she may not even have liked her. Probably attraction and repulsion were the same two sides of every coin for her, and fear would be uppermost in her mind at every new encounter. It had no doubt taken an enormous act of courage for her to confront me like this, for it was a confrontation, of that there was no doubt. She was laying herself open for my inspection, and I could not help but feel touched. I was also irritated. There was an element of pleading in her rather too bright expression. I thought she might burst into tears if I were not gentle with her. I recognised the obligations to be gentle as a chore, and thought of Sarah with yet another pang. With Sarah I was not obliged to be gentle. I may have been importunate but that was my choice: I could also be selfish, brutal, joyous, triumphant. She had given me tacit permission to please myself and in so doing to please her at the same time. That was her gift to me: pure unreflecting pleasure, for which I felt there would never be any substitute.
‘I expect you’re very busy,’ said Angela, as if she knew that all men were perpetually busy.
‘Well, I dare say you are too,’ I replied. ‘After all, women do most of the work these days, or so they tell me. The girls in my office don’t let me get away with any assumptions about my importance, or rather lack of it.’ I was making heavy weather of this, I realised. I simply did not know what to say.
‘I meant to tell you—that’s why I’m here, really. I took those lilies home with me. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Didn’t Sarah want them then?’ I asked carelessly.
‘She said the smell gave her a headache. When I went back the next day to clear up she said to throw them away. So I took them. You’re not cross, are you?’
‘Not at all. And, anyway, Sarah’s away, I believe.’
‘That’s right. America. She’s wonderful, isn’t she, the way she just acts on impulse? I mean she hasn’t got a job or anything. I know she’s quite well off, but you’d think she’d invest her money or something. I know I would. But she seems determined to enjoy herself while she can. I suppose you can’t blame her.’
Angela obviously did blame her, just as she blamed her prodigality in every other respect. Though she had no proof of this she must have intuited it correctly.
‘Any idea how long she’ll be away?’ I asked. ‘Or when she’s coming back?’
‘Not really, no. You never know with Sarah, do you? At least I don’t. She makes me quite dizzy sometimes.’ She laughed merrily to show that she bore no malice. I revised my earlier opinion: I could see that she disliked Sarah quite intensely.
‘I rather need to know how to get in touch with her,’ I said.
‘My goodness, are you another one of Sarah’s conquests?’ Again the merry laugh. This girl, I could see, this maiden, had been severely shaken by her friendship, if friendship it could be called, with a woman whom she knew to be superior to herself in one crucial respect, and brooding on this superiority had made her clumsy in her approach to men. Her wholesome aspect, her evident lack of experience, which might have attracted a much older man, embarrassed me, and made me very slightly antagonistic. I did not appreciate this lack of subtlet
y, although paradoxically it was being paraded for my benefit. I knew that unless I injected a note of sobriety into the proceedings there might be some hectic and unwelcome attempts to tease me. I have seen men beguiled by this sort of nonsense, which I associated with children’s birthday parties. I put it on a level with tickling: certainly I wanted no part of it.
‘Sarah is a distant relation of mine,’ I told her, picking up our two bills. ‘Her mother has asked me to keep an eye on her.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. She didn’t tell me when she was coming back. I expect she’ll just turn up when she feels like it, don’t you?’
As she walked out of the door in front of me I noticed the slimness of her legs. Otherwise her physical presence hardly registered, although I had every opportunity to appreciate it since she turned up again the following day, and the day after that. Soon Mrs Daley, sensing perhaps my irritation, would answer my silent enquiry with a barely perceptible nod towards the corner of the room where Angela was modestly but insistently installed. I was left in no doubt that she had me in her sights. This so alarmed me that for a week I went to the trouble of cooking breakfast at home, but this entailed remembering to buy bread and eggs, and carrying a plastic bag to the office, to the disapproval of Mrs Roche. Then one morning I found that I had run out of coffee, and felt vaguely ashamed of myself for so obviously avoiding this quite harmless girl. Mrs Daley was quite aware of my state of mind. By the end of three weeks she had ceased to nod conspiratorially to me and now busied herself polishing spoons. She had decided to believe that Angela was my girl-friend. Unfortunately Angela did too.
‘See you tomorrow,’ she always said as we left. And she had already given me her telephone number at home and at work, and had asked for mine. I was obliged to give her the office number, saying that there was no point in ringing me at home, as I was hardly ever there. ‘Where are you, then?’ she said. I winced, and told her that I spent a lot of time with my mother, noting with a sinking heart that this fallacious information was yet another point in my favour.
As a matter of fact Mother did ring me one evening and asked me to come over, as she had something to discuss with me. I imagined that this had something to do with her investments, on which matter she habitually deferred to me, although she was quite capable of managing very well on her own. As I trudged through the park I felt vaguely uneasy. Looking back later, I saw that this was premonitory; at the time, however, I merely looked forward to eating one of her delicious suppers and listening to her news, to which I need pay little attention. She was a supremely tactful woman, who had no doubt spoilt me in this respect: she saw that she must not burden me with information of any significance until I had eaten, and never before she had satisfied herself that I was comfortable. Therefore I was largely unprepared to find her so nervous and so abrupt. Scarcely had I taken off my coat than she ushered me without ceremony into the drawing-room and indicated a chair. I sat down warily, thinking that I must be in for some additional duties. All I could think of was Sybil, presenting Mother with some intractable family problem which I should have to sort out.
‘My darling,’ said my mother hesitantly, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Are you ill?’ I said, alarmed.
‘No, no. It’s just that Aubrey and I were married this morning.’
‘What? You mean you didn’t tell me? Warn me, I should say.’
‘I made up my mind very quickly,’ said this woman who had once claimed that her position in life was to be my mother. ‘Of course it will make no difference to my feelings for you. In my heart you will always come first. And Aubrey has been so kind: that’s why he stayed upstairs—he knew I’d want to see you on my own. We’ll move in together when we get back.’
‘Back from where?’
‘From Cagnes, darling. He has this little house, and we’re going there soon, perhaps next week.’
‘For your honeymoon,’ I said, trying to come to terms with the fact that my mother was not only going to marry this man but to sleep with him as well. I felt like Hamlet, though as far as I could see (and I had to concede this) Aubrey was not in the least like Claudius. Then I got to my feet and kissed her and was rewarded for my effort when she wiped her eyes and put away her handkerchief and gave me a shaky but happy smile.
‘What decided you?’ I asked. ‘After all this time.’
‘Such a silly thing. I was out with Jenny, on one of our afternoon excursions. Perhaps I was a little out of sorts, or perhaps I wasn’t listening, as I usually do, to Jenny’s chatter. Suddenly I caught sight of the two of us in a long mirror in one of the shops, and, Alan, I saw two old women, arm in arm, with obviously nothing better to do with their time than spend it in department stores, in that terrible overheated atmosphere. I could feel Jenny’s arm weighing me down. And I suddenly thought, “I don’t want to get old like this. I want a sense of renewal. I want to be with a man again.” ’
‘And is that what Aubrey offers you? A sense of renewal?’
‘He offers me kindness, care, generosity, and a social position. And perhaps the last is the most important. A woman on her own is rarely respected for what she is, and not always for what she does. She has to make a strenuous bid for recognition if she wants to merit attention, even in this day and age. And she is not always treated kindly, particularly when she is no longer young. I look in the mirror these mornings and I am shocked. And to think that I was once admired for my looks! And I notice little things about myself that tell me that I’m getting older. I dread the winter, dark nights, wet leaves on the pavement. I could so easily fall, or Jenny could, pulling me down with her.’
I sensed a new regard for self, where previously there had been only selflessness. I took her in my arms and comforted her, until her renewed sobs had subsided. I longed for her as she had always been, and was to be no longer.
‘So perhaps you’d give Aubrey a ring this evening, when you get home, darling, to offer your congratulations? And there’ll be a few people for drinks on Sunday, just to avoid the awkwardness of writing to everyone. Not that there are too many of our old friends left.’ She meant, I knew, the friends that she had had when she was married to my father.
‘Jenny will miss you,’ I said. I felt in that instant for everyone who would miss my mother, for I did not doubt that she would quickly become absorbed in her new life. ‘I suppose you’ll be travelling more,’ I went on. ‘Aubrey’s always off somewhere, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve told him that he must go on his own, that it will be good for us to take occasional breaks from each other. Then you and I will be just as we’ve always been, darling.’
‘Until he comes back,’ I said.
‘Oh, Alan. Be kind, dear. After all, one day you’ll marry and leave me on my own …’
‘I should never do that.’
‘Oh, yes. And perhaps sooner than you know. And I don’t want to be alone any more than you do. And it will be good for you to know that you don’t have to worry about me. Aubrey will do that.’
‘Are you fond of him, then?’ I asked.
‘I am, yes. And he is fond of me. That’s always a comforting thing to remember. I think we shall be very happy once these awful announcements are behind us. You won’t forget to ring him, will you, dear? And Sunday for drinks, twelve noon.’
Only the empty park, I thought, was wide enough to contain my thoughts, which were of rage and loneliness, as if I were an infant. Yet gradually I calmed down and began to see matters more objectively. There was no point in not being glad for Mother. Everything she had said made sense. I knew and liked Aubrey, to whom I must this very evening offer congratulations, as if I were a hearty senior in a club frequented by old buffers. What made me sad was a comparison of Mother’s situation with my own. I had no one. At that moment the thought struck me that Sarah’s absence might be permanent, that she might never come home, that if she did she would continue to be as elusive and as uncommitted as she ha
d always been. A new notion was making its insidious way into my consciousness: that this was unworthy behaviour, that one did not wander affectless through life, ignorant of or indifferent to one’s influence on others. I thought that I deserved better, or perhaps needed more than an occasional casual recognition of my enslavement. For she can have been in no doubt, despite my plucky offhandedness. And I had thought that I was sure of her response, of that light so persistently hidden under a bushel. Strange how the Biblical phrase came back to me, I who had been devoutly secular all my life. I wanted my reward on earth, now more than ever. I was aware of spiralling self-doubt, like physical nausea, threatening to overwhelm me. The force of my distress made me feel literally queasy. I could not wait to get back to the safety of my flat.
It did not occur to me to wonder at the discrepancy between my equable public persona and the private turmoil that assailed me whenever I was engulfed in my own thoughts. Never having encountered this turmoil before I chose to believe that it was customary in the circumstances, and that others had been similarly assailed before. Nothing had prepared me for it, but I had no proof that it was unprecedented. Certainly the dichotomy was worse when I was alone, as I was now; on the other hand, nothing would have induced me to ask advice. Suddenly it all became intolerable, and I was as forlorn and bewildered as I had not been since early childhood. I took a sheet of paper, and, almost without thinking, began a letter. Dear Sarah, I wrote. I seem unable to reach you, and this is now a problem, in many ways. I long for you, but for the first time without hope. You had seemed to me once to be part of my future, or rather part of an everlasting present that would become that future, yet you barely deign to acknowledge the present, let alone that future. I want you in my life, yet you remain obstinately outside it. Perhaps it is time for me to take my leave, no longer to let matters remain unfinished, but to finish them. In my heart you will always come first. (I remembered my mother saying this.) I will make no further attempts to contact you. You know where to find me if you ever need me. But you will understand if I no longer wish to spend my life running after you, or even to remain on my own. (This last remark was sheer bravado. I must have thought I could torment her by hinting at a rival, several rivals. This I knew would not severely disturb her, but I left it in. It felt mildly dangerous, provocative.) I am yours devotedly, in spite of, or rather because of, everything, Alan.
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