‘Yes, well, now it’s your turn.’
After a pause I said, ‘You’re a perfectly healthy woman, you know. The doctor confirmed that everything was normal. Only he thought you weren’t getting enough exercise. Perhaps if you were to get up you wouldn’t feel so tired.’
‘I know how I feel, thank you.’
For she would stay in bed for most of the morning, and I think would have spent the day there, had not Jenny arrived every afternoon to take her out for a walk. When I came home from work it was to a smell of cooking which indicated that Jenny, not Angela, had been busy in the kitchen. The smell was of onions, vinegar, a coarser, less appetising smell than I was used to. Sometimes I traced it to a portion of stuffed cabbage that had been left on a plate for my dinner, which I ate hastily, in the kitchen, while Angela watched television.
‘Have you eaten?’ I would ask, sounding like my mother.
‘I had something earlier, with Jenny’
‘Listen, darling, I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time with Jenny. She’s a perfect dear, I know, and she’s very fond of you, but if you would just vary your days a bit more you’d feel more normal. I know it’s all very strange—for me too—but don’t you think you might be a bit more positive about it? And anyway, why Jenny? Why not my mother? Or your mother, come to that? Do you want her to stay here? You’re not frightened, are you? There’s nothing to be frightened of.’
But I could feel her fear, and her resistance, when I tried to hold her. Her resistance even spread to my mother, who telephoned every day and suggested a visit. Angela, however, thought she detected condescension in my mother’s tone and repudiated her suggestions. This hurt me, and no doubt my mother as well. My mother was always referred to as ‘your mother’, never ‘Alice’, let alone ‘Mother’.
‘Your mother telephoned’ was her usual response when I asked her if she had seen or heard anyone other than Jenny. ‘She said to give her a ring sometime. Only not now: I want to listen to this.’ Soon Mother and I were telephoning each other in office hours, which was unsatisfactory for us both, since I was sometimes in the middle of a meeting, and had to tell her that I would talk to her later. Sometimes we thus missed each other for a day or two, which added to my feeling of strangeness. To be out of touch, to eat breakfast in a café, to swallow my dinner in the kitchen—none of this would have mattered if Angela had appeared to love me. I say ‘appeared’ because I was too aware of her dissatisfactions to ignore the evidence that the emotional climate had changed. I loved her new fuller body, but was not allowed to touch it. This worried me disproportionately. I even rang Angela’s doctor to ask for reassurance on this matter, which I thought that he, as a man, might be able to dispense. Unfortunately I was put through to the practice nurse, who regarded all women, herself included, as victims, and whose contribution to my enquiry was a suggestion that I purchase a tape of whale music ‘to take the tension out of the atmosphere.’ I was so cowed that I actually did this, with the result that mournful but not necessarily musical hoots accompanied my plate of stuffed cabbage, and proved as adhesive as the very faint smell of onion that clung to the kitchen curtains.
‘Are we all mad?’ I asked my mother, when I eventually got through to her. ‘Are all pregnant women like this? Why does Jenny have to cook my dinner? Is there any way of dissuading her? She doesn’t seem to want me to look after my own wife, which I can surely do perfectly well. Angela seems to have entered some kind of female Order, with Jenny as Mother Superior …’
‘If I am speaking rather softly, darling, it’s because I don’t want Aubrey to hear. It looks so rude if I leave him and go into another room when you telephone. I have had to learn new rules, as you have had to do. No, I’m not happy about the situation, but there seems very little for me to do. Angela doesn’t care for me, unfortunately.’
‘Oh, come, Mother, she’s not herself at the moment …’
‘I may have told her that she was taking her condition too seriously. I seem to have upset her. Oh, it’ll all blow over once the baby’s born—I’m really sorry I mentioned it.’
‘I’m a bit worried about Jenny’s part in all this.’
I could hear my mother sigh at the other end of the line. ‘I don’t see as much of her as formerly. My time belongs to Aubrey now. And Jenny feels hurt. What you don’t understand, Alan, is that Jenny is in search of love, not for herself, but for others. Does that sound strange? You have to remember that she has no family, that she has always been an orphan. For that very reason she may have invested too heavily in her friends, and been eternally disappointed that they did not feel for her what she feels for them. To me she was touching, and yet when she attached herself to me I knew that I should let her down. She used to say, “I do so long to see Sarah,” and when I tried gently to explain that Sarah was young and rather thoughtless, and that there was no real reason for Sarah to respond to Jenny’s eagerness, she would look at me with an expression of genuine bewilderment. She thinks that needs are reciprocal, you see. And yet underneath it all she is bitterly disappointed.’
‘When I got home last night she was in the kitchen, wearing an apron. Then I had to take her halfway down Wigmore Street and put her into a taxi. What has Humphrey to say to all this?’
‘I’m sure she’s not neglecting Humphrey. She simply sees Angela as a higher priority. Because Angela absorbs all her love she thinks that Angela loves her. It’s a false equation, I know. I think your best bet is to tolerate it as calmly as possible. After all, Jenny’s providing the sort of practical help that Angela thinks she needs.’
‘But you’ve bought all the baby clothes, and stuff like that …’
‘The least I could do, the most that I was allowed to do. What I can’t do is fuss. That’s Jenny’s function. I don’t like it either. I don’t like it from Angela’s point of view or from Jenny’s. You will see how dependent on each other they’ve become.’
‘My part in all this is apparently reprehensible. Women hate me. That nurse at the practice …’
‘Yes, you told me about her, dear. You’re not getting superstitious, I hope? Women don’t hate you, don’t be ridiculous. It might do you good to get to know women a little better. Anyway, you’ve got Brian.’
‘Felicity is also pregnant, I have to tell you. She seems rather pleased. As for Brian, I hardly know him. Euphoric, I think is the word.’
‘I’m so pleased for them. Cheer up, darling. After all, there’s every reason to feel proud of yourself …’
‘Oh, really, Mother.’
‘And don’t worry about Jenny. I’m sure you’ll find some tactful way of discouraging her. Although she’ll be bitterly hurt, of course.’
‘Why does she love Sarah? It’s quite clear that Sarah can’t stand her.’
My mother sighed again. ‘Women like Jenny love because they need to love. Indiscriminately. Sarah is an honorary niece, part of her honorary family. In Jenny’s fantasy families love each other. She thinks it appropriate that she love Sarah. And the irony is that although she knows that her love is one-sided she never gives up hope that one day Sarah will recognise the true worth of this person who loves her. It’s almost mystical, isn’t it? Like a nun, or a saint.’
‘It’s aberrant.’ There was a silence. ‘Any news of Sarah?’ I asked finally.
‘Sybil had a postcard from New York. But that was some time ago. I should think she’s due back fairly soon.’ There was another silence. ‘Such an odd summer, isn’t it? No sun to speak of. And quite chilly in the evenings. Of course we are nearly in September. You won’t be going away, I suppose?’
‘I doubt it. Though I’m owed three weeks.’
‘You remember that Aubrey and I will be spending September and October in Cagnes? It’s so lovely at that time of year. Of course we’ll be back before the baby is due.’
‘Oh, that’s a long way off. Late November, early December.’
‘Alan, I’ve just had a thought. Why not take Angela away for a bit? That
would be a tactful way of easing Jenny out of the flat. Why not get the car out of the garage and drive around? You could stay in decent hotels. It would do you both good. I worry about you, darling.’
‘I could, I suppose. But I doubt if I could persuade her …’
‘I thought you said she wanted to live in the country. That’s the ideal pretext. You could say you wanted to look for a house. Or indeed really look for a house, somewhere to spend the weekends. Though that would mean we’d see even less of you.’
‘That’s actually quite a good idea. The first priority is to rescue Angela from Jenny.’
‘Why not do it as soon as possible? This evening, if she’s still there. There need be no awkwardness. Just tell her that you’ll be in touch when you get back. That way she won’t be hurt.’
‘Mother, you’re brilliant. I’ll let you know if and when we go. Though I suppose we’ll have to, in case Jenny finds out.’
‘Poor Jenny,’ said my mother. ‘I’ll give her a ring. Goodbye, darling. I’m so glad we’ve had this talk.’
That evening I got home early. I found Angela on the sofa, reading. Sounds from the kitchen informed me that Jenny was in possession. Without removing my jacket, although it was a cloudy, humid evening, I went in and removed from her hands a casserole containing something strongly aromatic and unsuitable for such a warm evening. The blue eyes looked at me trustingly while I told her that Angela needed a change of scene and that I should be taking her away for a couple of weeks. I placed the casserole on the table, intending to throw away the contents and take my wife out to dinner.
‘You’ve been wonderful, Jenny,’ I said, but these valedictory words were a mistake; my meaning was clear. Her expression of trust altered, became distant, hardened. I could see that my rejection had done some obscure damage, or that I had left her without a function other than that of being companion to an elderly and never very interesting man who would now have full command of her time and attention. ‘Humphrey will be happy to see more of you,’ I said heartily. The look she gave me was tinged with contempt.
Wresting her away from Angela was easier than I had anticipated. Once she had received my coded warning she was on her dignity. To Angela her departure was little more than another contrariety in an already tedious day, but by this time The Archers had started, and it was over the voice of Jill Archer, perfect wife, mother and châtelaine, that Jenny took her leave.
‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ I said, feeling guilty.
‘Goodbye, Alan,’ was her reply.
I marched back into the living-room and told Angela to change her dress as I was taking her out to dinner. She looked surprised but made no objection, and we left the flat in a precarious state of neutrality. My plan, unfolded during dinner, of ‘just driving along the coast, stopping somewhere for the night, staying if we want to,’ seemed sufficiently vague and permissive to win a mollified assent. ‘And then,’ I added cunningly, ‘you always said you wanted to live in the country. We could look around for a house.’ At this she brightened. ‘We start on Friday,’ I said.
So began our late and last summer, a typical English summer, cloudy, tentative, overcast, neither warm nor cool, maddeningly indecisive, but touching, even moving. I thought at the time that I should remember it with nostalgia, although little trace of it remains. Our holiday began inauspiciously, with a pretentious hotel in the New Forest. This was run by a couple down on their luck, who thought their lineage could justify the forty-minute wait for a cup of coffee or the musty smell in the chintz-hung bedroom, imperfectly disguised by bowls of pot-pourri. After that I decided that we would rely only on professionals, and we spent a couple of mildly agreeable days in Bournemouth, at a five-star hotel thronged with cheerful Jewish couples. Angela loved it. As I watched her features lose their worried frown I understood her at last. She would have liked to live here, and change for dinner every evening, and discuss her health over the teacups with cordial Jewish matrons. Yet she was sufficiently in agreement with me when I suggested moving on, and for several days we drove through placid countryside, spending our nights in the nearest equivalent of our recent hostelry, not speaking much, but harmoniously silent. At night we slept deeply, side by side, as if we had been married for a hundred years. Angela forgot about her condition, which no longer seemed to bother her. We appraised each other silently, not daring to endanger our precarious friendship.
When the weather turned dull, and cooler, we headed for home. It was then that I found the house, suddenly alerted to the fact that we needed this excuse to justify occasional holidays, or for the children that we would have. I should not have seen it had I not got out of the car to buy a paper. Opposite a row of small traditional shops stood a seemingly delicate but doughty-looking house which announced itself for sale. This was confirmed by the newsagent. The owner, he said, had gone to live abroad and was willing to include the contents in the price.
‘What is this place called?’ I asked him, and was told that it was Shoreham-by-Sea. And the house was called Postman’s Cottage, which should satisfy Angela’s taste for authenticity. We inspected it together, and everything seemed acceptable, from the four square armchairs to the flowered cups and saucers in the kitchen cupboard. I bought it with unprofessional speed, cutting corners in a way I should never allow my clients to do, but it was worth it to see the thrill of ownership on Angela’s face. This new pleasure was not given exaggerated expression. ‘I’ll need new curtains,’ was all she said, as if she had earmarked the house for her own. In the end it was I who derived the most benefit from it, but I was prepared for this. It seemed a lucky chance, and consequently a lucky house. We returned to London contented, and with at last something to talk about.
Nevertheless, the world settled once again on my shoulders when we were back in London. I dreaded a return to that valetudinarian regime that had obtained until our recent departure. I wondered how the breach with Jenny would be repaired, for breach there had been; I wondered how Angela would occupy her time now that she was getting heavier and less keen to be seen in public, at least without me. She moped a bit, was withdrawn, remote from me in a way that I found puzzling. I could not reconcile her present lack of interest with the fervour she had shown when we first met. I feared that her dissatisfaction would be brought to bear on our baby, who was to be a girl, provisionally called Helen Alice Margaret. I felt acutely sorry for this baby, who would not have an understanding mother, or at least a mother attuned to the good things in life. Angela seemed not to have taken in the full implications of her condition; she ate extravagantly or not at all, took no exercise, and spent most of her time indoors. Often she waited for me to come home before going out to do the shopping. I got used to carrying her basket. Her brooding air made her relatively mute, and trying to engage her in conversation over a dinner-table—for I insisted that we eat out fairly regularly—was hard work. She was not ill, she was not noticeably suffering, yet the only emotion I could feel for her was anxiety. This alone would have inhibited me, had my ardour not died at source.
One morning I entered the office and smelled an unfamiliar scent, something heavy, probably by Guerlain. I stood stock still, feeling my heartbeat and my pulse rate increase. I pushed open my door: Sarah was sitting on a corner of my desk reading the paper, her short black skirt riding up her thighs, her mane of crinkled red hair falling over one shoulder. No more fitting image of Luxuria could possibly be found. ‘Hi,’ she said, and folded the paper. I moved nearer to her, so that I could smell her hair. The waxy odour was less strong than I remembered it; today it smelled of something aromatic, a dressing of some kind. I drew it back over her shoulders and filled my hands with it. For a moment we gazed at each other, not speaking. Yet when she spoke her voice was cold.
‘I got your letter,’ she said. ‘And your wedding invitation.’
‘My letter?’
‘The one in which you so nobly said you couldn’t live alone.’
‘I think I said I was tired of wai
ting for you.’
‘Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘But you were never there. Night after night I tried to contact you, and even when I did you didn’t always feel you were ready to see me. And that bloody telephone, ringing and ringing. I was going mad, I think …’
‘So you got married.’ Her voice was level, but I could tell her anger was mounting.
‘If you had been there …’
‘Tell me, Alan, why should I have been there? What exactly did you offer?’
‘You could have had me.’ I was appalled at my ineptitude. I was not prepared for this conversation; it was precisely the conversation I never wanted to have. And it was my own stupidity that had led to this.
‘I could have had dozens like you,’ she said. I ignored this. I was sorry to have brought her down to my level.
‘And how’s dear Angela?’ she asked, picking up the paper again and scanning it.
‘Angela is pregnant.’ I had to say it, though I thought I should faint, as the paper was laid aside, and the icy eyes scanned my confusion.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’m thinking of following your example. Getting married, I mean.’
‘I see. Have you known him long?’
‘Yes. He’s a friend of Berthe’s father. An industrial chemist. Very wealthy. He’s asked me several times.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘De Leuze. Pierre de Leuze.’ She picked up her bag and strolled towards the door. ‘Goodbye, Alan.’
‘I must see you,’ I heard myself say. It was as if someone else had issued these words, in a wondering but considered tone. The words themselves came as something of a surprise to me, but not the feeling behind them. All my sorry desire, now tinged indelibly with guilt and duplicity, was made plain to me, but was not to be ignored.
She halted by the door. ‘What were you suggesting?’
‘I’ll come to you this evening.’
‘I shan’t be here. I’m going to Paris to stay with Berthe. Maybe I’ll get engaged. I need a man, Alan, a man, someone to take care of me.’
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