I therefore took the hint and avoided most of my friends, all of whom professed themselves anxious to see me; perhaps they were, but I could anticipate the conversation, the avoidance of one particular subject, and I felt protective of their naïve kindness, far more protective of them, in fact, than of myself. Only Brian and Felicity were precious to me, Felicity even more than Brian, whose unfailing presence in the office next to mine constituted a consolation in itself. Felicity spoke of Angela’s death quite simply as an event destined to pass into history, and thus to an extent without affect. I dined with them quite often, either in St John’s Wood, or, at my invitation, at a restaurant near their house. I trusted them so deeply that when their baby son cried in the nursery I did not even mind. It was as if their adult presence, so matter of fact, so devoid of exaggerated sympathy, served as a bulwark against my hurt.
In any event I was scarcely aware of hurt, only of shock. This had a curious effect on me: I became polite and humble, searching people’s faces for the reassurance I could no longer find in myself. When I looked in the mirror I saw that my expression was one of pleading. If I lived at all in those first months I lived automatically, eating without hunger in order to combat fatigue, walking carefully to work in order to afford myself some vestige of healthy activity. There was one change: I slept a lot. I became a sleeper of heroic duration and consistence. In the early evening I thought of my bed in the spare room with longing, but waited until a suitable hour before I would permit myself to pull the coverlet off the bed and undress with a sigh of relief. I camped out in the flat, using only this temporary room and the bathroom. I ate out, when I did eat; sometimes I went for a walk in the dark, to use up the time before I could decently go to bed. Sleep was what I most wanted. It seemed to be the only need I would ever have again.
One evening I returned home to find that Mother had been in, had removed Angela’s clothes from the wardrobes and stored them in the cupboards in the spare room, and had stripped the beds and changed the sheets, removing every sign that Angela had ever occupied our bedroom, along with vestiges of her infinitely tragic life, her novels, her pills, even the flowered towels she had bought for our bathroom. I almost resented this. By inviting me to occupy my flat again, as I had occupied it before my marriage, it seemed as though my mother was being insensitive. But this very slight clumsiness did not offend me. It embarrassed me. I felt apologetic about taking my ease in the big bed, thought the spare room more appropriate. It was not that I was afraid of Angela’s ghost, for whom I felt pity and protection. I was simply aware of her absence as something irreparable. I did not blame her for what she had done, because I recognized that what had happened was an act to which she had put her name, that she had acted in character. That her life had excluded me for an appreciable time I accepted, however regretfully. I told myself that our parting was inevitable. I went through this reasoning every night. Then I entered sleep as others enter religion.
When Aubrey dropped an envelope containing my air ticket and a quantity of French and Swiss currency onto my desk I looked at him blankly; I had forgotten where I was going, and why. My lack of assurance unsettled him, propelling him into reluctant sympathy.
‘You need the break, Alan. You’re still a young man, too young to spend your life brooding. Some fresh air will do you the world of good. Your room is booked. You’ll telephone as soon as you arrive? Try to sound positive when you speak to Alice, won’t you?’
I detected an anxiety for my mother behind this desire to get me out of sight. It occurred to me that he loved her, and that this late love had rattled his normal composure. He was uneasy with me, too scrupulous to blame me for causing trouble, but unable to care for me in what he viewed an enormous indiscretion. Indeed I felt the same way that he did; my guilt had disappeared, to be replaced by a high degree of social embarrassment. It was for this reason that I acquiesced in his plan for me. The name of the small town to which he had consigned me—Vif—seemed appropriate, since my nerves were à vif, that is to say, flayed. Since I was no longer at home anywhere, except in my dreams, which were, curiously enough, peopled with characters I had known in childhood, I became resigned to going away. It seemed only polite to do so. And somewhere, at some level, there may have been a hope that Aubrey’s reasoning was sufficient, that all I needed was some fresh air and exercise, and that if I absented myself I would expiate my fault (since it remained mine) and would go some way to being forgiven.
‘It’s only two weeks,’ said Brian, to whom I confessed the terrifying blankness of my mind. ‘Though why you couldn’t just go to the cottage I don’t know. I suppose by pleasing Aubrey you’re pleasing your mother …’
‘That’s it,’ I said thankfully. ‘That’s why I’m going. To make them feel comfortable.’
‘It might be all right. I recommend running, preferably before breakfast. Take something to read. I’ll ring, of course, or Felicity will.’
‘She’s been marvellous.’
His face softened. ‘She’s a good girl,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll be all right, Alan.’
What he meant to say was that he hoped I’d have better luck next time. This did not offend me; in fact it encouraged me. If Brian thought it permissible to turn the page then I would think so too. My view of love at this time was wistful, as if happiness in marriage would be forever denied to me. Briefly, fugitively, I glimpsed a time when I might deplore my choices, might give a sad but impatient shrug when I considered how badly my emotional investments had turned out. Indeed, for a somehow heartening moment I consigned both Sarah and Angela to the past. Of the two of them it was Sarah who inspired the greater distaste. I was once again on the side of the virtuous; wholeheartedly I saw the point of virtue. Since obedience was a virtue I would go away, but I would endeavour to go away without my memories. I had always been a fairly robust character; if I were condemned to live alone then I would try to make a good job of it. Nevertheless, when I left the office and knew that I should not see it for two weeks, I felt something akin to panic. A solitary life is not for the faint-hearted, and I wondered whether, as Brian thought, my luck would ever change. Bracing myself, I made what farewells were in order, my features set in a rictus of determination and assurance. Then I was out in the street, bound for sympathy.
I dozed on the flight to Geneva; evidently sleep was to be my new occupation. Following instructions I went down the escalator in the airport and found the train that was to take me to Vif. By this time it was evening and I could see little from the windows, but I was aware that the train was climbing. It was the nadir of the year, a misty early February, when the days are still short and the promise of spring seems remote. I stumbled out into the dark and a profound silence. Then, beyond the station, I found a café, and sat down, my bag beside me. I was shocked into consciousness by the completeness of my exile, and for a moment I felt renewed panic, not knowing what to do with myself. Then I picked up my bag, found a taxi, and told the driver to go to Aubrey’s hotel, which seemed to me to be some way out of town. I noticed very little of my surroundings that first night, although I have come to know them well ever since. The proprietor, Monsieur Pach, a small immaculate man with white hair and hands folded like a monk, asked after Aubrey, whom he appeared to know well, and told me that the weather was warm for the time of year. He melted away silently, then just as silently returned with a map of the region and a small brochure detailing some of its delights: the Château Fort, the Promenade du Soleil, the Belvedere, with its vue panoramique, the Hôtel de France with its Sporting Club, and the English Tea Rooms.
‘Et là-bas,’ he said reverently, ‘vous avez la France.’
The brochure also told me that the region had been popular with English visitors since Queen Victoria had spent a few days at the Hôtel de France in the company of her eldest daughter. This seemed appropriate. Although I had only been there a couple of hours I detected a certain womanishness in the ecclesiastical calm of Monsieur Pach, the brooding care with which
my soup was served by an elderly waiter. I felt amused and exasperated: was this what Aubrey thought I was good for? I went up to bed feeling larger than usual, feeling my muscles tense once more. I would walk, I would run, I would return to remind them that I was not yet to be written off. Naturally I slept well that night; sleep was not the problem. But I slightly dreaded the morning and the day before me, when I would feel the full weight of my leisure, or of my penance, which ever it was to be.
There were very few people about. That there were any people at all was attested by the thwack of balls from the tennis courts of the Hôtel de France, further down the valley. The sound, which carried easily in the still air, woke me at eight most mornings. Later, when I took a walk to the neighbouring village of Chelles, I saw a small crowd of old men gathered round a gigantic chess set on the pavement outside a café. Such people who played these games seemed mild, harmless, self-absorbed, not of a kind to pay much attention to a casual visitor. There were few distractions; that is to say there were none. I saw few people until the evening, when I went down to dinner in the hotel restaurant. Even there the most distinctive sounds were of soup spoons on plates or the mild gurgle of Apollinaris being poured from a bottle. My fellow guests were two elderly German women, a very stout man seated, as I was, at a table for one, and a husband and wife whose very gestures proclaimed them to be English. They nodded and smiled as they passed me, but otherwise ignored me, for which I was grateful. After dinner, my eyelids already heavy, I was obliged to go up to my room, which was comfortable but austere. I might return to the bar for a nightcap, but the bar, although staffed by a young man in a correct white jacket, was deserted, and I began to feel self-conscious there.
The days were easier. There was the walk to Chelles, slightly uphill, or the walk downhill into Vif. There was lunch at one of the two or three restaurants, the return to the hotel for a coffee on the glassed-in terrace, then the walk back to Vif for the English papers which arrived on the afternoon train from Geneva. These would take care of that awkward interval before dinner, or at least until it was time to take my bath. I bathed twice a day; it seemed foolish not to, with so much time at my disposal. Then there was dinner, prefaced by nods and smiles, and at the end of these long days there was blessed sleep. I was sometimes already dozing when Brian rang, and could hardly summon up the energy for an intelligent conversation. This worried him, so that he would ring again on the following evening. Hazily I would assure him that I was fine, much better. I said this entirely for his sake. What insight I had told me that I was very sad, more sad than a man of my age had a right to be. But at the same time I felt a renewed strength in my body, my legs stronger from the walking, the skin of my face taut from the keen air. I was forced to the conclusion that Aubrey’s idea had been an enlightened one. My rest would do us all good, even Brian, who was trying so hard not to mention his son, on whom he doted, although Felicity did so without compunction when she came on the line. I was grateful to them both, to Brian for his delicacy, to Felicity for her lack of subterfuge.
I became an out-of-season inhabitant. ‘Out of season’ exactly describes my state of mind which was blessedly vacant. I could spend half an hour leaning on a wicket gate overlooking a meadow, without anyone noticing that I was there. Or I would stroll down to the Hôtel de France and simply contemplate the chandeliers twinkling through the huge plate-glass windows. I spoke to no one, and in this way may have appeared quite rude to the English couple, the Hobsons, also staying at the hotel. They at last approached me, and I was mildly grateful to them, but as I learned that they had met in this place some forty years ago, and that they came back every year on their wedding anniversary, I smiled pleasantly and offered no information in return. Finally, disconcerted by my reticence, the worried-looking Mrs Hobson, who did not appear to be greatly enjoying this annual pilgrimage, asked me if I were married. ‘My wife died,’ I said briefly, offering no explanation. In that moment it appeared to me that all I had to do was to proffer this simple statement of fact, both to those who enquired and to myself. Angela retreated, became Angela no longer but a girl I used to know and whom I was beginning to lay to rest. After my brief confession the Hobsons left me alone, as if affronted by my introducing a note of mortality into their holiday, which they were obliged to celebrate sentimentally, as if they had just met. This meant that they had to stay together, although Mr Hobson was allowed to read his day-old copy of the Daily Telegraph on the terrace, during which time his wife would scan the driveway and wait for him to finish amusing himself. They would go for a walk occasionally: I might run into them in the town. When I did so I wished them good-morning with a jovial smile, which to them might have appeared misplaced. But I had done with playing the widower; I was still young enough to feel the energy in my healthy body and to appreciate, as a thing which would vanish overnight, my tiredness at the end of the day.
But I slept voraciously, although more dreams intruded into my sleep than heretofore. They seemed to replicate each other, so that night after night I walked down an endless street, looking for an address, which I knew I must find, since my life depended on it. This walk, attended by great anxiety, led me through various London boroughs which I knew were not contiguous, and encompassed Clapham, Putney and Highgate. On the way I invaded several buildings where orchestras were in rehearsal. I asked directions of the young musicians, explained that I did not know the number of the house for which I was searching. They indicated a street that ran past factories and youth hostels, until at last I stumbled across a small cul-de-sac of pretty houses, on the door of one of which was emblazoned, in full letters, the number: Seventeen. I woke with a feeling of immense relief, not knowing what the dream meant, but with some sort of vague assurance that an answer to my predicament could be found, in the same mysterious and quasi-magical fashion.
On Sunday the hotel filled up. Families ate lunch in the dining-room, as some sort of treat or ritual. They were polite, spoke in lowered tones, the children silent and well behaved. I found that I could view these children with indulgence. I silently gave thanks, either to fate or to the deity in whom I did not believe, that I could still appreciate children, that I was not about to become squeamish or misogynistic. I began to plan treats for Brian’s son, Adam, promised myself that I would look for toys for him, buy him the finest bear that the Swiss shops had to offer. I was dimly aware that solitude was making me sentimental. I thought, but cautiously, of friends and family at home, and of the moment when I should have to return to them. The families in the dining-room got up to leave, the wives slightly flushed, the husbands graceless but benign, the process of digestion comfortably under way. I imagined them going home to their spotless houses, to watch television, or to sleep. They would have been to church in the morning, have walked up to the hotel for an aperitif. I imagined this ritual being played out Sunday after Sunday. I half rose from my seat and nodded goodbye as they passed my table. They smiled back. Home, I thought; they are going home. I was already impatient for the ending of the day.
The second week passed more slowly than the first, though that had passed slowly enough. I still appreciated the gift of anonymity, though at times I began to long for company. I did not wish for the sort of company I had always enjoyed; in fact I shied away from it. Since I was in no way a fantasist it did not occur to me to envisage an ideal companion. Rather, I was aware of my unaccompanied state as anomalous, although I had endured it well enough, had even found it amusing, in a role-playing sort of way. I saw myself from the outside, a very English figure, suitably dressed in a raincoat and walking shoes, a meaningless and all-purpose smile on my face. The natives, mild-mannered and reflective people, seemed to find this acceptable, since they recognised me as a tourist of the docile variety, one who was not likely to disturb the profound peace in which they lived. I found a bookshop and bought some paperbacks, but I did not yet have the patience for reading, and sitting in the hotel, either in my room or on the terrace, made me nervous and too consci
ous of the weight of the quiet day. I preferred to keep on my feet, until I knew much of the surrounding countryside by heart. There was always that lowering of the spirits when the light faded, when I thought of the busier streets of London, even of my empty flat, with something like longing. But I was determined to sit out the two weeks, if only to make my re-entry into normal life acceptable to others. Those others—Mother, Aubrey, Brian, Felicity, even Jenny—had begun to retreat from me. They represented an enormous debt which I should eventually have to repay. I would sigh at this point, as I registered the paucity of my resources, and get up to walk yet again into town for the English papers.
At last it was Sunday, and my bag was packed soon after breakfast. The monk-like Monsieur Pach, for whose discretion I was extremely grateful, ordered my cab and wished me a pleasant journey. I said goodbye to the Hobsons, shook the hand of the stout man, whose name I had never learned, and waited in the foyer with the German ladies who were also leaving. Through the windows of the car the landscape, so familiar, already seemed strange, distant. The train travelled silently through stations whose names I could barely remember, and the airport, when I arrived, seemed like a glittering outpost of civilisation, transplanted to a region of strange customs and manners, remote, closed, impenetrable from the outside, inhabited by pacifists. The noise, which was muted, struck me as exorbitant. I reflected that I was now allowed to eat and drink anywhere I liked, sat down and had a pain au chocolat for my lunch, as if I were on leave from school, and eventually boarded the plane with something like alacrity. Everyone on the flight seemed in good health; no one claimed my attention. Without noticing, I relaxed into my former role, no longer a solitary walker, a man in every sense out of season, but a London solicitor, with attachments, with a history, but a history which no longer threatened to do me harm.
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