I commandeered a car for Jenny and myself, having said a few words on her behalf to those who had attended. Her lips were too pale and too numb to utter the words inviting them back to the flat, so I did that too. On the pretext of rounding up the other mourners I spoke briefly to Sarah, asking her how she was, whether she had had a good journey, the sort of words that would pass unnoticed in a crowd. She stared at me, vaguely affronted: ‘I’ve only come from Paddington Street, haven’t I?’ There was now no time for a conversation, and this was hardly the place, but I managed to say that I would look in on her later that evening, ‘look in’ having the right note of casual improvisation. In truth I said this for old times’ sake. Although I wanted to see her, I had grown tired of my former role of ardent lover, even more my role of deranged pursuer. If I wanted to see her it was for a final reckoning, a settling of our account. I too was older, and I had lived my life without her for what seemed a very long time. I, who had grown used to solitude, had less patience for sheer absence, and where I had once built romantic fantasies around the compelling character of this particular absence I was now less sure of its potency, more inclined to treat it as a rather tiresome waywardness. I was absurdly shocked by the hat, the unbecoming hair, above all by her resemblance to her mother. I knew that when we met I would make fewer concessions than in the past. I felt tenderness, a willingness to enfold her, but also a lessening of tolerance towards her. I felt oddly in a stronger position, as if her changed appearance had turned me into a more fatherly character, and I knew in that brief moment that if we were to come together I would, I hope smilingly, forestall her caprices and insist on my own centrality in this affair, which perhaps was no longer an affair but more of a meeting between adults, in which I would have my say, so long delayed, and perhaps even now too long postponed.
Back at the flat Jenny had provided sweet sherry and fingers of iced Madeira cake, as if determined to live down to the expectations of Sybil and Marjorie. Mother and Aubrey, their brown faces giving an impression of almost indecent health and well-being in that pallid gathering, moved among the ten or eleven people now apparently willing to while away their afternoon. I found a dusty bottle of whisky and poured generous measures for Aubrey and myself, and for two of the three elderly men who had presumably been Humphrey’s friends. One of them, whose mild shrewd eyes had taken in the contents of the room, introduced himself as Lionel Taylor and gave me his card.
‘You’re looking after things, I gather,’ he said. ‘If you need any advice don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
I thanked him and pocketed the card: all this could be sorted out later. Jenny, her colour a little restored, sat in Humphrey’s chair, apparently grateful to all these new friends for keeping her company. She seemed to me to be rather less than her usual self, certainly less than the Jenny who had so recently exposed her grievances. My mother, who noticed that she was still trembling slightly, fetched a shawl from the bedroom and placed it round her shoulders. She sat there, quite docile, until Sybil announced that they must make a move if they wanted to get home before dark. They both rose and exchanged a brief kiss—a concession on both their parts—and as if that were the sign for which everyone had been waiting, or to which they were reconciled, there was a general movement of departure. I did duty at the door, thanked everyone for coming, and assured them that Jenny would be in touch. This, I knew, was pure form: I doubted whether Jenny even knew who they were.
‘You go, darling,’ said my mother. ‘I’ll stay here for a bit. I’ve sent Aubrey off; I’m afraid he found it a bit of a strain.’ We both knew that he had in fact found it an imposition, but this was not to be mentioned. ‘I’ll keep Jenny company for a little while. She shouldn’t be alone. Perhaps if you could look in this evening? Just to make sure she’s all right.’
I was glad to escape from that flat, in which all the lights had been on, into the somehow more acceptable confusion of the Edgware Road. I decided not to go straight back to the office but to go home, make some coffee, and sit in absolute silence for an hour. I wanted solitude, though this is frowned on in a healthy adult. The propaganda goes the other way; one is urged to get out of oneself, as if preferring one’s own company were a dangerous indulgence. I wanted, above all else, to be free of attachments, of those personal agendas which are wished on one in any conversation of any depth, and which are as disruptive to the process of contemplation as a telephone ringing in the middle of the night. I was not sick, I was not melancholy: I simply demanded that I might enjoy the peace of the situation I had inherited.
I flattered myself that I behaved like a responsible and rational being. Indeed this was a role which I had always found natural. I should do my duty in the matter of Jenny and the will, though this involved a stratagem whose implications I was not yet willing to face. Uppermost in my mind was the fact that I should very soon be face to face with Sarah, that is if she took me rather more seriously than she had taken my attempt to see her in Paris. I knew that the sheer triumph of capturing her attention would impel me to folly. I should probably ask her to marry me, and I should be equally aghast whether my offer were accepted or declined. I realised now that what I wanted from her, had indeed always wanted from her, was some kind of reciprocity, if only in the form of an explanation. It had become overwhelmingly important to me to dispel the miasma of bad faith that surrounded our relationship, and for which I was just as much to blame. At least I thought I was: the memory of that Paris escapade still shamed me. I wanted to exchange with her the sort of words adults use, not to engage myself in one more hopeless pursuit, complete with unanswered questions and missed appointments. Perhaps I simply wanted her to talk to me.
To a certain extent, I reasoned, she was innocent of conflict, certainly of the conflicts that assailed me whenever I thought of her. She existed in a state unknown to me and which I should never completely understand. Her life was an improvisation, without roots, without commitments, without guarantees: that was the difference between us. My own progress, unsteady though it was, had brought me to a sort of plateau from which I could contemplate my own follies as serious aberrations, but I needed my own company in order to do this work of self-examination. I needed silence, without the interruption of someone else’s disaffections. Since I had never been able to calculate Sarah’s appearances and disappearances I reckoned that life with her would soon destroy any logical structure I tried to impose. And yet she had filled my thoughts ever since I had first met her. Perhaps what I was registering was nothing more than the passage of time, to which one should pay great attention, lest one remain fixed in past expectations, without noticing how foolish one had become.
I let myself into the flat, decided to do without the coffee, and sank down into my chair. This interval which I had promised myself was turning out to be illusory, as had all my other plans. Nevertheless I enjoyed the quiet. I was hopelessly addicted to order, I realised, even to the extent of trying to introduce order into other lives. I was no prospect for a wilful girl—but she was no longer a girl. She was a rather heavy-featured woman with a shadowy lover in the background. Although I knew that I was not yet finished with her I dreaded further involvement. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: no doubt she felt the same. I should look into her closed face and try to will her to look at me. And if the tactic worked as effectively as it had always done I should have burnt my boats and uttered an unwise and untimely declaration and thus connived at my own unreason, I who was so eminently reasonable a man.
I made a pot of tea and tried to shrug off these suppositions. I splashed my face with cold water, and after a second’s hesitation changed my shirt. I drank my tea standing up, anxious now to go back to the office, where it was assumed that I knew my own mind. The brief afternoon was already merging into dusk as I walked down Wigmore Street. I should have time to sign my letters and retrieve my briefcase, without which I felt naked. Ahead of me stretched the disagreeable task of going through Humphrey’s assets, or rather what assets co
uld be subsumed under the rubric of contents and to which Jenny was entitled. This might take some time, might indeed be a difficult subject to introduce on the day of the funeral, but as a solicitor I was used to poking about in dead men’s affairs. Many widows and widowers were thankful to me for discharging this task; Jenny, I knew, would be incapable of undertaking it.
I found her alone, seated at the oval dining-table, with the shawl still round her shoulders. Mother kissed her and made her promise to keep in touch, to which she made no response. From time to time she passed her hand over the table, not as a gesture of possession but as if to reassure herself of the solidity of objects. The smile she gave me was timid. I thought she had aged since the morning, and for the first time feared for her health, though to my knowledge she had never given any sign of physical weakness. I sat down beside her and placed my hand over the restless hand. With a shuddering sigh she turned to me, and I prepared myself for my inquisitorial or curatorial task. But Jenny, it seemed, was not yet ready.
‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘I never thought I’d be frightened to be alone. Even when he was in the other room and not speaking to me it was a presence. Do you understand, Alan?’
‘Of course I do. But there’s no need to be frightened. You’ll sleep soundly tonight and in the morning you’ll feel more confident.’
‘Alice was here,’ she went on. ‘That was nice of her, wasn’t it? Giving up her afternoon like that. We had a cup of tea together. Just like old times.’
‘Jenny,’ I said. ‘If you’re ready I think I’d better take a look round Humphrey’s room. You know you’re entitled …’
She turned to me, her expression desperate. ‘What’s to become of me, Alan, if I can’t stay here? And even if I could, what should I live on? I’ve got no money of my own; I’ve only got what he allowed me for the week in my purse, and when that runs out I shan’t even be able to buy a pint of milk. Alice invited me to stay with them in France, but I can’t leave the flat, can I? Sarah could come in and change the locks.’
This thought had occurred to me; I rather wondered whether to advise her to change the locks herself. But I was anxious not to step outside the law, and confined myself to asking her whether she knew what Humphrey kept in his room, whether he had a safety deposit box: questions she was unable to answer.
‘I went in,’ she said dully. ‘But I couldn’t see anything. And I didn’t like to go through his things. You know he kept his door locked? I doubt if you’ll find much. I’ve left everything as it was.’ And here, to her astonishment, a sob threatened to defeat her composure. She swallowed abruptly, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with panic, as if suddenly threatened by illness.
‘You stay here,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to be quick.’
Humphrey’s bedroom, or rather his bed-sitting room, was as rebarbative as I had imagined it. A coverlet had been hastily pulled over the unmade bed, which imparted its own particular aroma to the murky atmosphere. Humphrey’s grey suit, out of shape at the elbows and knees, hung spectrally on the outside of the wardrobe door: on the chest of drawers lay his watch, his cufflinks, and a crusty handkerchief. Cautiously I slid open drawers, and found nothing but fuzzy grey socks and outsize underpants. Bracing myself, I slid my hand into the wardrobe, palpated several pockets, and disengaged from scarves and cardigans two pocket books with old elastic fastenings, one of which contained a considerable quantity of white five-pound notes. Sliding my hand in again I found a leather purse, heavy with the sort of coins I dimly remembered as pennies. These, however, were dated 1933. He must have kept them from his boyhood. I reckoned they were worth something, perhaps even a considerable amount.
‘Why don’t we have some coffee?’ I remarked, back under that centre light. ‘And some of that cake if there’s any left. I don’t seem to have had lunch today, and I doubt if you’ve eaten anything.’
‘Alice tried to get me to eat, but I don’t want to. Will you stay, Alan? I don’t want to be alone.’
I sat down and took her hands. ‘It won’t be so bad,’ I said. ‘You get used to it. And you lived alone before, didn’t you? In the hotel?’
Her face softened into a smile of reminiscence. ‘My little room,’ she said. ‘Right under the roof, the cheapest room in the hotel. But it was decent, and I had hot water, and a little primus stove, although it wasn’t allowed. I could make myself a coffee in the morning. And on Sundays I went out and bought myself croissants. Nobody knew I was poor. Not like now.’ The smile vanished.
‘You’re not poor,’ I said, putting the money on the table. ‘This is worth quite a bit.’
‘Foreign currency?’ she said. ‘I don’t even know what country it comes from.’
‘It’s English,’ I told her. ‘Old money. And when I’ve had time to find out about such things you might learn that it’s worth a great deal. What about his wallet?’
‘I couldn’t find it. I tried his suit …’
‘Did you try his dressing-gown?’
‘No, no, I didn’t, although he did hide things from me. I told you …’
I went back to the bedroom and searched the pockets of his dressing-gown, which someone, Jenny or the neighbour, had hung on the back of the door. In one of them I found his wallet, which contained about two hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes.
‘This will tide you over,’ I said. ‘Put the money in your bag. Nobody’s going to turn you out. Remember, they have to go through me first.’
I fished in my pocket and found the card that one of the men at the funeral had given me. I glanced at it: Lionel Taylor.
‘Get in touch with this man and tell him you want to sell the clocks. Invite him round, tell him to see if there’s anything else he wants. There’s that Art Nouveau vase, for example. And I seem to remember being shown a box of watches when I was a boy. Pocket watches, gold ones.’
‘They’re in the sideboard.’
‘There you are, then. That’s enough for one day, I think. Time you went to bed.’
‘Must you go, Alan?’
‘I’ve still got some business to see to. But I’ll be back in a day or two. Good-night, Jenny. You’ve got my number, if you want me. Remember, I’m quite near.’
I left, without my coffee. I felt hungry, but was too impatient to eat. I walked briskly through Upper Berkeley Street and Portman Square to Wigmore Street. I would drop my briefcase at the flat, I calculated; while there I would see if this irritating anticipation would subside. I might read a poem to steady my nerves. Tennyson was my current favourite: ‘Birds in the high hall garden …’ Perhaps the influence of Tennyson would calm me down. Yet, by the light of a street lamp, I looked at my watch, and saw that I should have to hurry. My next appointment beckoned, and I could not be late.
15
When I was very young the worst thing I could do to myself was to anticipate an ordeal. As a child this took the form of a visit to my grandmother: when I was at school it was swimming, and later examinations (which I usually passed with ease). My feeling on these occasions was not simple dread but a form of heart-break, as if I were being denied the pleasures of this world because of a rule arbitrarily imposed on me by a higher power. I would treasure my last glimpses of the street, the sun, the traffic, as if they were forbidden to me, only to be enjoyed by those for whom such rules did not exist. Prisoners must feel something like this when the gates close behind them. And the worst of it was that when I had endured the ordeal, whatever it was, the world was somehow diminished, as if my anguish had robbed it of some of its splendour. To my credit I never demanded to stay at home, with some well-worn excuse or other; my dread was an illness in itself, although I knew myself to be physically intact. I would vow to myself so to construct my life as a man to avoid such ordeals, yet here I was, on this mild autumn night, walking up Baker Street either to face the last of my ordeals or the first of a long sequence of them, almost but not quite submitting to that paralysis of the will that emptied my mind of everything but
the task before me. On these occasions I no longer acted; I merely submitted to events. Even as a man I underwent the emotions that had assailed me as a boy, and which I now recognised as habitual, part of my intimate economy, and no more to be shrugged off than the shape of my feet or the colour of my hair.
When under the spell of this anxiety, I would feel myself to be a sleep-walker, whose eventual waking would not prevent the experience from being repeated. The sleep-walker is said to wake up in time to stop him doing himself damage, but damage was precisely what characterised the whole experience. The world had been altered for me through its agency, and although it might look the same I was aware of a subtle difference. The friendliness of everyday phenomena could no longer be taken for granted, since ahead of me was an event that cast a shadow over everything that I had known. My father had reassured me that everyone felt faint-hearted from time to time, but I did not believe him. It seemed to me that I was being singled out for this visitation, and the fact that I remained physically unmarked by it was if anything further proof of its mysterious power. I would set out from home in a state of grief, and no assurance of a treat at the end of the day would mitigate it. If anything I despised such assurances, for I knew that my feelings had nothing to do with my status as a child. I had been inducted into the world of loss, and having eaten of this particular apple would never be truly whole again.
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