‘So the house never belonged to Simon?’
‘No. And it was probably not a good idea for him to occupy it. He should have bought a property of his own, as soon as he was able to do so. It was foolhardy to expect that he could stay there indefinitely. But he was an optimist, you know.’ I nodded. ‘He obviously made no attempt to get in touch with Anthony Spedding. He may even have hoped that Mr Spedding would not bother him.’ He shook his head. ‘I take it that Mr Spedding was in ignorance of his second marriage. Was that announced in The Times, by the way?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’
‘That might account for his silence in the matter. Poor Simon. Delightfully impractical. And generous to a fault. Apart from the legacy to your mother there are no other assets. He had no other home? In London, perhaps?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I repeated.
‘Your mother will have enough to live on, but not in the manner to which she has been accustomed.’
‘Actually she never liked that house.’
‘No? It is a valuable property. I’m afraid there is no possibility that you will be able to buy it from Anthony Spedding. Your best plan is to meet him and discuss the matter fully. It may well be in his interest to have your mother as a tenant. I believe he is quite a wealthy man. Property interests, you know.’
‘Like Simon. That might have brought them together.’
Mr Redman smiled. ‘I’m afraid Simon’s business interests were on a much lower scale. Those warehouses in Walthamstow were in pretty poor condition. But it’s all big business now, and that area has been pretty keenly surveyed.’
‘So there’s nothing left?’
‘There is one remaining, which you should sell. And there is the account in the rue des Bergues.’ He rose from behind his desk. ‘I hope this has been helpful. It is always preferable to know the worst.’
‘Is it?’
He smiled kindly. ‘Have faith, Miss Cunningham. All is not as bad as it sounds. You will be able to rearrange your lives accordingly. Life is a process of adjustment, you know.’
It was no doubt what he told all his clients after giving them the bad news.
He saw me to the door. ‘I shouldn’t advise North London,’ he said. ‘North London is becoming very expensive.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘For your next purchase. Go south, is my advice. Sydenham, I believe, is quite attractive. Or of course you could go further out. Bromley. Petts Wood.’
‘You say the money in the Swiss bank will be enough for my mother to live on?’
‘If she is very careful, yes. As for the property in France, I think you should reconcile yourself to some sort of an arrangement with Mr Spedding. He may be glad to have a tenant in situ. I believe he travels a lot himself. America, and so on. You will be able to reassure him about your own future in a face-to-face discussion. Write to him at the bank. They will know of his whereabouts.’
I did not see how Anthony Spedding could refuse my request. My mother would be an excellent tenant, although, knowing her dislike of the house, my next task would be to persuade her to live there. I thought it highly unlikely that she would consent to a temporary tenancy or lease, but as we could not afford to buy the place there was no alternative. I thought it wiser for the time being not to inform her that the house was no longer hers. If I could disguise from her the details of my discussion with Mr Redman, or indeed with Anthony Spedding, when I finally made contact, she might be quite content to live there until she was strong enough to learn that other arrangements would have to be made, were indeed actively under discussion. I could not see her in Tooting or Petts Wood. Her unvoiced desire to return to London was, I knew, connected with her life in Edith Grove, as if the brief residence in Nice (and I was shocked when I realized how brief it had been—just a few years) were merely an interruption, after which her existence would be as it always had been. She would need to be eased out of this assumption, made to see the necessity of forming other plans. Life is a process of adjustment, I would tell her. Yet all the while I doubted whether she were capable of contemplating exile to a remote suburb, where she knew no one. Surely she would see Les Mouettes as a preferable alternative?
It would also suit my work, and no doubt my future life, if we were to live apart. Neither of us had lived at close quarters with another woman since her marriage, both believing that it was natural for a woman to live with a man. The desirability of this arrangement had always been obvious to both of us, despite our intense fondness, and I have no doubt that it would have been a consideration in her decision to marry Simon. It would suit me to know that she was in a place that was familiar, if not entirely to her liking; it would suit me to pay whatever rent Anthony Spedding required, knowing that if circumstances changed we could terminate the lease. This might not be for some time, not until I myself were settled. For I too might claim a life of my own, might marry in my turn, might have a husband or partner to advise me. This, I knew, was my dearest wish, not just for my own sake (that involved another type of reasoning, or rather of magical thinking) but for my mother, who would surely assent gladly to advice from a man. My mother belonged to an era when men made all the decisions. I had been obliged to make my own. And yet without the flat that Simon had bought for me I should have had great difficulty in assuming my independence. I was determined to keep the flat, which would ensure any future partner of my respectability. The flat advertised my availability as a free agent. It was therefore a matter of urgency to get in touch with Anthony Spedding, so that my mother’s future could be assured.
In the outer office Miss Scott raised a hand in valediction when I thanked her for the coffee. Mr Redman, no doubt relieved that I had not made a scene, promised me his support. I was to keep in touch; he would of course oversee any agreement on which I might require advice. Another bill, I reckoned. It could not be helped. Indeed nothing could be helped. I thanked him, and he patted my arm, just as Dr Balbi had done. Such kindly gestures were my reward in this matter.
An urban child, I had always considered London my birthright. My conscientious mother had taken me, when young, to all the obvious places: the Tower, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, the National Gallery. Later, with my schoolfriends, I had explored Oxford Street, the King’s Road. I looked back on these excursions with indulgence. The home to which I had returned then was more stable than any I had known since. My present flat was more than a temporary refuge: it was the temporary refuge from which, once more, I should have to depart. I knew that this was unthinkable, but was forced to think of it. I wanted, like so many others before me, for things to remain the same, or rather as they had been before the time of change. I also knew that I should give up my freedom if it made my mother comfortable to have me near at hand. Yet I was lonely, made lonelier by the prospect of life as a caretaker, for that is what I would become if my mother proved too shaken by her experiences to face life on her own. The alternative scenario was much more appealing: a temporary sojourn at Les Mouettes, which could be prolonged indefinitely, a full explanation of our situation, and a considered appraisal of what options remained. It was entirely possible that Anthony Spedding was a reasonable man whom this arrangement would suit well enough. He travelled a lot, Mr Redman had said, had property interests, would eventually wish to retire. At this point we should be obliged to leave, but that might not be for some years, by which time my putative husband would take matters in hand. That my mother might be opposed to this arrangement could no longer be a deciding factor. Les Mouettes would have to house her for the time being, and she would have to accept that this was how she must live. When I thought of that figure in the hospital bed, her hair flattened, her lips bloodless, I tried not to think of the implications of her appearance. In a day or two she would be roused as if from the dead, and when asked, like the character in A Tale of Two Cities, whether she cared to live, might reply, like that same character, ‘I cannot say.’ That was when I should be needed, a
nd I should play my part. For until she was safe I would know no peace.
I decided to spend the weekend in London. I had letters to write, one to Mr Redman, thanking him for his time and promising to keep in touch, and one to the bank, requesting Anthony Spedding’s address, or, failing that, an understanding that they would forward any letters addressed to him. Then I would have to write to Anthony Spedding, care of the bank if necessary, asking for a meeting. These letters seemed to me to take care of all eventualities, but I put off the task of actually writing them. I wanted only to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea until it got dark, and then to go to sleep in my own bed. When I heard The Archers’ signature tune from the flat upstairs I sighed, got up, and rang the clinic. There was no change, I was told. I explained that I should be back in Nice the following week. This was received without comment, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I was grateful to the clinic for passing no judgement on me. At the same time I must reserve all monies, actual and potential, for payment of the bills. The costs had not been mentioned so far, but I had no doubt that the charges would be considerable. The presence of Marie-Caroline alone must figure on an eventual bill.
At no time in my reflections did I think to blame Simon. I set the shadowy Swiss bank account beside the reality of the remaining warehouse in Walthamstow. Both would somehow supply our needs, as he had no doubt intended. In his own eyes he had acted honourably, and, more important, as a lover should. He had endowed the pretty widow with all his worldly goods, including those he did not quite possess. There was no doubt that he had loved my mother, had generously extended that love to include myself. And so ardent had he been that we had not thought to question his generosity. There had been no ponderous male relative to advise caution, to investigate his affairs. We had taken him at face value, as he had desired to be taken. And we had profited: of that there was no doubt. Women will always urge marriage on one of their own, particularly if there is, or seems to be, a splendid new life in the offing. Our mistake was not to have looked a gift horse in the mouth. But who does? A stroke of good fortune is taken to be the work of benevolent guardians, not of those capricious gods who may withdraw their gift at any moment, or indeed transform it into something else. Take a chance, we urge our friends, when an alluring prospect beckons. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And once the chance is taken there is no way of turning back. And Simon had been so happy to supply the happiness of others, so loveable in his enthusiasm, his extravagance . . . I saw him as benefiting from an immense illusion that would ensure our comfort for ever. Perhaps it was fortunate that he had died before fuller explanations were due. In that way his death was in tune with his whole life, an airy delusion of wellbeing that had endured until those same guardians had precipitated his fall onto a marble floor, leaving the entanglements which he had concealed to be dealt with by others.
It occurred to me to wonder how much of this my mother knew, how much she had sought to query. I dismissed this out of hand: her status as a new wife would have imposed on her a discretion which she would not have thought to breach. Simon had been attracted to her by her innocence, an innocence almost unknown in those years of liberation. That innocence, I now saw, was entirely faulty. She had accepted his endowment as the gift he had intended it to be, and in that way had contributed to his general feeling of gratification. She would now have to be told the facts, which would come to her as a shock. I did not even know if she remembered the scene that had determined her removal to the clinic. Now she could no longer be spared. At some point, presumably when she was fully awake, I should have to tell her, or to remind her, that Simon was dead. She would then have to undergo a period of mourning, during which time I should have to be entirely supportive, and, more than that, sympathetic, when in truth I would be longing for her to take charge. Dr Balbi had said that she would be in the clinic for three weeks. And during those weeks I should have to be at hand, gently reconstructing for her events which she might have no memory of having witnessed.
I got up and went out, thinking that a walk in the dark streets would prepare me for a night which would be sleepless. After a day of mild sunshine, in which it had been possible to think of spring, the weather had turned cold and damp. Those streets which had witnessed my childhood now seemed to me to be infinitely kind. Even the darkness was welcome, for it concealed me. I walked through the drizzle for about an hour, without paying attention to where I was going. There were few passers-by, only the odd car sizzling on the wet road. In the windows lights were on behind undrawn curtains; dinner was being eaten, or children being put to bed. These images of other people’s domesticity affected me; I longed for such a setting for myself. These happy people would get up in the morning assured of a day of leisure. It would be Saturday, a day for shopping, an evening for dinner parties. That reminded me that I had not eaten. Small shops were still open: I bought bread and cheese, butter and coffee. That would have to do. The idea of sitting down to a full meal in my present predicament was somehow inappropriate.
I hoped most strenuously that my mother somehow knew that Simon was dead, and that the long sleep would not have wiped her mind clear of memory. I thought it preferable that she should suffer shock than that she should continue to enjoy that ignorance that had sustained her through life. I would have her ravaged by grief rather than comforted by an illusion that at any minute Simon would resume his existence. I knew that, without prompting, she would prefer to luxuriate in the kind care of Marie-Caroline, postponing for ever the questions she would need to ask. I should have to be tactful, but I should want to be brutal, harsh. I now intended to bring matters to some sort of conclusion, however fearful or horrified I might feel. I had heard from Mr Redman how bad things were, or might be, and I recognized that it was up to me to bring order out of present chaos. My mother, in the meantime, would slowly come to terms with my decisiveness, and perhaps recognize this as the protection she had always sought. I was determined that this should not happen.
My home, when I reached it, seemed to me to be infinitely welcoming, and, more important than that, discreet, tactful, asking no questions, respecting my right to be there. I made coffee and ate my bread and cheese. I wrote my letters, stamped them, and even did a little work: this too I should post off in the morning. In the stillness of the night, for it was now very late, I felt it important to show good will, to establish my credentials. Aware of the task that awaited me, I wanted others to think well of me. I even felt a slightly shaky sense of wellbeing, no doubt brought about by the food and the coffee. I had done as much as possible in the time at my disposal. Now it was for others to take up the burden.
Despite my exhaustion I slept fitfully. My dreams were fragmentary but vivid. In one my mother appeared, looking dishevelled, as she had never done in real life. She carried her possessions in two plastic bags, and her face was as I had seen it in the clinic. In another fragment I was in some sort of chemist’s shop, staffed by two men of outstanding beauty. I hesitated to interrupt their conversation, for they were clearly in love with one another, grabbed the first thing that came to hand, laid my money on the counter, and left silently, so as not to disturb them. I could make no sense of this dream, although the other was all too clear. I had two days left in which to come to terms with my situation, though I knew that a whole lifetime might not be sufficient.
9
I had no desire to return to Nice. So great was my reluctance that I did not catch a plane until the early afternoon. I knew what awaited me, the multiplicity of arrangements that it would be my task to oversee. I even lingered at the airport, was tempted to buy a magazine like an ordinary tourist, and to sit on the beach, lazily, not even thinking. If I had to think I wanted to think of myself and of my own inclinations. The stay in the flat had altered my perceptions: within the flat I could lead a peaceable existence until a good outcome presented itself. This was now very imprecise, no longer had the lineaments of unnatural good fortune as I had once believed. I wante
d to live a life like that enjoyed by everyone else, with only normal duties and demands to fulfil. I wanted a settled domesticity, or, failing that, a life of quiet study, and the privacy such a life would provide.
Privacy and protection: perhaps the sort of life my mother had once known, until removed from it by the gallant stranger. That this had once seemed a good outcome was now seen to be incorrect. No woman of my time was allowed to think in terms of total withdrawal from the world, although this was now my dearest wish. On a more practical level, when I was capable of constructive thought, I resolved to hand everything over to Mr Redman, who was already in charge of our financial affairs. I would telephone him from Les Mouettes and inform him, no, instruct him, to deal with us as he dealt with his other clients, to make any decisions that had to be made, any letters that had to be written, any negotiations that would invariably present themselves. This decisiveness relieved me somewhat. I was unequal to these complications: I was even unwilling to go to the house, to the clinic. I wanted to be in the sun, with the money in my bag all to myself. Time and inactivity seemed the greatest endowments any woman could enjoy. This heretical thought was also an unconvincing one. Nevertheless I found time to look around me, to gain one more sight of the golden spoilt city. I settled into the taxi as if for a peaceful drive, yet my feeling of unpreparedness was, I believe, prophetic, my desire to idle away the time the last revolt of which I felt capable.
I entered Les Mouettes by way of the kitchen, as I always did, and was alarmed to hear a radio in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I looked around me, bewildered, at the paraphernalia of food on the table, noted several bottles of Simon’s wine brought up from the cellar. I was disturbed by a scowling darkfaced woman who appeared from the scullery that also served as a utility room. ‘Who . . . ?’ I began, but she merely jerked her head and said, ‘In salon.’ This was my reintroduction to the house I had so recently thought of as my second home, and yet I was not surprised. I had expected something like this since leaving London: my idling, my dawdling, took on an interesting significance, as if all were known in advance, before the evidence had been produced.
The Bay of Angels Page 9
