‘We might as well have a cup of coffee here,’ said Pauline, rousing the dog. ‘Then all I have to do is the lunch when we get home. I hope you don’t mind ham and salad. Mother is so looking forward to meeting you,’ she added, striding on ahead.
The dog was very old, and did not seem particularly viable. Kitty looked on it with some disfavour, but it had attached itself to her unquestioningly, apparently unaware of her feelings. Its sleeping weight was unpleasantly warm against her leg under the table in the café, which was also very warm, and extremely full. Disconsolate families ate baked beans on toast and wrapped handkerchiefs around the stinging handles of metal teapots, for this was tourist country, Kitty realized, and the season was beginning. The two waitresses, middle-aged women, called haplessly to one another and forgot orders which they were too harassed to write down. The little space between the tables was clogged by shopping baskets, a push chair, and, of course, the dog. Even I could run this place better, thought Kitty, who was not impressed. She had her grandmother’s contempt for amateurishness. To Pauline it was a useful place to fill in time until the pub opened. She rarely noticed what she ate or drank, in any case.
‘How’s the lecture going?’ she asked Kitty. And she is the only person who really wants to know, thought Kitty. And I haven’t given it much thought.
‘I haven’t given it much thought,’ she answered. ‘I shan’t be able to until the term is over. I’ve had to do rather more teaching than I bargained for.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Pauline. ‘You’ve got Larter, haven’t you? Yes, he takes a bit of keeping up with. He takes up a lot of time too.’
‘It’s not a bad group,’ said Kitty. ‘Although last week it wasn’t much of a group. Miss Fairchild didn’t turn up. I’d better find out if she’s ill, I suppose.’
‘Jane? Oh, she’s all right. I saw her in the village before I picked you up.’
‘Does she live here?’ asked Kitty in some surprise.
‘My dear, the Fairchilds practically own the place.’
‘And,’ said Kitty with studied calm, ‘Maurice Bishop is around here somewhere, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Pauline, heaving a large wristwatch into sight and kicking the dog awake. ‘A bit further out. We’ve just got time for a quick gin before Mother starts to worry.’
Kitty, who was disappointed at hearing so little, but was determined not to ask for details, followed Pauline into the pub, as did half the inhabitants of the café. I shall learn nothing, she thought. And at this rate I shall not get much fresh air either.
After three-quarters of an hour in the pub, they transferred themselves to Pauline’s small car, which immediately filled up with the smell of dog. They travelled silently for about six miles, and then stopped abruptly by the telephone box opposite the row of four cottages that composed Pauline’s village. Kitty felt a pang of pain for her. She comes here every night, even in the darkest winter, she said to herself. There is no one for her to talk to. She has to make arrangements for people to come in and see to her mother during the day. And when her mother dies, what will she do? Probably go on living in the same place, even lonelier. And she knows all this. She is too clever not to know. She is what is called a liberated woman, thought Kitty. The kind envied by captive housewives. She felt an urgent need to put her own life into some sort of order, to ensure that she did not turn out like Caroline or like Pauline, the one so stupid, the other so intelligent, and both so bereft. She saw her two friends, who would have nothing to say to each other if they should ever meet, as casualties of the same conflict, as losers in the war in which Providence was deemed to play so large a part, and to determine the outcome, for some, not for others.
‘I hope you’re not going to be bored,’ Pauline’s voice broke in at this point. ‘Mother likes me to spend as much time as possible with her at the weekends. But that leaves you quite free. You could be an angel and take the dog out. If he can keep awake, that is. He gets no exercise at all.’
Kitty breathed conscientiously as she got out of the car, as people will when they think it is going to do them good. Pauline, who was aware of the existence of the nuclear power plant twenty-five hazy miles distant, smiled wryly to herself but said nothing. Years of living with her mother had made her adept at keeping bad news to herself.
But Mrs Bentley and Kitty were delighted with each other. In a cool low-ceilinged little room, its windows obscured by fleshy green plants in brass pots, Kitty sat on a stool beside a wing chair, while Pauline retired to the kitchen and got on with the lunch. Mrs Bentley, in the chair, put out a large shaking liver-spotted hand, and Kitty took it and held it for a moment between both of her own. She noted the bony but still active frame, the man’s handkerchief protruding from the pocket of the cardigan, the thin white hair following the shape of the large skull, the long narrow feet passive in childish sandals.
‘Now, my dear,’ said Mrs Bentley, in her rather carrying lecturer’s voice. ‘You must tell me who you are and what you are, for I can’t see a thing for myself you know.’
‘I am called Kitty,’ said Kitty, ‘although my name is Thérèse. I work with Pauline in …’
‘Why are you called Kitty if your name is Thérèse?’ asked Mrs Bentley with great interest. And Kitty, who did not normally talk about such matters, found herself telling Mrs Bentley about her grandparents and her mother and father; it was not much of a story but it pleased Mrs Bentley, who got rather tired of Radio Three, placed conveniently near her chair. Kitty’s story was like one of the Edwardian novels she could no longer read. When Pauline came back with the tray and started arranging plates on a small table which she moved close to her mother’s chair, Kitty was describing her mother’s wedding dress, now shrouded in tissue paper, but still hanging in her grandparents’ flat, and the small satin shoes that went with it.
‘But that is charming!’ cried Mrs Bentley. ‘And do you speak French at home? That must give you a head start with your work.’
Pauline smiled faintly as she moved a plate, on which the food was cut into small pieces, and touched her mother’s wrist to it. Mrs Bentley took a fork in her shaking hand, and they began their lunch.
‘I don’t get out now,’ said Mrs Bentley in a matter of fact voice. ‘Except when Pauline takes me in the car and then I feel a little dizzy, not being able to see.’
‘My grandmother never goes out,’ said Kitty, retrieving a slice of tomato which was slowly descending the rugged surface of Mrs Bentley’s cardigan.
‘I wish we could meet. Old women have such a lot to talk about, even if they don’t know each other. And the two of us with only one daughter.’
For a moment they all contemplated this possibility. Then they recognized it as an impossibility, and discarded it. Pauline glanced swiftly at Kitty, who was mopping up Mrs Bentley’s spilled glass of water with her handkerchief. When she saw that Kitty’s face was calm and unembarrassed, she relaxed. Kitty, for her part, was not unused to the petty squalors of old age, and did not think about them. She worried far more about being her own age and not making the most of it.
They had a cup of coffee; Mrs Bentley took a battered tin and a packet of cigarette papers out of the pocket of her cardigan and began to roll a cigarette between large trembling fingers. When ignited, it burned like a flare for a second or two and then went out.
‘Will you have one of mine, Mrs Bentley?’ asked Kitty.
‘No thank you, my dear, I really just like messing about with my tin. Habit, really. It was my husband’s, you see. And anyway, I usually have my rest about now. Pauline can show you the garden. But I want so much to hear about your work – perhaps after tea you will tell me about your lecture. I have kept in touch, you know. After all, my generation was the first to read The Romantic Agony. My husband and I called on Professor Praz in Rome when we were on our wedding journey.’ She leaned back in her chair, groped on the top of the radio for a large green silk handkerchief, and draped it over her face. Within seconds she
was asleep. Pauline lifted a corner of the handkerchief, lowered it gently, and motioned Kitty to follow her into the kitchen.
‘You’ve made a hit,’ she said, neutrally. She was enormously pleased with Kitty. ‘And now, like Prospero, I will give you your freedom. Take that bloody dog and walk. It’s a nice afternoon. Tea will be at four-thirty.’
‘Can’t I help, or something?’ asked Kitty.
‘You already have,’ said Pauline. ‘Are you sure those shoes are comfortable? You look terribly smart. We don’t dress up much here, you see. Don’t get much chance.’
Kitty noticed the small stone sink, the wooden draining board, the dim glass jar containing wild flowers in dirty water on the windowsill. There was no refrigerator, only a larder.
‘Pauline,’ said Kitty on impulse. ‘Let me take you both out to dinner. Your mother would be all right with the two of us. And you ought to get out a bit. I don’t like to think of you waiting on me.’
Pauline, who would not normally have contemplated such a thing, thought of the mince she had bought that morning and made a sudden decision to feed it to the dog.
‘Well, there is The Manor,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s the local hotel. It’s rather smart. I don’t think …’
‘Where is it?’ asked Kitty. ‘Can I walk there and book a table?’ And she said it in such an eager tone that Pauline smiled and agreed.
Kitty set off with the dog and the firm intention that they were going to have a really festive evening. It was essential for Pauline to break the pattern, and the old lady, she knew, would enjoy the change of scene. She deserves it, thought Kitty. They both do. And they won’t make a move on their own.
She found The Manor, a largish house set in extensive gardens, booked a table for that evening, and then, since she was thirsty from walking, asked if she might have some tea. She was beginning to get the hang of the country, she thought; even the dog followed her without question. They had nothing to say to each other, for Kitty did not believe in wasting words on animals. Or, indeed, in wasting words at all, when every single one counted. She was again reminded of Adolphe. Sitting in the garden and sipping her tea, she contemplated the brilliant and frightening future. If everything worked out she might one day find herself seated in her own garden something like this one. Having tea. Her mind veered shyly away from this possibility, but the unrealized thought brought colour to her cheeks and for a while she looked as happy as she supposed herself to be. She scarcely noticed the journey back to the cottage.
‘Now, my dear,’ said Mrs Bentley, her slice of bread and butter returned somewhat uncertainly to her plate. ‘You must tell me what you are doing. I left the field when Existentialism came in, and on the whole I was glad to.’
‘But how could you?’ cried Kitty. ‘It is such a valid creed. I sometimes think it is the only one I can believe in.’
Mrs Bentley hauled out her tin and manufactured another cigarette. ‘Well, I thought it was just a desacralized form of Christianity, you know. And rather a poor-spirited one.’
‘But that is the point,’ said Kitty. ‘Because it is desacralized, everyone can join in. There are no elect. There is no grace. It is a system of pure ethics.’
Mrs Bentley smiled faintly. ‘And do you understand the idea of the Absurd?’ she asked, using the tolerant tone she had formerly employed with students. ‘Without recourse to Camus’ text,’ she added.
Kitty thought. ‘It’s very difficult. The proposition is that man’s natural condition is inherently absurd because he constantly makes assumptions and these assumptions are usually incorrect. Beginnings do not naturally predispose one to good fortune or its opposite. There is therefore no sound basis for reassurance or optimism. All forces are indifferent. And if you don’t like the prospect of unlimited free will – and who does? – you can initiate your own sort of rebellion. You can be a “saint without God”, as Camus puts it. Though I don’t know. One of my students,’ she added, ‘thinks that Existentialism is a Romantic phenomenon.’
‘Oh, but I never doubted it,’ said Mrs Bentley in a rather dry tone. She was exhilarated to find herself still ahead of the game. She had to be forcibly reminded twice by Pauline that they were going out that evening, and when she left the room on her daughter’s arm, she still had a small triumphant smile on her lips.
When they reassembled, they were on the whole pleased with each other. Pauline had changed into a light wool dress, obviously her best, and Mrs Bentley, rocking slightly in a pair of antique boat-shaped court shoes, wore a silk dress and jacket, into the pockets of which she had stowed her handkerchief and her tin. Pauline was instructed to take the dog next door to the Singletons and had to wake him up to do so. While they waited, Mrs Bentley felt for Kitty’s hand. ‘Look after my daughter,’ she said abruptly. ‘I can’t do much for her now. When I die I want her to go round the world. Away from this place. I want her to spend all the money at once. Will you see to that?’
Kitty squeezed the hand. ‘I promise you,’ she said.
The evening was a great success. The hotel was warm and subdued, the tables not too crowded, the windows open on to the deserted garden. Mrs Bentley was persuaded to drink a glass of wine, and whether because of the wine or because of Kitty’s promise, she became very animated.
‘Mother,’ warned Pauline, ‘you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘Who cares?’ cried Mrs Bentley, plunging her fork just beyond her apple charlotte and striking the table. ‘And if I’m not going to sleep I might as well have some coffee.’
They had coffee and brandy, for Pauline’s sake as much as anything, for Kitty was determined that Pauline should sleep. Pauline looked much younger, she noted approvingly; the candlelight flattered her and gave her more colour. She looked, thought Kitty, very English. Shy but invincible. She will be all right, she decided. She will see the world, that I guarantee. She will marry a retired colonial official and settle down in Hong Kong. I shall hear from her once a year – a letter inside a Christmas card, ending ‘George joins me in sending his warmest wishes’. I see it clearly.
‘This is really very pleasant,’ said Mrs Bentley, igniting one of her cigarettes. ‘My husband and I used to come here when it was a private house. We knew a lot of people in those days. The Derings. The Granthams. The Bishops.’
Kitty’s heart speeded up. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said casually. ‘Maurice Bishop is in the History Department, of course.’
‘Maurice was the only son,’ mused Mrs Bentley. ‘So sad about that marriage of his. Margaret, his mother, was very cut up about it.’
Kitty said slowly, ‘You mean the marriage that didn’t come off?’
‘That’s right. Such a pretty girl, too. They were so devoted. We couldn’t understand it.’
‘Yes, it must have been sad,’ said Kitty, in a carefully uninflected voice. Pauline stole a glance at her. ‘I thought it was all hushed up.’ She meant, I thought it was a secret. I thought that Maurice told only me.
Mrs Bentley laughed rather coarsely. ‘That sort of thing never is. Neither of them was terribly reticent, as I remember. Henry Bishop thought it a lot of unnecessary fuss.’
Kitty, who felt suddenly stifled, summoned a passing waiter for the bill. Mrs Bentley, hauled to her feet by Pauline, now seemed to her more ruthless, less sympathetic. Mrs Bentley’s teeth, she noted, were as long and as yellow as those of the dog. She felt better when they were outside in the air, densely black, sweet smelling. During the short drive home, Mrs Bentley was still animated. It was clear even to Kitty that she would not sleep that night. She wondered if she would herself.
Upstairs in her tiny bedroom, she walked to the window and shied away instinctively as she saw the new moon through the glass: bad luck for the month to come. Oh, I am misbegotten, she thought. I am not anywhere at home. I believe in nothing. I am truly in an existentialist world. There are no valid prophecies. But then, she thought, breathing deeply in order to calm herself, if I believe in nothing – not in the Bible nor Provi
dence nor Madame Eva – how can I believe that nonsense about the moon?
Suddenly, and for no reason, the dog woke up, whined, prowled round the kitchen, then came up the stairs. He wandered through Pauline’s open bedroom door, wandered out again, and sat, panting heavily, outside Kitty’s room. With a sigh, she let him in. Gratefully, he fell asleep at once. After a while she was quite glad to have him there.
EIGHT
After Maurice had left, or rather after Kitty surmised that he had left, for there had been no further communication, she found herself suddenly without anything to do. The term had ended and she prepared to wait out the time that remained before her own departure by putting her flat in order and thinking about what to wear. This took exactly half a morning. Instead of bothering with lunch, she wandered down to the little public garden, sat on a bench, and held her face up to the exceptional sun. She was entirely alone. It seemed as good a place to work as any and after a while she took out a book but the sun dazzled and bemused her; she found herself reading the same page twice and eventually she put the book away. She wondered if the story of Paolo and Francesca could be worked into her theory on the Romantic Tradition, and thought about the beautiful sentence she had read in a translation of Dante’s account of their fatal kiss: ‘that day they read no more’. She imagined a tiny volume tumbling silently to the ground and a hand in a pointed sleeve outstretched. Dante had placed Paolo and Francesca in the circle of the lustful and it was true that the kiss had been rapidly followed by murder, but the story appealed to Kitty. Reading interrupted by kissing and followed by death seemed to her an entirely natural progression.
Two elderly ladies came into view, arm in arm. Their appearance denoted women of the middle class down on their luck; they wore anoraks and headscarves suitable for walking dogs, but old and broken shoes. They sat down on an adjacent bench and one urged the other in a loud voice to remove her coat. ‘I don’t know,’ said the marginally older of the two, shaking a nervous head and fumbling for her bag. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mother,’ cried the other (her daughter, thought Kitty, horrified), ‘do make up your mind. Or do you want to sit in the shade? Yes, perhaps that might be better. Over there.’ There was another, murmured, hesitation. ‘Oh, come on, Mother, do make an effort. Here, I’ll take your bag.’ The daughter, Kitty noted, had bare legs and wore ankle socks. With infinite slowness they moved off and resettled themselves a dozen paces away. Their new location seemed to present further problems and five minutes later they were back again. Discussion, now rather loud and one-sided, broke out once again as to whether the mother should remove her coat. When she did, it was clearly to please her daughter whom she could not otherwise please, had not ever pleased. And the daughter herself, with her aged embittered face, could not have given much pleasure either, thought Kitty. And both were aware of this and made occasional and futile gestures of conciliation. Like this outing, which neither of them enjoyed. The daughter’s angry restlessness was frightening to Kitty who was glad, and by no means surprised, when they decided that the sun was too hot, the garden too lacking in shelter, for them to sit much longer. The coat was put on again, the stick groped for. Roughly, the daughter retied her mother’s headscarf. ‘All right?’ she shouted. ‘Better get on, then. No point in hanging about.’ From the back, their linked arms, their slow steps, their bent heads indicated closeness, an area of necessary if fatal collusion. But when they had gone, they left a wake of bitterness, a dark stain on the bright day.
Providence Page 8
