So that was that. I remembered her saying I love that man, I love that man so much it hurts, I shall love him till the day I die—and I wrote a card telling her to start the divorce proceedings because, if she must know, I didn’t have the energy. Again, my predominant feeling was one of waste. What had I done—what had I done—what in the end had any of it amounted to? The lunacy! The sheer lunacy! For a short time I’d had everything a person could have wanted … could possibly have wanted … and what had I now?
Nothing. I had already slipped back into my (currently) more normal state of apathy.
On March 24th I took the day off. Legitimately. It was a Thursday. Fittingly cold and damp and dismal. I awoke early, despite the aspirins I’d swallowed the night before—and the quantities of Scotch. (More and more of my money, these days, went on drink.) I knew it was said to be dangerous to mix aspirin with alcohol but I had done it deliberately and defiantly; almost hopefully. At any rate, I thought, that would have been one solution. Perhaps the best. Life was a mess. But I’d awoken in fact with nothing worse than a headache and the conviction that even if I stayed in bed all morning I shouldn’t be able to get to sleep again. The rain beat down against my window.
I got up and had breakfast: another whisky—a large one, out of last night’s glass—and a handful of ginger nuts. The ginger nuts were soft.
It was nearly half past eight. This time last year I’d been sitting over orange juice and eggs and bacon, triangles of toast and strong black coffee. Oliver had commented on my lack of appetite—although he himself very seldom took breakfast. (He usually came in, however, just to be sociable. “I’d hate to think of you as missing me,” he’d once said, “and feeling all unhappy and alone!”)
I said: “I ate too much last night.”
“In the pub? What nonsense! You hardly ate a thing. I’ll march you off to the doctor if you don’t watch out.”
“Stop fussing.” I managed to get through one of the eggs.
“What’s on your programme for today?”
“This morning I mean to write some letters.”
“Will you model for me again next week?”
“Of course.” I could scarcely get the words out.
“And this time, I swear to it, you’ll be recognizable!”
“Okay.”
“Perhaps one day I’ll attempt a portrait. How would you like that?”
I nodded.
Oliver looked at me inquiringly. But he didn’t express the inquiry in words. He threw down his napkin, got up and came to stand behind me. Put his arms about my shoulders and his cheek next to mine. Finished by giving me a quick kiss on the temple. “See you then. By the way, I shan’t be here for lunch. Happy letter-writing!”
He came back and stuck his head round the door. “And drink up that orange juice, please! Have to look after yourself! You’re precious.”
Well, I’d done that all right. At least … such had been my intention.
But would I ever be precious to anyone again? In that same way.
I doubted it.
Nor did I even want it.
A soft thud on the doormat informed me that the post had arrived. I felt glad of the distraction. But it was only the electricity bill; and a letter from Folkestone, which—dear God—was precisely what I needed. The usual inquiries about work and did I yet know when Elizabeth was coming back—surely her mother must be on the mend by now? My eye skimmed through to the closing sentences: “Write soon and give us all your news. I do hope you’re eating properly while she’s away. You must look after yourself.” Sweet Jesus Christ!
I decided I had to get out. I needed fresh air. I needed to walk. Blindly. Fast. Anywhere. I grabbed my raincoat and some money and slammed the door behind me. It was only after I’d done so I realized that I’d forgotten my keys. Well, what the hell? I could worry about that later.
I put my head down against the rain and made for Regent’s Park. By the time I reached it my hair was drenched and there were trickles running down my neck. I didn’t mind: the rain was cold and stingingly insistent and had a numbing effect even on my thoughts. Also it seemed to make my headache better—headache, hangover? Somehow I negotiated traffic—umbrellas—puddles; the first meant as little to me as the second or the third. I found myself on Primrose Hill—in Fitzjohn’s Avenue—at length on Hampstead Heath. Carried on to Highgate. At Highgate, soaked, I had a coffee. Misguided. Memory set up again.
Back to the road. Archway? Seven Sisters? I no longer knew the names. I was jostled by the lunchtime crowds. They were grumbling, single-minded, aggressive … better, though, than laughing. Strips of neon lighting spilled their brightness onto pavements. Mud splashed up from underneath the wheels of cars. Still I went on.
I arrived back in Baker Street by five. The rain had stopped but I felt chilled and shivery. I went into the Moo Cow Snack Bar and ordered soup—followed by spaghetti on toast. The soup was lukewarm and I made a fuss. Yet when I found the toast rubbery I couldn’t be bothered. Not again. I wasn’t hungry.
I thought about a long soak in steamy water. But I baulked at the idea of going home; of inactivity. Outdoors, at least, there were people to watch. I supposed I could go to a cinema.
An option I dismissed: the cinema would be useless.
And, besides that, it would be wrong. Totally wrong.
I could walk down to the West End. Mingle with the crowds. Pass the evening in a pub or two.
If I stayed on my own I’d go crazy.
The clock in the snack bar said a quarter to six.
At this time, of course, I had been in the car with Elizabeth.
“Mr Wilmot drives north. Did you ever see,” I asked, “a film called ‘Mr Denning Drives North’?”
“You and your films!” She had laughed.
“I can’t remember it exactly. I believe he had a body in the boot.”
“In the trunk? Well, at least there isn’t one in ours. That makes life a bit less complicated!” She paused. “Why did Oliver want to come to warn my parents? Honey, why did you tell him in the first place? Did you have a row?”
I shook my head. “He’s just slightly old-fashioned in some ways. Outmoded sense of duty. I don’t know why I told him.”
My throat hurt. It really did hurt.
“But that was a good film,” I said. “This journey reminded me of it.”
I battled on determinedly.
“John Mills and Phyllis Calvert. Sam Wanamaker.”
“Who’s Phyllis Calvert?”
Yes, Elizabeth and I … we had been in the car.
Where had Oliver been?
I stayed on in the snack bar. I had spent the whole day fighting it off. I was tired of fighting it off.
After the rings, what then?
Incredibly, I had never thought about this. What had Oliver done? After he’d left Gloucester Place, had he gone to the Savoy? No, the Sheldons would have said so. Then why hadn’t he; what had prevented him? Had he been overtaken by the Englishman’s traditional sense of fair play—or, more like it, by his own innate unselfishness?
Or had he suddenly recognized what he must have seen as the utter futility of trying to stop us … and then descended into lethargy?
In any case, what had he done during that nine or ten-hour gap which separated all his known movements? I wished there was some way I could find out; short, that is, of asking James.
An hour later I left the snack bar. I began to walk again. But this time my destination was more specific.
If I’d been Oliver I’d have gone and got drunk. Or, rather, if it had been Oliver who’d taken off and I’d felt about Oliver then as I felt about him now (yet I think I had; I think I almost had), I would have gone and got drunk And perhaps even more depressed as I did so.
In Victoria I stopped at a pub and drank two double whiskies, fairly fast.
While I was there, a young Salvation Army officer came in with a collecting box. She reminded me of ‘Guys and Dolls’. But unfor
tunately it was nothing from ‘Guys and Dolls’ which her colleagues were playing on the pavement. Memories of endless school assemblies merged with those of Damon Runyon and Frank Loesser.
“Time like an ever-rolling stream
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten as a dream
Fades at the opening day…”
I could no longer agree with the last half—indeed, it seemed especially ironic tonight—but I gave the officer a half-crown, because it was all I had in my pocket apart from a ten shilling note and a few coppers, and because something in her manner reminded me of Elizabeth. Besides, I thought drily, soon I might be joining the ranks of the down-and-outs; one of these days I might be glad of some hot soup and a warm blanket. I didn’t know how long I could face going on at Selfridge’s.
Anyhow, Selfridge’s mightn’t be too happy about having its customers served by a dipsomaniac.
“God bless you,” said the girl.
“And God bless you!” I riposted, in some way believing this to be witty. I was already half drunk. That meal in the Moo Cow hadn’t provided much absorbent.
Soon after she had left I followed her example. I hardly thought Oliver would have gone to a pub. I thought he’d have done all his drinking at home. I pictured him sprawling in one of those armchairs by the fireplace, with the lights out, mechanically raising the glass to his lips, an uncapped bottle near the foot of the chair.
I walked to the Embankment. It was dark, of course, but at least I had no difficulty in pinpointing the window of the sitting room. Right there at the top.
The rain had started up again.
Yet I stayed walking up and down opposite the flats for over an hour, sometimes stopping for as long as a minute to stare up at that unlit window and try to imagine the feelings which—behind it, at this very moment a year ago—might already have been whispering, seductively, of suicide. Indeed, it wasn’t all that hard to imagine; definitely it was easier than it would have been some twelve or thirteen months earlier. Now I could empathize in a way that I could never have done then.
But a little after ten I received a shock. I had supposed—illogically, after so long a period—that the flat remained empty.
Yet suddenly a light went on.
I shied away.
Shied away, before I’d see some stranger cross to draw the curtains. I’d fleetingly believed it was Oliver whose hand had flicked the switch.
Now I went on believing it—whilst knowing very well that I didn’t believe it at all.
I pictured him standing at the desk in the other room, deliberating on whether or not to write a note. Dismissing it as pointless; a dissipater of impetus. (Where ran the line between apathy and impetus? What culminating thought had goaded him to cross it?)
Now he saw the paperweights: those fat bronze Buddhas: gloating, smug. He picked one up, weighed it in his hand. He would need to wear his overcoat.
I pictured the closing of the front door, the rapid descent of those many flights of stairs. (Where had James been, where on earth had James been?) Were the weights already in his pockets, or did he hold one in each hand? What a grim and pointless exercise: this endeavour to relive the final moments of a desperate man. Yet I couldn’t stop. I was obsessed. I stared at the glass doors which formed the entrance to the block. I practically saw Oliver come striding through them. Head up, expressionless; a resolute, unfaltering stride. Practically saw him cross the road.
Cross the road. Mount the pavement. This pavement!
In fact, he came so close to me we almost touched. Made off towards the bridge.
His footsteps echoing sharply in the cold quiet crispness of the night, as I too move off along the pavement.
This year, the night is neither cold nor crisp. The lamps gleam softly through the drizzle; the intermittent benches are deserted—green paintwork glistens. Yet still I keep that other man in sight, on that clearer, finer evening. I hear the chill, dank splash of the river. No craft that I can see. On the opposite bank, lights emanate—dully—from an office building: cleaners getting ready for tomorrow?
The bridge comes into view. I pass two lovers leaning against the wall of the Embankment—the woman’s hands twined around the man’s waist. They’re elated; joking; warm with love. I put my hands inside my pockets and make them into fists. For some reason (it hasn’t re-entered my mind all day) I remember I’m without my keys. A trivial recollection—pitiably so at a time like this—but suddenly the knowledge overwhelms me. It’s grown to be too much. I feel so tired. I can’t stand the thought of having to disturb some neighbour. I can’t stand the thought of having to engage in piffling conversation.
A wind has sprung up. Or possibly I’m only more aware of it, now that I’m on the bridge. So far as I can make out in the shadowy pools of lamplight I appear to have the entire structure to myself. When I’m halfway along it I stop and wonder. Was it here? Was it here?
I don’t even know from which side Oliver jumped. But automatically I’ve turned towards Wandsworth. Why—because I’m right-handed? Well, Oliver was also right-handed. I assume he did the same.
The wind seems even stronger. I can hear it whistling round the struts. It tugs at the bottom of my raincoat—come to look down here, my fair laddie! Come to look down here! Only once had Oliver called me that.
I accept its invitation. The parapet seems low. The river is a black mass.
Perhaps, a year ago, there was moonlight. Perhaps, a year ago, you could make out the swirl of the current. I gaze down. I try to become dizzy. “I don’t like heights,” I tell myself, “I do not like heights!” Wuthering heights! The spirit of the dead calling out to the spirit of the living! A reunion to coincide, joyously, with one’s final breath, one’s final heartbeat. Oh, Oliver. Oliver. If only I could believe that … If only I could honestly believe … I continue to gaze into the abyss.
Anyway, there’s a complication.
I don’t have any weights!
Nothing. No ugly brass Buddhas. Nothing. There might be a rock or two somewhere, caught up in the mud along the water’s edge, but not here, not in the middle of the bridge. And for the moment … that walk all the way down to the shoreline … and then that walk all the way back … no, I’m sorry, I simply don’t possess the energy.
Yet, on the other hand, I’ve never swum in jumper, trousers, raincoat, shoes. And I feel so drained, so utterly drained—shouldn’t that make a difference? And I wouldn’t try to fight it … at least, not so far as I can tell, I wouldn’t. I’ve nothing to hang on for. I don’t even know how I’m going to get back into my flat.
This way, of course, I wouldn’t have to.
And they say that as you drown you relive things. In a good way. I remember reading about a woman who’d been saved at the last moment and hadn’t even wanted it; resentful of an intrusion which had dragged her back from a womblike state of comfort.
Had it become comfortable—comforting—for Oliver?
And if it had…
Well, a minute of panic maybe, of fighting frantically for breath, but then … A minute isn’t long. (Oh, yes, it is! Oh, yes, it can be!) Yet after that—an end to suffering. After that—tranquillity.
Release.
Oblivion.
And life will go on without me; life will go on. (Do I truly find that a source of reassurance? How can it just go on?) Tomorrow night, people will still queue outside the Classic, chatting, laughing, looking forward to the film. Quite as much as if none of this were happening now—as if I’d merely gone back to Gloucester Place as I had earlier supposed I should. The programme will continue to change every Sunday and Thursday. Nothing will be different. People will enjoy themselves.
Yet at some point Mrs Cambourne is almost bound to hear. Hear not only of my death but about the manner of it.
Then how will she react?
Will her forgiveness reach out a little further? Will she perhaps forgive me altogether? Will she understand I tried to repay a debt whic
h—despite its being so far beyond repayment—at least I did my very best to honour?
I wonder what will happen to the photographs.
My thoughts are growing confused.
Did yours become confused—this time a year ago? Did any of your actions—even the smallest, least considered of them—did any of your actions parallel my own?
Did you, as well, cling to the parapet and feel the roughness of the stone beneath your palms? Did you, as well, turn up the collar of your overcoat, senselessly seeking protection from the harshness of the wind?
Oh, Oliver.
They say it’s instinctive we should cling.
But surely we’re not obliged to.
So then, my darling … Please look after me, just like you always did. Help me to do what I have to do.
Want to do.
But it isn’t so easy in a coat, is it? Not even in a thin mackintosh, with nothing in its pockets. I can’t imagine what it must have been like in your heavy old Crombie, with those two damned Buddhas further weighing you down, further obstructing you…!
And you were so alone. You were so horribly alone.
Oh, God! How desperately I wish you hadn’t been!
(I realize that’s nonsensical. Nonsensical. Delirious.)
Truthfully, it’s higher than it looks, this parapet.
But you did it. I can do it, too.
Right. Now the other leg. Bring that one over.
Good. Well done. We’re there.
Arms braced behind us.
The Man on the Bridge Page 24
