He made himself get up immediately and grope in the safe with his left hand. He couldn’t use his other hand; the nail was black, his thumb felt like a rotten tooth. When he found the envelope, he didn’t need to look inside. It was reminder enough by itself of all that had happened eleven years ago, and of why he was staying at home: to make certain that Stuart Hay didn’t trouble Joyce. He mustn’t leave it on his desk in case she saw it. He felt calm as the breathing that seemed to fill the house. He levered himself to his feet with his good hand, to replace the letter in the safe.
But the pain in his nail was nagging at his calm. It felt worse now that he’d stood up. He sat down again hurriedly. Now the letter was nagging at him. All at once he dragged back the flap with his good hand and fumbled out the letter.
He read it slowly and shook his head. He read it again and wondered why he should have thought it could tell him anything. Either his concentration or the slow calm breathing was making him forget the pain in his thumb. He had been right before: the letter was eleven years out of date. He pushed it back into the envelope. Thank heaven Joyce hadn’t seen it, it would only make her worse—and then he remembered why the letter was crucial: it reminded him that something was wrong with Joyce.
He clutched the sides of the desk as memory came flooding back. The pain was helping him now. There was no day center: Joyce went out every day to wander the streets. He couldn’t have seen the day center, he must have dreamed he had. He wondered dizzily what else he might have dreamed, but he had no time to wonder. He must think what to do about Joyce.
The breathing stifled his attempts to think. He closed his eyes exhausted and thought of what Mr. Rowley had said. He wished he could thank the dealer for telling him what to do. He reached for the phone to call the doctor.
The holes in the dial felt too small, seemed not to be where his eyes told him they were. He could use his right hand, his fingers weren’t injured, but now the holes felt even smaller, and he could hardly make out the numbers. The plastic of the receiver had begun to feel soft as the breathing that surrounded him. He managed at last to dig his forefinger into one of the holes, he squinted to see which number it was, and then he cried out. He’d forgotten the doctor’s number—there was nothing in his head except the sound of breathing.
He threw the receiver on the desk, hoping the thump would waken the old lady, but the breathing never faltered. He found the address book in his desk drawer and thumbed through the pages with his left hand—the pain in his injured hand was growing worse—until he turned up the number at last. It was no use. The phone felt soft as old flesh into which his fingers were sinking. He flung it away, onto the floor, and stumbled out to his bedroom.
Even the jangling crash of the phone hadn’t disturbed the breathing. As he struggled to dress, the inescapable slow sound kept making him forget what he was doing. He was dressing, he couldn’t sit round all day in his dressing gown. Hadn’t he forgotten to wash? He hadn’t time now, he must go down the hill to the doctor’s, except that now he had forgotten why.
He lurched out of the room, his shirt half-buttoned inside his jacket, his belt so loose he felt starved, and was almost at the old lady’s door before he realized what he meant to do. He couldn’t stand her breathing any longer, he had to stop it somehow. Gasping, appalled, he reeled away to his office.
The letter was still on his desk. That was why he must go to the doctor’s, to ask him to come and see Joyce. Not only Joyce—Geoffrey needed treatment himself—he must, to have such feelings about the old lady. He had to get out of the house before he could harm her. He crumpled the letter in his hand so as not to forget what he was doing—he must tell the doctor about his lapses of memory too—and made for the stairs. He had just reached them when the old lady called, “Geoffrey.”
She sounded weak and plaintive and afraid. How could she know he meant to leave her? How could he be so callous as even to consider doing so? Then he remembered what he might have done to her, remembered the doctor, and he fled downstairs, almost falling headlong. He shrugged on his overcoat so hastily that the sleeve caught his injured nail and made him scream. He opened the front door with his good hand, and stumbled along the path. He was at the gate when he saw Joyce.
She came running to him from the end of the street. “Are you going out?” she demanded. “I had a feeling you were.”
She couldn’t mean that the feeling had brought her home. “Just to get the doctor,” he mumbled.
“Why, what’s wrong?” When he hesitated, not knowing what to say, she cried, “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing. I’m the one who needs the doctor.”
“I can’t see anything wrong with you, Geoffrey. You look fine, tip-top.” She was rubbing her hands, against the cold or nervousness. “If you need him, call him. I have to go straight back to the center.”
Which center? The question might have destroyed her pretense, and her with it. He would have died rather than ask. He found he was shaking. “You’ll have to stay in the house for a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
When he tried to sidle round her, she stepped in his way. “I can’t wait, Geoffrey. They need me right now. I shouldn’t have come away at all.” Perhaps she could see that he didn’t believe her, but did she believe herself? All he could see was that she was desperate. “At least come in the house and tell me what’s supposed to be wrong with you that you need the doctor. We don’t need to argue out here.”
“I haven’t time to argue at all.” The thought of going back in the house made him panic. “The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back. Look, this needs seeing to.”
He held out his injured thumb and realized that he was still clutching Hay’s letter. He hid it behind his back, swallowing the terror that the possibility of her seeing it had brought to his throat. She was holding his right hand gently, turning it over to examine the thumb. “Good heavens, Geoffrey, that’s nothing. I can bandage that for you.”
“It’s worse than it looks.”
“I didn’t mean the pain. I know it’s painful, I know you’re a soldier, you always were. I can treat it for you, that’s all I’m saying. I did use to be a nurse, you know. Or don’t you think I’m any use anymore?”
Her look and her voice made him want to weep. He was screwing up the letter behind his back. He’d throw it away, make sure she never saw it; she must never realize what was happening to her mind. But he knew suddenly that unless he went to the doctor now, unless he got away from the house, he never would. “It isn’t just my thumb,” he stammered. “I only did that because I was tired. I need a tonic to buck me up.”
“You don’t need to go to the surgery for that. I’ll get you one from the chemist’s. I know the best one, I was a nurse.” She was crying the words after him as he stumbled out of reach toward Highgate Hill. He couldn’t look back until he reached the corner of the street, in case the sight of her made it impossible for him to go on: she was unlocking the front door. Absurdly, he thought he heard the old lady’s breathing.
The High Street plunged toward the steeper slope of Highgate Hill. Both seemed dauntingly steep, far more so than he remembered; his legs were already aching. If he couldn’t walk home he would hire a taxi.
He stumbled downhill. His steps felt awkward, uncontrollable, as if the slope were already too steep for him to be able to stop walking. He clutched the letter more tightly to make sure he didn’t forget where he was going. He hardly noticed the crowds he was weaving through, the shops that rose past him.
Each step made his ankles throb, and he had yet to reach the steepest part of the hill. He glanced round at the noise of cars, the noise that seemed almost as regular as breathing. but there was never a taxi. It dismayed him to think he was looking for one to take him downhill. He must need a tonic more than he’d realized.
He turned away from looking, and felt dizzy. He was going so fast now he thought he would never be able to stop. It was as if the thaw hadn’
t happened, as if the cold that was making him shiver had turned the slope into ice. He grabbed the corner of a shop front and lurched to a halt in the doorway. He stepped back at once, to make way for the old man who came limping out of the shop.
But there was nobody. The shop was locked. The glass of the door was reflecting the street and himself, limping backward, backing away from the sight of himself. He turned away choking and almost fell. He couldn’t really have looked like that, it had been only a glimpse. He stumbled away wildly, away from the reflection, away from the slow regular sound of cars passing that made him unable to think, that seemed almost to be stealing his breath.
Before he knew it he was past the shops, on Highgate Hill. The slope seemed almost vertical. He grabbed railings to slow himself down, and soon his good hand was bruised. Why did he bruise so easily now? At least his pains were bearable, perhaps because the slow regular sound of the traffic blotted them out somehow; it was almost suffocating. He looked round uneasily, wondering how it could be when so few vehicles were passing.
Suddenly he was in Hornsey Lane, where there was no traffic. The relief of walking on a level pavement was blissful, and he was nearly at the viaduct before he realized the sound hadn’t faded at all. It was behind him, all around him. He felt as if he were in someone’s dream, could hear their breathing. He fled to the viaduct and clung to the railing, but even the view was no use. Nothing seemed real, not even the dome of St. Paul’s. Nothing was real but the breathing, nothing could keep it away.
It had blotted out his thoughts, driven him off course. But it hadn’t won yet—he still knew where he had to go. He must go down to get help. When he glanced over the railing, it didn’t look too far. He must do it, for Joyce as well as for himself.
At first he couldn’t. It was too much of a struggle to shake off the breathing, to move in its midst at all. He tried again, dragging at the railing with both hands. His legs were agony, the stonework scraped his ankles as his feet slipped, but now one foot was over, the rail was digging into his groin. He had only to step down, he could do it easily, and he would have left the breathing behind. Someone was shouting, perhaps at him, but he lifted the other leg over the rail and let go with his hands. The rush of air swept the breathing from his ears at once, but he couldn’t understand at first why it was taking him so long to touch the ground—long enough to realize that he wasn’t going to fall on the pavement but among the traffic lanes, where the lorries were thundering by. Long before he got there, he was trying to take his fall back.
48
MOLLY dreamed she could change everything. There would be no more poverty, no more wars, no more famine or disease or any kind of suffering. Tall graceful buildings shone above the wide streets full of smiling people, fields and forests glowed on the hills, rivers glittered on the mountains. She climbed the highest mountain and stood on a rock amid the dazzling snow and ice while mirages of all the cities in the world came riding the clouds for her to see. Each one looked perfect, each one made her feel even happier. She knew she was dreaming: she had to know, to be able to dream everything right. She would have to dream everything constantly, never letting up for an instant; she would have to dream everything in the world simultaneously. Now she could feel the indescribable burden of all that responsibility, the strain of having to sustain that dream and then she realized that was what she was doing. The idea was so terrifying that she woke.
Thank God it had been only a dream—but she wasn’t in her room. Or if it was, it had changed. It was green and full of plants. Perhaps her dream had made them grow. She widened her eyes and turned her head desperately, then she let out a shuddering sigh of relief. Susan and Nell were sitting opposite her, watching. Of course, this was Nell’s flat, not hers.
Looking around had made her face ache. It felt like a mask that was too small for her, particularly around the right eye and the jaw. When she sat up she felt as if metal bars were locked around her body, tightening when she breathed. She remembered why. “How long have I been here?” she cried.
Nell sat forward reassuringly. “Just a couple of days.”
“Good God, I didn’t mean to stay that long. I mean, thank you for letting me stay, but I’ve got to go now. I’ll feel better once I’m there.”
“Where, with your parents? You don’t want them to see you looking like that, do you?”
Molly couldn’t recall saying she was going to her parents; she could remember nothing after lying down here on the couch. At least her head felt clear for having slept, despite her aching body. Perhaps she had talked in her sleep. “Do I look that bad?”
When she made to push back the blankets, Susan jumped up. “I’ll get a mirror.”
She brought a hand mirror and squatted down with it in front of Molly. The bruised face in the mirror looked even less like Molly than she felt. She looked away before she could start weeping with dismay and rage and weakness. “The doctor said it looked worse than it was,” Nell said.
“Which doctor?”
“He only woke you for a moment. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. He examined you the day you came here. He said all you need is to rest for a few days.”
Perhaps she did, for she kept thinking it was Susan, not Nell, who was speaking. “Stay over the weekend,” Nell said. “There won’t be many trains, and they’ll be crowded.”
“When’s the weekend?”
“Now.”
That didn’t sound right, but then neither did the impression of two voices speaking, Nell’s after Susan’s. “It’s very kind of you, Nell,” she said and stared at herself, at everything Martin had done. She stared for so long that Nell said anxiously, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Just what you’d assume, Nell. Someone I thought I was safe with.” Again she felt in danger of weeping, though it infuriated her that she should. It must be exhaustion, not grief. She mustn’t break down in front of the child, and so she looked away toward the mantelpiece, at a photograph of Susan in her first school uniform. The face in the photograph looked oddly unlike the Susan who was watching her now. “I know there are men who think we’re for knocking about when things go wrong for them, but I never thought I’d get involved with one. They think we’re their property to do as they like with.” She remembered Nell was divorced. “I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.”
She began to breathe deeply, to calm herself down. Nothing was wrong with the photograph now that she looked again; clearly nothing could have been—it could hardly have changed. Susan seemed to know what her breathing was for—Molly wondered how she could—but Nell said, “Are you all right?”
Molly let out a breath with a gasp; she’d forgotten how bruised her ribs were. “It’s just a way of breathing. I learned it years ago, after—” She was tempted to take Nell into her confidence, tell her about Oxford and her dreams, but she didn’t know how Nell would take it; nor could she see how it could help. “When I went to a meditation class,” she said.
“That’s what you need,” Nell cried—Nell, not Susan. “That would help you get over what happened. I know where there’s someone who’s meant to be excellent.”
“I’d just like to rest, Nell, since you offered. I don’t feel up to going anywhere.”
“I don’t mean now.” Molly thought Susan was shaking her head too, until she glanced at the child. “Before you go home,” Nell said.
“I think when I go I’d like to go straight home.”
“Which way will you go? Which station?”
“Kings Cross.”
“Well, there you are,” Nell said triumphantly. “The place I heard about is just near Kings Cross. You could go there on your way, on Monday.”
“I don’t think so, Nell. Thanks for the thought.”
Nell seemed determined to keep on, until she glanced at Susan. “I’ve got to go shopping,” she said, sounding surprised. “Susan will stay with you, won’t you, Susan?” Molly must have looked nervous, for Nel
l said, “You’ll be all right, don’t worry. We’ll make sure he never finds you.”
Molly stood up to go to the bathroom and cried out, her legs were so stiff. Walking was “painful, sitting down was worse, and she remembered only just in time not to bite her swollen lip. When she returned to the couch, Nell had gone. Susan watched as Molly eased herself under the blankets. “I’ll read to you if you like,” the child said.
“That would be nice.” Molly was touched by the child’s concern for her, though she would have liked to select the reading matter herself. It seemed to be a book of fairy tales. Before long she found her attention was wandering, even though she enjoyed the sound of the child’s quiet confident voice: she read like someone much older than her years. Molly gave up trying to follow the story and closed her eyes. She could imagine she was a child again, being read a bedtime story. That would help her rest, she could already feel how deeply. As she dozed she felt very much like a child, long before Oxford and self-consciousness. This was peace, and she had almost forgotten what it was like—this eagerness to dream, this sense that dreams were the most natural thing in the world and capable of anything. If she let herself, she could imagine that that was exactly what Susan was reading to her, but she wasn’t going to struggle awake just to prove her imagination wrong. As she drifted into sleep, she was smiling.
49
WHEN she had finished dressing, Freda realized she was afraid to go downstairs. She lingered at the mirror as if she wanted to make sure of her appearance, as if she were really going down to dinner. If she met anyone, she told herself, they would think she was; they would think she needed feeding—-her face had never been so thin. She stared at her starved face until she realized it wasn’t the mirror that concerned her, it was the window. She was listening for sounds of the street, but she could hear no sound out there at all.
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