Rob grimaced. I realized he hadn't kissed me hello yet, or put his arm around me as we walked along. He seemed to be holding himself at a distance from me, and not just because of my views on the Chile Solidarity Campaign.
“You're so bloody right wing,” he said. Then he added, “Have you got any cigarettes?”
I'd run out, so we decided to pool our money to buy a pack of ten from the machine to share. As he walked over to get them, I watched him, mentally comparing him to Jason, and trying to find something about him that would put me off so that I could knock the relationship on the head and simplify my life. He was wearing a tatty brown jacket with his old unraveling sweater underneath, and a pair of jeans that had a crust of mud around the edge at the bottom. His hair was uncombed and his face was flushed from the heat in the bar, so that he looked younger than ever. But the set of his shoulders and the way he stood over the machine, resting his elbow on it as he put the money in the slot, made my stomach flip, and I realized there wasn't really anything I didn't like about the way he looked. He was completely different from Jason; so different that I couldn't see them as rivals, and in the end I gave up trying.
“Susannah?”
I looked up as someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Fiona.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
She sat down on one of the stools next to me. “Mind if I join you,” she said. It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer it.
She peered over at the leaflet. “Oh, I didn't know you were into the campaign.” She sounded approving.
“Well, I'm just helping out a bit.”
“Good for you. It's time you got a bit more involved in campus life.”
I said nothing, wishing she would go away.
“Have you got shot of that creep you were living with in Brunswick Square yet?” she went on.
She was obviously in the mood for a chat and hadn't noticed that I wasn't.
Rob came back with the cigarettes, sat down, opened the packet, and offered them round. I dug out some matches and lit them. I was about to introduce Fiona to him, but it turned out that they already knew each other from the Capital Reading Group they'd both helped to set up on campus. They started arguing almost immediately about the theory of surplus value, and then Fiona began saying that state communism was just another form of male patriarchy, and Rob told her she was talking bollocks, and then three of Rob's friends came by and sat down and joined in the row, and soon there was a crowd around us, shouting and laughing and banging the table.
When Rob and his mates went off to get another round of drinks in, Fiona turned to me.
“So are you seeing Rob now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“Well, it's early days.”
Fiona clicked her tongue. “You mean you haven't got rid of the creep. I knew it.”
“Look,” I said. I didn't know why I felt I had to explain myself to her, but I did. “It's just going to take me a while to sort out, that's all.”
“Well, I'd get on with it, if I were you. There are quite a few people interested in Rob, you know. He's a great guy.”
At first I assumed that Fiona was referring to Beth, but when I looked at her, she looked quickly away, and I realized it was herself she was talking about.
“OK,” I said, trying not to sound irritated. “I'll do my best. Thanks for the tip.”
We stayed in the Falmer Bar until closing time, and then six of us jammed ourselves into the A40 and Rob drove us back into Brighton, dropping Fiona and the others off at various points on the way. When we finally got back to the house in Hanover it was past midnight. We still hadn't eaten, but the kitchen was full of people, so we decided not to bother, and I headed straight up the stairs to Rob's room while he made us some tea. I took my boots off and lay down on the bed, resolving to stay awake, but soon I could feel myself drifting off. By the time he came up with the tea, I'd fallen fast asleep.
When I woke up again, I found myself in Rob's bed, with Rob asleep beside me. I realized that he must have tucked me into bed while I was asleep, then got in and fallen asleep himself. The hurricane lamp on the bedside table was flickering low. I looked at my watch: it was two o'clock in the morning.
“Rob,” I whispered.
There was no reply.
“Rob.” I shook him by the shoulder. “I've got to go.”
Rob moved over towards me and put his arms round me. “Mmm,” he said.
I sat up in bed. “I said I'd get back tonight.”
Rob half opened his eyes. “What?”
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, picked up my jeans, pulled them on, and got out of bed to find my boots.
“What are you doing?” Rob was awake by now, looking confused.
“Sorry, I've got to get going.”
“But why? How are you going to get home?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I'll walk, and if I see a taxi down on the Steine, I'll take it.”
“Have you got any money?”
“Well, not really, but I'll think of something.”
I found my socks, put them on, and began to pull on my boots.
“Oh for God's sake.” Rob was waking up now, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “If it's so bloody important, I'll drive you home. But you've got to sort this out. I've had enough.”
I came over and sat on the bed, relieved that he'd offered to give me a lift. I didn't have enough money for a taxi, and it would have taken me hours to walk all the way over to Brunswick Square from Hanover.
“Of course I will, Rob,” I said. I wasn't sure I meant it. I didn't really see why I had to decide just yet. I wanted to wait, as Cassie had told me to, and see how things panned out.
“But it's going to take time,” I went on. “I can't just walk out on him like that. We've been together for, I don't know, ages now.”
Rob's face softened. “OK, fair enough. But you've got to tell him … what's his name?”
“Jason.”
“Jason.” He said it slowly, as though trying to imagine what a person called Jason could possibly be like. “You've got to tell him sooner or later.”
I knew I wasn't ready to tell Jason yet, but I wasn't sure why. There was a pause as I searched for something to say that would sound like an explanation. Eventually, I came up with a bit of philosophy.
“Have you read Human, All Too Human?”
I thought as it was Nietzsche, Rob might understand, but he just looked irritated.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. What's that got to do with it?”
“Well, Nietzsche says that if you want to live as a free spirit, you can't be too attached to anyone or anything. You've got to live your life as a wanderer. It's difficult, and lonely, but it's your task, your secret destiny. You can't be chained up to hatred and love like other people. You have to live like a bird, fluttering here and there, flying upward, without any certainties. You have to live without yes, without no …”
Rob gave an exasperated sigh. “Stop talking bollocks, Susannah. You're just trying to wriggle out of making a decision.”
I felt my face flush.
“You're not being a free spirit,” he went on. “You're just being a bloody coward.”
I knew there was something in what he said, but it wasn't the whole story. I was trying to find my freedom, in some way I couldn't explain, and I was hoping to find some kind of destiny for myself. I just hadn't been making a very good job of it so far.
“Oh really,” I said. “Well if I'm such a coward, what about you, then? I suppose you've told Beth all about us?”
Rob looked away from me, towards the wall.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”
There was a pause as I took this in.
“She was really hurt,” he went on. “I feel terrible about it.”
“Oh, Rob,” I said. “I'm sorry …”
I moved up the bed towards him
but he moved away from me, and got up quickly. He found his jeans and sweater and pulled them on, not looking at me. When he was dressed, he looked for his car keys, found them, and came over to sit beside me on the bed. The room was cold, and I was shivering. He took my hand.
“Look,” he said. His voice was quiet. “I understand what you're getting at with Nietzsche, but you're wrong. He's wrong. We're human beings, not birds. We can't just fly about here and there as we please. We can't live between yes and no, or whatever it was you said. If we want to live as free spirits, we have to be completely honest with each other. So you've got to give me a straight answer, Susannah. I've done my bit. I've told Beth. And now you've got to tell Jason.”
I swallowed hard. “OK,” I said. “I'll try.”
He put his arm round me, squeezed my shoulder, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Come on,” he said. “Let's get going.”
For a moment I thought of telling him I didn't want to go after all. I thought how nice it would be to get undressed, get back into bed with him, stay there until morning, and lie in bed together until lunchtime the next day, drinking tea and eating toast and listening to records and talking and making love. We'd never done that, and I wanted to. But I wasn't ready to make my decision, not quite yet. I wanted to live between yes and no for a little while longer.
“OK,” I said, burrowing my face into his hair. “Take me home.”
chapter 12
SHE WAS A PRETTY CHILD of three, four, or so, with curly blond hair, round blue eyes and Cupid's bow lips. She was wearing a white dress with a blue sash round the middle and a bit of lace at the neck. One of her chubby arms was raised, and on her hand perched a day-old chick, which she was gazing at adoringly.
Actually, when you looked at her closely, you could see she wasn't pretty, exactly: her blue eyes were a little bulbous, in fact, and beneath the rosebud overhang of her upper lip her teeth stuck out slightly. But the overall impression was of a lively, bright child, full of energy and mischief, a child who would have chattered a lot, and run around a lot, and would have been hard to keep still for the portrait, which I suppose must have been more about how the painter thought of her than what he actually saw. I mean, it would have been impossible to keep a kid that age sitting there for hours like that, with her arm up in the air, perching a chick on her hand, or even without the chick, which must have been drawn in afterwards …
“Come on,” said Jason. “I want to get up to the bedrooms.”
“OK,” I said. “Sorry, I'm just …”
Jason came and stood beside me, putting his arm around my waist. I was surprised. He hardly ever showed me any affection in public. He”d brought me with him to the Royal Pavilion that day, looking for something that would help him find out who gave Princess Charlotte Augusta the milk-teeth box. Normally he wouldn't have thought of asking me along on this kind of trip, but now he seemed to want me with him all the time.
“Who's she?” he asked, looking at the painting.
“Princess Charlotte Augusta,” I said.
“Oh, right.” Jason didn't seem interested, which surprised me considering he had her teeth in a little box inside his jacket pocket. These days, he carried the milk-teeth box around with him wherever he went.
Some handwritten letters in a glass case beneath the portrait caught my eye.
“Oh, look …”
Jason sighed. “Are you coming up with me or not?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, not turning my head. “Just give me a minute … I'll see you up there, if you like.”
“No, it's OK, I'll wait with you.”
This wasn't the Jason I knew.
“I'll just be a sec, all right.” I still didn't turn my head. “I just want to …”
I was already reading. For the moment, I'd forgotten about Jason.
My dear Hamy,
Only to tell you that the Prince Regent gives a magnificent ball on the 5th June. I have not been invited, nor do I know if I shall be or not. If I should not, it will make a great noise in the world, as the friends I have seen have repeated over and over again it is my duty to go there; it is proper that I should. Really, I do think it will be very hard if I am not asked …
“Look at this,” I said. “It's a letter from Princess Charlotte to her governess. It's dated 1811, the year her father became Prince Regent. It must have been a celebration to mark the event, but he didn't invite her.”
Jason squeezed my shoulder.
“Come on,” he whispered.
“And here's another one, from her to the Prince.” I bent over to make out the words.
My dearest father is always so kind and indulgent to me that I feel emboldened in troubling him with a few lines. It would be a very high gratification to me (if you should see no impropriety) to hear your Speech in the House of Lords, for it is a subject very interesting to all, particularly so to me, & therefore I feel extremely anxious to do so. If, however, you should, my dear father, find any objection to it or should disapprove, I shall give up all thoughts of it, perfectly satisfied that you have good reasons for denying me …
“She must have been about fifteen or sixteen when she wrote that, I suppose.” Jason was reading over my shoulder now, intrigued.
There were two other letters written by Princess Charlotte in the glass case, one to a friend saying her father had hardly spoken to her at the Eton Montem, whatever that was, “and when he did his manner was so cold that it was very distressing;” and another to the same friend, upset at the departure of her mother, the Princess of Wales, who was leaving the country for good:
I must say what goes most to my heart is the indifferent manner of taking leave of me … I feel so hurt at that being a leave-taking for God knows how long, or what events may occur before we meet again, or if ever she will return.
“Poor kid,” said Jason. “What a bloody awful pair of parents.”
I raised my eyes to the portrait of the little girl. I felt sorry for her now, and yet you'd never have been able to tell from the painting that she was an unwanted child, conceived by a couple of people who had loathed each other, so much so that they couldn't bear the sight of her, and had locked her away with the servants since the day she was born. On the contrary, she seemed spirited, larger than life, rumbustious even, with her bold looks and chubby arms and flouncy white dress that you could see wouldn't have stayed clean for more than a minute. It may have been artist's license that made the painter give her such an insouciant air, but I somehow felt that if she'd been mousy—he would have made her good and sweet and well-behaved. He'd obviously taken to the child, you could tell that. He liked her. So there she was, bright, and blithe, and bouncing with life, despite the fact that her parents hadn't wanted her and that she was a complete embarrassment to them both.
Jason let out a laugh. “Here's a bit about Ma and Pa's wedding night,” he said.
After the ceremony, the bridegroom, though civil and gracious, was certainly unhappy; and as a proof of it, he manifestly had recourse to wine or spirits. This was borne out later by the bride, who declared that the Prince spent their wedding night on the floor, with his head in the grate. It was not till morning that sobriety returned sufficiently for him to perform the actions expected of him as a bridegroom.
I laughed too, and Jason put his arm round me. “You were right, you know.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I should be looking at this kind of stuff as well. People, not just things. It all helps.”
Jason leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. I backed away a little, and as I did, I glanced over his shoulder and saw a group of people coming towards us. As they got closer, I realized that one of them was Rob.
My stomach turned over and the hairs began to prickle on my scalp.
“Come on,” I said, turning in the other direction. “Let's go up to the bedrooms.”
“Wrong way,” said Jason. “The stairs are over there.”
He pointed towards
Rob. I hung back, not knowing what to do.
“Umm, I think I'll just nip off to the loo first …” I said. I bent my head down so that my hair fell forward, praying that somehow Rob wouldn't notice me as he walked past.
But it was too late. Rob had come face to face with us. There was no way I could pretend I hadn't seen him.
“Hi,” he said, stopping short. He looked tense. He had combed his hair and shaved, I noticed.
“Hi.” I could feel my face heating up. I hoped I wasn't blushing.
There was a pause, and then I said, “Er, Jason, this is Rob.”
Jason nodded brusquely. Rob nodded back.
“Rob. Jason.” I swallowed hard.
A painful silence descended. Then the people who were with Rob came up and stopped too. We all stood around grinning politely at each other until Rob said, “Susannah, my parents. My grandmother.”
He was mumbling now, looking down at his shoes.
His mother stepped forward and smiled at me. She was dark-haired, like Rob, but short and wide. His father hovered in the background, tall and thin and gray-haired, also intent on inspecting his shoes. The grandmother seemed uninterested in any of us, and instead looked up at the massive chandelier above our heads.
“Hi,” I said, addressing myself to his mother. “I'm on Rob's course. Good to meet you.”
“Rose,” she said. “I do have a name.” Then she smiled again. She had a sweet, warm smile.
I glanced at Rob, who was still looking down at his shoes. I tried to think of a way of wrapping the conversation up, but my mind seemed to have gone blank, so we stood there in silence again.
It was the grandmother who came to the rescue.
“Chinese,” she said.
“What?” said Rob. He sounded irritable.
“The chandelier. Chinese, dear. It must be. It's in the shape of a lotus blossom.”
“Actually, I don't think it is.” It was Jason who spoke. “I think it was designed by an Englishman, Frederick Crace, in a Chinese style. It was a bit of a vogue at the time …”
A Girl's Guide to Modern European Philosophy Page 11
