A Private View (16 page)

His small stuffy bedroom in his parents’ house had looked out onto a patch of garden, which he now saw in almost perfect detail. An equally small top window let in a breath of mild air and a smell of grass. At some point his mother had decided that it was dangerous to leave this window open, although there could be no possible threat of an intruder, since the only way into the garden was through the house.
Every morning, after he had left for work, his mother would go into his bedroom and close the window. Every evening he would open it again. ‘Mother,’ he had said. ‘Please leave my window open. The room gets so stuffy.’ But she took no notice. As she grew older, sicker, more disaffected, she would not only close the window, and keep it closed all day, but would linger in his room as if to defend her action against all comers, and in particular against her son.

When he returned, heartsick, from the cardboard box factory in the evening, his room would be not only stuffy but filled with his mother’s stale cigarette smoke. The fact that she had been sitting there filled him with alarm. He knew that she never looked at his books, his scraps of writing, for she was genuinely uninterested in him, and this he had come to accept as normal. It was, rather, the fact that, too late, she was attempting to make contact with him, when all he desired was for her to accept that he would ultimately leave her. He pictured her, alone in the otherwise empty house, drifting dumbly into his room, shutting the window, and then sitting there for perhaps half a day, her purpose already forgotten. By that stage her speech and understanding had been slightly affected, although it took him a long time to realise that she was a little deranged. In the end, out of pity, he left the window shut, hoping to pacify her. His nostrils had retained the characteristic smell of that room, compounded of toast and cigarette smoke, the smell of an airless life which he had thought would haunt him for ever.

It still haunted him, but in random flashes, vivid pictures of the past, visitations, when he was all unaware. For the rest of the time he was free of it, and comfortable in his latter-day
transformation. But, to judge from his recent epiphany, what had not disappeared was the powerful feeling of protest against the hand which life had dealt him, and the oceanic desire for validation, for dominance over whatever resistance might be put in his way, even if it were no more than a token, a suggestion, a provocation. The most unnerving aspect of the previous day’s insights was that this excitation had surged up again, out of nowhere, out of the past, and that the feeling had attached, almost at random, to another human being, to the girl, Katy Gibb, who, as far as he could honestly see, posed no threat to him at all.

Yet, looked at rationally, his mother, whose sly invasion of his territory had first aroused this feeling, had posed no threat either, for although she might not love him, as he thought a mother should love her son, she had certainly wished him no harm. But wait, he thought suddenly, she was in my room when I was not there, when nobody should have been there, when the room should have been empty. And in the same way, or in a reflection, the merest adumbration of the same way, Katy is frequently in my flat when I do not want her to be there. He felt a shock of horror at the thought that she might be there in his absence, or rather—and this was closer—as if she intended to be. This of course was ridiculous, impossible, yet the shock was salutary: he had traced his combative thrill, with its undercurrent of grandiosity, to its source. He was defending his territory. It even seemed permissible to defend it by aggression (if that was what he had felt), should a direct threat arise. It could not arise; of course it could not. But if it did he was prepared, again with that same relish, to oppose it.

He had reached Eel Brook Common, and his tension was
beginning to dissipate, as if he had come to grips with a hitherto insoluble problem. He raised his head and addressed himself to the tall idiosyncratic houses leading off the green. He attempted to regain an air of bracing certainty, a pantomime which had served him well in the past, but an area of vulnerability remained. Never to feel safe, never to feel free! Yet he had satisfied his conscience, had remained with his mother to the end, though the end had been as graceless as his own feelings. After her death he had felt momentarily delivered, and the moment had lasted long enough to get him to London. It was only lately that his early years had invaded him once again, as if the secret of his liberty had been discovered, and discovered to be undeserved, without foundation, illusory.

He had it in him now, with his unfortunate sentimental education, to contemplate Katy Gibb calmly and without rancour. He saw her as infinitely disadvantaged. He was not unaware of her desire to appropriate some of his money, but he was genuinely sorry that her designs were so apparent. He was, in a sense, grateful to her for this. There was not the slightest danger that her efforts would succeed: he was hard-headed where money was concerned. He had had too little to start with, and felt that what had come to him was so excessive that it must be carefully husbanded, as if it still belonged to somebody else. The idea of Putnam’s money going to some flimsy enterprise was outrageous, absurd. He had made a careful will, so careful that he had left himself few funds to play with in his lifetime. Most of the money would go to Louise, whom he hoped, indeed knew, would outlive him. By his own standards he was a wealthy man, yet he spent nothing. This continence almost amused him. His
wants were few and were easily satisfied: books, modest travel, appropriate disbursements to various charities. The idea that he might squander what he possessed was profoundly shocking to him. Therefore he was well defended.

But deprived of his money, or to put it more politely, of his help, the girl’s situation would be desperate. Her smart friends, the ones she got to invite her to lunch, would have long ago got her measure. He, if anything, had been rather slow on that score. She would move on, of course, eventually: something told him that she would not wait for the Dunlops to return. And it was winter, and she only had a few possessions in that nylon bag, presumably the vaunted Armani outfit she had worn on the night of their dinner. Everything else had been appropriated from Sharon’s wardrobe. Why could he not dismiss the thought of her? He saw her as he had first seen her, scowling and unfortunate, until she had turned that suddenly languorous gaze on himself and onto Mrs Lydiard. And from that moment on it had been an astonishing performance. He had an inkling of astonishing performances given in other settings, in other parts of the world, wherever there was an audience to be vanquished. But the performance was not quite astonishing enough, and an acute observer would always be able to see through her, as Mrs Lydiard had done. Initially charmed, Mrs Lydiard had soon seen sense, and had vanished from the scene. He supposed he should telephone her. On the other hand he did not particularly want to listen to her strictures. He did not feel able to discuss Katy with Mrs Lydiard, or indeed with anyone but himself.

He was by this time nearing the end of New King’s Road, entering the suburban—or should it now be
urban?—heartland. He admired the straight abrupt little streets, with the strange Greek-sounding names—Elthiron, Guion—and the stucco-fronted cottages, now home, no doubt, to the relatively rich and famous. He heard sounds of furious activity from a school playground and looked at his watch: twelve noon. He would go on to Putney Bridge, he decided, and then take a cab home. The sounds from the playground dispersed, and suddenly he was in the midst of children, streaming along to the bus stop, warm, impervious to the chilly air, excited, shrieking. End of term, he supposed. How strong they were! They looked mythical in their confidence, a future race of giants. How would life deal with them? Their energies made him feel tired, or maybe the walk had tired him. Munster Road. Why name this road in Fulham after a town in Germany? Again, and unbidden, there rose in his mind an image of khaki uniforms in the smoky light of late afternoon, the warrior’s return to army quarters, and the blonde child dodging her father’s hand …

He found a café, sat down gratefully, and ordered coffee and a ham sandwich. The ham came in half a baguette and was very good, as was the coffee. Through the misty window he contemplated the houses which had initially seemed so mysterious to him: now they felt overwhelmingly familiar, as if he had spent half a lifetime in this place. He sat for perhaps forty minutes, then, as the café began to fill up, got to his feet, and went out to look for a taxi. By the time he got home it was nearly three, and he was in need of a rest.

Sleep claimed him swiftly, and just as swiftly relinquished him. In his first conscious moments he heard the sound of the doorbell, and sat up, quite fully alert. Smoothing down his hair, he crept stealthily into the hall and stood for a moment,
listening. A murmur of conversation alerted him to the fact that this was probably a harmless invasion, Hipwood with a parcel perhaps, carol singers, or some such. With a sigh of relief he opened the door to face Louise, in a smart black coat, accompanied by a child of about six.

‘Louise!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s not Sunday!’ This was ridiculous: she never came on a Sunday. Nobody came on a Sunday. Sunday was for telephone calls.

‘Hallo, George, dear,’ she said. ‘I know we’re unexpected. I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know myself until this morning. Sarah’s got the flu, so grandma’s holding the fort. And Stuart had a dentist’s appointment. This is Stuart, by the way. Philip’s boy.’

Relief made him exuberant. ‘Come in, come in! What a pleasant surprise! Dentist, eh? Poor fellow. Nothing wrong, I hope?’ He bent down to the child, who stared back at him impassively. ‘Would you like a drink, or something? I’ve got some Bovril somewhere. Would you like that?’

‘I don’t give a bugger,’ said the child.

‘Stuart!’ warned Louise. ‘The school,’ she mouthed at Bland. ‘Stuart’s picked up some
very
silly words, I’m afraid,’ she added in her normal voice. ‘Sensible people don’t use words like that.’

‘Dad does.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t! We shall have to tell him off, shan’t we?’

‘What about this Bovril?’

‘I think he’d rather have a cup of tea. They drink a lot of tea, though I’m sure it can’t be good for them. Would you like a cup of tea, Stuart?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s all right, dear. I’ll make it if you like.’

‘No, no, you sit down. I’ll do it. And I’ve got a rather good cake. From Fortnum’s. Would you like that, Stuart?’

The child considered, then nodded. Louise was already removing her coat. Suddenly the flat seemed full of a not unwelcome animation. Lifting his cake from the tin he reflected that it would not be wasted after all. The thought gave him a disproportionate pleasure.

In the sitting-room Stuart perched moodily, swinging his legs. Not an attractive child, Bland thought. Louise, on the other hand, was looking her best, her grandmotherly rôle giving her cheeks a faint flush, her excellent legs covered in fine dark stockings. His Hermès scarf was laid carefully on the back of a chair. She had time to think of that, he noted gratefully. He did not doubt that it was kept in a drawer from one year’s end to the next. It was for her placid appreciation of his thoughts and gestures that he loved her.

The boy, pacified with cake, had stopped swinging his legs. Louise ate daintily. Another thing he loved about her: there had never been any nonsense about dieting, or refusing the good things of life. They both enjoyed them too much, had too much for which to be grateful. They were alike in that way, as in so many others.

‘Can I have the telly on?’ said Stuart, tea over.

‘No, you can’t. You can look at this book if you like. Look at the pictures. But be very careful: those pictures are precious.’

He handed him the stories of Hans Andersen, with the Arthur Rackham illustrations. He had found the book in a second-hand shop in Paddington, and had marvelled that it had escaped unnoticed. The owner had asked a modest
price. Bland had wondered if he knew how much the book was worth. He had salved his conscience by paying something over the asking price, and had sped home with his treasure safely hidden in his briefcase. He felt it to be in the nature of an heirloom, something retrievable from his sorry childhood, an act of loyalty to his largely unloved father. When he had opened it, in the flat, he had been moved. He had been unable to linger long over it. The emotions it had brought forth were still too raw.

‘You can read the stories, if you like,’ he said.

‘They’re about fairies,’ said the boy uncertainly.

‘They’re about children, like yourself. Do you like the pictures?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Can I keep it?’

‘You can’t keep that one, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try to find you one of your own.’ He had in fact seen a copy, at a vast price, in a shop in Sackville Street. He would telephone as soon as they had gone, and ask them to post it direct to Stuart. There need be no inscription. He did not think the occasion warranted any sentiment. ‘You’ll get it through the post. It will be a Christmas present. Will that do?’

‘What do you say, Stuart?’

‘Thanks.’ He was, Bland could see, reluctant to tear himself away from the strange, hypnotic, almost frightening images.

‘I’ll write down Philip’s address and telephone number,’ said Louise. ‘Perhaps you’ll give me a ring later, if you’ve a minute.’

‘How long are you staying?’

‘Not long, dear. All being well I could be home by tomorrow
evening. I hate being away from home now, don’t you? I love my home, although I didn’t like the house when I first saw it. Well, we ought to be going. Stuart, do you want to …?’

‘Okay.’

‘I’ll show him where it is. Then I think we might treat ourselves to a taxi. All the way to Clapham! What do you think of that, Stuart?’

Her guilelessness was infectious. Even Stuart, who probably took a taxi to school when his mother’s car was out of commission, smiled. There was something protective in the smile. Louise was a woman who invited protection, all the more so since she was not obviously in need of it.