A Private View (21 page)

It was only later, when the night was nearly over, that the more likely truth of the matter was revealed to him. Her air of triumph, of condescension, her reappearance in the orange
suit when she had last visited him, were almost certainly due to contact with a man. ‘A friend’, she had said, as women did when it was necessary to dissimulate; in due course ‘a friend’ became ‘my friend’, before ending up as ‘my partner’. He had always found this irritating; now, in retrospect, he found it unappealing, arguing as it somehow did an appropriation of the hapless male by the female, something his generation could accept only in fiction, and then with suspicion.

Her recent high-handedness, and the noises on the stairs, could, he realised, have only one explanation. A sexual encounter was taking place in the Dunlops’ flat, while he himself, technically chaste but prey to fantasies, lingered just behind the door. The symbolism of this did not escape him. Indeed, he discounted it, as being too obvious. Artists had painted it, writers had described it. What he registered now was not the excitement which would have overtaken a younger man but a wistfulness, as if life were a dream, as if bodies, subject to mortality, were obliged to take their satisfaction when and where they could, and as if they were participating in a macabre ceremony which did not seem to have evolved at the same speed as the higher consciousness.

Mere sex seemed to him pathetic in these circumstances, and here the circumstances did not appear to be particularly propitious: hushed laughter, stumbling footsteps, clandestinity. Such encounters belonged to another age, to Louise and himself when young; he could no more claim them now than enact them himself. Any jealousy he felt was for youth, Katy’s youth, and that of her supposed partner, and he knew that there was no cure for this. Desire afflicted the old mainly as longing. It was no longer even suitable to dwell on
such matters. Sexual speculation, unattractive at any age, was particularly obnoxious when allied to grey hair and waning energy. He crept back to bed, enveloping Katy, her partner, and himself in the same weary distaste, which nevertheless held at its heart a seed of bewilderment that time had gone so quickly, leaving his own days of vigour so far behind.

After a wakeful half-hour he no longer questioned this. He had never desired her physically, he told himself, had wanted only to hold one slim foot in his hand. Nor did his flesh rise at the idea that she might at that moment be making love to someone else. Strangely, she did not excite him. His fantasies concerned only himself, his breaking free, his forthcoming scandalous liberty, denied him all his life. She would be his essential companion by virtue of the fact that he had fashioned her for his wishes, in return for which she would be allowed a freedom of her own. There was no cruelty in this fantasy, or perhaps just a little: there would be no physical damage, no undue influence. There would be no point in forbidding her to take lovers, for she would take them in any case. The lure was not cruelty, but selfishness.

What drew him on, although he was beginning to suspect that he was half mad, was the idea of anarchic self-indulgence after years of duties fulfilled and obligations attended to, an attempt to cancel the obedience of both his personal and his professional lives. He had always been noted for his unfailing sympathy, his consideration for others, but these qualities were not instinctive. They had been acquired at the cost of freedom, of boldness, of true individuality. And all he had to show for these qualities, and for his own laborious efforts, was the money which now waited in the bank until it was time to go to Louise and all the sick children who
figured in his will. He would endure until the time came to take his pills, for he did not doubt that it would end in this fashion, much sooner than even he anticipated, if he did not, for once, enact his own desires, all the more imperative an exercise since he was so tardy in recognising them.

The rapidity with which he had succumbed to this particular enchantment seemed to him a proof of its validity. That a man should seek his own freedom seemed to him the most moral as well as the most natural thing in the world. And he had so far experienced only a premonitory glow, the sudden liberating heedlessness that had overtaken him in Bond Street, together with his conviction that his destiny had been revealed to him. In due course he might finally know that euphoric moment which would justify his entire uneventful existence. If this were not quite the happy ending he had been promised, so long ago, it would at least signify a primitive freedom, a moment in the sun, both actual and metaphorical. This moment would be brief: perhaps it could only ever be brief, a subjective illumination that could not outlast more mundane concerns. Those concerns would indeed be mundane, an adroit mixture of cynicism and forbearance, as he sought to indulge and to contain her extravagances. And for this, he thought, he was willing to surrender his lifelong prudence, to discard it as rapidly as a child discards a broken toy, and to begin again, in a far distant place, away from the petty censorship of those who had known him only as a good friend and a model employee. And even if it were madness he would see it through. The pills would be there at the end, however well or badly he chose to live his life.

Compared with the miraculous condition to which he aspired, what did it matter if Katy took a lover, ten lovers, a
score of lovers? He would have done the same at her age, had he possessed his present insouciance. As it was, the great enlightenment, the great transformation to which he was progressing, was immeasurably superior in every way to whatever physical tremors she sought and encouraged. With an imaginary future sun in his eyes he could ignore the steps going down the stairs, as he was making an early cup of tea, and the closing of the door, and the sound of the chain being replaced. He would of course never mention this incident, and neither would she, yet each would know that the other knew of it: there might be a certain impudence on her part, a moment of gravity on his, but that was part of the bargain, and he would not be the one to break it. In a sense it would be all concealment from that moment on, all watching and waiting. Yet he felt he had the strength to endure this, for as long as she remained connected to him in the way he had devised.

On the fourth morning life, or a remnant of it, called him outside. The foggy air was not much colder than the air in the flat, for the heating had mysteriously ceased to function. People in the streets seemed to be in a state of abnormal effervescence, pushing wheeled baskets piled high with bags from Selfridges and Marks and Spencer. One woman, with two small children in tow, laughed hysterically as a paper bag containing tangerines collapsed at his feet: gravely he collected the fruit as they rolled towards the gutter and handed them back to her. His expression must have seemed peculiarly withdrawn, for the children, a boy and a girl, nudged each other and giggled, until reprimanded by their mother.

‘It’s the excitement,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Off school all day, and they think I’ve nothing to do but spend money.
Oh, well. Wish the gentleman a Merry Christmas, children.’

‘Why?’ he said, startled. ‘What is the date?’

This set them off again. ‘December the eighteenth,’ she replied. ‘Just one week to go.’

This sobered him. He said goodbye, and addressed himself to the business of buying food. He had not been eating much, and only that morning the waistband of his trousers had seemed loose. He turned automatically in the direction of Marylebone High Street and a café he knew there: with breakfast inside him he would be in a better state. The street was busy with shoppers, the shops themselves filled with abundant produce. The contrast between these riches and his own spiritual poverty struck him as ironic. He suspected that he was perhaps not in the best of health, not quite as collected as he would have wished to be. His new Nietzschean consciousness wavered slightly, and for a split second he was willing to call the whole thing off. But this, he knew, was temporary. As soon as he saw her, attempting, as always, to gain her undivided attention, he would be totally absorbed in the exercise. For it was an exercise now, and he did not care to fail.

He was back in Kendal Street by a quarter to ten. In the hallway of the building Hipwood was decorating a discreet Christmas tree. Bland was thankful that he was occupied: he was not quite sure how to repair his recent lapse. All these matters must be resolved, but perhaps not quite yet, on the morning of his departure, perhaps, when money could be handed over and farewells exchanged. He had just made it to the lift, behind Hipwood’s back, when he was called to order.

‘Your letters, sir,’ said Hipwood. ‘Late again. New man
on the job. Well, I say man, more of a boy, really, with one of those fancy haircuts, if you follow me. Cost a bomb, they do. Still, that’s modern youth, isn’t it? Three for you, sir, and I had to sign for this one.’

‘Very kind, Mr Hipwood. Do I owe you anything?’

‘Perhaps you might give this to the young lady,’ said Hipwood pleasantly. ‘Since you’re more likely to see her than I am.’

Bland reckoned that this placed them once more on an equal footing. Hipwood, however, could not resist pressing his advantage.

‘Bit of a mystery, don’t you think, sir? You’d have thought she’d introduce herself, wouldn’t you? And yet before this letter came I didn’t even know her name.’

‘Gibb,’ he said shortly. ‘Miss Gibb.’

‘Well, not quite, sir. It appears she’s a married woman. Bit of a mystery all round, wouldn’t you say?’

He turned triumphantly back to his tree. Bland glanced at the envelope, which was addressed to Mrs Kathleen Palmer-Harris, c/o Dunlop. The handwriting was small and difficult, as if the sender were afflicted with cramp, or in the grip of some terrible mental torment. Bland favoured the latter. There was something costive and effortful about the formation of the letters: studying them gave him some sort of respite from the creeping realisation that Katy’s life was more crowded than he had recently supposed. Unless ‘Palmer-Harris’ was another subterfuge, a
nom de guerre
adopted for reasons he could not fathom, although he would be surprised if they were completely straightforward. He was obliged to exercise his brain on every facet of her life, an exercise which gave him no small pleasure. The aristocratic
surname was in character, all of a piece with her intermittently high-handed locutions, so disconcertingly introduced when they were least expected, and always, unfailingly, denoting anger.

As for Mr Palmer-Harris, if he existed, Bland imagined him to be a minor personage in this particular drama, a mere spear-carrier. Katy was no more married than he was. Her whole demeanour was that of a huntress, a
fauve
, literally taking her food and her sustenance from others. In all the time he had known her (three and a half weeks, he thought with a pang) she had not eaten a single meal at her own expense. Rather than shop and cook as others did she preferred not to eat at all, until a suitable invitation came along. On that first evening in the restaurant he had thought it curious that she had chosen the most expensive items on the menu: now he understood. The food had to be rich, excessively calorific, so that if necessary two days could be spent digesting it. And then, with a little luck, there would be another restaurant, and another, similar meal. He marvelled once again at her resilience.

In the same way she imposed herself on her friends, moving into their flats and houses whether it were convenient or not. Because she was personable, or perhaps plausible would be a more accurate description, she would always be initially welcome: she could offer gossip, information, the all-purpose enthusiasm of the encounter group. Only her short attention span would let her down. He was willing to bet that, with the exception of Howard Singer’s set-up, she had never stayed anywhere for as long as she had been in the Dunlops’ flat. How would she greet them when they returned? Perhaps this was not in her plan. Perhaps she had
seen in him a last chance, just as he had seen the same thing in her. In which case, he thought, we are probably both mistaken, but because we have no choice we will make do with one another. And perhaps we are both clever enough to get away with it.

Mrs Palmer-Harris, indeed. Undoubtedly a
nom de guerre
. The Kathleen part of it he believed. It went with the army camp and the father in braces. He added a waif-like Irish mother, hardly older than a girl. In which case, what had become of her? The father was dead, she had said. He supposed that the mother had married again and had more children. It was reasonable to conclude that Katy had nothing to do with her. Of all the people Bland had ever known she was the most unmothered.

He ran up the stairs, glad of an opportunity to interrupt her at whatever she was doing. He was also curious as to the state of the flat, for which, he realised, he would have to account. The doorbell seemed to echo into a tense silence. He rang again.

‘Who is it?’ a voice called.

‘It’s George. I’ve got a letter for you.’

‘Can’t you leave it? I’m washing my hair.’

‘I think you’d better look at it, Katy. I’m not really sure it’s for you.’

‘I’m expecting something. It’s probably for me. Just leave it, George.’

‘Can’t you open the door?’

There was another silence. Then the door opened on to a clearly annoyed Katy, clad in what must be Tim Dunlop’s white towelling bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towelling turban.

He handed her the letter and glanced past her. The atmosphere
was disturbed; he sensed the trace of another presence, another odour. The windows, he noted, were steamed up, yet the flat was as cold as his own.

‘Is your heating working?’ he asked. ‘Mine seems to have packed up.’

‘Oh, I never have the heating on,’ she said. ‘It’s so bad for the skin.’ She put the letter in her pocket without looking at it. She was clearly impatient, waiting for him to leave.

‘The letter’s addressed to a Mrs Palmer-Harris,’ he said. ‘I wondered if it were really for you.’

‘Of course it’s for me.’