A Private View (27 page)

He put on his overcoat and the soft black hat he had been in the habit of wearing to the office, seized his envelope, and went downstairs to the front desk. Hipwood emerged from his cubby-hole, and laid a proprietorial hand on the base of his Christmas tree.

‘Compliments of the season, Mr Hipwood,’ said Bland, handing over his envelope.

‘Much obliged, sir,’ replied Hipwood. Usually, Bland reflected, he was more forthcoming.

‘And I wonder if I might ask you a favour?’ Bland went on.

Ask away, said Hipwood’s expression, which had not changed from a certain mournful placidity.

Bland laid a further twenty-pound note on the desk. ‘My
heating doesn’t appear to be working,’ he said. ‘Would you be very kind and take a look at it? I don’t much like the idea of spending Christmas in a cold flat.’

‘You won’t be going away then, sir?’

‘No. I shan’t be going away.’

‘Leave it with me, sir. Sometimes the thermostat needs a little adjustment.’

‘If you need to go into the flat you have your keys,’ said Bland. This proof of confidence, he felt, was as much as he could summon in his own defence. Besides, he knew that Hipwood was longing to get into the flat, which in his imagination was the scene of recent lechery and licentiousness. He took it upon himself, as a guardian of public morals, to keep an eye open for possible derangement. Not that he ever found it, but, as he let it be known, he had his suspicions. To these Bland had formerly been obliged to lend an ear. ‘Third floor, sir,’ Hipwood would say, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Have you heard anything out of the way? Only they had a visitor last night, and I have my suspicions.’ The tenant, whether male or female, was always referred to as ‘they’. Bland knew that Hipwood suspected all the highly respectable retired men and elderly women who occupied this building of harbouring discreditable secrets. Like many solitaries he had a disorderly imagination. Bland, who was in possession of just such a discreditable secret, saw himself performing a symbolic act in bidding Hipwood search his flat. Even now it occurred to him to wonder if any evidence of his infatuation remained. Then he reflected that all the evidence was in his head, and was likely to remain there, and bidding Hipwood a pleasant good afternoon he went out into the icy street.

His intention was to walk to the National Gallery or the
National Portrait Gallery, to buy his Christmas cards, and to spend the evening virtuously addressing them, ready to be posted the following morning, or even that night if he had the energy to go out again. He set out in a ruminative spirit, without his usual energy, but the afternoon was so fine, so calm, so depopulated, under the same cloudless sky, that he found himself increasing his pace, responding to those dear streets which had kept him company since his first arrival in London. He had spent his first feverish weeks exploring, before returning exhausted each evening to the small hotel in Earls Court where he had lived before being directed to Radnor Place, and hence to liberty. He had arrived in London with money from the sale of his parents’ house in his pocket, and this had protected him from the worst excesses of his innocence. He had learned slowly but thoroughly, setting himself to examine every neighbourhood in turn, playing with the voluptuous decision, which it would one day be his to make, of where to live, or, as he thought of it then, where to make his home. That home had proved elusive, or perhaps it was that none of his homes seemed to be the right one. Some living presence was eternally missing, yet at the same time he was prevented from introducing one. In this way Louise had escaped him, having seen his caution for what it was. And now, in the austere comfort of his present flat, undeniably expensive, undeniably his, he still felt himself to be a visitor, uncertain of his welcome, and not entirely at home.

For old time’s sake he walked down George Street, down Baker Street, into Oxford Street, and then, just inside the park, to Hyde Park Corner. He had walked this way many times in the past and remembered how he had felt his heart
expand with the grandeur of it all. Now it was no longer a novelty, nor did it feel so grand. Yet it was still his favourite. There were more triumphant cities, Paris, Rome, Vienna, even New York. All were more naturally festive, yet none felt like the centre of the universe as London did. Paris could be traversed on foot, or at least could have been when he was young; Rome was too cynical, Vienna too secretive. On his first visit, newly emancipated, and wide-eyed with wonder, it had seemed to him that London was one vast government building, the occupants of which went about their daily task of policing the known world. Or so it had been once. Now it was a city in decline. The dignity of the place was almost gone, yet these days he felt he understood it better. It was, like himself, secular. He gave little thought and no attention to the churches of London, which he had once conscientiously researched, but saved his acts of obeisance for the Houses of Parliament, nineteenth-century masterpiece, emblematic of the national confidence, pragmatic, sober, yet given over to Gothic pride. For a provincial like himself the sight of the building was enough to restore his spirits on a grey day.

In Trafalgar Square he became aware of crowds. For most of the day he had felt entirely alone, not seeing, or not hearing, the people who dreamily filled the Sunday streets. Forced to move more slowly now, he sought in vain a known face above the heads of the crowd, which seemed compact, murmuring. He was able to admire the light. The icy sun had now faded, but in doing so had imparted a pinkish flush to the white stone of the National Gallery. In their last hour of liberty, before the darkness sent them home, people seemed becalmed, humbled, obedient, content to
drift in company along the thronged but strangely silent street. It was enough to saunter, shoulders almost touching, the warmth of strange bodies almost palpable through overcoats, one’s sense of self almost in abeyance.

He bought his cards, then, suddenly tired, took a cab back to Kendal Street. After the cold and the rapidly fading light he was almost glad to get home. The flat seemed strangely welcoming. He put his hand on the radiator and withdrew it smartly: blazing hot. So Hipwood had been successful. One might even say that Hipwood had been morally successful. If this had been a morality play Hipwood would be seen as having saved the day. Moral considerations aside, however, there was no doubt that the flat was newly comfortable. He made tea and drank it gratefully, yet in the act of eating a biscuit his face contracted once more with grief. It seemed that the solitary act of eating revealed to him once again the vast areas of solitude which he now inhabited. He deduced from this that he might be wise to spend his time alone, at least until he had regained some mastery of himself, for to display such an involuntary rictus in company—the sort to which an infant is subject—would be more than he could tolerate. Work might be a palliative, but he had none. Companionship would have helped, but he had precious little of that either. His world was, temporarily, quite empty. And there was the routine of Christmas to be got through. Tomorrow he must think about food. In the meantime there were gestures of acknowledgment to be made to the outside world. He spent the evening writing and stamping a number of cards: he was astonished that he knew so many people, to whom he sent his best, even his fondest wishes. Somehow it was not possible to send a card to Louise. A
loving message would have been necessary, and he did not think he could manage one, not because Louise was not lovable but because he himself was as devoid of love as if he had been eviscerated. Certainly he felt depleted, as if by surgery. And his mind was empty now, under the influence of what he recognised as extreme fatigue. He left his pile of cards, stamped and ready to be posted the following morning, and, with scarcely the strength left to remove his clothes, went to bed. At some point in the middle of the night he became just conscious enough to remember that he had failed to telephone Louise.

On the following day, Monday, he met Mrs Cardozo at the front door, and asked her, as a very great favour, if she would mind cleaning the Dunlops’ flat. She was immediately indignant. ‘I only work for you, George. I don’t work for others.’ The point at which she had decided to address him as George was now lost in the mists of antiquity. She would always be Mrs Cardozo to him, although he would have liked to call her by her name, which was Fidelia, and which he thought beautiful.

‘I’ll have coffee waiting for you when you’ve finished,’ he assured her. ‘And I want you to have this. Merry Christmas. Just change the sheets and towels,’ he added, ‘and generally tidy up. There’s no need to do anything in here today,’ he said, all but propelling her disapproving back across the landing. ‘Open the windows,’ he called after her. Then he shut his own door quickly, in order to forestall further protests.

He took the opportunity of her temporary absence to do his shopping. ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Hipwood pleasantly in the lobby. ‘Heating all right?’

‘Excellent, thank you. Good morning, Moira.’

‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Lydiard distantly. They were no longer friends, it seemed. He had failed to keep in touch, and he would, he knew, continue to do so. He could not bring himself to discuss Katy’s departure with her, could not summon the impartial tone with which it would be imperative to mention the matter, on which she would no doubt have very decided views. He doubted whether he would exchange more than the most conventional greeting with her ever again.

The strange sun of yesterday had disappeared. The weather was grey, misty, piercingly cold. He posted his cards and made a few desultory purchases. He still could not turn his mind to everyday sustenance. Back in the flat he stood for a moment at the window, patting the scalding radiator. When Mrs Cardozo had gone he lunched on bread and cheese and a glass of wine, and then attempted to settle down with Mauriac, whose mournful steady tone he found comforting. At some point in the afternoon he darted over to the Dunlops’ flat and switched on the heating.

Tuesday was even colder. He forced himself to turn his mind to everyday affairs, had lunch at the club, and bought an ample stock of provisions on his way home. He did not expect to leave the flat until after Christmas. A strange calm descended on him, and he spent the afternoon sitting in his dusky room, idle to outward appearance, not bothering to switch on the lights even when it was quite dark. In fact he was absorbed in thought, passing his life in review, and even finally managing to think of Katy with an absence of blame which was not quite, not yet, indulgence. When the doorbell rang he got up like a sleepwalker, still in the dark, to
answer it. Tim Dunlop stood on the landing, holding a small box of chocolates and a Christmas card.

‘Just to say thank you for everything,’ he said.

‘There was no need …’

‘You’ve been awfully kind. The place looks much tidier than when we left.’

‘I sent Mrs Cardozo over. I hope you don’t mind.’ He thought this truth preferable to any other.

‘Mind! We’re delighted!’ He lingered awkwardly, anxious to get home.

‘You had a good holiday?’

‘Oh, splendid, thanks. And you’ve been all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Going away for Christmas?’

‘No. No, I shall stay here.’

‘You won’t be lonely?’

‘Lonely? Oh, no. What I need,’ he said, with a thrill of longing that almost brought tears to his eyes, like a cough, a sneeze, some irrepressible physical commotion, ‘is a bit of a rest.’

‘You’ve been overdoing it, I expect.’

‘That must be it,’ he said gratefully. ‘Yes, once or twice I’ve felt myself getting a bit near the edge.’

‘Yes, well, if you need anything …’

But he needed nothing. A rest, perhaps, one of those long sleeps that brought such illuminating dreams. And time to reflect, as a man of his age should reflect, quietly, patiently, even humorously.

‘Goodnight,’ he said, and shut the door onto Dunlop’s retreating back. He went into the kitchen, opened the larder, and stared unseeingly at the contents. Then he went
into the bedroom and turned down the bed. I have had my adventure, he thought. Now I must live my life as I have always lived it. What was it that I lacked? Courage, or the necessary folly, that
grain de folie
that the French talk about? Automatically he switched on the radio for the shipping forecast, and switched it off again when the telephone rang.

‘George? Thank goodness I’ve got you at last. I knew you’d be worried not hearing from me, dear. But I’ve been out rather a lot, two nights running, in fact. We’re all rather busy down here. On Sunday I went to the carol service, and the Fawcetts invited me for supper afterwards. I couldn’t refuse, though I knew you’d be worried. And last night there was a little party for the older children at the hospital. You know I sometimes help out there. But that’s enough about me. Now what about you, dear? Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘That’s good.’

There was a pause. ‘Have you decided to go away?’ There was perhaps a tentative note in her voice.

‘Louise,’ he said. ‘I’ve left it too late to make plans for this year. But I’ve got an idea for your present. What would you say to a cruise? In the spring?’