A Pure Clear Light (12 page)

‘What are we?’ said Nell.

‘Christians,’ said Flora. ‘More or less.’

‘She’s more,’ said Thomas, ‘and I’m less, because she’s bigger.’

‘That’s about it,’ said Flora. ‘More or less.’

44

‘Still in the same place?’ said Simon.

‘Yeah,’ said Lydia. ‘Still the same.’ She gave him directions again.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Simon; ‘I remember.’ The battered street, the arrested decay. When they turned into it, it was no more. Feeble saplings had become almost-substantial trees; there was fresh paint, there were window-boxes. ‘I say,’ said Simon. ‘What’s been going on here?’

‘Urban renewal,’ said Lydia drily. ‘And so on. Sales of freeholds. New brooms. Gentrification. Progress.’

‘Lucky old you,’ said Simon.

‘I bought at the right time,’ said Lydia.

‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Shall I give you a hand with that?’

‘I can manage,’ said Lydia. ‘Thanks all the same.’ As she crossed the pavement to the front door, he thought, she doesn’t like me, does she? Not that I care. Not that I like her all that much, come to that. If at all. She turned and waved and then went inside. She’s got a nice smile, though, he thought. Too bad she never found herself a bloke. Poor old Lydia.

Simon is such a pig, thought Lydia as she went up the stairs. So arrogant. Attractive, sure, but—he just seems to take Flora so entirely for granted. Does he know just how hard she has to scramble to keep that show on the road? What a life. Still, the children are beautiful. That is her reward. But as for Simon—oh well. There’s pretty well always something wrong with a man, isn’t there?

She let herself into her flat and, putting the big parcel of curtain material down, went over to the windows and started taking down the tattered old curtains.

All the other shabby accoutrements had already been banished to skips and salerooms—she’d got a surprising price for the sideboard, described by the auctioneers as a credenza: enough to re-furnish the whole room and paint it too. One of her photographers had helped with the painting, for a small consideration. The room was now virtually empty: there was a leather and chrome sofa coming up at a sale in a fortnight’s time which she had her eye on—two such sofas, in fact, but they were listed as separate lots—and she might see if there were any other likely pieces when she went to the viewing.

She draped the new material, a plain off-white calico, over the curtain rails, just to get the idea. Yes, the room would look rather good. Quite the thing. Jolly nice. The only furniture it contained right now was an old deck-chair, so she sat down on it and made a spliff and had a nice quiet smoke. Life is just the saddest thing there is, she thought. Sad beyond all comprehending. Let’s have some music, for God’s sake. Yes, precisely.

45

‘Good God, what’s been happening here?’

‘As you see, entrance of two strong men and exit of same bearing sofas, chairs, etcetera. Gone to the saleroom, every one. Going under the hammer in two weeks’ time.’

‘This is all rather sudden.’

‘Not really. I contacted the auctioneers a while back but the humpers took their time collecting the goods—they came yesterday.’

The room was now completely empty, except for the Shiraz rug. He glanced into the dining room. That was empty too. ‘What do you sit on?’ he said.

Gillian looked down at the rug. ‘I’m thinking of taking up meditation,’ she said. ‘I really might as well. Perhaps I already have.’

‘As long as you haven’t sold the bed,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Let’s go and lie on it, then,’ he said, ‘before you do.’

He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom and undressed her. He looked down at her while he undressed himself. ‘I’m so glad I found you in,’ he said. He gave one of his better performances: one of his best. He wanted to tell her he loved her. It was true. Saying so was unthinkable. He stroked the side of her face, along the hairline, thinking, I love you, I love you. She turned her head and looked at him, as if she’d heard him, out of her brown eyes, as candid, almost, as those of a child. She mustn’t say, I love you: not to him. That was a thing she must never say.

‘Let’s go to that brasserie,’ he said. It was their place. They would not see anyone they knew in there: they were safe in that brasserie. It was a nice place, too. A nice place to take your girl. They walked there through the dusk. ‘Winter’s almost here,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen you in the winter.’ He ordered their drinks and held her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

The drinks came. He drank. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He’d have to be careful. How long since the wine at lunchtime? If you led two lives you could end up drinking twice as much. Fucking twice— twice?—as much, and drinking twice as much. Holy smoke.
He
’
d
have to be careful.

‘Are you going to buy some more furniture?’ The mansion flat was now more than ever tomb-like: he’d been glad to get out of it.

‘I don’t believe I’ll bother, for the moment.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m thinking of sticking my neck out for a house I’ve seen.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Quite nearby, actually. A few streets away.’

‘Ah. Staying in the parish, then.’

‘Yes. I’ll show it to you if you’ve got time.’

‘I haven’t quite. Not today. Next time.’

‘All right.’

‘Meet me here on Tuesday evening—can you do that? Around six?’

‘I could just manage six-thirty.’

‘And then you can show me.’

‘Okay.’

It was a tasty little house, all right: in a nice quiet narrow little street running northwards from the Bayswater Road. ‘It isn’t cheap,’ she said, ‘but it’s just what the doctor ordered. I really might as well go for it. In fact, I’ve put in an offer.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope you get it. It looks okay, I must say. Have you had a survey done?’

‘Everything’s hunky-dory,’ she said. ‘It’s as good as it looks.’ It was, as it happened, the property—
pro tem—
of a Lloyd’s name who’d been properly—or, improperly—screwed; but she knew this only by accident; and she didn’t tell him.

‘And the interior?’ he said.

‘Immaculate,’ she replied.

‘Talking of which,’ he said; and he took her hand and led her away, towards the mansion block, and the bedroom, and the bed. Time went so fast, so fucking fast. He was going to miss Thomas, but if the traffic wasn’t too bad he’d get back just in time to see Nell; and Janey, of course. His dinner would be in the oven, keeping warm. Flora was well used to that. Pity about Thomas. But there it was. Something, once in a while, had to give.

46

Flora dropped Nell and Thomas off at their dancing class and then she didn’t go home until it was time to fetch them, she didn’t even go to Sainsbury’s, she drove to the church, thinking she could just go in, and sit there.

It was locked, of course. Well, what could you expect? There is evil in the world: thoughtless, casual evil, and conscious, deliberate evil. Which is worse? Flora sat down on a wooden bench just outside the church porch in the cold grey afternoon, and tried not to hear the traffic, and watched the leaves falling. She supposed she might as well go to Sainsbury’s after all. It had come to that.

‘Hello there! Were you—ah—did you want anything?’

She looked up. The vicar. She smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

‘We have to keep it locked when there’s no one around. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’ll be saying mass at six o’clock, of course.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t stay—I have to fetch my children.’

‘Oh yes. I think I saw you here, didn’t I—several Sundays ago?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

A silence. He was considering the situation. ‘I do hope we’ll see you again one of these Sundays, then,’ he said. ‘Or whenever. There’s a low mass every weekday of course. Meanwhile—shall I sit down here for a moment? Would you mind?’

‘No, not at all, please do.’

‘You live nearby, I take it?’

‘Yes, quite near.’ She told him the name of the street.

He considered. ‘I believe you’re just outside the parish,’ he said.

‘Oh dear,’ said Flora. ‘Shall I go?’ He laughed. Then he introduced himself, and shook hands; and Flora gave him her name, and agreed that he should call her Flora rather than Mrs Beaufort.

‘Well, Flora,’ he said, ‘I could go and get the key, if you wanted to go inside: shall I do that?’

‘It’s all right, really.’

‘If you’re quite sure.’

‘Yes, truly.’

‘Is everything all right?’

She thought. He had a way, this clergyman. She was going to talk to him. ‘Mostly,’ she said.

‘There’s always a margin, isn’t there?’ he said.

‘It’s just that—I’ve got this feeling—somehow—that something is wrong; and I don’t know what it is.’

‘Ah.’

‘I feel that I
must
find it out.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you must. Of course, it could be a delusion. One does have those.’

‘That would be the thing then that was wrong—the having a delusion. That might be worse than the alternative.’

He considered this. ‘The question is,’ he said, ‘how to find out.’

‘Quite.’

‘God, being by definition omniscient, knows the truth. He might tell you. Do you believe in God?’

Flora thought. It was a matter of choosing one’s words. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said.

‘It’s all, really, a manner of speaking, if you like.’

‘Isn’t there anything more than what we can say?’

He laughed. ‘
I’m
bound to think so, but then that’s my job,’ he said. ‘Not to say, my
raison d’être
.’

Flora thought some more. ‘What do you think I should do?’ she said.

‘To the end of discovering what’s wrong, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come to church. Come and pray with us. Receive the sacrament. Have you been confirmed?’

‘I’m a lapsed Catholic.’

‘Ah. A Roman.’

‘Yes.’

‘I dare say you realise that we lot are not considered by your church to be the real right thing.’

‘It isn’t my church.’

‘As long as you know the form.’

‘Yes.’

‘We for our part are more than happy to see you here as a communicant or not as you choose, whenever you wish, as I hope you realise.’

‘Do you really think that this is the way to discover truth?’

‘I know no other. Not in such cases as yours, at least as you’ve described it.’

‘I wonder.’

‘You could try it.’

‘I could.’

‘
I
would.’

‘I’ll see.’

‘Go on. Be radical.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever talked to an Anglican priest before,’ she said. ‘Apart from the formalities, when I married—my husband isn’t a Catholic, we married in an Anglican church, because I was lapsed by then.’ She looked pensive.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve heard—I mean, it’s universally known—we’re all utter idiots. Don’t say you hadn’t been warned.’ She laughed. ‘Come and hear a few more of my sermons and you’ll see just how true it is,’ he said.

‘Or how untrue,’ she replied.

‘Well, there is always that possibility,’ he agreed, ‘logically, at any rate.’

‘I’ll try and come on Sunday.’

‘That’s the ticket.’

‘I ought to be going. Thank you for everything.’

‘See you soon, then, I trust, Flora. God bless you.’ He turned and waved and was gone.

He went into the vicarage, where his wife had the tea ready. ‘Whatever kept you, Freddy?’ she said. ‘This lot will be stewed.’

‘Sorry, Phoebes. I’ve been about my Father’s business. Encouraging a strayed lamb back into the fold.’

‘Oh, jolly good, jolly good.’ She poured out the tea.

‘Yes. Do you remember that woman you remarked about a month ago, in the good tweeds?’

‘An English rose, slightly faded?’

‘That’s the one. Shouldn’t entirely surprise me if we were to see her again. Might even become a regular.’

‘Oh, I do hope so. She looked to me as if she’d be likely to come up with some absolutely
first-rate
jumble.’

47

Simon was on edge; he had been conferring about the casting most of the afternoon.

The casting was crucial, of course. If he could get Michael
and
Nathaniel, he’d be in business. But it looked a bit tricky. If he couldn’t get both, did he want either, or did he want to start again? Because his idea, his great idea, was—supposing he could get Nathaniel
and
Michael—to cast each of them against type. Because everyone was pretty used to seeing Nathaniel playing the cad (he looked like a cad) and Michael the sweetie (he looked such a sweetie). So he wanted to cast Nathaniel as the sweetie and Michael as the cad. They’d be devastating. And then if he could get—but it was a matter of hanging in there for the time being to see if he could get both Michael
and
Nathaniel. Please,
please
God. So Simon was on edge.

She was wearing a pink silk kimono with a design of black-and-white flying cranes; Solomon was stretched out on the Shiraz rug. There was a tray beside him with two champagne glasses and a bottle of Krug. She sat down again on the rug and began untwisting the wire. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she said.

‘What are we celebrating?’

She could hear the edge in his voice. She looked up. ‘Life,’ she said. ‘Life, liberty and the pursuit of property. My offer’s been accepted.’

‘Oh,
congratulations
,’ said Simon. The edge had left his voice; he squatted down and then sat; he began to enter the spirit of the thing. ‘Well done, my darling.’ My darling. My darling. Was she wearing anything under that kimono? She drew the cork and poured out the champagne and they drank. He smiled at her. ‘Tell me all about it,’ he said. She did so.

‘I can move in in a fortnight,’ she said.

‘Just like that,’ he said. Well, it was pretty breathtaking.

She shrugged. ‘There’s nothing to it, really,’ she said. ‘I could move in a taxi, practically.’ He looked around. It could be true. ‘There’s only my clothes, and a few odd bits,’ she said.

‘Solomon,’ he said.