A Pure Clear Light (13 page)

‘Yes, I’ll take Solomon,’ she replied, as if there could be any question about the matter. He suddenly saw that she was capable, just capable, of leaving Solomon with the porter, or whomever else might have him.

‘Poor Solomon,’ he said. And he meant it, too.

‘Tsk,’ she said.

They drank more champagne. He pushed the tray away, and made love to her, there on the rug, and didn’t tell her that he loved her, because it was true. Oh God help him, it was true; not that he knew what it truly meant. It simply was the truth. But as long as he didn’t say it, it remained deniable. As long as he didn’t say it, it need not be, but could be, denied. Whereas if he were to say it, it would be undeniable. And it would have to be denied: sooner or later, by one or another, it would have to be denied. So he didn’t say it. He must never say it. That was the fine line he trod; finer by the month, the week, the minute. ‘I have to be going,’ he said.

‘Wait, I’m coming with you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m coming out with you. I just have to put some clothes on— I won’t be a moment. I want to go around and look at the house again.’

‘Oh, the house. What, just look? And gloat?’

‘Yes.’

‘What a child you are.’ He laughed.

‘No, I’m not. I’ve never bought a house before. Will you come with me?’

‘I can’t.’

But he did. He stood there for a moment in the dark street in front of the house, holding her hand, looking up at the neat façade with its long windows. He squeezed her hand. ‘I have to run,’ he said. He bent and kissed her cheek and walked quickly up to Bayswater Road to get a taxi, and she went on looking at her house, excited, troubled, fearful, thrilled, as she had never expected to be; had never calculated upon being.

48

‘Can’t you manage even one evening a week? If it goes on like this—the children simply never see you. And this is before you’ve even begun shooting!’

‘As you see, I can’t. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.’

Flora said nothing. There were tears in her eyes. Oh God, God: help me. Who else could help her? ‘Thomas wanted to show you his hornpipe,’ she said, and she began to cry.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Simon. Flora put her head on her arms and wept. He went over to her.

He’d forgotten how he loved her: not how much—who could measure that?—or how little; or that he did so—could that ever now be forsworn, after all these years, all these children? Only,
how
: how it was done: how it was. Something was wrong, and it might just be his fault. One false step and he might be in hell, and Flora too; and then the children. Get your act together, Beaufort.

He held her in his arms. ‘What’s this hornpipe?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’

Flora wiped her eyes. ‘You know, the hornpipe,’ she said. ‘The dance, the sailor’s hornpipe. He’s just learned it, at his ballet class.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘He’s really very good, you know,’ she said. ‘So is Nell.’

He felt more wretched still. ‘I’m
sorry
, Flora,’ he said. He meant it, too. ‘I didn’t actually think you minded being left with them. Coping by yourself. When you came back from France, you said—’

‘That’s different. Going away on our own is one thing. Being here together, but with you simply—a shadow—’

‘All right, all right.’

Flora’s face was so sad that he could have wept himself. He got up and fetched the Armagnac. ‘Let’s have a hit of this,’ he muttered, and poured out two glasses and gave one to Flora. He drank some of his own and looked down into the glass. ‘This isn’t like you,’ he said. ‘You were never like this before.’

She said nothing; she was staring over the rim of her glass into the middle distance. She very slightly shrugged. ‘No, that’s true,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I don’t know what’s come over me.’

There was a silence. ‘Well,’ said Simon at last, ‘I see I’ll have to organise myself better, won’t I?’ Flora said nothing. How the hell was he going to manage this thing? He sat down. ‘I’ll make quite sure of being here at the weekends, that’s all,’ he said. ‘I can’t make promises about the weekday evenings; you know how it can go on. But at least until we start shooting, I’ll keep the weekends free for the kids.’ It was like a sentence; Flora perceived the similarity herself but said nothing: could say nothing: suffered, as she had for so long, the sense simply of there being something wrong which she could not identify, much less correct.

‘That would be a help,’ she said. ‘They do need you, you know.’

‘Perhaps we could all go somewhere on Saturday,’ he said. ‘Or Sunday. Think of somewhere you’d like to go.’

‘Janey’s going out on Saturday. The Hunters are going down to see William and they’ve asked Janey to go with them, if she likes.’

‘Really? Why would Janey want to do that?’

‘I truly can’t imagine. Five hundred–odd youths, not all of whom are spotty—
I
can’t see the attraction.’

‘So she gets on with young William, does she?’

‘And some of his friends.’

‘Oh yes, you mean those twins.’

‘I think that’s the idea.’

Simon looked grave. ‘They
are
growing up,’ he said. ‘That’s a fact.’

‘It’s all so transitory, isn’t it?’ said Flora. ‘Or had you forgotten?’ ‘Perhaps I had,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps I had.’ And so I have, he thought. I fucking have. Unless I’ve remembered only too well.

49

‘Have you actually sold this place yet?’

‘Albie’s buying it.’

‘
Albie?

’ ‘He’s taking a position in readiness for the next UK property boom.’

‘Don’t tell him, but there isn’t going to be one.’

‘I did tell him, but he doesn’t believe me.’

‘Oh God, maybe he knows more than we do.’

‘If he does, then the information’s no good to us.’

‘How true. So what, is this to be his holiday cottage?’

‘He’s going to let it. An interior decorator called Laetitia Crewe is about to descend, tape-measure in hand. By the time she’s finished

with the place it’ll be worth £800 a week, give or take.’

They both laughed merrily. The thought of all that money can do that to a person.

‘Still, he’s got the outgoings,’ said Simon.

‘He won’t clear much over £500 per,’ said Gillian. ‘The game’s hardly worth the candle.’ They laughed again.

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Simon. This was his best chance. He told her about the weekends: about his promise.

‘I see,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Simon.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

What they didn’t say, couldn’t say, thickened all the air around them like incense.

He took her to the brasserie, not just for a few drinks but for a meal, to make it up to her, somehow, for all those pre-empted weekend hours—for the loss of those late, now lamented, afternoons snatched from the grip of the mundane.
Fonds des artichauts
,
grillade normande
, coffee and mints. ‘Have you had enough to eat?’ he asked. ‘Then let’s go back to Albie’s.’

Later, lying on his back and looking at the bedroom ceiling, with its pointless and perfunctory mouldings, he said, I’ll be glad when you’ve moved. And she said, so will I. And they both thought how much better, in some way now mysterious to each, it would be after she had moved into the new house.

50

He wasn’t doing too badly. He could crack this thing. He might not be Father of the Year, but he’d do well enough. On Saturday he’d taken Nell and Thomas out for a McDonald’s and a big-screen presentation of the latest Disney; by the time he got them home he felt as if he was coming down with multiple rot—teeth, guts, brain, the lot. Except for the presence of the children themselves. The children were beautiful. Even he could see that. Being with them was like drinking the purest most sparkling spring water. It was just their taste which was abominable—in food, entertainment, toys—abominable; execrable. How could this be?

‘What can it mean?’ he asked Flora.

‘I suppose it’s simply a sign of original sin,’ she said.

Janey had been delivered by the Hunters at ten o’clock, shiny-eyed. She sat on the sofa with them drinking cocoa and relating the day’s events.

‘And did you see the cathedral?’ asked Flora.

Janey shrugged. ‘Only the outside,’ she said.

‘She’s too young for cathedrals,’ said Simon. ‘She’s got plenty of time for cathedrals.’

‘Anyway,’ said Janey, ‘I don’t believe in God.’

‘She’s too young to believe in God,’ said Flora. ‘She’s got plenty of time for God.’

‘I thought the point was,’ said Janey, ‘I’ve got
no
time for cathedrals, and no time for God, much less
plenty.

’ ‘That’s my girl,’ said Flora. ‘Now come and kiss me goodnight, darling.’ Janey kissed them and went up to bed.

‘Could she be clever?’ said Simon.

‘I should jolly well hope so,’ Flora replied. ‘It’s what we’re paying for.’

He woke up on Sunday morning to find Thomas sitting on the dressing-table chair staring at him gravely.

‘Hello,’ said Thomas. ‘I just wondered if you’d like to see my hornpipe again. I’ve put my ballet shoes on just in case. See?’ He raised a small foot. Simon sat up and looked at the child. He wanted to hug him. Did one do such things? Did he?

‘When I’m up and dressed,’ he said. ‘Where’s your mama?’

‘She’s gone to church.’

‘I see.’

‘She’s coming back soon.’

‘Of course.’

‘Janey’s looking after us.’

‘Excellent.’

‘Will you get up now?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And then I’ll show you.’

And soon, soon, all this innocence would be only a shining memory. There was transience for you. From the light to the dark: and then? Could there be a path back to innocence? Could there? Was that where Flora was, now: trying to find the path back to innocence? Was that where he was: was that the destination of the fine line: or was it that line’s location? He got up and showered and dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, and Thomas danced for him again. ‘That’s the stuff,’ said Simon. And he felt as happy as a person can ever be. Why isn’t this enough? he wondered. Why do we always want something more? How can this be? And he remembered his question of the day before, and the answer that Flora had given him.

51

‘Goodness, tea chests.’

‘A dead giveaway, aren’t they?’

Simon peered into the nearest one. ‘I thought you said you could move in a taxi,’ he said.

‘It’s amazing how many odds and ends you find around a place, when you get right down to it.’

‘So when’s the off?’

‘Saturday.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Will you be able to manage?’ he said.

‘Of
course.
No problem.’

Well, she’d just have to, wouldn’t she? It wrung his heart. She

looked at his face. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘Jonathan said he’d give me a hand, if I needed it.’

‘Who’s Jonathan?’

‘Oh, just a chap. Just an old mate. Jonathan Finch. We see a show together once in a while.’

‘Oh, do you now?’

‘You bet.’ He looked almost murderous. ‘And then we have a drink or two, or some supper, and he talks to me about Nicola.’

Where had he heard that name before? Everywhere, probably; it was very popular. ‘Nicola.’

‘Nicola Gatling.’

Nicola Gatling. He was sure he’d heard that very name before: where?

‘Nicola Gatling is the woman he loves.’

‘Why doesn’t he see these shows with her, then?’

‘She’s been working up in Scunthorpe, the last six months or so.’

Of course: Nicola Gatling: Lizzie’s man in Scunthorpe. ‘I know some people who’ve been up there recently,’ he said. ‘For the literary festival.’

‘Yes, that’s it. That’s where the crack is, in Scunthorpe. Anyway, she’ll be back in London very soon. No more shows for me then. Not with Jonathan, anyway.’

‘Still, as long as he’s going to give you a hand on Saturday.’

‘Yes; sweet of him, isn’t it?’

He was still looking pretty murderous. She stopped packing and went over to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘Look at me,’ she said. He looked at her. ‘You don’t want me to stay at home watching telly every night, weekends included, do you?’ she said.

‘You could play cards with Solomon, or chess.’

‘Solomon isn’t any good at cards or chess.’

‘You could play chess with a computer.’

‘But still. A girl needs a few laughs, once in a while.’

‘Yes: I’m totally out of order. Disgracefully. Sorry, darling.

Sorry, sorry. I—’ don’t say it.
Don
’
t ever say it.

‘Then there’s Rupert.’

‘Oh, is there?’

‘I see the occasional show with Rupert, too.’

‘Tell me about Rupert.’

‘Rupert’s a merchant wanker.’

‘Oh, classy.’

‘Right. He isn’t very pretty, though, Rupert isn’t.’

‘You’re pretty enough for the two of you.’

She lay her head on his chest. ‘What shall we do now?’ she said.

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘I knew I could depend on you.’

Could she? Should she? What had happened to autonomy? Don’t depend on me, he wanted to say: not for anything. Don’t use the word even lightly, even in jest: especially not in jest. Many a true word. But it was too late, much too late. Some form of dependence had crept up on them, and God knew where it would end. You just had to keep going, on the long, fine, ever narrower line; God alone—that is, no one—could know where it would end. Or should.

52

‘So, what, Robert will drop Fergus off in the mornings and we’ll get him home—?’

‘No, well I could fetch him—’ ‘No, Louisa, it’s too much; I’ll bring him back.’

‘Or Robert could—but he works so late sometimes—’

‘No, look, don’t worry. It’s no problem. If the worse comes to the worst we’ll put him in a taxi.’

‘Oh yes, that’s best; he loves taxis.’

Here they were again. Flora and Louisa, sorting out the forthcoming school holiday arrangements. It was a massive juggling act, every single time. Flora and Maggie had a student to hold the fort at the atelier during the school holidays, although one or other of them had to be standing by in case of emergencies, but Louisa was a full-time employee. Louisa was an executive. And Louisa had no luck with nannies, au pairs or mother’s helpers. What luck she might have had was always ruined by Fergus. He had seen them off, one by one, from the age of two years onwards, until she had had to give them up altogether. So Fergus was going to stay with his grandparents in Somerset after Christmas but before that he was going to muck in with the Beauforts. Or, rather, they with him. He had a way, at eight years old, of turning a house upside down.