A Pure Clear Light (7 page)
‘All appearances to the contrary.’
He reached out to replace his empty teacup on the tray and she took it from him. Their fingers touched very briefly. They were out of the cul-de-sac. It was time. She glanced around the room. ‘I really should do something about the rest of this stuff,’ she said vaguely. ‘Perhaps I’ll send it to an auction.’
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Do it soon.’
‘The bedroom’s all right,’ she said. ‘I was entirely responsible for that.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Would you like to see?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I would.’
She got up, and took his hand. ‘It’s this way,’ she said.
Simon could see, driving back to Hammersmith, just before dawn, after his first night with Gillian Selkirk, that his life was going now to be quite different, in some way that he could only barely foresee. All that was certain was that he had been re-invented in some deep and fearful manner.
No sooner had he crossed the threshold of that bedroom than coloured lights had seemed to flash on and off madly in his consciousness and his veins had filled with their multicoloured energy: her power of bewitchment had become the power to transform and even to control and he had truly found himself in a new mode of existence. What had seemed surely the descent into an abyss then appeared rather—or also, simultaneously—an ascent into an empyrean other-world. He had not waited even to undress properly or to let her do so. It had been horrifying, and glorious, all at once: the dread which he had felt from the start had become one more thing, one ultimate thing, to be embraced.
So this was where he lived, was it? This the house—this plain brick three-storey façade with its five white-framed windows, its dark blue door with a brass knocker (nice work there, Mrs Brick)— this his hallway, these his children’s macs, that his wife’s umbrella in the cast-iron stand? Simon went, unwillingly, to face the worst of it, into the kitchen, and sat down at the table: and after a few moments of simply sitting, waiting, bringing it all into focus, this room so redolent of Flora and the children, he thought, who was the man who lived here before?
And he truly could not remember how it had felt, before, coming in here, in the evenings, say, after work; reaching for the gin; that life was too obscure now even to inspire a sense of loss. The question of whether this new creature I am has acted rightly or wrongly, Simon thought—but he had not thought: he had been inspired, the thought had come unbidden, like a gift of the spirit— the question is simply not pertinent. He had entered a realm beyond right and wrong. He had stepped—simply in the natural course of events, without seeking to do so—into a world where there was no need, and no place, for such questions: where one simply acted. It was a benefaction, which he had done nothing—that he knew of—to deserve; it was simply a piece of luck, beyond reason or justice. He had entered a sort of paradise—yes, that was as near as one could get to describing it. This was not a matter for either celebration or sorrow; it was a simple, neutral fact. All he had to do hereafter was to walk very carefully along the straight line before him.
He felt quite calm. If he’d been a believer—in any sense of that term—he might have thought, thanks be to God; but as he was not—in any sense of that term which he comprehended—he only thought,
there it is.
And just for an instant he heard the echo from the depths of the abyss, yawning fathomlessly on either side of this fine straight line where his feet were now planted.
‘Why me?’
‘Oh, you were the first candidate who turned up.’
‘The first candidate for what, exactly?’
‘For the job, obviously.’
‘Which job would that be, precisely?’
‘What does it look like to you?’
‘I wouldn’t dare hazard a description.’
‘Oh,
go
on.’
‘No, really. You thought it up, you tell me. I’m only the successful candidate. What
exactly
is the job?’
‘Fucking me stupid.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘Isn’t it, in this context, more a question of what more
you
want?’
‘I don’t want anything more.’
‘Truly?’ He looked at her, searchingly.
She looked back at him. ‘I don’t believe there can
be
anything more,’ she said. ‘Not truly.’
Simon was silent. He began to caress her breast. ‘How stupid do you want to be?’ he murmured.
‘Completely moronic,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know if ever I get there, okay?’
‘Fine,’ said Simon. And so it was. Sex, after all, is an awful lot more than it’s cracked up to be.
‘It’s going to be more difficult after next weekend, you realise,’ he said to her later.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I realise.’
But he knew, and she knew, that just whenever he could, Simon would come to the mansion flat, by car or taxi or even if no other conveyance were available on foot, and they’d go on, like this, working through the near-infinity of sensations which were the integers of this cosmic frolic. It was a simple, neutral fact.
On the last night at the
gîte
, when the Hopetouns had all come over for supper, and they had all played charades—the twins had brought the house down, but William hadn’t done too badly either: William was coming on: even Janey would have had to admit it—and Thomas had fallen fully clothed into the pool, and Denzil, also fully clothed, had jumped in after him ‘to save him’, and the twins’ mother, ‘beautiful blonde barrister’ Serena, had sung a heartrending version of ‘Father Come Home’, and they had all agreed, to a tiny child, that this was the life, all right, in
la douce France
, and they were bloody
fools
not to pack it in and move down here for good, Flora said to Honoria Hunter in the kitchen after the Hopetouns had gone—‘See you in London! See you at school! See you soon!’—and while Jack was doing some preliminary loading up of the Hunter Volvo, ‘You know, Honoria, for two pins I almost
would
pack it in and move down here for good. Seriously.’
Honoria was at the sink, up to her elbows; she turned around. Flora
was
serious. ‘But darling how could you, really?’
‘I don’t know. But I do truly wish I could.’
‘There’s your business, for a start.’
‘Don’t I know it.’
‘And then, think of the children’s schools.’
‘They’d get at least as good an education here for nothing as the one we’re paying an arm and a leg for back in the UK.’
‘Yes. It’s enough to make you weep, isn’t it?’
Flora was almost ready actually to weep. Honoria noticed this.
‘And then, what about Simon? You couldn’t really expect Simon to pack it in.’
‘No; I dare say not.’
‘So there you are, really.’
‘Yes, there I am.’
‘Oh dear. It is sad leaving, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘
Douce France
.’
‘Yes,
bien douce.
’
‘It won’t go away, you know.’
‘I pray to God it won’t.’
‘Of course it won’t. The French will see to that.’
‘And if they don’t, we shall.’
‘You bet. If ever we spot them falling down on the job, we’ll come straight over and sort them out. That’s what the tunnel’s for.’
‘Yes, of course—I’d forgotten the tunnel.’
‘So there’s nothing to worry about, you see. You can come back
just like that, any time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity Simon couldn’t come.’
‘I’m quite glad, actually, in a way.’
‘Are you?’
‘It was nice to be alone with the children for a while.’
‘But you’ve often been, when he’s been on location.’
‘It’s different, here.’
‘Oh. Yes. As we were saying.’
‘Especially with Janey at the awkward age.’
‘Oh, that’s what you call awkward, is it?’
Flora laughed. ‘Horrid Janey,’ she said. ‘Darling William.’
‘It’s been such fun,’ said Honoria.
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘I can’t remember when I was happier.’ And she suddenly realised that she hadn’t spoken to the Blessed Virgin even once since arriving in France: was not that remarkable? On the way home the next day, she began to pray.
Hail Mary, full of
grace
, she said,
blessed art thou among women.
Stop that, Thomas. Not when I’m driving.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Etcetera.
‘Everything looks so terribly clean and tidy. Immaculate. As if you’ve hardly been here.’
‘Well, Mrs Brick came on—when was it?’
‘Thursday.
Days
ago.’
‘Well, I haven’t actually been here much—only to sleep and change, really. I’ve been working late. Editing.’
‘Oh I see. How’s it looking?’
‘Okay. It will do.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Flora—’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come to France. I really am.’
‘So am I. Never mind.’
Lies, lies. Flora might not have minded hers more but she at least was in a position to attempt a correction. ‘That is,’ she said, slowly, ‘it’s a pity, of course. But on the other hand, it might have been a blessing in disguise.’
‘Oh?’ Alarm, only just concealed.
‘Well, I mean—you know—it’s probably quite a good thing, sometimes, for me to get away with the children, just me. Without work and school and London in the way. I mean, I feel I hardly see them, sometimes. I felt so much nearer to them, down there.’ And without you, too, getting in the way.
‘Ye-e-es,’ said Simon. ‘I see.’
‘Perhaps you should try it too, sometime.’
‘God, are you serious?’
‘You could take them camping.’
Release at last. They both laughed merrily. ‘I’ll give it my serious consideration,’ said Simon, and they laughed some more.
‘In the meantime,’ said Flora, ‘what have you got in for our supper?’ She and the children had reached London in nice time for this repast; the children were upstairs bathing and changing and quarrelling and ringing up all their friends and watching television and generally reverting to their bad old London ways.
‘Oh God,’ said Simon. ‘Please forgive me. Bugger all, as a matter of fact. Look, I’ll take you all out.’
‘Let’s just phone for a pizza,’ said Flora. ‘We’ve already eaten out twice today. So it would seem have you.’ She looked around at the immaculate kitchen. ‘Where’s that pizza number?’ she said, hunting in a drawer.
Simon had begun, at last, to see her: the miasma of fear and guilt had begun to disperse. She seemed thinner, sleeker, more vital, and the sun had slightly bleached her hair. ‘You’re looking terribly well,’ he said.
She turned her head and looked at him. ‘I am terribly well,’ she said. ‘
C’est la France. La douce France.
It’s a sort of elixir.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘I know what you mean. Well,
vive la
France.
’
‘Anyway,’ said Flora, ‘here we are again. Is there any gin?’
And so they, too, reverted to their old ways, in which they were so well practised that almost nobody would have been able to detect any difference at all from the
status quo ante.
If Simon had been given to self-congratulation, as men (and women, too, come to that) occasionally are, he might have congratulated himself, but as it was he went on simply treading the fine straight line where Fortune had placed his feet: it took all his wits to keep from falling sideways irretrievably into the echoing abyss to either side of it.
‘I say Simon, old cock! Hey!’
Not as old as you might think. ‘Oh—David! How goes it? What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I shouldn’t wonder. Meeting a producer.’
‘There’s my producer now. Lizzie! over here!’
‘Hey, that’s
my
producer. Lizzie!’
‘All right we’ll share her. There’s just enough to go around.’
‘Hello you chaps—oh, good table, well done, Katrina. Katrina’s my super new secretary. How are you, Simon? How’s Flora? David? How’s Sarah? Good, good. Yes, Alf’s fine too. God, let’s have a drink. Lots of drinks. Simon, I asked you along just in case, but it’s all still rather in the air. You understand. But this could be a biggie. Capital-B biggie. After all, the Lloyd’s thing—US interest, etcetera, etcetera. All that asbestos and the rest of it. So, David, sock it to us.’
So David socked it to them.
‘I’m just thinking,’ said Lizzie—she never stopped—‘there might be a tie-in here with Scunthorpe.’
Both together: ‘
Scunthorpe?
’
‘Yeah:
the Scunthorpe Literary Festival.
The agenda this year—it happens in October, right?—is an all-out confrontation with the crypto-philistines. Who aver that contemporary English writers— egregiously,
novelists—
have failed to deal with the great issues of our day. You know,
the issues.
’
‘Oh yes;
those
issues.’
‘Right. So the idea, as I understand it, is to have one posse demonstrating that English writers
are
dealing with the issues; and another demonstrating that it is not in fact the business of literature to
deal with issues.
’
‘You get them coming and going, then?’
‘It’s the only way, with crypto-philistines. You’ve got to get them for being philistine—’
‘—and then for being crypto—’
‘—or else they bounce back again, thicker than ever.’
‘I take it,’ said David, ‘that I for instance would join the first posse.’
‘I was thinking,’ said Lizzie, ‘that you could fire off a few rounds from either one. Or both. After all—’
‘I have dealt with a few issues, in my time.’
‘But you’re more than capable of doing without them,’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, issues—’
‘
Are
rather vulgar,’ said David.
‘But they do cut the mustard on the small screen,’ said Simon.
‘That’s my point,’ said Lizzie. ‘Say you were to give Scunthorpe a little preliminary prospectus, so to speak, of your forthcoming telly series about the Lloyd’s thing.’
‘Dare I?’
‘Such good publicity,’ said Lizzie.