Brief Lives (14 page)

I reflected that Maureen paid a high price for her room in Onslow Square, but I could also see that she was extremely irritating. On this particular afternoon she wore a pink track suit, with a pattern of teddy bears on the sweater. Under her frizzy brown hair—her perm always on its last legs—her rimless glasses shone forth with goodness. She
had dainty manners, which did not quite conceal a voracious appetite. I wondered if she got enough to eat. Unless she cooked it herself there was unlikely to be a meal waiting for her if Julia were not hungry. They ate irregularly in Onslow Square; sometimes, it seemed to me, they hardly ate at all. Charlie went to his club, and Julia would only eat a sandwich for lunch and sometimes again in the evening. ‘Plenty of calories in whisky,’ she would say, and Mummy would give a delighted laugh. I wondered whether I should invite Maureen for a meal, the meal she so obviously needed, and then reflected that my new life would be devoid of people like Maureen, at least if I could possibly help it.

‘You’re lucky in a way,’ said Julia. ‘At least your mother’s dead. Whereas Mummy will have to go into a home, if Charlie can find the right one. I can’t look after her. I’d love to, but these silly hands of mine …’ She surveyed them once more. ‘What are you doing about the house?’ she asked.

‘It’s sold,’ I said. ‘To Paul Langdon, Bernard’s son. I’m glad it’s going to remain in family hands. And to have children in it. Something I could never provide.’

‘So that means you’ve sold two houses. Well, we shan’t need to worry about you any more, shall we, Maureen? You’ll be extremely well off,’ she said, adjusting her glasses and gazing at me through them, as if I were momentarily capable of arousing interest. ‘Did Owen leave much?’

‘I don’t know. Bernard is looking into all that for me. I may get some sort of pension from the firm.’ I thought of the money I had found in the drawer. ‘There are some things that ought to go back to Hanover Square,’ I said. ‘I wonder if Charlie would take care of them?’

‘Ring him up,’ said Julia, nodding towards the telephone. ‘Ask him. He’s coming here to pick me up anyway.’

‘In that case,’ I said, slightly confused, ‘perhaps I could explain to him …’ What I had to explain made me reluctant to face Charlie, yet I knew that something must be managed. I regarded it as one more obligation, perhaps, as I hoped, the last.

I had put the money into an attaché case of Owen’s, and I longed to be rid of it. On reflection it seemed to me disloyal to Owen to bring it into the light of day and hand it over to Charlie. I felt uneasy and superstitious about it, so uneasy that I had not even wanted to count it. I longed to lose it, yet I did not want this action to be witnessed. As long as it was in the attaché case I could forget it. So strong was my desire to forget it, mixed with the stronger feeling of loyalty to Owen, that the attaché case was now in the cellar, where I should have liked to leave it. If the house and its contents were to go to Paul and Caroline Langdon, could not the money in some confused way go with the house? At least Owen’s family would benefit. I resolved to find a solicitor on the following day—no one I knew, of course—and to will the contents of the house to the Langdons’ children. It was, after all, by way of being Owen’s money. And if they never found the case (which for safe keeping I would put into the attic) so much the better. The whole matter would be out of my hands.

In the meantime I had to drill myself to keep awake in Julia’s presence. The sort of fatigue I normally experienced, and which I associated with her, was gradually giving way to something more open, less sympathetic. I reflected that I had never really got on the right terms with her. She was a fascinating but difficult woman whose affections were
beyond me: I took it entirely for granted that she found me dull. I fell into a hazy receptive mood when I was with her, not quite knowing the right responses, my own identity in abeyance. It sometimes occurred to me that this was the last thing she wanted. ‘Let’s have a discussion!’ she would say, meaning an argument, and when I smiled steadily and said, ‘No, Julia,’ I simply confirmed her earlier impression of me as a suburban bore. ‘Suburban bore’ was her favourite term of abuse for a woman, and after it there was no appeal. Men were never suburban bores. At their worst they were merely common. Even this was preferable.

‘And how will you manage?’ she now said. ‘It’s not easy for a woman without a man.’ The eyelids came down suggestively. ‘Of course, I’m lucky. Charlie is devoted to me.’ She spoke as if his devotion to her made him immortal. ‘I expect you’ll be lonely,’ she added.

‘Don’t worry about me, Julia,’ I said. ‘I’m a sensible woman. Of course I’ll be lonely. But I shan’t do anything melodramatic. I’ll find myself a little flat, and then perhaps I’ll look for a job. I’ve got time, time to settle down. It’s been a bad shock, a bad year. I need some time to myself.’ I thought with longing of the rest I could have, in my own bed, my own small bed, the early nights, the unhurried mornings. I felt anxious to get back to something resembling my girlhood, even if that meant paying the price of loneliness. I did not think that it would frighten me. The only thing that made me uneasy was the fact that I should have rather a lot of money. Camberwell Grove and Gertrude Street were both becoming immensely fashionable, and I should have enough for myself for life, if carefully managed, and enough for Vinnie too. I pushed the money to the back of my mind, because I much preferred to think of myself as a working woman. I would work for nothing,
if necessary: there must be something I could do. Meals on Wheels, perhaps, or voluntary work at the library. Something practicable, reassuring, down to earth. I could not wait to get out of this drawing-room, away from people like Julia.

‘You are a funny little thing,’ said Julia. ‘Aren’t you? Isn’t she a funny little thing, Charlie?’

Charlie, lately arrived, assumed a smile for both of us, but I thought I saw a light of intelligence in his eye as it met mine. ‘Don’t take offence,’ it seemed to say. ‘It simply isn’t worth it. I shall hear about it all the way home. And of course this is not an opinion I necessarily share.’ I ignored this, although I complied with his wishes and said nothing. It was all one to me what they talked about on the way home. I simply wanted him to take Owen’s briefcase and not ask me any questions. Like Julia, I wanted someone to do my bidding. Charlie had always seemed to me intensely biddable, or maybe he had been reduced to this condition. It occurred to me to wonder whether he had a mistress. I should not have blamed him. Men who undergo a forced training in tactfulness have to break out somehow. Or was Charlie so beautifully himself, so naturally kind and self-effacing, that his inner life was not a place of betrayal, as my own had so often been? His eye, as it sought mine to enjoin me not to take issue with Julia, was not mean, not weak or pleading, but rather manly, compelling, as if he knew what was right for both of us. He seemed to be telling me that it would not be in my interest to make a fuss, and certainly not in his, if I did. As for Julia, he seemed to imply, he would deal with her later, but only if the matter arose. He had a horror, I knew, of anything less than perfect manners. I doubt if Julia ever satisfied her desire for a discussion with Charlie.

I did not tell them—nor did they ask—that I had my eye on a flat in Drayton Gardens, comfortingly near the cinema. It was not the flat of my mother’s dreams, being large and roomy, with big windows, but it had a homely feel to it, and it was on the ground floor, with a view of the street. There were shops around the corner and a hairdresser’s right opposite: a perfect flat for a widow. One walked up seven ochre-coloured steps to the building’s liver-coloured façade, and once inside the black and white tiled hall it was extremely quiet. My flat, if I took it, was on the right of the entrance. From the sitting-room I should be able to see people passing, see the bus at the end of the street, whereas the bedroom, which overlooked a small communal garden, was completely private. I had gone back to this place three times now, and the agent was getting bored. I had come to the conclusion that it would do. No home is perfect, except the home in which one has been happy, and that, somehow, is the home one leaves for ever.

I could not wait to leave Gertrude Street. I felt now a chill, a revulsion for the evenings I spent alone there. I did not feel this chill in the flat in Drayton Gardens, even though it was empty. I planned to make the colours light, pretty: pale blue and white, with a flowered paper for the bedroom. I would have lots of flowers and plants in pots: I would not bother about good taste. Good taste was something I could now leave behind, without regrets. I wanted a setting for my own little life, for I did not think that I should know too many people. There was a spare room for Millie and Donald if they ever wanted to stay, although this was unlikely since they still had Donald’s flat in Great Portland Street. It was just that Millie had said something about the lease running out: I wanted to be sure that she had a base in London, if she needed one. It would be so lovely
to see her again. In her absence I should simply have to make new friends. I should not mind if they were all women. I was as yet, and possibly for ever, unable to face a life with men in it. By the same token I did not exactly miss my husband. I merely wanted a respite from the sort of life one lives with a man. I do not think that this was particularly unfeminine of me; on the contrary. Women often take refuge from men, or feel in need of a rest from them. They seem to want to be restored to more innocent days. I could see myself in Drayton Gardens, going out with my basket on wheels, tempting my own appetite, keeping up appearances, and doing no harm, not even to myself. Lonely? Yes, I should be lonely, but in time I should see that this was to my advantage. I should be training myself for old age, which takes a certain amount of training; better to start as I meant to go on. And there was the cinema, the library. I could even take a holiday. But in truth I doubted if I should need one.

It was Charlie who wrote down my new address. ‘But I haven’t quite decided,’ I said. I knew, however, that with the writing down of the address in Charlie’s diary the decision was made. Grey carpet, I thought. White walls. China blue and white curtains and covers. I saw the letting in of the light as imperative. There had been a pleasant-looking woman coming up the steps as I had left to go, on my last visit, and I thought we might be friends. Not necessarily intimates, but we could look out for each other, make gentle enquiries if we had not seen each other for a few days. I would manage. I would become the optimistic person I had once been, but this time with my feet on the ground. After all, I was nearly fifty and looked nothing like my younger self. I decided to instruct the agent the following morning, for which I was now anxious and impatient. With
the prospect of my own home before me Gertrude Street, and the years that I had spent there, became irrelevant, an interruption, an error. Some memories of Owen, now strangely absent from my thoughts, would, I hoped, come back to me. But he was in the past and I was impatient for the future. Or perhaps not impatient but wistful, as if the future might still be snatched away from me. My hold on things was weaker, because of what had happened to Owen. I did not trust in fate or circumstances, as I once had, although I was aware of unused energy. I would have to make that energy work for me. And then, I thought, with a burst of relief, I can have a piano again.

‘If there’s anything you need,’ said Charlie. ‘Anything at all, just let us know.’

‘But of course we shall be seeing a lot of Fay,’ said Julia, winding a silk scarf round her throat. ‘Maureen, why don’t you run on ahead and put a light under that soup of yours? We might as well eat in tonight. Not that I’m hungry.’

‘Could you take this briefcase of Owen’s to the office, Charlie?’ I said. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t know about Owen’s business affairs.’

This was true. I hoped that Charlie would dispose of the briefcase—rather a handsome one—and regard it as a memento. I actually felt too tired to say this, although I had every intention of doing so.

I stood under Hermione’s chandelier, which Paul’s wife, Caroline, would now have the problem of cleaning, and said goodbye to them, expecting never to see them again.

‘Poor little Fay,’ said Julia, touching my cheek. ‘Poor, poor little Fay.’ She was overdoing it again.

I could hardly condemn her for insincerity since I had displayed a certain insincerity of my own. I was shocked by Owen’s death, but not grief-stricken. In fact my own feelings
told me nothing; it was as if I had got rid of them all in Nice, as if they had knocked me out, taking away my consciousness once and for all, as I had fallen into faint after faint. I had recovered as if from a physical illness, and, like all sufferers from violent afflictions, only convalescence interested me. Health was what I wanted, and I looked forward to it eagerly. Julia was not the only one who was play-acting, although I tried to say as little as possible, or at least as little as was compatible with the circumstances of her visit. This visit had made us both impatient. I was simply not of her world, nor she of mine. And I had lost my meekness, my pliability: I was an independent woman. I think the money annoyed her too, although Charlie kept her in some state. I did think it hard for her to be deprived of her former visibility, for I knew that this was almost impossible for her to bear. She had become futile, and she knew it. She saved her pride by underlining my own loss of status, but was further annoyed by the fact that I was quite comfortable without it. Indeed I seemed to be settling down into a state which was mysteriously denied to her. She was shrewd, clever, able to penetrate one’s unspoken thoughts. She knew instinctively that I was anxious to be free. And I think she determined then that she would never let me go. Although she found me uninteresting, I would do as an adherent, or, if I did not conform, as an adversary. She would get her discussion at last. I resolved once again to disappear. If it had not been for that address in Charlie’s diary I might have done so.