Brief Lives (25 page)

‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t Maureen telephone me herself?’

‘I’m sure you appreciate her situation, Mrs Langdon. She has very little privacy at Onslow Square.’

‘Has she told Mrs Morton?’ I said sharply. ‘Does Julia know?’

‘I believe Maureen thought you should be the first to hear our news,’ he said, in his soft, placatory, slightly furry voice. ‘And we should like it very much if you would celebrate with us over lunch. Are you by any chance free today?’

‘You must be my guests,’ I heard myself say. ‘Where would you like to go? I’m afraid I have to be at my office at one-thirty, so it will have to be early, if that is not too difficult for you. Or your work,’ I added, not knowing what he did.

‘I have no appointments today,’ he said, in an entirely reasonable manner. ‘We are going to buy the ring this afternoon.’

‘What is your work?’ I asked, rather as if I were Maureen’s parent, trying to make sure that Clive Smallwood could maintain her in the manner to which Onslow Square had accustomed her. My single most insistent thought was of Julia. What would happen to Julia?

‘I am a chiropodist,’ he replied, in his milk drinker’s voice. ‘But my main interest is in the ministry. We both want to dedicate our lives in some way. In the meantime I do what I can to make people comfortable. I must give you my card when we meet. Would Peter Jones be all right? I know Maureen is fond of the place. She often treats herself to morning coffee in the restaurant.’

The idea of Maureen’s lonely indulgence softened for a moment my reaction to Clive Smallwood’s news. I was not noble enough to feel gratified at the prospect of Maureen’s happiness, although I did experience a certain awe at the workings of fate. That Maureen, who only existed for me as a sort of fixture, an adjunct to Julia’s own reduced life, should stealthily and in secret have embarked on this great adventure and have brought it to fruition was to me chastening.
It was as though she had revealed herself to be made of some superior material, superior, that is, to my own lamentably tentative self. I felt for her a certain respect, although my liking for her did not increase. Above all I felt terror for Julia at the prospect of this defection. My only hope was that they might regard it as their Christian duty to tend Julia; in that case there might even be said to be an advantage in their being two instead of one. Maybe Clive Smallwood could move into Onslow Square. The flat was large; there was no reason why room could not be found for him. It would certainly be distasteful for Julia to have Maureen’s marital life going on under her roof, but the alternative was too dreadful to contemplate. I did not think that Maureen, with years of devotion to her credit, would abandon Julia; what I did see was that Julia’s life would not benefit from the change in Maureen’s fortunes. I felt a pang of pity for Julia, a genuinely unusual woman, now at the mercy of someone who was not in any way her equal. It was Maureen who now had power over Julia, and something told me that she would not be altogether displeased by such a turn of events. I recognized in Maureen, and had done for a long time, something unabashedly female, something combative; for all her humility Maureen was a triumphalist. She would use her engagement, her marriage, to gain advantage for herself, and would have no hesitation in doing so. Julia would be vanquished by Maureen’s continuous pantomime of satisfaction. There is a murky area in women which deepens once old alliances are invaded by a man. My impression was that Maureen would show no indulgence, unless recalled to a consideration of her heavenly duty. Even this would not be entirely satisfactory. Once women learn not to trust each other there is no going back.

And yet who could wish for Maureen to continue her life
as before, alone and possibly shamed by her thoughts and her longings? She would no doubt attribute to God’s mercy (and so should I) this late marriage of hers. It may even be that any marriage is a mercy and a blessing for two people desirous of being together; perhaps even my own marriage had been like that, at the beginning, whatever it had come to at the end. For a mature woman, such as Maureen was, in years at least, marriage is a right to claim the indulgence of others, to dress up, to expect presents, and for someone as lonely and deprived as I knew Maureen to be, it was a miraculous passport to things undreamt of. I was surprised by my own wistfulness, even pain, the wistfulness and pain of all unmarried women at a wedding, however unlikely. I was even reminded of my age, my occasional creakiness, a troublesome back tooth that I must see to. Nothing, I felt, could compensate me for my sudden feeling of loss. The steps that took me to my mirror were hesitant, as if I should not know the person I saw there, as if the face might be very old or very young, certainly undefended, in need of protection. It was with an effort that I dressed myself as becomingly as I could, for it no longer seemed to matter. For the next hour or two I was to be merely the witness of Maureen’s good fortune. I was astonished at my own sadness. It was a sadness devoid of envy, or, if envy there was, it was only momentary. What I felt was my own vulnerability, which had done me such disservice in the past. My longing had no object, but seemed simply always to have been there, and now that there was no real reason to express it, to have become stronger than it had ever been before.

Such cosmic feelings as I experienced vanished once Clive Smallwood and Maureen presented themselves to my gaze. They had reached the restaurant before me and were seated expectantly. Maureen wore her pink track suit and
Clive Smallwood a beige anorak over a green pullover; he had a plump womanish chest which looked as though it should not have been exposed in so confident a manner. One short arm was laid proprietorially over the back of Maureen’s chair. Otherwise he was not unappealing, soft and sympathetic of feature, with a mildness of expression that betokened good temper. Within the barricade of his arm Maureen sat, waiting for me to kiss her, which I did after some initial hesitation. There was no mistaking her happiness; her face was beatific. It was also undeniably smug, as if her attractions could now be taken for granted, as if the world could only nod in recognition. I felt my usual mixture of pity and irritation, particularly as I had to sit through a lot of by-play when I handed them the menu. ‘You choose, darling.’ ‘No, darling, you. Would you like the roast lamb? Don’t forget that you’ll be late home tonight. I think the lamb’s the best idea, don’t you, Fay?’ ‘You see how she orders me around,’ said Clive Smallwood, removing his arm and taking Maureen’s hand. He was rewarded with a playful punch on the shoulder. I sat there like a stone.

There was to me something eerie about Maureen’s contentment and the innocence with which she displayed its less ingratiating characteristics. When she addressed her roast lamb it was clear to me that more than one appetite was in play. She contemplated the meat with almost unseemly enthusiasm. Clive Smallwood, having dispatched his food with the minimum of fuss, but also with a voracity equal to Maureen’s own, replaced his arm on the back of her chair and watched her paternally. Little moans of appreciation escaped her as she rearranged the food on her plate with a predatory though dainty fork. Miming fear of our parental sternness she ordered chocolate mousse to follow;
the corners of her mouth gleamed brown until she was obliged, with a sigh, to relinquish half of it, its richness proving too much for her. It disturbed me to see her adopting such manners, as if she were manifesting an essentially private enjoyment in a public place. To Clive Smallwood the whole performance was engrossing. He seemed to me a nice man, in disposition not too far removed from Doggie, slumbrous. I ordered coffee and signalled discreetly for the bill. But first there was work to be done.

‘Maureen,’ I said, as I had to. ‘Have you thought of Julia?’

‘Well, naturally I have,’ she replied. ‘I’ve prayed for her every night.’

‘That’s all very well,’ I said. ‘But have you told her?’

‘We thought it might be better coming from you,’ said Clive Smallwood, imprisoning Maureen’s hand once more. ‘Since you’re such an old friend.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘This is entirely your affair, Maureen. You must tell her as soon as possible.’ In retrospect I see that these were the last sensible words I was ever to utter. ‘None of this is my business, you know. Of course, I wish you both well. But you must do the right thing. You must both go back to Onslow Square this afternoon—no later—and tell Julia. Where will you be living, by the way?’

‘Wherever the church sends us,’ said Mr Smallwood. ‘We hope to do mission work, you see.’

‘I can’t help feeling’, I said, ‘that you owe something to Julia. I think you should have prepared her in some way. She’ll want to know how much she can rely on seeing you. As you know, she’s old and rather helpless.’

‘She has Mrs Wheeler,’ said Maureen. ‘Mrs Wheeler comes every day.’

‘But not at weekends,’ I reminded her. From a practical
point of view I did not see that Maureen performed functions which Mrs Wheeler might not be prevailed upon to perform, for an extra consideration, but Mrs Wheeler, who had Mr Wheeler, and Michelle Wheeler, to look after, also had a cast-iron excuse to absent herself. And Mrs Wheeler did not amuse Julia, who considered her barely fit to talk to. ‘You might change my bed,’ was the extent of Julia’s conversation with Mrs Wheeler. ‘You might take these things to the cleaners when you go.’

‘Mrs Wheeler is devoted to Julia,’ said Maureen righteously. There was nothing to be done with Maureen now, that much was clear. She had renounced all ties with her previous life, and was basking in the glory of the present moment; she had been meek and now she was inheriting the earth. I watched her trying to tug a recalcitrant raincoat over her pink sleeves and wondered how soon she planned to leave.

‘Remember what I said, Maureen,’ I warned her. ‘Go straight back to Onslow Square.’

‘Shall I tell Julia you’ll be round later?’ she asked, complacently now, it seemed to me.

‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘She can telephone me when she wants to see me. I have my own life, you know. I work in the afternoons.’

‘I think that’s wonderful of you, Fay. To get out and about, I mean. So many people of your age just sit back and do nothing, don’t they?’

I could see that she disliked me, and as if she realized this herself she instantly laid a damp-feeling cheek against mine. Clive Smallwood held out his hand, and we parted, in the teeming rain. I invented an errand in the opposite direction so as not to have to walk with them. I was as horrified as
if Maureen had confessed to a crime, which, in a sense, of course, was exactly what she had done.

And yet she deserved her right to happiness, none more so, perhaps. No one could fault her for seeking her own life after all those years of voluntary subjugation. I felt dread for Julia, for and of her. What duties would come my way, just as I had put forth timid feelers to a life of my own? I had reached an age at which old ties, old loyalties made themselves felt, casting new acquaintances into shadow. A feeling of oppression persisted all through the afternoon, although I was busy and not too dismayed to feel some pride at my new competence. What right had this woman to lay such obligations upon me? All my adult life, it seemed, I had had to defer to Julia. I could do this for as long as she appeared to me monstrous, ridiculous. If she were to inspire pity in me I was lost. Only a telephone call from Alan Carter, telling me that he might look in on his way out to dine, saved me that afternoon. He was my alibi, though he did not know it. I refused to examine the extent of his ignorance. I refused, for my own sake, to believe that it was indifference.

‘You seem unusually preoccupied,’ he said. It was not an invitation to me to sink down and tell him my troubles. I had learnt that much by now. Nevertheless it seemed to me that he was the only other person I knew.

‘An old friend,’ I said. ‘Elderly. Suddenly left on her own.’

‘Like you, you mean?’ It was his way of reminding me of my position. I said no more. It struck me that he was rather cruel. Or that he was defending himself, as he often felt called upon to do.

‘What a rude man you are,’ I said. ‘You are exactly the
same age as I am. And, as you once acknowledged, less attractive.’

He leaned back with a complacent smile. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘We might go out on Sunday. I thought of Highgate Cemetery.’

‘An appropriate choice,’ I said. ‘Considering our decrepitude. You could come to lunch first, if you are not too feeble.’

We parted in our usual condition of armed truce. I was more than ever inclined to put up with him when I considered the alternative. Many women do this, unfortunately. I do not admire them for it, but I understand them thoroughly. I myself would once have despised such a tactic, but that was a long time ago, almost out of reach. Life had taught me to seek protection, however nugatory. I was, after all, a woman of my time, of my age. I was not strong enough, certainly not grand enough, to do as I pleased. Doing as I pleased had come to mean supplying myself with simple comforts, warmth, sleep, a certain amount of adornment. Heroines are not made of women like myself.

Next morning, of course, the telephone rang at nine o’clock. ‘Now look here,’ said Julia, in her new bass voice. ‘There are things to be discussed. You might come round for a minute or two. Maureen has some astounding news.’

So Maureen had not told Julia of our meeting. This indicated that she was as frightened as I was. Heroines are not made out of people like Maureen either, I reflected. But as she was basking in glory anyway she would no doubt not recognize her own weakness. It occurred to me to wonder about her future success in the mission field, if she was to be so fearful of reaching her goal. But then she would have Clive Smallwood to exonerate her, and exonerate her he
would, for no one could doubt that he loved her. She was no heroine but she was a fortunate woman.

Julia was seventy-four at the time. She had not grown old as a woman of Caroline’s generation would grow old. She was immobile, and bitter. As I was leaving my flat my sofa spread out its arms to me, begging me to stay. Julia, on the other hand, was bolt upright (‘Posture, Wilberforce, posture!’) and dressed in dark blue linen. I saw that she was wearing both her pearls and her amethyst brooch. I was unprepared, however, for the look of frigid disgust on her face, the pinched nostrils, the set lips. Although it was only eleven o’clock there was a glass of whisky at her elbow, and a crimson imprint on the glass.