A Closed Eye (30 page)

They were in Imogen’s flat, tidying up. Harriet’s presence was allowed on such occasions, even welcomed, although Imogen’s general mood was one of disaffection. She had not asked about her father’s treatment, for which Harriet could hardly blame her: she thought it farcical herself. The prospect of sitting in that elaborate little room while Freddie solemnly booked into the clinic for his vitamin injections filled her with despair. Yet she was intent on behaving well, went along with his obsessions, his little manias, which were becoming more pronounced, resigned herself to the company of Monsieur Papineau, who remained devoted but who now wished to talk about himself and his memories of London, an ideal
city, as he saw it, and one which did indeed seem ideal to Harriet as she sat obediently on a public seat overlooking the lake, improving her French from the book in her lap. A terrible calm had fallen on her life, as if the lake were indeed an inland sea in more ways than one and she herself adrift on it. Three times a year she and Freddie went to Switzerland, where Freddie, looking complacent, received his injections. The mere touch of Professor Lecoudray’s hand was apparently enough to restore him; she had to admit that he was better, was even rather well. But she distrusted Lecoudray, suspected him of advising Freddie on the desirability of sexual activity, for several times his hands had fumbled over her, in a way which was now repugnant to her, and he took to watching her when she was bathing, sometimes hitched himself up in the bed to pull at the straps of her nightdress. She regarded this as a form of senility, although it seemed to put Freddie into a genial mood. She thought that he must have conversations with Lecoudray of which no woman would approve. Certainly he came back to the Résidence Cécil rejuvenated, with stories about his nurses—Colette, Irène—which were supposed to excite her. She knew that the younger girl, Colette, was superbly attractive, as he repeatedly told her. Irène, a middle-aged woman, was handsome and stern, and was thus another source of anecdotes. Harriet had found Irène sensible: the sternness seemed to proceed from a certain disgust with several of her wealthy patients, for whom she was obliged to perform services which they should have performed for themselves. She regarded Harriet with a sympathy she did not bother to disguise. Yet Freddie continued to flourish, and Harriet saw them condemned to spend longer and longer abroad, while Immy became more and more unknowable. For she had to admit that she knew nothing of her daughter’s life beyond the fact, the rather surprising fact, that she continued to work at her advertising agency, that she
was increasingly beautiful, and that she had an extensive social life which was somehow a secret.

Imogen did not enquire after her father’s health, or take even a polite interest in his progress. She found him, if anything, pathetic, but had done so for a long time. Harriet could not bear her to know of her father’s intimate behaviour, felt indeed that her daughter must be protected from all suggestions of stain, of soil, although she knew, but knew without the support of any fact, that Imogen was no longer innocent. So long as it is only Julian, she thought, waiting in vain for Imogen to confide in her, as she thought other women’s daughters must do, although she had never confided in her own mother when she was young. On the contrary: there had been between them that electrically charged sense of things unsaid, and the mute appeal that she should free them all from their difficulties by marrying Freddie. As she had done. But these were old thoughts, which she usually suppressed. What she could not suppress was her yearning, her longing that her daughter would somehow emerge from her silence, her offended silence, it sometimes seemed, and express joy, anticipation, fervour. Instead of which there was this curious indifference, which she suspected was only assumed for the benefit of her parents, as if it were essential that they should be kept at arm’s length.

Harriet feared that she had somehow lost her daughter’s love, and blamed herself for it, as if she knew herself to be too dull and uninteresting to be attractive to a girl like Imogen. If she had had that secret life which she had promised herself, she thought the girl would have looked on her with more respect. But she had not had it. Instead she was rewarded by Freddie and his rejuvenated advances, abortive as they were. She could not help but feel that the only tactful thing to do was go away, taking her unregenerate husband with her, so that her daughter should not be contaminated by the sight,
the nearness of such disgrace, which somehow, she knew, Imogen sensed and condemned.

She could not blame her. Both she and Freddie were graceless now, as if he had passed the affliction on to her, jovially recruiting her in his own deterioration. In between his newly confident gestures and Monsieur Papineau’s reminiscences she felt amazed, astounded, as if this fate were worse than any infidelity could have been. And yet she had brought it on herself, was alone to blame, and all that she could do now was to protect Imogen from any suspicion of what her life had become, although she thought she knew that Imogen had sensed it and was properly disgusted.

She was allowed into Imogen’s domain on a Saturday morning, for a cup of coffee, in return for general services. Such moments were precious to her, although Immy never said much. A week’s confusion awaited her loving hands: Imogen’s immaculate appearance was not reflected in the disorder of garments lying over the backs of chairs, the tights and stockings soaking in a basinful of water, the muddle of underwear, all of it expensive, in the laundry basket. Once the washing machine was in operation she was awarded her treat, her cup of coffee, although this was somehow a disappointment, always short of what she desired. She longed to give advice, but what advice could she usefully give, apart from timid and anodyne suggestions that too much coffee dulled the complexion. But Immy’s complexion was faultless, always had been. There were the recommendations to lock up properly, to eat sensibly, that she invariably made before going away, but these were routine, and no notice was taken of them. Then, on her last Saturday before her renewed exile, she cast around desperately for something to detain her, and, folding the clothes taken from the washing machine, said, ‘Oh, how silly. I forgot that cardigan. Have I seen it before? Navy is not generally your colour.’

Immy flushed, that very faint flush of hers, which proceeded from annoyance rather than embarrassment, and snatched the cardigan, which smelt damp, away from her.

‘It’s Lizzie’s. I borrowed it.’

‘Oh, have you seen Lizzie? I’m so glad. Well, you’d better get it back to her. No,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ll take it back myself. I’ll go to Judd Street myself. Will she be there if I go one evening?’

Imogen shrugged. ‘No idea. I shouldn’t think she goes out much. She’s got this job now, walked straight into it when she came down. Something to do with publishing.’

‘How clever of her. She was always a sensible girl. I’m so glad you’ve kept in touch, darling.’

‘Actually, that cardigan could be thrown away,’ said Imogen. ‘She said it was an old one.’

‘It’s certainly not something you’d normally wear,’ agreed her mother. ‘And it smells musty. Oh well, poor Lizzie. Does she like living in Judd Street?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

The telephone ended the conversation: Imogen’s face was immediately absorbed, remote, though she answered in monosyllables. Harriet waited, with a look of not waiting on her face, until Imogen waggled her fingers at her, and she was reluctantly forced to get up and make for the door. She blew a kiss, was rewarded with another waggle of the fingers, and went down the stairs.

Very well, she thought. I will go to Judd Street and see Lizzie. I will find out from her where her father is: after all, the query is quite in order. She is not to know of my interest; she will not be involved. I shall comb my hair and put on lipstick as if at any minute I might run into Jack, for who knows? If he is not there now he will be there one day, as I shall. For now it was important to her to make contact before she was taken away to that silent room, with the parrot-green
sofa and the volumes of Voltaire, before she had to undergo Freddie’s advances and Monsieur Papineau’s family photographs: she must go to where Jack had been, and might be again.

On the following Monday she left the house at six. She hesitated as to whether or not she should take the car, but felt such a renewal of energy that before she knew it she had left the car behind and swung on to a bus. It was a damp mild evening with an indeterminate sky, the beginning of a spring that would not declare itself. All day she had longed for the sun; now she longed for it to be dark, as if darkness were more conducive to her secrecy. Only in the unlovely street did she feel a touch of fear. It was deserted, silent, all the normal passers-by gone home, and now real darkness, or rather dimness, discoloration, was coming down, signalling that the day was over, and that different activities would now be expected to take place. Her hand to her throat, she entered the building, took the wheezing lift, stood before Jack’s door, and rang the bell.

The door opened on to Lizzie’s inscrutable face. In a great wave of disappointment, but somehow still buoyed up by the fact that she was in this place, Harriet greeted her, was allowed in, saw distractedly how plain the room was, how brown, how cold, felt momentarily sorry for the girl, who had presumably been eating her supper, if that yoghourt carton was her supper, in these disheartening surroundings.

‘I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lizzie,’ she said.

‘I was working,’ was the uncompromising answer.

Harriet saw, with a sharpening of her attention, the volume of Vuillard reproductions, the intense checked and striped material of Vuillard’s mother’s dress.

‘So clever of you to get that job, Lizzie,’ she said. ‘You must come and tell us all about it sometime.’

But Lizzie was no longer in a mood to be patronized. Her
present independence was hard won, and less enjoyable than she had foreseen. She had tried to harden herself, with some success. It was difficult for her to deal with feelings, her own and other people’s. Eagerness, avidity made her shudder. She was more than ever determined to keep this foolish woman at bay.

‘I brought your cardigan,’ said Harriet helplessly. ‘The one you so kindly lent to Immy.’

‘You needn’t have bothered.’

‘It’s no bother.’ She wondered why the girl was so unresponsive, as if she were annoyed at the visitor, or maybe just indifferent, as she always had been.

‘You’re keeping well, Lizzie?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘Quite happy here? You still keep in touch with Elspeth?’

‘I see her from time to time.’

‘And your father?’ Her voice was light. ‘Still in Washington?’

‘Yes.’

That was all. She supposed she had got the answer she had come for, and yet she was oddly disconcerted by Lizzie’s face, which she saw as stern and unforgiving, as if all were known to her. But that was ridiculous: the girl was practically a stranger these days. Nevertheless, she felt chilled, crestfallen. The cardigan had been thrown on to a chair, in a corner, although Lizzie was always so neat. The whole encounter had been odd. Out in the street she shivered, saw a taxi, which she hailed as if it were a lifeboat and she wrecked at sea. Huddled in the back (and now it was quite dark) she felt she had come near to making a fool of herself, and had a sense of danger. For once she would be glad to get home, just as she would be glad to leave that home in a few days’ time. It seemed only realistic now to see her life as a series of escapes, which she must somehow, expressionlessly, manage.

In the same fretful damp they took the taxi, the plane, the other taxi, and came to rest in the absolute silence of the Résidence Cécil. As usual, Monsieur Papineau, hearing their steps on the stairs, came up with the milk, on his face the same look of fearful joy at the resumption of the conversation which had been interrupted by their last departure. Now that they were regular visitors, practically residents, he had lost something of his original authority, looked to them more to repair the loneliness which sprang into relief only when company was available, and captive. Freddie more or less ignored him, looked on him as a sort of concierge: with a sigh Harriet set to to make good the omission. Without him she would have felt desperate, although she now had to endure family reminiscences. Yet she knew that on the following morning he would drive Freddie to the clinic and return to walk her along the lake, urging her to activity, to exercise, or, alternatively, to relaxation, as if he had only her good at heart. She settled down to a month of this, desired only to be left alone, to sit in the silent room and will herself to peace. Her life, though intolerable, was calm, prosperous. All she had to do was endure it. She took up her book and persevered. At night, with relief, she plunged into sleep, all the more precious when Freddie was not there. She woke each morning with surprise, as if she had not expected to do so.

Each day she underwent a peaceful eclipse, becalmed by her walk along the lake shore, by Monsieur Papineau’s conversation, to which she listened with half an ear. His role in her life was now indispensable: without him she might have sat all day. Instead, they walked. ‘Our constitutional, Harriet,’ he would say, presenting himself at the door with a beaming face. They lunched together, walked again in the deep calm of the afternoon. Then she gave him a cup of tea, assured him that she had things to do, saw him go down the stairs with the slight look of disappointment that she knew so well, and
settled down with her book. Her life was so healthy that she thought she must last for a hundred years. As the light faded she stood at the window, watching the few cars of the evening speeding away to their unknown destinations. Time passed in this way, each day like the last. When Freddie came home she was surprised to see that three, nearly four weeks had gone by in this fashion.

One day the nurse, Irène, called on her way home: Professor Lecoudray would like to see Freddie in a month’s time, instead of the usual three.

‘He’s not worse, is he?’ asked Harriet, alarmed.