Brief Lives (19 page)

Smiling, I shook my head. When we were girls we had often introduced each other to nice men; there were so many of them then. There had never been any jealousy between us.

Donald came home to dinner. He had come home specially, for he had to be back in London the following day. He was an easy happy man, rather plain, rather large, pleased with his life and charming to others, all of whom were outside the close communion he had with Millie. The evening passed pleasantly. I drank a couple of glasses of wine, and all at once felt tired and ready for bed. At ten-thirty Millie said, ‘Shall I put the kettle on, Fay?’ for we always used to drink a late cup of tea. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said, as I always did, and we both laughed. We drank our tea, while
Donald looked on indulgently, and then I left them and went to bed, and slept.

I woke early, too early. With nothing to do until the rest of the household was awake I stuck my head out of the window. Still that white light, that impression of brilliance withheld, immanent. A misty hazy morning, with sudden fitful brightenings, as if spring might really break if only one could hold one’s breath for a while and not interrupt it. Attentiveness seemed to be called for, the strangest kind of caution. But suddenly it was all too much for me to wait, and on impulse I bundled my clothes into my bag and determined to ask Donald if I could drive up with him. I wanted so desperately to be at home that I almost overlooked my rudeness to Millie. Almost, not quite; I knew she would be hurt. But I felt beyond help, beyond courtesy, beyond normal exchange. All I wanted was to be back where I had been for the last six years, back where I—however mistakenly—belonged. To belong is a state of mind, not a state of possession.

I was ashamed, yet I was driven. Now, looking back, I feel the same. I had failed Millie, and I had failed myself: my freedom had proved illusory. Yet at the same time I knew I was in the wrong place. Whether I would have felt this had I not been unwell, had I not been unhappy, and unhappily aware of what was to come, I do not know. In a sense I was tragically disappointed, without knowing exactly why. I had been in search of some completeness and I had failed to find it. Ordinary life, real life did not seem to contain it, although Millie remained my dearest friend, her husband the kindest of men, their welcome as warm as could have been desired. Perhaps I was really ill, as Millie seemed to think. At least she accepted my excuses, although she looked concerned. I had sung for Millie, yet I was
conscious of lacking a voice, or perhaps my own words. It seemed to me that I had something to say, or rather that something was left unsaid, and yet I did not quite know what it was. The image of that white empty sky stayed with me, and the mute garden down below, in which nothing stirred. I was conscious of the lengthening days ahead and of the need to fill them before I completely lost what little identity I had left. I felt a sense of danger, and yet I am really a very unimaginative woman. I chattered away to Donald in the car in what I heard as a rather high voice, conscious of extreme anxiety, and the need to get home.

Yet when I reached Drayton Gardens everything was normal. I put my key in the lock, went inside, unpacked my bag, and made myself some coffee. Here too the light seemed different. Of course it was darker in the flat than it had been at Millie’s but I was strangely conscious of that whiteness, that absence that I had previously noted. Crocuses had been out in the park. I had pointed them out to Donald, acutely aware that I was taking him out of his way, that I was making him late, that I was being a nuisance. Yet the crocuses had made it seem less odious of me to force this detour on him: I offered them up. It was a fine morning, sun struggling through mist: it would struggle until about three o’clock and then gradually begin to fade. That fading would be the most characteristic part of the day. Now, when I look back, the English spring seems to me heartbreaking. I dread it every year, although nothing more can happen to me. I associate it, still, with a certain panic, as if events are moving at their own pace, not at mine. I think of spring as the most impervious of the seasons. Nothing in me responds to it: I simply bow my head and wait for it to be over, wait for it to deliver me into summer, when, for a little while, I can relax.

There was nothing to do, no one to telephone. I was so jumpy that I nearly called Julia, but decided, on reflection, that this was unseemly. I was in fact waiting for Charlie’s call and was eager to explain to him why I had been absent, and to tell him that I was back for good. My eagerness was such that all thoughts of renunciation had left me, or rather I had postponed them. I could not give him up without his full attention, and I needed his presence, and more than his presence, I needed him to concentrate on my situation, something which I doubt that he had ever done. I needed to know, from him, how fatally he would miss me when I was gone; I needed him to plead with me, since he had never done that either, had had no need to do so. The grudge that women feel against their lovers is really a desire to be taken seriously, and a suspicion that they have passed into the realm of familiar things, on which no great thoughts need be expended. The yeasty drama that rises in a woman about to end it all may simply be a desire to be talked out of it, but in the same high-flown terms. This desire is rarely satisfied and should probably be resisted at all costs. I most urgently needed Charlie’s presence so that I could say various unpalatable things to him. It was no longer a matter of doing what I wanted, but of obeying some compulsion. To make him listen to me was my overriding concern; what I had to say was somehow of lesser importance. Indeed, I hardly knew what it was.

It was therefore frustrating when he failed to telephone that evening. When I calculated that the time for a call was past: I took my coat and went out, walked in the still light streets, looked in shop windows, bought an evening paper. I had a few sleeping pills left out of the small number the doctor had given me, and I intended to take one, so that there should be no trace of tiredness on my face the following
day. I walked on, in order to tire myself further, still conscious of a tremor of the nerves. In the event I slept badly. I put this down to anticipation.

I was thus unprepared for the fact that he did not call the next day, Friday. I was irritated rather than concerned, for he would surely be with me on Saturday, which seemed to me appropriate for what we had to discuss. In order to make sure of this I did something that I had vowed I would never do again: I rang him at the office. When Gaynor, his secretary, said, ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’ I said, as lightly as I could, ‘No, thank you, no message,’ telling myself that there was no reason why she should recognize my voice. I sat looking at the humming telephone, and then, very quietly, put it down. Another sleeping pill would get me through to Saturday, but I thought I might not make my great speech until we had re-established some sort of continuity. I was faint-hearted suddenly, and like many about to commit themselves desired only not to do so. Time seemed to be in abeyance until Charlie manifested himself. I gave up trying to distract myself and surrendered to the business of waiting for him. It was something I had learned how to do.

Looking back from my present vantage point, I feel pity and distaste. What certain self-made characters feel about their humble beginnings I feel about my prosperous and secret middle age. I refuse to blame anyone: I alone am to blame. If there is any profit in it I fail to see how it has come about. The opinion of my friends (for now I have them) and of the ladies at the WVS is that I am delightfully sympathetic: I refuse to believe it. I have no sympathy for women who make fools of themselves, boast of their sexual prowess, or inquire into that of others. Sex now seems to me a book so firmly closed that I am taken, I believe, for a faithful
widow. ‘Such a pity,’ I heard one woman say to another. ‘I’m sure she could have married again. But she just didn’t seem to have the heart for it.’ I accept all this as part of my punishment, for it is quite right that I should pay a price. For not being sufficiently loved, perhaps. For knowing this. Yet how does one close the door on feeling, when there is still time to use it? I can do it now, of course, but it was truly impossible for me to do it then. And although I now look back with sorrow I really had no qualms, no scruples. I behaved, I think, naturally, and to outwit nature would take a stronger character than mine. I never pretended to be anything out of the ordinary.

When the telephone rang I leapt from my chair, aware of sensations of alarm and bewilderment: how was I, in my extreme state, to behave naturally? The fact that it was a woman’s voice made me slump with disappointment, one hand to my beating heart.

‘Fay? Is that you, Fay? It’s Pearl here, Pearl Chesney.’

‘Hello, Pearl,’ I said evenly. ‘How are you?’

‘Not too badly, dear. Just packing up my bits and pieces. And yourself?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry to ring you like this, but I wondered if you’d been in touch with Julia?’

‘No, I haven’t. I’ve been away for a few days.’ As usual, my absences from home were stretched to fit the time expected of them.

‘Then you haven’t heard the news,’ she went on.

‘What news?’

‘Charlie. A stroke. On Wednesday morning, at the office. They called an ambulance. They managed to get him into the Harley Street Clinic.’

‘I see,’ I said, through numb lips.

‘Do you know how to get there? I expect you’ll want to slip in and see him, won’t you?’

That use of the word ‘slip’ told me that Pearl Chesney knew, and had always known, exactly how matters stood. She was a good woman, unable to judge, probably too experienced to be shocked. The knowledge would have made her own situation delicate. It may even have had something to do with her decision to leave. Or not, as the case might be. In that moment I cared nothing for anyone who was not Charlie.

‘How bad is he?’ I asked.

‘Not too good.’ She sounded uneasy, her breathing hard.

‘When does Julia go to the hospital?’ I asked, for there was no pretence now.

‘Well, she went on the Wednesday, but she says there’s no point because he doesn’t know her. She says she’s waiting for him to come round. She has every hope, she says. Of course, I’ve been keeping her company while all this is going on.’ She paused. ‘I think she said she was going tomorrow.’

‘Did you say he doesn’t know her?’

‘Well, yes, dear, but they’re very confident. It’s wonderful what they can do these days, isn’t it? I expect you’ll want to give Julia a ring. She needs a lot of support at the present time.’

‘How is she?’ I asked.

‘Very brave. She was always brave, marvellous, really. “I can’t let Charlie down,” she says. “I shall be there when he’s ready to see me. I shall always be there.” She’s made a big hit with the nurses. But then Julia knows how to talk to people.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for letting me know, Pearl. We’ll be in touch.’

‘Or I’ll see you at Julia’s,’ she said. For she thought it inconceivable that I should not be at her side. But I knew that Charlie was going to die, had always known, had seen the message in the white sky, had felt it in the tremor of the nerves. So strongly did I know this that it seemed to me useless even to ask for further news of him. Dully I rang the Harley Street Clinic, but they refused to tell me anything. ‘Are you a relative?’ they asked. ‘Just a friend,’ I said, and put the receiver back before they could say that he was resting comfortably.

‘OF COURSE
, it was different in the old days,’ said Julia. ‘When I had staff. Then I could just have a tray sent up.’ A powdery tear, like a very small pearl, made its way down her cheek, leaving no identifiable trace behind.

We were in her ultramarine bedroom, and Julia was in bed, wearing an ultramarine satin nightgown with cream lace insertions. Her hair was more rigidly set than usual and her eyes a little frightened. These were the only signs of her grief, which she experienced as an enormous discomfort. She had talked more about the loss of her former cook and maid than she had about the death of her husband. At least we had no wild outpourings to contend with, although her decision not to get up was slightly worrying. I doubt if she knew what she felt, apart from helplessness. Her feelings were so far from the surface, so deeply buried, that they gave her no information. This conferred an undeniable dignity, for she never lost her composure, or, more accurately, her command. There was, to me, something shocking
in the expanse of white shoulder and arms, left on view for visitors: her flesh looked cold, preserved in its marble chill from unwonted surges of the blood, ageless, in its way perfect, remarkable by any standards. I shrank from the intimacy that this seemed to signal, but to Julia it was entirely natural to appear in this manner, as if she were receiving in her dressing-room. I did not want to see her in this way, yet she was apparently set up for the day, in her large cane-headed bed, and would remain there until the last sympathizer had taken his or her leave. The remains of a breakfast—a sticky plate, a cup and saucer—could be seen on one of the bedside tables. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and no one had quite managed to clear this away; hence the lament for absent staff. The room was very hot; through the window a tiny silver plane was a point of brilliance in a cloudless light blue sky. Pearl Chesney and Maureen sat on either side of the bed, attempting to hold Julia’s hands. There was no reason for them to do so; she was quite calm. But she was fretful, and her eyes kept turning towards the window, the heavy eyelids falling from time to time. I stood at the foot of the bed, forcing myself to look at her.