East Into Upper East (30 page)

“That's what you think.” Amy chewed; she brooded; she appeared tempted to say more. Pauline sipped her tea, seemingly indifferent, enjoying the harpsichord music, and Amy gave in to temptation: “They've promised and promised and they still haven't done it.”

“Haven't done what? But if you tell me, you'll be giving away the secret and you mustn't. You know what? I'll tell
you
a secret, but will you promise not to tell
them
? All right: the sandwich you ate? The two sandwiches? They were ham.”

“What's ham?”

“It's meat. It's meat from a pig.”

The harpsichord, sweet and mellifluous, played into the silence between them. At last Amy said, “So what. I don't care. I liked it. I can eat meat if I want.”

“Yes, but they don't want you to.”

“Only because of going there. They say when we're there we can only eat fruit and nuts and everything pure like that . . . In India, in the hut where we lived when I was born. They said we're going there as soon as we've gotten enough money, and I've given them my pocket money for years and years and you're giving them money and we're still here. Ask him if he has another sandwich like that. I'll eat all the ham I want and I'll tell them and they can do what they like.”

“You said you wouldn't tell. You promised,” Pauline reminded her.

But it seemed Amy no longer believed in promises. She told Sylvie that same evening, and went on, “And I'm going to eat steak
too like Pauline and hot dogs and hamburgers and stuff like everyone else eats every day.”

“You know what that means,” Sylvie said in a warning voice.

“Oh sure, yeah. It means I can't go to India with you.” And when Sylvie shot a look in Pauline's direction—“She knows. I told her. And I told her how you're not going anyway like you said and all you do is take my money and her money and give it to Theo.”

Sylvie, a hunted doe, glanced around wildly, wondering where help was to be found. Amy's arms were crossed defiantly; she remained adamant. But Pauline, touched by Sylvie's pale distress, said: “He's probably keeping it in a savings account for you to earn interest so you'll have more money.”

“Yes, more money for him,” Amy replied.

Sylvie pleaded, “And for you and for me. So we can go.”

“He doesn't want to go,” Amy said. “He likes being here with Granny. You don't know, you haven't ever seen them! He's always messing around with her silver and stuff and those pictures she has like that stupid Picasso that's supposed to be such a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Amy,” Sylvie said. “And one day it'll all belong to Theo and to you and to me.”

“But I keep telling you! You can wait till you're a hundred thousand years old and she still won't be dead, she'll be swimming in her swimsuit from Bendel's and it's you who'll be old and die. You'll die and leave me,” Amy ended very differently from how she had begun.

And in response Sylvie too changed: “I'll never leave you,” she said, utterly confident, scornful of any such idea.

Next day, while Pauline was sitting idle in her idle office, she was surprised by a visit from Sylvie. Sylvie was in a long buttercup yellow dress and a straw hat with a buttercup yellow ribbon. Involuntarily, Pauline rose in her chair, and then found herself blushing: she didn't know if it was in embarrassment or from the tide of warmth that surged out of her heart and suffused her.

But Sylvie at once said, “Why did you give her ham to eat? And telling her it was tomato.”

Although this was an accusation, Sylvie spoke as usual in a mild voice; and Pauline lowered her own rather harsh one to ask, also mildly, “Does it matter so very much?”

“It's a principle, Pauline.” Sylvie looked around her: “It's different in here.”

It was different. The pretty striped armchairs appeared to be dusty; a bulb had gone out on one of the Chinese vase table-lamps, leaving it to the other one to light up the rather dim interior.

“Is it?” Pauline looked around abstractedly. “No, it's just the same . . . Whose principle is this? Is it Amy's?”

“In a way . . . When she was born, she was—I can't tell you—so shiny white, it was like you could look through her, like she was an angel. We said, we must give her nothing but angel food—it was a joke really, but we were eating very simple food ourselves, so my milk I was giving her came out as pure and white as she was . . . I don't know what she eats at school; what the other girls give her. Children always want to do the same as everyone else. If only we could get her away.”

“She wants to go, more than anything.” Pauline leaned across her desk: “But do you want to?”

“Of course. That's what we're saving for, putting everything away . . . That reminds me.” She was embarrassed; so was Pauline: it was past the beginning of the month and she had not yet paid Sylvie. “I'm sorry to ask you,” Sylvie said, acutely apologetic, “but it's important for us.”

“No, I'm glad you did because I was going to mention it myself . . . I was going to ask you if you would mind very much waiting maybe till the middle of the month, or when I get paid for something I'm putting through now.”

Sylvie tried the switch of the table lamp; but the bulb really was dead, and moreover when she withdrew her hand, it was dusty. “Don't you think, Pauline, you should—maybe—you know—a little bit, so it would look nice for clients who come in.”

“What clients?” This escaped Pauline, with bitterness, before she could stop herself.

“Why, Pauline, you've got hundreds of clients! And you just said there's a big deal coming through in the middle of the month—not that I care about getting paid, if you can't you can't, I mean
I
would be happy to wait—”

“But Theo wouldn't?”

Sylvie leaned back in her chair with a sigh. It was so difficult to explain, but she tried. “There's two things. One is that Theo is really quite businesslike, he doesn't look it but it's the sort of family he comes from and that's how they've made a lot of money. It's sort of in his genes.”

“And the other thing?”

“The other thing is Amy and I. He's doing it for us, saving and so on. So he can take us away. Well! Aren't you sick and tired of us, even though you are a saint, you must be counting the days till we move out.”

“And will he take you where Amy wants to go?”

Sylvie smiled, her sad smile, as at something too desirable to be possible.

“Because if he doesn't, I will.”

Pauline hadn't thought she was going to say this—she hadn't thought of it at all—but now suddenly it was there: a possibility, something she could do, something not fantastic but within her reach. Too excited to stay still, she got up: “Let's go home,” she said. It was Sylvie who protested it was only the middle of the afternoon, that a client might come: Pauline turned off the one remaining lamp and then shut the office door behind them and padlocked it.

And next day she did not reopen it. She had too much to do. She had spent the previous evening elaborating her idea, explaining it to Amy, talking it over with her and Sylvie. Amy was wild with enthusiasm, and between them they swept Sylvie along. Pauline conclusively proved to them that it was something that could be achieved within a short time. All Pauline had to do was dissolve her savings and her pension fund; and she could sell her apartment, or rent it out furnished, and maybe she could sell her business too, to some big company, and if she couldn't, she would just lock up and go away; at least she would be saving the overdue rent on it, and the landlords could do what they liked. She became light-headed, she was so busy proving to them that Theo was not the only one who was practical.

First thing in the morning, she started phoning around the airlines, to get a price on fares; from there on they could work out the rest of their budget. Amy wanted to stay home from school to help her—anyway, she argued, what was the use of continuing with school now? Pauline helped Sylvie persuade her to leave; though afterward she wished she were back again because, without Amy there to prop her up, Sylvie began to falter. She kept biting her underlip and saying, “Are you sure it's all right, Pauline, that you want to do this?” until Pauline, in between her telephone calls, replied, “I've never been so sure of anything in my life.” And truly it seemed to her that she had shaken off the burden of her past and her personality—and was ready to step out unencumbered into a new world of freedom and light.

However, this mood vanished when Theo appeared in the afternoon. It was left to Pauline to tell him of their plan while Sylvie sat by, biting her lip. When Pauline had finished, Theo laughed; and then Sylvie laughed too, though glancing nervously at Pauline.

“Yes, isn't it a hoot,” Pauline said to him. “You've kept them hanging with your promises for years together, and when I come in, it's all done within hours. Here are the figures: an economy couple ticket for Sylvie and me, and half-fare for Amy because she's under twelve.” She held out the yellow pad on which she had been scribbling all morning.

Theo peered at it, as if he were near-sighted, which he was not. He said, “Yes, you've got it all worked out.” He looked up and at Sylvie: “Pauline's got it all worked out, for you and Amy and herself . . . I'd like to come, I really would,” he said to Pauline. “But I do have obligations here—unfortunately one can't just pack up and leave and turn his back on everything. Sylvie understands that.” He put his arm around Sylvie's shoulders and looked apologetically at Pauline.

Again it struck Pauline how alike they looked, like twins, a boy and a girl—though from another planet, a different one from Pauline's. But she spoke up courageously, as if there were hope of communication: “Does Amy understand? You've been promising her since the day she was born, almost.”

Theo said, “If you promise a child Santa Claus, you're not exactly obliged to deliver him on Christmas Day.”

“So that's all it is: Santa Claus.” Pauline looked toward Sylvie, not hopefully, not really expecting help.

Sylvie spoke gently to her, as if she felt sorry for her and wanted to explain things: “Without Theo, it's only a hut on a hillside, and anyway it's probably fallen down by now.”

“We can always find another hut,” Pauline said.

“But why should you? When you've got this nice apartment—” Theo looked around, the way he always did, with that set smile that told Pauline what he really thought of her modest little interior. “Two bedrooms, and everything so cozy and tasteful, not to speak of your office—”

“Pauline doesn't want to keep her office,” Sylvie told him. “She says she owes the rent and is not making any money.”

“Oh?” Theo said.

“She says she can't pay me anything this month,” Sylvie said.

“Of course I can!” Pauline had jumped up. “And next month I'll be able to give you more, there's some big deals coming up.” She waved Sylvie away impatiently before she could even speak. “You don't think I would ever give up my office, turn my back on it, just pack up and leave? That's not the way I was brought up.” She was going to say more, but Theo put up his hand in warning. They all three listened to the key turn in the lock of the front door—it was Amy, delivered by her car pool, letting herself in.

“Don't tell her,” Sylvie whispered. She held out her hand for the yellow pad Pauline was holding and looked around for somewhere to hide it. Theo took it from her and slid it inside the back of Pauline's sofa. Then all three turned to face the door with that false smile of adults who have promised children something that they have no intention of delivering. Only Pauline had difficulty keeping up her smile: for Amy entered with a radiance of expectation that Pauline, settling for a lesser good, had only just managed to extinguish within herself.