Incidents in the Rue Laugier (21 page)

‘I only brought this suit,’ said Maud helplessly. ‘And a dress for the evening.’

‘You were quite right. And you look lovely. But if you’re going to Beachy Head you’d better borrow something of mine—a skirt and some thick shoes, at least. Don’t mind Mother,’ she added in a slightly lowered tone. ‘She didn’t know what to expect. I dare say she feels at a loss. She can see that you’re rather more sophisticated than she is. She doesn’t quite know what to say to you …’

‘I hope she doesn’t dislike me.’

Bibi looked horrorstruck. ‘Of
course
she doesn’t dislike you. How could she? You’re so beautiful, so gracious. She’s a little bit overawed, that’s all.’

‘Your father said nothing.’

‘But he’s very much in favour, I could see that. He’s given Noddy, I mean Edward, a very generous cheque, you know. And we’ve found you a lovely flat, at least I think so. I do hope you’ll like it.’

‘I’m sure I shall,’ said Maud bravely. Courage was called for now. ‘And I hope you’ll visit me often. I shall need your help, you know. I’ve never been married before.’

Bibi laughed dutifully, but looked at her in some perplexity. I am failing already, thought Maud, willing her features to give nothing away. And yet she felt as if she had already made a great effort. It was not in her nature to seek friendship. Such friends as she had were attracted to her without any effort being made on her part; her very abstraction counted in her favour, although a great part of it was informed by pride. She deplored the silliness of Julie and her like, while longing to be included in their gossip, their allusions. Indeed her longing
was so great that she was at pains to suppress any sign of it. It was to be the same with this girl, she thought, so normal, so cheerful, and already so intimate that she could think of nothing to offer in exchange. Her politeness, which she sensed they found so disconcerting, was not the sort of currency that obtained here. Already she was out of her depth, but she did not think that they appreciated her dismay. Only Edward knew her; only he had met her as an equal. Whether his kindness extended to her in these new circumstances she did not know. Yet if he were not kind to her who else would or could be?

She changed into Bibi’s clothes, thinking that these would somehow recommend her, and went timidly down to the drawing-room. There she found Edward and his father deep in conversation. She hesitated to interrupt them, but the father looked up and smiled. ‘I see they’ve disguised you already,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Don’t worry, Maud, we’ll all get used to one another. And don’t pay any attention to Polly. She’s been in tears ever since we heard the news. Have a good walk, you two. I expect you’ve got lots to talk about.’

‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said, meaning to refer to the cheque. ‘Very generous,’ she added, seeing that in this house everything would have to be spelt out, every ounce of emotion offered for their gratification. She felt exhausted. Perhaps in London things would be easier. It could not be that she was meant to live in this way, among strangers. And yet it was no better at home, if Dijon were still to be thought of as home. She felt mortified by her mother, as she sped from one newfound friend to another, with scraps of fabric in her bag. Even her own friends looked at her expectantly, as if her new status should call forth new confidences, the sort of self-importance which they found so natural and which she had always despised. In a sense Edward was the only ally that remained to her. And yet she knew that real intimacy between them might
take years to develop, might indeed have died at the outset. Neither of them, she knew, would find it easy to refer to that afternoon in the rue Laugier. Yet how she longed to be once again in that flat instead of in this bright house; how she wished to be in the Place des Ternes, late at night, her feet tender from having walked with Tyler through the darkening city, instead of in this placid sunshine which laid a patina of normality over encounters which she thought of as grotesque. Even now she could smell cooking from the back of the house, and hear the voices of Polly and Bibi Harrison in the kitchen. Aghast, she closed her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ she heard the father say, and opening her eyes again saw his kindly face close to hers. His hand stroked the hair back from her forehead. ‘Such pretty hair,’ he said. She reached out a hesitant hand and touched his arm. ‘That’s the way,’ he said, and walked her to the front door, Edward behind them. ‘Don’t worry,’ he repeated, and patted her hand.

Out on the pavement she took a deep breath and, quite as naturally as she had approached the father, linked her arm through that of Edward. She registered his look of pleasure, hoped her own fears did not show on her face. Arm in arm they strolled sedately along the promenade; air and light combined in a dazzle of midday sun to mitigate her dread. She quite liked the feel of her arm in his, appreciated once again his solicitude, gave him credit for his tact. All might be well, she thought, if he could continue to be tactful, and if she could continue to respect his good manners. He unlinked his arm from hers and they climbed to the top of the cliff. Few people were about. They stood side by side, staring down at the gently lapping waves below. After a while he said, ‘I do love you, you know.’

‘We are strangers,’ she reminded him.

‘Not quite. There was the rue Laugier, you remember.’

‘I remember that you took care of me, in the hotel, at the station.’

‘Is that all?’

She hesitated. ‘I think so.’

‘I expect you will need a lot of time. Well, we have time. We are young, remember. I’ll try to make you happy. I know you’re not happy now. But give me some credit, Maud. I’m not very happy myself at the moment.’ He moved restlessly. ‘I didn’t think it would be such a strain.’

‘It will be better in London,’ she said. This was as far as she would or could go. Yet she thought him a pleasant enough companion, when he did not turn his brooding face towards her and she read ardour in his expression, all the more ludicrous for being restrained. His ardour would never touch her, that she knew; on the contrary, his kindness was a constant source of amazement. From no one else had she experienced such chivalry. That was her most resounding impression of the man she was to marry. To the rest, she knew, she could never respond. But as she considered that part of her life to be over, she thought she would be the same with any man. She did not consider this state of quiescence to be abnormal.

‘And the baby?’ he said. ‘I take it that’s been arranged?’

‘It was a mistake,’ she said. ‘I made a mistake. Nothing’s been arranged.’

She knew he suspected her mother, at least of some sinister knowledge, of addresses, or recommendations.

‘Even my mother didn’t know,’ she said, and took his arm for the homeward journey.

He did not quite believe her. He thought briefly of her dubious mother, and dismissed the thought. It occurred to him, but without much urgency, that the marriage need not now take place, that he might be free. But free for what? He needed a companion, since his new life was to be his own invention.
Through the agency of Maud’s presence he had become aware of subtle fissures in the fabric of his family life: he could no longer stay at home. By the same token he could hardly announce that the marriage was off while his own mother was telephoning her friends with the good news. He stole a glance at Maud and saw that she looked serious; she had looked serious ever since her arrival. He longed to cheer her up, to bring back her youth, which seemed to have deserted her. With this altruism, and not entirely divorced from it, went a desire to see her face turned to his in gratitude, in love. When she stood close to him, her arm in his, he experienced a tenderness that seemed to involve his entire nervous system. He put his hand over hers: she looked up at him with an expression in which he could see something of the gratitude he craved. He knew that he would marry her, had known it all along. Nevertheless he felt beleaguered, the full weight of the future on his shoulders.

For lunch there was fish pie and baked apples. All ate busily except Maud, who watched the others from under her lowered eyelids and responded gratefully when Arthur Harrison aimed a general remark in her direction. She could not help but be aware that her stock was going down by the minute. The worst of it was that she knew exactly what sort of a girl they would have preferred: someone local whom they had known all their lives, who knew their ways, who was as healthy and as outgoing as they were themselves. That was it: they could only appreciate someone as near to identical to themselves as possible. Or if the unknown fiancée had to be French then let her be chic and flirtatious and entertaining, not grave and watchful like Maud. They suspected her of being sad, of not being properly appreciative of what they had to offer, and which they clearly thought should have been enough for any girl. In this context girls were girls and not
women, whatever the feminists said. The irony was that Maud felt younger by the minute, unequal to these new challenges. She was even homesick for her mother’s unyielding presence, and wondered what on earth she should do when the various parents and relatives met at the wedding. But then she reminded herself that she would not be called upon to do anything, for a bride is without responsibility on her wedding day.

Now more than ever it seemed that her course was laid out, that marriage was the only calling that would free her from dependency. Except on her husband. But she was now convinced of Edward’s worth, although she thought his professions of love exaggerated, inappropriate. They were not marrying for love, whatever he might think. She had only to glance across the table and meet his unhappy smile to understand that. They were marrying because of one false step, one regrettable encounter, one shared shock; they were marrying because their lives were already going wrong, because they understood how and when they had gone wrong, because events that had taken place in the rue Laugier had bound them together, while at the same time making them incapable of explaining those events, and their prehistory, to a third party. They were marrying out of a helpless sense of complicity, and because they could not go home again. Even Edward could not stay in this family for much longer, love them though he obviously did. There was a new restlessness about him, which they noted and deplored. Nothing was said; explanations would be avoided. Yet Maud knew that Polly Harrison felt an obscure sense of resentment, and that she would eventually—not quite yet—become its target.

After lunch she helped to dry the dishes. Then, because it seemed required of her, she acquiesced in their suggestion that she should take a rest. A rest, they implied, was necessary after the eating of such a lavish meal: she suspected that the house
was under a strict ban of silence until later in the afternoon. In the pretty guest room, with its white walls and its flowered curtains and coverlet, she stepped thankfully out of her shoes and went to the window. She thought she could hear the sea, but in fact it was only a car hissing by in what had turned into a light shower of rain. This was symbolic, she felt; in the pale sunshine of this morning, standing arm in arm with Edward, it had been possible to speak the truth, to feel if not optimism then at least a calm determination. Now she was imprisoned again. She knew, without being told, that it would be regarded as highly irregular if she slipped out of the house and went for a walk on her own. Besides, she had no key, and it would be unthinkable to rouse them from their afternoon sleep by ringing the bell. She wondered where Edward was; then, looking down from the window, saw him getting into the car his father had given them as a wedding present. She would have gone with him, but evidently he wanted to be alone. Already the house was becalmed. She would have liked to have assured Edward of her continued good behaviour, on condition that he removed her from the bosom of his family. She did not think she could ever feel at home in this house. But there were two more nights to get through before they drove to London, and the time seemed very long to her.

Sad again, she removed her borrowed skirt and pullover and crept under the eiderdown. In the softness of the pillows—for everything in this house was soft, compared with the general rigidity of Dijon—she thought of Tyler as she hoped she would always see him, in the dusk of the Vermeulens’ bedroom, looking down at her, his eyes watching her watching him, his desire made plain. Instinctively her body mobilised for the rush of feeling this image always called forth: she felt her cheeks flush, her breasts respond. She was lonely for Tyler, not merely because he would never again make love to her, but
because he constituted her only emotional capital. He had accepted her, or had seemed to, just as she had accepted him; there was no question of her adapting her ways to his, or his to hers. It was still entirely natural to her to remember their long night walks, their last cup of coffee in the Place des Ternes, before turning in at last to the silent flat, where they would fall instantly asleep, only to wake entwined, making love silently and seriously, as girls dream of making love, love growing out of sleep, needing neither preparation nor consent. When they took their siesta the lovemaking was more deliberate: then the dusk was the afternoon dusk of drawn curtains and nudity explored with eyes and hands. Nor was there ever any regret. She did not even regret the fact that Tyler did not say he loved her. There was no mistaking the truth of their gestures, their embraces. It was that truth which helped her to tolerate all the rest. Even now it was her one certainty.

She thought that if Tyler had accepted her, as she had so fully accepted him, she could have played her part with confidence. She thought that if he had taken her home to meet his family she would somehow have become all that they would have wished. They were of a higher social class: that she knew. But she also knew that she had the requisite dignity to sustain whatever disparities there might have been. Somehow she knew that even her mother would have been found acceptable in the setting of Worcestershire or Chelsea; a hard-headed but not unsympathetic mutual appreciation would have ensued and would have left both parties satisfied. As for herself, she would have approached Tyler’s parents with love and devotion, as the genitors of Tyler himself: she would have become the daughter she had never been, and they in turn would have been proud of her. Particularly when she produced a son. This fantasy had nothing to do with her recent upheaval, which she dismissed as the consequence of an all too
brief sexual awakening. What had happened to her was not a baby, but an awkwardness of timing. Of this she was now certain. A baby would be produced when she was married to Tyler. She had no desire for a child produced in any other way. She was not particularly fond of children, did not warm to the few babies encountered when she and her mother pursued their unvarying progress through the streets of Dijon. Yet with Tyler everything would have fallen into place, and she would have matured effortlessly, instead of having maturity thrust on her in this alien place.