The Bay of Angels (4 page)

4

I hesitate, even now, to assign to the gods of antiquity full responsibility for the mismanagement of human affairs, or for human misapprehension. Such fatalism goes against my earlier belief in a more benign mythological providence, which, if fallacious, or at least misleading, is no more misleading than other mythologies, which promise much, but deliver little.

I took a last walk down Edith Grove very early one dark Sunday morning in February. In truth it was to be a walk I had taken a year earlier when the lease on our flat had expired. I had managed to negotiate a further year’s grace by dint of paying an increased rent, but clearly I could not continue to do this. The estate agent had proved surprisingly conciliatory, especially when I told him that I could move out at very short notice: the flat that Simon had bought for me was ready and waiting. ‘Oh, you’ll like it there,’ the agent had said. ‘Quite a Mediterranean feel to it.’ He was presumably alluding to the fact that the flat was situated in a courtyard and had wooden floors. I knew better, remembering my holidays in the sun.

I disliked the new flat, was reluctant to leave the old one. That I was able to be so careless in this matter owed everything to Simon’s generosity. He had decided that he and my mother were to live in France, and had sold his property in Onslow Square, saying that they could always rent a house if and when they returned to London. In the event they never did. On the conclusion of the sale he had opened accounts at his bank for both my mother and myself, so that as far as I was aware I had no anxiety with regard to money.

This gave me a feeling of great freedom, as well it might. I did not question the sources of his income, for he gave such an impression of wealth and ease that I had accepted from the start that he was a very rich man. I saw no reason to doubt this, or to question his decision to live in France, which seemed to me eminently sensible. Besides, I had grown used to being on my own and to arranging my own affairs. I had graduated to independence and was finally relieved. I was also quite glad to have them at something of a distance, for I doubted that my mother would quite approve of my new friends, of one in particular, with whom I spent most of my time. Indeed my cavalier attitude to both my flats proceeded from the fact that I was rarely in either. I had finally arranged for my furniture—our furniture—to be moved on the following day, and even this did not seem momentous. I was acting with a speed and a certainty I had come to accept, though it was not really in my character to do so. Something of those holidays in Nice, which were now regular occurrences, and particularly the first one, had left me lighthearted. I see that this was the ideal basis on which to conduct a love affair, which was why my own was going so well.

On this particularly gloomy Sunday, which I knew would be my very last in this quiet place, I patrolled the street, trying in vain to revive the affection I had always felt for it. But it was dispiritingly dark, silent, even forlorn. There was nobody about. I imagined a thousand dusky bedrooms, a thousand supine bodies entwined in musty duvets. I did not blame these sleepers, but I disapproved of them. The working week should not lead to this abject collapse, which was accepted as some sort of entitlement. Later, much later, cups of tea would be made, and taken back to bed. Waking would come slowly, rising even more slowly. Then there would be the reading of the newspapers, another ritual, until, perhaps in the afternoon or early evening, the morose desire to go for a walk, or perhaps to visit a parent, an obligation shouldered reluctantly but undertaken with a remnant of filial obedience. By the evening spirits would be low. After Sunday, Monday morning, though held to be a nightmare, was in fact something of a relief.

In Edith Grove the air was not enticing, having about it something of the staleness of the previous night. The only signs of life were the motorbike parked in the forecourt of the strange church opposite our flat and the light I could see dimly shining from its interior. This building had always intrigued me, its extreme ugliness seeming to defeat its purpose, which I took to be encouragement, uplift, harmony. Yet it was well attended, even in that secular decade, and we had seen large ladies and even the odd unaccompanied man making their way in on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings for a celebration of what was announced as fellowship. These were truly valiant souls, willing to spend their free time in that flat-faced redbrick building, which had something rather too democratic about it, as if it intended to defuse both mystical feeling and any expectations of a transforming experience which the congregation might have entertained. Indeed so downbeat was it, yet so determinedly cheerful were its female congregants, that we had decided, my mother and I, that we were disbarred from receiving its particular message by some quirk of character which others could discern at a glance. We warmed to the ladies, but not to the incumbent or celebrant, who would appear briefly on the threshold in ordinary working clothes, and looking as if he had just got out of bed himself. The motorbike was presumably his. When my mother passed him in the street he would nod his head very briefly, as if noting her reservations. No word was offered; he consigned her to her fate. Her salvation was not his concern.

In this terrible Sunday-morning gloom our building retained a modest air of Edwardian decency. I supposed that I should look in on the new flat to which I had the keys, had had them for some time. I was reluctant to take possession: I had not chosen the flat and did not like it. The Mediterranean feel that the estate agent had described did not extend beyond the windows, which let in very little light, and that of poor quality, owing to the courtyard effect, which had been designed not for the tenants’ amenity but so as to cram as many flats as possible into a restricted space. In order to see the street I was obliged to imagine the intervening buildings out of the way. At the same time it was noisy. When I had looked in one evening I could hear the light being switched on in the bedroom on the other side of the wall. I had not met any of my new neighbours, had not yet said goodbye to any of the old ones. They were used to seeing me going in and out, but would not worry unduly if I no longer did so. ‘You’re young,’ one woman had said to me enviously. ‘It’s easy for you. Here today, gone tomorrow. When you get to my age it’s a different matter, as you’ll find out.’ I did not want to hear this, for nothing surely could deprive me of my freedom, my lightness of touch. My expectations.

My clothes were packed, and my suitcases were in the bedroom of which I had seen so little recently, for most nights were spent in a large dilapidated house in Langton Street which was owned, or partly owned, by the man of whom my mother would not approve, Adam Crowhurst. She would not approve of him because she was of the wrong generation to understand so extremely uninhibited a personality. Middle-aged women, those who did not succumb to his outrageous charm, looked askance at his conquests and consoled themselves with their hard-won dignity and the knowledge that they were safe. I was an unlikely partner for him, since I was docile, and, I thought, uninteresting. But I had managed to win his friendship, which presumably other women scorned as a consolation prize for the total possession which he withheld. Prince Charming must have had the same effect on those whom the slipper did not fit. Was it possible that some part of me, the most archaic, the most unreconstructed part, still remained faithful to that schema, to that belief? If so I am ashamed to this day of my touching credulity. The gods, with whom at that time I was barely acquainted, were ready with their punishing gifts of caprice, of unaccountability. Their behaviour was in all cases unforgivable, yet those in my situation were persuaded of their power, since all depended on their favour. Thus two opposing interpretations fought for precedence, not only in my situation but in the world of quite sensible men and women, women in particular, hoping for a successful outcome to hopeless love affairs, convinced that there must be—
must
be—a reward for virtue, yet seeing all around them evidence of expectations unfulfilled, and worse, their own bewilderment turned into a joke that others might enjoy.

I had no idea what to do with my day. The evening, fortunately, was taken care of: I was to dine at Adam’s house, together with an elderly couple who were friends of his parents, up in London for a week of theatres and sale-rooms. I thought this auspicious: I hoped they would take away with them a good report of my suitability. Adam had asked me to supply a few items, avocado pears, olives, nuts. He was an excellent cook, would take care of the main part of the meal. I had done my shopping the previous day, and stowed the bags in what remained of my kitchen. I added some of my mother’s dishes, for it pleased me to blend my effects with his. All was ready for the evening, which merely left the rest of the day to fill.

In this curious February half-light it would be difficult to see where the day ended and the evening began. I felt tired. Perhaps I was not as prepared as I thought for any sort of change. Indeed I felt so tired that I abandoned any thought of further exercise, sat down in my mother’s old chair, which, on the following day, would take its place in the removal van, and fell into a doze, predictably waking with a start when a light went on in the house opposite. I thus found that I had slept in this manner for a good part of the afternoon.

I now see that this was prophetic. At the time I merely went into the bathroom and washed my hair, regretting that I had not done so earlier. There was just time to make a cup of tea and to change. I set out with my carrier bags for Langton Street—no distance from Edith Grove—and as luck would have it the lowering sky dissolved into a heavy shower of rain. My hands were not free; in any event I had no umbrella. My still-damp hair was thoroughly wet, but no real harm was done: Adam would lend me a towel and I would repair the damage. I did not think I had to make a glamorous impression on his parents’ elderly friends, but simply to behave naturally, in accordance with my mother’s precepts and example. Apart from the knowledge that I was not looking my best, and remembering that the removal men were due in Edith Grove at eight o’clock the following morning, I was not too concerned. My faith would move mountains, though at that stage I was unaware that there were mountains to be moved.

‘What on earth have you been doing?’ said Adam on opening the door. ‘You look wrecked.’ He was annoyed with me, hated anything less than a favourable appearance.

‘Just let me use your bathroom. I shan’t be a minute.’ I made for the stairs.

‘Don’t go up there,’ he said quickly, but I had my foot on the first step. I think I had no suspicion, even then, that anything was wrong. In retrospect I still see myself at the foot of the stairs. I got no further, for coming down to meet me was a girl whose tousled hair had obviously made contact with a pillow.

I stared, as a droplet of water made its way down my neck. Adam gave a laugh that was almost a groan, but recovered more quickly than either this unknown girl or myself.

‘Do you know each other?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Zoë Cunningham, Kirstie Fellowes. Kirstie is a physiotherapist,’ he added.

‘Oh, yes, I know all the wrinkles,’ said Kirstie Fellowes, whom I observed to be in a state of post-coital triumph. She laughed loudly. Adam looked at her with dawning disfavour.

I put my bags in the kitchen. I am ashamed to say that I behaved extremely well. When she joined me a few minutes later, brushing her hair vigorously, I simply said, ‘Oh, please, not here.’ My lips felt stuck to my teeth, which made entertaining Adam’s guests, the Johnsons, rather problematic. They in their turn were disconcerted by the presence of Kirstie Fellowes, for we were five at table. ‘Are you staying?’ Adam had asked her as I brought in the avocadoes. ‘Of course I’m staying,’ she laughed. Helen Johnson understood the situation at a glance, and remained as silent as I was. Her husband kept up a determined conversation with Adam, but even that began to falter. Kirstie Fellowes contributed a great deal of enthusiastic laughter. Without her we should have been almost mute. But then without her all would have gone on as before. ‘Coffee?’ I inquired.

In the kitchen Adam hovered. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Zoë. It’s no big deal. We all know the score.’ I said nothing. ‘I’ll drive you home if you’ll wait a bit.’

‘I’ll walk,’ I said.

The Johnsons were leaving, discomfited. The display of intimacy had offended them. I was able to wish them a pleasant goodnight, and then I left. I walked home, the rain flattening my hair once again, the pathetic fallacy working overtime. In Edith Grove I fell into a black sleep. Sometime during the night I was aware of the telephone ringing, but could not extricate myself from sleep long enough to answer it. In any event I knew who was calling.

What stayed with me when I surfaced on the following morning was a feeling of acute shame, even horror, at the memory of my dilapidated appearance. I could see myself with my wet hair, and my two bulging plastic carrier bags: I could still feel the droplet of water making its way down my neck. On such details do our fortunes depend. I did not for a moment blame Adam for his defection, for it seemed to me that I had provoked it. Memory should have told me that this was not the case, that I had chanced upon a matter that I had not been meant to witness, that this incident, though clandestine, had been entered into spontaneously on both sides, that I was, if anything, the intruder, unwelcome, and the more unwelcome because I had discovered Adam to be at fault. For this I blamed myself. In addition to my unfortunate appearance I had cast a shadow over two people’s innocent enjoyment. For I could not see it as particularly reprehensible. The ethos of the age had dismissed loyalty, constancy, fidelity as disqualifiers for successful guilt-free relationships. Such old-fashioned beliefs were dismissed as hang-ups, a cute unserious term for what was in effect a reversal of the established order. I myself had known no guilt when exchanging one partner for another during that first summer in Nice, but somehow that was different, affectionate, as if we were all children accustomed to harmless play on whom the shadow of the adult world had yet to fall. The sun, the sun! In London’s perpetual dusk the incident looked clumsy, badly managed, graceless. At the end of a dark day it took on an air of undeserved finality. The only conclusion to be drawn was that I had been defeated by an adversary whom I could not have anticipated, and had almost sealed my fate by appearing in such an unflattering guise, as if to emphasize my unsuitability for any role other than the one I had come unwittingly to fulfil. There was an inevitability about this scenario that absolved the other two protagonists from blame. I alone, with my wet hair and my plastic bags, was deserving of censure.