The Rules of Engagement (37 page)

Sitting on the floor I examined Edmund's
card, puzzling over it until my head cleared.
It gave two addresses, one in Hampshire,
one in London. The London address was
presumably that of the house which Constance hated and which
I had never seen. It was in a small square
near the river, which I also did not know. The
telephone number, I vaguely thought, was
different from the one on Betsy's pad, but I was
not sure of this, and blamed my passing malaise for
my poor memory. When my head cleared I
dialled the number on the card. There was
no reply.

Almost instinctively I left the flat and
made my way in the direction of the river. Never
had the district seemed more inimical to me. The
blazing sun had emptied the streets; blinds were
pulled over the windows of the houses; cars crept
by almost noiselessly. I longed for this day to end,
yet did not want to face another like it. I
felt involved in something that was too difficult for
me, perhaps too difficult for anyone. Yet the
sadness that this might have invoked was absent, had
leaked away, leaving only a numb resolution.
I tried to revive the anger I had felt; that
too was now in default.

I found the small square as if I had been
directed there. Again it seemed devoid of
inhabitants, although two small boys were
aimlessly kicking a ball on the corner. Soon
they disappeared, no doubt discouraged by the heat. I
had no trouble in finding the house. It advertised
its presence insistently: there was a sign outside
which proclaimed SOLD. The sign had been
knocked slightly sideways, which may have
indicated that it had been there for some time. This
dereliction, into which it was becoming easier by the minute
to descry a symbolic message, was now the
only presence, though inanimate, in the deserted
street. I hastened away from it, as if I had
overheard a forbidden conversation, even a
conspiracy, which sent an inscrutable message
to those unfortunate enough to hear it.
“
I know what
has to be done,
”
he had said. There would be no
need for explanation, for exegesis. All had
been enacted, without our knowledge, let alone our consent.
The decisiveness with which it had been done was,
again, in character. Such decisiveness, such character were beyond
my reach. There would be no time to tell the necessary
lies. Thus, in a way that was almost acceptable, the
matter had been taken care of. Betsy would not
know of it; I hoped that she had been able
to entertain, perhaps to welcome, an habitual
illusion. For myself no illusion would be possible,
not now, not ever. I knew the truth of the matter.
And the truth of the matter was plain to see: from all
our respective viewpoints, mine,
Betsy's, even Edmund's, the case was
closed.

Now, many years later, long after Betsy's
death, long after Edmund's son had come off his
motorbike and been killed by an oncoming car,
I sit and think of these events as if they had
taken place in another life. Strangely, or
perhaps not so strangely, I mind David's death
more than anything else, although I had hardly known
the boy. But I remember his face, the
reluctant smile that was a mirror image of
Edmund's own, and perhaps of that of Constance, who
smiled rarely. I am fifty-six, nearly
fifty-seven. According to the tabloid which I now read
over breakfast, fifty is the new thirty. But
this is not true: at thirty, one still has
expectations. I had been born a little too
soon. I had been given the wrong instructions,
by teachers, by novels. Betsy at least had chosen
grander models. That was how I thought of her now, as
a tragic heroine whose destiny it is to die. This
brought a sense of symmetry to her end, and made
it slightly easier to accommodate. But in fact
everyone I know seems to have been prefigured
somewhere, in pages which I do not take the trouble
to trace. Even books can let you down.

I still see Nigel from time to time although the
connection has been broken. Sometimes I join him
on a walk in the park, which he suggests out of
kindness, thinking me lonely. He senses distress
of an order which he is not keen to investigate,
nor could I explain it. It has something to do with the
passing of time, which he does not seem to register,
although he is older than I am. He no longer
visits me, and I suspect that he has found
an alternative arrangement. He is still a
good-looking man, though now I must add, for his
age.

Sometimes I walk, as I used to, in the
early morning, or after dark. They welcome me
kindly at the hospital, where I do voluntary
work. I have made new friends there, but women, only
women. I have caught Betsy's habit of gazing
into children's faces: another sign of ageing. The time
passes quickly now. There is just that failure of
nerve around six o'clock, when I long to be
summoned. But I sleep soundly, without dreams.
were I to dream I should find myself in the past again,
at home, with my parents, or running to meet
them, my face alight with joy, as it must have been,
at the beginning of the world.