The Shape of Sand (21 page)
After qualifying, he had specialised in psychiatric medicine, still in its infancy in England and regarded with a certain amount of suspicion, although, as in America, personal analysis was becoming increasingly the thing amongst those who could afford it. He'd been lucky enough to find somewhere almost immediately where he could carry on with his work, at a fashionable London clinic that was rapidly gaining a name for itself. It was here that he met Vita Randolph, Lady Wycombe, when he inherited most of the patients of the colleague he replaced. She had a history of depression which had, in fact, led to a botched attempt at suicide, and had resulted in her eventually being persuaded to attend the clinic for treatment. Her reluctance to do so was matched only by her husband's scepticism of such mumbo-jumbo, but after a few months in Schulman's hands her condition improved, though whether the sessions she spent with him had been entirely successful was something he continually asked himself. Be that as it may, she had at last emerged back into the world.
Determined, it seemed, to make up for the years she'd missed, incarcerated in self-imposed exile at Stoke Wycombe, by making a complete volte-face in her life, she'd ventured for a brief period into the society of those who had pretensions to literature and art. She spent much of her time, when she wasn't reclining on a sofa, wearing frocks of a vaguely arty nature, eating chocolates and reading the latest literary offerings of her new acquaintances, in attending their exhibitions at small galleries off Bond Street, joining in their evenings of endless intellectual discussion, conducted in an ambience of wine fumes and cigarette smoke. But the affectations soon palled, and besides, she wasn't clever, or able to pretend she was, and she felt they rather despised her. After that, for the brief period left before the war, she took up with a set she had known in her youth who were smart, modern, fashionable, joining in the frenetic activity all that implied â the social whirl of cocktail parties, weekend house parties, holidays on the Riviera. Spoiled and indulged in the matter of money and freedom by her elderly husband, who did not seem to mind what sort of life she led, as long as it suited her and did not demand his continued presence, she spent more and more of her time at their London house while Wycombe seemed content to remain as often as not in the country.
Determined, it seemed, to make up for the years she'd missed, incarcerated in self-imposed exile at Stoke Wycombe, by making a complete volte-face in her life, she'd ventured for a brief period into the society of those who had pretensions to literature and art. She spent much of her time, when she wasn't reclining on a sofa, wearing frocks of a vaguely arty nature, eating chocolates and reading the latest literary offerings of her new acquaintances, in attending their exhibitions at small galleries off Bond Street, joining in their evenings of endless intellectual discussion, conducted in an ambience of wine fumes and cigarette smoke. But the affectations soon palled, and besides, she wasn't clever, or able to pretend she was, and she felt they rather despised her. After that, for the brief period left before the war, she took up with a set she had known in her youth who were smart, modern, fashionable, joining in the frenetic activity all that implied â the social whirl of cocktail parties, weekend house parties, holidays on the Riviera. Spoiled and indulged in the matter of money and freedom by her elderly husband, who did not seem to mind what sort of life she led, as long as it suited her and did not demand his continued presence, she spent more and more of her time at their London house while Wycombe seemed content to remain as often as not in the country.
The war soon put an end to all that. Wycombe's age had precluded any direct involvement in the hostilities, but Vita was ostensibly employed in some sort of secretarial capacity with the Admiralty Board. What it was she did there, Schulman had never quite been able to imagine, Vita and any kind of discipline not being synonymous, but whatever it was, it had sat lightly on her shoulders, and had never interfered in any way with her social life.
Schulman himself, arbitrarily classed as an enemy alien, had been interned on the Isle of Man for over a year, but doctors were urgently needed, especially doctors of his sort, and he had been released to work with some of the psychologically damaged young men and women who had been in the worst of the fighting. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that he'd returned to London, and the problem of Vita.
Schulman had a great charm of manner as well as
undoubted expertise in his chosen profession. He couldn't fail to be aware that this neurotic, attractive woman, young still, and with a husband now well into old age, had been more than half in love with him, but this was an occupational hazard in his profession, and he was too sensible of the impropriety of the doctor-patient relationship, as well as of his delicate position as a refugee
emigré,
to allow anything other than friendship to develop between them, though he was often sorely tempted, even now. There had in fact been a brief time when he had almost thrown caution to the winds, but he had not allowed himself the indulgence. He had managed to extricate himself with his usual grace and without damaging her self-esteem, by appealing to her sense of the romantic, suspecting that the angst of what she regarded as their impossible love would not be entirely unwelcome. On his release from internment, he saw that had been the right line to take. Her attachment to him had become less intense, and now, several years later, though still inclined to cling too much to him for support, she had gradually come to look on him more in the light of a trusted, reliable friend on whom she could always fall back, he hoped, rather than as an unattainable lover. He regretted this a little, but it was safer.
undoubted expertise in his chosen profession. He couldn't fail to be aware that this neurotic, attractive woman, young still, and with a husband now well into old age, had been more than half in love with him, but this was an occupational hazard in his profession, and he was too sensible of the impropriety of the doctor-patient relationship, as well as of his delicate position as a refugee
emigré,
to allow anything other than friendship to develop between them, though he was often sorely tempted, even now. There had in fact been a brief time when he had almost thrown caution to the winds, but he had not allowed himself the indulgence. He had managed to extricate himself with his usual grace and without damaging her self-esteem, by appealing to her sense of the romantic, suspecting that the angst of what she regarded as their impossible love would not be entirely unwelcome. On his release from internment, he saw that had been the right line to take. Her attachment to him had become less intense, and now, several years later, though still inclined to cling too much to him for support, she had gradually come to look on him more in the light of a trusted, reliable friend on whom she could always fall back, he hoped, rather than as an unattainable lover. He regretted this a little, but it was safer.
The rain had stopped. He found a cab that took him to Embury Crescent, through the muggy, overhung morning where the clouds were struggling to break through.
The burnt-out shells of several adjoining houses in the crescent, caused by an incendiary which had effectively demolished one and spread to its neighbours, loomed through the murk. God knew how the Wycombes had managed it, but their house, which had in fact escaped serious damage, had already been restored to its pre-war smartness. He ran up the steps and lifted the polished brass knocker on the glossily painted black door, which Vita opened herself, with a speed that told him she had not heeded his advice to lie down.
“Vita, my dear.” He embraced her and then, holding her at a distance, scanned her face. He could detect no smell of gin on her breath. “What can have happened?”
“I'll tell you, in a moment.” She held out her hands for his outdoor things. He divested himself of his overcoat and his
hat, ran his hands through his curly, iron grey hair, still thick, if receding at the temples, and squared his shoulders. But further scrutiny, as she led him into her drawing room, told him that this was going to be more than one of her minor
crises des nerfs.
She was carefully made up, and dressed as usual in a chic, expensive outfit, midnight blue this time, with long sleeves and a diagonal front fastening, trimmed and piped with matching velvet. Her hair was still thick and dark, perhaps helped by her hairdresser, and she had taken recently to wearing her curls lifted and gathered back behind her ears, revealing the finely sculpted contours of her face. She looked elegant, pin-thin, fine-drawn. But her brown eyes looked huge, and the extent of her pallor, accentuated by the fashionable fuchsia-pink lipstick, alarmed him.
hat, ran his hands through his curly, iron grey hair, still thick, if receding at the temples, and squared his shoulders. But further scrutiny, as she led him into her drawing room, told him that this was going to be more than one of her minor
crises des nerfs.
She was carefully made up, and dressed as usual in a chic, expensive outfit, midnight blue this time, with long sleeves and a diagonal front fastening, trimmed and piped with matching velvet. Her hair was still thick and dark, perhaps helped by her hairdresser, and she had taken recently to wearing her curls lifted and gathered back behind her ears, revealing the finely sculpted contours of her face. She looked elegant, pin-thin, fine-drawn. But her brown eyes looked huge, and the extent of her pallor, accentuated by the fashionable fuchsia-pink lipstick, alarmed him.
“Have you seen the papers, Oscar?”
“Not this morning.” Unusually, he had abandoned his normal practice of scanning the morning papers in favour of a new textbook which he had begun reading the night before, and which was absorbing him so much with its new ideas that he could not put it down.
Vita indicated a copy of
The Times
on a table, folded to show an article whose headline he could not read from where he stood. “I think you had better see what that says, and then you can tell me what to do.”
The Times
on a table, folded to show an article whose headline he could not read from where he stood. “I think you had better see what that says, and then you can tell me what to do.”
“First, we must make ourselves comfortable. Some coffee, perhaps?”
“Oh yes, of course, I must have interrupted your breakfast. I â I'm sorry.” She looked distracted.
“No matter.” He gave her a quick glance. “But I think it better we take things slowly, hmm? You make some of your good coffee, while I read this.” She would be better occupied doing some mundane task â and he knew the coffee would be excellent. She who had been waited on hand and foot all her life had, during the last six years, been forced by circumstances to manage this not inconsiderable house very capably with only the help of daily women, and, if it suited her, could be surprisingly competent at many household tasks. “By the way, where is your husband?”
“At Stoke Wycombe, where else?”
Her high heels clicked on the parquet as she walked with her usual swift, impatient pace to the kitchen, where he soon heard the rush of water, the welcome clatter of crockery. He did not function well without breakfast, and his Viennese soul was yearning after his abandoned coffee and rolls.
He was left alone in the restful room, its decor the modish style of ten years ago, unmarred by any wartime austerity. Black-out blinds had now been taken down, and the crisscrossed brown paper reinforcing strips across the window panes removed. All was cool, neutral colours with touches of black, furniture with clean Modernist lines, the vivid geometric pattern of the curtains at the tall windows the only splash of colour, apart from the pictures. Another painting, he noticed, had been reinstated. Chagall? he wondered, as he sat down with the newspaper, companion for the Kokoschka, the Kandinsky, the other vibrant examples of modern art hanging on the walls, which Wycombe had acquired pre-1939. In his old age, he had become a connoisseur and passionate collector of all things modern in the world of art â even to the extent of selling other, less recent acquisitions, to buy them, in the confident certainty that they would accrue in value. The Randolph fortunes, though by no means negligible even yet were, like so many others â albeit in a nation that had won the war â victims of a shattered economy. Most of his art treasures had been safely stored away for the duration, but were now being brought back into the light of day and, under his supervision, hung once more where they belonged. Undoubtedly that was what was occupying him in the country at this precise moment.
Schulman picked up the paper and instantly saw the reason for Vita's agitation as the headline, and the name Jardine, sprang out at him. He read what followed and then folded the paper neatly once more and sat waiting, thinking what to do. When he could smell the coffee, he went into the kitchen to bring the tray in for her. It was as good as he'd imagined it would be, though he sighed a little, regretting the absence of even a biscuit to go with it. It was unlikely there was such a thing in the house. Food was not a priority with Vita. He debated whether to ask for some toast, but in the
circumstances, decided against it.
circumstances, decided against it.
She extracted a Balkan Sobranie cigarette from the silver box on the mantelpiece for herself, knowing he didn't smoke, and flicked an enamelled table lighter before coming to sit next to him on the sofa. Her fingers were still not quite steady.
“When did you hear of this?” he asked.
“Last night. Daisy and Guy came to tell me. She and Harriet had been to Charnley to-” Her voice faltered.
“Last night? And only now do you let me know? Oh Vita, Vita!”
“I needed to think it over on my own â don't you see that? Oh, they wanted me to go back with them, or for them to stay with me, but I couldn't have borne it. All the talk, all those memories!” She tapped out some ash into the onyx ashtray. Her fingers were thin, her polished fuchsia fingernails immaculate. “Well, now you've read the article, what do you think?”
“I think it is a very terrible thing to have happened, very hard for you, and your sisters, to accept. But when you can do so, it will be better. It will establish a conclusion, bring an end to many years of uncertainty. You will at last be able to mourn your mother properly.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think that's all there is to it, Oscar? What about finding the person who killed her?”
“The policeâ” he began, then stopped, finding himself more afraid for her than he had thought possible. He resumed, carefully, “You will have to prepare yourself for a great deal of intrusion into your private life, both past and present.”
“It's already started. I've had Harriet on the phone this morning, warning me that the police will be coming to see me. I'm afraid she's annoyed with me because I won't do what she wants.” She gave a brittle laugh.
“And what is it that she wants you to do?”
“She's acquired some of the family papers, and it's given her some crazy idea about reconstructing everything that went on at that time ⦔
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“I can't do that, Oscar! I can't, and you know why.” She looked away, but not before he thought he saw the glint of tears flickering on her lashes.
He said, firmly and quietly, turning her round and holding her gaze, “No, I do not know why, not fully. Do I?”
There was little he hadn't learned about her insecurities, her image of herself, her relations with her family, after those long sessions spent with her, letting her talk, patiently listening. But gradually, even as the layers stripped away, he had been bound to admit that they had never reached the very centre, the root of what it was that had ultimately ended in her breakdown. Somehow, even in deep therapy, she had not let go, had managed to keep something back. There was something she wouldn't let herself acknowledge, that she was hiding from, afraid to face. Always, no matter how gently he had led her, she had withdrawn at the crucial point. And there he'd had to leave it, only to approach it obliquely, the next time. Sensing her need to cooperate, he'd been prepared to wait until she did. But each time, when she had almost reached the point, was in fact teetering on the brink, she'd abruptly wrenched herself back. There came a time when she'd refused any more treatment.
He knew that any further approach had to come from her, that she must ask to be released from the burden she carried. Was this, now, the time? Was this dramatic discovery of her mother's body to be the catalyst, the shock she needed? How could he suggest it to her? He began to say, gently, “Don't you think it is time you let yourself rememberâ”
“No, No! You mustn't ask me!” She screwed the cigarette butt angrily into the ashtray, looked up and, with an abrupt swing of mood, said in a trembling voice, “Of course, Oscar, you're right, as usual. I do have to tell you, I can see that. But it's not a case of allowing myself to remember. I don't think I've ever â
really â
forgotten â it's just that it seemed too shameful a thing to suspect, or that I was putting the wrong construction on it.”
really â
forgotten â it's just that it seemed too shameful a thing to suspect, or that I was putting the wrong construction on it.”
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