Undue Influence (20 page)

‘Shall I make coffee?’

‘That would be nice, Claire. We had both grown very fond of you, you know. I don’t suppose many people have been in recently?’

The tide of American academics had receded, leaving the shop virtually unvisited. Although the stock looked the same I was aware that it would soon need to be replenished. This was a matter which had never been discussed with me, naturally enough. Now it was no one’s responsibility, unless this were to fall to the new owner’s father, the mysterious friend in Long Acre who had never been mentioned before and who in any event preferred fishing.

‘I’ve know Geoffrey for years,’ she said, as if divining my curiosity. ‘We were friends for a time. It was only natural, being in the same trade. We used to meet at book fairs, have a cup of tea together.’ She smiled. ‘No doubt this seems very quaint to you. But I think we got on well. I certainly thought so. But nothing came of it. Now that he is doing me this favour I’m not quite grateful to him. It seems like a consolation prize.’

‘Was he married?’

‘Oh, yes. Most people are, aren’t they?’

She spoke as one to whom marriage is a great mystery, one to which others are admitted but from which she had been disbarred. There had been no wrong-doing afoot with this Geoffrey. When she had said that they were friends she had meant just that. A friend meant anything these days. ‘My friend’, as often as not, implies a partnership. I imagined Muriel dressing with more care than usual to go to these book fairs; I imagined the anticipation, which would have been entirely virginal. In the ruins of her face and figure could be seen the handsome girl she had once been. Yet a man would have perceived an unreadiness about her and would have been careful.
Encouragement might conceal an error, or worse. Although I had no doubt that Muriel would have made an excellent wife she would have leapt ahead from gauche girlhood without giving much thought to her youth and expectations. She would have seen herself as an adult, taking her place on an entirely respectable female ladder. Fulfilment had been denied her, at least in this role, and the other was unthinkable. But as the years passed she had no doubt thought about it. Virginity is a rotten endowment. In the magazines in the basement, which I no longer consulted, it is referred to as self-respect. I felt a little upset at losing this store of archaic wisdom, for the magazines would be the first things to be thrown out. Muriel had no doubt grown up with normal expectations, only to find that these could be ignored, even by those with whom some sort of bond existed. And worse than her own disappointment, borne no doubt with the utmost dignity, would have been the speculations of others in the trade, witnesses at those book fairs, viewing the
mésalliance
with amused comments, the sort of comments with which unworthy candidates in the romantic game are usually dismissed.

A lifetime of humiliation had not soured Muriel. She had remained an utterly decent woman. But I had credited her with too little perception. It was true that she had come to resent me, but only as a reproach to her younger self. My freedoms must have been more visible than I knew. She was not much interested in me as a person, found me vaguely good-hearted and congenial, but desired to know very little about how I spent the rest of my life. Outside the shop she probably relinquished me automatically. I had been useful, but I was not wanted on any further voyages. My fate at the hands of the new owner probably left her completely indifferent.

‘If you want any help with the move,’ I offered. There were
many questions I wanted to ask. When was this handover scheduled to take place?

‘When do you want me to leave?’ I asked.

She looked shocked. ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving immediately, Claire. It may be a little while before contracts are exchanged. Then Peter will want to take stock, I suppose.’

‘Does he know the trade?’

‘Well, his father has always been a bookseller. And Peter has helped in the holidays. So if you could stay on until he decides what to do? You may not have to wait long, I’m afraid. But, as I say, all that is now out of my hands.’

‘I’ll keep in touch,’ I promised. ‘You’ll give me your new address? What’s it like, this place?’

‘Oh, quite pretty, I suppose. Flower beds, that sort of thing. Frankly it’s of little interest to me. I have a sense of endings, Claire. And Hester is going to be eighty-seven. We have both outlived our parents by many years. That alters your perspective, you know.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Yes, of course you do. But you’re young, Claire. You must make the most of your youth. Fortunately you are a well-balanced girl.’ The handkerchief was applied once more, and then resolutely tucked up a sleeve. This conversation was now over, and she would no doubt regret her confidences. This would be an additional reason for not seeking out my company. For she had let down her guard, and she would not forget this.

‘I’ll bring the papers round to Marchmont Street,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’re going to be busy.’

‘Oh, I’ll look in again,’ she replied. ‘Though it won’t be the same. Have you seen
The Cherry Orchard?
The new owner,
you know, though there’s really no comparison. I was a most … conscientious worker. Her voice broke slightly. ‘He will no doubt be able to fix that door at last. I never got round to it. Neither did Father, now that I come to think of it. Oh, good morning,’ she said, in a new agreeable tone of voice, as Martin made his way in. Not a word, said her cautionary glance at me. ‘I was just leaving. Claire will look after you. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ She left, her rather wide trousers flapping round her thin ankles. She was definitely thinner.

‘She’s selling the shop,’ I said without compunction, as soon as Muriel was out of sight.

Instead of the resounding ‘No!’ of protestation, which he must have known I should have welcomed, he merely said, ‘How very unexpected.’

Wiggy would be the ideal recipient of this news, but Wiggy was still in Scotland. Wiggy would be aghast for me, would devote a whole evening to mulling over Muriel’s story. She would not be so precipitate as to ask me what I should do. I had decided nothing; it had all been decided for me. This was what held me up. I had hitherto been convinced of my own autonomy, had made a virtue of it, had told myself that I valued it. Now, in one important context, it had been taken away, but the implications of this had not yet sunk in.

In default of Wiggy, Martin was proving inadequate. In fact as a confidant Martin was unsatisfactory. His confidences only went in one direction, his own. As long as I was willing to listen he was willing to talk. Yet in spite of the information he had divulged I knew very little about him. His confessions were like press releases: utterly predictable, and available to all. He had never told me anything that revealed the inner man. I thought I knew something of the inner man, which could only be revealed in secret circumstances and was therefore taboo.
No words had been exchanged about our other meetings, on which he remained resolutely tight-lipped. As I did. I did not make love to him in the ordinary sense, knowing that he would find this unacceptable. Sometimes I would have welcomed a simple exchange of question and answer. This impulse I suppressed. I knew that I embarrassed him, that I represented all kinds of wrongdoing on his part, of which he had not quite managed to exculpate himself. The woman tempted me. Strange how the Bible comes back to one at the most inconvenient moments.

‘The shop will still be open,’ I said, with commendable restraint. ‘It will be under new management, that’s all.’

‘You’ll stay on, I take it.’

‘Probably.’

‘That’s a relief. I shouldn’t like to lose sight of you.’

I stared at him. ‘You know how to keep in touch, Martin. I shall be at home this evening, by the way. About eight o’clock? Bread and cheese and salad, if that’s all right.’

Evidently I was being too familiar. The only way he could justify our meetings to himself was as a heartbroken widower seeking consolation. Yet I had noticed that his grief, which had been intense, was now abating. I did not think that I was responsible for this. Rather I put it down to his rediscovery of a former freedom. He was less a widower these days than a bachelor. There was no one at home to interrogate him, and I would never do that. I knew how it felt to be the conduit of a sick person’s longing, that doomed eagerness to take in the outside world again. I knew what a burden it was, and I did not grudge him his liberty. What I grudged him, ever so slightly, even then, was the distance he maintained from his own bad behaviour, as he no doubt thought of it, and hence from me. Only when talking about Cynthia did he feel restored
to something like purity. But I knew his other face and told myself that I had the best of him.

‘Who’s the new owner?’ he asked.

‘Someone quite young. A man. Peter. I don’t know his other name. His father is a friend of Muriel’s.’

Some sense of what was fitting prevented me from telling him about Muriel’s friendship with the man in Long Acre, those long-ago book fairs that had amounted to nothing but the acquisition of her property. No doubt this man, whom I disliked without ever having met him, would consider putting in a bid for the house in Marchmont Street as well, so that the son would be adequately endowed. And Muriel would be staring at the flower beds in Bournemouth, aware of all she had foregone. Out of unreadiness, lack of drive, of curiosity, whatever it was that kept women at home. Out of fear, too, no doubt. And the example of parental virtue, the potential shame of parental disappointment. No one lives like that now, fortunately. Yet my sorrow on Muriel’s behalf was unshadowed by contempt. I knew that she was aware of all that had happened to her, or rather had not happened. I also knew that she would give me little further thought. I did not resent this. I knew that her grief was enormous. At that moment Muriel’s tragedy seemed more serious than Martin’s. He had been left behind, but not abandoned. Not noticeably deprived, to judge from his present immaculate appearance. He could hold his head up. A period of mourning is nobler than run-of-the-mill sorrow. Others will sympathize, will console. But there is no consolation for those who have missed their chance.

‘I may be going off to Italy for a few days,’ he said.

‘With those friends of yours?’

‘Jack and Angela, yes. They’ve been extraordinarily kind.’

This was what he had come in to tell me, not because he
wanted me to know so much as he felt the need to be accountable, in the clear. That this was a subterfuge was obvious to me, if not to him. It was up to me to deal with his unavailability. When he returned his unannounced presence in the shop would once more indicate renewed access. He never telephoned. Neither did I. The thought of the phone ringing in Weymouth Street unnerved me. Besides, I knew he would not welcome it.

‘I’ll see you later then. About eight.’

He did not know the correct formulae for expressing anticipation. It was therefore up to me to ambush him. He preferred it this way. I did this without prejudice. After all, I was in control.

After he left I had no customers for the rest of the day. At four o’clock Doris, who sells
The Big Issue
outside the cafe, looked in and said she could murder a cup of tea. Doris was perhaps the first sign that I had let things slide; at least she had the sense to stay away if she saw that Muriel was in the shop. She is quite an interesting woman, of gipsy stock, who prefers life on the streets to living with her erstwhile common-law husband. She has a council flat near King’s Cross and is always on duty when I arrive and sometimes when I leave. I imagine she makes enough for her needs and seems quite contented with her way of life. Sometimes I congratulated us both on being so gainfully employed. When you came down to it I was as unqualified as she was. Of the two of us Doris was the one with street cred.

‘So she’s selling up?’ she now said, one leg crossed over the other, one foot on the opposite knee.

‘How did you know that?’ I said, startled.

‘The word gets out. Someone in the caff mentioned it last week. Going to be a wine bar, isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s going to remain a bookshop. Under new management.’

‘Don’t like the look of the new owner,’ she said.

I was even more puzzled. ‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Came in on Sunday, with an older man. Looked like his dad. They had a look round.’

This was disconcerting. Plans were evidently far advanced. Muriel had no doubt lent them, or perhaps given them, a set of keys.

‘I shall be staying on,’ I said firmly, though I was by no means sure of that.

‘Might not be up to you, though. They usually bring in their own people, don’t they?’

‘After all, I am acting manageress.’

She looked sceptical, as well she might. ‘Where’s she going, then?’ At least she had the grace to ask after Muriel, whom she disliked, largely because Muriel, in her opinion, belonged to an ancient land-owning class with whom her ancestors and what remained of her family were in conflict, purely as a matter of principle. It was true that Muriel carried about with her a fine air of disdain for those who did not do a proper job of work, but that was because she had striven so hard herself. Cheerful failure, of the kind represented by Doris, was simply unknown to her. Looking at Doris’s fat legs, so generously displayed, I began to have an inkling of how she felt. But it was I who had given her that permission to look in. That made me some sort of accomplice, a traitor to Muriel’s standards. I told myself that the new man could sort this out. And Doris, who was sensitive to atmosphere, would know without being told that her presence was no longer welcome. A pity: I should miss her.

After I had locked up I went down into the basement and
rescued the folder containing St John Collier’s collected works. Then I took a valedictory look at the magazines before consigning them to a black plastic bag. A winsome female face appeared briefly before I dumped the rotting newspapers on top of it. It seemed like the end of an era, as if I personally were burying the 1950s, and in addition immolating the entire Collier family. My work had been for nothing. I did not doubt that Muriel would read and re-read the articles I had so carefully typed. But they would never reach a wider public, as she had hoped. Maybe this was just as well. Such innocence should not be let loose on the streets. After the day’s events I knew that acceptance is a dubious commodity. Whatever desire I had for certainties was likely to be frustrated. I knew that as well as I knew anything. Nevertheless I wished that I had brought my father’s old briefcase, so that St John Collier could be respectfully interred.