Wish Her Safe at Home (5 page)

“And,” i had said, “I
have
got a bit of money set aside.” In fact it was just over £20,000: mainly what my mother had left me.

I hadn’t liked my mother—as the woman from the café could doubtlessly have told you. On one occasion I’d dreamt vividly that my father had returned in the dead of night, shiningly resurrected, no scars or stitches from the mine. He’d left a kiss on my forehead, an apple and a book beside my pillow and when I’d stirred and sleepily opened my eyes had winked at me outrageously, jerked his head and drawn a hand across his throat...
after which he’d slowly disappeared into the wall, still blowing me kisses. I had at once pushed back the bedclothes and tiptoed into my mother’s room—and there sure enough had found her staring at the ceiling all glassy-eyed and with her throat cut. It wasn’t a nightmare. I went back to my own room and gave my hair a hundred brush strokes then got back into bed and ate the apple. “Thank you, Daddy. I do love you.” Whereupon I picked up the book he’d left me—I was always an avid reader—and started on another dream.

But that was the one I remembered in the morning: patchily at first but coming back to me with ever-greater clarity as I lay quietly endeavouring to recall it. And before I got dressed I wrote it down in my notebook, feeling pleasantly like Coleridge Taylor, a sly Coleridge Taylor, because of always referring to my father as Lancelot and to my mother as Morgan le Fay—in case the latter should
again
take it into her head to go prying through my things. And I even thought about turning it all into a poem. But that isn’t to say I didn’t feel a bit shifty when first confronting my mother over her breakfast tray. More than a bit. After all, she again lay in the very bed from which—blank-eyed and slit from ear to ear—she had so recently been called to meet her Maker. And that morning I seem to recollect I was extra attentive to her; although by evening if not indeed midday my usual mixture of impatience and resentment had probably returned.

Yet the money when it came did partially make up. It couldn’t wholly make up because—I don’t apologize for this—there
are
things that money can’t buy, things like fresh youth to replace the one you’ve hardly been aware of, things like lost opportunities which might conceivably have led to nothing, but which on the other hand might have led to fulfilment and serenity and new lives and passionate involvement. (Along, of course, with disinheritance!) And human nature being what it is
this
is the version you’ll unquestionably believe.

But all the same it was nice to watch the money grow. There was a definite satisfaction in that, an excitement possibly comparable to hearing the first word or to seeing the first step.

It had been a little under £14,000 when it came to me, a sum I’d invested nervously but with some audacity (the lady takes a gamble; the lady indeed takes quite a few!)—at bottom trusting no one, not even my stockbroker. And Sylvia, it hardly needs to be said, had never received the slightest hint.

I wasn’t just a miser, though, as was now fully proven—at least to my own satisfaction—for otherwise how could I have been so ready after all these years to raid that cache beneath the floorboards? It was perfectly true, of course, that bricks and mortar make a sound investment; but there was more to it than that. I actually revelled in the submitting of my notice. I revelled in the looks of dazed astonishment, the disbelief, the hurt, the rocking of foundations. I revelled in the fact that while others clearly thought I should have been at my most uncertain, my most worried, most conservative, I was cheerfully looking at heavy curtaining and carpet swatches and books of wallpaper. I worked out my month’s notice in a state of well-being and dissociation, floating through my days, feeling very slightly contemptuous of my workmates and letting those feelings, very slightly, show. At least half a dozen of my colleagues mentioned how they envied me. One was a pretty little blonde thing of only nineteen. Another was the office boy.

On my leaving I received a book token for eight pounds fifty and a card that everyone had signed. Though I grew moist-eyed when they presented these two envelopes and felt almost sorry to be going—actually nostalgic already for my long time spent with them, for the little things, the little laughs, the silly accidents and birthday cakes—on the bus home I made the mistake, or took the eminently sensible step, of working out how much on average each had given. It came to thirty-five pence per person, with ten pence added on. As I myself in recent years had seldom contributed less than a pound to such collections—had usually provided twice that sum—I felt for a moment the tears return to my eyes and had to gaze mistily out of the window whilst blinking rapidly and rummaging blindly. But then I shrugged and thought oh what the heck; I didn’t need their liking or appreciation, I knew there were parts of me which meant others well, I knew that I had tried to lead a decent life and that I had a value somewhere, in some great scheme of things, whether people were aware of it or not.

But after eleven years in the same department surely I was worth more than 35p a head, with an extra 10p to top it up.

I thought at first I wouldn’t spend their book token. At home I took it from my handbag and twice—impetuosity flooding up warmly—wanted to tear it through. But my fingers wouldn’t let me.

And I saved the card too...
yet purely for the sake of the office boy. If
he
had donated thirty-five pence it might have been the most he could afford. I kept it, hopefully, for the sake of that one name.

All the same I worried lest I might have given too much of myself away—behaved foolishly. I’d felt a little overcome. After the tea-lady had been up and somebody had handed round the cakes and Mr. Danby had presented me with the card and the book token, it was expected I should make a speech.

“I’m not sure what to say.”

Cheers. A suggestion of “Please trot this over to Accounts!” More cheers. I hadn’t realized that I had a catchphrase.

“But I’m so glad you all decided on a token. I already know what book I’m going to buy.”

“The Kamasutra?”

“
Oh, shut up, everybody
!” That was Mr. Danby. “Let Rachel have her say.”

“Actually it’s something very newly published. I was reading the reviews. It’s a book about David.”

I had forgotten that Mr. Danby’s name was David. I’d never called him by it, any more than—until just now—he had ever called me Rachel. There were screams of amusement and much foot-stamping and ribaldry.

“
King
David,” I explained.

“Dear Lord! He’s been promoted.”

“No, it’s just that it’s official, he’s been using the royal we for years!”

I laughed. I persevered. I always had this urge to share things with those to whom I felt indebted. “For a long time now King David’s been important in my life.”

Nobody quite knew what to make of that. Even those who hadn’t been listening sensed that others were intrigued. “What did she say? What did she just say?”

“Did you know for instance that somebody once called him a man after God’s own heart?”

“
No
!”

I nodded. “And this was despite the fact he as good as murdered Uriah the Hittite so that he could woo Uriah’s wife. Yes, even despite this, God still loved him and God still favoured him.”

And now there was certainly silence. People gazed at me from every side, either standing like myself or sitting on chairs or tables, their thick white cups in one hand, perhaps a chocolate éclair or a cream horn in the other.

“I can guess what you’re going to say of course. You’re going to say that he repented.”

“He repented!” cried Una, the pretty little blonde. She gave a giggle.

“But what
I
want to know is, would he actually have given up Bathsheba? Would he have changed things even if he’d had the chance?”

“Oh, come on, you lot, let’s have a show of hands! Now all who think—”

“So that’s why you’re going to buy the book, is it, Rachel?”

Mr. Danby had obviously been feeling anxious. But he needn’t have worried: the teasing was affectionate and I could take it in good part.

“Well,” he went on, “we trust it will provide you with much pleasure, Rachel, indeed we do, and also...
er...
with much enlightenment. Thank you for telling us.”

There was a big round of applause. As the party gradually broke up there were comments of “Slayed ’em in the aisles, Rachel!,” “Good for you, Miss Waring!,” “Always said you were a dark horse!” I was so relieved. I had unquestionably felt jittery before I’d begun—but because I had tried to tell them what was in my heart it seemed I might have scored a minor victory. Perhaps I could congratulate myself on having provided a leave-taking that wouldn’t just blend in with all the rest.

“Do you want to pack up now, Rachel, and catch an earlier bus?”

“Thank you...
er...
David.” And then, to cover up my small embarrassment, “Thank ’ee kindly, sire!”

It was a Saturday. Sylvia came to see me off at Paddington.

“And I bloody well hope,” she said, “that some day you won’t regret all this.”

Although I knew she meant precisely the opposite and although I hadn’t even wanted her to come I still replied amiably. “I can assure you, you don’t hope it nearly as much as I do.”

“What a dump this station is.”

“I rather like it.”

“Oh, God! You’re getting more like Pollyanna every day. I’m not surprised they wouldn’t take you with the furniture.”

I smiled. “You think it wasn’t the insurance, then?” Once I might have worried over that. Now I merely observed, “I hope I haven’t left the flat too bare.”

In fact I’d taken remarkably little—and, anyway, the woman who’d be moving in had a lot of her own stuff.

I added after a minute or so of our walking on in silence: “She really does seem fairly pleasant, doesn’t she? Miss Carter?”

But, naturally, we had already discussed Miss Carter. Sylvia had then been quite cheerful; yet you wouldn’t have known it now. “Oh, before long we’ll probably begin to irritate each other like hell. Give it a month or two.”

“Well, that’s just being defeatist!”

“Now tell me something truly uplifting,” she suggested. “Like, for example, life’s simply a snappy little game of pretence—and what fun it is to be a conman! Wasn’t that what you were saying at supper last night? I think I’d feel so much better if you could come up with one final inspirational word to illuminate my darkness.”

Nevertheless she grumblingly insisted on getting a platform ticket. It seemed well-nigh masochistic.

I found my seat on the train and then remained in the compartment, standing at a window with the ventilator open—because I thought this would save the obligation of a kiss or an embrace; and a handshake would have seemed all wrong.

But anyway, not necessarily as a consequence, she suddenly appeared more manageable. I said, “Don’t forget, Sylvia, you’re coming to stay with me this summer!” And my enthusiasm didn’t sound insincere. Nor was it, entirely.

“Bank Holiday,” she mumbled.

“Yes.”

Four months away. I almost said, “Make it Whitsun, why not?” I kept remembering we had lived together, breakfast, supper, lunch and tea for nearly a quarter of our lifetimes. A nicer person would have found it harder saying goodbye.

“And before then you’d better let me know,” she repeated, grudgingly, “about something you’d like for the house.”

“Yes, I will.”

Perhaps one reason I was able to say goodbye so easily was that I felt I’d salved my conscience. I had bought her a video recorder. I had given it to her only about an hour before, while the two removal men were still coming in and staggering out. I believed she was pleased—certainly, if pleasure could be calculated by gruffness, she
was
pleased. Be that as it may she’d never again be able to accuse me of meanness.

“Well, then,” she said, “be seeing you, Raitch.” It seemed the flag was about to be lowered. “Don’t forget to ring sometime if you feel like it.”

“After I’m connected you’ll be the very first I call!”

She stood there awkwardly on the platform. I stood there awkwardly on the train. “Christ Almighty, ten and a half years!” she said.

“I know! Isn’t it incredible?”

It seemed a terribly protracted moment, by far the worst of the whole morning, and I knew I had made a mistake. Had I been on the platform I could so easily have thrown my arms about her—I might even have felt glad to—and by making my way back to my seat just before the whistle blew avoided those last desperately long seconds. It would have been natural, spontaneous. As it was, we just stood there powerless, and separated by glass.

She didn’t even cough. I realized a short while later—as I was taking my place in the restaurant car—that she hadn’t once had a cigarette in her mouth since our departure from the flat. This had plainly been intended as a gesture.

But perversely I felt more annoyed than grateful. It seemed as if she hadn’t quite played fair, had cheated a little, both with that and with her final, farewell words.

“It must be nice having something to look forward to!” she had said. “It must be nice having a home of your own!”

Afterwards she hadn’t even bid me goodbye; had just languidly raised her arm as the train moved out
.

That wasn’t the kind of con trick I admired.