A Stairway to Paradise

by Madeleine St John

  She shook her head again. There was an ashtray on the table; she pushed it towards him and he got up and fetched it and returned to his chair.

  ‘It isn’t actually sudden,’ he said. ‘It isn’t out of the blue.’ He inhaled and blew out some smoke.

  She remembered that tweed jacket, that brand of cigarettes. Everything was the same, except that they were here, now, alone together and absolutely estranged. She felt suddenly exhausted, and could almost have cried: she, too. She felt as if they had both lost their souls and were condemned here together.

  ‘At the party,’ she said. How to go on: to speak about that terrible night. ‘You didn’t want to see me at the party. Or afterwards. Why now?’

  He stared at her. ‘At the party,’ he repeated. ‘At the party you didn’t want to see me.’

  ‘How can you know that?’ she cried. She had sat up straight; her face was flushed. ‘How can you say such a thing? What could you possibly know about what I wanted or didn’t want at the party or anywhere else? You hardly spoke to me! And then you hardly listened to what I said.’ She broke off, overwhelmed with the horror of what she was recollecting—the sick excitement of seeing him, suddenly, across the room; the casual tardiness of his eventual approach to her, the irony in his voice, his manner: the implicit declaration of utter indifference: the pain, the unendurable pain. The appalling, half-hysterical effort to conceal it throughout the evening, the awful heartbroken effort, the grinding, abominable pain.

  It was he who was appalled, now. What was she saying, what extraordinary scene was this which she was showing him: what horror, what hope was now perversely revealed to him? He could barely follow all the implications.

  ‘I—but surely—’ and he broke off, trying to see, to recollect, exactly what had happened: what each of them had done, had said: ‘I didn’t believe it could really be you,’ he said; ‘it never occurred to me, it never could have occurred to me, that you’d be there. I didn’t even know you knew the Carringtons.’

  ‘I used to look after Fergus,’ she said. ‘You might have known that. It was via Claire that I got the job, after all.’

  He was silent, half-remembering.

  ‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘I probably wouldn’t have been there, wouldn’t have been asked—I don’t actually see them these days, not since they moved to Battersea, except that I ran into Robert and Louisa at the NFT, a few weeks beforehand.’

  ‘But then…you must have realised that I might be there. Or Claire, or both of us.’

  ‘In fact, I was fairly sure you wouldn’t be. That was why I was. Louisa asked me, when we were chatting, had I seen Claire lately—we were just making conversation, the way one does, and I said, only on the telly, and she said, unfortunately she wouldn’t be at the party, because she’d be on holiday then in Brittany. I naturally assumed that meant all of you.’

  ‘Claire and I don’t take holidays together any more,’ said Alex. ‘Too much of a bad thing. Well, okay, not bad, but not good. I take the children skiing in the winter, she takes them to a plage in the summer.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘When I first saw you, at the party,’ said Alex—oh, that moment, that astounding, that delirious, moment, as it were of hallucination: Barbara in a grey-green dress, with something silver on it—were there silver threads in it?—talking to someone, someone else, noticing him, going on, talking, talking to someone else, someone who leaned over her, and said something to make her laugh: Barbara, indifferent to him, unreachable.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I got the impression you weren’t awfully eager to speak to me,’ said Alex.

  ‘What did you want me to do?’

  ‘You seemed perfectly happy to go on with what you were doing,’ said Alex.

  ‘You are stupid, Alex,’ said Barbara. ‘I never noticed before.’

  ‘No,’ he said, very evenly. ‘We never knew each other at all well, did we? Other than in the biblical sense, of course.’

  ‘I think you’ve just shown me how extremely stupid you actually are,’ said Barbara. ‘And crass, and contemptible, and what a complete waste of time this meeting is, and I think it’s probably time we brought it to an end. You said you wanted to see me: I hope you’ve seen your fill, because if you haven’t, tough.’ And she got up. She had folded her arms again, and she walked past him towards the door.

  33

  Alex got up. He did not follow her, but stood still, looking after her.

  At the door she turned, and looked at him. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘If you’re quite ready, I’ll just see you out.’

  Alex made a terrible effort: he had not known that such an effort could ever be either possible or necessary; it was new to him, it was beyond all imagining; he had been projected into another state of being and thinking and it had to be dealt with or he might be damned for ever. ‘Please don’t,’ he said. His expression was stricken. ‘Please let me finish.’

  ‘What else can you possibly have to say?’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘For what, exactly.’

  ‘What I just said—’ he looked down at the floor, ashamed, appalled; he looked up again; he looked at her, into her eyes. He was speechless; he saw the enormity of what he had said. They gazed at each other.

  She came back across the room and stood in front of him. She touched his stricken face. ‘Alex,’ she said; she was looking at him very gravely. ‘What has happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Absolutely nothing. Until last Saturday night. Since then—you see, I thought—even if I’d known I should be seeing you, I might have thought, well, why not, where’s the problem? I’d stopped thinking of you—one just turns to stone, after a while. One has to go on, somehow.’

  ‘Is that the way to do it?’ asked Barbara sadly.

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s one way. It was the only way I could find.’

  ‘Of course you had more to see to than I,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex, ‘I had.’

  There was a silence; Alex had taken her hand, he was holding it very firmly. He looked down at her; his face now looked almost stern. ‘Have we established, then,’ he said, ‘that we were each mistaken, at the party, in believing that the other didn’t want much to speak to one, as it were?’ He was looking seriously, searchingly, into her eyes.

  ‘Then there was afterwards,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, well—you’ll have to give me some credit for trying,’ he said. There was still that stricken expression in his eyes. ‘I did at least take you home.’

  ‘But not alone,’ she said.

  He saw what she was saying. ‘That couldn’t be helped,’ he said. ‘Andrew hadn’t a car; he’d come there with me. I couldn’t simply leave him to it.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose not. But I didn’t know that at the time.’

  ‘Is that why you were so sarky in the car, then?’ said Alex.

  ‘I was furious,’ said Barbara. ‘I thought you’d done it deliberately.’

  ‘You mean, avoided being alone with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God help us.’

  ‘And then—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Since then, there’s been the whole week,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s been as long a week as I’ve ever had.’

  34

  ‘So—let me make quite sure I’ve got this straight,’ said Alex. ‘And do you think we might sit down again?’ He led her by the hand which he was still holding over to the divan bed and they sat down on it. He offered her another cigarette and although she almost never smoked, this time she accepted. He fetched the ashtray and returned to her side. ‘You were sure I didn’t any longer care about you,’ he continued, ‘and that I didn’t want to be alone with you, albeit sufficiently the gentleman to see you safely home from Batter-sea on a Sunday morning: is this accurate so far?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet you thought I might nonetheless come here to see you the next day, o
r soon thereafter.’

  ‘I hoped you might. For the first few days, I hoped.’

  ‘So in fact, you suspected that my indifference was merely apparent.’

  ‘I hoped it was. During the first few days, I hoped it was.’

  ‘And you hoped also, of course, that I would entertain the same suspicion about your feelings.’

  ‘I thought my feelings were fairly plain.’

  ‘You amaze me.’

  ‘I sang all those love songs.’

  Alex almost roared. ‘You know, I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever made me laugh,’ he said; and he began again.

  Barbara began to look woebegone. ‘It’s not that funny,’ she said.

  ‘Yes it is,’ he said. ‘And furthermore, I was quite sure you were doing it just to wind me up.’

  ‘Well, I was, of course, as well,’ she said.

  This time he was almost helpless. Somehow in the last minute or so they had both sprawled back across the bed. Alex half sat up. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you wanted to see me—leaving aside why for the moment: is that altogether admitted?’

  ‘Do get on with it,’ said Barbara, ‘whatever it is you’re up to.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Alex. ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘I wanted to know how you were.’

  ‘You might have found out at the party.’

  ‘No. It had to be in private.’

  ‘All right. You’ve found out how I am. Now what?’

  ‘I haven’t. You’ve told me nothing. I want to know much more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m simply inquisitive.’

  ‘Who gave you those roses?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Some friend.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, you must have friends.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘They don’t give me roses.’

  She got up and went to the table and broke off (she had, in fact, to bite through the stem, because it was very tough) a rose leaving a few inches of stalk; she came back and carefully put it into his buttonhole. ‘There,’ she said. ‘They do.’ He took her hand again. ‘Why didn’t you come before,’ she said. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘I was afraid,’ he said. ‘I was quite sure you didn’t want to see me: I’ve told you.’

  ‘Why did you come, then?’

  ‘I had to see you anyway. No matter what.’

  35

  It was much later; darkness was falling.

  ‘Tell me the story of your life.’

  She told him, in a few sentences—there seemed so little time. (Two years ago, there had been none.) She sketched an outline of the army brat childhood, the lonely reserved adolescence, the awkward and, finally, over shadowed university years; and the rest. ‘I can’t think why you want to know all this,’ she said.

  ‘How long have you been living here?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘Where were you before that?’

  He was remembering, vividly, the room in Camden Town. His arms tightened around her.

  ‘Oh, Bath—’ she began; but he started to kiss her again, and then there was no more talking for some time: but afterwards, he remembered her last words.

  ‘Tell me about Bath, then,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I was minding a house for some people who went on a cruise for three months.’

  ‘Rich people, eh? Nice house?’

  ‘Divine. Lovely garden. And they had a Bösendorfer.’

  ‘What’s that? Some kind of dog?’

  She shrieked, and then she enlightened him. ‘The gardener used to play it, too,’ she said. ‘He was a pretty mean pianist, actually. We used to sing those Gershwin songs, and other stuff.’

  ‘Some gardener.’

  ‘He was a conscientious objector.’

  She told him about Gideon Ainsworth.

  ‘I suppose he fancied you,’ said Alex gloomily.

  ‘No, men of my age never fancy me. Only older ones.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex complacently. ‘Those young blokes are too green. You’d be wasted on them.’

  Barbara turned her head and looked at him. ‘Were you green?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Green as grass. My salad days, when I was green in judgment, cold in blood.’

  They were silent.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Alex. ‘What in God’s name are we going to do? ’

  36

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. What can we do?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what we can do.’ He sat up: then he suddenly noticed the roses again. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘who exactly gave you that lot?’

  Barbara, still lying down, looking up at him, considered what to say. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘Andrew Flynn gave them to me.’

  ‘He what?’ Alex, appalled, stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Andrew what?’

  Barbara said nothing for a second, and then she took his hand. ‘Andrew wasn’t to know,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t to know that anyone—that you of all people—might have a prior claim.’

  Alex was silent.

  ‘And neither, come to that, was I,’ she added.

  ‘So?’

  ‘He took me out to dinner last night.’

  ‘I must say he’s a damned fast worker.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Come to think of it he always was. These quiet scholarly types are the ones to watch.’

  ‘He’s probably rather lonely. He’s just had a divorce, for God’s sake.’

  ‘So he has. That’s no reason—well—well, why not—why not, after all. Oh, God. What the fuck are we going to do?’

  Barbara sat up. ‘I suppose we could wait,’ she said. ‘Until the coast is clear. If you like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me that you were obliged to stay with Claire until Percy’s settled in at secondary school? Well, how old is he now—eight? So it’s only another five years or so.’

  ‘I wouldn’t begin to expect you to wait for that long; it’s preposterous.’

  ‘Could I expect you to wait that long? Or at all?’

  ‘Oh, me—I’d wait for twice as long: what else have I got to do? Whereas you—’

  ‘Yes, I—well: we’ll just have to see what happens, won’t we? We’ll have to trust what happens to God, I suppose.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘This being one of those cases where there’s absolutely no one else to trust.’

  What could one say to that? Even Alex could say nothing to that. But Barbara was remembering the conversation of the night before: ‘Will I find God?’ she had asked, in all levity. ‘I might find God,’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘That’s not how it works,’ said Alex. ‘You don’t find God: God finds you.’

  ‘Either way.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I note no mention’s been made of the alternative to waiting until Percy’s got himself sorted out.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  Barbara frowned. ‘Let’s not go through that again,’ she said.

  Alex lit another cigarette. ‘There has, in fact, been a very material alteration in the situation since our last discussion,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘As regards Claire.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have good reason to believe that Claire now has a lover.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘So what about us?’

  ‘It makes no difference whatsoever to us.’

  ‘You can’t possibly be serious.’

  ‘I am. You must see that.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex.’

  ‘Are you really?’

  ‘Yes. I really, I truly am. I do see that my being your secret lover might in the circumstances be perfectly all right for someon
e else. It just wouldn’t be for me. For us. Whatever Claire’s situation. I can’t have a secret liaison with you—I can’t. I’m so sorry.’ She turned his face towards hers and looked at him. ‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  They looked at each other for a long time.

  ‘So am I,’ said Alex. ‘It’s a complete and utter bitch.’

  ‘You might find someone else. You could, easily.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well, then—’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. We’ll wait and see.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll wait, and we’ll see.’

  ‘Let me know if you stop waiting, won’t you?’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘I can’t believe that two people, two human beings, are having this conversation. It’s a bad dream.’

  ‘Life is a bad dream.’

  ‘Come now.’

  ‘It is, it truly is. Oh, there are some good bits, but on the whole it’s a bad dream, where things just happen completely beyond one’s control. We’re all basically helpless.’ Barbara was sitting up, staring into the face of naked Reason. ‘All there is in the end,’ she said, ‘is—is—simply—trying to keep one’s hands clean—and it’s difficult. It’s probably impossible. But—’

  ‘You’re wrong. All there is, is whatever real connection one can manage to have with another soul, another lost soul—that’s the only thing one can hope for. And you’re turning your back on it, actually rejecting it, for the sake of a mere scruple.’

  ‘It isn’t mere. And we couldn’t have a real connection, as you put it, as long as this scruple exists.’

  ‘We’re fucked then, aren’t we?’

  ‘Not thoroughly. Not finally. God may deliver us.’

  ‘Him again.’

  ‘There’s no one else who can help us here.’

  Alex laughed. ‘So God gets the last word,’ he said. ‘Even when you don’t believe in him. Or especially then. What a sportsman— I do believe the bastard’s an Englishman after all. One of the old school, that is. Must be the last one left alive.’