As arranged, she came to his office shortly before noon in order that she might sign an agreement with his agency. A bespectacled girl brought the document and two saucerless cups of tea to the small desk, on top of which were piled stacks of newly published books. It was clear that the girl was some kind of personal assistant, for she behaved with great deference towards both Mr. Smith and his client, but her agitated manner suggested that the girl had been briefed with regard to the significance of this particular visitor. After she had signed the proffered document, the flustered girl reappeared and took up the agreement and quickly withdrew. “I am aware,” began Mr. Smith, his voice imbued with a by-now- familiar rectitude, “that married life on the Continent has been a less than happy affair for you.” He took a sip of his tea and then looked up and offered her the opportunity to either agree or disagree with him, but she reached for her own cup and waited for him to continue. “This being the case, from everything you have told me I think I should extend to you an invitation to remain here in London in order that you might pursue your work.” He paused. “We do understand each other, don’t we?” She peered beyond him and out through his small office window. The poor man was now attempting to sow the seeds of what she already understood might one day become a harvest of disorder. On the wall of a distant building she could just about discern a huge painted sign advertising BOVRIL. A young boy sat in his mother’s lap holding a steaming mug in both hands, and their faces gave out beaming, self-satisfied smiles. “I fully understand that you probably require more time to think about this matter. I imagine that my proposition must have come as something of a shock to you.”
46
A Confession
A week or so after Mr. Smith had nervously proposed cohabitation to her, he asked her to once again dine with him at his favourite characterless restaurant. From the moment he greeted her at the entrance to the establishment, she could see that something was troubling the frowning man. She worried that either he or one of his publishing contacts had changed their mind about her abilities, but as soon as they were seated at their table, he reaffirmed his enthusiasm for her writing, and he talked of the popularity of the coming-of-age novel and his high hopes for her future. She listened carefully to this Mr. Smith’s words, but as he continued to speak, she detected a new impatience informing her benefactor’s conversation, and a quizzical look of perplexity never left his face. Their last meeting had taken place in Mr. Smith’s office at his literary agency. It was a cramped shared space, although his elderly colleague had failed to make an appearance on the two occasions that she had visited. In the week between Mr. Smith’s stammered proposal and this summons to dinner, she had managed to find a quiet room in Finsbury Park and as a result escape the expense of an extended stay at her modest London hotel. However, despite this necessary industry, she knew full well that she had been remiss in not offering the poor man even a morsel of communication, wishing as she did to maintain the upper hand in their friendship.
Once the plates had been removed and the dessert menus handed to them both, Mr. Smith placed his card facedown in front of him and then asked her outright if she had ever been on the stage. “Believe me, it is not my intention to upbraid you, so you may as well tell me the facts.” The muscles in her throat tightened as though somebody was squeezing them in a viselike grip, and she gave him a look intended to indicate that she didn’t quite understand what he meant, but this merely fed the literary agent’s resolve to pursue his line of questioning with regard to this unsavoury topic. According to Mr. Smith, a distant but credible relative of his recalled some vague reference to his new author having perhaps been a Gaiety Girl before leaving England for France. She felt tears forming behind her eyes, for although she hadn’t lied to this Mr. Smith, she had also not told him the whole truth. Why should she? A cigarette butt that had been left behind by a diner on a neighbouring table had been inadequately stubbed out and the smoke was wafting into her face, but she tried to ignore it, and she gathered herself and assured her interrogator that it was many years now since she last had any connection with the stage. The apprehensive waiter reappeared at their table, but with poorly disguised irritation Mr. Smith informed the man that they would require a few minutes more before deciding upon dessert. The waiter moved away, and she could feel Mr. Smith staring intensely at her. “I wasn’t hiding anything,” she said. “I’m not ashamed of having been a stage girl, but it’s just that people always draw bad conclusions.” He reached across the table and took her hand, and she now sensed that his annoyance was more rooted in confusion than displeasure. “I want to help, but how am I to promote you if you insist on hiding these rumoured irregularities from me?” She felt herself relax a little, for it was now clear that the troubled man didn’t understand. How was she supposed to write if she didn’t hide things? Life hides things from her, people hide things from her, and in her quest for clarity she in turn hides things from herself; it’s what she does. If this man truly yearns to spend time with her, then he will have to learn to stop telling her what to do. Sadly, even at this early stage of their arrangement, she could already see the full extent of the problem with this Mr. Leslie Smith. When the waiter returned, her friend ignored the dessert card and ordered a brandy. Mr. Smith asked if she wanted one, too, but he did so in a casual manner which suggested that he was sure that she would refuse. However, she nodded, and the literary agent was forced to recall the waiter to the table and ask for a second glass. She saw the not entirely approving look that the waiter shot her, but it was one with which she was familiar. She turned to face her pedantic dining partner, sure that he must now be beginning to experience the full weight of uncertainty, but she could find no consol ing words to share with him. Mr. Leslie Tilden Smith, if I were you I would just concentrate on pushing my work to your publisher friends, for anything beyond this is just going to become too complicated for you. You do know this, don’t you?
47
Waiting for the Rain
He stared out of the small office window and could see the rain continuing to lash down. However, he would have to wait for it to cease gunning against the metal awning above the door to the street, for despite this morning’s forecast, he had forgotten to bring his umbrella. He glanced at the compact, framed photograph of his wife that he had placed on his desk in such a manner that her bewitching eyes appeared to be constantly watching over him. While he worked alone in his congested office space, he was spared the upset of their commonly contentious interaction, yet a photograph meant that he was still able to enjoy the warmth of her silent presence. It was some years now since he had been let go by his publishing firm, after which he decided to establish his own agency, but things were not going well. Financial difficulties had recently left him with little choice but to exchange their Holland Park mews accommodation for a pair of somewhat uninspiring rooms in Bloomsbury, and this unfortunate de velopment had only exacerbated the tension between them. Sadly, things had continued to deteriorate on the financial front, and he had now resigned himself to the fact that at the end of the month he would be forced to vacate his office and work from home, for he could no longer afford the expense of leasing the property. Of course, he had yet to share this news with his wife, for the moment never seemed expedient.
This morning, having shouted through to the bedroom and bidden her farewell, he realized that his favourite fountain pen was not in his inside jacket pocket, where he usually clipped it. It then occurred to him that he had most likely left the pen on the small table to the side of his bed, and so he quietly set down his briefcase and moved towards the slightly ajar bedroom door. As he glanced in, he saw his wife standing naked at the side of her bed, with her back to him, and she appeared to have assumed an artistic pose which he imagined might prefigure some kind of dance performance. He stared transfixed and could feel himself awakening, and he started to feel somewhat ashamed, and then he returned to himself and quickly reclaimed his briefcase before stealthily tiptoeing from their r
ooms.
Once he reached his office, he dropped the briefcase to the floor, sat at his desk, and allowed his head to fall forward into his hands. Time had not eroded his desire, but her continual criticism and fault-finding had eaten away at his confidence and he had gradually lost his way. It had been like this with his first wife. His fumbling for words. The elation of her accepting his proposal. Thereafter, the slow corrosion towards a permanent state of disappointment on both sides, and her interest in the flickering world of Eros finally burning itself out. The separate beds. The lack of conversation. The separate rooms. Then eventually his first wife’s betrayal when she went off with her Basil chap and began to build a new life for herself in India.
He could hear the rain intensifying as it drove hard against the window, and far off in the distance the sky cleared its throat and prepared to bellow. He lifted his head and glanced at the photograph on his desk. At least they still shared the same bedroom, and as far as he had been able to determine, there had been no duplicity. But still, he could not remember the last time he saw her naked body, and he had no idea how to govern the feelings his wife still stirred in him. He wondered, Does she slip out from the tight pouch of the sheets and pose naked like this every morning? Why could she not have waited until she was sure that he had left for his office before denuding herself in this shamefully irregular manner? Why had he forgotten his damn fountain pen in the bedroom?
He now heard thunder, and he looked around at the useless manuscripts that littered his desktop. These were, in the main, submissions from bored ladies and retired gentlemen with no evidence of talent. These days, such people constituted his so-called authors. However, at the end of the month he will jettison everything in the office except for the solitary photograph in which his wife stares coquettishly at him. If only he could replace this image of her fickle eyes with one of her naked body, for this would at least enable him to imagine the pleasure of once again having knowledge of her. When the rain stops he will walk back through the puddled streets, and once he reaches their new rooms, he will attempt to initiate an agreeable conversation with his wife about the events of the day. Perhaps he ought to confess to her what he truly desires, but he understands that in her mind he is fixed as a grey man docked in the middle station of life who is beyond passion, and for some time now, he has not said or done anything that might persuade her otherwise.
48
New Rooms
Now that he no longer has an office to go to each morning, her husband has begun to display a hitherto hidden talent for dissembling. He rises before her and breakfasts on toast and jam with black tea, and then he prepares a tray for her, which he brings through into the bedroom. Thereafter, he retreats to the main room and pretends to be reading an important manuscript of some description that calls for his appraisal. He stations himself in the armchair, thus ensuring that the small dining room table is available for her to work at once she leaves the bedroom and ventures out to join him. She sits at the table and steals glances at him, but she knows that there are no important new manuscripts; her husband simply leafs through old dog-eared submissions. Then at some point he will light a pipe and turn his attention to the previous evening’s newspaper before once again making a halfhearted effort to reach for a previously scanned manuscript. It is painful for her to witness, and by lunchtime she generally submits to her uncontrollable urge to flee the claustrophobia of their rooms and bolt in the direction of the pub on the corner, thus leaving her poor husband to his own private pantomime.
A month after relinquishing the lease on his office and initiating this new practice of working from home, her husband asked if a certain Wilfred Rogerson, a comrade from his service in the Flying Corps during the war, might visit with them for a light supper. He informed her that the reclusive Rogerson resided in his native Cornwall and had not been up to London for over a decade, but her husband had got it into his head that it might be pleasant for them all to meet and share a social evening. Despite her considerable reservations, she said nothing and simply unearthed a vaguely presentable mauve dress, but when she saw the bedraggled man who appeared at their door she realized that she need not have bothered, for their guest had clearly already indulged himself with some alcoholic refreshment prior to his arrival. Rogerson was shorter than her husband and balding, and what thin wisps of hair remained fell forward and were being continually swept back by the application of an irritating hand that was pressed into service as a comb. Their visitor clutched a bottle of sweet sherry, and she unhesitatingly detected an arrogant yet insecure man who most probably recoiled at the idea of conflict of any kind, verbal or physical, but who would undoubtedly revel in the imagined respect bestowed upon him by ticket collectors, lift operators, and uniformed attendants of all descriptions. As the evening wore on, her husband’s hopeless attempts to build temporary bridges of communication among the three isolated individuals collapsed as a nervous Wilfred Rogerson drank glass after glass of wine. The man continued to thrust cheese and crackers into his mouth, and whenever his upper plate became unstuck, he would push it back with his tongue. He began to lecture her about her own husband. “You must be aware that Leslie has suffered the indignity of desertion, so I feel compelled to ask, are you being kind to him? I do hope so, for he’s a thoroughly decent sort.” She watched her husband drop a hand onto his chum’s shoulder in an attempt to staunch the flow of the man’s well-lubricated tongue, but from the moment they submitted to the experiment of having a guest step into their Bloomsbury rooms, they both knew that yet more damage had been done to their already unsettled marriage.
After the man’s departure, she lay back on the sofa and took yet another sip of red wine. Through the uncurtained window she could make out the quarter crescent of a moon that tonight would keep her company. What remained of their supper lay scattered across the tabletop, and her husband was now scurrying about trying to clear up the mess, while she made a point of ignoring him. Wilfred Rogerson, it transpired, was a farmer of some description who considered himself too clever for his job, yet he appeared to be too lazy to develop a coherent interest in anything else. She had quickly deduced that her husband’s friend was hostile towards women, for no doubt some supposedly selfish creature had once refused to behave towards him with the inarticulate devotion of his mother and had therefore poisoned his attitude towards her gender. She was unsure if her husband noticed this streak of antipathy in his friend, but if he did, he said nothing. At some point in the evening the thin-haired farmer started in on the bottle of sweet sherry that he had brought with him, but by this stage she had tolerated enough and she noisily demanded that the fool leave their rooms and never return. Her husband’s protestations had been feeble, and after the stumbled leave-taking of his so-called friend, she had offered him the choice of the bedroom or the sofa and refused to listen to his apology for having foisted this man upon her.
The following morning she lay prostrate on the dimpled-leather sofa and through bleary eyes observed her husband seating himself at the small table with his black tea and toast. He then announced that he would be going out for a few hours. As she propped herself upright, she felt a sudden jolt of pain shoot from one temple to the next, but she gathered her wits about her, for there were some words that she wished to share with her husband. “Leslie, you don’t have a job, so where do you suppose it is that you are going?” But she said nothing, for it was woefully transparent that her husband’s inability to secure work that might provide for them both was causing him a great deal of anguish and she had no interest in pressing the issue. She watched him rise silently from the table, knowing full well that he intended to seek out a public space where he might read his newspaper in peace. In the event of inclement weather, he would no doubt find shelter in a library or museum where he might masquerade as a diligent scholar of some description.
“May I,” he wondered, “pour you some tea before I leave?”
“That would be nice, Leslie. Thank you.”
&
nbsp; As he reached for a cup and saucer, she glanced at his briefcase and marvelled at his newly acquired talent for dissembling. This evening, after he returns from his wandering, she will return to their shared bedroom and tomorrow offer him the opportunity of resuming his morning routine of bringing her breakfast in bed. There will be no more Wilfred Rogersons in their life. There will be no more visitors to their new rooms. And perhaps, she thinks, one day she and her tall, considerate husband might yet discover a way to live peacefully with each other. Perhaps.
49
An English Husband
She settles down in a window seat, knowing only the name of the train station to which she is travelling, but having little understanding of what lies between London and the presumably grim suburban outpost that her brother has chosen to make his home. But who is she to judge, for her own life has been reduced from a carriage house in a Holland Park mews to two cramped rooms in Bloomsbury. Her sisters, she imagines, will continue to live out their isolated spinster lives in Acton without any desire to communicate with her, and heaven only knows what has become of their oldest brother, Edward. Which leaves only Owen, who, having returned from Australia with his tail between his legs, has not bothered to answer her last two letters, although she was simply writing to let him know that she would do her best to honour his wishes once she reached the West Indies. As she stares out the window, she moves her head first one way and then the other, and tries to catch a glimpse of herself in the glass, even though she knows that she will not necessarily like whatever it is that she happens to see. The train plunges past the lower-class destitution at the periphery of the city, and suddenly there are green fields, but she has not been paying attention and so she now wonders if she has boarded the wrong train. Eventually the train enters a tidy little station, where on the opposite platform she can see female passengers who are presumably waiting to journey into London to do their shopping, and she feels reassured. The train starts up again, and then she hears the guard’s voice bellowing the name of the next station, which she believes is her destination.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 18