His marriage was twenty years old. At first it had been stormy, painful, tragic—full of partings, betrayals and sweet reconciliations. It had taken him at least a decade to realise that there was nothing remarkable about this marriage that he had lived through with such surprise of the mind and the senses. On the contrary, the marriages of most of the people he knew, whether they were first, second or third attempts, were just the same. His had run true to form even to the serious love affair with the young girl for whose sake he had almost divorced his wife—yet at the last moment had changed his mind, letting the girl down so that he must have her for always (not unpleasurably) on his conscience. It was with humiliation that he had understood that this drama was not at all the unique thing he had imagined. It was nothing more than the experience of everyone in his circle. And presumably in everybody else’s circle too?
Anyway, round about the tenth year of his marriage he had seen a good many things clearly, a certain kind of emotional adventure went from his life, and the marriage itself changed.
His wife had married a poor youth with a great future as a writer. Sacrifices had been made, chiefly by her, for that future. He was neither unaware of them, nor ungrateful; in fact he felt permanently guilty about it. He at last published a decently successful book, then a second, which now, thank God, no one remembered. He had drifted into radio, television, book reviewing.
He understood he was not going to make it; that he had become—not a hack, no one could call him that—but a member of that army of people who live by their wits on the fringes of the arts. The moment of realisation was when he was in a pub one lunchtime near the B.B.C. where he often dropped in to meet others like himself: he understood that was why he went there—they were like him. Just as that melodramatic marriage had turned out to be like everyone else’s—except that it had been shared with one woman instead of with two or three—so it had turned out that his unique talent, his struggles as a writer had led him here, to this pub and the half-dozen pubs like it, where all the men in sight had the same history. They all had their novel, their play, their book of poems, a moment of fame, to their credit. Yet here they were, running television programmes about which they were cynical (to each other or to their wives) or writing reviews about other people’s books. Yes, that’s what he had become, an impresario of other people’s talent. These two moments of clarity, about his marriage and about his talent, had roughly coincided; and (perhaps not by chance) had coincided with his wife’s decision to leave him for a man younger than himself who had a future, she said, as a playwright. Well, he had talked her out of it. For her part, she had to understand he was not going to be the T. S. Eliot or Graham Greene of our time—but after all, how many were? She must finally understand this, for he could no longer bear her awful bitterness. For his part, he must stop coming home drunk at five in the morning, and starting a new romantic affair every six months which he took so seriously that he made her miserable because of her implied deficiencies. In short he was to be a good husband. (He had always been a dutiful father.) And she a good wife. And so it was: the marriage became stable, as they say.
The formula: Yes, that one no longer implied a necessarily sexual relationship. In its more mature form, it was far from being something he was ashamed of. On the contrary, it expressed a humorous respect for what he was, for his real talents and flair, which had turned out to be not artistic after all, but to do with emotional life, hard-earned experience. It expressed an ironical dignity, a proving to himself not only: I can be honest about myself, but also: I have earned the best in that field whenever I want it.
He watched the field for the women who were well known in the arts, or in politics; looked out for photographs, listened for bits of gossip. He made a point of going to see them act, or dance, or orate. He built up a not unshrewd picture of them. He would either quietly pull strings to meet a woman or—more often, for there was a gambler’s pleasure in waiting—bide his time until he met her in the natural course of events, which was bound to happen sooner or later. He would be seen out with her a few times in public, which was in order, since his work meant he had to entertain well-known people, male and female. His wife always knew, he told her. He might have a brief affair with this woman, but more often than not it was the appearance of an affair. Not that he didn’t get pleasure from other people envying him—he would make a point, for instance, of taking this woman into the pubs where his male colleagues went. It was that his real pleasure came when he saw her surprise at how well she was understood by him. He enjoyed the atmosphere he was able to set up between an intelligent woman and himself: a humorous complicity which had in it much that was unspoken, and which almost made sex irrelevant.
Onto the list of women with whom he planned to have this relationship went Barbara Coles. There was no hurry. Next week, next month, next year, they would meet at a party. The world of well-known people in London is a small one. Big and little fishes, they drift around, nose each other, flirt their fins, wriggle off again. When he bumped into Barbara Coles, it would be time to decide whether or not to sleep with her.
Meanwhile he listened. But he didn’t discover much. She had a husband and children, but the husband seemed to be in the background. The children were charming and well brought up, like everyone else’s children. She had affairs, they said; but while several men he met sounded familiar with her, it was hard to determine whether they had slept with her, because none directly boasted of her. She was spoken of in terms of her friends, her work, her house, a party she had given, a job she had found someone. She was liked, she was respected, and Graham Spence’s self-esteem was flattered because he had chosen her. He looked forward to saying in just the same tone: “Barbara Coles asked me what I thought about the set and I told her quite frankly…”
Then by chance he met a young man who did boast about Barbara Coles; he claimed to have had the great love affair with her, and recently at that; and he spoke of it as something generally known. Graham realised how much he had already become involved with her in his imagination because of how perturbed he was now, on account of the character of this youth, Jack Kennaway. He had recently become successful as a magazine editor—one of those young men who, not as rare as one might suppose in the big cities, are successful from sheer impertinence, effrontery. Without much talent or taste, yet he had the charm of his effrontery. “Yes, I’m going to succeed, because I’ve decided to; yes, I may be stupid, but not so stupid that I don’t know my deficiencies. Yes, I’m going to be successful because you people with integrity, et cetera, et cetera, simply don’t believe in the possibility of people like me. You are too cowardly to stop me. Yes, I’ve taken your measure and I’m going to succeed because I’ve got the courage not only to be unscrupulous but to be quite frank about it. And besides, you admire me; you must, or otherwise you’d stop me….” Well, that was young Jack Kennaway, and he shocked Graham. He was a tall, languishing young man, handsome in a dark melting way, and, it was quite clear, he was either asexual or homosexual. And this youth boasted of the favours of Barbara Coles; boasted, indeed, of her love. Either she was a raving neurotic with a taste for neurotics; or Jack Kennaway was a most accomplished liar; or she slept with anyone. Graham was intrigued. He took Jack Kennaway out to dinner in order to hear him talk about Barbara Coles. There was no doubt the two were pretty close—all those dinners, theatres, weekends in the country—Graham Spence felt he had put his finger on the secret pulse of Barbara Coles; and it was intolerable that he must wait to meet her; he decided to arrange it.
It became unnecessary. She was in the news again, with a run of luck. She had done a successful historical play, and immediately afterwards a modern play, and then a hit musical. In all three, the sets were remarked on. Graham saw some interviews in newspapers and on television. These all centred around the theme of her being able to deal easily with so many different styles of theatre; but the real point was, of course, that she was a woman, which naturally added piquancy to the thin
g. And now Graham Spence was asked to do a half-hour radio interview with her. He planned the questions he would ask her with care, drawing on what people had said of her, but above all on his instinct and experience with women. The interview was to be at nine-thirty at night; he was to pick her up at six from the theatre where she was currently at work, so that there would be time, as the letter from the B.B.C. had put it, “for you and Miss Coles to get to know each other.”
At six he was at the stage door, but a message from Miss Coles said she was not quite ready, could he wait a little. He hung about, then went to the pub opposite for a quick one, but still no Miss Coles. So he made his way backstage, directed by voices, hammering, laughter. It was badly lit, and the group of people at work did not see him. The director, James Poynter, had his arm around Barbara’s shoulders. He was newly well known, a carelessly goodlooking young man reputed to be intelligent. Barbara Coles wore a dark blue overall, and her flat hair fell over her face so that she kept pushing it back with the hand that had the emerald on it. These two stood close, side by side. Three young men, stagehands, were on the other side of a trestle which had sketches and drawings on it. They were studying some sketches. Barbara said, in a voice warm with energy: “Well, so I thought if we did this—do you see, James? What do you think, Steven?” “Well, love,” said the young man she called Steven, ? see your idea, but I wonder if …” “I think you’re right, Babs,” said the director. “Look,” said Barbara, holding one of the sketches towards Steven, “look, let me show you.” They all leaned forward, the five of them, absorbed in the business.
Suddenly Graham couldn’t stand it. He understood he was shaken to his depths. He went off-stage, and stood with his back against a wall in the dingy passage that led to the dressing rooms. His eyes were filled with tears. He was seeing what a long way he had come from the crude, uncompromising, admirable young egomaniac he had been when he was twenty. That group of people there—working, joking, arguing, yes, that’s what he hadn’t known for years. What bound them was the democracy of respect for each other’s work, a confidence in themselves and in each other. They looked like people banded together against a world which they—no, not despised, but which they measured, understood, would fight to the death, out of respect for what they stood for, for what it stood for. It was a long time since he felt part of that balance. And he understood that he had seen Barbara Coles when she was most herself, at ease with a group of people she worked with. It was then, with the tears drying on his eyelids, which felt old and ironic, that he decided he would sleep with Barbara Coles. It was a necessity for him. He went back through the door onto the stage, burning with this single determination.
The five were still together. Barbara had a length of blue gleaming stuff which she was draping over the shoulder of Steven, the stagehand. He was showing it off, and the others watched. “What do you think, James?” she asked the director. “We’ve got that sort of dirty green, and I thought …” “Well,” said James, not sure at all, “well, Babs, well…”
Now Graham went forward so that he stood beside Barbara, and said: “Fm Graham Spence, we’ve met before.” For the second time she smiled socially and said: “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” Graham nodded at James, whom he had known, or at least had met off and on, for years. But it was obvious James didn’t remember him either.
“From the B.B.C.,” said Graham to Barbara, again sounding abrupt, against his will. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it. I’ve got to be interviewed,” she said to the group. “Mr. Spence is a journalist.” Graham allowed himself a small smile ironical of the word “journalist,” but she was not looking at him. She was going on with her work. “We should decide tonight,” she said. “Steven’s right.” “Yes, I am right,” said the stagehand. “She’s right, James, we need that blue with that sludge-green everywhere.” “James,” said Barbara, “James, what’s wrong with it? You haven’t said.” She moved forward to James, passing Graham. Remembering him again, she became contrite. “I’m sorry,” she said, “we can none of us agree. Well, look”—she turned to Graham—“you advise us, we’ve got so involved with it that …” At which James laughed, and so did the stagehands. “No, Babs,” said James, “of course Mr. Spence can’t advise. He’s just this moment come in. We’ve got to decide. Well I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Time to go home, it must be six by now.”
“It’s nearly seven,” said Graham, taking command.
“It isn’t!” said Barbara, dramatic. “My God, how terrible, how appalling, how could I have done such a thing….” She was laughing at herself. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Spence, because you haven’t got any alternative.”
They began laughing again: this was clearly a group joke. And now Graham took his chance. He said firmly, as if he were her director, in fact copying James Poynter’s manner with her: “No, Miss Coles, I won’t forgive you, I’ve been kicking my heels for nearly an hour.” She grimaced, then laughed and accepted it. James said: “There, Babs, that’s how you ought to be treated. We spoil you.” He kissed her on the cheek, she kissed him on both his, the stagehands moved off. “Have a good evening, Babs,” said James, going, and nodding to Graham. Who stood concealing his pleasure with difficulty. He knew, because he had had the courage to be firm, indeed, peremptory, with Barbara, that he had saved himself hours of manoeuvring. Several drinks, a dinner—perhaps two or three evenings of drinks and dinners—had been saved because he was now on this footing with Barbara Coles, a man who could say: No, I won’t forgive you, you’ve kept me waiting.
She said: “I’ve just got to …” and went ahead of him. In the passage she hung her overall on a peg. She was thinking, it seemed, of something else, but seeing him watching her, she smiled at him, companionably: he realised with triumph it was the sort of smile she would offer one of the stagehands, or even James. She said again: “Just one second …” and went to the stage-door office. She and the stage doorman conferred. There was some problem. Graham said, taking another chance: “What’s the trouble, can I help?”—as if he could help, as if he expected to be able to. “Well …” she said, frowning. Then, to the man: “No, it’ll be all right. Goodnight.” She came to Graham. “We’ve got ourselves into a bit of a fuss because half the set’s in Liverpool and half’s here and—but it will sort itself out.” She stood, at ease, chatting to him, one colleague to another. All this was admirable, he felt; but there would be a bad moment when they emerged from the special atmosphere of the theatre into the street. He took another decision, grasped her arm firmly, and said: “We’re going to have a drink before we do anything at all, it’s a terrible evening out.” Her arm felt resistant, but remained within his. It was raining outside, luckily. He directed her, authoritative: “No, not that pub, there’s a nicer one around the corner.” “Oh, but I like this pub,” said Barbara, “we always use it.”
Of course you do, he said to himself. But in that pub there would be the stagehands, and probably James, and he’d lose contact with her. He’d become a journalist again. He took her firmly out of danger around two corners, into a pub he picked at random. A quick look around—no, they weren’t there. At least, if there were people from the theatre, she showed no sign. She asked for a beer. He ordered her a double Scotch, which she accepted. Then, having won a dozen preliminary rounds already, he took time to think. Something was bothering him—what? Yes, it was what he had observed backstage, Barbara and James Poynter. Was she having an affair with him? Because if so, it would all be much more difficult. He made himself see the two of them together, and thought with a jealousy surprisingly strong: Yes, that’s it. Meantime he sat looking at her, seeing himself look at her, a man gazing in calm appreciation at a woman: waiting for her to feel it and respond. She was examining the pub. Her white woollen suit was belted, and had a not unprovocative suggestion of being a uniform. Her flat yellow hair, hastily pushed back after work, was untidy. Her clear white skin, without any colour, made her look tired
. Not very exciting, at the moment, thought Graham, but maintaining his appreciative pose for when she would turn and see it. He knew what she would see: he was relying not only on the “warm, kindly” beam of his gaze, for this was merely a reinforcement of the impression he knew he made. He had black hair, a little greyed. His clothes were loose and bulky—masculine. His eyes were humorous and appreciative. He was not, never had been, concerned to lessen the impression of being settled, dependable: the husband and father. On the contrary, he knew women found it reassuring.
When she at last turned, she said, almost apologetic: “Would you mind if we sat down? I’ve been lugging great things around all day.” She had spotted two empty chairs in a corner. So had he, but rejected them, because there were other people at the table. “But my dear, of course!” They took the chairs, and then Barbara said: “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” She had remembered she needed makeup. He watched her go off, annoyed with himself. She was tired; and he could have understood, protected, sheltered. He realised that in the other pub, with the people she had worked with all day, she would not have thought: I must make myself up, I must be on show. That was for outsiders. She had not, until now, considered Graham an outsider, because of his taking his chance to seem one of the working group in the theatre; but now he had thrown this opportunity away. She returned armoured. Her hair was sleek, no longer defenceless. And she had made up her eyes. Her eyebrows were untouched, pale gold streaks above the brilliant green eyes whose lashes were blackened. Rather good, he thought, the contrast. Yes, but the moment had gone when he could say: Did you know you had a smudge on your cheek? Or—my dear girl—pushing her hair back with the edge of a brotherly hand. In fact, unless he was careful, he’d be back at starting point.
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