‘For another thing—what? What’s the other thing?’
I hesitated for just a moment and then said, smiling:
‘Something did come of it. Already.’
I began to tell her then of Mrs. Weldon’s phone call and our subsequent meeting—though I didn’t mention the fee I’d been offered. When I’d finished Ilona said:
‘Oh, Tom, you should have taken it! You should! You don’t know what it might lead to. It could lead to anything.’ She shook her head despairingly and then said: ‘—But think about it. Why don’t you? We can always go away at some other time.’
I smiled. ‘When? Tell me when.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ She sighed. ‘My schedule—I know. But—but are you sure you’ve done the right thing?’
‘I’m quite sure,’ I said. ‘Our holiday together is far more important to me.’
‘Well, if you say so . . .’ She paused, then added almost fiercely: ‘But if you should get another chance at such a job you must take it. You mustn’t let anything stand in your way.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘No, I’m serious. Promise me.’
I nodded. ‘I promise,’ I said.
* * *
The animation Ilona had shown seemed to evaporate quite quickly. By the time we reached her flat she was noticeably quieter and appeared listless and tired. I pretended not to notice. It had been so long now, and I wanted her so much. After sitting holding her close to me for a while I took her into the bedroom where I undressed her and laid her on the bed. For a time she seemed to respond to my touches but then the flicker of desire I thought I had aroused in her seemed to vanish. After fumbling around for a few futile minutes I gave up.
We lay side by side in the palely moonlit room, the silence broken only by the sound of our breathing. After a while I raised myself up on one elbow and looked down at her. She was asleep.
Unobserved, I studied her. Although the light was so dim I could still make out the lines that creased her forehead and ran down from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth; even in sleep they had not relaxed. She looked utterly exhausted, and my feelings of rejection and frustration gave way to sympathy and tenderness.
Lowering my head I kissed her very softly on the cheek, then got up, dressed, let myself out and drove home.
* * *
Over the next seven days she was away from London most of the time. She returned the following Thursday and telephoned me in the evening just after eight. Could I go round and see her? she asked. I could tell from her voice that something was up but when I questioned her she only hedged and said it would keep till I got there. After the children were in bed I got into the car and drove over to Earls Court.
When she opened the door to my ring and stood before me I could hardly believe my eyes.
‘You look dreadful!’ I said. ‘Are you all right? You look ill.’
‘No, I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Really.’ But the smile she gave was, like her voice, wavering and uncertain. She stood gazing up at me, her face pale and drawn. Her hair was yanked back under an old scarf, the look accentuating the hollowness of her cheeks and eyes.
After a moment I stepped into the hall and then followed as she made her way wearily up to the first floor. There in her flat I sat on the sofa and watched as she sat in the chair opposite.
‘I’m very concerned about you,’ I said, but she brushed my words aside, saying quickly, almost impatiently:
‘Please—I’m okay. I told you. I’m just a little tired, that’s all. But that’s not important right now.’ She paused briefly and then added: ‘I wanted to see you—to tell you that—well, I’m sorry, Tom, but I’m not going to be able to get away to Devon with you after all . . .’
I groaned. ‘Oh, God—! But why? I’ve made all the arrangements. It’s that bloody job of yours, I suppose. What’s happened?’
‘There’s a new, big-budget film they’re doing—on Napoleon. I couldn’t turn it down. It’s months of work.’
I peered at her, but her face was in shadow and I couldn’t see her expression. ‘And that’s the reason,’ I said.
‘Yes. It’s all being shot abroad—Italy, Poland, Hungary, Corsica . . . lots of different places. I couldn’t turn it down.’
‘But you’ve got other commitments,’ I said. ‘There are other jobs you’d agreed to do. Or aren’t they important anymore, either?’
‘I’ve settled all that,’ she said. ‘I’ve got out of them.’
‘Yes—you’re obviously very good at doing that.’
‘Please, Tom . . . this is a big job—it’s very important.’
‘When do you leave?’
‘On Saturday.’
‘My God, you work fast.’
‘Yes, it’s all very rushed. I’m stepping in for someone else.’
‘I see. And when do you get back?’
She didn’t answer for a moment, then she said: ‘I—I’ve also agreed to go on to another job straight afterwards—a picture to be shot in Spain. The schedule fits in perfectly.’
‘Good,’ I said sullenly. ‘How nice for you.’
‘Oh, please, Tom. Work like this doesn’t come up every day.’
‘So when do you get back from it all?’
‘Well, Napoleon is due to be wound up about the middle of December; the other picture starts just after Christmas and goes on till early in May.’
‘—So I shan’t see you till next spring . . .’
‘Not unless I come back between jobs—at Christmas. But anyway, when it’s all over we can go away somewhere together—if you still want to.’
I said: ‘I have this feeling that it’s not really your work that’s stopping you coming away . . .’
‘Oh, but it is.’
‘It is now. You’ve committed yourself to the job now. But why did you accept it in the first place? I don’t believe it’s because of the money or—or keeping up professional contacts or anything like that. The truth is that you don’t want to come away with me—not anymore.’
She was silent. I lit a cigarette and noticed that my fingers were trembling. ‘It’s not the job, is it?’ I said. ‘It’s us. You and me. Am I right?’
She said nothing.
‘Please answer me,’ I said. ‘Am I right?’
And then she turned her head away and said in a low voice: ‘Yes.’ It was almost a whisper.
‘But it was your idea,’ I said. ‘You were the one who suggested it in the first place.’
‘I know . . . I know . . .’
‘Then what’s changed? Didn’t you have any intention of going through with it?’
‘Yes, I did—at the time—but then I realized that we—’ She came to a stop. I prompted her.
‘What? You realized what?’
‘—I felt that we—were getting in—too deep—’ She got up from her chair, walked over to the window and stood facing out. ‘Our relationship,’ she said, ‘—I find that it’s going in a particular direction—and for me it’s the wrong one.’ I could hear her voice break slightly as she added: ‘I’m sorry, Tom, so sorry. Believe me. All I wanted was to be your friend—but I’ve realized that you want more. And it’s more than I can give. It’s not you—it’s just the way I am. I just don’t want any—commitments.’
Neither one of us moved. The room was so still. Then after a few moments her voice came again.
‘I never wanted more. I was interested in you and your work—as a friend, that’s all. I never thought of it leading to anything else. Then when I realized just how you felt I—’
I broke in, saying, ‘Is it just commitment you’re afraid of, Ilona? Because you can’t go all through your life like that. You have to commit yourself to something sometime. You’re not a child. You’re thirty-five years old . . .’ I stopped. What was the use of going on, I asked mys
elf. And what was the sense of getting at her for it all. ‘I suppose I’m the one who’s to blame,’ I said. ‘I asked too much.’
She turned and faced me, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. ‘No,’ she said, ‘—it’s just that I’m the wrong person.’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I should have known it wouldn’t work out. I had these romantic ideas of you being my wife—and a mother to my children.’ The bitterness sounded thick in my voice. ‘How bloody stupid. As if any woman in her right mind would want to take on a ready-made family of four children.’
‘Your children are lovely,’ she said.
‘But not lovely enough.’
I got up and took a step towards the door. She said sadly:
‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a disappointment to you . . .’
‘I’ll get over it.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘—I’ll write to you. There’s no reason why we can’t keep on being friends.’
‘Famous last words in every dying relationship,’ I said. I was at the door when her voice stopped me again.
‘Shall we see each other when I get back . . . ?’
I shrugged. ‘If you want to.’
‘I would like us to.’
‘Okay then. I’ll give you a ring—next May.’
She took a couple of steps towards me. ‘I’d better call you,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be coming back to this place.’
‘No?’
She turned, looking about her. ‘I hate it so,’ she said. ‘I’ve given it up. When I get back I’ll look for another place. Something much better.’
I nodded. ‘Somehow it makes it all so much more final.’ I looked at her for a second then turned away and walked out of the room. She followed me onto the dimly-lit landing.
‘I’ll write to you, Tom,’ she said, ‘—and I’ll call you as soon as I get back. I expect to hear wonderful things when next we meet.’
I looked at her blankly.
‘You’ve got so much talent,’ she added.
‘Oh, that . . .’
‘Yes, that. It’s the truth. I know you’re going to do really well.’
I gave her a bleak little smile. ‘You don’t have to humour me, Ilona. In fact I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘But I mean it. You have a wonderful talent, you do. I just know that you could be so successful!’
I shook my head. ‘It was a dream, Ilona. Just a dream. Along with everything else.’
‘Oh, no, Tom—how can you say that? The first time in years you exhibit your paintings you get an offer of a commission. That must mean something.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrugged.
‘Of course it does.—And you know you could take that commission now if you wanted to. There’s nothing to stop you now.’
Brushing her words aside I said shortly, ‘I don’t need consolation from you, Ilona. And for your information I couldn’t do the job anyway. I don’t even know where to get in touch with the woman. I was so certain that we’d be going away together that I didn’t even bother to keep her address. So that’s finished with as well.’
My anger and bitterness had all come back. At the foot of the stairs I turned and said, by way of a parting shot: ‘By the way—if you want my advice you’ll forget all about that work you’re supposed to do and go and get some rest. You look terrible.’ I paused. ‘For someone in your state it seems a rather drastic measure—to go and commit yourself to all that just in order to give me the elbow. A couple of words would have done.’
I closed the door behind me and walked to the car. Yes, it was all finished with now—Ilona; a new beginning with my painting—they were over before they’d even really begun. But there, as I’d said, they’d been nothing but dreams—and dreams had no place in the existence I’d carved out. It was time I faced up to it: I was forty-three years old with a family and responsibilities. From now on I’d confine my aspirations to what was possible, what was real.
Chapter Five
I had no further contact with Ilona before she left. I didn’t expect it—or even look for it. Em tried at first to reassure me by saying that it would probably turn out all right in the end, but I was sure it wouldn’t. I didn’t even want to spend any time thinking about it.
And nor did I spend any time on my painting. Now, when opportunity allowed I found other occupations. For one thing I gave much more time to Julia and Simeon, helping them in their own pursuits; taking them to the park; playing games with either or both of them—tennis, cricket, or football. On other evenings and often at weekends I’d go to my local tennis club and play a few sets with the other members. I loved the game, though since meeting Ilona I’d let it go, only taking up my racquet for the odd knock-up with the children.
And so the time went by, while up in my studio the canvases stood untouched and the paint dried on my palette.
About the middle of July—a Thursday—I drove down to Newbury in Berkshire to fetch Mike and Chris from their school. They were breaking up for the summer holidays a day earlier than Julia and Simeon—a fact which the latter pair regarded as very unfair. I got there just after twelve and found the boys all ready and waiting for me just inside the school lobby, their packed suitcases beside them.
They grinned at me as I approached and I shook the hands they offered me and, to their embarrassment, gave them a brief hug. Not identical twins, their dissimilarities seemed to become more pronounced the older they grew. Michael, first born of the two by some fifteen minutes, had my colouring but all the fineness of his mother’s features. Christopher, though, with his long jaw and strongly-shaped nose, looked like me.
On the way back to the motorway we stopped at a steak-house where we had sirloins, baked potatoes and green salad, followed by ice-cream. The boys seemed to be all appetite and excitement; their holidays had begun and six weeks of freedom lay before them. Later as we drove on towards London they animatedly discussed the plans for their stay in York with their cousins, after which Mike asked me about my own trip to Devon. I’d cancelled it, I told him; I’d decided to stay in London after all . . .
We arrived home just before four o’clock and while the boys were upstairs unpacking their things I sat with Em and drank a cup of tea.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘—I forgot. This arrived for you at the shop—by registered post. Arthur signed for it and dropped it in at lunch time.’
She handed me a small package. It was marked Personal. I tore off the paper and tape and took from a nest of tissue a slim gold cigarette lighter.
‘Someone’s sent you a present,’ Em said, watching. ‘Who’s it from?’
There was a letter there too. I opened it up and read it.
‘It’s from that woman, Mrs. Weldon,’ I said. ‘She says that after I left her in Fortnum’s that day she found my lighter under my chair . . .’ I looked back to the letter.
‘—Says she’s sorry to be so long in returning it but she’d mislaid my address . . .’
‘It isn’t your lighter, is it?’ Em said.
‘No, it’s not. It’s similar, but I’ve still got mine.’ I glanced at the telephone number on the letter-heading. ‘I’d better give her a call,’ I said.
Ten minutes later I went into the kitchen where Em was busy preparing vegetables. ‘Did you speak to her?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ I grinned.
‘Why are you looking so pleased all of a sudden?’
‘I’ve changed my plans,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be staying in London after all. I’m going away too.’
She looked at me hard for a moment and then smiled as realization came to her. ‘You’re going to do that portrait, are you?’
‘Right! I’m going to do that portrait.’ I couldn’t stop grinning. ‘It’s all arranged. I’m leaving for Whitefell a week on Monday.’
Chapter Six
On the morning of Saturday the 28th I watched as Julia, her suitcases all ready in the hall, nervously paced about the house, waiting for the ring on the front doorbell. When at last it came, a dragging half-hour after the arranged time, she went off with Mr. and Mrs. Champlin and their daughter Joanna in a whirlwind of hugs, giggling from the two girls, and much waving of hands. As the Champlins’ new Volvo disappeared out of sight I turned to Em and gave a mock sigh of relief. ‘One down and four to go.’
She and Simeon were next and, as I would have expected, their departure was a much calmer affair. Just after eleven Ivor and his young son Timothy drove up in their Renault and we loaded Em and Simeon’s luggage into the boot. After I’d shaken hands with Ivor I kissed Em and Simeon goodbye and watched as they got into the car, Simeon climbing into the rear with Timothy. A few seconds later they were off.
Returning into the house I set about making sure that everything was ready for the twins’ trip to York the next day. When that was over I’d be on my own, I realized, a situation so foreign to me now that I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about it. Still, I wouldn’t have that long to ponder the matter; very soon I’d have other commitments.
* * *
The journey to York and back, on which I deposited the twins with my brother, his wife and sons, took up most of the day, and when I arrived home late on Sunday evening I was tired and ready for sleep. For a while, though, sleep would have to wait, and after a scotch-and-soda followed by a scratch meal of bacon and eggs I got on with preparing for my trip to Somerset. Over the past few days I had brought down from my studio the things I would need for the painting and now I carefully stowed it all in the Citroën. When I’d finished packing my personal things in a couple of suitcases I went up to my bedroom in the now-suddenly-too-large house and slept.
The next morning as I ate a breakfast of toast and an apple followed by two cups of coffee the postman came. There was nothing of interest, though. I had been wondering vaguely whether I might hear from Ilona. Had I been hoping for a letter from her? It was a question I couldn’t answer.
After I’d washed the breakfast dishes I had a few last-minute words over the phone with Arthur at the shop and then I was ready to go. I collected the rest of my things together, locked up the house, got into the car and set off.
The Reaping Page 4